. ˚◞♡ ⃗ religion's in your lips even if it's a false god 𓈒 ✧ ˚. ᵎᵎ
۶ৎ ALTERNATIVE : boynextdoor when you pull away while making out ۶ৎ PAIRING : boynextdoor x reader ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : fluff ~ ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : yearner riwoo, long hair jaehyun, taesan pinning you to the couch (TRIPLE COMBO !!! NOT FOR THE WEAK HEART 😭🙂↕️) ۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 0.8k - 1.3k words / member
۶ৎ A/N : I had to indulge my long hair jaehyun delusions so this came out of it...
ˋ ⌞⋮ SUNGHO .ᐟ⌝ ˎˊ˗
It starts innocently enough—well, as innocent as making out with Sungho can be. He's always so controlled, so measured in everything he does, and that extends to this too. His hands are gentle on your waist, his lips moving against yours with careful precision, like he's trying to memorize every detail.
But you're feeling a little bold today. A little dangerous.
So when he deepens the kiss, tilting his head to get a better angle, you pull back just slightly. Not enough to fully break away, but enough that his lips chase yours for a split second before he catches himself.
His eyes flutter open, slightly dazed, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What—"
You don't let him finish, leaning back in to kiss him again. He relaxes immediately, that little crease between his brows smoothing out as he cups your face with one hand. His kiss becomes more insistent, tongue sweeping against your bottom lip, and you feel his other hand slide from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you closer.
This time when you pull away again, you catch the exact moment confusion shifts into realization. His eyes darken considerably, pupils blown wide as he stares at you. The hand on your back flexes, fingers pressing into your skin even through your shirt.
"Are you..." he starts, voice already rough and lower than usual. He swallows hard, and you watch his throat work. "Are you doing that on purpose?"
The barely restrained frustration in his tone sends heat pooling in your stomach. You try to look innocent, biting back a smile. "Doing what?"
Sungho’s jaw clenches, and you see his chest rise and fall with a deep breath, a familiar sign of him trying to steady himself. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just watches you with those intense dark eyes, and you can practically see him trying to maintain control.
Then slowly, deliberately, he leans back in. Both hands come up to frame your face, and the way he holds you is almost possessive. His thumb traces your bottom lip, and his eyes track the movement with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"Don't," he murmurs, and his voice has dropped even lower. It's not a request—it's a warning. "Don't pull away again."
But of course, you do.
The sound he makes is devastating, somewhere between a groan and your name, rough and frustrated. In one smooth movement, his hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling firmly in your hair. It's not painful, but definitely controlling. His other hand grips your hip hard enough that you feel the heat of his palm through the fabric.
"I'm trying," he breathes out, and you can hear how strained his voice is, "to be patient with you."
He pulls you closer—or maybe pushes himself closer, you're not sure—until there's no space between you at all. You can feel the heat radiating off him, feel his heart racing against your chest, feel the tension coiled tight in his muscles.
“But you keep—” He breaks himself off with a sharp breath, the words failing him. He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, eyes falling shut as if he needs the contact to steady himself, as if proximity is the only thing keeping him anchored. When he opens them again, the look on his face is raw, unguarded, almost desperate. “Do you have any idea,” he asks quietly, voice strained, “what you’re doing to me?”
His hand in your hair tightens just slightly, angling your head back. The movement is controlled but barely, and you can see the exact moment his carefully maintained composure starts to crack.
"One more time," he warns, voice barely above a whisper but somehow more intense for it. His lips hover just barely above yours, so close you can feel his breath. "Pull away one more time and I won't be gentle anymore."
It should probably intimidate you, but instead it sends a thrill down your spine. You can feel him trembling slightly with the effort of restraint, can see the war between his natural control and his desire written plainly across his face.
"I'm serious," he continues, and now his lips brush against yours with every word. "I'm trying so hard to be good, to take my time, but you're making it impossible."
His hand slides from your hip to your lower back, then lower still, pulling you even more firmly against him. The kiss he gives you then is harder, more demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with clear intent. When his teeth catch your bottom lip, you gasp, and he takes full advantage, kissing you deeper until you're dizzy with it.
He pulls back just enough to speak, and his voice is absolutely wrecked. "So be good for me," he murmurs against your lips, and the please is unspoken but clear in his tone. "Stop teasing me, got it sweetheart?"
When he kisses you again, it's with single-minded focus, like kissing you is the only thing that matters in the world. His hand tightens in your hair, the other sliding under the hem of your shirt just enough that his fingers brush bare skin. The touch makes you shiver, and you feel him smile against your lips.
"That's better," he breathes, sounding almost relieved. "Much better."
This time, you don't even think about pulling away.
ˋ ⌞⋮ RIWOO .ᐟ⌝ ˎˊ˗
Riwoo kisses with complete focus and surprising intensity hidden beneath a gentle exterior. His hands are soft where they rest on your waist, his lips moving against yours with careful attention, like he's trying to get every detail just right.
You almost feel bad for what you're about to do.
Almost.
When he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, you pull back just slightly. His eyes flutter open immediately, wide and confused, lips still parted. "Did I... did I do something wrong?" he asks softly, concern evident in his voice.
"No," you assure him quickly, leaning back in. "You're perfect."
He relaxes at that, a shy smile crossing his face before you kiss him again. This time he's a little more confident, his fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your shirt. You feel him sigh contentedly against your lips, and that's when you pull away again.
"Oh," he breathes out, and you can see him trying to figure out what's happening. His eyebrows furrow adorably, head tilting like he's solving a puzzle. "Are you... do you need a break? We can—"
You cut him off with another kiss, and this time you feel the exact moment he realizes what you're doing. His sharp intake of breath, the way his fingers suddenly grip your waist a little tighter, the slight tremor that runs through him.
When you pull back the third time, his reaction is completely different.
“You’re teasing me,” he says, the words barely audible, more confession than accusation. His ears have gone pink, heat creeping up his neck, but his eyes give him away—there’s a new intensity there, a shadow beneath the softness you know so well. “You're doing this on purpose.”
Before you can respond, he's leaning back in, and this time his kiss is less careful. His hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you closer with more force than you expected from him. When your lips meet, you can feel the desperation already building in the way he kisses you—deeper, more insistent, like he's trying to keep you from pulling away through sheer determination.
But you do it anyway.
"Please," he breathes out, and the sound goes straight through you. His voice is shaky, strained. "Please don't— I can't—"
He cuts himself off, pressing his forehead against yours. You can feel him trembling, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. When you look at him, his eyes are squeezed shut, jaw clenched like he's trying to compose himself.
"This is torture," he whispers, and there's a whine in his voice that makes your stomach flip. "You're torturing me."
His hands are restless now, one sliding up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blade, the other moving to your hip and squeezing. You've never seen him like this—usually so controlled, so precise in his movements, now barely holding himself together.
"Riwoo," you murmur, and his eyes snap open.
The look he gives you is devastating, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and red from all the kissing, cheeks warm with colour. It’s not just desire, but a soft, aching plea tangled with a frustration you’ve never seen on him before, unfamiliar and vulnerable, like he’s losing control that it both unsettles and exposes him.
"I need—" he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. His voice drops lower, rougher. "I need you to stop pulling away. I don't... I can't think when you do that."
To prove his point, he kisses you again, and this time there's nothing gentle about it. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he angles your face exactly how he wants it. His other hand slips under the hem of your shirt, and the feeling of his palm against your bare skin makes you gasp.
He takes advantage immediately, deepening the kiss, and you feel him shaking with the effort of maintaining some semblance of control. His thumb traces patterns on your skin that make you shiver, and he makes this small sound in the back of his throat that's pure need.
When you start to pull back again, his grip tightens instantly.
"No," he says firmly, and the command in his voice surprises both of you. His eyes widen slightly, like he can't believe he just said that, but he doesn't take it back. "Stay. Please stay."
The "please" softens it, but there's still an edge of desperation that makes your heart race. He's looking at you like the thought of you pulling away again might actually break him.
"I'm trying so hard to be good," he confesses, voice cracking slightly. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and you can feel his breath hot against your neck. "But you keep— every time you pull away, I—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he presses a kiss to your neck, then another, and you feel his teeth graze your skin lightly. The hand in your hair tightens, and suddenly he's pulling your head back gently, exposing more of your neck to his lips.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he murmurs against your skin, his voice dropped so low it feels almost dangerous. “To see me lose control.”
His kisses trail up your neck, along your jaw, until his lips are hovering over yours again. He's breathing hard, chest heaving, and you can see the internal war playing out across his face—the Riwoo who’s always gentle, always careful, pressed up against a need that’s sharper, more urgent, tugging insistently at his restraint.
"Well, congratulations," he whispers, and then he's kissing you again with an intensity that steals your breath. "You won."
This time when his tongue slides against yours, when his hands grip you tighter, when he presses impossibly closer, you don't even think about pulling away. You couldn't if you wanted to, not with how he's holding you, kissing you like he's been starving for it.
"No more teasing," he breathes between kisses, and it's still soft, still Riwoo, but there's steel underneath it now. "I can't take any more. Please."
And the way he says please—broken, desperate and so, so honest—makes you want to give him everything he asks for.
ˋ ⌞⋮ JAEHYUN .ᐟ⌝ ˎˊ˗
Jaehyun kisses like he's enjoying every second of it—which, knowing him, he absolutely is. There's a smile on his lips even as they move against yours, his hands warm and secure on your waist, thumbs tracing idle patterns that make you want to melt into him.
His hair has gotten longer recently, falling into his face as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and you can't resist reaching up to run your fingers through it. He makes a pleased sound at that, leaning into your touch.
That's when you pull away.
His eyes open slowly, still half-lidded and hazy, a confused smile playing on his lips. "Hm?"
You just smile innocently and lean back in, kissing him again before he can question it. He responds immediately, enthusiastically, one hand sliding up your back. But just as he's really getting into it, you pull away again.
This time, his eyes sharpen with understanding.
“Oh,” he says, the confusion easing as his smile shifts into a knowing curve. “Oh—I get it now.”
Before you can say anything, he's laughing that bright, delighted laugh of his. "You're messing with me right now. You're actually messing with me."
"I don't know what you mean," you try, but he's already shaking his head.
"Okay, okay," he says, still grinning. "So we're playing games? I love games."
He leans back in, but this time when you try to pull away, his hand comes up to cup your jaw, holding you in place firmly enough that you can't escape. His kiss is deeper this time, more purposeful, and you feel him smile against your lips.
Then he pulls away first.
"How does it feel?" he asks, voice teasing. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip as he watches your reaction with obvious amusement. "Not so fun when it happens to you, right?"
Two can play this game, apparently.
He kisses you again, and just when you're sinking into it, he breaks away with a playful smirk. "Oops."
"Jaehyun—"
"What?" He's grinning fully now, eyes sparkling with mischief. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? To play around?"
His hair falls forward into his face as he leans closer, and you reach up to brush it back without thinking. His expression shifts slightly at the touch, eyes darkening just a fraction, but the smile remains.
"You keep touching my hair," he observes, voice a little lower now. "Do you like it longer?"
Before you can answer, he's kissing you again, and this time you can feel the teasing energy start to shift more intensely. His fingers tangle in your hair, mimicking your earlier action, and when you gasp softly, he makes a satisfied sound.
You pull away again—you can't help it, it's too fun—and this time his reaction is different.
"Okay," he says, and his voice has lost some of that playful edge. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face, and you watch his jaw clench slightly. "Okay, you need to stop doing that."
"Why?" you ask innocently, and his eyes flash.
"Because," he says, leaning in close enough that his lips brush against yours as he speaks, "I'm trying really hard to play along and be fun about this, but you're making it really difficult."
His hair falls forward again, tickling your face, and he makes a frustrated sound. In one smooth motion, he reaches back and gathers his hair, tying it up into a small ponytail with the hair tie he keeps on his wrist. The movement makes his arms flex, his jaw set in concentration, and you can't help but stare.
He notices, of course. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Yeah,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your lips. “You like that, don’t you, princess?”
He kisses you again, and with his hair out of the way, it's different—more intense, more focused. His hands grip your waist tighter, pulling you closer, and you can feel the shift in his energy. The playfulness hasn’t disappeared, but beneath it is a seriousness that wasn’t there before, an insistence that asks instead of teases, that wants instead of jokes.
When you try to pull away this time, he doesn't let you.
"Nuh-uh," he murmurs against your lips. "My turn now."
His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he kisses you deeper. There's a confidence in the way he takes control, like he's done playing your game and has decided to start his own. His other hand slips under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your skin, and you feel him smile when you shiver.
"See, the thing is," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, "I was having fun letting you tease me. It was cute." His thumb traces your jawline as his eyes lock onto yours. "But now I'm thinking about all the ways I could tease you back."
To prove his point, he kisses along your jaw, down to your neck, and you feel his teeth graze your skin lightly. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and one of them tangles in his ponytail without thinking, tugging slightly.
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
"Oh, so you can pull my hair but I can't—" He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, his hand comes up to thread through your hair, gripping gently and tilting your head back. "That's not very fair, is it?"
His lips return to your neck, kissing and biting softly, and you can feel him smiling against your skin when you gasp. “There you go,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “That’s the reaction I was looking for.”
When he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are darker than before, pupils blown wide. "No more pulling away," he says, and it's not quite a command but not quite a request either. His hand tightens slightly in your hair. "You had your fun. Now let me have mine."
He kisses you again, and this time there's no teasing, no games. Just intensity, heat and the feeling of his body pressed against yours. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, sliding up to cup your face, back down to grip your hips.
When you instinctively try to pull back just slightly, probably out of habit more than anything, his grip tightens immediately.
"What did I just say?" he asks, but he's smiling even as he says it. He presses his forehead against yours, breathing hard. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
His hair tie has come slightly loose, a few strands falling free to frame his face, and without thinking you reach up to fix it. He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips instead.
"Or," he says, eyes glinting with mischief again, "you could just take it out. Since you seem so interested in my hair."
When you do, his hair falls forward, messy and perfect, and he shakes his head slightly to settle it. The movement is casual, but the way he's looking at you is anything but.
"There," he says, leaning in close again. His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Now you can touch it all you want."
And when he kisses you this time—deep, slow and purposeful, his fingers threading through your hair to mirror your touch in his—you forget all about teasing him.
You forget about everything except the way he's holding you, kissing you, like he plans to make up for every single time you pulled away.
"See?" he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel his smile. "Told you I'd be fun.”
