#collegeau

[daydreamfiles]

Hot Mic - Dean Di Laurentis Pt. 1

Blurb: Everyone at Briar listens to The Briar Wire. No one knows who runs it. That was the whole point, until Dean Di Laurentis becomes the center of campus gossip and decides the girl behind the microphone might be more interesting than the rumor itself.

꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs, @legendarychrattgirl

also available on wattpad under Hot Mic | Dean Di Laurentis x Reader if you’d rather read there ♡

now playing: “talk too much” — coin

“Did you listen to the latest episode of Briar Wire?”

The question floated out of the coffee line as you passed, tucked somewhere between the hiss of the espresso machine and the scrape of a chair being dragged across tile.

You kept walking.

That was the first rule of running an anonymous campus podcast. Never stop when someone mentioned it. Never turn your head too fast. Never smile like you knew exactly which episode they meant, which joke they were about to repeat, which line had made half of Briar University decide they were suddenly qualified detectives.

“The one about the hockey player at the football party?” another girl asked.

“Obviously.”

Your grip tightened around the strap of your camera bag.

Obviously.

You moved past them toward the pickup counter, eyes on the little cardboard sleeve around your iced coffee like it held state secrets instead of your name spelled wrong in black marker. Y/N had become something entirely different, which felt fitting. Half your life existed under a fake name anyway.

Behind you, the first girl lowered her voice.

“I’m telling you, it was Dean Di Laurentis.”

You reached for your drink and pretended your fingers did not pause around the plastic cup.

“No way,” her friend said. “Dean wouldn’t sneak out the back of a football party.”

“That’s exactly why it was him. He’d want people to think he wouldn’t.”

“He’d make a speech before leaving.”

“He probably did.”

You bit the inside of your cheek before a smile could get you arrested by your own conscience.

The episode had gone up at midnight, like it always did on Thursdays, when most of campus was either procrastinating, drinking, making questionable decisions, or all three in a sequence they would later try to blame on stress. By eight that morning, Briar Wire had been clipped, quoted, and misquoted across group chats, team texts, and whatever terrifying corner of student life existed inside private Snapchat stories.

You had not named Dean.

You never named names unless something was already public enough that pretending not to know would be insulting. The whole point of Briar Wire was not to ruin people. It was to take the ridiculous little disasters students willingly sent in and turn them into something funny enough to make everyone feel briefly less alone in their terrible choices.

A hockey player crashing a football party he had not been invited to, allegedly arguing with a wide receiver over a girl neither of them was dating, then allegedly leaving through a side door when someone’s ex showed up and started asking questions?

That was not life-ruining.

That was campus folklore.

And technically, all you had said was, I’m not naming names, but if the designer jacket fits, maybe stop wearing it to parties you weren’t invited to.

People had filled in the rest.

Briar loved filling in the rest.

By the time you stepped outside, the September air had already warmed enough to take the bite out of the morning. Students crossed the quad in clusters, carrying coffees, backpacks, protein shakes, and the haunted expressions of people who had scheduled Friday classes because they once believed in personal growth.

A guy in a Briar football hoodie held his phone out to his friend as they passed.

“She said designer jacket. That’s Dean.”

His friend snorted. “Half the hockey team dresses like they’re trying to marry into old money.”

“Yeah, but Dean already has old money.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t have to try.”

You looked straight ahead and took a long sip of coffee to hide your face.

The nice thing about being a student producer for Briar Athletics Media was that people saw the camera before they saw you. You were the girl with the lens, the media badge, the laptop covered in stickers from radio stations and campus events.

You were around enough to be familiar, but not enough to be suspicious. Athletes talked over you. Coaches forgot you were in corners. Girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, roommates, and team managers all seemed to assume that if you were adjusting audio levels, you had stopped having ears.

It was incredible what people said in front of someone holding equipment.

It was also incredible what they submitted anonymously at two in the morning after half a bottle of cheap vodka and one badly timed breakup.

You cut across the quad toward the student union, weaving through the usual Friday crowd. Someone had chalked Briar Wire knows in purple outside the library entrance. Beneath it, someone else had written Dean did it in green.

A third person, in smaller letters, had added, Dean does everything.

You had to give them that one.

Inside the student union, the noise hit you all at once. Chairs scraping, blenders whining from the smoothie counter, someone laughing too loudly near the vending machines, someone else cursing at a printer that had apparently chosen violence.

Mara was already at your usual table, one boot looped around the leg of the chair beside her to keep anyone else from taking it. Her laptop sat open in front of her, untouched, while her iced latte made a slow ring of condensation on the table. She was watching the room more than she was watching her screen, which told you everything you needed to know before she said a word.

The student union had that particular Friday morning buzz to it, loud enough to feel harmless until you started catching pieces of sentences. Dean’s name floated from the smoothie counter. Someone near the vending machines was replaying a clip too loudly from their phone. A girl in a Briar sweatshirt said, “No, but the designer jacket thing had to be him,” and three people around her immediately started arguing like they had been there themselves.

Mara looked up when you reached the table. Her gaze moved over your face, then to your coffee, then past your shoulder toward the girls still dissecting the episode near the counter.

She did not say the name of the podcast.

She did not have to.

You sat down in the chair she had saved for you and slipped your camera bag beneath the table, keeping your face arranged into something neutral. It was harder than it should have been. There was a strange feeling that came with hearing people repeat your own words back to each other, like walking through campus with a match hidden in your pocket while everyone searched for the source of smoke.

Mara nudged your drink closer when you forgot to reach for it.

“Big morning,” she said quietly.

You took the coffee mostly to have something to do with your hands. Across the room, someone laughed at a line you had recorded alone in your dorm at one in the morning, and your stomach pulled tight in a way that was not exactly fear, but lived close enough to it.

Mara’s expression softened just enough for you to notice. “No one knows anything,” she said, her voice low under the noise of the union. “They’re just bored and loud.”

That was probably supposed to help. In its own Mara way, it did. She was the only person at Briar who knew why your pulse had picked up, the only person who understood that this was not just campus drama to you. It was a secret with a microphone, a fake email inbox, and a growing number of strangers trying to give it a face.

Across the union, Camden appeared with his iced matcha in one hand and his phone in the other, already wearing the expression he got whenever a mystery had taken over his morning.

He wore a cream sweater even though the weather had not earned sweaters yet. His curls were loose around his forehead, his gold rings flashing as he typed something with his thumb. Camden got dressed for class the way other people got dressed for dinner reservations, which would have been annoying if he did not also lend you lip balm, chargers, and emotional support with no questions asked.

Mara saw him coming and sighed into her latte.

“He knows something,” she said.

You glanced over. “Does he?”

“No,” she said. “But he thinks he does.”

Camden slid into the chair across from you both and set his phone on the table, screen-up. There was a notes app open with a messy list of names, majors, arrows, and several question marks. You caught communications, athletics, and girl from North Hall? before he angled it away.

“I think I know who runs Briar Wire,” he announced.

Your hand tightened around your coffee.

Mara did not look at you. That was how you knew she was trying very hard not to.

Camden tapped the screen. “Not completely. I have categories.”

“Of course you do,” Mara said.

“I’m being realistic. The host knows too much about athletics to be random. She knew about the football party before half the people there decided what story they were going with. She knows hockey, but she knows football too. That means she either works near athletes, dates athletes, lives with someone who dates athletes, or has one of those terrifying friend groups where everyone knows everything before it happens.”

You opened your laptop mostly to give yourself something to look at. “Maybe people submit things.”

“They submit details,” Camden said. “She knows what to do with them.”

That landed closer than you wanted it to.

Your screen reflected your face for half a second before the login page loaded. You looked normal enough. A little tired, maybe, but not guilty. Not like someone who had spent the morning walking through campus while strangers repeated her own jokes back to her.

“Maybe she’s just good at guessing,” you said.

Camden gave you a look. “That is what people say when they like someone they don’t know how to defend.”

Mara reached for her drink. “Or when they’re trying to eat breakfast without becoming part of your investigation.”

“I’m not investigating,” Camden said, then looked down at his phone. “Not officially.”

You almost smiled, but Camden was still scrolling, still looking at names and majors like the answer might be sitting there if he arranged the evidence neatly enough. He was enjoying it. That was the thing. Not because he wanted to hurt anyone. Camden loved a secret the way some people loved crossword puzzles. He liked the chase. The possibility of being right.

But you were starting to understand that being the answer to the puzzle felt different from solving one.

Mara understood it too.

“You ever think maybe she stays anonymous because people act like this?” she asked.

Camden’s thumb stilled. “Like what?”

“Like she’s not a person,” Mara said. “Like she’s a game.”

He looked up fully then.

For a second, the noise of the student union filled the space between all three of you. Someone laughed near the vending machines. A blender shrieked behind the smoothie counter. A group of guys in football hoodies pushed through the doors, still arguing about whether the hockey player from the episode had climbed out a window or simply “left with strategy.”

Camden’s face shifted, just slightly.

“I don’t want her ruined,” he said. “I just want to know.”

“That’s how people get ruined,” Mara said.

You kept your eyes on the laptop screen, even though it had dimmed from lack of use. The reflection staring back at you looked composed enough to pass. Maybe that was the worst part. You had gotten good at looking normal while other people held your secret in their hands and turned it over like something they had found on the sidewalk.

Camden closed the notes app.

“I wouldn’t tell people,” he said after a moment. “If I figured it out.”

Mara looked at him over the rim of her cup, not challenging exactly, but not letting him off easy either.

“I wouldn’t,” he said again, quieter. “I like knowing things. I don’t need everyone else to know that I know.”

That was such a Camden answer, half sweet and half absurd, that it loosened something in your chest.

“Besides,” he added, picking up his matcha, “if everyone found out who she was, the whole thing would get weird. People would start performing for her on purpose. The podcast would be dead by midterms.”

“There it is,” Mara said, dry but fond. “A moral stance, almost.”

Camden pointed his straw at her. “Growth is rarely tidy.”

Your laptop chimed before Mara could answer.

A new email slid into view at the top of your inbox.

Elaine Porter: Athletics meeting moved up. Arena by 10. Bring camera. Hockey feature.

You read it once.

Then again, because your brain seemed to believe the words might become less threatening if you stared at them long enough.

Mara noticed your face before you could smooth it out.

“Elaine?” she asked.

You nodded and angled the laptop enough for her to see the subject line.

“Hockey feature,” Mara read.

Camden’s attention sharpened immediately. “What hockey feature?”

You shut your laptop.

He blinked. “Rude.”

“Confidential.”

“Y/N, I saw four words.”

“And those are all you’re getting,” you said, sliding the laptop into your bag before he could lean any closer.

He glanced toward the student union windows, where a few hockey players were passing outside in Briar sweatshirts. Even through the glass, you could hear one of them laugh.

“If the feature is about Dean,” Camden said, less teasing now, “you have to tell me.”

“I don’t.”

“So it is about Dean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You got quiet in a very Dean-specific way.”

Mara’s foot brushed yours beneath the table, light enough for Camden not to notice. When you looked at her, she gave you that quiet, steady look she got whenever the podcast stopped being funny for half a second.

“Text me after,” she said.

You nodded.

Camden, who had the terrible gift of sensing when people were leaving and choosing that exact moment to become impossible, added, “And if Dean brings up the party, I want the wording.”

“I’m not collecting statements for you.”

“You literally collect statements for a living.”

“I collect approved quotes for Briar Athletics.”

“Then approve one for me!”

Mara said his name, low enough that you almost missed it.

Camden settled back, but the interest stayed on his face. “Fine. I’m only saying that if he did use a side door, that matters.”

Your fingers tightened around your camera bag strap.

“What?”

“Back door implies panic,” Camden said. “Side door implies planning.”

You stared at him.

Mara stared too, but for an entirely different reason.

Across campus, you had already heard three versions of the story. None of them had mentioned a side door. That detail had been in the original submission, the part you had changed on air because saying too much would have made it easier to track.

You forced your voice flat. “You sound like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Camden only shrugged, unbothered. “All I’m saying is, the wording matters.”

You gave him one last look, then adjusted your camera bag on your shoulder. “I have to go.”

“Text me if he confirms anything,” he called after you.

“He won’t.”

Camden smiled down at his drink. “People always confirm something!”

By the time you pushed through the doors and stepped back into the September sun, your phone buzzed again with another email from Elaine.

Also, please tell me you saw the Briar Wire episode before everyone starts asking you about it.

You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, read it twice, and breathed out through your nose.

Then you typed back:

I heard enough. On my way.

The arena was colder than the rest of campus, even from the outside. It always felt like the building had its own weather system. The closer you got, the more the ordinary sounds of Briar thinned out behind you: bikes clicking over pavement, students talking in clusters, someone blasting music from a dorm window with no concern for taste or volume.

Inside, the air changed. Cleaner. Sharper. Threaded with the permanent scent of ice and equipment that no amount of industrial cleaner could fully erase.

Briar Athletics Media lived in the back hallway between the rink offices and the storage room where old tripods went to die. It was not glamorous, but it was yours in the way campus jobs became yours after enough late nights. You knew which outlet sparked if you plugged in the ring light too fast. You knew which desk drawer had extra batteries and which one only had granola bar wrappers from last semester. You knew the printer jammed when it sensed weakness.

Elaine was waiting near the media room doorway, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other, her hair twisted up in a clip that looked like it had been added during a crisis. She was in her early thirties, which made her ancient by campus standards and young by the standards of everyone she answered to. She had the calm, focused exhaustion of a person who knew exactly how many fires could be put out before lunch and had already exceeded the number.

“There you are,” she said.

“I’m four minutes early.”

“Emotionally, you’re late.”

“That sounds like a personal issue.”

“It became a department issue at eight sixteen this morning.” She held up her phone.

On the screen was a paused clip from Briar Wire, someone’s repost of the line about the designer jacket. The caption underneath read:

DEAN DI LAURENTIS YOU HAVE 24 HOURS TO RESPOND.

Your stomach tightened.

Elaine studied your face. “You listen to this thing?”

“Everyone listens.”

“That is the answer people give when they do not want to answer.”

“It’s still true.”

She sighed like she had been waiting all morning for someone to disappoint her in a new way. “The administration is pretending not to know about it, which means they know. Hockey is pretending not to care, which means they care. Football is pretending they did not let hockey players into their party, which means they absolutely did.”

“Sounds like everyone has a full schedule.”

“And we are going to redirect the attention.”

You did not like the way she said redirect. It sounded like a word adults used right before handing you work they already knew would ruin your week.

Elaine passed you the clipboard.

At the top was a printed outline with Beyond the Rink typed in bold.

Below that:

Episode One: Dean Di Laurentis.

You looked up slowly. “No.”

Elaine did not blink. “Yes.”

“No, thank you.”

“That would work better if this were optional.”

“I have concerns.”

“I have several. We’ll trade later.”

You looked back down at the page. Interview questions. B-roll list. Practice footage. Casual campus shots. A short personal segment. A line about leadership, which made you wonder if Elaine had ever met Dean Di Laurentis for more than thirty seconds.

“Why him?”

“Because Dean gets views,” Elaine said. “Because he is comfortable on camera. Because he doesn’t freeze when someone points a lens at him. Because if I let Coach choose, we’ll get seven minutes about discipline, forechecking, and protein intake.”

“That sounds peaceful.”

“That sounds god-awful.”

You could not argue there.

Elaine tucked the clipboard back against her chest. “You’re good with athletes who know they’re being watched. You don’t buy into the performance, but you don’t punish them for it either.”

That was almost funny, considering Dean’s performance had already spent the morning following you across campus in sound bites and chalk messages.

“I need ten minutes of interview footage today,” Elaine said. “Some practice B-roll. Maybe a hallway walk-and-talk if he behaves.”

“That’s a large maybe.”

“Start with the interview.”

Before you could respond, laughter came from the hall that led to the locker rooms. Not loud enough to be obnoxious, but familiar in the way some sounds became familiar by repetition. You had heard Dean laugh in the background of too many clips, too many post-game hallways, too many celebrations where he was not even the focus and still somehow ended up in frame.

He appeared a second later with two teammates, coffee in hand, Briar Hockey sweatshirt sleeves pushed to his forearms. His hair was still damp, like he had showered after morning skate and run his hands through it once before deciding that was good enough for the day. One of his teammates was grinning at something he had just said. The other looked like he had already heard the joke twice and still found it funny, which was probably Dean’s real talent.

He was mid-conversation when he walked in, his voice carrying into the media hallway like he had not considered the possibility of privacy.

“I’m not saying the story is wrong,” Dean said. “I’m saying it lacks context.”

His teammate laughed. “You want context now?”

“I’ve always valued context.”

“You told Ryan to stop texting like a man with a head injury.”

“That was a medical concern.”

The other guy shook his head, still laughing. “It was a group chat.”

“Then I was spreading awareness.”

Elaine looked at you.

You looked back at her.

Absolutely not, you thought.

Dean noticed you then. His eyes flicked to your camera bag, then to the clipboard in Elaine’s hand, then back to your face. Recognition sparked, not personal exactly, but professional. He had seen you around the rink before. Most athletes had. They knew you the way people knew exit signs, necessary when needed and otherwise part of the background.

Today, unfortunately, you were not going to be background.

Elaine stepped forward. “Dean. Perfect timing.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for years.”

“We’re starting the new player feature series today. Y/N will be producing your segment.”

Dean’s attention returned to you with more interest.

“Y/N,” he said, like he was testing the name once before deciding what to do with it.

You held out one hand because professionalism, even in the face of a man currently being discussed in half the campus group chats, was still technically your job.

“Hi.”

He shook your hand. His palm was warm from the coffee cup, his grip easy, not the exaggerated kind guys used when they thought firmness could double as personality.

“Hi,” he said. “Are you here to repair my image?”

“I’m here to film it.”

His smile came fast, the kind that probably worked on professors, donors, and anyone with a functioning nervous system. It was annoying to discover you were not immune so much as determined.

Elaine checked something off on her clipboard. “We need a short intro interview today. No party questions.”

Dean turned to her. “I feel like I deserve a chance to defend myself.”

“You’re not on trial.”

“That is how trials start.”

Elaine pointed toward the small interview room. “Ten minutes. Keep it clean.”

One of Dean’s teammates made a sound under his breath, not quite a laugh. “Not what Ryan said about the party.”

Dean glanced back at him. “Ryan called a side entrance a back door. His credibility is gone.”

Your fingers paused on the strap of your camera bag.

A side entrance.

Camden would have levitated out of his chair.

Elaine only pinched the bridge of her nose. “Room three. Now.”

The two teammates disappeared toward the rink, still laughing. Dean stayed where he was, attention shifting back to you.

“So,” he said, “how much creative control do I get?”

“None.”

“I can respect that.”

Elaine had already turned away, finished with both of you. “Y/N, send me the raw clips when you’re done.”

You nodded and led the way down the hall before Dean could decide to respect anything else.

Room three was barely a room. It was more of a storage closet. There were two folding chairs, a tripod, a small Briar Athletics banner on the wall, and one window that looked directly into another hallway.

You set up the camera while Dean wandered in behind you and looked around.

“This is intimate,” he said.

“It’s a repurposed closet.”

You snapped the camera onto the tripod and adjusted the height. Dean sat in the chair you pointed to, then shifted once under the fluorescent light, trying to get comfortable on a seat that had been purchased by someone who hated spines.

“You’re not going to ask about the party,” he said.

“No.”

“Not even off the record?”

You looked at him over the camera. “Do you know what that means?”

“I understand it deeply.”

You adjusted the focus to keep your mouth from giving you away. “This is for Athletics, not Briar Wire.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could pull them back.

Dean’s eyes sharpened.

Not enough to look suspicious. Enough to notice.

“So you do listen,” he said.

You kept your fingers on the camera. “Everyone listens.”

“That’s what people keep telling me.”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

Dean looked toward the lens, then back at you. “Funny, considering the podcast has never actually named me.”

“And yet you seem pretty sure it was about you.”

His mouth curved, but it did not quite turn into a smile. “That’s the strange part, isn’t it?”

The camera beeped softly when you hit record.

“State your name, year, and position.”

Dean sat up with enough exaggerated obedience that you already knew the first take would be unusable.

“Dean Di Laurentis. Junior. Forward. Victim of implied journalism.”

You let the silence sit.

He looked at you.

You looked back.

Finally, he exhaled. “Fine.”

You reset the clip.

He gave the answer properly the second time, which somehow annoyed you more than if he had made it difficult. Dean was not stupid. That was the problem with people like him. Everyone treated them like they were all charm and no structure, and sometimes they let people think that because it was easier. Then they turned around and did exactly what was needed the moment it mattered.

You moved through the basic questions. Favorite part of playing at Briar. Best memory with the team. What game-day routine he refused to give up. He gave you enough polished answers for the official cut, then enough ridiculous ones that you knew Elaine would make you delete them and you would probably save them anyway.

Halfway through, you asked, “What do you think people get wrong about you?”

Dean looked toward the camera, then away from it.

The pause was small, but you caught it. You always caught pauses. Audio taught you that people lied most clearly in the space before they spoke.

“That I don’t notice,” he said.

You waited.

His mouth tipped like he almost regretted giving you a real answer.

“People think I don’t notice what they assume about me,” he continued. “I do.”

There was no joke at the end of it.

For a second, the room felt too still.

You glanced down at the question list in your lap, though you had stopped needing it three questions ago. “Does that bother you?”

He looked at you then.

The easy answer would have been no. A shrug. A joke. Something about being too attractive to suffer. You could almost see him considering it.

Then he said, “Depends who’s doing the assuming.”

That was too good for the athletics page.

That was also too honest for a Friday morning with a camera between you.

You looked at the tiny red recording light and felt, briefly and strangely, like it was looking back.

Dean cleared his throat, and the moment shifted before either of you had to do anything with it.

“Was that tragic enough for the feature?”

“Elaine might cry.”

“Good. I’ve been trying to expand my range.”

You stopped the recording before you smiled. “We’re done.”

“That’s it?”

“For the interview.”

“I had more to give.”

“I’m sure you did.”

He stood, then lingered while you packed the camera. You could feel him still in the room, not crowding you, just present in a way that made the space feel smaller than it had before.

At the door, he paused.

“For the record,” he said, “I didn’t sneak out.”

You zipped the camera bag. “I didn’t ask.”

“I left through a side entrance. Walked, actually.”

You looked up at him.

He looked oddly satisfied, as if this settled everything.

“A side entrance,” you repeated.

“Different thing.”

“It sounds like the same exact thing.”

Dean’s smile widened despite himself. “That is exactly how reputations get ruined.”

It should have been nothing. A throwaway line in a room with bad lighting and a camera between you. But Dean was looking at you like he had found something more interesting than the interview, and for one stupid second, you forgot what you were supposed to be doing.

You picked up your bag before the silence could turn into anything else. “I have to get these clips to Elaine.”

“Right.” He stepped aside. “Wouldn’t want to keep the official story waiting.”

By late afternoon, the campus had only gotten worse.

Briar Wire was everywhere. Someone had taped a printed screenshot of the episode quote to the bulletin board outside the communications building. A hockey player you recognized from sophomore year passed you on the quad while arguing into his phone that Dean had definitely been at the football party but absolutely would not have climbed through a window, because Dean did not “do undignified exits.” At the dining hall, Camden had apparently posted a poll in the group chat asking whether Briar Wire’s host was more likely to be a communications major, an athlete’s ex, or someone hiding in plain sight.

Mara texted you a screenshot with no comment.

Then, thirty seconds later:

Mara: I did not vote.

You replied:

You: That feels worse than voting.

Mara: I’m preserving the integrity of the investigation.

You: You’re enjoying this.

Mara: A little.

You stared at your phone in the athletics media room while Dean’s interview files uploaded painfully slowly to the shared drive. His face was frozen on your screen in the middle of an answer, one hand lifted, mouth half-open, looking less like Briar’s favorite rumor and more like a guy who had accidentally said something real and immediately tried to outrun it.

People think I don’t notice what they assume about me.

You hated that you had kept thinking about it, and hated even more that you understood.

People assumed things about you too. Not loudly, not cruelly most of the time. They assumed you were quiet because you were shy. Responsible because you liked rules. Good with cameras because you preferred hiding behind them. They assumed that if you did not fight to be the center of the room, you had no interest in the room at all.

Briar Wire had been the first thing you built that did not ask permission to take up space.

And now everyone wanted to know who built it.

By the time you got back to your dorm, the sun had dropped low enough to turn the windows gold. Your roommate was gone for the weekend, which meant the room was yours. No small talk. No questions. No one asking why you were setting up your microphone at your desk or why your closet had a shoebox full of index cards labeled by episode number.

You changed into a sweatshirt, clipped your hair away from your face, and opened your laptop.

The Briar Wire inbox was a mess.

Some messages were insightful. A freshman had submitted a story about a fake ID getting confiscated by someone’s own older brother, which had potential. Someone else wanted advice about hooking up with their lab partner and then discovering they had been assigned a semester-long project together, which was less a submission and more a cry for help.

There were twelve messages about Dean.

Four claimed to have proof he was the football party hockey player. Two claimed he was innocent. Three were not remotely helpful but extremely passionate. One simply read:

I don’t care if he did it. Can he call in?

You snorted and took a screenshot for Mara.

Her reply came instantly.

Mara: Do not manifest that.

You were still smiling when the call window opened.

Unknown Caller.

Your smile faded.

Briar Wire did not take many live calls. You had a number people could use for voice submissions, but most came in as recordings. Live calls were harder to manage. Too unpredictable. Too easy for someone to say a name you would have to cut or reveal something you did not want in your ears in real time.

The window pulsed on your screen.

Unknown Caller.

You should have ignored it, which was probably why you put on your headphones instead.

The room seemed to quiet around you as you opened the recording software. The little red button appeared in the corner, waiting. Your heartbeat was too present, too close to the surface.

You accepted the call.

“Briar Wire,” you said, letting your podcast voice settle into place. Lower than your normal voice. Warmer. More controlled. “You’re on.”

There was a brief silence.

Then a male voice said, with far too much confidence for someone pretending to be anonymous, “Hi. Long-time listener, first-time caller. My name is Dennis.”

You closed your eyes.

Dean Di Laurentis.

Of course.

Of course he had chosen Dennis.

You muted yourself and pressed your fingers over your mouth, not because you were laughing, exactly, but because your body had chosen a reaction and none of the options were safe.

On the other end, Dean cleared his throat.

“I’m calling on behalf of a friend,” he said.

You unmuted yourself.

“A friend.”

“He values privacy.”

“Says the man calling a campus podcast.”

“I’m not the friend. I’m Dennis.”

“Right.”

“I feel like you don’t believe me.”

“Dennis, I believe in a lot of things. This is not one of them.”

His laugh came through the headphones before he could stop it. Brief. Unpolished. Not for an audience.

It caught you off guard more than it should have.

“My friend feels misrepresented,” he said once he recovered.

“Does your friend often attend parties he claims he was invited to through men named Matt?”

Silence.

You felt it the second it happened. Not a dead silence. A listening one.

“How do you know about Matt?”

You stared at the waveform jumping across the screen.

“Lucky guess,” you said.

“There are a lot of Matts on the football team.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“That’s not the same as knowing one invited me.”

You sat very still.

“Did I say you?”

Another silence.

Then Dean laughed again, lower this time, like he had been caught and did not entirely mind.

“Dennis,” he corrected.

“Yes,” you said. “Dennis.”

“Dennis’s friend was invited.”

“And yet Dennis’s friend left through a side entrance.”

He went quiet again.

This time, you smiled before you could stop yourself.

“How do you know about the side entrance?” he asked.

You glanced at the red recording dot, the tiny signal that this was all being saved somewhere. Every pause. Every slip. Every little edge in his voice when he realized you knew more than you should have.

“Maybe I have sources.”

“Do your sources have names?”

“Maybe.”

“Would one of them be Matt?”

You leaned back in your chair. “You called me, Dennis.”

“To seek justice.”

You should have ended the call then. You had enough for the next episode already. More than enough. Dean Di Laurentis pretending to be someone named Dennis while arguing about the architecture of his exit would carry the entire campus through at least Tuesday.

But the line stayed open.

So did you.

“My friend wants a correction,” he said.

“For what?”

“The record should reflect that he did not sneak out. He left.”

“Through a side entrance.”

“With dignity.”

You looked at the red recording dot blinking on your screen and let the silence do the work for you.

Dean laughed under his breath. “You’re kind of mean, Wire Girl.”

Wire Girl.

It was ridiculous. Barely even a nickname. Still, your fingers paused against the desk like it had reached across the line and touched something it shouldn’t have.

“You called me,” you said.

“To defend an innocent man.”

“To defend yourself.”

A pause.

Then, amused, “I never said it was me.”

“No,” you said. “You just made it very easy to guess.”

For a moment, the call went quiet. Outside your door, someone laughed down the hall, normal life carrying on a few feet away while Dean Di Laurentis sat somewhere on campus pretending to be a stranger.

Then he said, “Who are you?”

Your hand stilled.

There it was. The question everyone at Briar had been asking all morning.

“That would ruin the show,” you said.

“Not for me.”

“Especially for you.”

You heard his smile before he spoke again. “I can keep secrets.”

“Goodnight, Dennis.”

Then you ended the call.

For a moment, you just sat there, headphones on, staring at the recording file as it saved automatically to your laptop.

Then your phone buzzed.

Mara: I felt a disturbance.

You looked at the file name.

UNKNOWN CALLER 7:42 PM

Your fingers moved over the screen.

You: Dean called in.

The dots appeared immediately.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then:

Mara: Tell me you did not answer.

You looked at the microphone. At the red light. At the saved audio file that now contained Dean Di Laurentis pretending to be a man named Dennis and asking who you were like he had a right to know.

You typed back:

You: I answered.

Mara’s reply came so fast it looked angry.

Mara: Tell me you at least recorded it.

You glanced at the file again.

Despite the nerves still moving through you, despite the rules, despite the fact that Dean had gotten closer to the truth in one phone call than anyone else had managed in eight episodes, you smiled.

You: Obviously.

[vmoonheart]

𝜗𝜚 THE BEST FRIEND THEORY 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝒾𝓍

𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝒷𝒾𝓃 × 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

౨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: your best friend is unfairly gorgeous the kind of gorgeous that makes strangers turn twice luckily… he’s gay so it’s harmless when he pulls you into his lap during movie night harmless when he braids your hair while you rant about bad dates harmless when he kisses your temple before exams right?

౨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮: college au, slow burn → intense burn, smut

౨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝒾𝓷𝓰𝓼: friends to lovers, manipulation themes, emotional dependency, baby trapping, dirty talk, smut, mdni, multiple orgasms, morally gray, obsessive behavior, graduation, families, she has no idea, he has every idea, please read responsibly ♡

౨ৎ ˖ 𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ♡ hi loves. i had some problems updating tbft, so i really hope the chapter content wasn’t altered or deleted.... i’ve been trying to update it since yesterday and couldn’t, but now it finally seems to have worked!

this chapter isn’t exactly how i wanted it to be because i lost my notes for the future chapters of this fanfic -.- so i had to write it based on what i could remember lol. right now i’m finishing the last chapter so i can post everything for you soon! i’ll probably be posting the rest within 1 to 3 days, so get ready.

i also have new fanfics active on my profile, the soobin core era is still going strong <3 my asks are open, and if any request catches my attention, i might write it when i have time!

this chapter is the long one. the last semester. the pharmacy. the families. the final stretch before everything changes and neither of them fully knows it yet — well. one of them does. reblogs keep me breathing. i mean it every time ♡ tag list is open for this and all my other works. for now, that’s it

xoxo, v.

౨ৎ ˖ 𝔀𝒹𝓼: 14k.

౨ৎ ݁ ˖ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ˖ ݁dress – taylor swift, shameless – camila cabello, sweater weather – the neighbourhood, killer queen – 5 seconds of summer, love talk – wayv, call it what you want – taylor swift, i wanna be yours – arctic monkeys, peaches & cream – kai, love on the brain – rihanna, do i wanna know? – arctic monkeys, until i found you – stephen sanchez

“Be patient. Let it happen naturally.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓍 ✧ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

January arrives like a door swinging open onto cold air — sudden, inevitable, the kind of thing you knew was coming and somehow still aren't ready for. Final semester. Last stretch. The end of something enormous that they've been inside so long it stopped feeling like an ending and started feeling like just the way things are.

