#established rivalry

[koztion]

The Final Score — C.JH

SYNOPSIS ; The rules were simple: midnight text summons only, no lingering glances in the lecture hall, and absolutely no keeping score in the daylight. For fifteen years, Choi Jongho was the untouchable, clinical engineering king of the TEEZER house who would rather choke than lose an inch of leverage to you. You were his ghost, his secret, his midnight static. Until 12:14 AM. Until the night you didn’t come running, and the campus king realized his flawless fortress couldn’t breathe without the one girl who refused to be a placeholder.

PAIRING(S) ; Frat!Choi Jongho x Fem!Reader

WARNING(S) ; 18+ only, explicit sexual content/smut, childhood rivals to lovers, academic/athletic rivalry, secret relationships / hidden arrangements, heavy angst, intense jealousy, protective/possessive behavior, biting/marking, emotional breakdown, deep praise/worship, aftercare.

WC ; 14,2k

Part 7/8 of THE REVERENCE SERIES

Inspired by Agora Hills by Doja Cat

There are precisely forty-seven reasons why you utterly despise CHOI JONGHO, and every single one of them is currently sitting three rows down in the engineering lecture hall, spinning a matte-black pen between his knuckles with an infuriating, practiced ease.

Your mutual hatred isn't a recent development. It isn't some petty campus drama born from a bad rumor or a spilled drink at a TEEZER house rager. No, your animosity has deep, structural roots—the kind that have been meticulously cultivated over fifteen years of neighborhood block parties, forced family dinners, and an endless, exhausting cycle of micro-competitions.

When you were seven, it was about who could swing the highest on the rusty playground sets until he literally fractured his wrist trying to outdo you, stubbornly refusing to cry in front of the paramedics just so he could glare at you through the ambulance window. When you were twelve, it was his systematic destruction of your science fair project because his model volcano had been two inches shorter than your suspension bridge. Even now, with a black fraternity letters jacket slung carelessly over the back of his chair and half the sophomore girls turning their heads when he walks through the quad, he is still the same insufferable, stubborn boy who once threw your favorite sketchbook into a muddy creek just to prove he could throw further.

"Alright, class," the professor’s voice cuts through your thoughts, the sharp sound of papers rustling echoing through the hall. "The midterms have been graded. Overall, a very competitive curve this semester."

You lean forward, your fingers tightening against the edge of your desk. Across the room, Jongho’s rhythm doesn't even break. The pen keeps spinning over his knuckles, smooth and mocking.

When your paper lands in front of you, the bold red letter at the top brings a familiar rush of satisfaction. An A. You scan down to the percentage—a flawless 98%. You take a quiet breath, a triumphant smile already pulling at the corner of your lips. You did it. You finally broke the tie.

But before you can even slide the exam into your bag, Jongho shifts. He tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes cutting across the crowded rows to lock directly onto yours. He doesn't look stressed. He doesn't look defeated. Slowly, deliberately, he turns his own exam over on his desk, flattening it out just enough for you to read the red ink scrawled across the top.

99%.

A single, miserable point higher than yours.

The smug, imperceptible quirk of his brow is like a match dropped on dry kindling. He doesn't say a word, but he doesn't have to. The scoreboard in his head just tallied another win, and he knows exactly how much it makes your blood boil.

He thinks he’s untouchable. The stoic, unbothered rock of the campus's most notorious house. He thinks this is still a childhood game, and that his armor is completely flawless. But as the lecture hall doors open and the crowd begins to filter out into the blinding midday sun, you gather your things with a dangerous, white-hot focus.

He has absolutely no idea that the final score hasn't been settled yet.

The lecture hall doors swing open with a sharp thud, and Jongho slips through them like smoke—effortless, untouchable, already halfway down the sunlit steps before you can even shove your notebook into your bag. You catch up to him near the library, where the brick walkway widens and the afternoon light cuts harsh angles across his face. His stride doesn’t falter when you fall into step beside him, but you see the exact moment he registers your presence: a slight tension in his jaw, the barest hitch in his breathing before he schools it back into that infuriating calm.

"One point," you say, your voice low and razor-edged. "Really?"

Jongho doesn’t look at you. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders relaxed like he’s out for a stroll. "What, you want a participation ribbon?"

It’s the tone that does it—the smooth, condescending lilt that makes your fingers curl into fists. "You know damn well that bridge design was flawless," you snap. "You just got lucky with a grader who—"

"Still using that excuse?" He cuts you off, finally turning his head just enough to flick a glance at you. The corner of his mouth twitches, the ghost of a smirk. "Thought you’d have outgrown it after the swing set incident."

The swing set incident. The words hang between you like a lit fuse. You were seven, he was seven, and neither of you would let go even when the chains groaned under your combined weight. The memory of him crashing into the gravel, wrist bent wrong but still refusing to cry, makes your pulse spike even now. "You’re such a—"

"Jongho!" The shout cuts through your words like a cleaver. San bounds up from behind, slinging an arm around Jongho’s shoulders with enough force to make him stagger half a step. "House meeting in ten. Wooyoung says if you’re late again, he’s hiding your protein powder." San’s grin is wide, oblivious, his gaze flicking between you two without a hint of recognition for the tension. "Oh. You two fighting over grades again? Shocking."

Mingi appears a second later, shaking his head as he catches up. "Give it up, man. You’re both insufferable." He reaches out to ruffle Jongho’s hair—a gesture Jongho dodges with practiced ease—before nodding toward the library steps. "Yeosang’s waiting."

Yeosang. You hadn’t even noticed him standing there, half-hidden in the shadow of the library’s brick archway. His arms are crossed, his laptop bag slung over one shoulder, and his expression is unreadable—but his eyes lock onto yours for a fraction of a second too long. There’s no teasing in his gaze, no easy dismissal. Just something quiet, calculating, like he’s piecing together a puzzle the others can’t even see.

Jongho exhales sharply, shaking off San’s arm. "Later," he mutters, and though he doesn’t specify who it’s for, the dismissal is clear. The brothers fall into step beside him, their laughter fading as they head toward the TEEZER house, their shadows stretching long in the afternoon sun.

You watch them go, your fingers curled tight around the strap of your bag. The heat in your chest hasn’t cooled—if anything, it’s sharper now, honed by the way Jongho had looked at you, the way his voice had dropped just low enough for only you to hear. He thinks he’s won. Again. 

But he hasn’t. Not really. 

Because the campus only sees the forty-seven reasons you hate him during the day. They see the glares in lecture halls, the clipped words exchanged in passing, the way you both move through the world like opposing magnets, repelling each other with every step. 

They have no idea what happens when the clock hits midnight and your phone lights up with a single, coded message: 204. 

No idea how his hands, so careless in daylight, become deliberate in the dark. How the same voice that mocks you in public drops to a rough whisper behind a locked door. How the boy who refuses to acknowledge you in the quad presses you into his mattress like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

The dorm room ceiling has never been so fascinating. You've been staring at the same crack in the plaster for forty-seven minutes—one minute for every reason you hate him—but the numbers on the digital clock keep crawling forward anyway. 8:13 PM. 8:27. 9:42. The notebook in your lap lies abandoned, equations half-solved where your pen had dug angrily into the paper after the third time his stupid smirk flickered behind your eyelids. 99%. The red ink might as well be bleeding through the page.

Outside, the campus quiets. Laughter from the courtyard fades as parties disperse, footsteps clicking past your window in scattered pairs. Somewhere across the quad, the TEEZER house’s windows still glow gold, but the bass that rattled the library windows earlier has dulled to a murmur. You roll onto your side, fist curling under your chin. The clock reads 11:53.

Seven minutes.

You squeeze your eyes shut. This is pathetic. You shouldn’t be counting. Shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t feel the restless twitch in your fingers every time your phone screen stays dark. You hate him. Hate the way he looked at you today like you were a equation he’d already solved. Hate how his voice drops to that low, rough register when the door locks behind you. Hate how your pulse jumps at both.

The buzz is sudden—vibrating against your thigh like a live wire. You don’t look at the screen. You already know.

The phone burns against your skin, the single-word notification glaring up at you: **204.** No greeting, no explanation—just the room number like a summons you’re too weak to ignore. You swallow hard, your throat tight. This is pathetic. You should delete it. Should roll over and sleep. Should pretend you never saw it.

But your legs are moving before your brain can protest, your feet hitting the cold dorm floor as you shove into jeans and a hoodie. The walk to the TEEZER house is achingly familiar—the crunch of gravel under your sneakers, the distant hum of a lone cicada, the way the streetlights flicker as you pass beneath them like silent witnesses. The house looms ahead, its windows dark except for the faint glow from the second floor. His floor.