ˋ ⌞⋮ TAESAN .ᐟ⌝ ˎˊ˗
Making out with Taesan is always intense. He doesn't do anything halfway. When he kisses you, it's with complete focus, like nothing else in the world exists. His hands are firm on your waist, his lips moving against yours with purpose and confidence that makes your head spin.
So really, you should've known better than to tease him.
But you do it anyway.
The first time you pull away, his eyes open slowly, dark and slightly unfocused. He doesn't say anything, just looks at you with a quiet question in his gaze. When you lean back in without explanation, he accepts it, one hand coming up to cup your jaw as he deepens the kiss.
The second time you pull away, you feel the change immediately.
His fingers tighten on your waist—not painfully, but noticeably. His eyes are sharper now when they meet yours, more alert. He's figured it out.
"What are you doing?" His voice is low, quiet, but there's an edge to it.
"Nothing," you say, but you can't quite hide your smile.
Taesan's jaw clenches. He doesn't move for a moment, just watches you with that intense gaze that always makes you feel like he can see right through you. Then, slowly, he leans back in. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, grip firm and possessive.
"Don't," he says simply, right before his lips meet yours.
This kiss is different, harder, more demanding. His tongue sweeps against yours with clear intent, his hand tightening in warning when he feels you start to pull back. But you do it anyway, breaking the kiss with a soft laugh.
The look he gives you could melt steel.
"You think this is a joke?" His voice is dangerously quiet, and the tone in his voice makes heat pool in your stomach. He's not smiling. Not even a little bit.
"Maybe a little," you admit.
Wrong answer.
In one fluid motion, Taesan shifts, and suddenly you're the one being pressed back against the couch. He's hovering over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other still gripping your hip. His hair falls forward slightly, shadowing his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze pins you in place.
"You want to play games with me?" he asks, voice still low, a controlled tone that somehow feels more threatening than if he were actually angry. "Okay. Let's play."
He leans down, but instead of kissing your lips, he goes for your neck. His mouth is hot against your skin, teeth grazing lightly before he soothes the spot with his tongue. When you gasp, you feel him smile against your throat.
"What's wrong?" he murmurs, lips brushing your skin as he speaks. "You can dish it out but can't take it?"
His hand slides under your shirt, palm flat against your stomach, and you feel him trace slow patterns on your skin. It's deliberate, teasing, and completely unfair. When you try to squirm, his grip on your hip tightens, holding you still.
"Stay," he commands softly, and the authority in his voice makes you obey without thinking.
He kisses up your neck, along your jaw, getting closer and closer to your lips but never quite getting there. When you turn your head to try to kiss him, he pulls back just enough to stay out of reach, and the smirk on his face is absolutely infuriating.
"Not so fun, is it?" he asks, voice laced with dark amusement. "Being teased?"
"Taesan—"
"What?" He tilts his head, looking at you with false innocence that doesn't match the heat in his eyes at all. "I'm just doing what you did to me. That's fair, right?"
His hand slides higher under your shirt, thumb brushing just below your ribs, and you arch into the touch without meaning to. He notices, of course. He notices everything.
"So sensitive," he observes, and there's satisfaction in his tone. His hand moves back down, tracing patterns that make you shiver. "I barely even touched you."
When he finally kisses you again, it's overwhelming. Deep and consuming, like he's trying to prove a point. His body presses close to yours, and you can feel the tension wound tight beneath his skin, the barely restrained control as he holds himself back.
You try to pull away—instinct, maybe, or maybe you just want to see what he'll do—and his reaction is immediate.
His hand flies up to grip your chin, firmly turning your face back to his. "Don't," he warns, and his voice has gone even lower, rough with frustration. "I'm not playing anymore."
There’s a dangerous edge in his gaze now, sharp enough to steal your breath. He’s always been intense, but this is different. This is Taesan with his patience worn down, his restraint fraying, control slipping just enough to show what he’s been holding back.
"You wanted my attention?" he asks, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. "You have it. All of it. So stop running away."
He kisses you again, harder this time, almost punishing. His hand slips back into your hair, fingers curling with just enough force to steal a breath from you, and he doesn’t hesitate, using the moment to pull you closer, to deepen the kiss until the world tilts and everything feels hazy around the edges. His other hand grips your waist, thumb pressing into your hip bone hard enough that you know you'll feel it tomorrow.
"This is what you do to me," he breathes against your lips, and for the first time you hear how affected he actually is. His voice is ragged, strained. "You drive me crazy. You know that?"
His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him trembling slightly with the effort of maintaining control. His breathing is heavy, chest heaving against yours.
"Every time you pulled away," he continues, voice barely above a whisper, "all I could think about was how to make you stay. How to make you want me so badly you couldn't even think about leaving."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the raw intensity in his gaze steals your breath. "So here's what's going to happen," he says, voice dropping into that commanding tone again. "You're going to stay right here. You're not going to pull away. And you're going to let me kiss you until I'm satisfied. Understood?"
It's not really a question.
When you nod, his expression softens slightly. "Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise sends warmth flooding through you.
This time when he kisses you, it's slower but no less intense. Thorough. Possessive. Like he's claiming you with every brush of his lips, every slide of his tongue. His hands roam your body with purpose, touching, gripping and holding like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.
When he finally pulls back—minutes or hours later, you've lost track—his lips are swollen and red, his eyes dark and satisfied.
"You're so pretty," he says, voice still rough. His thumb traces your jaw gently, a stark contrast to how tightly he was holding you moments ago.
He settles beside you, pulling you against his chest, and you can still feel his heart racing. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining, and he brings it to his lips.
"Next time you want to tease me," he says quietly, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, "remember how this ended."
It's a warning and a promise all at once.
And the really dangerous part? You're already thinking about doing it again, just to see what happens.
ˋ ⌞⋮ LEEHAN .ᐟ⌝ ˎˊ˗
Leehan kisses the way he does everything else—with a calm, unhurried confidence that somehow makes your heart race more than any urgency could. His hands are gentle on your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as his lips move against yours with patient precision.
There’s an almost meditative quality to it—how he takes his time, as if he has all day to learn the shape of your mouth. It’s the same focused attention he gives anything that holds his interest—steady, observant, fully present.
Which is exactly why you're curious to see what happens when you disrupt that carefully maintained composure.
When you pull away the first time, he doesn't react much. Just opens his eyes slowly, looking at you with that serene expression he always has, like nothing in the world could disturb his peace. He tilts his head slightly, a small questioning smile on his lips, but he doesn't say anything. Just waits.
You lean back in, and he accepts it without hesitation, picking up exactly where you left off. His kiss is deeper this time, more intentional, and you feel one of his hands slide to the back of your neck, fingers spreading through your hair.
Then you pull away again.
This time, you catch the faintest flicker in his eyes. Not confusion, not frustration, more like… focused interest. Like he’s watching an experiment unfold and quietly filing away observations.
"Interesting," he murmurs, voice still soft and even. His hand stays where it is in your hair, not gripping, just resting. "Are you testing something?"
The casual way he asks it makes you laugh. Leave it to Leehan to treat this like a curious phenomenon rather than actual teasing.
"Maybe," you admit.
He hums thoughtfully, eyes scanning your face with that focused attention he usually reserves for his fish tanks. "I see." Then, simply : "Continue."
It's such a Leehan response that you can't help but smile as you kiss him again. This time his hand tightens just slightly in your hair—barely noticeable, but you feel it. When you pull away for the third time, you're watching for his reaction.
His eyes open slowly, and there’s a shift you can’t ignore. The calm is still there, carefully maintained, but beneath it simmers a heat that hadn’t surfaced before. He looks at you for a long, deliberate moment without saying a word, and the silence feels heavy, charged, far more unsettling than anything he could have spoken.
"Three times," he observes quietly. His thumb traces your bottom lip with deliberate slowness. "You've pulled away three times now."
"Have I?" You try to sound innocent.
"Mm." His gaze drops to your lips, and you watch his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. "You have."
He leans in again, but this time it's different. Slower. More purposeful. His eyes stay open, locked on yours until the last possible second, and when his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is deeper than before. Consuming. His hand in your hair shifts, fingers curling just enough to keep you in place without being forceful.
When you try to pull away this time, you realize you can't move far. His grip isn't painful, isn't even really tight, but it's firm. Decisive. And the message is clear : he's done letting you control this.
He breaks the kiss himself, but stays close enough that his lips brush yours when he speaks. “I’ve been patient with you,” he murmurs, voice low and even, controlled that it feels almost mesmerizing. There’s an undercurrent to it now, a quiet shift that makes your stomach tighten, that sends awareness sparking through you. His gaze stays locked on yours as he adds, just as softly, “But I think we’re past that.”
His free hand lifts to cradle your face, the touch gentle but unmistakably claiming, a quiet possessiveness threaded through the softness of the gesture. "Do you know what happens when you test someone's patience?" he asks, and it's clearly rhetorical because he continues without waiting for an answer. "You find out exactly how much control they actually have."
He kisses you again, and this time there's no mistaking the intensity behind it. It's still controlled, still measured, but you can feel the restraint it's taking. His tongue slides against yours with clear intent, and the hand on your face angles your head exactly where he wants it.
"I have a lot of patience," he murmurs against your lips. "But even I have limits."
When his hand slides down from your face to your throat, his thumb against your pulse point, you gasp softly. You feel him smile.
"Your heart is racing," he observes, voice still that same quiet, almost clinical tone. But his thumb traces circles on your neck that are anything but clinical. "Interesting. Are you nervous?"
You shake your head, and his smile grows slightly.
"No? Then what?" His eyes search yours with genuine curiosity, edged with a darker intent. "Excited? Anticipating what I'll do next?"
He’s analyzing you even now, reading every reaction—and somehow that makes it worse.
"Let me tell you what I think," he says, leaning in close enough that his breath fans across your lips. "I think you wanted to see what would happen if you pushed me. You wanted to know what I'd be like when I stop being patient."
His hand tightens just slightly around your throat—not restricting, just present, just enough to remind you it's there. "Would you like to see?"
Before you can answer, he's kissing you again, and it's completely overwhelming. Still controlled, still measured, but intense in a way that makes your head spin. His hand stays on your throat, feeling every gasp, every quickening of your pulse, while his other hand finally releases your hair to slide down your back.
When he pulls you closer, you can feel his heart beating against your chest, faster than usual but still steady.
"You're not pulling away now," he notes, pulling back just enough to speak. There's satisfaction in his tone, quiet but unmistakable. "Why is that?"
His hand slides under your shirt, palm flat against your lower back, and the skin-to-skin contact makes you shiver. He notices immediately, of course he does. He notices everything.
"Cold?" he asks, but there's a knowing look in his eyes that says he knows exactly why you shivered, and it has nothing to do with temperature.
"Leehan—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, this one somehow even deeper than the last.
"Shh," he soothes between kisses, hand moving in slow circles on your back. "No more talking. No more pulling away. Just focus on this."
When his hand slides higher up your back, fingers tracing your spine, you arch into him without meaning to. His other hand tightens on your throat in response just for a second, just enough to make you gasp, before relaxing again.
"See?" he murmurs, and there's a smugness in his tone now. "You're much better when you stay still. When you let me do what I want."
He kisses along your jaw, down to your neck, and you feel his teeth graze your skin lightly. "I could do this for hours," he says conversationally, like he's commenting on the weather. "Just finding all the spots that make you react. Learning exactly what you like."
"But first," he says, pulling back to look at you again, "you're going to stay right here and let me kiss you properly. No more games. No more pulling away." His thumb brushes across your throat, feeling your pulse jump. "Can you do that for me?"
It's phrased as a question, but the look in his eyes makes it clear there's only one acceptable answer.
When you nod, his smile is small but genuinely pleased. "Good," he says softly, leaning in again. "That's very good."
And when he kisses you this time—slow, deep and absolutely devastating—you understand exactly what he meant about patience. Because Leehan doesn't rush anything. He takes his time, thorough and methodical, until you forget you ever wanted to pull away in the first place.
Until all you can think about is how to get him to never stop.
ˋ ⌞⋮ WOONHAK .ᐟ⌝ ˎˊ˗
Kissing Woonhak is sweet and a little clumsy in the most endearing way. He's still figuring things out, but he makes up for any lack of experience with sheer enthusiasm. His hands rest nervously on your waist, and you can feel how fast his heart is beating when you're this close.
So of course, you decide to make it worse for him.
The first time you pull away, his eyes fly open immediately, wide and startled like a deer in headlights. "Wait, what— did I mess up?" His voice pitches up slightly in panic. "Was that bad? I can do better, I promise, just—"
"You're fine," you assure him with a laugh, leaning back in before he can spiral further.
He relaxes instantly, shoulders dropping as he lets out a relieved breath. "Okay, okay good, because I've been practicing— I mean, not practicing, but like, thinking about— you know what, never mind." His ears are already bright red as he kisses you again, and you can feel him smiling against your lips.
That's when you pull away the second time.
"Okay, what—" He blinks at you, confused. Then his eyes narrow slightly in suspicion. "Wait. Are you doing that on purpose?"
You try to keep a straight face. "Doing what?"
"THAT!" He gestures wildly between you. "The pulling away! You're messing with me right now!"
When you don't deny it, his mouth drops open in betrayal. "Oh my god, you ARE! I can't believe— I was so worried I was doing something wrong!"
"You weren't," you say, grinning now.
"Then why—" He stops, processing, and then his expression shifts between embarrassment and indignation. "You're TEASING me? Seriously?"
He runs both hands through his hair, laughing in disbelief. "I'm already so nervous and you're just— wow. Okay. That's how we're playing this?"
Before you can respond, he's leaning back in with renewed determination. "Fine. You know what? I'm not gonna let it get to me. I'm just gonna— we're just gonna kiss and it's gonna be great and you're not gonna—"
You pull away again.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?" His voice cracks spectacularly, and he falls back against the couch dramatically, covering his face with his hands. "This is torture! Actual torture! I'm being tortured!"
You're laughing now, and he peeks at you through his fingers. "You think this is funny? My heart can't take this kind of stress! I'm too young!"
"You're so dramatic," you say, but you're smiling.
"I'M dramatic?" He sits back up, pointing at you accusingly. "You're the one playing mind games! Do you know how hard it is to focus when you keep— when you—" He gestures vaguely, too flustered to finish the sentence.
His whole face is red now, and he's fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Every time you pull away, I think I did something wrong and my brain just goes—" He makes an explosion sound effect with his hands. "Like that. Complete malfunction."
"Want me to stop?" you ask, taking pity on him.