The campus wakes up with a different kind of energy — quieter in some ways, louder in others. Seniors move through the quad with that specific expression of people who can see the finish line and aren't sure whether to sprint or stop and look around one more time. She feels it in her chest every morning: the particular anxiety of being almost done, which is somehow more terrifying than being in the middle of it. Almost done means having to figure out what comes next. Almost done means the structure she's been living inside for four years dissolves and something else has to take its place.

She doesn't think too hard about what that something is.

Soobin is already at the kitchen counter when she comes out most mornings — his things, her kitchen, this blurred arrangement that stopped being temporary somewhere around week three and never found its way back. Coffee made before she asks. Her mug on the left because he noticed she always reaches left first. The specific brand of creamer she likes on the second shelf because the first shelf gets too cold near the back and the creamer separates if it gets too cold and she complained about that once, months ago, and he has apparently filed it away alongside every other small detail of her existence.

She stopped noticing the small things. That's the part that matters — not that he does them, but that she stopped noticing, which means she started expecting, which means the absence of them would register as lack rather than normal. He built a floor under her feet so quietly that she forgot there was ever anything beneath her but his hands.

Thesis drafts take up most of January. She works at the dining table most evenings and he works across from her, his own pages spread, and they've developed a rhythm of productive silence broken by murmured questions and the occasional shared snack and the way he reaches over without looking to refill her water glass whenever it gets low. She's told three separate people that she works better with him there than she ever did alone, and she means it the way you mean true things — carelessly, without examining why it's true or when it became that way.

Beomgyu texts her one Thursday: you two are basically married. i'm sending a gift registry.

She sends back a middle finger emoji and doesn't show Soobin.

He already knows what Beomgyu thinks. He's known for a long time. He finds it useful.

The stress peaks in February the way it always does — deadlines compressing, every professor deciding this is the week to assign the difficult thing, her sleep getting thin and her temper getting shorter and the specific hormonal cocktail of finals-adjacent anxiety making her feel like her body is slightly too loud for her skin. She knows this version of herself. She doesn't like her but she recognizes her.

Soobin recognizes her too.

He shows up one evening with a heating pad she didn't ask for — it's not her period, just tension across her lower back — and a packet of the good painkillers and a container of whatever his mother used to make that involves ginger and enough warmth to soften the worst edges of a bad week. He sets everything on the coffee table without ceremony, drops onto the couch beside her, and pulls her sideways into him with one arm while he opens his own laptop with the other like this is just how evenings go now.

"You didn't have to," she says, already reaching for the ginger thing.

"Didn't have to do what?" he says, which is the only answer he ever gives to gratitude, which is the way he makes it feel like breathing — like something that just happens, like oxygen, like of course, why would there be any other option.

She eats the whole container. He doesn't comment. Just keeps working, one hand eventually drifting to her knee where it rests for the rest of the night, thumb making those slow absent circles she's stopped registering as anything except warmth.

Later — much later, the drafts put away, the apartment quiet — she ends up in his lap with her mouth on his jaw and his hands under her shirt and the particular urgency of people who've been sitting very close to each other for too many hours and have reached the natural end of the tension that produces. They've stopped discussing it. It just happens now the same way the coffee happens — naturally, without ceremony, an arrangement that suits them both. She tells herself this because it's comfortable. He lets her tell herself this because it's useful.

"Stay," he says against her throat, the word barely above a breath, which she understands to mean in my bed tonight, because she still sometimes retreats to the pull-out when the evening ends with them tangled on the couch rather than moving to the bedroom, a small preservation of the idea that this is still flexible, still a choice being made, still something she could step back from if she decided to.

She goes to the bedroom.

She always goes to the bedroom.

It starts with the condom conversation.

Which isn't really a conversation so much as a moment, a Tuesday night, the two of them already past the point of slowing down, his mouth on her neck and her hands in his hair and the drawer of the nightstand open where the condoms live, except his hand pauses on the way there and he turns his face against her cheek instead, voice low and careful in the way he gets when he's about to suggest something he's already decided on.

"I want to feel you," he murmurs, and the words land in the specific register he uses when he wants them to bypass her thinking brain and go somewhere warmer and less rational. "Just once. Just us. I'll get the pill tomorrow — the expensive one, the one that actually works. I just—" his mouth drags to her ear "—I want to know what it feels like."

She should think about it longer than she does.

She doesn't.

"Okay," she breathes, which is the word her body has apparently decided is correct, and then his hands are moving again and the drawer stays closed and the particular desperate warmth of skin without barrier is enough to make the thinking brain go offline entirely.

Afterward — the warmth of him still inside her, both of them slow and wrecked and his face pressed to her shoulder — she thinks: tomorrow he'll get the pill, we'll be fine, this was a one-time thing because he asked so well and she was already too far gone to be sensible about it.

She doesn't notice that the drawer stays closed the next night too.

Or the night after.

What she does notice — weeks later, without connecting the dots she doesn't know are there to connect — is that the nightstand has been subtly reorganized. The things she reaches for most are at the front now. The condoms are still technically there, just toward the back, under some things, slightly less immediately available. She assumes she moved them herself.

She didn't.

He goes to the pharmacy on a Wednesday morning while she's in her 9am lecture.

He knows her schedule. He always knows her schedule.

He takes his time in the aisle — this is not a trip he makes carelessly, this is a trip he has thought about since the baby clothes in the mall, since he felt something unlock in his chest standing behind her at that shop window, since he looked at the tiny Eevee paw shoes and thought: I want this, and the wanting arrived so clean and certain that it frightened him briefly before it didn't anymore.

He picks up her period products first — the right ones, the specific brand she likes, the overnight pads she always forgets to buy herself, the liners because she mentioned once being caught without them. Sets them in the basket.

Then he takes his time with the vitamins.

Prenatal vitamins, it turns out, look remarkably like regular women's health supplements. Same aisle. Similar packaging. He picks up two bottles — compares them with the ones she already takes, the ones she keeps on the bathroom shelf — and selects the ones closest in appearance to her regular brand. Same amber bottle. Similar capsule color. Different contents.

He adds them to the basket without hurry.

He adds the after-pill she asked for too — the expensive one, the one he told her works — and pockets it on the way out of the pharmacy without putting it in the bag.

She never asks to see the receipt.

She never asks about the vitamins.

She takes them every morning the way she takes everything he sets in front of her: because he's always been right about what she needs, because she trusts him completely, because four years of being known this precisely has trained her body to accept care from his hands without question.

He watches her take the first one over coffee on a Thursday morning — still in his hoodie, hair unstyled, squinting slightly at the light — and feels something patient and enormous settle in his chest.

He was always going to get here.

He just had to be careful about the route.

The last semester has a specific quality to it that she can only describe as pressure — everything compressed, every deadline tighter, every emotion closer to the surface. She cries twice over thesis footnotes. She laughs too loud at things that aren't that funny. She wakes at 4am with her heart already going and her mind cataloguing every unfinished thing, and the only thing that reliably puts her back to sleep is the weight of his arm across her waist and the slow even rhythm of his breathing against her shoulder.

She's also, she notices with a detachment that feels like someone else's observation, the horniest she has ever been in her adult life.

She doesn't analyze this too deeply. Stress, she tells herself. The body compensating. Senior year hormones. The fact that she's been sleeping next to someone warm and large and genuinely excellent at the specific activity for months now and her body has recalibrated its baseline accordingly.

Whatever the reason, the effect is this: they fuck constantly.

Not carelessly — they're never careless, even when they're frantic, even when it's 11pm and she has a 7am alarm and she's the one climbing into his lap instead of sleeping like a reasonable person. There's always intention in it. His, she will understand later, has always been very specific. Hers is just want — uncomplicated, immediate, the particular hunger of a person who has been given something extraordinary and can't stop reaching for it.

Tuesday morning before her seminar — quick, efficient, him sitting on the edge of the bed with her straddling his lap, face in his neck, his hands gripping her hips to set the pace, both of them quiet because the walls are thin and it's 7am and the world hasn't fully started yet.

Thursday night after she finishes her last draft revision — slow, thorough, him taking his time with her in the particular way he does when they have nowhere to be, no urgency except the kind that builds and builds until she's shaking and he's still moving like he could do this forever.

Sunday afternoon — twice, because the first time ends too fast and he pulls her back before she's even caught her breath, mouth at her ear saying stay and his hands already finding the places that make staying the only possible response.

She stops keeping track of what's protected and what isn't. She trusts him. She has always trusted him. He said he'd handle it — the expensive pill, the good brand, we're covered — and she accepted that the way she accepts everything from him, which is to say: fully, without verification, because he's never been wrong before.

He is not wrong now either, technically.

He's just not doing what she thinks he's doing.

The tension doesn’t break so much as it simply stops pretending to exist.

It starts on a random Tuesday in late February, the kind of gray afternoon where the light never quite decides to commit. She’s been hunched over her laptop for six straight hours, shoulders tight, eyes burning, when Soobin appears behind her chair without a sound. His hands settle on her shoulders first, warm, sure, thumbs pressing into the knots with the exact pressure she likes because he’s mapped every inch of her tension over months.

“You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes,” he murmurs, voice low and close to her ear.

She exhales shakily. “It’s not working.”

“Then stop.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. He never really does anymore. His fingers slide under the collar of her hoodie (his hoodie) and peel it upward. She lifts her arms automatically, letting him strip it off her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The cool air hits her bare skin and she shivers once. He notices. Of course he does.

He turns her chair slowly until she’s facing him. Then he drops to his knees between her spread thighs like it’s nothing — like kneeling for her is just another Tuesday evening task.

“Soobin—”

“Shh.” His palms glide up her thighs, pushing the soft fabric of her shorts higher until his thumbs brush the crease where leg meets hip. “Let me take care of you.”

He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, higher. When he reaches the edge of her panties he hooks his fingers in the waistband and tugs them down with one smooth motion. She lifts her hips to help without thinking. The trust is bone-deep now; her body has learned that his hands only ever bring relief.

He doesn’t tease tonight. There’s no slow build, no playful denial. He simply spreads her open with his thumbs and puts his mouth on her like he’s starving.

The first lick is broad and wet and perfect. She jolts, one hand flying to his hair. He hums against her, the vibration shooting straight up her spine, and then he settles in, slow, deliberate drags of his tongue over her clit, two fingers sliding inside her without resistance because she’s already soaked from the sheer relief of his attention.

“Fuck— Soobin,” she gasps, hips twitching.

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers by curling his fingers, finding that spot that makes her see white, and sucking her clit into his mouth with steady, rhythmic pressure. The wet sounds fill the quiet apartment, obscene and intimate at the same time. Her thighs start to tremble around his ears. He doesn’t let up. He never lets up when he decides she needs to come.

She comes the first time with a broken cry, back arching off the chair, fingers tightening painfully in his hair. He rides her through it, gentling his tongue but keeping his fingers moving until the last spasm fades.

Only then does he pull back, lips shiny, eyes dark and focused entirely on her flushed face. He rises to his feet, towering over her, and strips his own shirt off in one fluid motion. His sweatpants follow. His cock is already hard, flushed dark, the tip glistening.

He doesn’t ask. He simply pulls her up from the chair, turns her around, and bends her over the dining table where her thesis pages are still scattered.

The wood is cool against her breasts. She braces her palms flat as he kicks her feet wider apart.

“Stay just like this,” he says quietly, one large hand smoothing down her spine.

Then he’s pushing inside her — bare, hot, thick — in one long, steady stroke.

They both groan. The feeling without the latex is overwhelming: every ridge, every vein, the blunt head pressing right against her cervix when he bottoms out. He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, letting himself feel her clench around him raw.

“So tight,” he breathes, voice rough. “Always so fucking perfect for me.”

He starts moving — slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that drag against every sensitive spot inside her. One hand grips her hip, the other slides up her back to fist gently in her hair, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring.

The pace builds. The table creaks under them. Her moans turn into whimpers, then sharp cries as he angles his hips and hits that spot again and again. The second orgasm crashes into her without warning. She clenches hard around him, vision blurring, and he curses under his breath, pace faltering for the first time.

He doesn’t pull out.

He fucks her through it, harder now, chasing his own release. When he comes it’s with a low, guttural sound, hips snapping forward as he spills deep inside her, hot pulses that seem to last forever. He grinds against her ass, making sure every drop stays where he wants it.

She’s still bent over the dining table, chest heaving, when Soobin’s hands slide up her sides with deliberate slowness. His cock is still buried deep inside her, softening only slightly, and the feeling of him twitching against her walls makes her whimper softly. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he leans down, pressing his broad chest fully against her back, caging her between the cool wood and the heat of his body.

His lips find the shell of her ear first.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, breath hot against her skin. “How perfectly you take me?. Nothing between us.”

A shiver runs through her. She nods, unable to form words yet. His hips give one lazy roll, pushing his cum deeper, and she clenches around him instinctively. The wet, filthy sound it makes should embarrass her. It doesn’t. Not with him.

Soobin’s mouth trails down to her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive column. He sucks lightly at the spot just below her ear, the one that always makes her melt, then soothes it with his tongue. His hands aren’t idle. One large palm smooths up her spine, fingers splaying wide between her shoulder blades, while the other slips around to her front, cupping her breast and thumbing over her nipple until it pebbles under his touch.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispers between kisses, voice dripping with that quiet intensity he only ever uses when they’re like this. “Letting me have you exactly how I want. Just us.”

He starts moving again — not thrusting hard, but slow, deep grinds that keep him pressed flush against her, his cock stirring back to full hardness inside her slick heat. Every roll of his hips drags against that sensitive spot, making her gasp and push back against him. His free hand leaves her breast to trace down her stomach, fingers brushing lightly over her clit in teasing circles that match the rhythm of his hips.

She turns her head, seeking his mouth. He meets her instantly, kissing her deeply, tongue sliding against hers in the same unhurried way he’s fucking her. The kiss is messy, wet, full of shared breath and quiet moans. His lips are soft but demanding, sucking on her lower lip, nipping gently, then soothing with his tongue again. He tastes like her, and the realization sends another wave of heat through her body.

His hand on her back slides up to tangle in her hair, just holding her head in place so he can kiss her harder. The other hand continues its slow torture between her legs — fingers circling her swollen clit with perfect pressure, occasionally dipping lower to feel where they’re joined, where his cock stretches her and his cum leaks out around him with every shallow thrust.

“You’re getting wetter,” he breathes against her mouth, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. “My cum inside you… you like that, don’t you? Feeling me drip out while I’m still fucking it back in.”

She moans into the kiss, nodding frantically. Her walls flutter around him, and he groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into her back. The kissing grows more heated — tongues tangling, teeth grazing, desperate little sounds escaping both of them. His hips pick up a fraction more speed, still controlled, still deep, each thrust accompanied by another slow circle over her clit.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along her jaw, down her throat, sucking another mark just above her collarbone. His fingers in her hair tighten slightly, tilting her head to give him better access. Every touch is reverent and possessive at once — his palm mapping her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast, then back down to pinch her nipple lightly while his mouth claims her neck.

“So pretty when you’re like this,” he murmurs between kisses and soft bites. “All flushed and needy. Taking everything I give you.”

Her breathing is ragged now, hips rocking back to meet his slow thrusts. The combination of his cock moving inside her, his fingers on her clit, and his mouth worshiping every inch of skin he can reach is overwhelming in the best way. She feels completely surrounded by him, his heat, his scent, his quiet control.

Soobin kisses the corner of her mouth again, softer this time, then whispers against her lips:

“Turn around for me, baby. I want to see your face while I touch you.”

He pulls out slowly, both of them groaning at the loss, a thick trickle of his release sliding down her thigh. He helps her straighten and turn, his hands gentle but firm on her hips. When she’s facing him, he lifts her effortlessly onto the table, spreading her legs wide and stepping between them.

His mouth finds hers again immediately, deep, consuming kisses that make her dizzy. His hands roam freely now: one cupping her face, thumb stroking her cheek, the other sliding between her thighs to push two fingers back inside her cum-filled pussy, curling them slowly while his thumb works her clit.

The kissing never stops. Slow and filthy, then soft and sweet, then hungry again. He drinks every moan from her lips, every gasp, every broken whisper of his name. His fingers move in perfect rhythm, scissoring gently, spreading his cum and her wetness, preparing her for more.

He only pulls back when she’s trembling, lips swollen and shiny, eyes glassy with need.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

She does.

And in that moment, with his fingers buried inside her and his gaze locked on hers, she feels the depth of how completely she belongs to this, to him, even if she still calls it friendship.

Soobin’s fingers are still buried deep inside her, curling slowly, when he pulls back just enough to look at her properly. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but his voice stays soft, almost reverent.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking her clit in lazy circles while his other hand cradles her jaw. “Sitting on the table all spread open for me… so fucking beautiful.”

She bites her lip, cheeks burning under his gaze. “Soobin… you don’t have to say that every time.”

“But I do,” he replies instantly, leaning in to press a slow, deep kiss to her mouth. When he pulls away, his fingers keep moving. “Because it’s true. Every inch of you drives me crazy. I’ve wanted this for so long… wanted you like this.”

Her breath hitches as he curls his fingers again, hitting that spot that makes her thighs tremble. “You already have me,” she whispers, voice shaky. “You know that.”

A small, satisfied smile curves his lips. “Yeah… I do. And I’m never letting go.”

He withdraws his fingers slowly, making her whimper at the loss, then brings them to his mouth and licks them clean without breaking eye contact. She watches, mesmerized and flushed.

“Soobin—”

“Shh. Let me worship you properly tonight.” His hands slide up her thighs, spreading them wider as he leans down. His mouth starts at her collarbone, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the line. “You’ve been so stressed with the thesis… let me take care of every part of you.”

He trails lower, lips brushing the swell of her breasts, then down her stomach. Every kiss is deliberate, slow, like he’s mapping her. “This spot right here,” he murmurs against her ribs, sucking lightly, “makes you shiver every time.” He proves it by doing it again, smiling when she gasps.

“You remember everything,” she breathes, fingers threading through his hair.

“Of course I do.” His voice is low, intimate. “I’ve been paying attention for years. Every sound you make, every place that makes you wetter… all mine to learn.”

He moves back up, mouth finding the sensitive skin just below her ear while his hands roam — one palm smoothing over her hip, the other cupping her ass, squeezing gently. “Tell me how it feels, baby. Tell me what you need.”

“It feels… so good,” she moans softly as his fingers trace circles on her inner thigh. “Your hands are everywhere. I can’t think when you touch me like this.”

“Good,” he whispers, nipping at her jaw. “You don’t need to think. Just feel. Just let me love on you.”

He kisses down her neck again, slower this time, sucking a faint mark into the hollow of her throat. “This neck… always smells like your shampoo and a little like me now.” He inhales deeply, then licks the spot. “Fuck, I love that.”

She arches into him, a soft laugh escaping despite the heat building again. “You’re so obsessed.”

“With you? Yeah.” His eyes meet hers, serious and heated. “Completely. Every curve, every sound, every time you say my name like that.”

His hands slide under her thighs, lifting her slightly as he kisses lower, across her stomach, tongue dipping into her navel. “This little spot right here always makes your hips twitch.” He demonstrates, and she does exactly that, giggling breathlessly before it turns into a moan.

“Soobin, please… I need more.”

He looks up at her, chin resting on her lower stomach, eyes dark with promise. “Patience, baby. I’m not rushing tonight. I want to taste every part of you first. Tell me, does this feel good?” He presses a kiss just above her mound, then another on the inside of her thigh.

“Yes— fuck, yes,” she gasps, legs spreading wider on instinct. “Your mouth is so warm… I love when you kiss me there.”

He hums in approval, the vibration traveling through her skin. “Good girl. Keep talking to me. I love hearing how much you need me.”

His palms stroke up and down her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts as his mouth continues its slow worship — kissing, licking, sucking gently on every inch of skin he can reach. He pauses at her hip bone, biting lightly, then soothing with his tongue.

“You’re shaking,” he observes softly, voice full of quiet pride. “Already so sensitive for me. That’s because your body knows who it belongs to now, doesn’t it?”

She nods, breath coming in short pants. “It does… it’s yours, Soobin. All of it.”

His eyes flash with something deep and satisfied. He rises slightly, capturing her mouth in another slow, filthy kiss while his hands continue exploring — squeezing her ass, tracing her waist, thumbs circling her nipples until they’re tight and aching.

“Say it again,” he whispers against her lips, voice husky. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” she breathes, kissing him back desperately. “I belong to you.”

He groans softly into the kiss, one hand sliding between her legs again to tease her entrance with two fingers. “That’s my girl. So perfect. So mine.”

The touching never stops — slow, reverent strokes mixed with firmer grips, every movement designed to make her feel completely adored and completely claimed at the same time. His mouth stays busy on her skin, murmuring praises between kisses.

“You’re so soft here… so warm… I could spend hours just touching you like this.”

She whimpers, hips rocking against his hand. “Soobin… I’m getting close again just from this.”

“Then come for me whenever you want, baby,” he murmurs, kissing her deeply once more. “But I’m nowhere near done worshipping you tonight.”

She’s still trembling from his slow worship, thighs spread wide on the dining table, when Soobin straightens up and cups her face with both hands. His thumbs brush her flushed cheeks, eyes locked on hers with that quiet intensity that always makes her stomach flip.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges, “you’re so good for me. Letting me touch you everywhere… but I need your mouth now. Can you do that for me?”

Her breath catches. She nods quickly, lips parting. “Yes… I want to. I love making you feel good too.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. “That’s my girl. Come here.”

He helps her slide off the table, legs still shaky, and guides her gently down until she’s on her knees in front of him. The apartment floor is cool against her skin, but the heat radiating from his body makes her forget everything else. His cock stands hard and flushed in front of her, still slick from being inside her earlier, the tip glistening with a mix of their arousal.

Soobin threads his fingers gently through her hair. “Look at me while you do it,” he says softly. “I want to see your eyes.”

She looks up at him, heart racing, and wraps one hand around the base of his thick length. He’s big, always has been, and the weight of him in her palm feels familiar and intoxicating. She leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head, tasting the salty tang of him mixed with her own wetness.

“Fuck…” Soobin hisses, his grip tightening slightly in her hair. “Just like that. Start slow, baby. I want to feel every second.”

She obeys, licking a long, slow stripe from base to tip, swirling her tongue around the sensitive head before taking him into her mouth. The groan that escapes him is deep and guttural, his hips twitching forward just a little.

“Oh shit, your mouth feels incredible,” he breathes, watching her with dark, hooded eyes. “So warm… so wet. You always take me so well.”

She hums around him, the vibration making his cock twitch against her tongue. Encouraged, she takes him deeper, bobbing her head slowly while her hand strokes what she can’t fit. Her other hand rests on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under her palm.

Soobin’s breathing grows heavier. “That’s it… just like that. Use your tongue more on the underside — yes, fuck, right there.” His voice drops lower, almost reverent. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. You on your knees, looking up at me with those pretty eyes while you suck my cock.”

She pulls back for a moment, lips shiny, breathing hard. “Do you really think about me like that?” she asks, voice husky, giving him a few slow pumps with her hand. “Even when we’re just… hanging out?”

“Every day,” he admits, thumb stroking her cheek. “Sometimes when you’re studying across from me, all focused and biting your lip, I imagine pulling you under the table and letting you worship me while you try to stay quiet.” He guides her mouth back to him gently. “But this is better. This is real. Suck a little harder, baby — yeah, just like that. Good girl.”

She moans around his length, taking him deeper until he hits the back of her throat. She relaxes, swallowing around him, and Soobin curses under his breath, head tipping back for a second before he forces himself to look down again.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, hips starting to rock shallowly. “The way your throat squeezes me… fuck, I could stay in your mouth forever. You like tasting us together? My cum and your pussy all over my cock?”

She nods as best she can, eyes watering slightly but never breaking eye contact. The filthy words send heat straight between her legs again. She hollows her cheeks, sucking harder, tongue working the underside while her hand twists gently at the base.

Soobin’s grip in her hair tightens, but he’s still careful, never forcing her. “Slow down a little or I’m gonna come too fast,” he warns, voice strained. “I want to enjoy this. Want to watch you take every inch. You’re so fucking eager for it… my sweet best friend on her knees sucking me like she was made for it.”

She pulls off with a wet pop, stroking him firmly while she catches her breath. “I was made for you,” she whispers, pressing sloppy kisses along his shaft. “I love how you feel in my mouth… how heavy you are on my tongue. Tell me what else you want.”

His eyes darken further. “Lick my balls while you stroke me. Then take me deep again.”

She does exactly that — tongue laving over his sack, sucking one into her mouth gently while her hand works his cock in long, steady strokes. Soobin’s thighs tremble, a low moan escaping him.

“Fuck yes… just like that, baby. You’re so good at this. No one else could ever make me feel this way. Only you.”

She switches to the other side, then licks back up to the head and swallows him down again, taking him as deep as she can. Soobin’s hand guides her rhythm now, gentle but firm.

“Look at me,” he says again, voice rough. “I want to see how much you love having my cock in your throat.”

Their eyes lock. Tears cling to her lashes, but she doesn’t stop, humming and swallowing around him. Soobin’s breathing turns ragged.

“You’re gonna make me come if you keep that up,” he warns, though his hips keep moving in shallow thrusts. “But not yet… I still want to fuck you properly tonight. Want to fill you up again while you’re moaning my name.”

She pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip. “Then use my mouth however you want first. I can take it.”

Soobin pulls her up from her knees with gentle but firm hands, his mouth immediately claiming hers in a deep, messy kiss. He can still taste himself on her tongue, and the thought makes him groan softly into her mouth. He walks her backward until her hips hit the edge of the dining table again, then lifts her effortlessly so she’s sitting on it once more, legs wrapping around his waist.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs against her lips, breaking the kiss only to trail his mouth along her jaw. “The way you looked up at me with my cock down your throat… fuck, I almost lost it.”

She smiles breathlessly, hands sliding up his chest. “I love making you feel like that. You always take such good care of me… I want to do the same for you.”

His eyes soften for a moment, something deep and possessive flickering behind the heat. “You do. More than you know.” Then his voice drops lower, hands sliding up her sides. “But right now, I need to taste you again. Spread your legs wider for me, baby.”

She obeys instantly, leaning back on her elbows on the table as he drops to his knees between her thighs once more. His large hands grip her inner thighs, spreading her open, and he stares at her glistening pussy with open hunger.

“Look at this pretty little pussy,” he says, voice rough with want. “All wet and swollen from my cock and your mouth. Still leaking my cum… that’s so fucking hot.”

She whimpers, hips twitching. “Soobin… please.”

“Please what?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another higher up. “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your mouth on me,” she breathes, cheeks burning. “Please lick me… make me come with your tongue.”

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “Good girl. So honest for me.”

He doesn’t tease this time. He dives in, licking a broad, slow stripe from her entrance up to her clit, tasting the mix of their arousal. She gasps sharply, one hand flying to his hair.

“Oh god— Soobin!”

He hums against her, the vibration sending sparks through her body. “You taste so good,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “Sweet and a little salty from us… I could eat you for hours.”

His tongue circles her clit with precise, firm strokes, then flattens to lap at her entrance, pushing inside her as far as it can go. She moans loudly, back arching off the table.

“Yes— right there,” she pants. “Your tongue feels so good inside me… deeper, please.”

He obliges, fucking her with his tongue while his nose nudges her clit. Two fingers replace his tongue after a moment, curling upward to hit that perfect spot as his mouth latches onto her clit and sucks gently.

“Fuck, Soobin— I’m— I’m close already,” she cries, thighs trembling around his head. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises, voice muffled against her. He looks up at her, eyes dark and intense. “Come on my tongue, baby. Let me feel you fall apart. You’re so beautiful when you come for me.”

His fingers pump faster, curling perfectly, while his tongue flicks rapidly over her clit. She’s gasping, moaning his name like a chant, hips grinding against his face.

“Soobin— oh fuck, I’m coming—!”

Her orgasm hits hard, walls clenching around his fingers, a gush of wetness coating his tongue. He doesn’t pull away, riding her through it with slow, soothing licks and gentle thrusts of his fingers until she’s shaking and oversensitive.

When she finally slumps back, breathing hard, he rises to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock is rock hard again, flushed and leaking.

He leans over her, kissing her deeply so she can taste herself on his lips. “Did that feel good?” he whispers.

“So good,” she sighs, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You always make me come so hard… I don’t know how you do it.”

“Because I know you,” he says simply, nipping at her lower lip. “Every spot, every sound, every way you like to be touched. You’re mine to please.”

She pulls him closer, kissing him again. “Then please fuck me now. I need you inside me again.”

He smiles against her mouth, voice low and promising. “Not yet, baby. I still want to play with these perfect tits first.”

Soobin’s words hang in the air, low and heated, as he leans over her on the table. His hands slide up her sides slowly, cupping her breasts and lifting them slightly, thumbs brushing over her already sensitive nipples.

“These perfect tits,” he murmurs, eyes dark with hunger. “I’ve been dying to give them the attention they deserve.”

She arches into his touch, a soft moan escaping. “Soobin… they’re not that special.”

He shakes his head, leaning down to press a reverent kiss to the swell of one breast. “Don’t say that. They’re fucking gorgeous. Soft, full, and they fit perfectly in my hands.” He squeezes gently, watching her reaction. “See? Made for me.”

He lowers his mouth to her left nipple, sucking it into his mouth with slow, deliberate pulls while his hand kneads the other breast. She gasps, fingers threading through his hair again.

“Oh— that feels so good,” she breathes. “Your mouth is so warm… suck a little harder.”

He does exactly that, hollowing his cheeks and flicking his tongue over the stiff peak. “Like this?” he asks, pulling back just enough to speak before switching to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment.

“Yes— fuck, yes,” she whimpers, back arching off the table. “I love when you play with my boobs… it goes straight between my legs.”

Soobin hums in approval, the vibration traveling through her nipple. “Good. Because I could do this all night.” He switches back and forth, licking, sucking, and gently biting, leaving faint red marks on the soft skin. “They get so hard for me… look at them. So pretty and sensitive.”

His free hand continues kneading the neglected breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers, pinching lightly until she’s squirming beneath him.

“Tell me how it feels,” he says, voice rough as he looks up at her, lips shiny. “Talk to me while I worship these.”

“It tingles… everywhere,” she pants, hips rocking uselessly against nothing. “Every time you suck, I feel it in my clit. You’re making me so wet again, Soobin.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” he growls softly, sucking harder on one nipple while twisting the other. “I want you dripping for me. Want your pussy aching while I take my time with your tits.”

He presses them together, burying his face between them, licking and kissing the valley. “So soft… so warm. I love how they spill over my hands.” He nips at the underside of one, then soothes it with his tongue. “You have no idea how many times I’ve stared at you in those tight shirts, imagining doing exactly this.”

She laughs breathlessly, tugging his hair. “Pervert.”

“Your pervert,” he corrects, grinning against her skin before sucking a nipple back into his mouth. “Only yours. And you love it. Say it.”

“I love it,” she moans, voice breaking as he bites down gently. “I love when you’re obsessed with my body… love how you touch me like I’m yours.”

“You are mine,” he says firmly, switching breasts again, lavishing the same slow, filthy attention on the other. His hips press forward, letting his hard cock rest against her inner thigh, hot and leaking. “These tits are mine to play with, to suck, to mark. Every time you wear that blue dress, I’m going to remember how they look right now — all flushed and covered in my mouth.”

She whimpers louder, one hand reaching down to stroke his cock slowly. “Then mark them more… please. I want to feel you tomorrow when I’m trying to study.”

Soobin groans, hips bucking into her hand. “Fuck, baby. You’re going to kill me.” He sucks harder, leaving a visible hickey on the inner curve of one breast, then another on the other side. “There. So everyone knows who these belong to, even if they can’t see.”

His tongue swirls around her nipples again, alternating between soft licks and firm sucks while his hands squeeze and mold her breasts. She’s panting now, thighs clenching around his waist.

“Soobin… I need you inside me,” she begs, voice shaky. “I’m so empty… please fuck me.”

He pulls back slightly, lips red and swollen, eyes blazing. “Not yet. Turn over for me first. I want you on your hands and knees.”

Soobin steps back just enough to give her room, his hands steady on her hips as she turns over on the dining table. She braces herself on her forearms, arching her back instinctively, ass presented to him. The position makes her feel exposed and desired at the same time, completely open for whatever he wants.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with lust. One large hand smooths down her spine, then cups her ass, squeezing firmly. “So pretty like this. Bent over and waiting for me.”