The front door is unlocked. Of course it is. They never lock it—too many brothers stumbling in at all hours. The foyer smells like stale beer and fabric softener, the remnants of tonight’s rager still clinging to the air. You take the stairs two at a time, your pulse hammering in your ears. You don’t knock when you reach his door. You never do.

The moment you step inside, the lock clicks behind you. Jongho’s silhouette fills the space between you and the bed, backlit by the dim glow of his desk lamp. His shoulders are tense, his arms crossed like he’s been waiting. Like he knew you’d come.

"One point," you say again, your voice low. It’s stupid—you shouldn’t even be bringing it up now—but the words claw their way out anyway. "You couldn’t just let me have it for once?"

The air in his room is thick with the scent of cedar and rain—sharp, masculine, unmistakably him. You barely have time to register the click of the lock before Jongho’s hands are on you, fingers digging into your hips as he pushes you back against the door. His breath is warm against your temple, his chest rising and falling with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse stutter. 

"One point," he repeats, voice low and rough, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You really came here to whine about one fucking point?" 

You shove against his chest, but he doesn’t budge—just crowds you further into the wood, his thigh slotting between yours with infuriating ease. "You knew what you were doing," you hiss, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. The dim light from his desk lamp catches the smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, the same one that’s been taunting you since the lecture hall. 

"Of course I did." His fingers tighten, pressing bruises into your skin like a silent claim. "You think I don’t know how much it kills you to lose?" 

The truth burns in your throat. It does kill you. Just like it killed you when you were seven and he wouldn’t let go of the swing set chains, when you were twelve and he sabotaged your science fair project, when you were sixteen and he stole your spot in the advanced engineering program. Every victory of his feels like a wound, and he knows it.

His grip tightens, fingers pressing into the dip of your waist like he’s trying to fuse your bones together. “You think I don’t know?” Jongho repeats, low and rough, his breath hot against your ear. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at me when I turned over that exam?”

You tilt your chin up, defiance flaring. “I looked at you like you were cheating.”

The laugh that rumbles through his chest is dark, unamused. “Cheating?” His thigh presses harder between yours, the denim rough against your skin. “You’re the one who showed up at my door.”

“Because you texted me—”

"You came," Jongho murmurs again, his teeth grazing the tendon of your neck, "like you always do." The words vibrate against your skin, a taunt and a truth wrapped in one. His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat—a silent demand for surrender you refuse to give.

"Because you asked," you snap again, arching against him, your knee jerking up instinctively. He blocks it with a grunt, pinning your thigh against the door with his own. "Just like you asked for the advanced engineering spot when we were sixteen. Just like you asked for the swing set to go higher—"

"Stop talking." His voice drops, rough and raw, fingers tightening in your hair like he can physically yank the words from your throat. His knee presses harder between yours, the friction sparking a sharp gasp from you before you can bite it back. The sound seems to fuel him—his other hand slides from your hip to your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge hard enough to make your teeth ache. "You don’t get to throw our past in my face when you’re the one who keeps crawling back."

You bare your teeth, nails digging into his biceps. "I hate you." The lie tastes bitter, but you force it out anyway, like if you say it enough times it’ll stick. Jongho’s smirk is dark, knowing, as he leans in until his lips brush yours—not quite a kiss, just the ghost of one, taunting.

"You don’t," he murmurs, and then his mouth crashes into yours, swallowing your retort. It’s not gentle. It’s never gentle. His tongue is demanding, his teeth sharp where they catch your lower lip, and you arch into him with equal ferocity, biting back just as hard. His grip on your jaw tightens, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and you let him—because as much as you want to claw his eyes out, you also want this: the way his body pins yours to the door, the way his heartbeat thrums wild under your palms, the way he kisses you like he’s starving for it.

His free hand slips under your hoodie, calloused fingers skating up your ribs, and you shiver despite yourself. He doesn’t miss it—of course he doesn’t—and his mouth curves against yours in a smug, silent got you. You retaliate by sinking your teeth into his tongue, and the groan he lets out is worth the way he yanks your hair in retaliation.

"Always fighting," he mutters against your lips, breath ragged. His thigh grinds up against you, and your hips jerk involuntarily. His laugh is low, triumphant. "But your body never lies."

Your response is cut short as his mouth devours yours again, more desperate this time, the territorial edge of his grip leaving no room for the fifteen years of spite that usually keeps you apart. You hate that he’s right. You hate that your body betrays your brilliant, calculating mind the second the lock clicks shut in room 204.

He handles you with a heavy, unyielding certainty, his calloused palms charting the familiar territory of your waist and ribs as he steers you away from the door and toward the unmade mattress. The physical dominance isn't soft—it’s the same fierce, unyielding energy he uses to dominate every room he steps into on campus. When he pushes you back onto the sheets, his weight follows immediately, pinning you down, his dark eyes staring down into yours with a quiet, volatile intensity that feels like an interrogation.

He doesn't speak another word. He doesn't need to. The silence of the room becomes thick, broken only by the ragged sound of your combined breathing and the rustle of denim as the remaining boundaries between you dissolve into the dark.

By three o’clock in the morning, the violent static of the encounter has settled into a heavy, suffocating quiet.

You lie entirely still, staring up at the dark ceiling of his room, the scent of cedar, rain, and the faint metallic tang of sweat clinging to your skin. Jongho is asleep beside you, his large body radiating a deep, solid heat. Even in his sleep, his stubborn possessiveness doesn't waver; his heavy, muscular arm is thrown over your waist, his blunt fingers hooked into the fabric of your hoodie like an anchor, physically locking you to his side.

You look at his face in the amber dimness of the desk lamp. Without the smug, mocking smirk or the sharp glare he shields himself with during the day, he looks entirely too calm. Untouchable.

A familiar, hollow ache carves itself into your chest. You reach down, your fingers lightly tracing the faint, red indents his hands left on your hips—marks that will undoubtedly turn into dark bruises by tomorrow afternoon. Marks that no one else will ever see.

In less than four hours, the sun will rise over the quad. He will slide out of this bed, pull on his black TEEZER letters jacket, and walk out into the daylight with San, Mingi, and the rest of his brothers. He will look right through you in the engineering hall. He will let the campus believe that you are nothing but the neighborhood rival he tolerates out of obligation.

You are the only person on this campus who can match his stride, point-for-point, victory-for-victory. Yet, you are entirely hidden in the dark, a secret tallied on a scoreboard that he refuses to let anyone else read.

Slowly, carefully, so you don’t wake the boy who is entirely too proud to admit he needs you, you close your eyes against the impending daylight, praying that tomorrow you’ll finally find the strength to stop running when he calls.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, damning sound—the kind that shouldn’t echo at 5:30 AM, but does anyway, ricocheting off the empty walls of the TEEZER house’s second-floor hallway. The morning air outside is sharp, a blade of cold slicing through the lingering warmth of Jongho’s sheets still clinging to your skin. You tug the hood of your sweater tighter around your face, fingers brushing the tender skin of your throat where his teeth had left their mark hours earlier. The quad is silent, the sky still bruised with the last remnants of night, and the only sound is the crunch of frost under your sneakers as you walk—too fast, too purposeful—back toward your dorm.

By the time the library’s oak table meets your elbows that afternoon, the exhaustion has settled deep into your bones. The high collar of your shirt itches against the bite marks you’re trying to hide, and the blueprint in front of you blurs at the edges, the numbers swimming in and out of focus. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, willing the fatigue away. It’s useless. Every time you blink, you see the dim glow of Jongho’s desk lamp, the way his shadow had stretched across the ceiling as he’d pinned you to the mattress, the quiet, possessive way his fingers had traced the bruises he’d left.

The library doors swing open with a sound like a gunshot, and your head snaps up. Jongho strides in with Mingi and San flanking him, their laughter too loud for the quiet study space. He doesn’t look at you—not at first. He’s too busy playing his part, the unbothered TEEZER brother, all sharp edges and effortless cool. But then his gaze flicks to your table, to the blueprint under your hands, and his smirk is a familiar, infuriating thing.

"Overcomplicating the load-bearing points again," he says, voice smooth and condescending as he walks past. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down, just tosses the words over his shoulder like they’re nothing. "Some things never change."

Mingi laughs, clapping him on the back like it’s all some inside joke, and San grins, oblivious. Your fingers tighten around your pen, the plastic creaking under the pressure. Jongho’s back is already turned, his broad shoulders blocking the sunlight streaming through the windows as he leads his brothers toward the stacks.

You exhale sharply through your nose and force yourself to look back at your work. The lines blur. You blink—once, twice—and suddenly there’s a shadow across your blueprint. Yeosang slides into the chair opposite you without a word, his movements quiet, deliberate. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. Just studies you with those unsettlingly perceptive eyes, the ones that always feel like they’re peeling back layers you didn’t even know you had.