"YES! No! I don't know!" He groans, flopping against the couch again. "This is so confusing. You're so confusing. Why are you like this?"
After a moment of internal crisis, he sits back up with a determined look. "Okay. Okay, I'm gonna try one more time, and you have to promise not to pull away because I don't think my heart can handle it."
"I promise," you say, and he eyes you suspiciously.
"Really?"
"Really."
He studies your face for a long moment, clearly trying to determine if you're trustworthy. Finally, he nods. "Okay. But if you do it again, I'm— I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be something! A consequence! There will be consequences!"
The threat would be more effective if his voice wasn't shaking slightly and if he didn't look absolutely adorable while making it.
When he leans in this time, he's extra careful. His hand comes up to cup your face gently, and he pauses just before your lips meet. "You promised," he whispers, and for all the control in his posture, there’s a fragile note beneath it, almost pleading, almost vulnerable.
"I promised," you confirm.
This kiss is different—slower, more confident now that he's not worried about you disappearing. His other hand finds yours, fingers intertwining and squeezing like he's anchoring himself. When you don't pull away, you feel him relax completely, even smiling against your lips.
After a few moments, he pulls back himself, and the smile on his face is so bright and genuine it makes your heart squeeze. "See? We can do this! When you're not being evil, we're actually really good at this!"
"Evil is a strong word," you laugh.
"You literally tortured me for fun," he points out, but he's grinning now. "That's pretty evil. I'm dating a villain."
He's still holding your hand, thumb tracing patterns on your skin, and the simple affection of it is so Woonhak it makes you smile.
"Don't do that again though," he says quietly. "My heart rate still hasn't gone back to normal. I think you took years off my life."
"So dramatic," you repeat.
"So mean," he counters, but he's leaning in again anyway, bumping his nose against yours playfully. "You're lucky you're cute."
"You think I'm cute?"
"Don't fish for compliments, you already know you are," he mumbles, ears going red again. "Now can we please just kiss like normal people? No more games?"
And when you agree, his relieved sigh is so loud and exaggerated that you can't help but laugh against his lips.
Even as he kisses you again—sweet, enthusiastic and unmistakably Woonhak—he pulls back every few seconds just to check that you're still there, like he doesn't quite trust that you won't disappear again.
"Just making sure," he explains each time, and honestly? It's perfect.
PAIRING: f1 racer!riki x rehab therapist!reader (f)
SUMMARY: ferrari’s newbie driver can’t outrun the guilt of a crash that wasn’t his fault. a sudden brake failure put him in a hospital bed and in his own head. but like a fenice rising from its own ashes, riki is ready to get back on track… as long as you keep watching.
WARNINGS: starring enhypen JAKE, JUNGWON & HEESEUNG and bnd TAESAN. heeseung’s gf is reader in siren sounds, mention of accidents (slight description), hospital settings, mentions of injuries, burns, fighting, riki is a little rude but that’s his coping mechanism, making out, slightly suggestive, panic attack, reader struggles financially, celebrity harassment, trauma, rehabilitation, argument, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD
a/n: you don’t necessarily need to read SIREN SOUNDS first, but for context i heavily advise it. my babies i love them sm! this fic has been my comfort zone to write for the past months 🩷 the ending is very rushed but i was running out of ideas and i didnt want to make it too long 😃 still REBLOGS & COMMENTS are appreciated!!
Riki woke up like he had been dragged upward from the bottom of a black ocean.
There was no gradual return and no soft drifting into awareness. One minute he was stuck in a burning car and the next he woke up gasping for air in a sterile room.
He tried to inhale sharply, and something resisted him. Something was inside his mouth.
His eyes snapped open in panic, but they couldn’t focus well on his surroundings.
The ceiling above him was blinding white, the lights too bright and shapes too blurry.
His vision trembled, refusing to focus. His body felt… gone, not numb in the way a limb fell asleep. Just gone, as if he had been reduced to a head floating in a field of static.
He tried to move his hand, but nothing happened. Not even a finger twitched from his will.
Panic surged like electricity through his chest. His heart rate spiked and he could hear it now, the beeping accelerating in response.
Voices cut through the haze, muffled. “His heart rate is increasing.”
“He’s trying to wake up.”
“Riki? Can you hear me?”
He couldn’t tell where the voices were coming from. They sounded underwater, like someone speaking through thick glass. He tried to turn his head toward the sound, but even that felt impossible.
A face leaned over him. A doctor, maybe. “Riki,” the doctor said slowly, shining a light into his pupils. “Follow the light.”
He couldn’t, hisis eyes struggled to track it. His vision doubled, then blurred, then sharpened just to blur again.
He tried to speak, but pain flared in his throat…. a tube. That was what was there.
He gagged slightly around it, instinctively trying to cough, but the movement sent a ripple of agony through his chest and something… lower?
His left leg. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything below his ribs.
He tried to lift his arm, to thrash, to signal that something was wrong, but nothing moved.
The monitor screamed louder as his panic grew. “Easy, easy.” someone murmured, keeping him down by his chest.
“The sedation might still be heavy, it’s not a good time to wake up while we are cleaning his lungs.” a female voice murmured. They were cleaning his what?
“He’s disoriented.” no shit.
The light flashed in his eyes again. “Pupils are reactive now,” someone muttered.
He wanted to ask what had happened. He wanted to ask if Heeseung was alive. If the families in the stands were alive. If he had killed someone, to ask if it’d been his fault.
But his body betrayed him, because the ceiling blurred again, then the beeping softened.
And the world folded back into black.
🐦🔥.
When he woke the second time, it wasn’t violent. It was slow and thick, like surfacing through the honey in the Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs movie.
The first thing he noticed was that the tube was gone. His throat felt scraped raw, each breath dry and painful but blessedly unobstructed.
He blinked carefully and this time, the room stayed still.
Riki was in the hospital, he realised.
His head ached, but it was manageable. His chest felt tight, and heavy bandaging wrapped around his right arm.
He tried to shift his shoulders and that fortunately worked. Relief flooded him. Then he tried to move his left leg, but nothing worked. It felt strange, numb from his own body.
His stomach dropped as soon as he looked down.
The blanket rose in a stiff, unnatural angle where his leg lay immobilized.
Metal rods and external fixators peeked from beneath layers of dressing. His thigh was swollen beneath the gauze. The machine beside his bed hummed quietly, pumping fluids through tubes attached to him.
“Don’t try to move it.” A nurse stood near the doorway, watching him carefully. She approached when she saw his eyes fully open.
“You’re in the ICU. You were in surgery for several hours earlier this week after a car accident,” she inforemd, fixing his blanket, “You’ve been in a coma for two weeks.”
Fuck. two weeks felt like an eternity. His voice came out hoarse. “Heeseung?”
The nurse paused just slightly before answering. “Your teammate is alive.”
Riki shut his eyes for a second, relief mixing with something far uglier. “What happened?” he whispered.
She checked his IV fluids as she murmured, “You sustained a compound fracture in your leg. There were additional injuries, but those are healing. And the internal bleeding was minimal. You’re stable now.”
Compound fracture.
The words echoed inside his skull… he knew what that meant. Bone through skin.
The recovery was measured not in weeks— but in months.
He turned his face toward the wall, jaw tightening. His throat burned again, but this time it wasn’t from the tube. It was from the sheer urge it took him not to cry like a fucking baby.
Heeseung came to visit him as soon as he learnt the news of his awakening. Riki wasn't really himself yet, he was still high on morphine, but he felt so relieved.
Heeseung sat there on the wheelchair looking thinner, his own arm wrapped heavily in bandages, faint bruising still shadowing his face.
The burns along his neck were angry and red, partially healed but unmistakable.
He looked like someone who had run through fire, which he had and it was all Riki’s fault.
The second time he visited, Riki could see him better, his brain cooperated and so did his body.
“You’re barbecued,” Riki rasped weakly.
Heeseung huffed out that might have been a laugh. “Job hazard.”
He frowned, gulping hard. “I’m sorry I lost control.”
“And I’m glad I stepped in.” Heeseung replied, thanking the pretty nurse who placed him beside his bed and stepped outside to give them privacy.
“You should’ve let me crash alone.” He murmured.
Heeseung’s eyes sharpened. “There were families there.”
He remembered it now in flashes. The car fishtailing and . the barrier being too close. He remembered panicking when the breaks under his foot stopped working, and then the impact.
Heeseung had taken the hit full on. He had positioned himself between the trajectory and the stands. Between Riki and the worst possible outcome.
A true hero.
The media was already calling him so, he'd peeked from a nurse phone who had caved at his begging.
Riki felt like a reckless child. “You could’ve died,” he whispered.
“So could you.” Silence stretched between them. Riki looked away first as shame crawled under his skin. “It was my fault.”
Heeseung leaned closer despite the stiffness in his movements. “It was an accident.”
And despite it being the truth, Riki couldn’t help but blame himself.
Jake tried to come the next day, but Riki refused him.
“Tell him I’m sleeping,” he told the nurse flatly. “But you’re awake.” she pointed out gently.
“I don’t care, just— don’t let him in, okay?” he ran a stiff hand through his hair and the nurse nodded, closing the door behind her back.
Jake tried again the day after, and the day after the day after.
“No visitors.” He repeated and the nurses respected it. Trauma unit rules were clear, the patient consent mattered.
Riki had been transferred there after the ICU, once he stabilized. The room was quieter and less frantic, as well as less depressing, But the reality settled heavier there.
A compound fracture required at least six months of rehab, of physiotherapy.
It was uncertainty.
He stared at his leg often. At the metal and at the swelling. At the way it no longer felt like part of him.
Would he still drive the same?
Would his reflexes hesitate?
Would fear live in the back of his skull forever?
One month passed by quickly despite the boredom of the four white walls.
One afternoon, a different nurse walked in, he recognized her vaguely. She had been Heeseun’s ex-nurse, and she came to check on him some times.
She moved quietly, efficient but gentle, adjusting his IV and checking his vitals. “How are you feeling today?” she asked softly.
“Like shit,” he answered honestly. She didn’t flinch, just nodded once. “That’s fair.”
Her hands were careful when she adjusted his leg. She didn’t overtalk nor did she pity him. Just did her job with steady precision.
“You’ll start light rehab soon,” she said without sugarcoating. “It’ll hurt at first.”
“I figured.” he gritted out.
“Will Heeseung come to visit me today?” Riki asked, because he felt like he could go insane.
The nurse stopped, her shoulders stuffing. He noticed the change but made no comment whatsoever. “Probably.”
“He’ll start driving again soon.” He felt the need to reassure.
The nurse smiled softly and told him, “So will you.” before closing the door behind her back.
A few days later, he told the nurse, “Let Jake in.” when she gave him his breakfast trail.
When Jake entered the room, Riki braced himself.
He expected anger and disappointment. A lecture about contracts and sponsors and recklessness.
Instead, Jake stopped just inside the doorway.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Riki crossed his arms defensively. “You’re going to start?”
Jake didn’t answer right away. He walked forward slowly. “Oh fuck off, I know I made a mistake—“ Riki rolled his eyes but then Jake wrapped his arms around him carefully, mindful of the injuries, and held him tightly.
He froze, blinking, suddenly at a loss of words.
Jake’s voice broke first. “You scared me.” he whispered.
Riki’s defenses crumbled so fast it almost embarrassed him. His chin trembled as he tried to hold it back and failed.
“I messed up,” Riki choked out.
Jake tightened his hold. “You’re alive.”
“I could’ve—” Jake stopped him, “But you didn’t.”
Riki’s hands clutched weakly at the back of Jake’s shirt. His vision blurred with tears. “I thought you’d be mad,” Riki admitted through tears.
Jake pulled back just enough to look at him. His own eyes were red. “Oh, I am mad at you, but…”
“I don’t care about the car, or the sponsors, or about the headlines,” Jake said firmly. “I care about you.”
The words hit harder than any reprimand could have.
Riki broke. The tears came freely, hot and humiliating and necessary. Jake held him through it, steady and unashamed.
For the first time since waking up in that white ICU room, Riki allowed himself to feel something other than guilt.
🐦🔥.
When Riki was released from the hospital, the silence of his own apartment felt louder than any beeping monitor or whining patient.
The place was not as flashy as Heeseung’s mansion, but it was still polished in that quiet, newly-successful way.
It had floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city, and the couch was modern and barely touched for weeks.
Framed race photos hung on the walls, one with him smiling with trophies, him in a helmet, him mid-turn on a track at barely eleven years old.
His bedroom was fortunately close to the living room area so he wouldn’t have to navigate the hallway.
The external cast was still wrapped around his leg during the first days home, bulky and humiliating. Crutches leaned uselessly against the wall, since he couldn’t use them yet. A wheelchair waited nearby, unused because he preferred staying horizontal.
He spent most of his time flat on his back, propped slightly by pillows, the television glowing at the foot of the bed.
The accident replayed on every sports channel.
In different angles, then in slow motion with a commentary that layered over the screech of tires.
He watched it once. Then again. And again.
The moment his car fishtailed, the split second where he overcorrected. The frame where the barrier seemed too close, the explosion when metal kissed metal… he memorised it as as if he was living it again.
“If I hadn’t pushed,” he muttered one afternoon, staring at the screen. “If I hadn’t gone full throttle.”
The commentators didn’t blame him outright. They called it “an unfortunate miscalculation.” They praised Heeseung’s intervention. They called Heeseung a hero.
Riki swallowed bitterness that tasted like rust. “If I was just less competitive,” he whispered to the empty room. “If I wasn’t so damn hungry.”
The explosion sound replayed again, loud and violent.
On the second week of bed rest, the frustration finally snapped something inside him.
The remote was in his grip as the crash replayed yet again in high definition. His own voice from an earlier interview echoed over the footage, “I always push to the limit.”
“Shut up.” He said, his eyes fixed on the scene, watching the way ambulances rushed through the race as it got suspended temporarily.
“Guess he pushed too much to the limit, will Ferrari’s golden boy and Ferrari’s newbie be able to race again?” The interviewer said and it made Riki’s blood boil.
“Shut up!” he repeated at the screen.
“News say Heeseung will be back soon in the car while Riki will be substituted by the third pilot—“ With a sudden, furious motion, he hurled the remote at the television, and the plastic cracked against glass.
The screen spider-webbed instantly, a dark fracture spreading from the point of impact by before the display fizzled into black.
The apartment fell silent, while his breathing filled the room, uneven and sharp. He stared at the ruined screen, chest rising and falling rapidly.
For a moment, the silence felt worse than the noise had.