She glances back at him over her shoulder, cheeks flushed. “Is this how you want me?”

“Exactly like this,” he replies, stepping closer until his cock rests heavy against her ass. He rubs the thick length between her cheeks slowly, teasing. “Ass up, back arched… my perfect girl. You’re dripping down your thighs. All that from me playing with your tits?”

“Yes,” she admits, pushing back against him. “Everything you do makes me wet. Please, Soobin… I need you inside me now. I’ve been waiting.”

He groans, gripping her hips tighter. “You beg so sweetly. How can I say no to that?”

He lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging her entrance, still slick from her earlier orgasm and his precum. With one slow, deliberate push, he sinks into her from behind — bare, deep, stretching her perfectly.

Both of them moan loudly at the feeling.

“Oh my god— Soobin,” she gasps, fingers curling against the table. “You’re so deep like this… I can feel every inch.”

“That’s right,” he says, voice strained as he bottoms out, hips flush against her ass. “Feel how well you take me? Your pussy was made for my cock bunny.”

He stays still for a moment, letting her adjust, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her lower back while the other grips her hip. Then he starts moving, slow, powerful thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside her.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, picking up a steady rhythm. “So warm and wet… gripping me like you never want me to leave.”

She pushes back to meet his thrusts, moaning with each deep stroke. “Harder… please. I can take it. I want to feel you tomorrow.”

Soobin’s grip tightens, and he gives her what she asks for — snapping his hips faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the apartment. “Like this? You want me to fuck you like I own you?”

“Yes— yes, just like that,” she cries out, head dropping forward. “You do own me… fuck, right there— don’t stop!”

He angles his hips, hitting that perfect spot over and over, one hand sliding around to rub her clit in tight circles. “That’s my good girl. Taking my cock so well in this position. Your ass looks incredible bouncing against me.”

He leans over her, chest pressing to her back, and presses open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder. “Tell me how it feels, baby. Tell me you love getting fucked like this.”

“I love it,” she moans, voice breaking with every thrust. “I love when you fuck me from behind… so deep, so rough. Your cock is hitting everything— I’m gonna come again if you keep going.”

“Then come,” he growls against her ear, thrusting harder. “Come on my cock while I’m buried inside you. I want to feel you squeeze me.”

His fingers move faster on her clit, and his pace turns punishing — deep, relentless strokes that make the table creak beneath them. She’s whimpering and moaning, pushing back desperately.

“Soobin— I’m close— fuck, I’m coming—!”

Her second orgasm crashes over her, walls clenching hard around his cock. Soobin curses, slowing his thrusts to ride her through it, but not stopping completely.

“That’s it… good girl. Milk my cock with that tight pussy,” he praises, voice rough. He keeps moving through her spasms, drawing it out until she’s shaking.

When she starts to come down, he straightens up, hands gripping her hips again. “I’m not done with you yet. I want to fill you up one more time… but first, turn over. I need to see your face when I come inside you.”

Soobin doesn’t let her catch her breath for long. He slides his arms under her, one beneath her knees, the other around her back, and lifts her effortlessly off the dining table. Her legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms looping around his neck as he carries her through the apartment. His cock, still hard and slick with her release, brushes against her ass with every step, making her whimper softly against his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” she murmurs, pressing lazy kisses to his neck.

“To bed,” he answers, voice low and rough. “I want you spread out properly under me. I want to look at you while I fill you up one more time.”

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot and lays her down gently on the center of her bed,  their bed now, really, the sheets already rumpled from the night before. The room is dim, only the soft glow from the hallway light spilling in, casting warm shadows across her body.

Soobin climbs over her immediately, settling between her spread thighs in missionary. He braces himself on his forearms, caging her in, his broad frame hovering just above hers. His cock nudges her entrance again, hot and insistent.

“Look at me, baby,” he says softly, one hand brushing damp strands of hair from her face. “I want your eyes on me the whole time.”

She meets his gaze, her own eyes glassy with lingering pleasure and fresh need. “I’m looking… I always look at you.”

He smiles, that small, secret smile, and slowly pushes back inside her in one smooth thrust. They both moan at the familiar stretch, the wet heat, the perfect fit.

“Fuck… still so tight,” he groans, bottoming out and grinding his hips in slow circles. “Even after coming… your pussy keeps pulling me back in.”

She wraps her legs higher around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “Because I need you there. Deeper, Soobin… please. I want to feel you everywhere.”

He starts moving — long, deep strokes that press her into the mattress. Unlike the rough pace, this is slower, more intentional, every thrust deliberate and grinding. His hips roll against hers, pubic bone pressing against her clit with each downward motion.

“So good,” she gasps, hands sliding up his back, nails lightly scratching. “This position… I can feel all of you. Your cock is so deep… hitting everything.”

“That’s the point,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss her deeply, tongue sliding against hers in time with his thrusts. “I want you to feel every inch. Want you to remember exactly who’s inside you, who’s taking care of you.”

He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down her neck, sucking lightly at the marks he left earlier. One hand slides between them to cup her breast again, thumb circling the nipple while he continues those deep, steady rolls of his hips.

“Tell me how it feels now,” he whispers against her skin. “Being in your own bed, legs wrapped around me while I fuck you raw.”

“It feels… safe,” she breathes, then moans as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “And dirty. And perfect. I love having you on top of me like this… love how heavy you are, how you fill me completely.”

Soobin groans, pace faltering for a second before he steadies again. “You have no idea what you do to me when you say things like that.” He thrusts a little harder, making the bed creak. “Your pussy is clenching around me so nicely… you’re going to make me come soon if you keep squeezing like that.”

She tightens her walls deliberately around him, smiling breathlessly when he curses. “Then come inside me. I want it. I want to feel you spill deep… want you to stay there after.”

His eyes darken. “Yeah? You want me to breed you tonight? Fill this pretty cunt until it’s overflowing?”

The word “breed” makes her whimper loudly, hips bucking up to meet him. “Yes… do it. Fill me up, Soobin. I’m yours.”

That seems to snap something in him. He kisses her hard, messy and desperate, while his hips pick up speed, still deep, but faster now, chasing his release while making sure she feels every thrust. His hand stays on her breast, squeezing and playing with her nipple as he drives into her.

“Come with me,” he pants against her mouth. “One more time, baby. Come on my cock while I come inside you.”

She nods frantically, one hand slipping between them to rub her clit in quick circles. The combination — his thick cock pounding deep, his weight pressing her down, his mouth on hers, his hand on her breast — pushes her over the edge again.

“Soobin— I’m coming— fuck!”

Her third orgasm hits her hard, walls fluttering and clenching rhythmically around him. Soobin groans loudly, burying his face in her neck as his own release crashes over him. He thrusts deep one final time and stays there, cock pulsing as he spills hot and thick inside her, filling her completely.

Soobin stays buried deep inside her, his weight a comforting blanket as their breathing slowly evens out. He presses soft, lingering kisses along her collarbone, her jaw, the corner of her mouth, never pulling out. The feeling of him still thick and warm inside her makes her hum contentedly, legs still loosely wrapped around his hips.

He shifts carefully, keeping them connected, and rolls them both until she’s on top, straddling him. But instead of letting her ride him hard, he pulls her down so her chest is flush against his, arms wrapping around her back to hold her close. Their faces are inches apart, breaths mingling.

“Like this,” he murmurs, guiding her hips into a slow, rolling grind. “Nice and deep. I want to feel every little movement.”

She rocks gently against him, the new angle letting him press even deeper. A soft moan escapes her as the head of his cock nudges that sensitive spot inside with every subtle shift.

“Soobin… you feel so good,” she breathes, eyes half-lidded as she looks down at him. “So full…”

His hands slide up and down her back in long, soothing strokes, one eventually cupping the back of her neck while the other rests possessively on her ass, encouraging her slow rhythm. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. No rush tonight. I want to make love to you until you forget everything except how we fit together.”

He lifts his head to kiss her, slow, deep, unhurried kisses that match the lazy roll of their hips. Their tongues slide together gently, savoring, tasting. Every time she sinks down fully onto him, he groans softly into her mouth, the sound vibrating through both of them.

“You’re so warm inside,” she whispers between kisses, forehead resting against his. “I love feeling you throb like this… like your body is telling me how much you need me too.”

“I do need you,” he replies, voice husky but soft. “Every day. Every night. This — being inside you, with nothing between us… it’s everything I’ve wanted.” He thrusts up gently to meet her next roll, grinding deep. “Feel that? That’s me loving you. Slow and deep, just like you deserve.”

She whimpers quietly, clenching around him as the pleasure builds in a warm, steady wave rather than a sharp peak. “Soobin… it’s so intimate like this. I can feel your heartbeat inside me.”

His arms tighten around her, one hand slipping into her hair while the other traces her spine. “Good. I want you to feel all of me.” He kisses her again, slower this time, then trails his lips to her ear. “You’re my safe place. My home. Let me stay right here and love you like this for as long as you need.”

They move together in a gentle rhythm — not frantic fucking, but something softer, deeper. Making love. Her breasts press against his chest with every roll, nipples brushing his skin. His hands never stop touching her: stroking her back, squeezing her ass lightly, cradling her face so he can look into her eyes.

“Kiss me again,” she murmurs.

He does, pouring everything into it — the years of quiet longing, the careful way he’s built this life around her, the overwhelming tenderness he only lets show when they’re like this. Their hips keep that slow, sensual grind, his cock sliding in and out in long, luxurious strokes that make her toes curl.

“You’re clenching so sweetly around me,” he whispers against her lips. “Squeezing me like you never want me to leave your body.”

“I don’t,” she admits breathlessly, nipping at his lower lip. “Stay inside me forever if you could.”

Soobin lets out a low, pleased sound, thrusting up a little deeper on the next roll. “One day I will. But tonight… just feel me loving you. No ending yet.”

He flips them once more with careful strength, settling back on top of her in missionary without ever fully pulling out. Now he’s the one setting the slow pace, hips rocking in deep, unhurried circles while he holds her gaze.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he says softly, brushing his nose against hers. “Tell me how much you love having me inside you like this.”

“I love it,” she gasps, legs tightening around him. “I love you inside me… making love to me. It feels like we’re the only two people in the world.”

“We are right now,” he murmurs, kissing her deeply again as their bodies continue that slow, intimate dance.

He doesn’t chase his orgasm. He simply savors her — every flutter of her walls, every soft moan, every time her fingers dig into his shoulders. The pleasure builds gradually, warm and overwhelming, like sinking into something endless and safe.

In the quiet of her bed, with the last semester pressing in from outside, they make love like time has stopped — slow, deep, and dangerously close to something far more permanent than either of them is admitting.

They stay locked together for a long time, bodies still joined, hips moving in that same slow, lazy rhythm. The pleasure has built into something warm and endless, a gentle wave rather than a crash. Soobin’s forehead rests against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet dark of the bedroom.

“I’m close,” he finally whispers, voice rough but tender. “Been holding it for you… but I need to come now, baby. Need to fill you one last time.”

She nods, legs tightening around his waist, fingers stroking the back of his neck. “Come inside me. Please. I want to feel it… all of it.”

He kisses her deeply as his pace shifts — still deep and intentional, but with a little more urgency now. One hand slides between them to circle her clit with slow, perfect pressure while he thrusts. Their mouths stay connected, soft and open, sharing every moan and gasp.

When her fourth orgasm finally washes over her — slow, rolling, and devastatingly sweet — she clenches hard around him, whimpering his name into his mouth. That’s all it takes.

Soobin groans low and broken, burying himself as deep as he can go. His cock pulses inside her, spilling hot and thick in long, rhythmic waves. He keeps rocking gently through it, pushing every drop deeper, like he’s sealing something between them.

“Take it all,” he breathes against her lips. “That’s it… good girl. All for you.”

They stay like that, trembling and connected, until the last aftershocks fade. Only then does Soobin carefully pull out, a thick trickle of his release following. He doesn’t let the mess bother either of them. Instead, he rolls onto his back and pulls her on top of him, wrapping both arms around her body like he never plans to let go.

The aftercare begins without words at first.

He strokes her back in long, soothing lines, fingertips tracing her spine, then her shoulders, then down to the curve of her ass. His other hand cups the back of her head, threading gently through her damp hair. Soft kisses land on her forehead, her temple, the tip of her nose, quiet, reverent presses of his lips that say everything he doesn’t voice yet.

“You okay?” he murmurs eventually, voice low and warm in the darkness.

She nods against his chest, ear pressed over his heartbeat. “More than okay. I feel… floaty. Safe. Like nothing bad can touch me when I’m with you like this.”

A small, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “Good. That’s exactly how I want you to feel.” He presses another kiss to the top of her head. “You were perfect tonight. Took everything I gave you so beautifully. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

She smiles sleepily, nuzzling closer. “You always take such good care of me. Even when we’re… like that. Especially when we’re like that.”

“Because you’re mine to take care of,” he says simply, one hand continuing its slow strokes down her back while the other reaches for the nightstand. He grabs a soft towel he’d left there earlier (always prepared) and gently cleans between her thighs with careful, tender wipes. “There… better?”

“Mhm.” She sighs contentedly as he finishes and tosses the towel aside, then pulls the blanket up over both of them. “Stay like this? Don’t move away yet.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, shifting them so she’s tucked perfectly against his side, head on his chest, one of her legs thrown over his. His arm curls protectively around her waist, hand splaying wide over her lower back. “I’ve got you. Sleep if you want. I’ll be right here.”

She traces idle patterns on his chest with her fingertip. “You always know what I need before I even ask. The towel… the way you hold me after… everything. How do you do that?”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating under her ear. “I pay attention. To every little thing about you.” His fingers keep stroking her hair, slow and rhythmic. “You’ve been carrying so much with the thesis and finals. You deserve to be taken care of like this. Deserve to feel loved and safe every single night.”

The word “loved” lands softly between them. She doesn’t pull away from it — just lets it settle in her chest like something warm and familiar.

“I do feel loved,” she whispers after a moment. “With you. Even if we still call this… whatever it is between best friends.”

Soobin’s arms tighten around her just a fraction. His voice stays calm, but there’s a depth of satisfaction underneath. “Then keep feeling it. Because I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

He reaches over and turns off the small lamp on the nightstand, plunging the room into comfortable darkness. The only sounds are their breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. He keeps holding her close, one hand never stopping its gentle caresses, down her arm, across her back, along her hip, grounding her, soothing every last bit of tension from her body.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. “I’ve got the whole night. Tomorrow I’ll make you breakfast, run you a bath if you’re sore, whatever you need. But right now… just let me hold you.”

She yawns softly, already drifting. “Love you, Soobin… thank you for always being here.”

He presses one final, lingering kiss to her forehead, eyes closing as he breathes her in.

“I love you too,” he whispers, so quietly she might not fully register it. “More than you know. Sleep now, baby. I’m right here.”

In the quiet afterglow, with his cum still warm inside her and his arms wrapped securely around her body, she falls asleep feeling completely cherished, completely safe, and completely his — even if she still believes it’s all harmless.

Soobin stays awake a little longer, listening to her breathing even out, one hand resting possessively over her lower stomach.

He smiles into the dark.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

The notebook gets a new entry around week six of the semester, written in the bathroom of her apartment while she's in the shower, his handwriting smaller than usual like he's containing something:

*Ovulation window opens Thursday. She has a seminar until 6. I'll have dinner ready. She always relaxes after eating. Be patient. Let it happen naturally. It always happens naturally with her.*

*She took the vitamins again this morning. Third week. She thinks they're the same ones.*

*She said I don't know what I'd do without you last night when I fixed her laptop. She said it like it was nothing. She doesn't know it's everything.*

He closes the notebook. Listens to the shower running. Thinks about the Eevee onesie and the tiny paw shoes and the annotated map of the city with the good school district circled in blue pen.

He thinks: we're so close.

He thinks: she just needs a little more time to catch up.

He puts the notebook back in the bag where it always lives — deep, under folded clothes, the corner just barely visible if you know to look for it — and goes back to the kitchen to finish dinner.

She comes out of the shower in his hoodie twenty minutes later, hair damp, smelling like her shampoo and a little like him, and the sight of her in his space, in his clothes, building a life in the shape he's been quietly constructing around her for years — it lands in his chest the way it always lands, like coming home.

"Smells good," she says, dropping into her chair at the table.

"Chicken," he says. "You said you were craving it."

She said that Tuesday. Offhand. In the middle of a different conversation.

She doesn't remember saying it.

He does.

It happens on a Thursday afternoon — late sun cutting through the crooked blinds in narrow gold strips, the apartment carrying the stale-coffee smell of a day spent working at home, the ceiling fan doing its slow whining rotation. She's curled on the couch in his hoodie, phone face-down on the armrest, something unresolved sitting between her shoulder blades that she can't quite name.

He's on the floor with his back against the couch, textbook open across his lap, thumb tracing the edge of page 187 the way he does when he's reading but also thinking about something else.

She drops the phone onto the armrest and exhales through her nose.

"So," she starts, and stops. Tries again. "Have you ever — been with a girl and a guy, like, at the same time in your life? Overlapping?"

His thumb stills on the page. He tilts his head two centimeters left — that listening posture she knows — and lifts his eyes slowly.

"Why now?" he asks, voice soft with a tiny hook at the corner of his mouth.

She shrugs inside the oversized sleeves, pulling both cuffs down until her hands vanish. "Just thinking. You talk about hot guys the same way you talk about hot girls. It feels easier for you. More natural."

He closes the book carefully. Sets it beside his thigh, edges aligned.

"Easier with what?" His torso shifts toward her; his knee brushes her calf where she's curled on the cushion above him and stays there, warm.

She doesn't move her leg. "With bodies. Touch. Everything. You don't flinch. Guy or girl — it's the same to you."

He rests his elbow on the cushion by her knee, face tilted up toward hers. "Does that bother you?"

"No." She shakes her head, a loose strand falling across her eye that she pushes back with a sleeved knuckle. "I think it's nice. You just exist like that. No categories."

The fan whines once. A gold bar of light slides across the bridge of his nose.

"So what do you think I am?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

She swallows. "Someone who likes people. In different ways. At once, or one after the other. Doesn't matter."

His thumb traces a slow circle on the book cover. His gaze flicks to her mouth for half a second.

"Would knowing change anything for you?"

Her stomach executes a slow, rolling flip. "No." Fast, then softer: "I mean — it wouldn't change what we're already doing."

He lifts his right hand. The backs of his fingers brush the inside of her wrist where the hoodie sleeve has slipped — dry, warm, almost accidental. Almost. His thumb settles over her pulse — no pressure, just resting, feeling the quick rhythm underneath.

"Good to know," he murmurs.

She feels the last piece click into place in the back of her mind and slide a drawer shut: bi. Of course. That explains the way he talks about bodies, the way he's never had a label that fit, the way he dated that one guy in high school and then no one seriously after. That explains all of it. She's not his girl — she's his safe person, his most trusted body, the one constant in a life that keeps its real desires in a quieter room.

She breathes out slowly.

"You're really good at being human," she says, trying for playful, landing somewhere rougher.

He smiles sideways — small, secret. "And you're really good at letting me be."

His thumb stays exactly where it is over her pulse.

The light shifts from gold to orange and neither of them moves and she settles into the version of him she's just constructed — bi, complicated, hers in the way that doesn't require explanation — and feels the relief of it, the neat click of a label that makes everything make sense.

She doesn't see him watching her settle.

She doesn't see the small satisfied thing that moves across his face when he feels her relax.

He was never bi.

He was never gay.

He is a man who has been in love with one specific woman for four years and has been willing to be anything she needed him to be in order to stay close enough to matter.

He keeps his thumb on her pulse a little longer.

Feels it slow.

Feels her trust him completely.

March.

The period tracker app on his phone — the one synced silently to hers since September, the one she has no idea he has — shows a seven-day window starting the fourteenth.

He doesn't change anything about how he acts during those seven days. That's the discipline of it, the thing he's practiced and refined over months of quiet watching: he doesn't become different during the window, he just becomes more of what he already is. More present. More warm. More inclined to touch her without reason, to pull her into him from behind in the kitchen while she's reading something on her phone, to end evenings by pulling her into the bedroom instead of letting her drift to the pull-out, which she almost never uses anymore but still theoretically could.

The fourteenth falls on a Friday. She has a seminar until six. He has dinner ready at six-thirty. She comes through the door already half-unraveling from the week — bag dropped, shoes kicked, the exhale of someone who has been holding herself together through a long day and can finally let the seams loosen — and walks straight into the kitchen where he's plating food and leans her forehead against his shoulder blade without a word.

He reaches back and puts his hand on her hip without turning around.

"Hard day?" he asks.

"The worst," she says into his shoulder.

"Sit down. It's ready."

She sits. He brings everything over. They eat with the window cracked, the early March air just beginning to smell like something other than winter, and she talks about the seminar and he listens the way he always listens — fully, with his eyes on her face, asking the questions that extend what she's saying rather than redirecting it. This is one of the things she tells Lia about him when Lia asks — he actually listens, like, actually — and she doesn't know that she's describing something he cultivated deliberately over years because the research he did on emotional connection in long-term partnerships said that attentive listening was the highest-rated quality in relationship satisfaction across all studies.

He did the research.

Of course he did the research.

After dinner she ends up on his lap on the couch — not because she made a decision, just because the gravitational pull between them at this point is essentially physics — and his hand finds the back of her neck and she closes her eyes and his mouth finds her ear and it proceeds the way it always proceeds from here: inevitable, warm, without ceremony.

She doesn't think about protection.

She doesn't think about anything except the warmth of him and the weight of the week leaving her body and how this, right here, is the only place in the world where everything quiet down.

He thinks about the window.

He thinks: this is how it was always going to happen — naturally, warmly, in the middle of an ordinary evening, without her knowing what it is.

He thinks: she'll understand later. She'll choose this later. She always chooses me eventually — I just have to be patient enough to let her arrive.

He pulls her closer.

She melts into him without question.

Outside, early spring comes in quietly through the cracked window, carrying the smell of something new beginning.

April arrives and the thesis is submitted and the relief of it is enormous and clean and she screams in the apartment at 11:47pm when the portal confirms receipt and Soobin picks her up from the floor and spins her once, laughing, and she's laughing too and the apartment smells like the celebration dinner he started at ten in case it finished early — because he knew it would finish around now, because he checked her submitted draft schedule three days ago and calculated the revision time she'd need — and everything is warm and good and full of the specific joy of something enormous finally being done.

They're drunk by one. Not sloppy-drunk — happy-drunk, the kind where everything is funny and the music is too loud and she ends up on the kitchen counter while he dances extremely badly in front of her and she's laughing so hard her stomach hurts, and he grabs her hands and makes her dance with him standing on the floor while she's on the counter so they're almost the same height and she cups his face and kisses him — sweet this time, soft, grateful — and feels the whole weight of this year, of this person, of this strange warm life they've built in the space between what she thought he was and what he actually is.

"We're going to graduate," she says against his mouth, the fact of it landing new each time she says it.

"We're going to graduate," he agrees, hands on her waist, steady.

She leans her forehead against his. Thinks about May. Thinks about the families coming and the gowns and the photographs and what comes after and the particular terrifying freedom of after.

"Are you scared?" she asks.

"No," he says, which is true. He has been building after for years. He knows exactly what it looks like. "Are you?"

"A little," she admits.

He pulls her closer. "I'll be there," he says. "Whatever comes after. I'm there."

She believes him completely.

She has no idea how literal he means it.

May arrives in three weeks and leaves a month of chaos in its wake — final presentations, departmental dinners, the strange suspended quality of last things, last lectures, last times walking routes she's walked four years of mornings. She takes photos of things she never photographed before: the library window. The bench near the science building where she ate lunch a hundred times. The coffee place two blocks over where he introduced her to the order that's been hers for two years now.

She texts one to him with the caption: this is because of you.

He texts back: all the good ones are.

She screenshots it and doesn't tell him.

He already knows.

The families arrive the Thursday before graduation.

It's been planned for weeks — both sets of parents, a restaurant in the city, the kind of dinner that requires a reservation and actual shoes and the specific performance of adulthood that comes with presenting your life to people who remember when you were smaller. She spends an hour getting dressed and changes twice and Soobin sits on the edge of her bed watching her with the patience of a man who genuinely does not care which dress she wears as long as she's in the room.

"The blue one," he says, when she holds up two options.

"You always pick the blue one."

"Because you always look best in the blue one." Flat. Obvious. Like this is not a compliment but a fact, which is exactly how he always delivers compliments, which is exactly why they land.

She puts on the blue one.

The restaurant is warm and candlelit and the tables are close enough together that everything feels intimate whether you want it to be or not. Her parents are already there when they arrive — her mother standing up immediately, arms open, the specific warmth of a hug from a woman who has been waiting to see her daughter for months and is not going to underdeliver on the reunion. Her father shakes Soobin's hand — firm, measured, the handshake of a man who is taking stock — and Soobin meets it evenly, which her father notices, which is the first point in Soobin's favor.

His parents arrive five minutes later. His mother is warm and effortlessly elegant in the way of women who have been comfortable for a long time. His father has Soobin's height and Soobin's quality of stillness and the specific observant quiet of a man who built something and would like to see who his son is becoming.

The table settles. Wine is poured. The conversation finds its feet.

She watches it happen without fully understanding what she's watching — the way the two sets of parents orient toward each other with a comfort that feels less like strangers getting acquainted and more like people who already have an opinion and are spending the evening confirming it. Her mother laughs at something Soobin's mother says and touches her arm and the gesture is too warm for first meeting, like they've been in the same orbit before and simply haven't occupied the same room until now.

She goes to the bathroom midway through the main course and comes back to find her father and Soobin in the corner of the conversation, the rest of the table temporarily occupied with something else, her father leaning forward slightly — not hostile but focused — and Soobin meeting every question with the easy confidence of a man who prepared for this meeting long before it was scheduled.

She watches from across the room for a moment before they see her.

Her father nods once. Deliberate.

Soobin catches her eye over the table — quick, barely a flicker — and she can't read it from here, except that it's warm.

She sits back down. Her mother squeezes her hand under the table.

"He's wonderful," her mother says quietly, very close to her ear. "He's always been wonderful."

She thinks: she means as a friend. She means it the way she always means it — Soobin is wonderful, what a good friend, what a lucky thing you found him.

She doesn't think anything more careful than that.

After dinner — families separating, hotel directions exchanged, hugs distributed — she and Soobin walk back to the apartment in the cool May evening with the city noise low around them. He has his jacket over her shoulders because she was cold three blocks ago and he took it off without being asked, which is, she thinks distantly, so completely him that she doesn't even think of it as remarkable anymore.

"My dad asked you about your plans," she says.

"I know. I told him."

She glances at him. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth." His hands are in his pockets, step unhurried. "That I have a position with my father's company starting in July. That I'm looking at apartments in this city. That I plan to be around."

She absorbs this. The position she knew about. The apartments — she hasn't heard about apartments. "Looking at apartments?"

"Casually," he says, which is not true at all, but he says it so evenly that it lands as true. "Just thinking about the next step. It makes sense to stay near campus for a while. We both have reasons to stay near campus."

She nods slowly. She doesn't ask why he's framing it as we — it just sounds right, it slots in beside all the other things that have started sounding right without her consciously deciding they should.

"He seemed to approve," she says.

"He asked good questions. I respect him." A pause. "He loves you. Wants to know you're taken care of."

The phrase lands softly and she doesn't examine it. Just walks beside him with his jacket over her shoulders and the city lights turning everything amber and thinks: this is what after looks like, maybe. This warm ordinary thing. This person walking beside her who knows her schedule and her coffee order and her worst fears and her best jokes and who has made himself so completely necessary that she stopped being able to locate the seam between where she ends and where he begins.

She hooks her pinky through his — the old habit, the childhood reflex, the one that means crowds and closeness and I don't want to lose you in this.

He hooks back.

They walk the last three blocks in comfortable silence.

The night before graduation she can't sleep.

This is not unusual — she's been a bad sleeper before big things her whole life — but the particular shape of this restlessness is different. It's not the thesis anxiety or the seminar-deadline 4am alarm-heart. It's something lower and stranger, something in her body rather than her mind, a low-grade wrongness she can't locate precisely. She's been a little off for the past week. Not sick exactly — nothing she could point to and name — just slightly not herself, a degree or two off her usual temperature, a faint nausea some mornings that she blames on stress and then forgets by afternoon.

She chalks it up to the enormity of tomorrow.

Soobin is asleep behind her — arm over her waist, face close to her shoulder, breathing slow and even. He fell asleep fast the way he always does after she stops moving, like her stillness is the signal his body was waiting for.

She stares at the ceiling.

She thinks about four years. She thinks about the girl who arrived at this school with a perfectly organized planner and a very clear idea of what the next four years would look like, and looks for the seam between that girl and this one — lying in a bed that has become shared so gradually she couldn't tell you which night the pronoun changed from his bed to our bed — and finds the seam is very thin. Almost invisible. The kind that a good tailor makes deliberately so you can't see the work.

She thinks: I'm really happy.

The thought arrives simply, without the guilty hedging she might have expected. She's really happy. This is her life and she likes it and tomorrow she's going to wear a gown and her parents will cry and Soobin will be right there the way he always is and after after comes and she'll figure it out — they'll figure it out, the we that has become natural — and everything is going to be fine.

She doesn't think about the slight wrongness in her body. She's tired and stressed and tomorrow is enormous and everything strange is explainable.

She turns over. Faces him.

In the dark his face is soft the way it gets in sleep — the careful composure he carries through waking hours gentled down to something younger, the boy inside the man, the person who has apparently been in love with her since they were nineteen and showed it in every way except the most obvious one.

She thinks: I love you.

The thought arrives without fanfare. Not a revelation — just a recognition, quiet and deep, like something that has been true for a long time finally being acknowledged in the right language.

She doesn't say it out loud.

But she tucks it close.

Closes her eyes.

And finally, finally, sleeps.

The next morning she wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sound of him moving quietly in the kitchen and the pale particular light of a May morning that is going to be a beautiful day. She lies there for a moment — ceiling, light, the distant sound of campus beginning to wake — and notices, without urgency, that her stomach feels faintly wrong again.

She ignores it.

Gets up. Gets dressed. Puts on the earrings he picked out last week when she held up options — simple silver ones he said would catch the light under the ceremony tent, because of course he thought about that.

He appears in the doorway with two mugs. "How do you feel?"

"Good," she says, and mostly means it. "Nervous. Ready."

He hands her the coffee. His thumb brushes her wrist when she takes it — just a second, just contact — and she feels it move through her the way it always moves through her, warm and sure and impossible to locate properly because it's everywhere now, woven into the whole fabric of her days.

"You're going to be great," he says.

"We're going to be great," she corrects.

He smiles — small, real, the one with the dimples — and it's a smile she doesn't quite have the context for, layered with a satisfaction she can't fully see.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We are."

She drinks her coffee.

Outside, the May morning opens up clear and warm and full of beginnings.

And in her body, very quietly, something has already begun.

౨ৎ prev ✧ next — ⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃: 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓎𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓎 ✧ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

౨ৎ tag open: @black-startxt @buttersoob @idkguyslma @toru-saki @amelie-sama-blog @binniesbabe @ravenslocked @usuallyunlikelyfox @whoreforjongho

🩷 𝓊𝓅𝒹𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓀𝑒𝓈

𝓊𝓅𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝓰 ꒰ა𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇-𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓂໒꒱ 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝒷𝒾𝓃 × 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 ໒꒱ Hogwarts AU

[cbeargyu]

hi! can i request a story with nct Mark like the movie Flipped, I just love the "she fell first, he fell harder" trope. Y/n is so persistent about showing Mark how much she likes him. Since everyone knows her crush on Mark, the others tease him, which annoys him at some point & told y/n off. Hurt, Y/n kind of distanced herself for a while. During those times she got closer to another member (maybe jeno or haechan), which then makes Mark even more annoyed, not realizing he's actually jealous. Angst slow burn w/ a happy ending. I'm sorry if it's too detailed 😅 -☕️ anon

the years that I loved you

summary: you've been secretly in love with mark for years, but he's always kept his distance, even though you've grown closer over time. after a failed attempt to move on with jeno, you realize you can’t forget mark. slowly, mark starts to notice his own feelings for you.

pairing: mark x fem!reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn romance, angst, one-sided love, fluff, college au, drama, confessions of love, she fell first but he fell harder trope.

warnings: mentions of unrequited love, emotional tension and angst, heartbreak, love triangle, public embarrassment/confessions, self-discovery and emotional growth.

wc: 12,9k

notes: anon, did you read my drafts or what? because i had this exact idea written down, even with jeno as the romantic interest omg hahaha but i never finished it because i got lazy lol, i'm not really into watching movies, so when i searched for the one you mentioned, i thought i’d have to research it to be able to write about it, but then i remembered i watched it about two years ago haha, looking for inspiration exactly, what a nice coincidence anon, i hope you like what i write <3

you were thirteen when you realized mark lee wasn’t just your brother’s best friend.

he was the boy with soft eyes who always greeted your mom with a polite smile, the one who helped your dad carry groceries without being asked, the one who laughed with jaemin until their stomachs hurt and then turned to you—quiet, awkward you—and asked if you wanted to join them at the convenience store.

he noticed you. always.

and god, that was dangerous.

you kept your secret like it was sacred. folded it between pages of your diary, whispered it into the pillow late at night when your chest hurt with the weight of wanting someone who would never be yours. he was two years older. already shining, already so good.

you thought maybe—just maybe—he was too good to break your heart.

you waited until his last day of middle school. you had written the letter three times, burned one, hid another. the final version trembled in your hands as you gave it to him behind the school gate.