"You look exhausted," he says, so softly it’s almost lost under the hum of the library. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking to the high collar of your shirt—the one you’ve been tugging at all afternoon. "And he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks."

Your breath catches. Yeosang doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to. The knowing in his voice is a quiet, devastating thing. You open your mouth—to deny, to deflect, to do anything—but he’s already standing, already turning to follow the others. He pauses just long enough to drop one last, lethal observation: 

"Pride is a lonely hill to die on." 

Then he’s gone, melting into the stacks like a ghost, leaving you with the echo of his words and the sinking realization that someone—someone—has been watching far closer than you ever knew.

Yeosang’s shadow vanishes into the rows of heavy textbooks, but the ghost of his words remains pinned to your chest like a physical weight.

Pride is a lonely hill to die on.

Your fingers press hard against the edge of the oak table, the wood grain biting into your palms as you try to stop the sudden, violent tremor in your hands. He knows. Or, at the very least, he sees the fractured seams of the lie you and Jongho have spent months meticulously sewing together. A cold sweat breaks out along the nape of your neck, your high collar suddenly feeling less like a shield and more like a noose.

If Yeosang can see it, how long until Yunho does? How long until San and Mingi realize that the venomous bickering in the lecture halls isn't hatred at all, but the residual heat of midnight?

Your gaze drifts blindly back to the blurred lines of the load-bearing blueprint, but your mind is already violently downshifting backward, slipping through the gears of the semester until it lands precisely three months ago. On a rainy Friday night in November. On the night the scoreboard was permanently defaced.

The TEEZER house had been a circus that night. The bass had been vibrating so violently through the floorboards of the foyer that it made the ice in your solo cup rattle, the air thick with the suffocating scent of cheap vodka, sweat, and spilled beer. You hadn't wanted to go. You had told yourself that celebrating the end of midterms at the stronghold of your enemy was a tactical error.

But then you had walked past the kitchen, and you had heard his voice.

Smooth, arrogant, and entirely unbothered, delivering a clinical assessment of your latest lab presentation to a circle of laughing soccer players. “She’s precise,” he’d muttered, swigging from a silver can, his eyes dark and lazy under the brim of his backward cap. “But she doesn't have the stomach to take the top spot. She gets too emotional when she loses.”

The white-hot rage that had ignited in your gut in that exact second hadn't just been anger. It had been an eviction notice for your self-control. You didn't think. You didn't calculate. You had marched straight through the crowd, grabbed the collar of his heavy black letters jacket, and dragged the campus king out of the light and straight up the stairs toward the quiet madness of room 204.

The door slams shut behind you with enough force to make the framed poster of Einstein rattle against the cinderblock wall. The sudden silence—or as silent as it gets with the muffled bass still thumping through the floor—is deafening. Jongho barely has time to blink before you're shoving him backward, your palms flat against his chest. "Emotional?" you hiss, the word sharp enough to draw blood. "You think I get emotional when I lose?" Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. "Like when you sabotaged my eighth-grade science fair project because you knew I'd beat you? Or when you stole my spot in the advanced program because daddy pulled strings?"

Jongho's eyes darken, his jaw tensing as he steps forward, forcing you back until your thighs hit the edge of his desk. "You're proving my point right now," he mutters, voice low and dangerous. His hands come up to grip your wrists, his thumbs pressing into your pulse points—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you acutely aware of how easily he could. "Look at you. Breathing like you're about to combust."

You yank your wrists free, shoving at him again. "You don't get to dismiss me like that in front of—"

His mouth crashes into yours before you can finish the sentence. It's not a kiss. It's a demolition. His hands cup your jaw, tilting your head back as his tongue invades your mouth with the same arrogant ownership he uses to dominate lecture halls. You bite down—hard—and the growl that tears from his throat vibrates against your lips. He pulls back just enough to glare down at you, his chest heaving. "You don't get to drag me up here and then pretend you're above this," he breathes, voice ragged.

The air between you crackles, thick with something neither of you wants to name. The desk digs into the backs of your thighs, the party's bass a distant thrum beneath your racing heartbeat. Jongho's gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, lingering on the rapid rise and fall of your chest. His fingers tighten on your hips, blunt nails pressing crescent moons into your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Tell me to stop," he challenges, voice rough.

You don't.

His breath hitches, then he's kissing you again, slower this time, his hands sliding up your sides to grip your ribs like he's measuring you for a blueprint only he can read. When he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, his pupils blown wide. "No one finds out," he murmurs against your mouth, each word a reluctant surrender. "In the morning, you don't look at me. We go back to normal."

You recognize the lie before he finishes speaking. There is no normal left—not after this. But you nod anyway, sealing the silent pact with another searing kiss, your fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you onto the desk with effortless strength, scattering papers and pens in a reckless arc across the floor.

The memory of that desk fracturing under your weight fades, dissolving like smoke as the ambient hum of the university library forces its way back into your ears.

You blink, your vision clearing to focus on the blue lines of the load-bearing blueprint under your trembling hands. The wood of the oak library table is cold beneath your palms—a stark, freezing contrast to the phantom heat of his desk from three months ago. Your thumb subconsciously drags down to the dip of your hip, pressing against the very spot where his blunt nails had left crescent moons that night. The marks from last night are fresh, still burning under your high-collared shirt, but the unwritten contract remains exactly the same.

In the morning, you don't look at me. We go back to normal.

But as you look toward the empty space between the library stacks where Yeosang had been standing just moments ago, you realize the terrifying truth. There is no normal left to go back to. The seams are splitting. The silent pact you signed in the dark is bleeding into the daylight, and for the first time in fifteen years, you aren't sure if you have the stomach to keep playing his game.

You shove your books into your bag with too much force, the zipper catching on the corner of a notebook. The sound rips through the library’s quiet like a gunshot, and several heads turn your way—none of them Jongho’s. He’s still in the stacks with his brothers, his broad back turned to you, his posture relaxed like he hasn’t just had his entire facade cracked open by Yeosang’s quiet observation. Your fingers tremble as you sling your bag over your shoulder, the strap digging into the fresh bruises hidden beneath your hoodie.

The quad is too bright, too open. Every shadow feels like a set of eyes tracking your steps. Yunho jogs past you toward the gym, his headphones in, but when he nods in casual greeting, your stomach knots. Does he know? Wooyoung’s laughter carries from the campus cafe steps, sharp and bright, and even though he’s facing the opposite direction, the back of your neck burns. It’s irrational. It’s illogical. You’re an engineer—you solve problems with data, not paranoia—but your mind is a wildfire, consuming every glance, every half-second pause, every flicker of attention from a TEEZER brother.

Your dorm room offers no refuge. The door clicks shut behind you, but the silence is worse than the scrutiny outside. You press your forehead to the cool wood, eyes squeezed shut, and hate yourself for the way your pulse jumps at the memory of Jongho’s hands, possessive in the dark, dismissive in the light.

The lecture hall is a battlefield. You take your usual seat—three rows behind him, far enough to maintain the lie, close enough to count the freckles on the back of his neck when the light hits just right. Today, the professor announces peer-reviews, and the room erupts in the rustle of papers and murmured conversations. Jongho doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t react. His shoulders are a fortress, his pen moving in precise, unhurried strokes as he makes notes on his draft.

When the professor calls your name paired with his, the air leaves your lungs. Jongho finally turns, his expression blank as he slides into the empty seat beside you. The scent of cedar and rain hits you like a physical blow. His knee brushes yours under the desk, a fleeting contact that sends a jolt up your spine. His fingers graze yours as he hands over his paper, the touch deliberate enough to make your breath catch—but his eyes are cold, detached, like you’re a stranger he’s been forced to tolerate.

"Your load-bearing calculations are off," he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear. His thumb traces the edge of your paper, a silent contradiction to his clinical tone. "Page three. You overcompensated."

You stare at him, searching for cracks in his mask, for any sign that Yeosang’s observation has rattled him. There’s nothing. Just the same infuriating calm, the same arrogant tilt to his chin. The disconnect between the boy who whispers your name in the dark and the one who looks through you in broad daylight is enough to make your hands shake. You grip your pen tighter. "I didn’t ask for your opinion."

His lips twitch. "You never do." He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts over your ear. "But you always take it."

The arrogance in his whisper is a spark hitting dry kindling. For fifteen years, he has known exactly which buttons to press to compromise your structural integrity, and it infuriates you that even under the glaring, sterile fluorescent lights of the lecture hall, his gravity is absolute.