When Jake arrived later that afternoon, grocery bags hanging from both hands, he froze at the sight.
“What happened to the TV?”
Riki didn’t look at him. “It was annoying me.”
Jake set the bags down slowly. “You threw something at it?”
Riki shrugged, jaw tight. He was in no mood for a lecture. He could buy another one if he wanted.
Jake didn’t comment further. He moved through the kitchen, unloading groceries, placing bottles of water in the fridge, fresh fruit in a bowl and some snacks on a riki’s bedside table. The normalcy of the movements contrasted painfully with the tension in the room.
“You need help to shower?” Jake asked gently.
Riki hesitated, pride flaring. Then he exhaled softly “Yeah.”
Jake helped him carefully, with steady hands, practical and respectful.
Steam filled the bathroom, and Riki clenched his jaw while Jake helped him balance, avoiding pressure or water on the injured leg.
Afterward, back in bed, Jake sat at the edge of the mattress. “The external cast is coming off tomorrow,” Jake said, showing him the hospital papers. “The doctor cleared you to start rehab.”
Riki’s eyes flicked up. “Already?”
“It’s time.” Jake’s smile was hopeful and boyish.
He swallowed. Rehab meant reality… it meant effort and pain and acknowledging weakness. Something Riki wasnt really known for.
Jake studied him for a long second. “You don’t have to be strong every second.”
Riki scoffed faintly. “Kind of my job.” Jake’s expression softened. “Your job is to heal right now.”
The next day, there was a knock at the door.
Jake opened it with a welcoming smile. You stepped inside and followed him to Riki’s bedroom.
You tried not to act too surprised by how big the apartment was. How small yours was compared to just his living room.
“My name is Y/N,” you said gently, offering a small smile. “I’ll be working with you for your rehabilitation.”
You were young, fresh out of university, your posture straight with professional determination.
Your clothes were simple but neat, and there was a brightness about you that felt almost out of place in the dim apartment.
Riki studied you from the bed. “You look twelve,” he muttered unapologetically.
You didn’t take offense. You had heard worse from older patients. “I’m twenty-four,” you replied calmly. “And fully licensed.”
Jake hid a smile and stepped aside. You moved further into the room, taking in the crutches, the wheelchair, the broken television.
“You’ll start light exercises today,” you explained, setting your bag down. “We won’t push too hard. The goal is mobility, not speed.”
Riki’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Speed is kind of my thing.”
“Not right now,” you answered softly.
You helped him sit upright, carefully guiding his leg off the side of the bed. His muscles trembled instantly from disuse.
“Breathe,” you instructed. “We’re just flexing first.”
He gripped the edge of the mattress, jaw clenched. Sweat already formed at his temples.
He tried so many times, he started losing hopes. If he couldn’t even flex his leg how could he push on the accelerator?
With your support and guidance, he managed to flex his toes and leg, but it shook violently.
“That’s normal,” you said gently. “Your muscles have been inactive.”
“I can do more than this,” he insisted through his teeth.
“Today, this is enough.” You said, it had taken him thirty minutes to fully flex it.
He hated the word enough.
You guided him through small, controlled movements. Flexing, then llight weight shifts.
He complied at first. But frustration simmered.
“This is useless,” he snapped suddenly. “I’m not an eighty-year-old.”
“You’re recovering from a compound fracture,” you corrected evenly. “Your bone pierced through your skin. It needs structured stress, not reckless strain.”
His eyes flashed. “I’m not reckless.” It had been what the cameras called him, what everyone thought of him.
He wasn’t reckless. Sure, he liked speed and to test limits but he wasn’t reckless… Was he? He hadn’t meant to crash. He hadn’t meant for the break to malfunction.
You held his gaze. “The goal is healing, not proving something.”
With sudden determination, he shifted his weight harder onto the injured leg, attempting to stand up without your cue.
“Riki—” you started but it was too late.
His knee buckled. Pain shot through him like lightning. He gasped sharply, nearly collapsing.
You caught him as best you could, heart racing. “I told you not to push!”
He gritted his teeth, breathing ragged. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” You snapped.
You helped him back onto the bed, your movements firm now rather than soft. You knelt in front of him, examining the leg carefully.
You let your fingers trace his skin. “You just strained healing tissue,” you said, frustration bleeding through despite your effort to remain professional. “If you keep doing that, you’ll delay recovery.”
He looked away, jaw clenched. “I need to get back,” he muttered.
“And you will,” you replied firmly. “But not like that.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy and awkward. You softened your tone slightly, back to your professional self. “I understand you want progress, and that’s good. But progress is measured. You can’t treat your body like a machine.”
Riki’s chest rose and fell heavily. For a moment, the anger in his eyes flickered into something else… fear, perhaps. The fear of not being enough.
“If I’m not the same,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “If I can’t drive like before…”
You stood slowly, meeting his gaze. “Then we adapt,” you answered. “But you won’t know that until you give yourself the chance to heal properly.”
He didn’t respond to that, he just turned back to the lying position and stared at the broken TV.
You gathered your things, but before leaving, you added gently, “We’ll try again tomorrow,” You emphasised, “Slowly.”
🐦🔥.
Your mornings belonged to the café.
You tied your apron tight around your waist at six thirty, with your hair pulled back and sleeves rolled up. The bell above the door chimed every few minutes as regulars shuffled in, office workers clutching laptops, elderly couples sharing newspapers, university students pretending to study.
The air smelled like espresso and warm milk foam. Taesan leaned against the counter beside you, drying a cup with exaggerated seriousness.
“Table three is on a first date,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.
You didn’t look directly, but you adjusted your stance slightly to catch their reflection in the espresso machine. “The guy keeps talking about football,” you whispered back. “She hasn’t blinked in thirty seconds.”
Taesan bit back a grin. “Do you think she’s plotting escape or murder?”
“Both.” you replied solemnly. He snorted, nearly dropping the cup.
You worked well together, with quick hands and shared glances. Inside jokes made the rush easier to survive.
When a man complained that his cappuccino foam wasn’t symmetrical, Taesan leaned toward you and muttered, “Tragic. I’ll call the authorities.” You had to turn away to hide your laugh.
For a few hours, your world was just coffee orders and sarcastic commentary.
Then the clock crept toward eleven. Your smile shifted into something more focused, as it always did when it was time to put to work the studies you did.
Taesan noticed. “Rehab guy?” he asked casually while wiping down the counter.
You nodded, untying your apron and disappearing in the kitchen to grab your bag from the hook.
“You still won’t tell me who he is?” he wiggled his brows teasingly.
“I signed confidentiality forms,” you reminded him. “Very official and very serious, unlike you.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I respect the mystery.”
“Try not to judge too many people without me.” you said, waving your hand and hurrying to the door.
“No promises!” he replied, winking.
You stepped out into the late morning sun, the air cooler than inside the café. Your car started on the second try, and you drove faster than you probably should have, mentally rehearsing today’s plan for Riki’s session.
Weight distribution, perhaps some controlled steps if he felt ready. And much, much patience.
Jake had given you the door code days ago so he wouldn’t have to wait around. It felt strange at first, entering a client’s home alone, but professionalism overrode discomfort.
You punched in the code, the door clicking open with a soft mechanical sound.
The apartment was quiet, which was never a good sign with a toddler or with a Formula One driver named Nishimura Riki.
“Riki?” you called gently as you stepped inside, closing the door behind you.
At the absence of responde, you frowned and moved toward the bedroom automatically, your bag already sliding off your shoulder.
“Good morning,” you began as you turned the corner and froze.
Riki was halfway upright. Not upright like you had instructed. Upright like he had dragged himself out of bed without support.
“Oh no.” you breathed.
His back was to you, muscles straining as he gripped the edge of the dresser. The injured leg trembled violently beneath him, knee barely stable.
“Riki,” you said, trying to keep your tone even, even though your pulse spiked. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t turn around. “Standing.” he deadpanned.
“This is not how we practice standing.” you breathed out.
“I’m fine.” He snapped.
“No, you’re not.” You stepped forward quickly, heart racing despite your attempt at composure. Inside, panic clawed at you.
You had worked with stubborn patients before, older men who insisted they could climb stairs two days after surgery. But this was different. He wasn’t just impatient. He was desperate.
“Shift your weight back,” you instructed calmly. “Slowly.”
He replied through gritted teeth. “I’ve got it.” His voice wavered.
You saw it before it happened, the micro-tremor in his thigh and the way his shoulders tightened. “Riki—”
His leg gave out and seconds later he hit the floor hard.
The sound made your stomach flip. You were at his side instantly. “Are you okay? Tell me where it hurts.”
He sucked in a sharp breath, jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” you repeated firmly, kneeling beside him. His height made everything harder. He was long-limbed, heavy with muscle even in recovery.
“On three, we’re getting you up,” you said. “One, two—”
He tried to push himself too quickly, grimacing.
“Stop fighting me,” you snapped before you could soften it. “Work with me.”
He hesitated, but then nodded. Together, slowly and awkwardly, you maneuvered him back onto the bed.
It took effort, and your arms strained under his weight. When he was finally seated, breathing uneven, you stepped back slightly.
“You cannot do that,” you said, voice firm but controlled. “You could have torn something.”
He looked away, embarrassed anger simmering in his eyes. “I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were. But you are healing.” you tried to make your point.
Silence filled the room. Then, without another argument, he nodded faintly.
The session that followed was slower than usual, because he would never be ready for more if he kept pushing. You guided him through measured movements, adjusting his posture and counting repetitions softly.
Two hours passed by slowly and by the end, both of you were tired.
You were crouched beside the bed, writing notes in your folder, when your stomach betrayed you.
A loud, unmistakable growl echoed through the quiet room.
You froze, embarrassed. Riki blinked at you, then he chuckled. “You didn’t eat?” he asked. “I’m fine,” you replied quickly, snapping your folder shut.
Your stomach growled again, louder than the first time, betraying your words.
Riki’s eyebrow lifted. “I can cook,” he offered.
You shook your head immediately. “Absolutely not. I don’t need my patients cooking for me.”
“You helped me off the floor,” he countered. “Seems fair.”
“That’s my job—“ Another growl interrupted.
You sighed, cheeks warming slightly. “It’s not appropriate.”
He tilted his head. “You’re starving.” You crossed your arms defensively. “I had a busy morning, but I did have breakfast.”
“Before you can say anything, coffee doesn’t count as breakfast.” He replied matter-of-factly.
You stared at him for a moment. He smiled faintly. “Let me.”
Reluctantly, you helped him into the wheelchair. In the kitchen, sunlight poured through the tall windows, illuminating the marble counters.
“What do you even have?” you muttered, opening the fridge cautiously.
“Enough,” he said.
You hovered nearby as he maneuvered carefully, one hand steadying himself against the counter. He moved slower than before the accident, but there was determination in every motion.
The wheelchair made him smaller, but he could reach the counter just fine. He moved effortlessly, taking eggs from the fridge, adding them in a pan with butter, bread and cinnamon.
“You’re good at this.” You commented from where you were watching, leaning against the counter.
“I remind you that I live alone,” he replied, placing the french toast on the plate, “It’s either this or take out.”
He turned around, pushing the wheelchair with one hand and before handing you the plate, “Voilà mademoiselle.”
“Thank you.” You replied, taking it in your hand. He wheeled himself to the fridge and took out a can of coke, handing it to you. You noticed he had beers stacked inside as well as energy drinks.
You didn’t think it was very healthy, but you didn’t comment on it. Perhaps you’d secretly take a couple away when he wasn’t aware. You didn’t really want him to drown his guilt on alcohol.
You bit down the french toast and the taste melted in your mouth, the cinnamon mixing with the bread and eggs. Your eyes widened and you sighed contentedly, “This tastes so good!”
Riki shrugged with a smirk, leaning back on the wheelchair, “Glad you like it.”
You ate eagerly and gulped down the can of coke, then you wiped your mouth and smiled at him, “Thank you, Riki.”
“No biggie.” He wiggled his brows. You went behind him and took him to his bedroom, helping him on the bed again.
You tucked him under the cover, “Everything’s good?”
“Nothing is truly good in this world,” he replied, wiggling, trying to find a more comfortable position. “You can go now.”
You just nodded and stepped away, “Goodbye, Riki.”
He waved his hand, “Bye Y/N.”
🐦🔥.
You were supposed to arrive at Riki’s house at eleven sharp, however, fate was cruel because it was 11:15 a.m. and you were still in your apron.
Taesan had called in sick that morning, he had caught a cold and could hardly get out of bed, and nobody could fill in his shift.
You had called your boss at least five times, and he hadn’t picked up once.
You were tempted to just close the shop and call it a day, if you didn’t desperately need it.
But you needed the job as the rehab nurse too…
“Come on…” You tapped your foot impatiently, hurriedly making an espresso and giving it to a customer, “That’ll be one and fifty.”
The old man took out the wallet from his pocket and tried to open it, but his hand shook too hard. He could barely hold the zipper.
Your eyes softened and you quickly slipped in caregiver mode, taking the wallet from his trembling hands and opening it.
You showed him the amount of money you took out and gave the wallet back to him. He smiled widely, “Thank you so much, young girl.”
“Have a nice day!” You replied.
After some minutes, the bell on top of the door chimed. “Welcome—“ You said, but as you turned around you realised it was not a customer, but Han Taesan.
“What are you doing here?” You asked, walking towards him. He really didn’t look well.
“Kai told me he couldn’t cover my shift.” He smiled, already stepping behind the counter despite being worryingly pale, “And I figured the only kind enough to do it was you, but you have to go to the rehab guy, right?”
“Yes,” you frowned. “But you’re sick.”
“Meh,” he shrugged, “I’ve been worse, now go.” He hushed you out of the door.
You turned around and kissed his cheek gratefully, “Thank you! I owe you.”
You probably broke eight different laws of the road to get there in five minutes. You punched in the code to Riki’s apartment, breath slightly uneven from hurrying up the stairs. “Sorry,” you muttered to no one in particular as the door clicked open.
The apartment smelled faintly… toasty.
You stepped inside and immediately noticed it.
On the kitchen counter, neatly placed on a small white plate, sat a sandwich9, with slices of bread cut diagonally and lettuce peeking out. A folded napkin was beneath it like it had been presented deliberately.
You blinked and stepped closer, staring at it like it might explain itself.
“What…” you murmured.
You set your bag down and walked quickly toward the bedroom.
He was propped up against the headboard when you entered, phone in his hand. He looked up when you appeared.
“Good morning,” he said.
You crossed your arms automatically. “Did you make that sandwich?”