“please don’t read it here,” you said, not meeting his eyes.

“i won’t,” he promised, gentle as ever. “don’t worry, okay?”

and you believed him. you always believed him.

but the next afternoon, he asked to meet you behind the gym.

it was quiet. too quiet.

you remember the way he scratched the back of his neck, the way he couldn’t quite look at you when he said, “you’re really important to me. like a little sister, you know?”

you smiled, because you didn’t know what else to do. you smiled as your eyes blurred.

and then you cried—ugly, shaking, childlike sobs you couldn’t hold back.

he tried to hug you, but it made it worse.

he said, “i’m sorry.”

he said, “i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

he said everything right.

but it didn’t matter.

because you were thirteen, and he was mark lee, and you had just learned that love doesn’t always mean something back.

high school didn’t make it easier. if anything, it made everything worse.

you tried. god, you really tried to move on—swallowed the ache, buried it deep under textbooks, sketchbooks, extracurriculars. you learned to walk past him in the hallways without letting your gaze linger too long, learned to smile politely when he said “hi” like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t held your broken heart in his hands behind the gym that day and handed it back to you gently, still cracked.

but the problem was: mark never changed.

he was still that boy—soft-spoken, warm, radiant. the kind of person who made you want to be better just by existing near him. and worse, he was always there.

your house, once a quiet place of safety, had become a second home for jaemin’s band of loud, chaotic friends. most days, the living room was full of snacks, game controllers, and laughter. renjun’s sarcasm echoing through the hall, haechan draped across the couch like he owned the place, chenle’s laugh piercing through every door, jisung awkwardly trailing behind them with his phone glued to his hand. and of course, mark. always mark.

sometimes he’d be in the backyard with your brother, their laughter drifting through the window while you did homework at the kitchen table, pencil trembling slightly every time he called your name to offer you a slice of pizza or a bottle of soda. sometimes he’d walk past you in the hallway and lightly ruffle your hair like he used to when you were twelve, before he knew how deeply you felt for him. before you knew what it meant to love someone who couldn’t love you back.

he still smiled at you like you were made of sunlight. still hugged you during holidays, still handed you wrapped presents on your birthday with that same soft voice: “happy birthday. i hope you like it.”

you hated how much you always did.

you hated how his scent lingered on the gifts long after you’d hidden them at the back of your closet. you hated how you still looked forward to seeing him, how your chest still fluttered when he said your name, how you felt thirteen and stupid every single time he was near.

but the worst was that he didn’t seem affected at all.

to him, nothing had changed. to you, everything had.

one rainy afternoon, you came home early to find the living room empty for once—blissfully silent. you kicked off your shoes, soaked to the ankle, hair damp and cheeks flushed from running back from school before the storm broke harder. you turned the corner to grab a towel from the laundry room when you saw him.

mark was there.

he stood by the window, alone, watching the rain. his hands were in the pockets of his black hoodie, hair slightly messy, lips parted in thought. he looked older. softer. like the kind of boy who belonged in a novel, not real life.

he turned when he heard your footsteps and smiled without hesitation. “hey,” he said, like it didn’t hurt, like your heart didn’t still beat for him in every goddamn way.

“hi,” you managed, holding the towel tighter against your chest.

“you’re drenched,” he said, walking toward you. “you’ll catch a cold.”

he was too close. you could smell the citrus of his shampoo, the faint vanilla of his cologne. when he reached out to brush a wet strand of hair from your cheek, you flinched—not visibly, just enough for him to stop, hand frozen mid-air.

“sorry,” he said, withdrawing. “force of habit.”

you shook your head, stepping back. “it’s fine.”

but it wasn’t. nothing ever was.

you escaped upstairs before your voice could betray you.

two weeks later, you found yourself sitting in the second row of the school auditorium, knees bouncing under the dim lights, your palms cold against the fabric of your skirt.

mark was playing romeo.

you’d heard about it from jaemin, of course—how their teacher insisted he was perfect for the role, how he’d been rehearsing every afternoon, how the girl playing juliet had been a little too eager during practice.

and now, here you were. watching him on stage under golden light, speaking lines you knew he barely even had to memorize—his voice calm, lyrical, achingly beautiful. his every movement was precise, full of emotion. he touched juliet’s face like it was made of glass, like she was something sacred.

you hated her.

she smiled when he held her hand. she leaned into him during the balcony scene. you saw her lips part just before the final act, the tension thick in the air as mark cupped her face. and then—slowly, tragically—he leaned in.

his lips brushed hers. soft. slow. real.

your throat closed.

your chest twisted so violently you thought you might get up and run. but your body stayed rooted in place, forced to watch as they collapsed together on the floor in a mock death, fingers intertwined, her head resting on his shoulder.

the applause was thunderous. everyone stood.

you did not.

you waited until after the show to find him. your feet carried you to the back hallway of the auditorium like they had minds of their own. your heart was a drum, wild and panicked.

he smiled when he saw you—still dressed in costume, hair tousled, sweat glistening on his brow.

“did you like it?” he asked, laughing softly. “i was so nervous.”

you looked at him. really looked.

“i still like you,” you said.

just like that.

no warning. no buildup. no sugarcoated version.

you were tired of pretending.

he froze. his smile dropped.

“i thought… i thought you were over it,” he said quietly.

“i wanted to be,” you whispered. “but i’m not. and watching you up there—watching her kiss you—i couldn’t pretend anymore.”

he looked down. exhaled slowly. ran a hand through his hair.

“you know i care about you,” he said gently, “but not like that. i’m sorry...”

same words.

same ache.

different year.

his hands lowered slowly, as if he suddenly didn’t know what to do with them. his breath grew deeper, slower. he was about to say something. you were going to let him speak. but before he could, you stepped forward, close enough that he had no choice but to truly see you, to hear you, to feel the heat of your words.

“i don’t accept it.”

mark blinked. “what?”

you were trembling on the inside, but you didn’t back down. “i won’t accept a no. not yet. i’ve been in love with you for as long as i can remember, mark. and yeah, maybe you’ll never see me the way i see you. maybe you’ll never feel the same. but i’m not giving up. because i can’t. even if you ignore me, even if you keep looking at me like i’m just jaemin’s little sister… my feelings for you aren’t going anywhere.”

the silence was a wall between you. thick. breathless. mark didn’t know where to look. his jaw clenched slightly. but you saw it—how hard he swallowed, the way his throat bobbed like your words had tied a knot in it. and then… that little flush, that faint blush coloring his cheeks.

he didn’t respond. he just dropped his eyes and muttered something you couldn’t quite catch before saying he had to get back to the guys.

you stayed behind, again. but this time, something was different.

you weren’t broken.

you were alive.

the days after that were… strange.

you didn’t hide anymore. you didn’t avoid looking at him, didn’t steer away when he came into your house, didn’t pretend it didn’t still ache. if you saw him, you greeted him with a soft smile. if he made a comment, you replied with one slightly sweeter. if you were near, you allowed yourself to lean in ever so slightly, as if pulled by something invisible.

mark said nothing.

but he noticed.

and everyone else did too.

renjun was the first to ask—just a casual afternoon in the backyard, you laying on a blanket with a book, the boys talking nonsense as usual. it happened right after mark came back from the kitchen and handed you a water bottle without you asking, like he already knew you’d need it.

“are you guys, like… a thing?” renjun asked, half-joking, half-serious.

mark laughed awkwardly. “what? no. of course not.”

but you looked up from your book, calm, almost proud.

“i like mark,” you said. not shy, not hesitant.

the silence was immediate.

haechan stopped chewing his gum. jisung stared at you like you’d grown horns. chenle let out a choked “wait—seriously?” and jaemin… jaemin looked at you like he’d just uncovered a secret that had always been in plain sight.

mark tensed. his hand around the empty bottle clenched slightly. he didn’t look at you. but you looked at him.

“i like him,” you repeated, voice steady. “i don’t know if that’ll ever change. for now, it hasn’t.”

the air shifted, thick with something unspoken. jaemin cleared his throat.

“wow… okay, didn’t see that coming.”

mark let out a nervous chuckle. “seriously, there’s nothing going on.”

you smiled softly. “not yet.”

and that was that.

they tried to go back to talking about something else, but the topic hung in the air like perfume—sweet, heavy, impossible to ignore.

after that day, the looks between you and mark carried weight. not just because of what you felt, but because now everyone knew. his behavior became more cautious, measured, like every move might be misread, like every glance might be taken the wrong way.

but he still looked at you.

he still smiled.

sometimes, he still sought you out without realizing it.

and you…

you kept loving him, even when it wasn’t a secret anymore.

valentine’s day hit the school like a storm.

the halls were dripping in pink and red, balloons bumping against lockers, the air thick with the scent of cheap chocolate and desperation. you weren’t immune to it—if anything, you were worse.

you had spent the night before in your kitchen, standing over a counter covered in baking disasters, painstakingly melting chocolate, shaping little hearts by hand, writing stupid tiny notes on colorful slips of paper. you stayed up until almost three in the morning, ignoring your mother’s concerned looks, all for one boy.

mark lee.

you didn’t half-ass it either. no. you went full force.

you woke up at five a.m. on valentine’s day, backpack bursting with gifts, heart pounding with something between excitement and fear. the moment you got to school, you made a beeline for his locker. you stuffed it full—letter after letter, pink and red envelopes practically exploding out of the sides. every letter started the same way, "dear mark, i really really like you," and got progressively more unhinged as you got sleepier. one of them ended with a doodle of you two riding off into the sunset on a giant gummy bear. you didn’t even regret it.

and then, the chocolates. you had them in a heart-shaped box you decorated yourself, glitter peeling off the sides. you snuck into his classroom early, your hands shaking, and dumped them right on top of his desk—pile after pile of messy, misshapen chocolate hearts, each one lovingly wrapped in plastic and tied with curly red ribbon.

it wasn’t subtle. it wasn’t graceful.

but it was you.

when mark walked into class later, you watched from behind the doorframe like some kind of deranged cupid. he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the mountain of candy and cards like it might explode. his friends started laughing—haechan howling loud enough to draw attention from other classrooms, renjun pretending to cry from how beautiful it was, jisung muttering “bro’s got a stalker” under his breath while chenle recorded everything on his phone.

mark didn’t get mad.

he didn’t yell.

he just... looked so painfully polite about the whole thing, his bright smile twitching at the corners, his ears turning an adorable shade of pink. he stood there, awkward, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes scanning for an escape route.

you chose that exact moment to spring.

you practically bounced up to him, heart hammering, face on fire, and blurted out in front of everyone, “mark! i like you! a lot! like, a lot a lot! like, marry-me-under-a-rainbow kind of a lot!”

you didn’t know where that last part came from. you regretted it immediately.

mark laughed. this soft, helpless little sound that made your chest ache. he looked at you—really looked at you—and for a second, you could almost believe he was touched. or maybe just very, very overwhelmed.

"thank you," he said gently, voice a little strained. "you’re really sweet. but—uh—i think... we should just stay friends, yeah?"

you nodded furiously, tears pricking at the back of your eyes, but you smiled through it because you were determined not to make it worse.

"friends! sure! but, like, if you change your mind... i'm available. permanently."

haechan choked. chenle dropped his phone from laughing too hard. renjun whispered “oh my god, she’s serious,” like he was witnessing a car crash in slow motion.

mark gave you a look, half grateful, half pleading, like he was begging the universe to save him from this situation without hurting you. he patted your head—your actual head, like you were a golden retriever—and hurried to clean up the mess you’d left.

the rest of the day, every time you crossed paths, you beamed at him and chirped "i like you!" like it was a greeting. he’d flinch slightly every time, force that damn brilliant smile, and respond with a tiny nod or a mumbled "thank you..." before speed-walking away like his life depended on it.

it became a running joke. teachers started asking him about his “secret admirer.” students left fake valentines in his locker just to mess with him. he took it all in stride, patient and painfully kind, but you knew deep down it was wearing him out.

still, you couldn’t help it. you were in too deep.

when the final bell rang, and you caught him stuffing all your letters into his bag like he was trying to hide contraband, you grinned so wide your cheeks hurt.

maybe, you thought, love didn’t have to be perfect to be real.

even if it was one-sided. even if it was a little ridiculous.

your heart still beat for him. and for now, that was enough.

you followed him to university without a second thought.

not because you were obsessed. not because you were desperate.

maybe it sounded crazier when you said it out loud, like some reckless teenage daydream you should have outgrown by now, but in your heart, it had always been simple. wherever mark went, you wanted to go too. so when he decided to major in literature at a university two cities away, you didn’t hesitate—you applied to the same program, you studied harder than you ever had in your life, and when that acceptance letter came, you clutched it to your chest and cried, thinking it was fate smiling at you.

you convinced yourself that it was a new beginning, that maybe, somehow, away from the crowded hallways of high school and the well-worn patterns of rejection and affection, things could be different. you could be different. you could be the kind of girl he might actually look at twice.

but reality wasn’t a fairytale, and no amount of shared classes or accidental brushings of hands across desks could change the fact that mark had drawn a line in the sand years ago—and he wasn’t about to cross it.

still, you stayed close, orbiting him like a stubborn, quiet moon, your love for him woven into every choice you made, every dream you dared to have.

he was still kind. still soft-spoken and careful with your heart. he’d pull out chairs for you in lecture halls, lend you his notes when you were sick, laugh at your dry jokes when no one else did. he still bought you birthday gifts—carefully wrapped, always with a little handwritten note in his neat handwriting. still hugged you every christmas. still remembered your favorite snacks and left them on your desk when you were cramming.

but he never crossed the line.

mark lee was a boy of boundaries. polite, good, respectful. especially with you.

especially because of jaemin.

the others —haechan, chenle, renjun, even jisung—had started making comments. light teasing when mark waited for you outside your dorm. when your fingers brushed as you passed him a pen. when he remembered things you said in passing and brought them up weeks later.

“just date already.”

“you’d make such a cute couple.”

“jaemin would murder you, but worth it.”

but jaemin never laughed. he’d stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes hard.

“it’s not happening,” he’d say flatly. “drop it.”

and mark—mark would just smile and shake his head.

“we’re just friends.”

always the same line. always gentle. always final.

and still, you stayed. because a piece of you still hoped. still wondered if maybe, maybe, something would shift.

until summer.

that was when everything changed.

it started small.

mark smiling at his phone when he thought no one was looking. mark turning down movie nights, saying he was “tired” or “busy.” mark humming under his breath as he walked across campus, like he couldn’t help it.

he looked… lighter.

brighter.

and he wasn’t looking at you.

you found out by accident.

a lazy sunday. mark had left his phone on the coffee table in the shared dorm lounge while he went to grab snacks. a message popped up, screen lighting briefly.

“can’t wait to see you again 💛” from: yerim 🍒

kim yerim.

a girl from another department. bright, confident, everything you weren’t.

you blinked at the message like it was written in another language. your throat tightened. your hands went cold. you couldn’t look away.

when mark came back into the room, smiling like he always did, you could barely breathe. he didn’t notice the way your gaze dropped. or maybe he did, but he didn’t say anything. just offered you a packet of chips like nothing had changed.

but everything had.

by the time the others found out, mark and yerim had been quietly seeing each other for nearly two months.

the teasing stopped.

no more jokes. no more comments. just a strange, heavy silence.

even haechan kept quiet. only once, after a long night out, he said it in a low voice—when mark had gone off to call her, when everyone else was half-asleep on the floor.

“you’d be better for him.”

you looked up. your eyes were wet. you hadn’t even noticed.

haechan’s gaze softened. “but he’s not ready to see that, huh?”

you didn’t answer.

because what was there to say?

you’d loved mark for so long it had become a part of your identity. it was in the way you walked, the way you chose your classes, the way your heart lit up every time you saw him laugh.

but he was never yours.

and now, there was someone else who made him laugh. someone he looked at like that. and the worst part?

he looked happy.

genuinely, radiantly happy. the kind of happy that couldn’t be faked.

so you smiled too. you congratulated him. you listened to him talk about yerim with soft eyes and careful words.

and when you were alone, you cried into your pillow, biting down hard to keep the sound in.

because this wasn’t betrayal. this wasn’t a lie. this was just love—one-sided, unchanging, and devastating.

you didn’t blame him.

you just didn’t know how to stop loving him.

you weren’t sure when yerim began to notice.

maybe it was the way you went quiet whenever mark entered the room. maybe it was how your eyes never quite met his anymore. or maybe it was something deeper—something only another woman could sense. a kind of residual ache, the ghost of something that used to be almost something.

she never confronted you. never threw it in your face.

but her gaze lingered.

a little longer than necessary. a little too perceptive. especially when mark spoke your name.

and mark—he started choosing his words more carefully. his laughter dimmed around you, like he didn’t know how to act anymore. like being near you was stepping into a room still filled with the scent of a fire long gone out.

you weren’t mad. you were exhausted.

your chest carried the weight of every second you’d spent wishing for something that never existed outside your imagination. you’d painted a fantasy in your mind and clung to it like a lifeline, and for what? he never promised you anything. never kissed you. never called you “mine.”

he was just… kind. and you were just stupid.

so when you met lee jeno, it was like inhaling after drowning.

he was part of the sports science department—tall, tan, always wearing that damned sleeveless hoodie like he knew the effect it had on people. he had this cocky little smile and a voice that made you pause. and god, he was smooth. but not in a sleazy way.

jeno was bright in a way mark never was. he didn’t hesitate. he didn’t overthink.

he noticed you from the first time you sat across from him in a shared elective. you were sketching half-distractedly, and he leaned over with that grin that stretched from ear to ear.

"you always draw like the world’s ending tomorrow?"

you blinked up at him, startled. "excuse me?"

he just laughed. “you’re good. i like intense girls.”

you rolled your eyes. but he didn’t stop talking to you after that. he’d walk you to class, show up with energy drinks during finals, and compliment the color of your nails like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

and one day, without drama or overthinking, he just asked:

“go out with me.”

no hidden meanings. no caution. just jeno, smiling, offering you something real.

you hesitated.

you thought of mark. of his careful hands, his lingering warmth, the smile he used to give you before it all got awkward. but that was the thing—it had gotten awkward. broken. distant. he belonged to someone else now. he never belonged to you.

so you said yes.

after weeks of holding onto a secret that was slowly tearing you apart, you finally decided to give jeno a chance. you couldn’t keep pretending like mark didn’t already have your heart in his hands, even if he didn’t want it. you couldn’t keep letting your feelings for him dictate everything, so when jeno, the charming and confident guy from your physical education class, asked you out one day, you hesitated.

you hesitated for a long time, thinking of how many times mark had walked right past you, never once acknowledging your heart, never once looking at you in a way that made you feel more than just his friend’s younger sister.

but this time, it was different. jeno was persistent, and there was a spark in his smile that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could move on. so, after a long conversation with yourself and an even longer discussion with your heart, you said yes. but you weren’t going to drag jeno into something he wasn’t prepared for, so before you agreed to anything, you told him the truth.

“i’ve been in love with someone else for so long,” you admitted, your voice soft, vulnerable. “and i don’t know if i can just let go of that... but i want to try. i want to try with you.”

jeno smiled at you, and his eyes softened, like he understood. “i know,” he said, his voice steady. “i’ve seen it. but i’ll do my best to make you forget about him. i’ll do everything i can so that you only look at me the way you looked at him.”

it wasn’t a promise of forever, but it was a promise to try. and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you could start anew. so you accepted, feeling a little lighter, but still carrying the weight of what had once been.

the first few days were like walking on air. jeno was easy to be around—funny, charming, the kind of guy who made you feel like you mattered. when you walked around campus together, everyone noticed. people were happy for you, the long-lost couple that everyone was rooting for. but mark? mark looked like he had swallowed something bitter.

mark had never been good at hiding his feelings, and even if he tried, yerim saw right through him. it had been a few weeks since you and jeno started dating, and mark’s behavior was becoming more noticeable by the day. his lingering stares, the way he would look at you and jeno when you walked into a room together—yerim had seen enough. she had been patient with him, but there was only so much a person could tolerate.

you caught him looking at you and jeno one too many times, his eyes narrowed and his lips set in a firm line. it made you uncomfortable, the way he would glance at you, then at jeno, like he was calculating something, weighing something in his mind. but you didn’t think much of it until the day he pulled you aside after a class, his face clouded with something unreadable.

“hey,” he started, his voice softer than usual, though there was still a bite to it. “i don’t think jeno is good for you.”

you blinked, startled. “what do you mean?” you asked, confused, but also feeling a knot tighten in your chest. why was he saying this now? after all this time?

mark rubbed the back of his neck, looking uneasy. “i mean... you’re my friend, and i care about you. i just don’t think he’s the right person for you. you deserve better than him.”

you could feel your heart racing. “what do you know about what’s good for me or not?” you replied, your tone sharp. “you’re not my... you’re not my anything, mark. i don’t need you to tell me what’s best for me.”

he frowned, a flicker of guilt crossing his face, but he didn’t apologize. instead, he sighed. “i’m just looking out for you, okay? you’re... important to me.”

the words stung more than they should have. important to him. you let out a bitter laugh. “important to you? you’ve barely noticed me for years, mark. don’t try to pull that with me now.”

his face shifted, caught somewhere between frustration and something else that you couldn’t quite place. “i’m serious, okay? just... be careful with jeno.”

before you could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, feeling more confused than ever.

but things didn’t stop there.

it wasn’t just that mark had said what he said—it was the way he started acting afterward. jeno was around, and whenever jeno was around, mark seemed to get this look in his eyes, like he was watching you two, trying to figure out something that wasn’t adding up. he started showing up more, always offering you little things, always asking if you needed anything. he would bring you your favorite coffee between classes, or linger a little longer than usual when he saw you and jeno walking together.

you noticed it. everyone noticed it. especially yerim.

it was one afternoon in the student lounge when yerim couldn’t hold it in any longer. “mark,” she said, voice tight, “you’re doing it again. you’ve been acting like this... like you’re in love with her.”

mark froze, caught in the act of watching you laugh with jeno. he opened his mouth to deny it, but yerim didn’t let him. “don’t even try to deny it,” she continued. “you’re constantly around her, always looking at her like you want something more. you’re jealous every time jeno is near her.”

mark looked at her, eyes wide with shock. “i’m not—i mean, no, that’s not it.”

“really?” yerim’s voice was sharp now. “because it looks like it. you’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

the words hung in the air like a weight neither of them could lift. mark’s face went pale. he opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out at first. then, slowly, he shook his head, almost as if to convince himself.

“no,” he muttered. “i’m not.”

yerim stared at him for a long moment, her expression a mix of disbelief and something more profound. “mark... you can’t just keep pretending you don’t care about her. you’ve been doing it for years, and now you’re pushing jeno away like this. stop lying to yourself.”

he didn’t say anything. he just stood there, looking at you as you laughed with jeno, the smile on your face not quite reaching his eyes anymore.

it was the last straw when mark once again casually mentioned your name while they were eating lunch together, and yerim couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.

“mark,” yerim began, her voice quiet but firm. “i can’t keep doing this.”

mark looked up from his phone, confused. “what do you mean?” he asked, trying to mask the tension in his voice.

“this,” she motioned between the two of them, the table between them feeling like a chasm. “your obsession with her. it’s becoming impossible to ignore, and frankly, i’m tired of it.”

he blinked, shocked by her bluntness. “what are you talking about? i’m not obsessed with anyone.”

“oh, really?” yerim’s eyes narrowed, her tone ice-cold now. “because every time i bring something up, you somehow find a way to tie it back to her. last week, we were talking about your plans for the summer, and you—” she paused, shaking her head as if in disbelief, “you brought her up. again. you’re not fooling me, mark. it’s always about her. i’m starting to think you’re not really here with me.”

mark opened his mouth to argue, but yerim held up her hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “no. don’t try to lie to me. you’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

the words hit him like a punch to the gut. he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. a flash of memories flashed in his mind—those moments when your name slipped out of his mouth without even thinking, how he’d catch himself whenever he accidentally mentioned you during their time together.

he remembered the time they were having a casual dinner at a restaurant and he had jokingly said, “y/n would love this dish.” yerim had paused, her fork mid-air, her eyes narrowing. but mark quickly covered it up, offering a distracted smile, as if it didn’t mean anything. another time, they were walking through the campus, and he had said, “this place reminds me of something y/n and i used to do.” yerim had looked at him, confusion and hurt crossing her face, but mark had just shrugged it off. it wasn’t anything, he assured her. just memories of a friendship.

but yerim wasn’t stupid. and she was done pretending she didn’t see it.

“you’ve been so distracted, mark. and i’m over it,” yerim’s voice grew stronger now, the anger finally coming through. “you don’t have the right to string me along while you’re still hung up on someone else.”

mark’s heart raced in his chest, the weight of her words sinking in. he couldn’t deny it anymore. yerim wasn’t wrong, and he hated himself for it. “i didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “it’s just... y/n... i never meant to hurt you.”

but yerim wasn’t having it. she was proud, and she recognized her worth. her eyes flashed with frustration as she stood up from the table, throwing her napkin down with a sharp motion. “it doesn’t matter what you meant, mark. what matters is that you’ve been leading me on, and i’m done. i’m not going to sit here and pretend everything’s fine when you clearly can’t even give me your full attention.”

mark stood up too, his voice soft, almost pleading. “yerim, please don’t—”

“no, mark. i’ve had enough. i need someone who’s here for me, not for someone else.” she turned to leave, but stopped at the door, her back still to him. “think about it, mark. because if you’re not careful, you’re going to lose both of us.”

the door slammed shut behind her, and mark stood there in silence, feeling the weight of her words settle in. but before he could process what had just happened, his phone buzzed in his pocket. he pulled it out, and there it was again—your name, flashing on the screen.

a flood of memories hit him all at once—the late-night talks with you, the way he had always put you on a pedestal, and how, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. he couldn’t stop caring about you. yerim had been right. it had been you, always you.

but that wasn’t all. as he sat there, the memories of his time with yerim also came flooding back. the times she’d gotten upset with him for talking about you too much. he had brushed it off, saying it was nothing, just casual references. but deep down, he knew he was never really there for her. not the way she deserved.

a sharp pain twisted in his chest, and he realized something—yerim had always been more than just a girlfriend to him. she was a distraction, a way to cover up the hole in his heart that he refused to acknowledge. but now, everything felt different.

it was supposed to be a day of fun, something to make you forget. jeno had planned a trip to the amusement park, hoping that the laughter, the rides, and the sweet cotton candy would distract you from everything that had been weighing heavily on your heart. he was always there for you, attentive and sweet, trying his best to make you feel special. his hand never left yours, and he had a way of making you feel like everything was going to be okay, even though you weren't sure it ever would be.

but as the day went on, the fun rides, the silly carnival games, and even jeno’s bright smile couldn’t keep your thoughts from drifting back to mark. you tried so hard to push them away, to focus on the moment, on the person beside you who was giving you his all. jeno was perfect. he was patient, kind, charming in ways that made you laugh without even trying. but no matter how much he tried to pull you out of the hole you’d fallen into, mark was still there, lingering in your heart like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

it wasn’t until you were sitting on a bench near the Ferris wheel, looking out at the glowing lights of the park, that the dam finally broke. tears blurred your vision, and for the first time in a long while, you let them fall. jeno’s hand gently cupped your face, his thumb wiping away the first tear, and then another, as his soft voice reached your ears.

“hey,” he murmured, his eyes filled with concern and something deeper, like he already knew what was happening. “what’s going on?”

you shook your head, struggling to find the right words. “i... i’m so sorry, jeno. i thought i could... but i can’t. i can’t stop thinking about him.” your voice cracked, and the sobs you had been holding back spilled out. “it’s not fair to you. i feel like i’m using you, but i can’t... i can’t let go of mark.”

jeno stayed quiet for a moment, his hand still resting on your cheek, tender and warm. he didn’t look hurt, not the way you expected him to. instead, his eyes were filled with understanding, the kind of understanding that made your chest ache even more.

“you don’t have to apologize,” he said softly, his voice steady and calm. “you can’t force yourself to move on, y/n. you can’t just push those feelings aside because you want them to go away. i know that. i won’t ask you to stop thinking about him, or to stop loving him. but you need to realize that you’re only hurting yourself by holding onto something that might never be.” he paused, giving you a moment to absorb his words, his thumb tracing your cheek slowly. “if you’re not ready for this, if you’re not ready for me, then it’s okay. we can stop here.”

his words cut deeper than you expected. you looked at him, and in his eyes, you saw nothing but kindness, the kind of person who would never push you, who would never force you to be someone you weren’t. but that only made it harder to bear. jeno was giving you his everything, and yet, your heart was somewhere else.

“jeno...” you whispered, your voice shaking, “i’m so sorry. i wish i could just... let go. but i’m not ready for this. for us. i thought maybe... maybe i could love you. but i can’t stop thinking about him. and it’s not fair to you. you deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

jeno smiled at you, but it wasn’t the smile of someone who was happy. it was a smile tinged with sadness, a resignation that seemed to come from a place of understanding rather than disappointment. he took your hand in his and held it firmly, as if to reassure you that it was okay.

“i knew,” he said quietly, his voice soft but sure. “i knew this wasn’t going to be easy. and i’m not mad at you, y/n. i’m just... i’m just glad you’re being honest with me.” he gave your hand a squeeze. “you don’t have to force anything. if you want to keep holding onto mark, then do it. if that’s what you need to do to move on, then i won’t stop you. i want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me.”

you blinked back more tears, unable to find the right words. jeno’s face was full of hurt, but also full of understanding, and you hated yourself for not being able to give him what he deserved. you loved jeno, you really did, but your heart was still anchored to mark, and nothing was going to change that just because you wanted it to.

“i don’t deserve you,” you said through a broken sob, the guilt overwhelming. “i’m sorry, jeno. i’m so sorry.”

“don’t apologize,” he said again, his voice steady and soothing, despite the sadness that lingered there. “just think about it, okay? take your time. but don’t stay in this place forever. don’t let yourself be stuck on someone who can’t give you the love you deserve.”

you nodded, unable to speak, and jeno, ever patient and kind, pulled you into a gentle embrace. his warmth was comforting, but it also reminded you of the hole in your heart that mark had left behind.

you could feel the weight of his words, the truth in them sinking deeper than anything you had ever felt. he wasn’t going to hold you to something that wasn’t real, and you hated the fact that it took you this long to realize it. jeno wasn’t just someone you could use to fill the gap mark had left. he was someone who deserved to be loved completely, and you weren’t capable of giving him that.

as you pulled away, you could see the understanding in jeno’s eyes, and it was that very understanding that made the pain in your chest grow even stronger. jeno wasn’t going to hold onto something that wasn’t meant to be. and maybe, just maybe, that was the hardest thing for you to accept.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice small, broken. “but i think i need to try with mark. maybe... maybe he’s the one i’m meant to be with.”

jeno smiled again, but this time, it was bittersweet. “then go for it, y/n. do what you need to do. i’m not going anywhere.”

and just like that, you knew. you had your answer. but the question now was whether mark would ever feel the same way.

the days at university dragged on, each one more suffocating than the last. you had your friends around you, and yet, you felt like you were drowning in the same sea of unresolved feelings. it was a strange comfort to be surrounded by people, but their presence didn’t erase the emptiness you felt inside. mark’s presence lingered everywhere, like a ghost. even in the cafeteria, you couldn’t escape the feeling that something was missing. his silence, his avoidance, it was all becoming too much to bear.

one morning, as you sat at a table with your friends, a subtle shift in the atmosphere caught your attention. mark had arrived late, as usual, and took a seat at the opposite end of the table, his gaze distant, his face blank. the usual chatter buzzed around you, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air. the others seemed to sense it too, noticing how quiet everything had become since the both of you had entered the room.

haechan, always the one to try and lighten the mood, leaned back in his chair, his grin wide and teasing. “so guys, what’s going on here? someone want to spill the tea?” his tone was playful, but there was an edge to it that made it clear he wasn’t fully joking.

you felt your stomach twist, but before you could respond, mark shifted in his seat, his fork tapping against his plate. the room grew unnaturally quiet, the teasing atmosphere fading into something more uncomfortable. mark’s voice broke through the silence, his tone so flat it was almost impossible to read.