You pull your paper back with a sharp, decisive snap of the parchment, breaking the brief, suffocating orbit between you. "Fix your own structural flaws, Choi," you mutter, keeping your voice low, a razor blade wrapped in a velvet tone. "Before someone else points them out for you."

For a single, micro-second fraction of a breath, his thumb freezes against the wood of the desk. His dark eyes narrow—just a millimeter—and you know the hit landed. You aren't just talking about blueprints anymore, and he knows it. The ghost of Yeosang’s watchful gaze hangs invisibly between you, a silent threat to the empire of dirt you’ve both built in room 204. But before the silence can stretch into something dangerous, Jongho pulls his mask perfectly back into place. He slides his chair back with a dull screech, picks up his peer-review sheet, and walks back to his row without looking back.

By 11:54 PM, the silence in your dorm room is thick enough to choke on.

You’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours, the math on your desk untouched, your phone sitting on the mattress right next to your thigh. Your thumb hooks into the high collar of your shirt, pulling it down just enough to look at the faint, purple-ringed shadow on your collarbone in the dim light of your desk lamp. A physical receipt of his possession.

You’re done. The thought hardens in your chest like setting concrete. You are a brilliant engineering student, an equal competitor, not an embarrassing secret he gets to tuck away into a drawer when the sun comes up. If he wants to act like you don't exist in the quad, then you will gladly cease to exist when the clock strikes twelve.

11:58. Your heart begins its familiar, treasonous hammer against your ribs.

11:59. You reach out, your fingers deliberate and steady as you flip the phone completely face-down against the mattress. You press your palms flat into the mattress, bracing yourself, closing your eyes. Let it buzz, you tell yourself. Let it vibrate until the battery dies. You aren't going.

At exactly 12:00, the phone shudders against the sheets.

A short, sharp, single vibration.

12:01 AM. The phone lies still. Silent. Dead.

You exhale through your nose, slow and controlled, fingers curling into the sheets. The mattress creaks beneath you as you shift, your skin too tight, your bones too heavy. The clock ticks—one agonizing second at a time—but the phone doesn’t vibrate again. Of course it doesn’t. Jongho doesn’t chase. He doesn’t plead. He texts once, and you come running. That’s the rule. That’s always been the rule.

12:05 AM. Your jaw aches from how hard you’ve been clenching it.

The dorm room is too quiet. The hum of the mini-fridge is deafening. You stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster like they’re load-bearing equations you can solve if you just focus hard enough. But your mind keeps slipping—back to the library, back to Yeosang’s knowing stare, back to Jongho’s thumb brushing yours in the lecture hall like a secret. Your skin prickles, hot and restless. You dig your nails into your palms. Don’t move.

12:10 AM. The phone stays dark.

The silence stretching across the floor feels like concrete setting over your chest. You’ve never made it to ten past midnight. Usually, by 12:10 AM, you’re already crossing the gravel path toward the glowing second-floor window of the TEEZER house, your sneakers chewing up the distance because the pull is too magnetic to resist.

Now, the sheer inaction feels like a physical assault. Your body is screaming at you to reach out, to flip the glass screen over, to cave. But the memory of his clinical, unbothered stare in the bright lecture hall hardens your resolve. Let him wait, you think, a bitter, trembling triumph flickering in your gut. Let him realize what happens when the math doesn’t add up in his favor.

12:14 AM. The phone shudders.

It’s a violent, unexpected buzz against the thin mattress that makes your entire frame jump. Your breath Hitches, catching painfully in your throat. You don’t move. You don’t touch it. You count to ten, forcing your lungs to expand, but before you hit eight, it buzzes a second time—longer, sharper, completely obliterating his unwritten rule of a single, clinical summons.

Your hand moves before your pride can intercept it. You flip the screen over, the harsh white light bleeding into the dark room, blinding you for a fraction of a second.

204: Where are you?

Four minutes later, a second text glares beneath it.

204: The door is unlocked.

Your heart hammers a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. He has never texted twice. In three months of hidden midnight static, he has never asked a question, and he has certainly never checked his watch. The control is fracturing; you can feel the microscopic fissures spreading through his flawless armor from across the campus quad. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed in room 204, his broad shoulders tense, staring at a dark screen just like you are, realizing for the first time that his flawless system has a structural flaw.

You throw the phone face-down again, a cold, dangerous thrill rushing through your veins. You don't reply. You leave the text hanging in the digital ether, an unanswered equation, and pull the duvet up to your chin, forcing your eyes closed. You’ve won. For the first time since you were seven years old on the playground, you’ve taken his leverage and snapped it in half.

The victory lasts exactly twenty minutes.

12:38 AM.

The quiet of the freshman dorm hall is absolute at this hour, a sterile expanse of linoleum and fire doors. That’s why the sound registers immediately—heavy, deliberate, entirely unmistakable footsteps echoing from the stairwell.

They aren't the scattered, stumbling strides of a drunk student returning from a rager. They are measured. Heavy. Driven by a quiet, volatile purpose that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The footsteps stop directly outside your door.

Your breath completely dies in your throat.

There is no knock. Instead, the heavy brass handle of your dorm room door suddenly groans, turning slowly, deliberately, as someone tests the lock from the outside.

The lock clicks—a soft, damning sound—and your entire body goes rigid. The door groans open before you can even process the violation, revealing Jongho’s broad silhouette haloed by the dim hallway light. His hoodie is pulled up, shadows carving deep into the sharp lines of his clenched jaw. He looks entirely out of place in your cramped dorm, too large for the floral-patterned rug, too volatile for the quiet hum of your desk lamp. 

"You don’t get to do this," you snap before he can speak, throwing off the duvet. The cold air hits your bare legs, but you don’t care. "You don’t get to ignore me in lecture halls and then break into my room when I don’t come running." 

Jongho shuts the door behind him with deliberate calm, the click of the latch too controlled for the storm in his eyes. "You didn’t answer," he says, voice low, rough. Like it’s an explanation. Like it’s your fault. 

"Because I didn’t want to!" The words tear out of you, raw and jagged. You jab a finger toward the window, where the outline of the TEEZER house looms across the quad. "You want to pretend I don’t exist in the daylight? Fine. But you don’t get to rewrite the rules when it’s you sitting alone in the dark." 

The hit lands, and you watch the precise millisecond it punctures his perfect, unbothered armor.

Jongho doesn't move. He stands rooted by your door, his broad shoulders blocking the only exit, but his chest is rising and falling in a rapid, fractured rhythm that shatters the lie of his stoicism. Under the low amber glow of your desk lamp, his dark eyes track the movement of your hand, then drop down to your bare legs, before snapping back up to lock onto yours with a terrifying, white-hot intensity.

"You think I wanted to stay there?" he whispers, and the sheer roughness of his voice makes your pulse stutter. He takes a slow, predatory step forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight as he invades your space. "You think I sat in room 204 looking at the clock because I wanted to?"

"I don't care why you did it," you lie, your chin tilting up as he stops mere inches from you. 

The familiar, suffocating scent of cedar and rain rolls off his jacket, filling your small room until you can barely breathe. "The contract was your idea, Choi. In the morning, we go back to normal. Those were your exact fucking words. So go back to the TEEZER house and go back to normal."

"There is no normal," he growls, his iron control finally snapping in half.

Before you can blink, his hands are on you. He doesn't pin you to a desk this time; he grabs your waist with a fierce, desperate grip, his fingers digging right through the fabric of your hoodie to find the fresh indents he left on your skin last night. He yanks you flush against his chest, his large frame completely enveloping yours as he forces you backward until your spine hits the wall beside your bed.

"Yeosang was looking at you," Jongho breathes, his forehead dropping against yours, his eyes blown wide and wild with a panic he’s never allowed himself to feel in his entire life. His breath is hot and ragged against your lips. "He was looking at you in the library, and you were pulling at your collar, and all I could think about was the fact that I put those marks there. And then midnight hits, and you aren't there, and my room is entirely too quiet, and I—"

He cuts himself off, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek. He looks furious—utterly disgusted by his own vulnerability, terrified by the realization that the neighborhood girl he’s been competing with for fifteen years has somehow become the only thing keeping his world from tilting off its axis.

"You what?" you challenge, your voice trembling despite the fire in your veins. You reach up, your hands bunching into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer even as you fight him. "Say it, Jongho."

"I couldn't breathe," he admits, the confession tearing out of his throat like a jagged piece of glass. His grip on your waist tightens until it’s borderline bruising, a silent, desperate plea dressed up as a demand. "I couldn't fucking breathe without you in that room."

The moment hangs suspended between you—raw, exposed, like a nerve. Jongho’s confession lingers in the air, jagged and undeniable, his grip on your waist trembling with the weight of it. You stare at him, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat, watching the way his pupils swallow the dark brown of his irises whole.