“Yes.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “You were in the kitchen?”
He shrugged faintly. “Obviously.”
“Riki.” Your tone carried the beginning of a lecture.
“You’re not supposed to move around unsupervised,” you continued, stepping further into the room. “You could have fallen again.”
“I didn’t,” he replied calmly. “That’s not the point.” You nagger again.
He sighed and shifted slightly. “I figured out how to get onto the wheelchair without putting weight on my leg.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Show me.”
There was a flicker of pride in his expression. “Watch.”
He moved carefully to the edge of the bed. You hovered close, ready to intervene.
Instead of trying to stand upright like before, he positioned the wheelchair at an angle, locked the wheels, and used his arms to lift his body in a controlled motion. His injured leg stayed elevated, barely brushing the floor.
It was awkward, but precise. He transferred himself fully into the wheelchair without grimacing.
You blinked. “That’s…” You paused. “Impressive.”
He smirked slightly. “I told you I’m not helpless.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to experiment without supervision,” you shot back automatically, though your tone softened.
He rolled his eyes lightly. “Eat the sandwich,” he said. “Before you faint.”
You hesitated. “I won’t faint.”
“You look like you might.” You sighed, walking back into the kitchen. The sandwich was still warm. You picked it up, taking a cautious bite.
“Did you toast it?” you called out.
“Yes! i’m a pro.”
You finished it faster than you intended to. Hunger had a way of humbling pride.
When you returned to the bedroom, wiping your hands on the napkin, he was watching you with faint amusement.
“Thank you,” you muttered.
“You’re welcome.” he shrugged.
You clapped your hands lightly. “All right, now it’s rehab time.”
The session began normally. You guided him through controlled leg lifts, assisted stretches, slow weight shifts. He followed instructions, but something felt off.
He kept adjusting in his seat, his responses were delayed and his focus drifted.
“Riki,” you said gently after noticing him wince for the third time. “If it hurts too much, we can stop.”
“It’s fine.” he murmured.
“It doesn’t look fine.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
You crouched in front of him to meet his eyes. “Talk to me, are you tired?”
He looked… frustrated. But not in the usual way. There was a sheepish tension in his jaw.
You waited patiently. Finally, he muttered, “I need to pee.”
You blinked. “Oh.”
Silence hung between you for half a second.
“Jake didn’t come today,” he added quickly, as if that explained everything.
“Okay,” you said carefully. “We’ll pause.” You stood, processing the logistics.
“Why don’t you have someone assisting you full-time?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “You could afford it.”
His expression hardened instantly. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you meant.”
“I meant support,” you corrected calmly. “There’s nothing wrong with having help during recovery.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not paying someone to follow me around twenty-four seven.”
You crossed your arms, meeting his glare evenly. “Needing help doesn’t make you weak.”
His voice dropped. “It feels like it.”
That landed heavier than you expected. You softened slightly. “Let’s just get you to the bathroom.”
Without further argument, he positioned the wheelchair again.
“Watch,” he said, a little sharper now, as if proving something.
He performed the transfer trick again, controlled, careful, avoiding pressure on the injured leg. You stayed close but didn’t intervene.
It was smoother this time.
You wheeled him down the hallway and into the bathroom. The space was wide, adapted with grab bars that you were sure Jake had installed without Riki’s permission.
“All right,” you said, steadying the chair. “On three.”
He gripped the bar and pushed himself up carefully. His good leg bore most of the weight while the injured one hovered lightly.
He couldn’t lean fully on you, the angle didn’t allow it. So he braced one hand against the wall as well, breathing controlled.
“Turn around,” he said quietly.
You nodded immediately and pivoted, facing the opposite wall. “I’m not looking,” you assured him.
There was the faint rustle of fabric. The sound of his uneven breathing. Then the soft, unmistakable sound of relief.
You focused on the tiled wall in front of you, counting silently to give him privacy.
When it ended, you turned slightly. “Do you need help?”
“I can manage.” He gritted out.
You stepped closer cautiously anyway, prepared to assist if needed.
He adjusted himself awkwardly, his movements stiff and awkward.
You reached instinctively to steady him. “I’ve got it,” he said quickly.
You paused. “I can help you clean up,” you offered gently, professional tone intact. “I’ve done it with other patients already.”
He stiffened. “No.”
“It’s part of recovery. There’s nothing embarrassing about it.” you pressed on.
His cheeks flushed faintly. “I said no.”
There was a fragile edge to his voice now, you recognised it as pride.
You studied him for a moment. “All right,” you said softly, stepping back.
He finished on his own, slow and deliberate. When he was ready, you helped him ease back into the wheelchair.
The trip back to the bedroom was quieter. You could feel the shift between you, an understanding of boundaries being tested and reset.
Once he was settled again, you spoke carefully. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
He stared at the floor. “I know.”
“But you don’t believe it,” you said gently.
He didn’t answer and you didn’t push further.
Instead, you adjusted your notes and said, “We’ll finish with seated exercises today.”
He nodded once.
And this time, when you guided his movements, he followed without trying to prove anything.
🐦🔥.
You had chosen a day where the sky was clear. Not too hot and not too windy. The sunlight felt intentional, like it had decided to show up for a reason.
When you told Riki you were taking him out, he had stared at you like you had suggested skydiving.
“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“You need fresh air.” You smiled, pointing to the world around.
“I have windows.”beh replied matter-of-factly.
“You need sun.” You now pointed a threatening finger towards his pale skin.
“I have vitamin D supplements.” Riki raised a brow in challenge.
You crossed your arms. “You also have cabin fever.”
He glared at you from the edge of the bed. “I’m not going outside like this.”
“Like what?” You tilted your head.
“In a wheelchair and with people staring.” you rolled your eyes, “They won’t stare.”
“They will.” You softened your tone, stepping closer. “Then we’ll make it harder for them to recognize you.”
Ten minutes later he was wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled low, and a cap shadowing most of his face. If someone wasn’t looking closely, he was just another tall guy recovering from an injury.
You adjusted the footrests of the wheelchair carefully before pushing him toward the elevator.
“Y/N,” he muttered as the doors closed, “if this ends badly, I’m blaming you.”
“You blame me for everything already,” you replied lightly.
Outside, the park felt alive. Children ran across the grass, their laughter bright and uncontrolled. A dog barked somewhere near the fountain and leaves rustled softly overhead.
You guided him along the paved path, careful over small cracks. His shoulders were tense at first, hunched slightly inward, as if trying to shrink.
“No one’s looking,” you said quietly. “That’s because they’re being subtle about it” he muttered.
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You stopped near a sunny patch by a bench and locked the wheelchair in place.
“Sunlight is good for bone healing,” you explained, crouching in front of him. “It helps your body produce vitamin D naturally.”
“I already take supplements.” He murmured, watching you with his intense eyes.
“But this is free.”
Before he could protest, you gently lifted the hem of his sweatpants slightly to expose part of his injured leg to the warmth. The skin was still pale from weeks indoors.
He inhaled, surprised by the simple sensation. “It feels… weird,” he admitted.
“It’s just warmth.”
You sat beside him on the bench, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. For a while, neither of you spoke. You watched a little boy chase pigeons, tripping over his own feet and laughing as if falling was the funniest thing in the world.
Riki’s voice came quieter than usual. “When I was in Japan, in kindergarten, I cried all the time.”
You turned your head slightly toward him. “For what?”
“For everything,” he said with a faint huff. “If someone took my toy or if my mom left me at school. I hated it.”
“Why?” you questioned.
“Because the other boys didn’t cry. I felt weak.” You studied his profile beneath the cap’s shadow.
“There’s nothing wrong with crying,” you said gently. “It’s your body’s way of signaling that something hurts, physically or emotionally. It’s… a wayv of communication.”
He stayed quiet for a few moments, “I stopped eventually,” he added. “I told myself it was embarrassing.”
“Or maybe you just learned to hide it,” you replied softly.
Before he could answer, footsteps approached. A couple walked past you, young and laughing at something between them. The boyfriend slowed mid-step, eyes narrowing.
“Wait,” he said, squinting. “Is that…?”
Your stomach dropped, bracing for Riki’s fear materialising.
He stepped closer without invitation. “Yo, you’re Riki, right? The Ferrari driver?” Riki’s hands tightened on the armrests.
“Not now,” you said calmly but firmly. “He’s recovering.”
The boyfriend ignored you. “Dude, that crash was insane. What did it feel like? Did you think you were gonna die?”
Riki’s jaw clenched and he lowered his face, trying to hide it with the cap.
“Please,” you said, standing slightly. “We’re not doing interviews.”
The guy laughed awkwardly. “I’m just asking. It’s public news.”
His girlfriend tugged at his sleeve. “Babe, leave him alone.”
But he stepped even closer, peering at Riki’s leg. “Man, that looks brutal. You think you’ll ever race again?”
“Step back,” you said, sharper now.
He brushed past you slightly as he leaned in, and the sudden shift unbalanced you. You stumbled backward, your foot catching on the edge of the pavement.
You hit the ground as pain shot through your palms.
Riki’s head snapped toward you. “Y/N!”
He gripped the wheels instinctively, as if he could stand, as if he could do something. But he couldn’t.
The wheelchair stayed locked and he stayed unmoving.
The boyfriend froze, startled. His girlfriend rushed forward immediately.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she said, helping you up gently. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you muttered, brushing dirt off your hands.
She turned to her boyfriend sharply. “What is wrong with you? He’s clearly not okay.”
The guy mumbled something defensive but allowed himself to be pulled away.
Silence settled heavy after they left.
Riki didn’t speak, even as you braced for his crash out. You knelt beside him. “I’m sorry.”
But didn’t look at you.
You decided to take him home, unlocking the wheelchair and pushing it.
The park noises faded behind you. His shoulders were tense again, maybe more than before.
“Wait here for one minute,” you said suddenly.
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Just… wait.” You stepped away before he could argue.
“Y/N!” he hissed after you. “Don’t leave me here.”
You ignored the tightness in your chest and hurried down the street toward the small ice cream vendor you had spotted before.
You came back less than three minutes later, and the look on Riki’s face told you he wasn’t mildly irritated. “You can’t just—”
He stopped mid-sentence when he saw what you were holding.
A cone of chocolate ice cream, slightly melting at the edges.
You walked toward him slowly, holding it out like a peace offering. “I assumed you liked chocolate,” you said softly.
He blinked at it. “What is this?”
“Ice cream,” you replied gently. “When I was sad as a kid, my mom used to buy me ice cream. It didn’t fix anything, but it made things better.”
He stared at you as if you had grown three heads.
“You don’t have to eat it,” you added quickly. “I just thought maybe it would help.”
He looked down at his hands. Then back at the cone. “You left me alone in the street for ice cream?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yes…. well, with good intentions.”
He took the cone carefully from your hand and licked it slowly, tentatively. “Thank you.” he murmured.
“Anytime.” You smiled.
🐦🔥.
Riki sat on the edge of the bed wit his left leg extended stiffly.
You knelt beside him, your hands gentle but firm as you adjusted the brace around his leg. It had been full months of hardship, bickering and trying to get the F1 racer to collaborate with you, and with great effort, you managed to establish a relationship based on collaboration and bribing.
“Alright, Riki.” you said softly, your voice carrying the encouragement that had become your shared language. "Let's try walking again. Remember, slow and steady, no rushing."
He nodded, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead, those sharp eyes, usually so fierce on the track, now softened by frustration and determination.
The limp was pronounced, a halting drag that pulled at your heart each time, but progress was there, inch by inch.
That day, though, the session felt heavier, the lateness of the hour weighing on both of you. You'd noticed how his energy flagged earlier than usual, the pain etching deeper lines into his young face.
To lighten the mood, you'd invented a game earlier that week, something simple to turn the monotony of rehab into a challenge. "Okay, let's play 'Track Lap,'" you announced with a playful smile, helping him to his feet.
He leaned on the sturdy cane you'd provided, its rubber tip thudding softly against the floor. "You have to 'lap' the hallway and back to the room without stopping. I'll time you, but the goal isn't speed— it's completing the circuit. Winner gets bragging rights."
Riki's lips quirked into a rare grin, the first genuine one you'd seen all evening. "Bragging rights? You're on. But if I win, you owe me a weird story from your physiotherapy sessions." His voice was low, laced with that competitive edge that hadn't dulled despite the accident.
You chuckled, steadying him as he took his first step. The hallway stretched out from the bedroom door, a long corridor lined with abstract art and a few framed photos of Riki on the podium, his helmet tucked under one arm.
He moved deliberately, the cane planting ahead, his injured leg swinging forward with effort.
You walked beside him, not touching unless needed, your presence a quiet anchor. "One lap down," you murmured as he rounded the corner, his breath coming in measured puffs.
The game worked its magic: his focus sharpened, the limp less about defeat and more about strategy.
Back in the room, after two full circuits, sweat beaded on his brow, and his grip on the cane tightened. He paused by the bed, chest rising and falling. "I think that's enough for today," he admitted, his tone apologetic, as if pushing himself was the only option he knew.
You nodded, concerned,. "You did great! better than last time. Let me help you back." But as you reached for his arm, he shook his head, a spark of stubborn pride igniting.
"I can do it alone.” he insisted, his jaw set. Slowly, painfully so, he shuffled the remaining steps to the bed.
Each movement was a testament to his resilience, the way his good leg bore the weight, the subtle tremor in the injured one, and the soft grunt he let escape when he finally lowered himself onto the mattress.
It took what felt like an eternity, the room silent save for the distant hum of the air conditioning, but he made it without your aid. Pride swelled in your chest as you watched.
Once settled, you moved to tuck him under the covers, pulling the soft duvet up to his waist with care.
The fabric whispered against his skin, and he sighed, the tension easing from his shoulders. You sat on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand resting lightly on the blanket over his leg.
The proximity felt natural now, after weeks of shared vulnerability, the boundaries of professional distance blurring in the quiet intimacy of these late sessions.
"I'm very happy with the results, Riki," you said, your voice warm with sincerity. "You've come so far. I’m sure in just a couple of weeks, you'll be walking without that limp holding you back. Back to striding like the champion you are."
His eyes met yours, a mix of gratitude and something deeper flickering there, a gratitude that bordered on affection. "Thanks to you," he murmured. "Couldn't do it without... this." He gestured vaguely between you, his fingers brushing the air.
To help him unwind further, you shifted closer, your hands returning to his leg. "Let me give you a quick massage to relax the muscles.” you offered.
Gently, you worked your fingers over the taut flesh above the brace, kneading in slow circles. The skin was warm under your touch, the scar a textured map you navigated with care.