“yerim… she broke up with me,” mark said, the words coming out without any emotion, almost like he was just stating a fact. it wasn’t a confession or a cry for sympathy, just an acknowledgment of something that had happened.

the table fell completely silent. everyone, even haechan, froze, unsure of what to say. it was as if the air had thickened, and no one dared to move or speak for a moment. you kept your eyes fixed on your tray, unable to meet anyone’s gaze, though you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at mark from the corner of your eye.

he was eating his breakfast now, like it was just another normal morning, his face emotionless. but you could see the small, almost imperceptible signs of tension in his posture. his shoulders were a little more rigid, and his hand gripped his fork a little tighter than usual. but he said nothing more, and the others didn’t press him for details.

renjun, ever the curious one, broke the silence by shifting in his seat and looking directly at you. “what about jeno?” he asked, his voice soft but probing.

the question hit you harder than expected. it was like everyone had just been waiting for you to talk about it, to explain what had happened between you and jeno. you hesitated, biting your lip as you considered how to respond.

“i… i ended things with jeno,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

chenle raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. what? you were just starting to get into it. why would you stop now?”

you shrugged, feeling a lump form in your throat. “i wasn’t prepared for what he needed.”

another silence filled the room, heavier this time. you could feel their eyes on you, but you didn’t dare look up. the tension in the air was suffocating, and you could feel it building up around you like a thick fog. it wasn’t just the conversation that was uncomfortable—it was everything that had been left unsaid. the way mark kept his distance, the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him, the way you couldn’t shake the feeling that things were never going to be as simple as they once were.

you stole another glance at mark, your heart tightening at the sight of him. he was still eating, his movements slow and deliberate, but you could tell he was aware of the conversation. the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes flicked toward you for a fraction of a second—it all spoke volumes. but he said nothing more. he wasn’t going to make this easy for you. he wasn’t going to chase you or beg for your attention. it was always like this with him, wasn’t it? he had this way of making you feel like you were the only one who cared, while he remained distant, unreachable.

as you sat there, feeling the weight of the silence press down on you, you realized that maybe you weren’t the only one who had been avoiding the truth. maybe mark was doing the same thing. maybe he, too, had been holding back, pretending that everything was fine when it wasn’t.

and then, as if on cue, mark glanced up at you. his eyes met yours for just a moment, and for the briefest of seconds, you saw something in them—something raw, something vulnerable. but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same mask of indifference he wore so often.

you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling the ache in your chest, the pain of wanting something that wasn’t yours to have. you didn’t know what this meant, what the silence between the two of you meant. but it hurt. it hurt in ways you couldn’t explain.

suddenly, mark stood up, his chair scraping against the floor, and without a word, he grabbed his tray and walked away, leaving the table in stunned silence once again. you didn’t know if it was his way of shutting everyone out or if he was simply tired of pretending that everything was fine.

haechan glanced at you, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion. “well, that was... something,” he muttered.

but you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. all you could do was sit there, surrounded by your friends, but feeling more alone than ever before. you didn’t know what would happen next.

but you did know one thing: nothing was going to be the same again.

mark never liked to admit it, but the words yerim had said earlier echoed in his mind like a loud, unwanted reminder. "you're in love with her, aren't you?" he couldn't shake it. the way she confronted him, the certainty in her voice, it felt like she was peeling back layers of something he didn’t even know he was hiding. he tried to brush it off, told himself he wasn’t like that—he couldn’t be. you were his friend, his best friend’s sister, and he had always kept a distance for a reason.

but the more he thought about it, the more it hit him. the way his heart reacted when you gave him those letters, when you filled his locker with chocolates you’d made yourself, and when you said "i like you" so casually, so boldly, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. mark could still feel the warmth in his chest when he read your letters. he could still picture the way you’d smile at him, your eyes shining with a hope that made him feel both uneasy and... strangely content. it made him feel things he couldn’t quite name.

he had always kept his distance, tried to maintain the line between friendship and something else, because he knew it was wrong. but what if it wasn’t? what if everything he’d told himself about not crossing that line was just an excuse to avoid the truth? there were moments, fleeting but intense, when he felt your gaze on him, when he felt you watching him more than anyone else, and it made him ache in ways he didn’t understand. it was subtle, but it was there—your attention, your small gestures that spoke louder than words.

and mark... mark had never been one to ignore someone he cared about. he would remember the smallest things about you—your favorite color, how you liked your coffee, the way you hated the cold but still insisted on walking with him outside when it was freezing, just because you liked the fresh air. he noticed these things, even when he told himself it was just concern, just the instincts of a friend. but now, in the silence of his own thoughts, it became clear: he was lying to himself.

it had never been just friendship. he was always there when you needed him, always paying attention to the little things that mattered to you. he didn’t know when it started, but somewhere along the way, those small acts of kindness had shifted into something deeper, something more complicated. and now that yerim had pointed it out, it was impossible to ignore.

the worst part? he didn’t want to. he didn’t want to admit that he was falling for you, that the thought of seeing you with someone else—a guy like jeno, someone who actually understood you in ways he never could—made him feel this... discomfort, this jealousy that gnawed at him, something he hadn’t ever expected to feel. it wasn’t like he hated jeno—no, he didn’t. he was a good guy. but the idea of him being close to you, of him holding your hand, of him kissing you... it made mark want to break something, even if he didn’t understand why.

he remembered the first time you told him you liked him. it had been so simple, so direct, and yet, it had left him shaken. "i like you, mark," you had said, and his chest had tightened. it wasn’t the confession itself—it was the way you said it, the sincerity in your eyes, the lack of hesitation. you made it sound so effortless, like it was no big deal. but to him, it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet. he had tried to laugh it off, tried to brush it aside, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

and now, as he sat there, the realization hit him full force. yerim had been right. he was in love with you. and it scared the hell out of him.

he had always tried to convince himself that it wasn’t anything more than friendship, but the truth was staring him in the face now. this—his attention to you, the way he always found a reason to be near you, the way he knew things about you that no one else did—it wasn’t friendship. it was something else. and as much as he hated to admit it, it was something he couldn’t control anymore.

mark let out a slow breath, closing his eyes for a moment. he didn’t know what to do with this feeling. he didn’t know how to face you, knowing this now. he had tried so hard to keep things uncomplicated, to keep the walls up, but somewhere along the way, they had crumbled without him even realizing it.

and then he thought about the way you’d looked at him this morning, about the way you’d still found time to check in on him, even though you were moving on with jeno. he hated it. he hated how much it hurt to see you with him, how it felt like he was losing you to someone else. but what could he do? he couldn’t just throw away the bond he’d spent years building with you. and yet, now that he had started to realize the truth—that he, maybe, maybe... loved you—it felt like everything he did was too little, too late.

mark ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising in his chest. he was an idiot. he always had been. and now... now you were slipping away from him. and maybe it was for the best. maybe he didn’t deserve you.

but god, did he wish he could change everything.

the professor of your writing class, a serious man with a gaze that seemed to read the minds of his students, made an unexpected announcement at the start of the class. there was a new activity, a group project where you had to work with a "superior," as he called it, to learn more about the challenges and demands that came with quality writing. as if it wasn’t enough, the professor began mentioning names, and when he got to yours, it wasn’t just any name.

"y/n," he said, his eyes locking with yours for a moment. "i know you all know mark lee. so, he'll be your partner for this task. i’m sure you'll learn a lot from him."

the entire class turned to look at you, and the blush immediately crept up your neck. they all knew you liked mark. it was obvious to everyone. a murmur spread across the tables, and a small ripple of laughter echoed in the air. your heart raced, and you could feel the tension building. you froze for a moment before quickly trying to compose yourself.

"after this class, i’ll be heading to mark’s group. so, i’ll let him know," the professor added, barely noticing your discomfort. it was as if he had done this before, pairing you two without a second thought.

the rest of the day felt like it was dragging, and even though you tried to distract yourself with the usual distractions of university life, everything felt off. your thoughts were heavy with mark. you had been in the same place so many times before, but now, it felt different. this wasn’t just any task; this was going to force you and mark into the same space, the same moments, and you didn’t know how to handle it.

later, as you met him in the university library, the tension was palpable. everything felt too familiar yet too strange. you hadn't been so close in so long, and now you were working on something that required your attention.

at first, there were small, careful interactions. you would look at him briefly, and he’d turn away, pretending to focus on the task. but soon, those little moments started to build.

one evening, you were sitting together at a table in the library. you were writing, trying to focus on the task in front of you, but mark was watching you, the air around you both charged. the quiet hum of the library didn’t help the feeling building between the two of you.

without realizing it, your hand brushed his as you reached for the same book. your heart jumped in your chest, and you both froze. he looked at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. when none came, he slowly took your hand into his, his fingers curling gently around yours. you didn’t pull away.

you continued to write, trying to act like nothing had changed, but every single brush of his fingers against yours made your heart race. mark, in his usual composed way, didn’t say a word. he just adjusted in his seat, took a deep breath, and continued flipping through a book with his free hand.

but you couldn’t ignore the feeling. your heart was pounding, and every moment felt too intense.

mark’s touch, his attention, was starting to feel different. the physical closeness, the subtle interactions, they were all making you feel things you didn’t know how to process.

one night, as you worked late on an essay, you were sitting in the university’s shared house, with mark next to you. the house was quiet, but the air between you two was anything but.

as you wrote the final paragraphs of your essay, mark casually placed his hand over yours, like it was the most natural thing in the world. you froze for a second, then continued writing with your other hand. he didn’t let go of your hand, though. he just sat there, quietly turning the pages of his book, but his attention was completely on you.

you could feel the warmth of his hand, his fingers lightly tracing the back of yours. you were trying to focus, but everything inside you was screaming. 

what was happening between you two?

the moment felt like it would last forever. your heart raced, and your stomach twisted with nerves. the way his hand felt against yours, the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him—it was all becoming too real. slowly, as if testing the waters, mark squeezed your hand gently, a silent acknowledgment that you were still there, together.

you tried to act normal, but the intensity of the moment was almost too much. you didn’t know what this was, but it felt like it was something more than you’d ever expected.

and as the days went by, you found that you were no longer just working with mark. you were starting to feel something again, something that wasn’t just based on your past feelings, but something that was growing stronger every time he smiled at you, every time he reached for your hand, every time his voice got just a little bit softer when he spoke to you.

you were starting to realize that you were falling for him all over again.

mark sat alone in his room that night, the moonlight spilling through the window as he stared at the pages of his book without really seeing them. his mind kept drifting back to the moments he had shared with you—those small touches, those fleeting glances that made his heart skip a beat. it was impossible to ignore the feelings that were starting to bubble up inside him.

why does it feel like this? he thought. this wasn’t supposed to happen.

he remembered when you first started writing him those letters, how you didn’t care that others saw, how you openly told him you liked him. at first, it made him uncomfortable, and he didn’t know how to react. but now, looking back, he realized it had always been more than just a casual thing for him. you had always been more.

mark sighed as he recalled those moments when he would catch himself thinking about you in class, or how his eyes would follow you around the room. it’s not just concern, is it? he thought. i care about you more than i ever wanted to admit.

he thought about how he would remember the little things—like how you always smelled like lavender, how you would always bite your lip when you were concentrating, how you’d laugh at the smallest jokes. he knew you so well. but why hadn’t he realized it before?

mark leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. it’s not just worry... it’s something more. his heart ached as he realized the truth, and it was almost too much to bear.

he was falling for you.

the days passed in a soft, almost imperceptible way, but mark could feel the change. it wasn’t loud or obvious, but it was there, lingering between you two like a quiet hum. at first, the moments were small — a brush of your fingers as you passed him the pen, a shared smile when the professor made an awkward joke, the way he always seemed to look for you in the crowded hallways. you had grown so accustomed to each other's presence that it felt almost natural to be together, even in silence. but there was a difference now.

he was aware.

mark noticed the way you would glance at him when you thought he wasn’t looking, the soft curl of your smile when he said something funny, or the way you always tried to be near him. he noticed the little things, things that before he might have brushed aside. it was easy to pretend that it was nothing, but deep down, he couldn’t ignore it anymore. you were changing something inside him, something he wasn’t sure how to handle.

they started to get closer, working together more than the project required, as if there was something magnetic pulling them together. late nights in the library, sharing the quiet, with nothing but the sound of papers shuffling and soft footsteps on the floor. the way mark would sneak glances at you when you weren’t paying attention, the way his hand would linger near yours when you passed the pencil over to him. it was simple, tender. there was no rush, no hurry — just a slow, steady burn.

one evening, as you both sat at the same table in the house, the quiet between you two felt charged with something unspoken. mark had just handed you a book you’d asked for, his fingers brushing yours for a moment too long. you felt it, and so did he.

"you’ve been quiet," mark said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. "thinking about the project, or… something else?"

you glanced at him, feeling your heartbeat quicken. "maybe both," you replied, your voice soft.

mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "you know, it’s funny. we’ve spent all this time together, but i still don’t think i know everything about you."

you smiled, trying to play it cool, but inside, you were nervous. "what do you want to know?"

he didn’t answer immediately. instead, he leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing on his lips. "i guess… i just want to know how you see the world. the little things that make you… well, you."

you blinked, taken aback by the question. it felt oddly intimate, like he was asking to know you on a deeper level, not just as a classmate or a friend, but as something more.

"that’s… a lot to ask," you murmured, your cheeks flushing.

mark smiled, his gaze softening. "maybe," he said quietly. "but i think… i think you’re worth the effort."

the way his voice sounded made something tighten in your chest. 

you didn’t know what it was, but you felt it — that spark, that connection.

and so it continued, these quiet, intimate moments between the two of you. each one made the feelings grow stronger, but neither of you acknowledged it outright. there was no rush. this wasn’t about forcing something, it was just about being together, in whatever way it worked. a slow, steady love building like a quiet storm.

finally, the day came for you to present your project. everyone had gathered in the lecture hall, seniors and juniors alike. the professor was setting up the papers, his usual stern expression softened by the anticipation in the room. the seniors were all whispering among themselves, and you couldn’t help but notice how mark sat just a little too still in his chair, his eyes occasionally glancing over at you.

the professor cleared his throat, signaling that it was time. "alright, y/n, mark — it’s your turn. please come up and present."

you stood up, your heart beating a little faster as you walked up to the front, your palms sweaty. mark was beside you, his presence oddly comforting, though you could feel the tension between you two. you weren’t sure what to expect, but you knew that something was about to change.

mark didn’t speak right away. instead, he took your project, carefully setting it down on the desk in front of the class. you watched as he stood behind it, adjusting his posture and looking around at the gathered group. for a moment, he seemed lost in thought, then he cleared his throat.

"before i present this," he began, his voice steady but with a certain softness that made you pause, "i think i should talk about something else."

your stomach dropped. what was he doing?

the professor, who had been prepared to listen to a formal presentation, now looked intrigued. "mark?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

mark’s gaze shifted to you for a moment, then back to the class. he was taking his time, choosing his words carefully."this is a story about someone i came to know. at first, i didn’t think much of it. she was just someone i worked with, just another student. but as time went on, i began to notice little things. the way she always smiled, even when she was exhausted. the way she laughed at things that most people would have ignored. the way she always tried to be better, even when she didn’t have to."

mark paused, and you felt your heart race as your eyes locked with his. his voice had a strange warmth to it, and the room seemed to hold its breath as he continued.

"i don’t know when it happened, exactly. it wasn’t a moment — it wasn’t like i suddenly realized. but i know that one day, i found myself thinking about her when she wasn’t around. and when i looked at her, it felt like i was seeing something… something that was more than just a person. it felt like i was seeing a world, a life. and i wanted to know more, to be close to her, to understand who she was."

mark looked at you then, his gaze soft and steady. "this person… she’s not just anyone. she’s someone who changed the way i see things, who made me realize what it means to care about someone. and i think, somewhere along the way, i realized… i was falling for her."

you felt your breath catch in your throat. 

he was talking about you.

there was a stunned silence in the room. even the professor looked taken aback for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. mark continued, the words flowing from him almost effortlessly.

"this might not be the most professional presentation," he said, his voice now more playful, "but it’s the truth. and i think… that’s the most important part of any story."

the professor, still recovering from the surprise, gave a small chuckle, but quickly regained his composure. "well, mark," he said, "that was… certainly unexpected. but if after all that, you don’t present the real work," he said, raising an eyebrow, "i’ll have no choice but to fail you. and your partner."

mark smiled, but you could see the playfulness in his eyes fade. "don’t worry," he said softly, "the real work is here." he turned, pulling the actual project from under the desk and placing it in front of you. "y/n, it’s all yours."

you couldn’t help but blush, your heart still racing from his words. the class was silent, the weight of what had just happened hanging in the air. mark’s confession had left an unexpected warmth in the room, and for a moment, it felt like everything had shifted. everything felt different.

the rest of the room buzzed with whispers, the air thick with the lingering tension. you felt the weight of the moment heavy in your chest, but you were frozen, unable to move. mark’s words had completely caught you off guard, and now, as he stood there, his usual confident demeanor had softened — there was a vulnerability in his posture, a quiet but undeniable sincerity in the way his eyes met yours.

for a second, everything felt out of place, like time had slowed down just for you two. your heart was pounding in your ears, and yet, there was a part of you that was oddly calm. 

this was real.

this moment, this confession — it wasn’t just a dream.

you glanced around the room, meeting the eyes of your classmates. some of them looked just as stunned as you, others had the tiniest smirk tugging at the corners of their lips, and the professor, still slightly in shock, was scribbling something on his notepad, probably to process what had just transpired.

mark cleared his throat, his eyes still on you, waiting for a response. but you were too overwhelmed to speak. you just looked at him, taking in the moment, trying to find the words that seemed to be stuck in your throat.

the warmth from his words, the honesty in his voice, left a tingling sensation in the air. but as much as you wanted to hold it together, the words he said, the way he looked at you — it was too much. the feelings you had buried so deep, the longing you had hidden, began to spill out uncontrollably.

your hands shook as the tears began to well up. you couldn’t stop them. they fell freely, a mix of relief, sadness, and love all at once. the room fell silent, everyone staring at you. and you knew. they all knew. but now it was your turn to finally say it out loud, to let go of the fear of rejection.

"i’ve always loved you, mark," you whispered, your voice shaky, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "i’ve been in love with you for so long, thinking i was just some fool. but... i can’t hide it anymore."

you looked up, your vision blurry with tears, and there he was. mark, standing before you, a mixture of surprise and something softer in his eyes. he didn’t seem shocked, but there was something in his gaze that said he knew. it wasn’t a revelation to him — he had always known.

“i— i don’t know what to say, but... thank you,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “thank you for loving me all this time. for waiting. for staying. i... i had no idea. i didn’t want to admit it to myself.” he paused for a moment, stepping closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "but now... i get it. i’m starting to understand what i feel, and it’s... you. it’s always been you."

your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you thought you might fall apart. but mark’s steady presence kept you grounded. he was here, and he was saying things you had longed to hear for so long.

“i’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out,” he continued, his voice quiet but filled with so much emotion. "i’ve been... holding back. afraid. but now, i can’t hide it anymore. i like you. i like you so much. i’ve been trying to pretend it was something else, but it’s you. it’s always been you."

your heart raced, your chest tight, as his words sank in. this wasn’t just a confession from you anymore. it wasn’t just about what you had been feeling. mark felt the same way.

“thank you for loving me,” he whispered, his hand reaching out slowly to take yours. his fingers brushed over your skin, sending a wave of warmth through your body. “it’s my turn now, to love you back. for real.”

you blinked, a soft gasp escaping you, and the tears came again, this time in a different way. not from sadness, but from the overwhelming emotion of knowing that after all this time, mark was finally letting himself feel the same. finally.

“you don’t have to thank me,” you whispered, still trying to catch your breath, but your chest felt full, the emotions swirling inside you, making it impossible to think clearly. "i just needed you to know how i felt. i... i never thought you’d feel the same."

mark smiled softly, stepping closer until his chest was almost pressed against yours. “i do. i really do. and i’m not going anywhere. i want to be with you, if you’ll let me. no more hiding. no more pretending."

your heart soared as you looked at him, standing so close, his eyes full of honesty. you had waited so long for this, and now it was happening.

“i want that too,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "i want to be with you, mark. always."

mark nodded slowly, his hand resting gently on the side of your face, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. "then let's not waste any more time," he said, his voice warm and soft, a promise in the words.

the world outside seemed to disappear as you stood there, together, finally on the same page. no more hiding, no more pretending. just the two of you, taking the first step toward what you both knew could be something real.

days passed, and the universe seemed to shift around you. mark and you were no longer just two people who shared silent glances and unsaid words. now, you were together, the air around you both full of something new, something beautiful. but not everyone understood it right away.

you and mark sat together in the cafeteria, just the two of you, laughing quietly. the others were around you, but it was as if the world had faded, and it was just the two of you in that small bubble. you could feel it—the connection, stronger than ever.

haechan, sitting across the table with jisung and jaemin, eyed you both with an exaggerated glance. his expression was a mix of disbelief and amusement. he leaned toward jaemin and sighed.

"i never thought i'd see mark being all... cheesy and love-struck like that," ahechan chuckled, nudging jaemin with his elbow. "i swear, he's practically glowing."

jaemin, who had been quietly observing, just shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "yeah, well, mark's always been that way when it comes to her," he muttered, already knowing what was coming. "took him long enough, though."

meanwhile, jisung, still looking grumpy about something, crossed his arms over his chest and shot a look at chenle. "you know what this means, right? i’m gonna have to give you 100,000 won now."

chenle grinned like he had won the lottery. "told you they'd get together eventually," he said with a teasing wink, clearly proud of his bet-winning skills.

jisung grumbled, staring at his half-eaten sandwich. "i hate you. i can’t believe i lost this bet."

"it’s not like you had much of a chance, anyway," chenle teased, laughing.

jaemin just sighed, shaking his head as if he already knew what was coming. "this was inevitable," he muttered under his breath. "mark was always going to fall for her. he just took his time."

you glanced at mark, your hand casually resting in his as you both shared a quiet smile. it was the kind of smile that said everything without saying a word.

renjun’s voice broke the moment. "so, when's the wedding?" he joked, but there was warmth in his eyes. "mark's acting like he's already head over heels. never thought i'd see the day."

mark’s cheeks flushed, but he squeezed your hand gently, his eyes soft. "i’m just taking my time with her," he said, his voice full of affection.

you laughed, your heart soaring. it felt right. this was real.

and though everyone around you may have teased and joked, you knew deep down that this was only the beginning. you and mark had found something special. something that, despite the slow burn, had bloomed into something beautiful and undeniable.

“so,” ahechan continued, looking at the two of you with a teasing grin, “when do we get to hear about your first official date?”

you turned to mark, your heart racing in your chest. "maybe you should wait for that one," you said with a wink, “but... it’s gonna be worth it.”

the group burst into laughter, and mark’s hand tightened around yours, his smile the brightest thing in the room. because no matter what anyone else said, you and mark had finally found each other, and nothing else mattered.

[shuastar]

wrong thing, classic (kmg; pt 2)

pairing: college au (sigma tau president/student council president!mingyu x kappa alpha theta president/dean's advising board president!reader) wc: 19.3K warnings: oral (m&f receiving; squirting??; p in v sex; raw sex... (do not tap if not wrapped); some heavy makeout seshes (seshs? but he pushes u up against the wall idk); orgasm control if u squint; multiple orgasms; mingyu pretending hes in control; mingyu being pussydrunk; big dick!mingyu (hes mean w it); arguing; possessive natures; that should be it but tbh u know me i probs forgot smth a/n: ok guys thanks so much for the love for this story esp bc i havent written in a while i think... anyways theres more to this (like maybe 5 k more??? idek) but if u want it, i can post it as an epilogue thingy but if u dont thats fine the story still ends well so!! also im taking requests now, so send in requests if you have any and also !!!! i love to chat/listen to ur thots/yap so if u want my asks are open!! yay!! ok now u can read <3

masterlist | part 1 | epilogue

part 2

mingyu; 9:29 AM 

The morning light creeps through the blinds, painting strips of gold across the rumpled sheets, across the pillow still dented from her head. Mingyu stirs, his body aching in the best way, his lips still swollen from kisses, his skin still tingling where your fingers had traced him like he was something precious. He reaches out without opening his eyes, his hand searching for you—for the warmth of your body, the sound of your breath, the way you mumbled in your sleep.

Cold sheets.

His eyes fly open.

Empty.

No Y/n. No tangle of hair spread across his pillow. No soft rise and fall of your chest beside him. No faint scent of your perfume—citrus and something sweet—lingering in the air. Just the faint hint of sex and his own pounding heartbeat in his ears.

What the fuck?

He bolts upright, his chest tight, his gaze darting around the room like you might be hiding in the corners. His zip-up—the one you said you liked during one of the planning meetings—is gone from the back of the chair he had thrown it on. Your heels, your bag—all gone. Just his rumpled bed and the ghost of your laugh still echoing in his head.

You left.

After everything. After you told him you’d stay.

Without a word.

His stomach twists, a sick, hollow feeling spreading through his chest. He scrubs a hand over his face, his fingers trembling. Last night—fuck, last night—had been—he doesn’t even have words for it. The way you touched him, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing you had ever wanted. The way you whispered his name like a prayer.

He thought—fuck, he thought—maybe this was it. Maybe this was the start of something. Friends with benefits, at least. Maybe more, if he was lucky. If he played his cards right.

But you left.

Like it meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

His hands clench into fists in the sheets. He should text you. He should—fuck—he should call you. Demand an explanation. Demand something.

But what if you don’t answer?

What if you—

The door creaks open.

Mingyu whips his head around, his heart stuttering, hoping, but it’s just Wonwoo, leaning against the doorframe with a pity-grin, a cup of coffee in hand.

"Dude," Wonwoo says, raising an eyebrow. "You look like someone died."

Mingyu doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat is too tight, his chest too heavy.

Wonwoo sighs, pushing off the doorframe and walking in. "She actually left, huh?"

Mingyu glances up, his jaw clenched. "How did you—"

"Saw her sneak out this morning." Wonwoo shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. "Gave her my slippers. She looked, I dunno. Panicked?"

Mingyu’s stomach drops.

Panicked.

Like you regretted it.

Like you never wanted to be here in the first place. 

"She say anything?" His voice is rough, barely more than a rasp.

Wonwoo shakes his head. "Nah. Just, you know, embarrassed or some shit.

Mingyu looks away, his hands shaking. Embarrassed. Of him? Of what you did? Of—

"Look," Wonwoo says, his voice softer now. "She’s, well, you know how she is. Overthinks everything. Probably just freaked herself out. Nothin’ against you or whatever you guys did.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer. He can’t. Because if he opens his mouth, he might break. And he won’t—he can’t—not over this. Not over you.

Not again.

Wonwoo sighs, clapping him on the shoulder. "C’mon. Get dressed. We’ll get breakfast. You look like shit."

Mingyu doesn’t move. He just stares at the empty pillow, at the cold spot where you should be.

You left.

y/n; 8:27AM

The first thing you register is the light, harsh and unforgiving this early in the morning, streaming through the crack in the curtains, cutting across your face like a knife. Which in itself is weird because your room doesn’t usually get sunlight early in the morning because it’s west facing. You groan, pushing that thought away and rolling over to bury your face in the pillow–

And freeze.

Because oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Your eyes fly open, threaten to pop out of their sockets, locking onto the broad expanse of Mingyu’s back, the rise and fall of his calm breathing, the way his dark hair spills across his face. If it weren’t for the memories of last night that flood back, he would have looked almost Adonis-like in the morning sunlight, his golden tan gleaming under the sun. But all you can think about iare his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered things you weren’t supposed to hear, and panic all but explodes in your chest.

What the hell did you do?

You bolt upright, heart pounding so hard you’re sure Mingyu’s going to wake up from it alone. The sheets pool around your waist and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that you’re naked. Entirely. Entirely fucking naked, oh god, you’re naked in Mingyu’s bed.

No. No, no, no.

Your gaze darts around the room, landed on your dress, crumpled in a heap by the bed, and Mingyu’s oversized Stussy zip-up draped over the back of a chair. You lunge for them, yanking the dress over your head and down your naked body with shaky hands. The fabric clings to your sweat-damp skin. The zip-up follows, swallowing you whole, drowning you in his scent: musk, sea salt, and something uniquely him. It makes your stomach flip but you’re a little too busy with other things to linger on that sensation.

Your phone—where the hell is your phone?

There. On the nightstand, half-buried under a crumpled tissue.

You snatch it up, screen flaring to life—8:30 AM. Shit. Shit, shit, shit—

You scoop up your heels in one hand, phone clutched in the other, and tiptoe toward the door. Every creak of the floorboards feels like a gunshot, but Mingyu doesn’t stir. Thank god. Thank fucking god— The door clicks shut behind you, and you don’t breathe until you’re halfway down the hallway, your bare feet silent against the hardwood. The house is quiet, still—no sign of witnesses to your walk of shame. You burst into the frat lounge, chest heaving, hair a mess, Mingyu’s oversized hoodie swallowing you whole. The room is empty and for a second, you let yourself believe you’ve escaped unseen.

Then the door creaks open.

Wonwoo steps out, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, hair sticking up in every direction. He blinks at you, slow and unfazed, like finding you sneaking out of Mingyu’s room at 8:30 AM in last night’s dress and his hyung’s hoodie is the most normal thing in the world.

Then his lips curl into a grinning, knowing smirk.

"Morning," he drawls, leaning against the doorframe like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His gaze drops to your bare feet—heels dangling uselessly from your fingers—and back up to your face. "Need shoes for your walk of shame, or you good?"

Your face burns. "I—" What do you even say to that? "Shut up."

Wonwoo laughs, low and amused, pushing off the wall and strolling toward you. "Relax. Mingyu’s not gonna be awake for another hour, probably. Your secret’s safe." He tilts his head, eyeing the hoodie you’re drowning in. "Though I don’t think he’s gonna let you keep that if you walk out on him. Sentimental value and all."

You flip him off, but your hands are shaking, and he notices. His grinning fades just enough to sober up.

"Hey." His voice is softer now. "You okay?"

You swallow, clutching your heels tighter. You try to calm the thudding of your heart and the tears that suddenly feel too close to your waterline. "Yeah. Just—embarrassed." Of what, you weren’t too sure. Sneaking out after quite possibly the greatest fuck of your lifetime? Leaving Mingyu’s side cold and barefoot while donning his zip-up like some girlfriend? Just coming to the frat house when you knew what you were getting yourself into? Letting that guy slobber all over you just to get Mingyu jealous to test out a theory? Your head pounds.

Wonwoo shrugs, reaching back into his room and tossing you a pair of black slippers. "Here. Least I can do." He grins. "Unless you wanna borrow my socks too?"

You snatch the slippers, shoving your feet into them before he can change his mind. "You’re the worst," you grumble.

"Nah," he says, grinning again. "I’m the best. Ask anyone."

You roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest eases just enough to let you breathe. "Thanks. For, you know."

Wonwoo waves a hand, already turning back toward the kitchen. "Yeah, yeah. Now get outta here before Seungcheol wakes up and starts asking questions." He pauses, glancing back at you. "And y/n? Next time, maybe don’t sneak out like a criminal. Own that shit." He lets out an airy laugh. “You could at least do that if you’re breaking a man’s heart all over again.”