Then, without warning, he crashes into you.

His mouth finds yours with none of the calculated dominance of room 204—this kiss is frantic, desperate, his lips moving against yours like he’s trying to carve the truth into your skin. His hands slide up your sides, fingers splaying wide over your ribs as if he’s afraid you’ll dissolve beneath them. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that borders on painful. There’s no smugness here, no victory—just the unrelenting press of his body pinning you to the wall, the erratic thud of his heartbeat against your chest.

He breaks away only to drag his lips along your jaw, his breath scalding against your pulse. “Tell me you’re mine,” he murmurs, the words rough, uneven. His teeth graze the tender skin beneath your ear, and your hips jerk involuntarily against his. “Say it.”

You claw at the fabric of his hoodie, twisting it in your fists. “You don’t get to ask that,” you pant, tilting your head to give him better access even as the words leave your mouth. “Not when you won’t even look at me in the quad.”

Jongho stills, his breath hitching against your throat. For a long moment, he doesn’t move—then, slowly, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and something raw flickers in their depths. “Then look at me now,” he says, voice low, almost pleading. His thumbs trace the curve of your cheekbones, his touch unbearably gentle compared to the bruising grip he’d had on your waist moments ago. “I’m looking.”

The quiet admission hangs between you, fragile and weightless. You exhale shakily, your fingers loosening their grip on his hoodie. “It can’t just be in the dark,” you whisper. “Not anymore.”

Jongho’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t look away. “I know,” he says, the words gritted out like they cost him something. His hands slide down to cradle yours, his calloused fingers threading through yours with a hesitance that’s entirely new. “But if I—if they see—”

“Then let them.” You squeeze his hands, hard. “Or I walk away. For good.”

The threat lingers in the air, sharp and unyielding. Jongho’s grip tightens reflexively, his breath catching. For a heartbeat, you think he might argue—then, with a ragged exhale, his shoulders slump. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes slipping shut. “Okay,” he murmurs, the word barely audible. “Okay.”

The surrender settles heavily over the small room, the finality of it vibrating in the space between your chests. For fifteen years, victory was the only currency Choi Jongho traded in, but right now, looking at the slight fracture in his jawline and the way his long eyelashes shadow his cheekbones, you realize he has never looked more thoroughly defeated—or more entirely yours.

He doesn't leave. When he finally pulls his forehead away from yours, he doesn't reach for the doorknob or check his watch to calculate how many hours remain before the campus wakes up. Instead, he guides you toward the narrow twin bed, his movements stripped of all his usual engineering precision. When he slides under the covers beside you, still wearing his heavy black hoodie, he rolls onto his side and hooks an arm over your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

He holds you with a quiet, territorial desperation, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deep rhythm as sleep finally claims him. You lie awake for a long time, staring out the small dorm window at the distant, dark silhouette of the TEEZER house across the quad. The rules of the game have officially collapsed. By morning, the campus will wake up, the sun will illuminate every secret you’ve hidden in the dark, and Jongho will have to choose between his lifelong pride and the girl he couldn't breathe without.

The morning sun doesn't just rise over the university quad; it breaks through your thin dorm blinds like an accusation.

When your eyes flicker open at 7:45 AM, the first thing you register is the overwhelming, suffocating heat of a body pressed flush against your back. Jongho is still here. His broad frame occupies nearly three-quarters of your narrow mattress, his thick arm thrown over your ribs like an iron anchor locking you to the sheets. The scent of cedar and rain is embedded so deeply into your pillowcase that it feels permanent.

You try to shift, testing the weight of his grip, but his fingers instinctively tighten into the fabric of your shirt, a low, unconscious growl vibrating deep in his chest as he pulls you closer against him.

"Jongho," you whisper, your voice rough with sleep. "Jongho, let go. Class starts in forty minutes."

His eyelids flutter, his dark eyes cloudy and unfocused as he blinks against the morning light. For a fraction of a second, you see the exact moment his clinical brain reboots—the moment he realizes he isn't in room 204, that the sun is fully up, and that he has spent the entire night on the wrong side of the campus quad.

He sits up abruptly, the mattress groaning beneath his weight as he runs a large, calloused hand over his face. His hair is a chaotic, messy ruin, a stark contrast to the perfectly styled, untouchable campus king who walked into the library yesterday afternoon.

"You're going to be late," you murmur, sitting up beside him, your knees pulling to your chest as you watch him carefully. "San and Mingi are going to wonder where you are."

Jongho’s hand freezes against his jaw. The mention of his brothers acts like a cold bucket of water, the rigid, protective armor of his public persona instantly trying to reconstruct itself over his features. He looks at his phone, his jaw tightening as he sees three missed calls from Yunho.

"I have to go," he mutters, his voice low and gravelly as he swings his legs over the edge of your bed, reaching for his sneakers.

The familiar, hollow ache begins to stir in your stomach. It looks exactly like the old routine. The panic in his shoulders, the sudden distance, the desperate urgency to slip out into the morning shadows before anyone can tally the score.

"Jongho," you say, your voice flat, unyielding.

He stops, one sneaker half-laced, his broad back tensing beneath the black cotton of his hoodie. He doesn't turn around, but you can see the muscle leaping in his jaw.

"Remember what I said," you whisper into the quiet room, the words hard as flint. "If you look through me today—if you play the part out there—we are completely done. I won't be your ghost anymore."

A heavy, suffocating silence stretches across the linoleum floor. Jongho remains entirely still for ten long seconds, his fingers knotted in his shoelaces. Then, without a word, he finishes tying his shoe, pulls his hood up over his face, and exits your room, the latch clicking shut behind him with a sharp, definitive snap.

The quad is a minefield at 9:17 AM.

You walk faster than usual, your boots scuffing against the worn cobblestones as you clutch your engineering binder to your chest like a shield. The morning sun is too bright, the chatter of passing students too loud, the weight of your high-collared sweater suddenly suffocating. You keep your eyes locked on the concrete steps of the engineering building ahead, but your pulse thrums in your throat anyway, wild and uneven.

The hallway inside is worse.

A thick crowd clusters around the bulletin board where the advanced lab results are pinned. San’s loud laughter cuts through the murmur of students before you even see him, his broad frame leaning against the wall beside Mingi, who’s scrolling through his phone with a lazy grin. Yunho stands slightly apart, his sharp eyes scanning the room like he’s mentally cataloging every potential player for the weekend’s party.

And Jongho—

Jongho is a statue.

He stands with his back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his face an unreadable mask of indifference. The sharp angles of his jaw are set in perfect, practiced neutrality, his dark eyes fixed somewhere past the crowd. He looks every inch the untouchable TEEZER brother—until your foot hits the top step.

His gaze snaps to you like a magnet finding steel.

The sudden shift is almost imperceptible—a slight straightening of his shoulders, the faintest tightening of his fingers around his biceps—but it sends a jolt down your spine all the same. You force yourself to keep walking, your binder clenched tight against your ribs, your pulse hammering in your throat. The crowd parts just enough for you to slip through, but the air feels thicker here, charged with something electric.

San notices you first. “Oh shit,” he stage-whispers, nudging Mingi with his elbow. “Look who’s here to lose again.”

Mingi grins, leaning against Yunho’s shoulder. “Bet she’s still crying about last semester’s—”

Jongho moves.

One second he’s a statue against the wall, the next he’s crossing the hallway in three long strides, cutting between his brothers without a word. He stops directly in front of you, closer than he’s ever dared in daylight, his broad frame blocking San and Mingi from view. The chatter around you dims, muffled by the sudden rush of blood in your ears.

For a heartbeat, he just looks at you—really looks, his dark eyes tracing the shadows under yours, the way your fingers tremble slightly around the edges of your binder. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches out and takes it from your hands.

The weight leaves your grip so suddenly you almost stumble. Jongho’s fingers brush against yours—deliberate, lingering—before he tucks the binder under his arm like it belongs there. The entire hallway holds its breath.

San chokes on his own spit behind him. “What the fuck,” Mingi whispers, loud enough to carry.

Jongho doesn’t react. His gaze never wavers from yours, his expression unreadable except for the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his throat moves when he swallows. The binder creaks under his grip.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he turns his head just enough to glance at the bulletin board—at the freshly posted rankings where your name sits one slot above his. When he looks back at you, something dangerous flickers in his eyes. Not resentment. Not defeat. Something hotter, hungrier.

“Congrats,” he murmurs, so low only you can hear it. The word curls between you like smoke, weighted with fifteen years of unsaid things.

Behind him, Yunho’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. San opens and closes his mouth like a fish. Mingi’s phone slips from his fingers and hits the tile with a crack.