Riki closed his eyes, his body melting into the bed, a low hum of contentment escaping his lips. The room seemed to shrink around you both, the outside world fading as his breathing steadied.
As your hands moved, conversation drifted to safer topics, but your mind wandered to the news you'd caught earlier. "I saw Heeseung on the news today," you said casually, though you knew the topic was a raw nerve.
Heeseung, with now only minor burns marring his skin, was already back on the track, dominating practice sessions while Riki still languished in recovery.
The substitution by the third pilot, Noah, a talented but unproven rookie, had been a bitter pill, splashed across headlines as the team's pragmatic move.
Riki's body tensed slightly under your hands, but he didn't pull away. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken resentment. You pressed on gently, hoping to acknowledge the pain without dwelling "It must be tough, seeing him out there while you're sidelined."
He exhaled slowly, his eyes still closed. "Yeah, tough." The words were clipped, laced with the frustration of a man caged by his own body.
Curiosity, or perhaps a need to connect on that shared scar tissue, prompted your next question. "Were you burnt during the accident too? The reports were vague about your side of things."
He didn't reply at first, the quiet amplifying the soft sounds of your massage.
Then, with a deliberate motion, he lifted the sleeve of his loose shirt, exposing his forearm. The skin there was marred by a jagged scar, pale and healed, twisting like a frozen lightning bolt from wrist to elbow.
"Heeseung's car was the one that blew up," he said finally, his voice even but distant. "He took the hit for me. I got this when they pulled me out, because the flames were close, but I was already fading. It healed on its own while I was in the coma for those two weeks. Didn't feel much... or anything, really."
Your fingers paused, drawn inexorably to the mark. You traced it lightly, the pad of your index finger following the raised edges, feeling the story etched into his flesh.
The texture was rough yet smooth in places, a testament to time's imperfect healing.
Something stirred in you, an impulse born of empathy and the closeness of the moment. Without thinking, you leaned in and pressed a featherlight kiss to the center of the scar, your lips brushing the warm skin in a gesture that was tender, almost reverent.
Oh shit.
The realization hit like a cold splash— very unprofessional. Heat flooded your cheeks as you pulled away sharply, your heart pounding. "I-I'm sorry," you stammered, ready to retreat.
But Riki's hand moved swiftly, fingers tangling in your hair, gentle yet insistent. He tugged you back, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath. Before you could protest, he pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was electric, a spark igniting the air between you. You melted against him, a soft moan escaping your throat as his mouth moved with surprising urgency.
His tongue invaded, teasing at the seam of your lips until you parted them, allowing him deeper.
The taste of him flooded your senses, your body responding instinctively. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as your lips danced together, the rhythm building from tentative to fervent.
Emboldened, you shifted, and he guided you, his hands on your hips as you swung a leg over to straddle him.
The position was awkward with his injury, your weight was carefully distributed to avoid pressure on his leg, but neither of you cared.
The bed dipped under the new balance, sheets rustling as you settled atop him. Experimentally, you ground your hips down, the friction sending a jolt through you both. He rewarded you with a deep groan, the sound vibrating against your lips, his fingers tightening in your hair.
Concern pierced the haze of desire. You broke the kiss just enough to whisper, "Am I hurting you? Your leg—"
His response was immediate, his voice rough with need. "Only if you stop."
Reassured, you dove back in, your mouths fusing once more. The making out intensified, tongues tangling in a heated exploration and breaths mingling in short gasps.
Your hands roamed his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm, while his free hand slid up your back, pulling you closer. The grind of your hips became rhythmic, a slow roll that elicited more groans from him, his body arching slightly despite the restraint. Heat built between you, the room charged with the scent of arousal and the soft sounds of lips smacking, moans muffled against skin.
Time blurred in the cocoon of the bed, the world narrowing to the press of his body, the way his scar brushed your arm as you leaned in.
His fingers traced patterns on your spine, sending shivers racing down your body. You nipped at his lower lip, drawing another low sound from him, your own desire pooling hot and insistent.
Then, abruptly, the front door burst open with a resounding thud that echoed through the hallway. The spell shattered.
You jumped away from him, scrambling off the bed in a flurry of motion, your face burning with mortification.
With your heart racing, you gathered your things fumbling as footsteps approached. Riki sat up straighter, his expression shifting to casual nonchalance, though his lips were still swollen from the kisses.
Jake entered the room without knocking further, arms laden with grocery bags bulging with fresh produce and protein shakes.
He was oblivious, his focus on the task, whistling a tuneless melody. "Hey, man, got the stuff you asked for, extra greens for that rehab diet. Traffic was a nightmare, sorry I'm late."
“Oh, hi Y/N.” He said as he entered the bedroom to check on his driver, “Are you okay? You look flushed.”
You straightened, clutching your bag like a shield, words tumbling out in an awkward stutter. "I-I should go, the session’s over. Great progress tonight, Riki. See you tomorrow."
Without waiting for a response, you hurried out, brushing past Jake in the doorway, your pulse thundering in your ears as you escaped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you.
Jake frowned, glancing at Riki. “Did you say something to her?”
Riki sighed, sinking further on the mattress, “I wish.”
🐦🔥.
The evening sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows through the half-drawn curtains of Riki's bedroom.
The room, still carrying the faint scent of your perfume, felt heavier now, charged with the residue of unspoken tension.
Riki lay propped against the pillows, his injured leg elevated on a cushion, staring blankly at the wall.
The king-sized bed seemed too vast for him alone, the white sheets rumpled from the day's exertions.
The front door clicked open again, but this time, the footsteps were heavier, more purposeful.
Heeseung stepped into the apartment, his presence announced by the faint jingle of car keys and the rustle of a jacket being shrugged off.
He'd been absent for over one month, swallowed by his own whirlwind of rehabilitation sessions and relentless press conferences.
The media hounded him as the hero of the accident, the driver who'd sacrificed his car to save his teammate, but the glow of that narrative couldn't mask the toll it took.
His own recovery was a grind, physical therapy for the burns that mottled his hands and arms, sessions where he gripped steering wheels only to feel the skin pull tight and raw.
He pushed open the bedroom door without knocking, his eyes immediately drawn to the broken TV.
The sight of hit him like a punch to the gut: he knew Riki's temper, the way frustration boiled over when the world moved on without him.
Glass shards glinted under the lamp light, a stark symbol of the isolation Riki had been stewing in. Heeseung's expression softened, a mix of concern and understanding etching deeper lines into his face.
He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling a chair from the corner desk and positioning it beside the bed. The wooden legs scraped softly against the floor, breaking the silence.
Riki's gaze flicked to him, surprise flickering before settling into something weary. Heeseung sat down, the chair creaking under his weight, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look who finally showed his face after I got out of the hospital.” Riki teased.
"Hey, man," he said. "I’m so sorry, I’ve been busy with press conferences and practice, but I know Jake was taking care of you, no?”
Riki nodded faintly, his fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. Heeseung launched into the update, needing to fill the space with something normal, something racing-related to bridge the gap.
“Want to hear something funny? No matter how much rehab I have, my hand won’t collaborate! I finished tenth in the last race. Tenth. Can you believe it?" He flexed his right hand experimentally, wincing as the scarred knuckles protested. “I give you the permission to laugh at me.”
He spoke for a few more minutes, but Riki's attention wandered. His eyes drifted to the window, then back to the ceiling, his responses limited to hums and nods that lacked conviction.
Heeseung paused, studying his teammate's face, the distant look that spoke volumes. He'd seen it before, in the garages after a bad qualifying, but this was deeper, laced with something personal.
"Alright, spill it," Heeseung said, straightening up. "You're not even hearing me. What's eating you?"
Riki sighed softly, the sound escaping like a deflating tire. He shifted against the pillows, his injured leg twitching slightly under the covers.
For a moment, he hesitated, chewing on his lower lip, but the weight of the evening pressed too hard to keep it bottled. "Hypothetically speaking," he started, his voice tentative, eyes fixed on a spot on the blanket, "what would you do if you accidentally made out with your rehab therapist?"
Heeseung's eyebrows shot up, surprise rippling across his features. He leaned back in the chair, processing the question, a low chuckle escaping despite himself. "Oh shit. Well, first of all, my girlfriend would be very mad." The words hung in the air, casual but loaded.
Riki's eyes widened, snapping to Heeseung's face with genuine shock. "Wait— you have a girlfriend? Since when?"
Heeseung nodded, a huge smile tugging at his lips, softening the edges of his exhaustion.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that pulled at the collar of his shirt, revealing faint scarring along his collarbone. "Yeah, it's the nurse who followed me in the hospital after the accident. The one with zero tolerance for my bullshit, I believe you remember her. We made it official a few weeks back, but we kept it quiet. She doesn't want any part of the press life, and i respect it.” His voice warmed at the mention, a rare glimpse of vulnerability from the unflappable driver.
Then, Heeseung cleared his throat,"But hypothetically," he pressed, "how much of that making out would be a mistake, and how much... right?"
The room fell quiet again, and Riki sighed deeper this time, running a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "It isn’t hypothetical," he admitted, his voice dropping. "I kissed my therapist. And she kissed me back. But maybe it wasn't... I don't know, anything about feelings? We see each other every day, and she's the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm Riki the Ferrari driver, the guy who crashed out. She sees just... me. But maybe that's all professional, you know? Just her job."
Heeseung watched him, the pieces clicking into place.
Oh man, Riki was truly fucked.
Heeseung leaned forward again, his expression turning serious. "Sounds like it's more than professional to me.”
He gave Riki a small smile “But yeah, it's a minefield. You've got to figure out what it means before it derails everything." He didn't push further, letting the advice settle.
“Ah, whatever, I’ll figure it out.” Riki sat up straighter, “Now tell me about you and the pretty nurse, uh?”
Meanwhile, the following morning dawned crisp and bustling in the heart of the city. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans mingled with the sweet tang of pastries, steam rising from the espresso machine like a fog.
Sunlight filtered through the large front windows, casting warm patterns on the wooden counters and the mismatched stools lining the bar.
Your shift started early as always, but today, your mind was elsewhere, replaying the heated press of lips, the tangle of fingers in your hair, and the abrupt interruption that had sent you fleeing.
Clumsiness plagued you from the moment you clocked in. The first mishap came during the breakfast rush, when a customer ordered a latte,p and as you reached for a cup, your elbow knocked into a stack on the shelf.
Two ceramic mugs tumbled, shattering on the tiled floor with a sharp crack that drew stares from the line.
Shards scattered like confetti, white and blue fragments glinting under the lights. "Sorry," you muttered, grabbing the broom from the back, cheeks flushing as you swept up the mess.
Taesan, your dear coworker, shot you a concerned glance from behind the register. Not even ten minutes later, disaster struck again. While prepping an Americano, you fumbled the syrup bottle, but it was the espresso that did you in.
As you pulled the shot, your hand slipped on the hot portafilter, the scalding metal brushing your palm.
Pain bloomed instantly, a red welt rising as you hissed and dropped the tamper with a clang. The machine hissed back, oblivious as steam curling upward. You plunged your hand under cold water at the sink, biting your lip to stifle a yelp, the cafe's chatter fading into a dull roar in your ears.
Taesan hurried over, wiping his hands on a towel, his brow furrowed with worry. "Y/N, you okay? You’ve broken two cups today and now this? You don't look well— did you even sleep?"
You shook your head, drying your hand gingerly on a clean cloth, the burn throbbing like a guilty heartbeat.
"I did something very unprofessional last night," you confessed, your voice low to avoid the ears of the patrons. The words tasted bitter, laced with regret.d
Taesan raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. He glanced around to ensure no one was eavesdropping before grinning playfully. "Unprofessional? What, did you kiss your rehab guy or something? Come on, spill, you've been hiding his identity like it's state secrets." His tone was light, teasing, the kind of joke that usually elicited a laugh from you.
But you didn't reply, your silence stretching as you busied yourself wiping down the steamer, avoiding his gaze.
The lack of denial hit him like a revelation. His eyes widened, and he gasped so hard it echoed over the soft jazz playing from the speakers.
Heads turned from nearby tables, customers raised their eyebrows in mild curiosity before they returned to their own worlds.
"Wait, seriously?" Taesan whispered urgently, pulling you toward the back of the counter, away from prying eyes. "You actually did? Oh my god, Y/N, sit down and tell me everything. Now."
You sank onto a stool behind the espresso machine, the wooden seat cool against your jeans while your burned hand cradled in your lap.
Taking a deep breath, you let it out in a rush. "It was after the session. He showed me his burn scars on his arm, from the accident that broke his leg. He looked so... sad, Taesan. I just traced them with my fingers, and then... I kissed it.”
You gripped your hair in your hands, “But it was so stupid, so unprofessional. And then he…. he pulled me in, and we kissed. Really kissed. But we're still working together. He just started walking with the cane properly, and now this? Gosh, I'm so stupid. He could report me for harassment!”
Your words tumbled out, laced with self-reproach and your free hand gesturing wildly before you caught yourself.
The burn on your palm pulsed in time with your racing thoughts, a physical echo of the inner turmoil. Taesan listened, his initial shock giving way to a thoughtful nod, though his eyes sparkled with a mix of concern and intrigue.
He crossed his arms, tilting his head. "Okay, hold up— did he kiss you back? Like, was it mutual?"
You hesitated, the memory flashing vivid in your mind: the tangle of his fingers in your hair, the groan against your lips, the way he'd insisted you continue. "Well... yes," you admitted, your voice softening. "He kissed me back. But that's so not the point! I initiated it, I crossed every line. It was unprofessional, full stop. I need to apologize and set boundaries. I'll do it after my shift ends. Clear the air before it poisons everything."
Taesan placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding amid the cafe's bustle. "Hey, breathe. if he kissed back, maybe it's not all on you. Just... be careful. Apologize if it feels right, but don't beat yourself up too hard. You've got this."
You nodded, though doubt lingered, the weight of the impending confrontation settling like steam on the counter.
🐦🔥.
That afternoon, the weight of what had happened before seemed to follow you all the way up the stairs to Riki’s apartment, pressing against your chest with every step until even the simple act of breathing felt deliberate.
It hadn’t been planned, hadn’t been calculated, and that made it worse, because it meant it had been honest.
And honesty, in your line of work, could be dangerous.
By the time you entered the code and stepped inside, your fingers felt colder than usual, despite the mild weather outside. The apartment greeted you with its usual quiet, a stillness that had become familiar over the past weeks. You closed the door softly behind you, almost as if loud sounds might break something fragile that lingered in the air.