You don’t have a comeback. What is someone supposed to say to that anyways? Wonwoo’s words echo back Mingyu’s tiny confession from last night, and it repeats and repeats until the three words bang against your skull like some dark magic mallet.

But as you slip out the front door, slippers too big on your feet and Mingyu’s scent still cling to you, you realize something.

You don’t regret a thing. Even amidst the panic and the embarrassment and the pure disappointment in yourself, you don’t regret a single thing. 

8 days later; 6:42 PM ; kappa alpha theta

For two weeks, you avoid Mingyu like he’s the plague.

The dining hall? You take the long way around, even if it means walking an extra ten minutes in the cold. See him walking toward you on campus? You duck into the nearest building—even if it’s the wrong class, even if it’s a janitor’s closet, even if it’s the middle of a lecture you don’t belong in. His name pops up on your phone? You silence it before the first ring even finishes, your thumb hovering over the screen like it’s a live grenade.

You don’t answer. You don’t reply. You don’t breathe when you see him.

You’re curled up on your bed, your laptop open but ignored, your notes scattered around you like the wreckage of a ship you don’t know how to fix. Chaewon lies beside you, her dark hair fanned out on your pillow, her fingers tapping idly on her phone. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of your respective screens and the flickering light of the TV playing some mindless reality show in the background.

"You’re being ridiculous," she says, not looking up from her phone. "He’s texted me, you know. Asking if you’re okay."

You don’t look at her. You can’t. Because if you do, she’ll see the way your hands are shaking, the way your throat is tightening, the way your chest feels like it’s caving in.

"What did you say?" Your voice is too sharp, too defensive, like a blade drawn in self-defense.

Chaewon finally looks up, her dark eyes locking onto yours. She doesn’t flinch. She never does. "Told him you were alive. That’s it."

You swallow hard. "That’s it?"

"That’s it." She tilts her head, studying you. "Unless you wanted me to tell him you’re dying of heartbreak? That you cry into your pillow every night? That you—"

"Chaewon," you warn, your voice cracking.

She sighs, sitting up. "I’m just saying. You’re acting like he murdered your family. He just slept with you. And yeah, maybe it was messy, maybe he didn’t meet your standards, maybe he didn’t fuck you like,” you glare at her, “okay fine, maybe he did meet your standards and fuck you good, but—"

"It wasn’t just that," you mutter, staring at your hands. There is ink smeared across your fingers, a dark, ugly stain. "It was—" Everything. The way he looked at you. The way he held you. The way he whispered things you weren’t ready to hear. The way you left.

Chaewon reaches over, prying the pen out of your grip. "Then talk to him."

"I can’t."

"Why not?"

Because I’m scared. Because if I see him, I’ll remember how good it felt. Because if I hear his voice, I’ll remember how much I wanted it. Because if I let him in again, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to walk away.

You don’t say any of that.

Instead, you shake your head and reach for your phone, scrolling mindlessly through your socials, pretending the weight in your chest isn’t there.

Chaewon exhales sharply but doesn’t push. She knows better than anyone when you’re drowning.

9:38 PM

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Again.

You ignore it, just like you’ve ignored the last twelve calls from him. The texts are worse—apologies, jokes, pleas—all left on read. You don’t have the heart to delete them. You don’t have the heart to do anything but pretend they don’t exist.

Chaewon’s phone chimes with a message. She glances at it, then at you. "He’s texting me again."

Your stomach twists. "What does he want?"

"To know if you’re okay." She turns her screen toward you. "See?"

You don’t look.

"He’s pathetic," you mutter, but your voice lacks conviction.

Chaewon snorts. "He’s in love."

"He’s annoying," you correct, but the words taste like a lie.

She doesn’t argue. Instead, she tosses her phone aside and grabs the remote, turning up the volume on the TV like that can drown out the noise in your head.

It doesn’t.

The TV is drowned out by the noise in your head, ringing over and over and over again. The echoing is so loud that when your phone rings, for a second, you think you’re imagining it.

“Are you gonna get that??” Chaewon says, cutting into your space out. 

You blink, glancing at your phone screen. 

Unknown number.

You ignore it, assuming it’s spam. “It’s probably a spam call.” 

But then it rings again. And again.

Chaewon picks it up on the third ring, rolling her eyes. "If this is another scam call about my car’s extended warranty, I swear to god—"

"Y/n?"

Mingyu’s voice cuts through the speaker like a knife.

Your entire body locks up.

Chaewon’s eyes snap to yours, wide and horrified. "Oh shit—"

"Y/n, are you there? Just—just listen to me, please."

Your breath catches. Your hands shake. Chaewon stares at you, her jaw dropped, her thumb hovering over the END CALL button. But she doesn’t press it. Not yet.

"I know you’re mad," Mingyu’s voice cracks. "I know I fucked up. But please—just let me explain. You don’t have to say anything. Just—fuck—just listen."

A tear slips down your cheek.

Chaewon’s gaze softens, her eyes flicking between you and the phone. "Y/n—" she mouths, but you shake your head, your throat too tight to speak.

"I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that," Mingyu’s voice cracks through the speaker, raw and desperate. His breath is shaky, like he’s been running, like he’s been holding this in for weeks. "But I don’t regret it, Y/n. I don’t regret any of it. Not for a second. Not the way you looked at me, not the way you—" He swallows hard, the sound audible even through the phone. "Not any of it."

Your breath hitches. Chaewon’s eyes are locked on you, wide and unblinking, like she’s watching you shatter in real time.

"I know I fucked up," he continues, his voice breaking. "I know I should’ve—fuck, I don’t know, waited? Asked? Something. But I don’t—" Another shaky breath. "I don’t regret it. And I know that makes me an asshole. But it’s the truth."

You press your lips together so hard they hurt.

"You don’t need to like me back," he says, quieter now, like he’s admitting something he’s never said out loud. "I know I’m—fuck, I’m a lot. And I get it if you don’t want this. If you don’t want me. But I just—" His voice cracks again. "I just need you to know that was the best night of my life. And if you never want to see me again, I’ll forget everything. I’ll do whatever you want. Just—please—don’t shut me out like this."

A tear slips down your cheek. Then another.

"I’m sorry," he whispers. "I’m so sorry, Y/n. For everything. For pushing you. For not—fuck—for not being enough. For being too much. For whatever I did to make you leave like that. Just—" His voice is barely a whisper now. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. Because I can’t—I can’t lose you like this."

The silence that follows is suffocating. Chaewon’s hand finds yours, squeezing tight, like she’s trying to anchor you to the present. But you’re drowning. You’re drowning in the sound of his voice, in the memory of his hands, in the way he said "the best night of my life" like it wasn’t just sex, like it meant something.

Like you meant something.

And that’s what breaks you.

With a trembling hand, you snatch the phone from Chaewon and end the call. The screen goes dark, but the weight of his words lingers, heavy and unbearable.

The second the call cuts off, your chest caves in.

You press your hands to your face, your shoulders shaking as the first sob tears out of you. It’s ugly, broken, the kind of sound you don’t want anyone to hear. Chaewon doesn’t let go. She pulls you against her, her arms wrapping around you like a shield.

"Why can’t he just forget it," you whisper, your voice breaking. "Just, why can’t he just forget about it?” 

To that, Chaewon stays silent, before whispering, “Because he cares about you, y/n.” 

"I hate him," you hiccup, your voice muffled against your palms. "I hate him so much."

"I know," Chaewon murmurs, her hand rubbing slow circles on your back. "I know."

But you don’t.

Because the truth is, you don’t hate him.

You hate yourself.

For leaving. For wanting. For loving him when you know—you know—it’ll only hurt more in the end.

And you can’t tell her that.

So you let the tears come, hot and endless, soaking into your hands, your sleeves, the fabric of Chaewon’s shirt. You cry until your throat is raw, until your head pounds, until the only sound in the room is the ragged rhythm of your breathing.

Chaewon doesn’t say anything else.

She just holds you.

And you let her.

Because you know—

You were the one who left.

You were the one who broke this.

And you don’t know how to fix it either.

2 days later; 12:00 PM

The door to the Interior Modeling studio swings shut behind you, the hum of conversation and the clatter of chairs fading as you step into the hallway. You exhale, rubbing your temple with the back of your hand, your mind still racing with the critique you just got on your latest project. You don’t notice him at first—not until you turn to walk toward the exit and find Mingyu leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his gaze locked on you like he’s been waiting for hours.

Your eyes go wide.

Fuck.

You whirl around, ready to bolt—but his hand darts out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist before you can take a step. "Not so fast."

"Let go of me," you hiss, yanking your arm back—but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he pulls you aside, into the alcove by the emergency exit, where no one can see you. The door clicks shut behind you, the sudden quiet making your heart pound even harder.

"You gonna keep ignoring me forever?"

His voice is low, rough, like gravel underfoot—like he’s been holding this in for weeks, like he’s one wrong word away from shattering. The hallway feels too small, the air too thick, and you can’t breathe. His fingers are still wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but not cruel, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll disappear entirely.

"I’m not ignoring you," you lie, your voice sharper than you mean it to be. It’s a reflex, a defense, something to keep the cracks in your chest from splitting wide open.

"You’re not?" He laughs—a short, bitter sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Then why aren’t you answering my calls? My texts? Y/n," his voice drops, raw and desperate, "you won’t even fucking look at me."

Your throat tightens. "I’ve never looked at you," you snap, but the words taste like ash. You know it’s a lie. You’ve always looked at him. Too much. Too long. Too like he was something you could never have.

"We both know that’s a fuckin’ lie," he huffs, stepping closer. The heat of him radiates against you, familiar and infuriating. His free hand comes up, hovering like he wants to touch you but doesn’t dare. "So why are you ignoring me?"

"I don’t know, Mingyu," you say, but your voice cracks, betraying you. The truth is a knot in your chest, tangled and painful. You do know. You’re just too scared to say it.

"Why, Y/n?" His fingers tighten just a little on your wrist—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him. His dark eyes are searching, desperate. "Why are you ignoring me? What did I do?" His voice breaks. "If you just tell me, I can—I can fix it. I can—" He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. "I can do better."

The rawness in his voice undoes you.

"For fuck’s sake, Mingyu," you explode, yanking your arm free. The motion is sharp, angry, but it doesn’t shake him. "You told me you loved me while you were fucking me!" Your voice rises, echoing down the empty hallway. "Who tells someone that they love them mid-fuck?! What was I supposed to do with that, Mingyu? Sit back, relax, and take it as it is?"

His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle tick. "I meant it," he snaps, his voice low and dangerous, but his eyes—his eyes are pleading. "I meant every fucking word. But I guess that’s worse, huh? That I actually meant it?"

"You don’t get to do this," you fire back, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. The nails dig into your palms, grounding you. "You don’t get to drop that on me and then act like I’m the crazy one for not knowing what to do with it!"

"I never said you were crazy," he retorts, stepping even closer. The space between you is charged, electric. "I said I love you."

The hallway silences—or maybe it’s just your mind going blank, your heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. His words hang between you, heavy and irreversible. You open your mouth, but the words come out in a rush, a mess of everything you’ve been holding in for weeks.

"This is moving too quickly, Mingyu!" Your voice cracks, the tears you’ve been holding back burning your eyes. "That night—it was a mistake. You don’t mean it. You can’t. People don’t just—" You gesture wildly between you, your chest heaving. "You don’t just say that and expect everything to be fine!"

"Why not?" His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "Why can’t I mean it? Why can’t I love you?"

"Because!" The word tears out of you, raw and ugly. "Because it’s too much, Mingyu! Because I—I can’t—" You press your palms to your eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they come anyway, hot and relentless. "I can’t do this. I can’t be what you want me to be."

"You don’t get to decide that for me," he says, his voice softer now, but firm. "I’m not asking you to be anything, Y/n. I’m just telling you how I feel."

"Well, don’t!" you snap, your voice breaking. "Don’t say things like that when you know—I can’t—" You shake your head, your vision blurring. "We should just—we should both just forget any of this ever happened."

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, his expression a mix of frustration and something softer, something that makes your chest ache.

Then, quietly, he says, "I can’t."

"Mingyu—"

"I can’t forget it," he repeats, stepping closer again. His hand reaches up, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. "I can’t forget the way you looked at me. The way you felt. The way you—" His voice cracks. "The way you sounded when you—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I can’t forget any of it. And I don’t want to."

You open your mouth to say something—what, you don’t know. To tell him he’s wrong. To tell him you can’t do this. To tell him something. But the words won’t come.

Instead, you turn away, your shoulders shaking, and walk out of the alcove—leaving him standing there.

Three Days Before the Gala

Your phone buzzes on your desk, the screen lighting up with a notification. You glance at it, expecting another reminder from the caterers or a panicked message from one of the event coordinators. Instead, it’s an email.

Subject: Urgent: Cancellation of Reservation for Shuastar Charity Gala

Your stomach drops.

No.

No, no, no—

You click it before you can stop yourself, your fingers trembling as you scan the words. Double-booked. Unforeseen circumstances. Sincere apologies. The usual corporate bullshit. But the meaning is clear:

No venue.

No gala.

Your phone buzzes again. 

DO NOT ANSWER !!! hey we need to fix this meet me at the cafe

You stare at the screen, your chest tightening. The café. His café. The one you’ve avoided for weeks, the one where you used to meet before everything got so complicated. Before he got so complicated.

Before you ruined everything.

You don’t want to go.

God, you don’t want to go.

But you have to.

Because if you don’t, the gala is over. Months of work, gone. All the planning, the late nights, the stress—gone. And it’s not just about you. It’s about the charity, the donors, the people counting on this event. It’s about him, too, even if you don’t want to admit it.

You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. Your phone is still in your hand, the screen glowing with Mingyu’s message. Without thinking, you scroll up.

And there they are.

All of them. Plus one voice note.

Some crazy part of your brain pulls your thumb to click on the voice note. 

Static crackles and there’s a rustling of fabric, a quiet murmur of faint voices, before Mingyu’s tired voice comes through. 

"Y/n… hey. It’s me. Again.

He pauses, clearing his throat. 

I don’t even know if you’re listening to these anymore, but I had to try. It’s been two days. Two days, and I still don’t know what I did wrong. I know I fucked up. I know I said too much, and I know it was too fast, and I know you probably think I’m some desperate idiot now, but–

His voice cracks. 

–but I need you to talk to me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off. Even if it’s just to say you never want to see me again. I just…

A sigh. 

– I need to hear your voice.

You can hear the end of a shaky exhale. 

Look, I’ll take it back. Okay? I’ll pretend I never said it. I’ll pretend it was just- just the heat of the moment, or some stupid drunk confession, or fuck, I don’t know. Just text me back. Please. We can go back to how we were. We can be friends. I just… I can’t lose you like this. Not when I don’t even know why.

There’s a long pause.

…I miss you.  A lot. Call me. Or don’t. But please just… let me know you’re okay.

His next words are so quiet the phone barely captures it.

…I love you. Fuck. I still love you. Even if you hate me for it."

The voice note stops. 

You swallow, your throat closing up as your thumb hovers over the screen, scrolling through the messages again, each one a knife twisting deeper. The words blur as your vision burns, but you don’t stop. You can’t. Because somewhere between the anger and the pride and the stubborn refusal to admit how much this hurts, there’s a part of you that needs to see the proof that he felt it too. 

That it wasn’t just you.

That you weren’t fucking crazy. 

DO NOT ANSWER !!! 4 days ago; 20:39 I know youre mad y/n i dont know how to fix this if you dont tell me anything I miss you

Your chest aches, a dull, persistent throb behind your ribs. You press a hand there, as if that could somehow ease the pressure, but it doesn’t. Nothing does.

The way he begged you to talk to him with some crazy notion that you were the only person in the world who could make this right. Like he couldn’t breathe without your answer.

He fucking apologized. For existing. For loving you. Like it was a crime. For missing you.

And the worst part?

You missed him, too.

You exhale sharply, the sound shaky, uneven. Your phone feels heavy in your hand, like it’s burning through your skin. With a sudden, violent motion, you toss it onto the bed, watching as it bounces once before settling against the rumpled sheets. It’s like throwing away a grenade, like if you don’t put distance between yourself and those messages, they’ll detonate and leave you in pieces.

You don’t want to feel this.

You don’t want to care.

But you do.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, your hands trembling as you press them to your face. The tears come before you can stop them, hot and fast, slipping through your fingers. You hate this—the way your body betrays you, the way your heart still aches for him even after everything. Even after you left. Even after you tried to forget.

You tried so hard.

And it still wasn’t enough.

Chaewon finds you like this.

She doesn’t knock. She never does. The door creaks open, and her footsteps are soft as she crosses the room, sitting beside you without a word. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She already knows.

"He texted you again, didn’t he?" Her voice is quiet, gentle.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

She sighs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you against her. "You’re allowed to miss him, you know."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

"I don’t want to," you whisper, your voice breaking.

"I know," she murmurs. "But you do."

And that’s the worst part.

Because she’s right.

You cry until your throat is raw, until your chest hurts from the force of it. Chaewon doesn’t let go. She just holds you, her hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm.

"It’s okay," she says, over and over, like a mantra. "It’s okay to feel this."

But it doesn’t feel okay.

Eventually, the tears slow. You wipe your face with the back of your hand, your breath hitching as you try to steady yourself. Chaewon reaches over, grabbing a tissue from your nightstand and pressing it into your palm.

"You gonna be okay?" she asks, her dark eyes searching yours.

You don’t know how to answer that.

So you don’t.

Instead, you take a shaky breath and nod, even though it’s a lie.

Chaewon studies you for a long moment, then sighs. "You’re a terrible liar."

You manage a weak, watery laugh. "I know."

She doesn’t push. 

But as you sit there, the weight of everything pressing down on you, you know one thing for certain:

You can’t keep running forever.

And that, more than anything (even the desperate text messages and the voicemails Mingyu’s left you), terrifies you.

4:05 PM 

You walk in, the bell above the door chiming softly. The scent of coffee and baked goods wraps around you, familiar and comforting. Your eyes scan the room, and there he is.

Mingyu.

He’s already there, sitting at the same table you used to share, his laptop open in front of him. He’s wearing a black sweater, the one you always liked, the one that makes his shoulders look broader, his arms more defined. His dark hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose as he stares at the screen.

He looks up.

And then he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves. The air between you is thick, charged, like the moment before a storm. His expression is unreadable—relief, maybe, or frustration, or something else entirely.

You don’t know what to say.

You just walk over, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down. The wood is cold beneath your palms, grounding you.

Mingyu doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at you, his gaze searching, like he’s trying to memorize every detail of your face.

Then, quietly, he says, "You came."

You swallow hard. "We have a gala to save."

He exhales, a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it for weeks. "Yeah," he murmurs. "We do."

Silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. You can feel the weight of everything unsaid, every text, every call, every moment you’ve spent avoiding this.

Avoiding him.

Finally, you look down at your hands, your fingers twisting together in your lap. "I saw your texts," you admit quietly.

Mingyu doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice is rough. "Which ones?"

"All of them."

Another pause. Then, softer, "And?"

You don’t really have an answer for that.

Instead, you pull out your laptop, opening it with more force than necessary. "We should figure out the venue situation," you say, your voice clipped, professional. "The Grand Hyatt has an opening, but it’s double the price."

Mingyu watches you for a long moment before nodding, turning back to his own screen. "We’re not paying double," he says, his tone firm. "I’ll call the Ritz. See if they can give us a deal."

You hum out a quiet “Okay.”

The café hums around you, the low murmur of conversation and the clink of cups filling the silence between you and Mingyu. You sit across from each other, the table a battleground of unspoken words and lingering tension. Your laptop is open, the glow from the screen casting shadows on your face as you scroll through the email from the Ritz. Mingyu’s fingers tap restlessly against his coffee cup, his gaze flickering between you and his own laptop.

You don’t want to be here.

Really. 

5:12 PM

"So," you say, your voice carefully neutral as you pull up the venue details. "The Ritz can accommodate us, but we’d have to adjust the seating chart. Again."

Mingyu exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I saw that." He leans forward slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours for the first time since you sat down. "We can make it work."

You nod, your fingers flying over the keyboard as you pull up the guest list. "We’ll have to cut at least twenty people."

"I’ll handle it," he says, his voice firm. "I’ll call the donors, explain the situation."

You glance up at him, surprised. "You’d do that?"

He shrugs, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "I’m the one who fucked up the venue. Least I can do is clean up the mess."

You don’t argue. Even though it’s not really his fault. None of this is, actually. 

Instead, you turn back to your screen, but there’s something lighter in your chest now, something that almost feels like the way things used to be between you. Before everything got so complicated. Almost.

The minutes tick by, the two of you falling into an old rhythm. You throw out ideas, he counters with his own, and before you know it, you’re laughing – actually laughing – when he suggests moving the dessert table to the center of the room "for maximum sugar accessibility."

"That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard," you say, grinning despite yourself.

"No, it’s genius," he argues, a smirk playing on his lips. "People get cranky when they’re hungry. We keep the sugar flowing, we keep the donors happy."

You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. "You’re impossible."

"You’ll miss me if I leave though," he teases, his voice softer now, almost tentative.

Your smile falters for a second, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you. But then he grins and something in you shifts. For a moment, just a moment, you forget.

You forget the texts. You forget the calls. You forget the way you left.

You forget everything.

You’re leaning over your laptop, typing out a response to the Ritz, when you say the first thing on your mind.

"You know, I’ve never really gone to frat parties."

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The café’s ambient noise fades into the background as Mingyu’s head snaps up, his dark eyebrows lifting in surprise.

Oh shit.

"You came to mine," he says, his voice low, like he’s pointing out the obvious.

"Well, yeah," you admit, your fingers freezing mid-type. Heat creeps up your neck, flooding your cheeks. "But that was because I wanted to see y—" You cut yourself off, biting your lip, eyes wide. Fuck. You weren’t supposed to say that.

Mingyu’s smile is instant, slow and knowing, like he’s just won a game you didn’t realize you were playing. "Because you wanted to…?" he prompts, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. His dark eyes lock onto yours, teasing but tender, like he’s afraid to push too hard.

You exhale sharply, your gaze dropping to your laptop screen. "I wanted to see you," you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re not sure what compelled you to say that. 

Mingyu’s grin widens, triumphant and bright, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "What?" he asks, even though he heard you perfectly.

"What?" you snap, your face burning. You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. "I didn’t say anything."

"You did," he counters, his voice light, playful. "You absolutely did."

"No, I didn’t," you insist, but your voice wavers, and you can feel your cheeks flaming.

"Yes, you did," he repeats, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "You wanted to see me."

"Mingyu, drop it," you warn, but there’s no real bite to your words. Your heart is pounding, your fingers twisting together in your lap.

"Y/n—" he starts, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

"—I don’t like you," you blurt out, desperate to shut this down, to put distance between you and the way your chest is tightening, the way your stomach is flipping.

Mingyu doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his grin widens, like he knows he’s won or something. Like he’s successfully proved you wrong. "I never said that you did," he says, his voice even, like he’s humoring you.

"You implied it," you argue, your chest tightening. "You said—"

"I didn’t imply anything," he interrupts, his voice gentle, almost amused. "I just said you wanted to see me. Which you did."

"That’s…not the point," you stammer, your face still burning. "The point is—"

"-The point is," he cuts in, leaning back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours, "you came to see me."

You open your mouth to argue, but the words die on your lips. Because he’s right. And you hate that he’s right.

"...Whatever," you grumble, turning back to your laptop, your fingers flying over the keys with more force than necessary. "I’m not the one who told someone I love you mid—" You cut yourself off, your face flaming as the words hang in the air between you. You can’t believe you just said that.

That makes Mingyu’s smile wobble. He goes still, before whispering, "I meant it."

Your breath catches.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll see the sincerity in his eyes, the raw honesty, and it’ll undo you. Instead, you stare at your laptop screen, your vision blurring as your fingers hover over the keys.

"Mingyu—" you start, but your voice cracks.

"Y/n," he says, his voice gentle, almost pleading. "Can we stop pretending it never happened? Just…talk to me. Please."

You swallow hard, your fingers curling into fists in your lap. "I don’t—" Your voice breaks again. "I don’t know what to say."

"Say anything," he murmurs. "Say you hate me. Say you miss me. Say you wish you’d never met me. Just– just say something."

Your breath hitches. "I can’t—"

"You can," he interrupts, his voice soft but firm. "You can talk to me, Y/n. Even if it’s just to yell at me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything. Anything you give me, I’ll take it."

You exhale shakily, your hands dropping to your lap. "You don’t—" You stop, pressing your lips together. "You don’t get to do this, Mingyu. You don’t get to just say things and expect me to—" You gesture wildly between the two of you. "To just pretend like everything’s fine."

"I’m not expecting anything," he says, his voice low, earnest. "I’m just asking. For one conversation. That’s all."

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you look down at your laptop, at the half-written email to the Ritz, at the way your fingers are trembling over the keys. "This isn’t—" You stop, swallowing hard. "This cannot be a conversation, Mingyu. This is us working."

"It can be both," he says, his voice gentle. "We can work and talk. We can fix the gala and fix—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "We can just talk, Y/n. That’s all I’m asking for."

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll see the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing that matters. And that scares you.

"I don’t—" Your voice is barely a whisper. "I don’t like you, Mingyu."

His smile returns, tighter and sadder now. "So you’ve said."

“That was one night.” You exhale sharply. "You can’t just say things like that during a– a– a hookup and expect me to—" You gesture helplessly between the two of you. "To just pretend like it’s nothing."

"I’m not asking you to pretend," he says, his voice quiet but steady. "I’m just asking you to talk to me. To let me—" He stops, running a hand through his hair. "To let me be here. Even if it’s just as your friend."

"Mingyu," Your voice cracks. "You told me that you loved me! You said you loved me while I moaned under you like some fucking prostitute! You can’t just say that and expect me to—" You stop, swallowing hard, wiping at your eyes, "to just act like it’s nothing."

"I’m not expecting you to act like it’s nothing," he says, his voice low, earnest, completely ignoring the first part of what you said. "I’m just telling you how I feel."

“...I know.” 

“Do you?”

“I do.” 

The silence stretches between you, heavy and fragile. You can feel his gaze on you, warm and steady, but you don’t look up. Instead, you turn back to your laptop, your fingers resuming their frantic typing.

"We should get back to work," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mingyu doesn’t push. He just nods, turning back to his own screen. But the air between you has shifted, charged with something new.

6:20 PM

The café is nearly empty by the time you finally close your laptop, the hum of the espresso machine and the quiet clink of dishes being cleared away filling the space between you and Mingyu. The gala preparations are actually finished—somehow, miraculously, despite the chaos of the last few hours. You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples as you push your chair back and stand, stretching your arms over your head. Your back cracks, the tension of the last few weeks—hell, the last few months—finally easing just a little.

Mingyu stands too, his chair scraping against the floor. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you as you gather your things, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, without a word, he reaches for your tote bag, slinging it over his shoulder before you can protest. You open your mouth to argue, but the words die on your lips. Instead, you just watch as he adjusts the strap, his fingers brushing against the fabric like it’s second nature.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice quiet.

You nod, even though you’re not sure you are.

When you walk out, the night air is cool, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the café. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself as you step outside, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. Mingyu falls into step beside you, his shoulder brushing yours just lightly, accidentally, maybe, or maybe not. You don’t pull away.

You notice, almost immediately, the way he positions himself. On the road side between you and the traffic, like he’s some kind of human shield. You’ve seen him do it before, with his friends, with his frat brothers, but on the receiving end now, it feels different now. Intentional. Like he’s making sure you’re safe, even from something as simple as a car splashing water from a puddle.

You don’t say anything about it.

The walk back to your sorority house is quiet at first, the only sounds are the distant hum of traffic and the occasional laugh from a group of students heading the opposite way. You keep your hands stuffed in your pockets, your gaze fixed on the sidewalk ahead of you. Mingyu doesn’t speak either, but you can feel his presence beside you, solid and warm, like a promise.

Then, without warning, his hand is on your arm, pulling you sharply and suddenly against him. Your breath catches as a scooter zips past, far too close to you to be safe, the rider weaving unsteadily. Mingyu’s grip is firm, protective, his other hand coming up to brace against your back like he’s afraid you’ll stumble. You collide with his chest, your heart pounding, and for a second, you’re surrounded by him—the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body, the steady thud of his heartbeat under your ear.

"Fucking idiot," he mutters under his breath, his voice rough. His hand lingers on your back, just for a second, before he pulls away, but not all the way. His fingers brush yours as you step back, and you swallow hard, your skin tingling where he touched you.

"You okay?"* he asks, his voice low, his eyes searching yours in the dim light as he looks down.

You nod, even though your pulse is still racing. "Yeah."

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not right away.

Not until you start walking again.

You keep walking, but now there’s a shift between you, something lighter, something warmer. Your fingers brush against his as you move, and neither of you pulls away. It’s stupid, really—just the barest touch, the lightest connection—but it feels like everything. Like a thread pulling taut between you, something fragile and precious.

"You always walk road-side,” you say suddenly, your voice quiet.

Mingyu glances down at you, his eyebrows lifting slightly. "Yeah."

"Why?"

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. Like you should know by now. "So if some idiot asshole driver loses control, they hit me first." He grins afterwards, like it makes perfect, total sense.

Your breath catches. Your heart thuds in your chest. What a stupid, idiotic, heartfelt, sweet thing to say. "That’s—Mingyu, that’s—"

"Stupid?" He supplements. 

“No, fucking absurd,” you retort, arms crossing. 

His lips quirk up at your words, as if he enjoys this. "Maybe. But I’d rather it be me than you."

You don’t know what to say to that.

He’s been catching you off guard a lot more recently.

Instead, you let your fingers linger against his, just for a second, before you pull your hand back into your pocket, kick stray rocks down the path,  lump in your throat. 

The closer you get to your sorority house, the more the tension between you shifts—less like a wall, more like a bridge. You find yourself relaxing, your shoulders loosening, your steps slowing just a little so you’re in sync with his. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable. Familiar.

"You remember that time we got caught in the rain last spring after the charity dinner rehearsal?" Mingyu asks suddenly, his voice warm.

You blink, surprised by the change in topic. "The one where we were under that old gas station awning for like an hour?"

"Yeah," he chuckles, the sound low and rich. "You were so mad because your shoes were ruined."

"I was planning on wearing it for the actual charity dinner," you protest, but you’re smiling now, the memory flooding back. "And you laughed at me."

"Because you looked like a drowned rat," he teases, nudging your shoulder lightly with his. "But a really cute drowned rat."

You shove him half-heartedly, but you’re still grinning. "Shut the fuck up," you grumble

"Hey, come on now," he says, his voice softer now. “I’m the best you’ve got."

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels lighter than it has in weeks.

Slowly, your sorority house comes into view, the warm glow of the porch light spilling onto the sidewalk. You slow to a stop at the bottom of the steps, turning to face Mingyu. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Thanks," you say quietly, "for walking me back."

His gaze softens. "Of course." Like it’s mandatory. Like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing. It eats at you.

You hesitate, your fingers twisting together. There’s so much you want to say. So much you should say. But the words stick in your throat, tangled and messy.

Instead, you just look at him.

And for a second, he looks back at you—really looks at you—like he’s memorizing the way the porch light catches in your hair, the way your lips part just slightly when you’re thinking, the way your eyes reflect the stars.

Then, quietly, he says, "I miss this."

Your breath catches.

"Miss what?" you whisper. You’re scared of the answer.

"You," he says simply. "Talking to me. Laughing with me. Being with me."

You don’t answer.

You can’t. Your weird friendship-enemyship-situationship that existed before he put his dick in you – even that never realy felt like this. Whatever this is. Whatever you having sex with him did to you, to him, to unlock a part of him that you didn’t really know existed. A part of him that was so hung up on you, on your absence, that said ballsy shit like I miss you and I love you without expecting the same back. 

Instead, you take a shaky breath and nod, your throat tight.

Mingyu doesn’t push. He just smiles, softly, sadly, and reaches out, his fingers brushing yours one last time as he hands you your tote back. Your murmur a small thank you.

"Goodnight, Y/n," he murmurs.

"Goodnight," you whisper back.

And as you watch him walk away, his hands in his pockets, his silhouette disappearing into the night, you realize something:

You miss it too.