You swallow hard, your pulse rabbiting in your throat. Jongho doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there holding your binder like it’s a declaration of war—or a white flag. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting sharp shadows across the sharp cut of his jaw. Somewhere down the hall, a freshman drops a stack of papers, the sound like gunfire in the silence.

Then Yunho whistles, long and low. “Well,” he drawls, stepping forward with a smirk. “This explains why Jongho’s been—”

Jongho’s elbow connects with Yunho’s ribs so fast it’s barely a blur. Yunho wheezes, doubling over with a laugh that’s half agony. “Jesus,” he croaks, clutching his side. “You could’ve just said you were fucking her, man.”

The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Jongho’s grip tightens on your binder, his knuckles bleaching white. For one suspended second, you think he might actually swing—then his shoulders drop. He exhales through his nose, turns his head, and looks Yunho dead in the eye.

“Yeah,” he says, flat and final. “I am.”

The hallway doesn’t just go quiet; it completely empties of oxygen.

San’s jaw dropped so fast you can practically hear the joints click. Mingi stares down at his cracked phone screen on the tile floor like he’s forgotten what a phone even is. Even Yunho, still clutching his bruised ribs, freezes, the smug, baiting smirk completely vanishing from his face as the sheer weight of what Jongho just admitted settles over the group.

Choi Jongho doesn't do relationship rumors. He doesn't do campus drama. He certainly doesn't do vulnerability in front of the TEEZER house. Yet here he is, standing under the brutal, unforgiving fluorescent lights of the engineering hall, holding your binder like a prize and claiming you in front of the entire junior class.

"Jongho," San finally chokes out, his voice cracking slightly as he steps forward, his eyes darting frantically between you and his brother. "What the hell are you—"

"We're going to be late for lab," Jongho interrupts, his voice dropping into that low, immovable register that means an argument is already over before it starts. He doesn't look back at them. He doesn't offer a single word of explanation, defense, or context.

Instead, his large, calloused hand drops to the small of your back.

The heat of his palm burns straight through the heavy knit of your high-collared sweater, a solid, unyielding pressure that steers you completely away from the bulletin board and down the long concrete corridor. Your legs feel like lead, your brain trying to compute the fact that you aren't hiding anymore. You are walking down the most public hallway on campus, your name sitting at number one on the scoreboard, and the king is walking half a step behind you like an honor guard.

As you turn the corner toward the laboratory doors, your gaze involuntarily flickers toward the back of the crowded hallway.

Standing near the library entryway, entirely separate from the chaos, is Yeosang. He has his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his expression as serene and unreadable as a lake at dawn. But as your eyes meet across the sea of stunned faces, his lips curve into the faintest, most microscopic shadow of a smile. He gives you one slow, deliberate nod.

The lonely hill is gone.

The lab door clicks shut behind you with a quiet finality, sealing you both inside the sterile, fluorescent-lit room. The scent of acetone and metal lingers in the air, mingling with the heavy silence between you. Jongho doesn’t move. His broad frame blocks the exit, his shoulders rigid beneath his hoodie, his fingers still wrapped around your binder like it’s the only tether keeping him grounded.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jongho exhales sharply through his nose, his dark eyes flickering to yours. "Yeah," he mutters, his voice rough. "I did."

The admission hangs between you, raw and unpolished. You step closer, your boots scuffing against the linoleum. "You just torched your entire reputation in front of everyone."

His jaw tightens. "Good."

The simplicity of it knocks the breath from your lungs. You reach for your binder still clenched in his grip, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, his fingers slide between yours, anchoring you in place. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting sharp shadows across the stubborn set of his shoulders.

Somewhere beyond the lab door, muffled footsteps and laughter echo down the hall—San’s loud voice carrying, Mingi’s disbelieving cackle cutting through. Jongho doesn’t flinch. His thumb traces slow, absent circles over your knuckles, his gaze locked on your face with a focus usually reserved for blueprints and midterm equations.

"Your brothers are going to interrogate you," you whisper.

His mouth twitches. "Let them."

"You don’t—" You swallow. "You don’t have to—"

"Stop." His grip tightens around your fingers. His hoodie sleeve rides up just enough to reveal the faint crescent marks your nails left last night—the same ones mirrored beneath your sweater. "I know what I did."

The lab door swings open with a metallic groan. Yeosang steps inside, holding two steaming paper cups. He doesn’t react to the sight of Jongho’s fingers tangled with yours. Just sets one coffee on the nearest workstation and slides it toward you with two fingers. 

"San’s having a crisis in the lounge," he says mildly. "Mingi bet Yunho fifty bucks this was a long-con prank." His gaze flicks to Jongho. "Hongjoong wants to see you. Now."

Jongho exhales sharply through his nose. His thumb presses into your pulse point—once, twice—before he lets go. 

"Wait for me," he mutters, already halfway to the door.

The door clicks shut behind Jongho, leaving a vacuum of sound in his wake.

You stare at the heavy oak wood, your hand still hovering in the empty space where his fingers had just been anchored. Your pulse is a frantic, erratic thing against your skin, the phantom heat of his thumb still burning against your wrist. For fifteen years, he had been an immovable wall—a rival who would rather choke on his own spit than give you an inch of leverage. And in the span of an hour, he had dismantled his own fortress and left the gate wide open.

"The coffee is getting cold," Yeosang’s voice cuts through the static, quiet and perfectly level.

You turn slowly. He’s already pulled out a high metal stool, his long legs crossed at the ankle as he sips from his own paper cup. He looks entirely unaffected by the nuclear fallout that had just occurred in the hallway, his sharp, delicate features illuminated by the harsh white glare of the lab's fluorescent tubes.

You reach for the cup he slid toward you, your fingers trembling slightly against the cardboard sleeve. "You aren't going to ask?"

"Why would I?" Yeosang tilts his head, a faint, almost imperceptible curve touching the corner of his mouth. "I have eyes. I've had them all semester."

A flush creeps up your neck, hot and stinging against the high collar of your sweater. You take a swallow of the bitter black liquid just to keep from having to look him dead in the eye. "He didn't mean to do that. He just... lost his mind for a second."

"Jongho doesn’t lose his mind," Yeosang corrects softly, his gaze dropping to the engineering blueprint spread across the adjacent desk—the one where your name sat firmly at the top slot. "He calculates. Every angle, every stress point, every variable. If he walked out there and told the entire house that he belongs to you, it’s because he realized the alternative was letting you walk away."

He sets his cup down with a soft clink against the black laminate tabletop.

"The unwritten contract was a coward's game anyway," Yeosang adds, his voice slipping into that lethal, perceptive register that makes you feel entirely transparent. "You can only hide a fire for so long before the smoke starts choking you both. Go to the house tonight. Don't use the back stairs."

Before you can answer, he's already picking up his tablet, leaving you alone with the hum of the ventilation system and the sinking, exhilarating realization that the shadows are completely gone. There is no going back to Room 204.

By 8:30 PM, the TEEZER house looks exactly the same from the outside, but it feels entirely different as your boots hit the gravel driveway.

The heavy bass of a speaker system is already vibrating through the front windows, the front porch littered with empty red cups and the low hum of early-weekend pre-gaming. Usually, when you came here, it was under the cover of a freezing 2 AM fog, your hoodie pulled down so low your eyes were practically blind, slipping through the cracked side gate and sprinting up the wooden fire escape like a thief.

Tonight, you walk straight up the front steps.

Your hand hovers over the heavy brass handle—the TEEZER crest etched into the metal—before you push it open.

The heat of the foyer hits you first, thick with the scent of expensive cologne, spilled lager, and old wood. In the living room, a crowd is gathered around the pool table. Wooyoung is sitting on the back of the sofa, gesturing wildly with a can of soda, while Seonghwa is leaning against the doorframe, checking his watch.

The moment your shadow crosses the threshold, the dynamic in the room downshifts with a violent, screeching halt.

Wooyoung’s mouth stays open, the joke he was telling dying mid-sentence. San, who was in the middle of lining up a shot with his cue, freezes entirely, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of you standing in the light of their front entryway. Mingi slowly lowers his drink, his lazy grin fading into something sharp and intensely curious.

The silence is suffocating, a heavy, physical weight that settles over the entire first floor. They aren't looking at you like the annoying engineering girl who always bickers with their youngest brother anymore. They are looking at you like an intruder who just marched into the inner sanctum with the king's crown in her hand.

"Well, well," Hongjoong’s voice cuts through the tension from the top of the stairs.

The captain of the house descends slowly, his heavy silver rings clinking against the wooden banister. His sharp, cat-like eyes lock onto yours, unreadable and terrifyingly intelligent. He stops at the bottom step, crossing his arms over his chest as he studies you.