“Hello?” you called out, your voice carefully even.
“In here,” Riki answered.
You found him in the bedroom, sitting upright against the pillows, his injured leg stretched out in front of him.
He looked better, there was no denying that. Less pale and less hollow. But there was something in his gaze when it met yours that made your stomach tighten.
You looked away first. “Let’s start with cleaning the skin around the case,” you said, moving into routine as if it could shield you.
You set your bag down and pulled out gloves and ointment. your hands moved automatically, muscle memory taking over where your thoughts faltered.
You sat beside him on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to notice the faint scent of his soap.
You focused on your work, gently lifting the edge of the case padding, careful not to irritate the skin underneath.
the silence wasn’t uncomfortable in the usual sense. It was heavier than that, filled with something unspoken, something waiting.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, your voice quieter than you intended.
Your hands didn’t stop moving, but your fingers slowed slightly against his skin.
“For yesterday,” you continued. “That shouldn’t have happened. It was unprofessional, and I really hope you can forget it. And… forgive me.”
The words felt rehearsed, like you had practiced them in your head too many times, worn them thin before even saying them out loud.
Riki didn’t respond immediately. You felt his gaze before you saw it, the weight of it settling on your face, studying you in a way that made it impossible to pretend nothing had shifted between you.
“Do you really want me to forget it?” he asked.
The question caught you off guard, even though you should have expected it.
Your heart stuttered. Truthfully? No.
Truthfully, you didn’t want him to forget the way his hand had tightened slightly against your waist, the way his breath had changed, the way it had felt so natural to be that close to him.
You didn’t want to forget how it had stirred something in you that had nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with something softer, deeper and more dangerous.
You wanted him to kiss you again, to pull you closer and to bury his fingers in your hair like he had almost done.
But you couldn’t say that.
So you looked down again, focusing on the careful motion of applying ointment along the edge of his skin, your voice steady despite the quiet storm inside your chest. “Yes,” you said. “I really do.”
“Okay,” he said simply, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. And somehow, that made it worse.
You continued working, finishing the cleaning, rewrapping the padding with practiced care. The routine steadied you again, grounding you in something familiar.
Rehab that day was quieter than usual, but not tense. There was a strange kind of understanding settling between you, one that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.
He followed your instructions without pushing too far, without trying to prove anything. His movements were more controlled now and the progress was subtle but undeniable.
Days turned into weeks. And then, at the end of the month, something shifted again. “I want to go outside,” he said one late afternoon.
You blinked at him, surprised “Really?”
He nodded, a little uncertain but determined. “Yeah. I think… I think I’m ready to try again.”
The smile that spread across your face came before you could stop it. “Okay,” you said, almost breathless with relief. “Okay, yes, we can do that.”
You helped him get dressed carefully, adjusting the brace, making sure everything was secure.
He wore a cap, a mask, and a hoodie, layers of anonymity that made him feel safer.
Outside, the air was cooler than expected, the sky a soft gray that hinted at rain.
The streets weren’t crowded, which helped. You stayed close to him as he walked, his hand gripping the cane, his steps slow but steady.
The limp was still there, but it was less pronounced now. “You’re doing really well,” you said quietly.
He shrugged, but there was a flicker of pride in the movement. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“It will,” you replied. “You’re getting there.”
After a while, he spoke again. “You never really talk about yourself.”
You glanced at him, surprised. “There’s not much to say.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said.
You hesitated, then exhaled softly. “I graduated recently from university.”
“What did you study?” he questioned genuinely
“Rehabilitation therapy,” you answered, smiling faintly. “Obviously.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I also work at a café in the mornings,” you added. “To pay rent. And… finish paying my fees.”
He glanced at you, something thoughtful in his eyes. “Why this job?” he asked. “Why rehab?”
You looked ahead, your gaze softening as the memory surfaced.
“My best friend,” you began slowly, “her name is Karina and in high school, she was…. an increible gymnastic. The kind that made everything look effortless.”
You paused, the image vivid in your mind. “She fell during a routine and broke her knee badly. It wasn’t just the injury… it was what came after. She lost herself for a while, completely. She stopped smiling… stopped caring about anything.”
Riki listened quietly, and you continued. “But then she went through rehab,” you continued. “And it wasn’t easy, it took months, but she got better. She found her way back. Not just to gymnastics— but to herself.”
You smiled faintly. “I want to do that for people. To help them find their way back.”
There was a silence after that, not empty but full. “And you?” you asked gently. “Why racing?”
He let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting ahead. “My dad used to take me to watch races,” he said. “When I was a kid. I didn’t understand everything, but I loved the sound… the speed, the feeling of it all.” He shifted his grip on the cane.
“I think… I wanted to feel like that. Like I was part of something bigger. Like I was in control.” You nodded, understanding more than you expected.
Something wet hit his cheek, and he frowned. Then, something wet hit your head too.
It took only a couple of seconds for the sky to open completely, rain pouring down. “Oh—” you laughed softly, looking up. “Of course.”
You turned around, walking back to his apartment. People all rushed to find shelter, but there was no need. Riki could not run, and you were content just by being by his side.
Riki groaned. “I hate this.”
“You hate rain?” Your eyes widened.
“Yes.”
You shook your head, smiling. “I love it. It makes everything feel… free.”
“Free?” he echoed, incredulous.
“Yes. Especially when you’re inside, under a blanket, listening to it.” He huffed, but there was no real annoyance in it.
The rain soaked through your clothes, your hair clinging to your face and your shoes growing heavier with each step. But there was something strangely peaceful about it, something that made the moment feel… alive.
By the time you reached his apartment, both of you were drenched. “Okay,” you said, pushing the door open. “First priority: getting you dry.”
You helped him out of his wet clothes carefully, mindful of his leg, his balance. You handed him a towel, then moved to the wardrobe to grab something clean.
“You should change too,” he said.
“I’m fine—” you dismissed, but he insisted. “You’re soaked.”
He pulled out a hoodie and sweatpants, handing them to you. They were too big, the fabric soft and warm. “Here.”
“Thanks,” you murmured.
You changed quickly in the bathroom, the dry fabric a relief against your skin. When you stepped back into the room, the clothes hung loosely on you, sleeves too long and the waistband gathered awkwardly at your hips, tied with a hair tie
Riki looked up and stilled. There was a shift in his expression, it made your breath catch. You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of the space between you.
“So, today…” you began softly, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of the hoodie. “Today is the last day.”
He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“The contract,” you explained. “It was for five months, today marks five months from our first session.”
Understanding flickered across his face. “Oh.” He nodded slowly. “Of course, yes.”
But there was something in his eyes now. Something that hadn’t been there before. “You went a long way, uh? From being stubborn to almost being my best patient. I might even give you a star sticker.” You joked, trying to lighten the mood.
He pushed himself up, not using the cane this time. He just had a slight limp as he crossed the space between you.
And then he wrapped his arms around you. “I’m glad you helped me,” he said quietly, his voice close to your ear. “You gave me my hope back.”
Your chest tightened and you smiled, even if he couldn’t see it.
“I hope I see you on TV again one Sunday,” you replied softly.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. “You will.”
You nodded, stepping away before the moment could stretch any further.
You gathered your things slowly, your movements deliberate, as if rushing would make it harder to leave.
“Goodbye, Riki.” You said for the last time.
“Bye, Y/N.”
🐦🔥.
The clearance to go back racing wasn’t dramatic. There was no dramatic announcement, no applause abd no flashing cameras waiting outside the hospital doors.
Just a doctor flipping through a chart, nodding once, and saying, “You can start driving again. Slowly and no pressure. Listen to your body.”
Riki had nodded too, but the words hadn’t landed the way everyone expected them to.
They didn’t feel like freedom, not yet. They felt like a door opening to something he wasn’t sure he could step through.
Still, that evening, he went to the track.
The city circuit stretched out under a fading sky, the asphalt still warm from the day with lights flickering on one by one as the sun dipped lower.
The place smelled the same way, of burnt rubber, fuel and metal. It was familiar in a way that should have been comforting, but instead, it made something in his chest tighten.
He stood near the pit boxes, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, cap low over his eyes.
The sounds of engines roaring past surrounded him. Noah was on track with Riki’s car. He watched it pass once, then again, the sleek red body slicing through the circuit like nothing had ever happened to it. There was no trace of the crash that had nearly ended everything five months ago.
It almost looked like a stranger’s car.
When Noah finally pulled back into the pit lane, the engine whined down as the car rolled into position, Riki didn’t move at first. He just stared, his gaze fixed on the vehicle like it might shift if he blinked too hard.
Noah climbed out, pulling off his helmet with a grin. “As good as new,” he said, clapping Riki on the shoulder as he passed. “All yours.”
Riki barely reacted, he was somewhere else. Maybe he was still inside it as it almost crashed against the bleachers, or maybe he was still at the hospital, in a coma.
So much so that he didn’t notice Heeseung approaching until an arm suddenly hooked around his shoulders and a sharp nudge hit his side, a knee, quick and familiar.
Riki jolted slightly, blinking out of whatever trance had held him. “What the fuck—”
Heeseung grinned. “Payback.” Because that had been the joke Riki always did to Heeseung when he was nervous.
Riki exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re annoying.”
“You started it,” Heeseung shot back easily, his arm still loosely draped over Riki’s shoulders. “So, you ready to get back on track, huh?”
Riki’s eyes flicked back to the car. Ready… the word felt heavy.
“Jake even had your racing suit fixed and polished.” Heeseung informed, pushing Riki towards a table where his old racing suit rested.
He reached out, fingers brushing the fabric before gripping it fully. “Thanks.”
The changing room felt smaller than he remembered. Or maybe it was just him. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The suit hung from his hands, heavier than it should have been.
He changed slowly, pulling the fabric over his body felt strange after months of loose clothes, hoodies, and sweatpants. The suit hugged him tightly, outlining muscles that had weakened and then rebuilt, reminding him of every inch of his body that had been broken and stitched back together.
He stared at himself in the mirror and for a second, he didn’t recognize the reflection.
Then he grabbed his helmet and stepped back out, reaching for his car.
He slid into the seat, his movements more careful than they used to be. The harness clicked into place across his chest, the familiar pressure grounding and suffocating all at once.
His hands wrapped around the wheel, then he flexed his injured leg slightly, testing it against the pedal. It responded, stiff and a little sore, but functional.
“Radio check,” a voice crackled through his helmet.
Yang Jungwon. His trusted radio friend. “Yeah,” Riki replied, his voice steady but quieter than usual.
“Conditions are clear, the track’s yours and the brake system was fully checked and fixed,” Jungwon continued. “Take it easy. No need to push.”
Riki swallowed the lump in his throat “Got it.”
The engine roared to life beneath him. The vibration traveled through his body, up his spine and went into his chest.
For a moment, it felt like coming home. he eased out of the pit lane. Slow and controlled at first, then faster.
The straight opened up in front of him, long and inviting. His foot pressed down on the accelerator, the engine responding instantly as the car surged forward.
He was at 100, then the number climbed, reaching 200 km/h.
The wind roared against the chassis, the world narrowing into speed and motion.
For a split second, everything aligned. his muscles, his memory, the feeling of control…
But then the turn came.
A familiar one. One he had taken hundreds of times without thinking.
But now his mind was filled with something else. It was somewhere else.
His foot slammed on the brake, too hard. The car jerked violently, swerving slightly as the tires protested against the sudden force.
“Riki, ease up,” Jungwon’s voice cut in, sharper now. “Control the car.”
Riki’s grip tightened on the wheel as his breath peaked up. “Move the car off the racing line,” Jungwon continued. “Heeseung’s coming up behind you.”
But the words barely registered, because that turn wasn’f just a simple turn. It was again that moment. That crash. That loss of control.
“I can’t—” he muttered under his breath. Instead of correcting, instead of continuing, he pulled off abruptly, stopping near the edge of the track.
He unlatched the harness with shaking hands, ripping the helmet off as he climbed out.
He left the car there, left himself behind and rushed back toward the pit building, his limp more pronounced now.
The changing room door slammed shut behind him. A silence, heavy and suffocating filled the room. He sat down hard on the bench, elbows on his knees while hands gripped his head.
Then, during his not so internal turmoil, the door that connected the reception to the changing rooms opened.
“Hello?” a voice called softly.
As Riki looked up, he noticed that it was you. You stood there, slightly out of place among the harsh lighting and metallic surroundings, a cartoon-patterned bag in your hand.
Your hair caught the artificial light, your expression shifting quickly from neutral to concerned as you took in the sight of him.
“Y/N?” he said, confused.
“I— Jake texted me,” you explained, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. “He said to bring your clothes back here because you weren’t home.” You paused, studying him more closely.
He was still in his racing suit, half unzipped, damp with sweat. His chest rose and fell too quickly while his hands trembled faintly.
“Are you okay?” you asked gently.
Something in your voice, soft and familiar, something he’d heard for five whole months, broke whatever fragile control he had left.
He dropped his head into his hands again, fingers digging into his hair. “I can’t do it,” he said, his voice cracking.
You stepped closer instinctively. “I can’t,” he repeated, louder this time, frustration and fear tangling together. “I got in the car and it was fine, and then the turn came and I—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “I froze.”
You set the bag down slowly, approaching him as if he was a wounded animal. “I thought I was ready,” he continued, his words rushing now. “Everyone thinks I’m ready. But I’m not. I’m—” He let out a harsh laugh. “I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.”
The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. “I’m a coward,” he finished quietly.
You didn’t hesitate. You moved in front of him and dropped to your knees, the motion quick but deliberate, forcing him to look at you.
“No,” you said firmly.
His eyes flicked up, surprised.
“I have never seen cowardice in you,” you continued, your voice steady despite the intensity in your chest. “Not once.”
“You didn’t see me out there,” he shot back bitterly. “I slammed the brakes like I’d never driven before.”
“I saw you fight to get back on your feet when you couldn’t even stand,” you replied. “I saw you push through pain every single day. I saw you rebuild something you thought you’d lost.”
He shook his head. “That’s different.”
“It’s not,” you insisted. “It’s the same strength.”
He looked away, jaw clenched. “I see fire in you,” you said softly.
His laugh was hollow. “Yeah. I saw fire too, right before i slammed the break.”
You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentler now but no less certain. “You saw it because it scared you. Because you remember what happened. That doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human.”
“I believe in you,” you added quietly. “You’re not going back to who you were before,” you continued. “You’re going to be better. Stronger. You’ve been through something most people wouldn’t survive, and you’re still here.”