God, you miss it too.

gala night; 8:35 PM

The gala is in full swing, the grand ballroom of the Ritz bathed in soft golden light, the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses filling the air. You stand by the drink bar, a flute of champagne in hand, laughing at something Chaewon just said about the new poke place that opened downtown. The dress—this dress—hugs your body like it was made for you, the deep navy satin cascading to the floor in a river of elegance. The off-the-shoulder neckline and delicate chain straps make you feel like some kind of modern-day goddess, and for the first time in weeks, you feel confident. Beautiful.

Unshakable.

Chaewon grins, nudging your shoulder with hers. "Okay, but if we go, you’re not allowed to judge me when I get the spiciest option and then cry."

"I would never," you say, mock-offended, taking a sip of your champagne. 

She’s about to say something when her expression shifts, her eyes flickering over your shoulder before she leans in, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "Not sure if you wanna hear this, but iloveyoumidfuck has been staring at you for the past 15 minutes."

Your stomach drops.

"What?" you say, too quickly, your fingers tightening around the stem of your glass.

Chaewon huffs out a laugh, leaning back again and taking a sip of her own drink. "Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know. You know exactly who I’m talking about."\

You don’t turn around. You won’t turn around. But you can feel it—the weight of his gaze on you, like a physical touch. It sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling in your chest.

"He’s probably just making sure I don’t mess anything up," you mutter, but your voice lacks conviction.

Chaewon snorts. "Yeah, because that’s totally why he’s practically undressing and eye-fucking you."

You elbow her lightly, but your heart is pounding. "Shut up."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You two are ridiculous. Just talk to him already."

"There’s nothing to talk about," you say, but the words taste like a lie.

Chaewon opens her mouth to argue, but then her eyes flick over your shoulder again, and her expression softens. "I’m gonna bet that he doesn’t feel the same."

Before you can ask what she means, a familiar voice cuts through the noise of the gala.

"Y/n."

You freeze.

Then, slowly, you turn.

Mingyu stands there, dressed in a tailored black tuxedo that fits him like it was made for him. His dark hair is styled neatly, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and his eyes—god, his eyes—are locked onto yours, dark and intense and hungry.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

The noise of the gala fades into the background, the world narrowing down to just the two of you.

"You look—" His voice cracks. "You look incredible."

Your breath catches.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself really look at him.

Let yourself feel it.

The way your heart races when he’s near. The way your skin tingles where his gaze touches you. The way, despite everything, you miss him.

Your lips part, the words you were about to say hanging between you like a tantalizing dessert, before the Dean of Student Affairs appears at Mingyu’s side, clapping him on the shoulder with a booming laugh.

Fucking Dean Hastings.

"Kim! There’s the man of the hour!" Dean Hastings grins, oblivious to the tension crackling between you two. "This gala is a masterpiece. Absolutely flawless. You two really outdid yourselves."

Mingyu doesn’t miss a beat. "It wasn’t just me," he corrects, his voice warm with that effortless charm of his. "Was probably all Y/n. I was just the muscle, you know, reaching up high for decorations ‘n everything." He shoots you a sideways glance, his eyes softening into something almost tender. "She’s the one who made the magic happen."

Dean Hastings turns to you, beaming. "Ah, yes! Ms. Hong, of course. We’ve heard wonderful things." His eyes flick between the two of you, and for a second, your heart thuds because you swear he sees it: the way Mingyu’s shoulder brushes yours, the way his fingers twitch like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. "Well,” Dean H says, clearing his throat, giving Mingyu another clap on the shoulder, “keep up the good work, you two. This is exactly the kind of initiative Dean Park loves to see!"

Mingyu nods, his hand accidentally brushing against yours as he shifts closer. Then, slowly, his fingers find yours, squeezing once, quick and reassuring, before he pulls away. But that single touch sends a jolt through you, your breath catching in your throat. You want to punch him. You want to kick him in the shin, you want to rip out his fingers. You don’t dare look at him.

Because if you do, you’ll cry.

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him. Not after the way you ignored him, the way you pushed him away, the way you acted like his feelings were some kind of burden instead of the gift they are. And yet here he is, standing beside you, deflecting praise, making sure you get the credit, his hand finding yours in the dark like he can’t help himself.

The dean keeps talking, something about donor engagement and future collaborations, but the words blur together. All you can focus on is the heat of Mingyu’s presence beside you, the way his pinky lingers near yours like he’s waiting for an excuse to touch you again.

Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the deans excuse themselves, shaking your hands before moving on to schmooze with someone else.

Mingyu exhales, running a hand through his hair, and turns to you, his mouth already open, something soft and unguarded in his eyes. "Y/n, I—" He’s promptly cut off by Chaewon’s voice interrupting, sharp through the tension like a knife.

"Y/N!"

You both jump, turning to see her barreling toward you, her expression apologetic but urgent.

"Oh my god, I’m sooo sorry, but we have to deal with the caterer. Right now. They messed up the vegetarian options, and if we don’t fix it, half the donors are gonna riot."

Mingyu blinks, the spell broken. "Uh. Yeah. Go." He shoves his hands in his pockets, his smile tight. "I’ll—uh—handle the DJ or something."

You hesitate, your chest aching. "Mingyu—"

"Go," he says, softer this time. "We’ll talk later."

Chaewon grabs your arm, already dragging you away. "Sorry, sorry, but this is urgent!" she hisses, shooting an apologetic glance over her shoulder at Mingyu.

You let yourself be pulled away, but not before glancing back at him one last time. He’s watching you, his hands still in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself wonder. 

What if I just… let myself have this?

9:41 PM

The gala hums around you—laughter, clinking glasses, the low thrum of the string quartet in the corner. You’re standing in a loose circle with Chaewon, a few sorority sisters, and a couple of guys from your marketing class when Dylan appears at your side.

Dylan.

He’s all easy smiles and expensive cologne that all but attacks your nose, his arm slipping around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

"Damn, Y/n," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you and Chaewon hear. "You clean up good." His fingers twirl a loose strand of your hair, his thumb brushing the back of your neck just once. It’s too familiar, too possessive. As if just because you hooked up with him a couple times your junior year that gives him consent to twirl you around like a doll.

But you don’t pull away.

Because the group is watching, because Chaewon’s eyes are begging you not to make a scene, because you’ve spent the last two weeks pretending you don’t still feel like you’re drowning every time Mingyu’s name crosses your mind.

So you laugh, light and practiced, like Dylan’s touch doesn’t make your skin crawl. "Flattery won’t get you an extra slice of cake, Dylan."

"Worth a shot," he grins, his grip tightening just a fraction before he finally lets his hand drop.

Chaewon exhales beside you, shooting you a look that says what the hell was that? but you just shake your head, taking a long sip of your champagne.

Across the room, Mingyu stands with Wonwoo and Seungcheol, his back to you as they laugh about something. Probably some stupid frat story, the kind that starts with "Bro, so this chick is like hot, right?" but then Wonwoo says something, nudging Seungcheol, and Mingyu turns.

Just in time to see Dylan’s fingers in your hair.

His laughter dies mid-breath.

Wonwoo follows his gaze, his eyebrows scrunching when he sees Dylan’s arm around you. He claps a hand on Mingyu’s shoulder, leaning in to mutter something. Mingyu doesn’t really hear him.

His entire body goes still, like a predator locking onto its target. His fingers flex at his sides, his jaw tightening just enough that you can see it even from here. The smile he forces is sharp, all teeth, no warmth. "You good, man?" Seungcheol asks, his voice low, but Mingyu doesn’t answer.

He just watches. Watches Dylan lean in, whisper something in your ear that makes you laugh—fake, fake, fake—watches you play along because what else are you supposed to do? You’re not his. You made that clear. You left. You ignored him. You acted like his feelings were some kind of mistake.

And now here you are, letting Dylan touch you like he has any right.

Wonwoo says something else, his grip on Mingyu’s shoulder tightening, but Mingyu shakes him off, his eyes never leaving you.

Chaewon notices.

"Y/n," she hisses, elbowing you in the ribs. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What?" you snap, too quickly, your voice too bright. "Nothing. It’s fine."

"It’s not fine," she mutters, her eyes flicking over your shoulder. "He’s two seconds away from committing a felony."

You don’t have to ask who he is.

You can feel the weight of his gaze burn into the side of your face, but you refuse to look. Refuse to acknowledge the way your chest tightens, the way your stomach twists with something ugly and guilty.

Dylan, oblivious, grins and raises his glass. "To the most beautiful woman at the gala," he toasts, winking at you.

The group laughs, clinking glasses, but all you hear is the roar of blood in your ears.

"That’s enough." Mingyu’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

The group falls silent.

Dylan turns, his smirk faltering when he sees Mingyu standing there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his dark eyes burning. "Kim," Dylan says, too smooth, too fake. "What’s up, man?"

Mingyu doesn’t look at him.

He looks at you.

"We need to talk," he says, his voice low, dangerous.

Chaewon grabs your wrist. "Y/n—"

"Now," Mingyu adds, ignoring her.

Dylan’s arm is still around your waist, his fingers digging in just a little, like he’s staking a claim. "She’s busy," he says, his voice dripping with false cheer.

Mingyu’s gaze drops to Dylan’s hand.

Then he smiles.

It’s not a nice smile.

"Get your fucking hand off her," he says, quiet. Too quiet.

The group goes still.

Dylan’s grip tightens. "Or what?"

Mingyu takes a step forward.

Wonwoo and Seungcheol move with him, arms dangling uselessly by their sides, eyes flitting over from you to him to Dylan, as if they’re unsure of what exactly to do.

Chaewon’s nails dig into your skin. "Y/n," she whispers, "do something."

But you can’t.=

Because Mingyu’s eyes are locked onto yours, and the look in them—hurt, anger, betrayal—makes your throat close up.

"Mingyu—" you start, your voice breaking.

"Outside," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Now."

Dylan finally drops his arm, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Chill, man. We’re just talking."

Mingyu doesn’t even glance at him.

He just waits.

For you.

Chaewon lets go of your wrist, her expression torn between worry and relief. "Go," she murmurs. "Before this gets worse."

You swallow hard, your hands shaking.

Then you follow him out of the ballroom, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure everyone can hear it.

The heavy ballroom doors swing shut behind you with a soft, final click, muffling the hum of the gala—the laughter, the clinking glasses, the string quartet playing some elegant, meaningless melody. The hallway is dimly lit, the air cooler here, away from the crush of bodies inside. Mingyu stands a few feet away, his back to you, his shoulders tense under the crisp black fabric of his tuxedo. He doesn’t turn around right away. Maybe he’s giving you a second to breathe. Maybe he’s giving himself one.

"What the fuck was that?" he demands, his voice raw.

"You don’t get to do this," you retort, your voice sharper than you intended. It echoes off the marble floors, bouncing back at you like an accusation.

Mingyu turns slowly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. There’s something raw in his expression — something wounded and furious all at once. "Do what, Y/n?" His voice is low, controlled, but you can hear the crack in it. "Call out the guy who had his hands all over you after you’ve spent weeks pretending I don’t exist?"

"That’s not fair," you snap, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. "You don’t get to act like you have some claim over me just because we—" You cut yourself off, your face burning. "Just because one thing happened."

"One thing?" He lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Is that what you’re calling it now? We’ve changed from a one night stand to a mistake to one thing?"

"It was once," you say, lifting your chin to try to hide the way his words cut you. 

The words hang between you, heavy and ugly.

Mingyu’s expression darkens. "A mistake."

"You know what I mean," you mutter, looking away.

"No," he says, stepping closer. "I don’t. Because if it was a mistake, then why does it feel like you’ve been punishing me for it ever since?"

Your breath catches. "I haven’t—"

"You have," he cuts in, his voice rising. "You ignored me. You avoided me. You acted like I was some kind of monster for telling you how I felt—"

"Because it was too much!" The words tear out of you before you can stop them. "You don’t just—you don’t just say that to someone in the middle of—of that and expect them to know what to do with it!"

Mingyu goes still, his chest rising and falling too fast. "So what was I supposed to do, Y/n?" His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "Wait? Pretend I didn’t mean it? Act like it was just sex when we both know it wasn’t?"

You press your lips together, your eyes burning. "It doesn’t matter. Because we’re not together. You don’t get to dictate who I talk to, who I let touch me—"

"I’m not dictating anything!" he snaps, his hands clenching at his sides. "I’m asking you to talk to me! Look at me! Stop acting like I’m the villain here when all I’ve ever done is care about you!"

"You don’t get to demand that!" you fire back, your voice shaking. "You don’t get to pull me out of a conversation in the middle of the gala and act like I owe you something!"

"You owe me nothing," he says, his voice breaking, “but honesty! You owe me the truth about why you’ve been terrified to even look at me for weeks!"

The words hit you like a physical blow.

You take a step back, your heel catching on the hem of your dress. "I am not terrified," you lie, but your voice wavers.

Mingyu exhales sharply, like he’s trying to rein himself in. "Then what is it, Y/n?" His voice is softer now, pleading. "What in God’s fuckin’ name are you so afraid of?"

You don’t answer.

Because the truth?

You’re afraid of this—of the way your chest aches when he looks at you, of the way your hands shake when he’s near, of the way you want to reach for him even though you know you don’t deserve him. You’re afraid that you’ll let him in and he’ll leave you. You’re afraid that you’ll get attached and then all of the promises he had whispered in your ears will come crashing down. You’re afraid to give someone so much love, to somehow match their intensity. You’re afraid of how much it hurts to love someone who sees you so clearly. You’re afraid that you’ll, one day, hurt this person more than you have right now. 

"I can’t do this right now," you say instead, your voice hollow. "The gala’s not over. I have work to do."

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. "So that’s it? You’re just gonna walk away again?"

"I’m not walking away," you say, even though you know it’s a lie. "I’m working. And if you’re gonna be childish about this, then you can wait until it’s over."

"Childish?" His voice is dangerously quiet.

"Yes," you say, lifting your chin. "Childish. You don’t get to drag me out here and demand things from me when we’re not even together."

Mingyu stares at you, his dark eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find something, anything, that will make this make sense. "You’re right," he says finally, his voice flat. "We’re not together. So I don’t get to demand anything from you."

The words sting more than they should.

"Good," you say, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

Mingyu doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

You should walk away.

You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stand there, your heart pounding, your throat tight, waiting for him to say something that will make this easier.

He doesn’t.

So you turn on your heel and walk back into the gala, the doors swinging shut behind you with a finality that feels like a punch to the gut.

And for the rest of the night, you avoid him.

11:11 PM 

The ballroom is a ghost of what it was.

The string quartet packed up hours ago. The donors, the deans, the laughing groups of students—all gone. The only remnants of the gala are the scattered champagne flutes, the abandoned name cards, the half-crushed programs left on chairs. The lights are dimmed, the chandeliers casting long, wavering shadows across the floor.

You and Mingyu are the last ones left.

You’ve been cleaning in silence, the kind that isn’t uncomfortable, but heavy—like the air before a storm. Your heels are long gone, kicked under a table somewhere. Your hair, once perfectly styled, is coming loose in soft waves around your shoulders. Mingyu’s tie is undone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his usually neat hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times.

You’re both exhausted.

But neither of you has said it’s time to leave.

You’re folding the last of the tablecloths when Mingyu speaks.

"We make a good team."

His voice is quiet, but it still makes you jump. You glance up at him, your fingers pausing in their work. He’s watching you, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light.

"Professionally," you say, because you have to. Because if you don’t, you’ll break.

Mingyu exhales, a soft, humorless laugh. "You sure?"

He steps closer.

Your breath catches.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" you ask, but your voice is too quiet, too weak.

"It means," he says, his voice low, "that we’re good at more than just planning galas."

Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it. "Mingyu—"

"No," he cuts in, shaking his head. "Let me say this. Please."

You swallow hard, but you don’t stop him.

He takes another step closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of his cologne—cedar and something warm, something him. "I’m crazy about you, Y/n," he says, his voice rough. "I’ve been crazy about you since freshman year. That night wasn’t just a hookup. It was literally the best night of my life, and I’m sorry I threw a love confession on you, but I don’t regret it. I don’t regret it at all."

Your chest tightens.

"Because I am in love with you," he continues, his voice breaking just a little. "I’m in love with you so much that I’d rather you hate me and acknowledge me than ignore me completely. I am in love with you, and you consume me—mind, body, and soul, every single day."

He’s close enough to touch you now.

But he doesn’t.

"And you don’t need to agree with me," he says, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "At all, actually. I’m not asking for your love back. Hell, I’m not even asking for the tiniest fucking slice of love back." He lets out a shaky breath, his hands flexing at his sides. "I’m just asking for a chance. One chance."

The silence that follows is deafening.

You don’t know what to say.

Because the truth is, you feel it too.

You’ve always felt it.

But you’ve been too scared to admit it. You’re still scared to admit it.

The air between you is thick, charged with everything he just said—every confession, every raw, unfiltered truth. Your chest aches, your hands tremble at your sides. You stare at him, then at your feet, then back at him again, like if you look away too long, this moment will dissolve into nothing.

Mingyu doesn’t move. 

And then, finally, you look up.

Your voice is shaky, barely above a whisper. "Are you serious?"

Mingyu’s expression doesn’t waver. "Y/n," he says, like it’s the only answer he’s ever needed to give, a huff of bitter laughter escaping him. "I’ve never not been serious about you."

Your breath hitches.

"I—"

"If you’re not going to," he cuts in, his voice rough, "just tell me. But don’t tell me that that night didn’t mean anything—"

"—Yes."

The word slips out before you can stop it. Before you can overthink it. Before you can convince yourself this is a bad idea.

Mingyu freezes.

"—no, just let me fin— wait. Wait, what?"

"Yes, Mingyu."

"Wait, wait, wait—yes, yes you’ll give me a chance or like yes you’re gonna let me down because—"

"—Yes, I like you too," you blurt out, your face burning, your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can see it. "So just—"

Mingyu doesn’t let you finish.

One second, he’s standing there, stunned.

The next, he’s on you.

His hands cup your face, his fingers tangling in your hair as he leans down, his breath warm against your lips. "Ohmygod," he whispers, like he can’t believe this is real.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not soft. Not gentle. It’s desperate, like he’s been starving for this, for you, for this moment. His lips crash against yours, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasp into his mouth, your fingers clutching at his shirt, your body melting into his like it was always meant to.

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your hips before he lifts you up, spinning you around like you weigh nothing. You break the kiss with a breathless laugh, your hands flying to his shoulders as he sets you down, his forehead resting against yours.

"Say it again," he demands, his voice rough.

You grin, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. "Yes, Mingyu."

He kisses you again, softer this time, his lips brushing against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of them. Then he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath coming fast. "I love you," he murmurs,  softer this time, like he needs to hear himself say it to believe it’s real.

Your breath catches.

You want to say it back.

God, you want to.

But the words stick in your throat, tangled in fear and doubt and the weight of everything that’s happened between you.

Mingyu must see it—the hesitation in your eyes, the way your lips part but no sound comes out—because his expression softens, his hands sliding down to your shoulders, then your waist, pulling you closer. "You don’t need to say anything," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Fuck, Y/n, I just—" He exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours. "I missed you. Fucking—fucking hell – I—"

His voice breaks.

He kisses you again, starving, like he’s been drowning and you’re the only thing that can save him. His lips crash against yours, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. You gasp into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

Mingyu groans, his hands sliding down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your dress riding up as he stumbles over and presses you against the nearest wall, his body pinning you there. His mouth never leaves yours, his kisses deep and hungry, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into you.

"I’ll prove it to you," he murmurs against your lips, his voice ragged. "I’ll literally do anything you want. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, god."

You whimper as his hands roam your body, one sliding up your inner thigh, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin there, sending sparks through your veins. The other hand cups your breast, his thumb rubbing slow, teasing circles over the fabric of your dress, making you arch into his touch. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, your nails digging into his shoulders as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver.

"Mingyu—" you choke out, your voice breathy, needy.

"Tell me to stop," he growls against your throat, his hand sliding higher, his fingers brushing dangerously close to where you ache for him. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

You don’t.

You can’t.

Instead, you tilt your head back, giving him better access, your hips rocking against his without thought. "Don’t—don’t stop," you whisper, your voice trembling.

Mingyu groans, his fingers tightening on your thigh. "Fuck, Y/n," he breathes, his lips crashing back onto yours. His kiss is deeper now, more desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming you. His hand slides higher, his thumb pressing against the damp fabric between your legs, and you moan into his mouth, your body trembling.

"You’re killing me," he murmurs, his voice rough with need. His fingers tease you through the thin barrier of your underwear, his touch light but maddening. "Tell me what you want."

You whimper, your hips jerking against his hand. "You," you gasp. "I just—I just want you."

Mingyu’s breath hitches, his forehead pressing against yours as his fingers finally slip beneath the fabric, his touch direct, sure. You cry out, your back arching off the wall as he strokes you, his thumb circling your clit in slow, torturous motions. "Like this?" he murmurs, his voice dark, teasing. "Is this what you want?"

"Y-yes—" you stammer, your fingers clutching at his shoulders. "God, yes—"

Mingyu kisses you again, swallowing your moans as his fingers work you, his touch relentless, perfect. His other hand slides up your body, cupping your breast again, his thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric of your dress. The dual sensations send you spiraling, your body trembling, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"You’re so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with awe. "So fucking perfect."

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but feel—his hands on you, his body pressed against yours, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Your dress is rumpled, your hair is a mess, and you’ve never felt more alive.

"Mingyu—" you gasp, your body tightening around his fingers. "I’m— I’m close—"

"I know," he murmurs, his voice dark, satisfied. "I’ve got you."

And you do.

You shatter, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, your cries muffled against his shoulder as he holds you through it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last tremor.

When you finally come back to yourself, Mingyu is watching you, his dark eyes soft, his expression reverent. He presses a gentle kiss to your lips, his hands sliding up to cup your face. "I love you," he whispers again, his voice steady, sure.

You melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you pull him close, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of what just happened. Your lips brush against the corner of his mouth, soft and lingering, before you press a firmer kiss there, your heart swelling with something warm and real.

"Wanna come to my room?" you murmur against his skin, your voice still breathy. "It’s down two blocks."

Mingyu’s arms tighten around you, his chest rumbling with a low, satisfied sound. "Fuck, yeah."

Then he pauses, his grip loosening just enough to pull back and look at you, his dark eyes searching yours. "But I’m not just saying that to—to fuck you, you know that, right?" His voice is softer now, almost hesitant. "I just—"

"—Mingyu," you cut in, smiling despite the flush still burning in your cheeks. "I get it."

He exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him as he presses his forehead to yours. "Okay. Good. Because I really want to fuck you, but also—"

"—You wanna be with me?" you finish for him, grinning.

"Yeah," he admits, his voice rough. "That too."

You laugh, the sound light and easy, and it feels like the first real breath you’ve taken in weeks. Then you wiggle in his arms, your dress still bunched around your hips, and wince. "Ugh, I just ruined my underwear."

Mingyu’s grin turns wicked as he lowers you to the ground, his hands lingering on your waist. "You could give it to me," he teases, his voice dropping to a low purr.

You slap his chest, laughing. "Absolutely not."

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm before lacing his fingers through yours. "Worth a shot."

You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling as you grab your bag and shoes from where they’d been abandoned near the drink table. Mingyu drapes his jacket over your shoulders without a word, the fabric warm from his body, smelling like him—cedar and something uniquely Mingyu. You slip your arms into the sleeves, the fabric swallowing you whole, and he tugs you close again, his arm slung around your waist as he guides you toward the exit.

The night air is cool against your flushed skin as you step outside, the quiet hum of the city wrapping around you. You wince as your bare feet hit the pavement, the cold seeping into your soles.

Mingyu notices immediately.

He stops, turning to face you, his expression softening. "You’re really okay with no shoes?" His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, his voice laced with concern. "I can carry you back."

You smirk, squeezing his hand. "Tempting. But I think I can manage."

He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re lying, before nodding, his grip tightening around your fingers. "If you change your mind, just say the word."

You lean into him, your shoulder brushing his. "I won’t."

11:59 PM

The two blocks to your sorority house pass in a blur of laughter and stolen kisses, your fingers tangled together, Mingyu’s jacket draped over your shoulders like a shield against the night. The cold pavement stings your bare feet, but you barely notice—every brush of his thumb against your knuckles, every time he pulls you closer to press a kiss to your temple, sends warmth flooding through you.

By the time you reach your door, you’re breathless, giddy, your heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the walk and everything to do with him.

You fumble with your keys, your hands shaking just enough that Mingyu chuckles, his breath warm against your neck. "Need help?"

"Shut up," you mutter, but you’re smiling as you finally get the door open.

The second it swings shut behind you, Mingyu’s hands are on your waist, spinning you around and pressing you back against the wood. His jacket slips from your shoulders, pooling on the floor as his mouth finds yours, his kiss hungry, desperate. You giggle against his lips, your fingers tangling in his hair as he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist.

"Fuck, I’ve missed this," he murmurs between kisses, his hands sliding under your thighs to hold you up.

"Missed what?" you tease, nipping at his bottom lip.

"You," he whispers, before turning around with you in his arms. 

Your room is exactly as you left it—soft, lived-in, you. The fairy lights strung along your headboard cast a warm, golden glow, the faint hum of your salt lamp filling the silence. A pile of textbooks sits on your desk, half-finished sketches of interior designs scattered across the surface. The scent of your vanilla candle lingers in the air, mixing with the faint musk of Mingyu’s cologne.

He pauses as he sets you down, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on you. "This is very you," he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent.

You laugh, kicking off your shoes before they can hit the floor. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he says, stepping closer, his hands sliding up your arms, "it’s warm. Soft. Like you could curl up in here and never leave."

Your breath catches.

Mingyu’s gaze darkens as he takes you in, his fingers brushing against the strap of your dress. "You look gorgeous in this light," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Like you’re glowing."

You swallow hard, your hands finding their way to his chest. "You’re just saying that."

"Uh-uh," he says, shaking his head. "I’m not."

And then he’s kissing you again, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

Mingyu walks you backward until your legs hit the edge of your bed, his hands never leaving your body. He lowers you onto the mattress gently, like you’re something precious, his weight settling over you as he kisses you deeper, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s memorizing the taste of you.

His hands roam your thighs, his touch firm, possessive, sending sparks skittering across your skin. "Can I take your dress off?" he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with need.

"Please," you breathe, your hands already sliding under his shirt, pushing the fabric off his shoulders.

Mingyu sits back just enough to unzip the side of your dress, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric loosens, and he peels it away from your body slowly, his breath catching as he takes you in. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, his eyes darkening. "You’re perfect."

You laugh, breathless, as you help him pull the dress over your head, tossing it aside. "You’re overdressed," you tease, your fingers already working on the buttons of his shirt.

Mingyu grins, shrugging the shirt off before reaching for his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. "Better?"

"Much," you murmur, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

He kisses you again, his hands sliding up your thighs, his touch sending shivers through you. "You’re so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough. "I can’t—"

You cut him off with another kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer. His belt clatters to the floor, forgotten, as his hands slide higher, his thumbs brushing against the damp fabric of your panties.

"Fuck, Y/n," he groans, his breath hot against your skin. "You’re soaked."

You whimper as his thumb presses against your clit, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through you. "Mingyu—"

"I’ve got you," he murmurs, his voice dark, promising. His thumb circles you slowly, teasingly, his eyes locked onto yours as he watches your reaction.

You arch into his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Please—"

Mingyu’s grin is wicked as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Please what?"

Mingyu’s thumb circles your clit through the thin fabric of your panties, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every gasp, every shudder that ripples through you. His mouth crashes back onto yours, swallowing your whimpers as his touch grows firmer, more insistent. The heat of his body presses you into the mattress, his weight a delicious pressure, grounding you as pleasure coils tight in your stomach.

"Fuck—" you breathe against his lips, your hips rocking up instinctively, chasing the friction of his thumb. "Mingyu, please—"

He smirks against your mouth, his free hand sliding up your ribs, his fingers brushing the underside of your breast. "Please what?" he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing. "Tell me what you want."

You whine, your nails digging into his shoulders. "You know what I want."

"Say it," he growls, his thumb pressing harder, making you gasp. "I want to hear you say it."

"I want—" Your voice breaks as his fingers finally slip beneath the fabric of your panties, his touch direct, electric. "I want you."

Mingyu groans, his forehead pressing against yours as his fingers tease you, his thumb circling your clit in slow, maddening strokes. "You’re so wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with awe. "Fuck, Y/n, you’re dripping for me."

You whimper, your hips jerking against his hand. "Mingyu—"

"Shh," he soothes, his lips brushing against yours. "I’ve got you."

His fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance before finally—finally—pushing inside you. You cry out, your back arching off the bed as he curls them just right, his thumb never stopping its relentless rhythm on your clit.

"That’s it," he murmurs, his voice dark, satisfied. "Let me hear you."

You can’t help it—the sounds spill out of you, breathy and desperate, your fingers tangling in his hair as he works you over, his touch perfect, relentless. His mouth finds your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver.

"Mingyu—" you gasp, your body tightening around his fingers. "I’m— I’m close—"

"I know," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "Come for me, Y/n. Let me taste you."

Before you can process his words, his fingers are gone, his hands gripping your hips as he slides down your body, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach. He pauses at your navel, his tongue dipping into the dip before he continues lower, his breath hot against your skin.

You whine, your hands flying to his hair. "Mingyu—"

"Patience," he murmurs, his fingers hooking into the sides of your panties. He pulls them down slowly, his eyes locked onto yours as he drags the fabric over your thighs, your knees, your ankles. And then—

He pockets them.

Your eyes widen. "Did you just—"

"Mine now," he says, his voice smug, his grin wicked.

You open your mouth to protest, but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open, and all coherent thought flees your mind.

Mingyu’s breath is hot against your center, his gaze dark as he takes you in. "Fuck, you’re gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice rough. "So perfect."

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out, your back arching off the bed as his tongue drags slow, deliberate circles around your clit. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he licks you like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting for this moment for years.

"Mingyu—" you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Oh god—"

He groans against you, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, before sliding lower, tracing the length of your slit. You whine, your hips rocking up instinctively, chasing his mouth.

"More," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please, more—"

Mingyu doesn’t make you wait.

His tongue returns to your clit, his lips sealing around it as he sucks gently, his fingers sliding back inside you. You cry out, your body trembling as he works you over, his touch relentless, perfect.

"That’s it," he murmurs against your skin, his voice dark, encouraging. "Let me hear you, Y/n. Fuck—you taste so good."

You whimper, your hips jerking against his mouth as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your stomach. "Mingyu—I’m— I’m gonna—"

"Come for me," he growls, his fingers curling inside you, his tongue flicking over your clit in fast, merciless strokes. "Let me feel you."

And you do.

You shatter, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, your cries filling the room as Mingyu holds you through it, his mouth never leaving you, his fingers drawing out every last tremor.

When you finally come back to yourself, Mingyu is pressing soft, lingering kisses to your inner thighs, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your skin. "Fuck, Y/n," he murmurs, his voice rough. "You’re incredible."

You laugh breathlessly, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him up to kiss you. "You’re not so bad yourself," you murmur against his lips.

Mingyu grins, his hands sliding up your body to cup your breasts. "Oh, we’re just getting started."

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” 

Mingyu hovers over you, his arms trembling with restraint, his dark eyes burning into yours like he’s committing this moment to memory. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, his skin slick with sweat, his muscles coiled tight. You can see the effort it takes for him to stay still, to let you set the pace.

And you love it.

You reach for him, your fingers brushing against the hard line of his cock through his boxers before you hook your thumbs into the waistband and pull them down. His breath hisses between his teeth as you free him, your hand wrapping around his length, stroking him slow and firm.

"Fuck—" he groans, his hips jerking into your touch.

You smirk, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "Will you let me ride you?"

Mingyu’s entire body goes rigid.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then his hands are on your hips, his fingers digging in as he flips you both over in one smooth motion, settling you on top of him. His cock presses against your thigh, hot and heavy, already twitching with need.

"You’re killing me," he growls, his voice rough.

You laugh, breathless, your hands sliding up his chest as you sit up, straddling him. Your dress is long gone, your bra unhooked and discarded somewhere on the floor, your skin flushed and sensitive under his gaze. You can feel how wet you are, how ready, your thighs slick as you rock against him, teasing him with the heat of your pussy.