"I was wondering if you'd actually show up through the front door," Hongjoong says, his tone level, a dangerous smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He looks back toward the living room, his voice rising just enough to command the entire house. "San. Mingi. Back off. She’s untouchable now. You know the rules."

San clears his throat, shifting his cue stick from one hand to the other, his usual cocky bravado completely replaced by a tense, respectful nod. "Yeah. Obviously. We're just... playing pool."

"Good," Hongjoong mutters. Then his eyes snap back to you, jabbing a thumb toward the second floor. "He’s upstairs. He’s been pacing the floorboards so hard I thought the ceiling was going to collapse on my desk. Go fix him."

The grand staircase creaks under your boots—each step echoing louder than necessary, broadcasting your ascent to every brother in the house. Below, the living room hums with suspended conversation, the weight of their collective gaze pressing against your back like a physical hand. Mingi’s pool cue clatters against the tile. Someone coughs. No one speaks.

You don’t look back.

The second-floor hallway is dimly lit, the old wood floors groaning underfoot as you pass closed doors—Room 201 (Hongjoong’s office, strictly off-limits), Room 202 (San’s, littered with half-empty protein shakes), Room 203 (Yunho’s, perpetually smelling of cedar and ambition). Then—Room 204.

You don’t wait for a text. You knock.

The door swings open so fast the hinges protest.

Jongho stands in the doorway, and for a fraction of a second, the stark contrast between the campus king and the boy in front of you knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

He’s completely stripped of his public armor. His heavy black combat boots are gone, left tossed carelessly near his closet. His hair is a chaotic, messy ruin—the product of his large, thick fingers repeatedly plowing through it in an agony of suspense. The iron-clad neatness of Room 204 has fractured, too; a stack of reference papers has been swept off his desk onto the rug, and his bedsheets are a tangled testament to hours of restless, hyper-fixated waiting.

When his dark eyes lock onto yours, the relief that flashes across his sharp features is so raw it’s borderline violent. Before you can even utter a word, he reaches out, his massive, calloused hand wrapping around your wrist—not to drag you, but pulling you over the threshold with a desperate, heavy urgency.

He slams the door shut behind you, the click of the heavy brass latch sealing out the rest of the world, the bass from downstairs, and the fifteen years of warfare that brought you here.

"You came through the front door," he breathes, his voice incredibly low, thick with a rough, gravelly edge that rubs like sandpaper against your nerves. He doesn't let go of your wrist; instead, his thumb automatically finds your pulse point, feeling the frantic, rabbiting beat of your heart.

"Hongjoong told me to come up," you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the fire roaring through your veins. You look up at him, tilting your chin to meet his intense, unyielding stare. "He said you were tearing up the floorboards. Did he give you hell for what you did in the hallway?"

Jongho lets out a short, harsh sound through his nose—a cynical laugh wrapped in a sigh of utter surrender. He steps closer, his broad chest pressing so close against yours that you can feel the heavy, uneven rise and fall of his lungs.

"He chewed me out for twenty minutes about breaking protocol, about distraction, about the house image," Jongho murmurs, his eyes dropping to your mouth before snapping back to yours, blown wide with a dark, possessive hunger. His other hand comes up, his heavy fingers sliding under the high collar of your sweater to trace the tender skin of your collarbone. "And I told him I didn't give a single flying fuck. I told him he could take the house presidency and burn it down for all I cared."

Your breath hitches. "Jongho..."

"I meant what I said out there," he interrupts, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to anchor you to his frame. The arrogance is entirely gone, replaced by an intense, terrifying vulnerability that makes him look like he's kneeling before you even while standing at his full height. "No more back stairs. No more midnights. I don't care if the whole damn world watches us. My pride doesn't mean anything if I have to sit in this room pretending you aren't the only thing keeping me alive."

The confession hangs in the warm, dim air of Room 204, heavy as iron, solid as setting concrete. He has officially dismantled his own fortress, offering you every ounce of leverage he spent a lifetime guarding, completely ready to bow.

The moment Jongho’s fingers curl around the hem of your sweater, the air in Room 204 shifts—charged, thick, like the heavy silence before a storm breaks. His knuckles graze the strip of bare skin just above your waistband, and the contact burns hotter than any argument ever could. He doesn’t yank. He doesn’t rush. He pauses, his breath ragged against your temple, waiting for the slightest nod before he pulls the fabric up and over your head.

The sweater hits the floor with a muffled thud, joining the discarded pile of his hoodie near the foot of the bed. Cold air licks at your exposed skin, but Jongho’s gaze is molten, tracing the constellation of bruises scattered across your collarbone—purple fingerprints from last night’s argument turned desperate embrace. His thumb brushes over one, feather-light, a stark contrast to the way he’d marked you hours ago.

"Fuck," he murmurs, voice wrecked. His palm flattens over your ribcage, as if checking for structural integrity. "I didn’t—" He cuts himself off, jaw working. There’s no apology in his eyes, only a raw, reverent hunger that makes your knees weak.

You step back, just enough to press your palm against his sternum. His heartbeat thrums against your fingertips, erratic and alive. "Kneel," you say, quiet but unwavering.

For a heartbeat, he hesitates—not in refusal, but in sheer disbelief that you’d command him like this after years of deadlocked rivalry. Then, with a sharp exhale, Jongho drops.

The floorboards groan slightly as his weight shifts, his massive knees sinking into the thick fabric of the rug right at your feet.

Looking down at him from this height is dizzying. Choi Jongho is a force of nature on this campus—broad-shouldered, thick-thighed, and built with an immense physical power that usually commands every room he walks into. But right now, his hands are trembling as they reach up to wrap around the backs of your thighs, anchoring himself to you like a man drowning. He tilts his head back, his dark eyes wide and completely unmasked under the amber glow of the desk lamp, his pupils blown so wide they threaten to swallow his irises whole. His jaw is locked tight, every muscle in his neck straining as he waits, utterly suspended, for your next command.

"Please," he rasps, the word a rough, broken syllable that tears straight out of his throat. He has never begged for anything in his entire life, but the sheer emotional obedience radiating from him right now is absolute.

His large, calloused hands slide slowly up your thighs, his touch steady and deliberate—the touch of an engineer who understands exactly how much pressure a structure can take before it breaks. He doesn't pull you down. Instead, he presses his forehead flush against your stomach, exhaling a long, shuddering breath against your bare skin. The contrast is sharp enough to draw blood: he could lift you effortlessly, could dominate this space just like he dominates the lecture halls, but he chooses to let you hold every ounce of leverage. He is completely, irrevocably on his knees, bowing to the only girl who refused to be a placeholder.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper, your fingers sliding into his messy hair, tugging just enough to force him to look back up at you.

A ragged, breathless sound escapes him, and then he’s moving. His mouth finds the skin of your hip, his lips hot and desperate as he begins to climb his way up your body, his hands gripping your waist with a fierce, territorial reverence. He lifts you onto the edge of his desk, scattering a stray box of pens in a clattering arc across the floor, but neither of you notices. When he finally parts your thighs and crowds into your space, his breath is hot against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as the final walls of his pride come completely crashing down.

"I never cared about the scoreboard," he confesses against your mouth, each word a desperate, aching truth he’s hidden for fifteen years. His fingers dig into your hips, anchoring you to him as his chest heaves. "I didn't care about beating you. I was just so fucking terrified that if I wasn't your rival, if I wasn't the one pushing you, you’d realize you didn't need me at all. I just needed to be the only man alive who was strong enough to keep up with you."

Jongho’s mouth crashes into yours before you can respond—no hesitation, no pretense, just raw, desperate need. His kiss is feverish, his lips pressing against yours with a hunger that borders on pain, his teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to sting. You gasp into him, fingers tightening in his hair, and he swallows the sound with a low groan, his hands sliding up your sides like he’s mapping every inch of you for the first time. His calloused palms scrape against your ribs, rough and possessive, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

"You have no idea," he rasps against your mouth, his breath hot and uneven, "how fucking long I’ve wanted to do this in broad daylight." His voice is wrecked, syllables fractured, like the words are being torn out of him. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you flush against him, and the heat of his body sears through your clothes. "Tell me," he demands, lips brushing yours, "tell me you know."

You arch into him, nails scraping down his back, and he shudders, his grip turning bruising. "I know," you whisper, and the admission sends a violent tremor through him. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your skin, his entire body trembling with the effort of restraint.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are dark, wild, completely unguarded. "Say it again," he growls, hands sliding up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a tenderness that belies the ferocity in his voice. "Say my name like you own it."

"Jongho," you breathe, and the sound of it—raw, reverent—shatters whatever fragile control he had left.