Mingyu’s hands tighten on your hips, his breath coming in sharp gasps. "Condom—"

You cut him off with a kiss, your lips crashing against his as you reach between you, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance. "I have an IUD," you murmur against his mouth.

Mingyu freezes.

"Raw?" His voice is barely more than a whisper, like he’s afraid to hope.

"Yeah," you breathe, your nails digging into his shoulders. "If you’re okay with it."

"Fuck—" His hands slide up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. "Raw, Y/n?" His voice is rough, disbelieving. "God, what—you’re—yes. Okay. Fuck."

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You lower yourself onto him slowly, so slowly, your breath hitching as his cock stretches you open, inch by inch. Mingyu’s hands fly to your hips, his fingers digging in as he fights the urge to buck up into you, his entire body trembling with restraint.

"Fuck—" he groans, his head pressing back into the pillow. "Y/n—fuck—"

You whimper, your head falling back as you take him deeper, your body adjusting to the fullness of him. He feels bigger like this, hotter, the sensation of skin on skin sending sparks skittering across your nerves. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your hands sliding up to your own breasts, teasing your nipples as you rock your hips. "You feel so good—"

Mingyu’s eyes darken as he watches you, his hands sliding up your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your clit. "You’re taking me so well," he murmurs, his voice rough with awe. "Fuck, Y/n—you’re perfect."

You moan, your hips rolling as you take him deeper, your body trembling with the effort to go slow. "Mingyu—" you whimper, your nails digging into his chest. "I can’t— I need—"

"I know," he growls, his hands tightening on your hips. "I’ve got you."

You’re a vision above him—your hair wild, your lips swollen, your skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Mingyu’s hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, his fingers digging into your flesh as you finally, finally sink all the way down onto his cock.

"Fuck—" His voice is a broken rasp, his eyes locked onto where you’re stretched tight around him. "Y/n—fuck—you feel—" He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "You feel unreal."

You whimper, your nails scraping down his chest as you adjust to the fullness of him, your body trembling. He’s thick, hot, filling you in a way that makes your toes curl, your breath hitching as you rock your hips experimentally.

"God—" Mingyu’s head presses back into the pillow, his jaw clenched tight. "You’re killing me."

You grin, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips, your hips rolling in slow, teasing circles. "You like it?" you murmur against his mouth.

"Fuck yes I like it," he groans, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. "I love it. I love the way you take me. The way you milk me. Fuck—" His breath hitches as you clench around him, your body already fluttering with need. "You’re so tight. So wet. So fucking perfect."

You moan, your hips rocking faster, your clit grinding against the base of his cock with every movement. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your hands sliding up to tangle in your own hair. "You feel so good—"

"Yeah?" His voice is rough, his eyes dark as he watches you. "Tell me how good."

"So good," you whimper, your hips rolling in deep, slow circles. "So big—so deep—" Your breath catches as he hits that perfect spot inside you, your body trembling. "Right there—"

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your hips as he fights the urge to buck up into you. "Fuck, Y/n—you’re dripping on me. Fuck—" His thumb brushes over your clit, making you gasp. "You love this, don’t you? Love riding my cock. Love the way I fill you up."

"Yes—" you moan, your head falling back. "God, yes—"

"That’s it," he growls, his hips twitching up, meeting your movements. "Take what you want. Fuck—you’re so greedy for it."

You whimper, your hands sliding down to brace against his chest as you ride him harder, your hips snapping down onto his cock. Mingyu’s breath comes in sharp gasps, his eyes locked onto where you’re joined, his cock glistening with your arousal.

"Fuck—" he groans, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples. "You’re so beautiful like this. So fucking mine."

You moan, your body trembling as pleasure coils tight in your stomach. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your nails digging into his chest. "I’m close—"

"I know," he murmurs, his voice dark, promising. "I can feel you. You’re clenching around me. Fuck—you’re so close."

His words send a jolt of pleasure through you, your hips rocking faster, your body trembling. "Mingyu—" you whimper, your head falling back. "Please—"

"Come for me," he growls, his hands tightening on your hips. "Let me feel you come on my cock. Fuck—I want to feel you."

And you do.

You cry out, your body trembling as pleasure crashes over you, your pussy clenching around him as you ride out your orgasm.

You’re still riding him, slow and deep, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm, your pussy fluttering around his cock like it never wants to let go. Mingyu’s hands are on your hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Fuck—Y/n—" His voice is strained, his muscles coiled tight. "I should— I should pull out—"

You shake your head, your nails scraping down his chest as you roll your hips, taking him even deeper. "No," you whisper, your voice breathless. "It’s okay. I want you to come inside me."

Mingyu’s eyes darken, his grip tightening. "You—you’re sure?"

"Yes," you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. "I’m sure."

That’s all it takes.

With a broken groan, Mingyu’s hips jerk up, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he comes. His entire body shakes, his breath hitching as he spills into you, his hands slamming down onto your hips to hold you still. "Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His voice is a raw, desperate rasp, his eyes squeezed shut as he rides out the waves of his orgasm.

You whimper, your body trembling as you feel him filling you, the heat of his release sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your hips rocking slowly, drawing out his orgasm. "God, you feel so good—"

Mingyu’s hands fly up to your face, cupping your cheeks, pulling you down for a searing kiss. You whine into his mouth, collapsing onto Mingyu’s chest, your body boneless, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you close as he presses soft, lingering kisses to your cheek, your temple, your jaw. His lips move against your skin, his voice a low, rough murmur.

"Fuck, Y/n… you’re perfect… so fucking perfect… I love you… love you so much…"

You whine, burying your face in the crook of his neck, your thighs trembling. "Mingyu—" Your voice is muffled, embarrassed. "I can feel it… your cum… it’s dripping down my thigh…"

Mingyu freezes.

His cock twitches inside you.

You feel it immediately.

A sharp, surprised laugh bursts out of you, your hips shifting just enough to make him groan. "Oh my god," you giggle, nipping at his earlobe. "Are you serious right now?"

Mingyu’s hands tighten on your waist, his breath hitching. "Fuck—" His voice is rough, disbelieving. "You’re kidding me—"

"Nope," you tease, rolling your hips just a little, feeling him grow inside you. "You’re getting hard again."

Mingyu groans, his head pressing back into the pillow. "Y/n—fuck—you can’t do that—"

"Do what?" You smirk, rocking your hips again, your body already responding to the fullness of him. "This?"

"Fuck—" Mingyu’s hands slide down to grip your ass, his fingers digging in. "You’re killing me—"

You laugh, breathless, your lips brushing against his ear. "Wanna go again?"

Mingyu’s breath catches, his cock pulsing inside you. "You think you’re ready for it again?"

You bite your lip, your hips rolling in slow, teasing circles. "I dunno," you murmur, your voice dripping with false innocence. "Are you?"

Mingyu doesn’t answer with words.

Instead, he kisses you—deep, hungry, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming you all over again. His hands slide up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he rolls you onto your back, his body settling between your thighs.

You gasp as he sinks deeper, his cock thickening inside you, stretching you all over again. "Mingyu—" you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Oh fuck—"

Mingyu groans, his forehead pressing against yours as he pulls back just enough to look down between you. His breath hitches as he watches his cum—your cum, mixed—spill out of you, dripping down your thighs. "Fuck—" His voice is a broken rasp. "Look at you… fuck…"

You whine, your hips rocking up, your body already craving more. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist. "Please—"

Mingyu doesn’t make you wait.

His hips snap forward, his cock sliding deep inside you, filling you in one smooth motion. You cry out, your back arching off the bed as pleasure crashes over you, your body trembling with the overwhelming sensation of him.

"Fuck—" Mingyu groans, his hands sliding under your ass, lifting you just enough to angle himself deeper. "You feel so good—so fucking tight—"

You whimper, your nails scraping down his back as he sets a slow, deep rhythm, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your hips rocking up to meet his. "Harder—"

Mingyu groans, his hips snapping forward, his cock pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes. "Like this?" he huffs, his voice rough. "You want it harder?"

"Yes—" you moan, your head falling back. "God, yes—"

Mingyu’s hands tighten on your hips, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he fucks you deeper, harder, his cock stretching you open with every thrust. "Fuck—Y/n—you’re taking me so well—" His voice is wrecked, his eyes locked onto where you’re joined, his cum dripping out of you with every movement.

Mingyu’s hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs, tangling in your hair—as he fucks you with deep, relentless strokes. You’re already so close, your body trembling, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

Then, without warning, Mingyu stops.

You whine in protest, your hips rocking up instinctively, chasing his cock. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your nails digging into his arms. "Don’t stop—"

Mingyu grins, his dark eyes burning into yours. "Be patient," he murmurs, his voice rough.

Before you can protest again, he slides a hand under your hips, shoving a pillow beneath you in one smooth motion. The new angle makes you gasp. He hits deeper, harder, the head of it dragging against that perfect spot inside you.

"Oh fuck—" You arch off the bed, your back bowing as pleasure jolts through you. "Mingyu—fuck—"

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your hips as he pulls back just enough to watch his cock slide back into you. "Fuck—" His voice is a broken rasp. "Look at you… taking me so well…"

You whimper, your hands flying to the headboard, your fingers clutching the wood as he sets a slow, deep rhythm, his cock stretching you open with every thrust. The new angle makes every movement electric, your body trembling with the effort to hold back.

"Mingyu—" you gasp, your nails scraping down his arms. "I’m— I’m close—"

Mingyu’s hands slide up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he kisses you—deep, hungry, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you. His hips snap forward, his cock pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every movement.

You moan into his mouth, your body trembling as pleasure coils tight in your stomach. "Mingyu—" you whimper, your hips rocking up to meet his. "Please—"

Mingyu groans, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his fingers digging in as he fucks you harder, faster. "You’re so close," he growls, his voice rough. "I can feel you."

You whimper, your head falling back as your body trembles on the edge. "Mingyu—" you gasp, your nails digging into his arms. "I’m gonna—"

Mingyu’s hand slides between you, his thumb pressing against your clit in slow, firm circles. "Come for me, Y/n," he murmurs, his voice dark, promising. "Let me feel you."

And you do.

You shatter, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, your pussy clenching around him as you ride out your orgasm. Mingyu groans, his hips jerking forward, his cock pulsing deep inside you.

"Fuck—Y/n—" His voice is a broken rasp, his breath coming in sharp gasps. "Can I—can I cum inside you?"

You whimper, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Yes—" you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Cum inside me, Mingyu—please—"

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your hips as he fucks you through your orgasm, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you. "Fuck—" His voice is wrecked, his eyes locked onto where you’re joined. "You’re so tight—so wet—"

your back arches off the bed, your thighs shaking, your pussy clenching so tight around Mingyu’s cock that he groans, his rhythm stuttering for just a second before he recovers, his hips snapping forward again, dragging his cock against that perfect spot inside you.

"F-Fuck—!" You gasp, your nails digging into the headboard so hard your knuckles turn white. Your vision whites out for a second, your body trembling as pleasure crashes over you in waves. "M-Mingyu—! I c-can’t—!"

Mingyu doesn’t stop.

He never stops.

His hands slide up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears already welling in your eyes. "You can," he groans, his voice rough, feral. "You’re not done yet, Y/n. Not even close."

You whimper, your body already oversensitive, every drag of his cock against your walls sending sparks skittering across your nerves. "N-No—!" You shake your head, your hips twitching away from him instinctively. "It’s too much—!"

Mingyu’s grip tightens, his hips rolling in slow, deep circles, his cock hitting that spot inside you just right. "You’re so wet," he murmurs, his voice dark, hungry. "So tight. Fuck—you’re dripping on me, Y/n. Dripping for me."

You moan, your body betraying you as your hips rock up to meet his, your pussy clenching around him again. "M-Mingyu—!" Your voice breaks, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. "I c-can’t— I c-can’t breathe—!"

"Yes, you can," he growls, his hand sliding between you, his thumb pressing against your clit. "Breathe for me, Y/n. Fuck—breathe and take my cock."

You cry out, your back arching off the bed as pleasure coils tight in your stomach again, the sensation too much, too intense. "M-Mingyu—!" Your nails scrape down his arms, leaving red marks in their wake. "I’m gonna— I’m gonna—!"

"That’s it," he murmurs, his hips snapping forward, his cock pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes. "Come for me again, Y/n. Let me feel you."

You whimper, your body trembling as pleasure crashes over you again, your pussy clenching around him as you ride out your second orgasm. "M-Mingyu—!" Your voice is a broken sob, your body overwhelmed, overstimulated. "I f-feel weird—!"

Mingyu groans, his hips jerking forward, his cock pulsing deep inside you. "Fuck—what’s wrong?"

"M-My tummy—!" You gasp, your hands flying to your stomach, your fingers pressing against the bulge his cock creates inside you. "I d-dunno— I’m gonna cum again—fuck— I dunno, Mingyu—fuck!"

Mingyu’s eyes darken, his breath hitching. "Fuck—" His voice is rough, desperate. "Are you gonna squirt for me?"

You whimper, your body trembling as the sensation builds, intense, overwhelming. "I-I dunno— I’ve n-never—!"

"Fucking cum for me," Mingyu growls, his hands sliding down to press against your stomach, feeling the way his cock stretches you, fills you. "Let me feel you, Y/n. Fuck—let me see you."

Your body shudders, your back arching off the bed as pleasure crashes over you in a wave, your pussy clenching around him as you soak the sheets beneath you. "M-Mingyu—!" You sob, your body trembling, your vision blurring as pleasure overwhelms you. "I-I c-can’t— I c-can’t stop—!"

Mingyu groans, his hips jerking forward, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he follows you over the edge. "Fuck—Y/n—!" His voice is a broken rasp, his hands tightening on your hips as he fills you up, his cum mixing with yours as he empties himself inside you.

You can feel it—thick, hot, so much—his cum spilling out of you as he pulls back, only to thrust forward again, his cock dragging against your oversensitive walls. "F-Fuck—!" You whimper, your body trembling as pleasure overwhelms you again. "M-Mingyu— I c-can’t—!"

"You can," he groans, his hips snapping forward, his cock pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes. "Take it, Y/n. Fuck—take all of it."

You sob, your body trembling as pleasure crashes over you again, your pussy clenching around him as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm. Mingyu groans, his hips jerking forward, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he empties himself completely, his cum filling you up, lugging you full.

Mingyu pants from above you, his arms shaking as he holds himself up just enough not to crush you. His breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps, his chest heaving against yours. You can feel his heart pounding, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair. "Kiss?" you murmur, your voice soft, almost shy.

Mingyu exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him as he gently lowers himself down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His lips find yours in a soft, lingering kiss—gentle, tender, a stark contrast to the feral intensity of just moments before. "You’re incredible," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with awe. "So fucking perfect."

You hum, burying your face in the crook of his neck, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I can’t believe I just did that."

Mingyu chuckles, his arms tightening around you as he presses a kiss to your hair. "It was so fucking hot," he murmurs, his voice warm. "I thought I ascended for a second."

You groan, slapping his shoulder lightly. "Shut up," you mutter, your voice muffled against his skin. "It was weird and now my sheets are wet. It’s like I peed myself or something."

Mingyu laughs, the sound rich and warm, vibrating against your chest. "No," he says, his voice firm. "You squirted, and it was fucking hot. I’ll wash your sheets."

You peek up at him, your eyes wide with surprise. "...Really?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "You’re so perfect, Y/n. Every inch of you."

You sigh, melting into his embrace, your body finally starting to relax. "You’re just saying that."

Mingyu pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression soft, sincere. "I’m not," he says, his voice gentle. "I mean it. Every word."

You bite your lip, your heart swelling with emotion. "...Thank you," you whisper.

Mingyu smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "No, thank you," he murmurs. "For trusting me. For letting me see you like that."

You hum, snuggling closer to him, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his back. "You’re ridiculous," you murmur, but there’s no heat in your words.

Mingyu chuckles, his arms tightening around you. "And yet."

You laugh, the sound light and easy. "And yet I let you spear me with your stupid big dick.”

Mingyu presses another kiss to your hair, his breath warm against your skin as he giggles and blushes. "Didn’t hear you complaining about my dick when I was–” 

“-Gah! Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!” You groan, hands covering your face as Mingyu laughs. 

It’s quiet between you two before Mingyu exhales slowly, his breath warm and steady against the damp skin of your neck, his lips pressing one last soft kiss to your shoulder before he begins to pull away. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles when he sees you flinch. 

The sensation of him leaving you is intimate in a way that makes your breath catch—the slow, deliberate drag of his cock as it slips from your body, the way his cum spills out of you in a warm, thick rush, the way his breath hitches at the sight of it. You whimper, your thighs trembling, your body still humming with oversensitivity, every nerve ending alight.

"Shh," he murmurs, his voice rough but gentle, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "I’ve got you." His touch is careful, grounding, as if he knows exactly how overwhelmed you feel right now. He presses another kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary, before he reaches over to your bedside table.

The crinkle of Kleenex being pulled from the box fills the quiet room, and then his hands are between your thighs, his touch so gentle it makes your chest tighten. He cleans you up with slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers brushing against your skin like he’s handling something precious. You watch him, your heart swelling, your cheeks still flushed with the aftermath of what just happened—embarrassment, yes, but also something warmer, something softer.

"There," he murmurs, tossing the used tissues into the trash before turning back to you. His dark eyes meet yours, and there’s something in them—something tender, something proud. "All better."

You bite your lip, your fingers twisting in the sheets beneath you. "Mingyu—" Your voice is small, uncertain. You don’t even know what you want to say. Thank you feels too small. I love you feels too big. So you just let his name hang in the air between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

He doesn’t let you finish.

Instead, he scoops you up into his arms like you weigh nothing, lifting you effortlessly off the bed. You squeal in surprise, your arms flying around his neck on instinct, your laughter bubbling up before you can stop it. "Mingyu! Put me down!"

"Nope," he says, grinning down at you, his eyes bright with amusement. "You’re mine now. Gotta take care of you." His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something deeper—something that makes your stomach flutter.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, your heart pounding in your chest. "You’re ridiculous."

"Thought you liked my ridiculousness," he teases, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he carries you toward the bathroom.

You groan, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him—cedar and sweat and Mingyu. "Unfortunately," you mutter, but your arms tighten around him just a little.

Mingyu laughs, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Unfortunately for you, maybe," he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "But I think it’s pretty fortunate."

You don’t answer. You just let him carry you, your body relaxing into his as he sets you down on the edge of the sink. The cool porcelain is a shock against your heated skin, but it feels good. Grounding. Mingyu steps back just enough to turn on the shower, his fingers testing the water temperature before adjusting it. Steam begins to fill the small bathroom, the sound of the spray filling the silence between you.

"Too hot?" he asks, glancing back at you.

You shake your head, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the sink. "No, it’s perfect."

Mingyu nods, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to your lips before disappearing back into your room. You hear the rustle of sheets being stripped, the soft thud of them hitting the floor, and then his voice calling out, "Where do you keep spare sheets?"

"Top shelf of the closet," you answer back, your voice echoing in the small bathroom.

A moment later, he reappears in the doorway, his arms full of fresh pink linens, his hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it. His pants from the gala are back on, zipped but unbuttoned, low-slung on his hips. "Got ‘em," he says, grinning. You can’t help but admire how he looks with the dimmed backlight of your room haloing him. "Now, get in the shower. I’ll join you in a sec."

You raise an eyebrow, a smile playing at your lips. "Oh?"

Mingyu’s grin turns wicked, his eyes darkening. "Mhm," he hums, his voice dropping to a low purr. "Start showering."

You laugh, shaking your head as you slide off the sink and step into the warm spray.

The water cascades over you in warm, steady streams, washing away the sweat, the cum, the lingering tension from what just happened. You tilt your head back, letting the spray soak your hair, your fingers trailing through the wet strands as you close your eyes. The steam curls around you, thick and comforting, the sound of the shower filling the small bathroom with a quiet, rhythmic hum.

Your body still thrums with the aftershocks of what just happened—every nerve ending alight, every muscle loose and languid. You press a hand to your stomach, feeling the way your skin still tingles, the way your thighs tremble just a little. God. You can’t believe you just did that. You can’t believe how good it felt. How right.

The glass shower room door suddenly opens, and you open your eyes just in time to see Mingyu step in behind you. He’s lost his pants, cheeks flushed with a dusty pink as he grins down at you, hair pushed back. His eyes find yours, soft and warm, his lips quirking into a small smile. 

He looks like a dork, you think. A stupid, overeager, wondrously loving dork that makes you wonder how you held out for so long. 

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice low, rough from everything that just happened. He reaches towards you and curls a lock of hair around his finger before tucking is behind your ear. 

"Hey," you whisper back, your fingers brushing against the curve of his bicep. You swallow. 

God, you’re not strong enough for this man. 

Mingyu steps closer, his hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him. The water sluices over both of you, his skin warm and slick against yours. "You okay?" he asks, his thumbs brushing slow circles against your hips. His fingers slowly massage your hips, waist, up your ribs, shoulders, then back down to your hips, kneading the aching muscles. You stare up at him, eyelids fluttering in exhaustion. 

You nod, your fingers tracing the droplets of water on his chest. "Yeah. Just... processing."

Mingyu hums, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Me too," he murmurs. "But I’ve got nowhere to be. Take your time," he giggles, a big hand coming to rest on the side of your face. 

You sigh, leaning into him, your forehead resting against his shoulder, his hand going to smooth down your wet hair. The water beats down on your back, the steam wrapping around you both like a cocoon. "You made the bed?" you murmur, your voice muffled against his skin.

"Yeah," he says, his hands sliding up and down your back. "Figured you’d want fresh sheets after..." He trails off, his fingers brushing against the small of your back.

You groan softly, your cheeks warming, mumbling into his chest, "After I squirted all over them?"

Mingyu groans, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you closer. "Fuck, Y/n, don’t say it like that."

"Like what?" you tease, tilting your head back to look at him.

"Like- like- ugh I don’t know. Just don’t say it like that," he grumbles, his voice dropping to a pouty whine. 

You bite your lip, your fingers tangling in his hair. "It was embarrassing," you admit, your voice soft.

Mingyu shakes his head, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "It was hot," he corrects, his hands sliding down to cup your ass.

You hum, your heart swelling in your chest. "You’re biased."

"Damn right I am," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours. "But I’m also right."

You laugh, the sound light and easy, and Mingyu captures your mouth in a slow, deep kiss. The water pours over you both, the steam curling around you, the world outside this shower fading away until there’s nothing but the two of you.

Mingyu pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "You sure you’re okay?" he asks, his voice soft.

You nod, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Yeah," you whisper. "I’m good."

Mingyu smiles, pressing one last kiss to your lips before stepping back just enough to let the water wash over you both. "Good," he murmurs. Mingyu’s hands linger on your waist for just a second longer than necessary before he reaches for the bottle of shampoo on the small ledge. His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, and you don’t pull away. Instead, you let your hand rest against his wrist, your thumb tracing a slow circle against his pulse.

He glances at you, his dark eyes soft in the dim light of the bathroom. "Turn around," he murmurs, his voice low.

You do as he says, turning so your back is to him, your hair heavy and wet against your skin. Mingyu’s fingers slide into your hair, his touch gentle as he begins to massage the shampoo into your scalp. You let out a soft, involuntary sound—a sigh, a hum, something between pleasure and relief—as his fingers work in slow, firm circles.

"God, that feels good," you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut.

Mingyu chuckles, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your back. "Yeah?" His fingers press a little deeper, his thumbs rubbing against your temples. "You like that?"

"Mm-hmm," you hum, leaning into his touch. "Don’t stop."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," he murmurs, his voice teasing but sincere.

The water continues to pour over you both, the sound of it filling the quiet space between you. Mingyu’s fingers move with deliberate slowness, working the shampoo through your hair, his touch careful, almost reverent. You can feel the tension in your shoulders melting away, the last remnants of the night’s intensity dissolving under his hands.

"You’re good at this," you murmur, your voice lazy.

"Practice," he says, his fingers stilling for just a second before he continues. "Had to learn how to wash my own hair at some point."

You laugh, the sound light and easy. "Smartass."

Mingyu grins, his fingers resuming their slow massage. "You love it."

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you, comfortable and warm. "Yeah," you say finally, your voice soft. "I do."

Mingyu’s hands still for just a second, his breath catching. Then he presses a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers resuming their work. "Good," he murmurs. "Because I love you."

You hum, your heart swelling in your chest. "You better."

Mingyu chuckles, his hands sliding down to your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots there. "Oh?" he teases. "Or what?"

You tilt your head back, your eyes meeting his. "Or I’m not actually gonna be your girlfriend until you ask me out with flowers."

Mingyu freezes.

For a second, his hands go still, his eyes widening in panic. "Wait, what?"

You burst out laughing, turning to face him, your hands pressing against his chest. "Oh my god, your face."

Mingyu blinks, his expression shifting from horror to realization. "You’re kidding."

"Yeah," you grin, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I’m kidding."

Mingyu exhales sharply, his hands sliding back into your hair. "You little—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head, his lips quirking into a smile. "I almost had a heart attack."

You laugh, leaning into him, your forehead resting against his chest. "You should’ve seen your face."

Mingyu groans, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close. "You’re evil."

"And yet, you love me," you tease, your voice muffled against his skin.

Mingyu hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Unfortunately."

You pinch his side, and he laughs, his hands sliding down to your waist. "Hey!"

"Unfortunately for you," you correct, grinning up at him.

Mingyu smiles, his dark eyes warm as he looks down at you. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Unfortunately for me."

You sigh, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re stuck with me," he murmurs, his voice soft.

You hum, your heart full. "Yeah," you whisper. "I am."

Mingyu presses another kiss to your forehead, his hands sliding up to cup your face. "Good," he murmurs. "Because I’m not letting you go."

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, the water pouring over you both. "Promise?"

Mingyu’s lips brush against yours, soft and sweet. "Promise."

The water runs clear now, the last of the shampoo swirling down the drain as Mingyu tilts your head back under the spray. His fingers comb through your hair, gentle but thorough, making sure every strand is rinsed clean. You close your eyes, letting the warmth seep into your scalp, your shoulders, your bones. The steam wraps around you both like a blanket, thick and comforting.

When he’s done, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a second. "Your turn," you murmur, already reaching for the shampoo bottle.

Mingyu hesitates, his hands still tangled in your wet hair. "Uh," he says, glancing at the showerhead, then down at himself. "I’m a little… tall for this."

You raise an eyebrow, a grin playing at your lips. "So? "

"I need a solution," he says, mock-offended. 

You laugh, nudging him toward the tiled bench built into the shower. "Sit."

Mingyu obeys, sinking down onto the cool tile with a dramatic sigh, his long legs folding up against his chest. He looks ridiculous. This tall, broad-shouldered guy crammed into the corner of your tiny shower, his knees nearly touching his chin. You can’t help but giggle as you step behind him, grabbing the shampoo bottle.

"This is undignified," he mutters, but there’s no real complaint in his voice.

"Shut up and let me wash your hair," you tease, squeezing a dollop of shampoo into your palm.

Mingyu tilts his head back, his eyes fluttering shut as your fingers slide into his hair. He lets out a low, contented sound, his shoulders relaxing almost instantly. "You’re really good at this."

"Not really. Maybe you’re just easy," you murmur, massaging his scalp in slow circles.

"Hm, maybe. But probably just for you," he says, his voice soft.

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms at the words. Your fingers work through his hair, the dark strands slipping between your fingers like silk. Mingyu lets out a happy sigh, his hands resting on your hips, his thumbs brushing absent circles against your skin.

"I take it back. You’re terrible at this," he mumbles after a minute, his voice muffled by the water.

"Excuse me?" you say, pausing.

"You’re supposed to be washing my hair, not just playing with it," he teases, cracking one eye open to look at you.

You pinch his side, and he laughs, squirming under your touch. "I am washing it!"

"Mhm," he hums, clearly unconvinced. "Sure you are."

You huff, but you resume your work, your fingers rubbing shampoo into his scalp with more purpose. Mingyu groans, his head tilting back further. "Okay, okay, that’s better."

"Thought so," you mutter, but you’re smiling.

The water runs over his hair, rinsing away the suds, and Mingyu lets out a long, slow breath. "You know," he says, his voice lazy, "I had this matcha latte a few weeks ago."

You pause, your fingers stilling in his hair. "Oh?"

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Oat milk, two pumps of hazelnut syrup. Just how you like it."

Your chest tightens. You remember that order. It’s your order.

Mingyu must feel the shift in you because he opens his eyes, his dark gaze meeting yours. "I was ignoring my coffee because I was too busy staring at my phone, waiting for you to text me back. And then the barista handed me the matcha, and I just… stared at it. Because it reminded me of you."

You swallow hard, your fingers trembling just a little against his scalp. "Mingyu—"

"It’s stupid," he says quickly, shaking his head. "I know. But I kept thinking about how you’d laugh if you saw me holding it. How you’d roll your eyes and say something like, ‘Of course you ordered that, you giant dork.’"

You let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are burning. "I would have said that."

Mingyu smiles, soft and a little sad. "I know."

You bite your lip, your heart aching. "I’m sorry," you whisper. "For ignoring you. For making you feel like—"

"Hey," he cuts in, his hands sliding up to cup your face. "It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize."

"But I do," you say, your voice breaking. "I was an idiot. I was scared."

Mingyu’s thumbs brush away the tears spilling down your cheeks. "I know," he murmurs. "But you’re here now. That’s all that matters."

You nod, leaning into his touch. "Yeah," you whisper. "I’m here."

Mingyu’s smile brightens, his eyes warm. "Good," he says. "Because I have a brilliant idea."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Next week," he says, his voice light, excited. "We go to that café. Together. And we order matcha lattes. And you can make fun of me for ordering yours. And then we’ll get something else because I don’t actually like hazelnut syrup, but I’ll drink it anyway because it’s yours."

You laugh, the sound watery but genuine. "You hate hazelnut syrup."

"I know," he groans, dramatic. "But for you? I’ll suffer."

You shake your head, your fingers resuming their work in his hair. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you love me," he teases.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you lean down and press a soft, slow kiss to his lips. Mingyu hums, his hands sliding back to your hips, pulling you closer.

When you pull away, he’s grinning. "So?" he asks. "Next week? Matcha date?"

You smile, your heart full. "Yeah," you whisper. "Next week."

Mingyu’s grin widens, his eyes bright. "Good," he murmurs. "Because I missed you."

You press another kiss to his forehead, your fingers tangling in his wet hair. "I missed you too."

: ̗̀➛ wrong thing, classic

@vwintershire ; @jm1655 ; @christinewithluv ; @gyuhao365 ; @wonu13 ; @abbaebay ; @erylilly ; @soowoogyu ; @yeosayang ; @pagesoobinie ; @cheolliesvt ; @gyuguys ; @Hye-na03 ; @kashish787 ; @emilliereads ; @sadgirlroo ; @dontmindme-readingsmutsonly

[cheescheesy]

part 3 of my college au 📚

[skzjii]

more random texts with bf! felix ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ texting smau!

content: just the most random moments and convos with felix. he’d lowkey ( highkey ) match your freak but still manage to serve ideal husband energy at the same time???

author’s note: thank you for lowkey eating up the last one so i decided to make more for yall ( please tell me the contact name eats )

[dramagodesss]

PUCKING 7 - Yellowjackets hockey SMAU

PAIRING: Natalie Scatorccio x reader

SUMMARY: OKAY, maybe moving overseas the instant you got the acceptance letter from The College of New Jersey in (you guessed it) New Jersey, to join their Yellowjackets in the NCAA was in fact a bit reckless, but who cares? You were sick of Barcelona anyway, and the idea of being on a team filled with people you didn't know at all seemed —even if it felt a bit scary— appealing, to say the least. A change couldn't hurt, could it?

Well, if you consider falling hard for one of your teammates a good start, then yeah, you had the best fucking start in the world. But that's obviously not a good start (far from it, really) because Natalie isn't just a fierce on the ice and a pretty face, she's also got a whole aromory to destroy you. But you've always been kind of a masochist anyway…

CHAPTERS:

one : pre-season

two: ice, ice, baby

three: jocks and fucks

four : heart eyes

five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven / twelve /thirteen / fourteen / fifteen / sixteen / seventeen / eighteen / nineteen / twenty

SOCIALS : here! I team (detailed + jerseys)

join the taglist!

divider : @dividers-are-us

[porpunta]

Modern/College AU: From Past to Future

ppl on Strawpage requested them, happy to return to modern au 🦭