He moves then, his mouth crashing into yours with a desperation that borders on violence, his hands dragging you impossibly closer. The desk creaks beneath you, the wood protesting under the combined weight of his body pressing into yours. His touch is everywhere—calloused palms mapping the curve of your waist, blunt nails scraping down your thighs, his lips tracing the column of your throat with a hunger that leaves you gasping.

Between feverish kisses, he murmurs your name like a prayer, each syllable a broken, breathless thing. His hands tighten on your hips when you arch into him, his groan vibrating against your skin. "Fuck," he rasps, lips dragging across your collarbone. "I can't—" He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, his entire body tensing as your fingers twist in his hair. "Tell me what you want."

"Everything," you demand, and the word cracks open something in him.

His grip shifts, lifting you effortlessly, and then you're tumbling backward onto the bed, sheets tangling around your legs. He follows without hesitation, his body covering yours, his weight a delicious, grounding pressure. The look in his eyes—dark, possessive, utterly wrecked—sends a thrill down your spine.

When he finally sinks into you, it's with a groan that sounds like surrender, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the scant space between your lips. "You feel—" He breaks off, hips stuttering, his voice rough with awe. "God, you feel perfect."

The friction is electric, every movement calculated to draw gasps and shudders from you both. His hands roam your body like he's trying to memorize every curve, every dip, every scar—worshiping the map of you he'd spent years pretending not to study. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding your movements, matching your rhythm until the line between leading and following blurs into something seamless.

"Look at me," he rasps, his voice frayed at the edges, and when your eyes meet his, the raw intensity there steals your breath. His pupils are blown wide, his expression stripped bare—no masks, no defenses, just pure, unfiltered want. "I need you to see me," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your jaw. "Really see me."

You do. And what you find—the vulnerability, the devotion, the quiet desperation—shatters something inside you.

The climax hits like a storm, relentless and consuming, pulling you under with a force that leaves you trembling. He follows right after, his body shuddering against yours, his groan muffled against your neck. For a long moment, neither of you moves, lost in the aftershocks, the only sound the ragged symphony of your breathing.

Slowly, he shifts his weight, careful not to crush you, but his arms stay locked around you, pulling you flush against his chest. The sheets are a tangled mess beneath you, the room silent except for the distant hum of the party downstairs—now just a dull murmur beneath the quiet of the early morning hours. His hand strokes lazily down your spine, possessive even in exhaustion, his lips brushing your forehead in silent benediction.

"You're staying," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. It isn't a question.

You hum in agreement, curling closer into his warmth. His scent—cedar and something uniquely Jongho—wraps around you, familiar and intoxicating. His grip tightens slightly, as if he needs the reassurance that you're real, that you're here.

Morning light spills through the blinds in golden stripes, painting his bare shoulders in warmth. You wake first, blinking against the dawn, and find him already watching you—eyes dark and soft, completely unguarded. There's no panic, no hurried glances at the clock, just quiet contentment as he traces the curve of your cheek with his thumb.

"Morning," he rasps, voice sleep-heavy.

"Morning," you echo, and the simplicity of it—the domesticity—feels like a revelation.

His fingers slide into your hair, tilting your face up, and he kisses you slow and deep, tasting of toothpaste and something inherently Jongho. When he pulls back, his gaze flickers over your face like he's memorizing every detail. "Hungry?"

You hum in agreement, stretching beneath the sheets. His hand lands on your waist, possessive even now, fingers pressing into the soft skin there. "Hongjoong will have my head if we raid the kitchen," he murmurs, but there's no real concern in his voice.

"Worth it," you say, and he grins—sharp and bright, the same grin he flashes when he solves an impossible equation.

He rolls out of bed first, stretching his broad frame until his joints pop. The sunlight catches on the scars along his ribs—the one from the playground swing incident, the thin white line from the science fair debacle—and you realize you know them all by touch. He catches you staring and raises a brow. "See something you like?"

"Just tallying up my victories," you tease, sitting up.

Jongho snorts, tossing your sweater at you with deadly precision. "Keep dreaming." But he lingers when he helps you pull it on, his fingers brushing your nape, his lips pressing against the knob of your spine in a silent admission.

The kitchen raid is a disaster. San catches you mid-pancake theft, flour dusting Jongho's bare shoulders like snow. Mingi whoops from the stairwell, nearly upending a pitcher of orange juice. Hongjoong arrives just as Yeosang slides a coffee across the counter toward you—black, two sugars, exactly how you take it.

"Finally," Yeosang murmurs, so quiet only you hear. His smirk is knowing, but his eyes flicker with something heavier as he turns away.

Jongho intercepts the look. His hand finds yours on the countertop, fingers lacing tight. No hiding, no hesitation. The room falls silent.

Then Yunho whistles. "Took you long enough."

The tension snaps. Mingi whoops again, throwing a piece of bacon that Jongho catches midair without breaking eye contact with you. His thumb strokes your knuckles—rough from years clutching pens in competition, now holding you like a lifeline.

"You're late for lecture," Hongjoong says mildly, pouring coffee with his back turned.

Jongho doesn't move. "Don't care."

The words land like a grenade. Fifteen years of perfect attendance, of never slipping, of maintaining his untouchable image—discarded for this. For you.

San grins, elbowing Mingi. "Pay up."

Yeosang slides into the chair beside you, stirring sugar into his own coffee with deliberate calm. His knee brushes yours under the table—not an accident. "Told you he'd fold first."

Jongho's fingers tighten around yours. You expect him to bristle at the teasing, but he just lifts your joined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles—right over the scar from when you'd both reached for the same oscilloscope in junior year lab. His eyes never leave yours. "Worth it."

The kitchen erupts into chaos—Mingi howling, San demanding double or nothing, Yunho dramatically clutching his chest. But Jongho doesn't flinch. His thumb traces circles on your wrist, slow and deliberate, mapping the pulse point he'd once memorized in the dark.

Hongjoong sighs, pushing a plate of pancakes toward you both. "Eat. Then get out of my kitchen."

The syrup is too sweet, the coffee slightly burnt. Jongho steals a bite off your fork when you're not looking, grinning when you swat at him. It's mundane. It's perfect.

The morning sun streams through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air and highlighting the faint lines of flour tracking across the countertops. The relentless teasing from Mingi and San blurs into a pleasant, distant white noise, completely unable to touch the space between you and the boy sitting on the stool beside you.

For fifteen years, your entire relationship had been defined by gravity—by the weight of expectations, the heavy pull of competition, and the unyielding necessity of keeping score. 

Every grade, every lab report, and every sharp, fleeting glance in the lecture hall had been a calculated counter-balance to a hidden attraction that neither of you had been brave enough to name in the light. But sitting here now, with his large palm wrapped around your fingers and the scent of maple syrup and burnt coffee filling the air, the gravity has shifted.

The king didn't just lose his crown; he handed it over willingly, finding a completely different kind of triumph in the total surrender.

Jongho shifts slightly, his broad shoulder pressing into yours as he reaches across the table to grab the remaining pitcher of orange juice, pouring you a glass before filling his own. His movements are still driven by that same steady, unhurried precision that makes him a brilliant engineer, but the cold, clinical edge has been permanently replaced by a quiet, protective focus centered entirely on you.

"You're still going to have to help me re-calibrate the voltage regulator for the senior design project," you murmur, leaning your head against his shoulder for a brief, fleeting second, testing the boundaries of this new, public reality.

Jongho’s jaw relaxes into a soft, genuine smile, his thumb tracing a comforting circle right over the tender pulse point of your wrist. "Only if you admit my math on the thermal dissipation equations was right."

"Never," you reply instantly, a familiar spark of defiance lighting up your eyes.

He lets out a low, breathy chuckle, lifting your hand to press one last, lingering kiss against your knuckles right in front of the entire house. "Fair enough. I guess I'll just have to prove it to you tonight. In the light."

Below the table, your knees brush—no longer a hidden accident in a crowded lecture hall, no longer a secret code whispered in the suffocating dark of Room 204. The unwritten contract has completely burned to ash, and as you look around the loud, chaotic kitchen of the TEEZER house, you realize that the lonely hill is gone for good. The game is finally over, and for the first time in your lives, you both won.

navigation. – all works.

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[kisscflife]

“You want to be with me?” Russell shook his head, laughing bitterly. “Last I checked, you were hanging all over the woman I fancied. You knew I had feelings for her, but that didn’t stop you from getting her into bed now, did it?” Russell balled his hands into fists. It took all of his self control not to punch the other in the face. “I don’t know whether I love you or hate you.” He leaned in and flicked their nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Do you want me to fuck you senseless?” The brute whispered teasingly into his rival’s ear. If they didn’t respond, he’d take that as a “no” and take care of his pent up lust alone. Most people he knew never stuck around very long anyway.