You reached for his helmet, which lay discarded beside him, and picked it up. For a moment, you just held it. Then you stood and placed it gently into his hands.
“If you want,” you said softly, “I’ll watch you.”
He stared at the helmet, foreign in your hands, and something shifted in his expression.
He exhaled slowly, then he stood. He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you for a long second, something unspoken passing between you.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Follow me.”
He held out his hand, and despite everything in your brain telling you not to take it, to turn around and go back to your life, you took it.
🐦🔥.
The pit lane was louder now, harsher after the silence inside.
The entire place felt like a world built on precision and speed, and you stood there, just slightly out of place.
Riki was already back at his car, standing beside it with the helmet in his hands, shoulders squared in a way that looked more like resolve than confidence. Noah had brought it back, parked neatly in the pit box, the red body gleaming under artificial lights as if it had never betrayed him before.
You watched as he slipped the helmet on again, the motion more deliberate this time, less rushed, like he was bracing himself instead of escaping.
As he climbed in, the engine roared back to life, vibrating through the ground beneath your feet.
It startled you slightly, even though you had heard it before ci.
You stayed near the edge of the pit area, unsure where you were allowed to stand, unsure of the invisible rules that seemed to govern everything around you. No one stopped you, but no one acknowledged you either.
So you stayed still..
The car pulled out again, smoother this time, merging back onto the track.
Your hands clasped together unconsciously. You didn’t know how this worked. You didn’t know what you were supposed to look for, what was considered good or bad.
All you knew was him, the way he had looked in that room and the way his voice had broken when he admitted he was afraid.
That was what you were watching for. Not the car, but him.
“Hey.” The voice pulled you out of your thoughts.
You turned, and a tall man stood a few steps away, studying you with mild curiosity.
His posture was relaxed, but there was something sharp in his gaze, something observant.
“Who are you?” he asked suspiciously.
You hesitated for a second, caught off guard. “I— uhm…” you started, suddenly aware of how out of place you must have looked. “I’m with… Riki?”
The sentence came out unsure, like you weren’t entirely certain what you were to him anymore. “And your name?” he asked.
“Y/N, I was his rehab therapist.” you shuffled on your feet awkwardly.
He frowned before recognition burned in his eyes. “So you’re that Y/N.”
“That?” you echoed, confused.
He smiled faintly, extending a hand. “Heeseung.”
You shook it, his grip was warm and firm. You noticed then, the faint scars that wrapped around his neck, peaking out from under the collar of the racing suit.
“Come,” he said, gesturing for you to follow. “You probably shouldn’t just stand there, let’s go watch him.”
You fell into step beside him, weaving through the organized chaos of the pit lane until he led you to a set of monitors set up under a shaded structure.
A man with headphones sat in front of them, eyes glued to the screens while his fingers moving quickly over controls.
“This is where we watch everything,” Heeseung explained, nodding toward the screens. “Positions, speed… well, all the fun stuff.”
You nodded, even though most of it went over your head.
The screens showed Riki’s car from different angles: onboard views, overhead shots with data scrolling alongside in numbers and lines you couldn’t decipher.
“He’s out again,” Heeseung added, glancing at the main monitor.
You leaned slightly closer, your eyes fixed on the moving image.
As the car approached the turn, a simple one, it slowed down until it stopped aburptly.
A frustrated groan came from the man with the headphones. “Again.” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“That’s Jungwon,” Heeseung said quietly to you. “Our radio technician.”
Jungwon leaned forward, pressing a button. “Riki, you need to keep moving.” he said into the mic, his tone controlled but strained.
On the screen, the car stayed still for a beat too long. Heeseung exhaled slowly beside you, but then something shifted in his expression.
He looked at you, then back at the screen and then at you again. “I have an idea,” he said.
Before you could ask what he meant, he reached over and gently, but very decisively, lifted the headphones off Jungwon’s head.
“Hey—!” Jungwon protested immediately, turning around. “What are you doing?”
“Relax,” Heeseung replied easily, already placing the headphones into your hands. “We’re trying something.”
“I need those—”
Heeseung rolled his eyes “You’ll get them back.”
Jungwon looked like he was about to argue more, but Heeseung had already turned his attention to you.
“Talk to him,” he said.
Your eyes widened. “What?”
“Talk to him,” he repeated. “Maybe he needs to hear you.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the headphones. “I don’t know what to say…” you admitted.
Jungwon leaned closer, clearly still annoyed but focused. “Just tell him what I tell you. He’s alone on the track right now, but he needs to keep moving.”
You swallowed, and then you put the headphones on. You pressed the button hesitantly.
“Riki?” you said, your voice softer than expected.
There was a pause, a shaky exhale. “Yes?”
Your chest tightened at the sound of his voice. “I—” you glanced quickly at Jungwon.
“He’s alone,” Jungwon whispered. “Tell him that.”
“You’re the only one on the track,” you said, trying to keep your tone steady. “There’s no one around you. You can take it slow, but you have to keep going.”
“I’m right here,” you added, softer now. “And… I believe in you.”
There was another pause before the engine roared again and the car on the screen began moving.
Your eyes locked onto it, your entire body tense with anticipation.
“Keep your line,” Jungwon murmured beside you. “Keep your line.” you repeated into the mic, your voice steady now.
The car turned, not perfectly, definetly not, but it went over the turn and continued on the track. A breath you didn’t realize you were holding escaped your lips.
“He did it.” Jungwon muttered, almost to himself.
You relayed every instruction Jungwon gave you, about speeds, adjustments and small corrections. Your voice became a thread he could hold onto.
Until finally, he pulled back into the pit boxes.
You removed the headphones slowly, as ykur hands slightly trembled.
Heeseung was already walking toward the car, and you followed, your steps quick despite the lingering uncertainty in your chest.
When his eyes found you, he smiled. He flexed his leg slightly, almost instinctively, as if showing you without needing to say anything.
You stepped closer immediately. “Does it hurt?”
You dropped down slightly, your hands already reaching to check, your instincts taking over.
But he caught your wrist gently. “Hey,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re not working right now, remember?”
You blinked, then let out a quiet breath, straightening. “Right.”
Behind him, Heeseung watched the exchange with a knowing look, something almost amused flickering in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, though. He just gave Riki a light pat on the shoulder.
“I’ll give you two a minute.” he said casually, already stepping away.
The space around you shifted again. Riki looked at you for a moment, before speaking “Did you come here with your car?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No, it broke down a few days ago. It’s at the mechanic, but…” You hesitated slightly. “I don’t really have the money to fix it right now. So I took the bus.”
He frowned. “Wait here,” he said suddenly.
Before you could ask anything, he turned and walked back toward the building.
You stayed where you were, confused but oddly calm, watching as he disappeared inside.
A few minutes later, he came back , he had changed out of his racing suit, back in normal clothes and carrying the bag you had brought.
He walked straight to you and without a word, he reached for your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and steady as if it was a normal thing.
“Come on,” he said.
His car was, well, expensive, here was no other way to describe it. A black, sleek Cadillac. It felt like stepping into a different world entirely as you got in, the interior smelling faintly of leather and. You gave him your address quietly as he started the engine.
You watched the city pass by through the window, the lights beginning to glow as evening settled in. When he pulled up in front of your building, the engine idling softly, neither of you moved immediately.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
He nodded once. “Anytime.”
You reached for the door, then paused.
Before you could overthink it, you leaned slightly toward him and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
You pulled back immediately, your heart racing slightly. “Goodnight, Riki.”
Riki smiled, “Good night, Y/N.”
And he started the engine again only when he was sure you were safe in the house. You knew it because you had peaked from behind the curtain, your heart fluttering.
🐦🔥.
The café wasn’t supposed to be busy, that was part of its charm, the reason people loved it, the reason you had chosen it in the first place.
It was tucked away between two narrow streets, almost hidden unless someone already knew where to look.
The kind of place where regulars came for quiet mornings, where conversations stayed low and unhurried and where the sound of the espresso machine was usually the loudest thing in the room.
But that day, something had shifted.
From the moment you tied your apron and stepped behind the counter, there had been a steady flow of people, the bell above the door chiming over and over until it lost its meaning.
Orders piled up, cups lined the counter, and the air grew thick with the scent of coffee and warm pastries.
You moved quickly and taesan was beside you, just as quick, though less composed.
“What is happening today?” he muttered under his breath as he wiped the counter for the third time in five minutes.
“I don’t know,” you replied, adjusting a cup beneath the espresso machine. “Maybe the world discovered us overnight.”
“Or maybe they’re all lost,” he said dryly.
“I’ll take the orders.” you called, turning toward the tables instead of the counter this time, a small notepad already in your hand.
A man sat near the window. His presence didn’t match the others. While the café buzzed with chatter and movement, he seemed… still.
You approached him anyway. “Good afternoon, what would you like to order?” you asked, your voice professional, neutral.
He lifted his head… and everything in you stilled.
You knew that face. Even partially hidden under the cap, even softened by natural light instead of flashing cameras and polished interviews— you knew it instantly.
Nishimura Riki.
Your eyes widened before you could stop yourself, your breath catching sharply in your throat as recognition hit all at once.
“What the hell?” you muttered under your breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear, but loud enough that your own shock echoed in your ears.
“What are you doing here?” You asked, “I never told you the name of the cafe where i work.”
He tilted his head slightly, something almost amused flickering in his eyes. “I have my ways,” he said simply.
You stared at him. “Of course you do.” you replied flatly, trying to regain control of yourself.
“A cappuccino, please.” he said, as if this was a normal interaction, as if he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere and shattered your sense of order. “With cocoa.”
You scribbled it down mechanically. “Anything else?”
He shook his head.
You nodded once and turned away, your heartbeat still uneven as you walked back behind the counter.
Taesan noticed immediately. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” he said, leaning closer as you set the notepad down.
His gaze went to the man you had just taken the order of, “Oh my God,” Taesan breathed, his voice rising before you could stop him. “Is that—”
You grabbed his arm instantly. “Lower your voice,” you hissed.
His eyes snapped back to you, wide. “That’s Nishimura Riki,” he whispered harshly. “What is he doing here?”
You busied your hands with the coffee machine, focusing on the mechanical process just to ground yourself.
“I don’t know.” you muttered.
“Wait,” he said slowly. “The way he’s looking at you—”
“He’s not looking at me.” You snapped too quickly.
Taesan raised a brow “He is looking at you.”
You ignored him, concentrating on pouring the milk inside the coffee, the steady motion helping you keep your composure.
“You said your rehab client was private,” Taesan continued, his voice dropping into something more curious than teasing. “You never told me who it was.”
You didn’t respond again and that tipped you off.
“It was him!” he said suddenly, realisation hitting him all at once.
Your head snapped toward him. “Shut up,” you snapped under your breath.
He leaned back slightly, stunned. “You kissed Nishimura Riki?”
“If you say his name one more time, I will throw this coffee at you.” you threatened, your voice low and deadly serious.
He raised his hands in surrender, though his expression was still full of disbelief.
You turned back to the counter, finishing the cappuccino with steady hands despite everything swirling inside you. You added the cocoa on top, just like he had asked, the small detail grounding you.
When you brought it to him, the café had shifted.
People had started noticing, a dad was trying to get his kid to get Riki’s autograph, while others had cameras clearly aimed at his face.
He sat there, completely at ease in the attention, as if it were just another part of his day.
It felt strange, seeing him so confident in his own skin.
You placed the mug in front of him. “Cappuccino with cocoa,” you said, your tone carefully neutral.
“Thanks.” he replied, his voice softer than the chaos around you.
You worked through the rest of your shift mechanically, your thoughts circling back to him over and over.
When he finally stood, the movement caught your attention immediately. The limp became less pronounced each time you saw him.
He walked toward the counter. “How much?” he asked.
“Two and thirty.” You replied, typing on the register. “Alright,” he said, reaching in his pocket, “Can I tip?” he added casually.
You hesitated. “Sure.” you said, though something in his tone made you wary.
He pulled out money. Too much money. Way too much. “Take it,” he said.
“No.” you replied instantly, your voice sharper than intended.
“It’s fine.” He said, holding it out for you. “It’s not fine.” You took only what was needed for the cappuccino, pushing the rest back toward him.
“I’m not a charity case.” you said firmly.
His brows furrowed slightly. “I didn’t say you were.”
“Then don’t treat me like one,” you snapped.
“Okay.” He didn’t argue. He just took the money back and left.
The rest of your shift dragged heavy. Your mood lingered somewhere between frustration and something heavier, something harder to define.
Who did he think he was?
You stepped outside for your break, needing air, needing space away from the noise and the constant motion.
The door closed behind you, but it didn’t bring salvation.
Because there Riki was, leaning against his sleek Cadillac parked just outside, his arms crossed loosely and his head tilted slightly as if he had been waiting.
He straightened immediately when he saw you, pushing off the car and jogging the short distance toward you.
“I told you to go away,” you said before he could speak, your voice still edged with irritation. “I’m not working for you anymore.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “Just— hear me out.”
Hesitation flickered in your eyes before sighing, “Fine.”
He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly less composed than he had been inside.
“This is new for me,” he admitted.
You frowned slightly. “What is?”
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between you. “Feeling like this.”
“I’m good at flirting,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “At being… cocky, at saying the right things. But this?” He shook his head slightly. “This is different.”
You didn’t interrupt, afraid to shatter the vulnerability of the moment.
“The way you make me feel,” he said, meeting your eyes, “it’s not something I know how to handle.”
“I wanted to help you,” he added. “To fix things. To make things easier for you.”
“That’s not your job.” you said.
“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to.”
He took a step closer. “I wanted to take away some of your burdens. That’s why I gave you that money.”
Your jaw clenched slightly as he continued. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
His voice softened. “I just… wanted you to be okay.” he added more quietly, “Can you let me do that?”
You frowned. “Do what?”
“Take care of you,” he said.
The words were simple, but they carried weight.
“We don’t have to rush anything,” he added quickly. “We can take it slow. Just… see where it goes.”
You looked at him, really looked at him.
At the boy who was so stuck in his own head just months ago. At the boy who blamed himself for something that wasn’t his fault.
At the man Riki had become, not Riki the driver.
“It’s weird hearing you say you don’t want to rush,” you said lightly. “Considering you’re very good with speed.”
He huffed a small laugh. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess this is different too.”
You nodded slowly. “Okay,” you said. “I can give you a chance.”
The word hung in the air for a second, and then his hand found your waist. And he kissed you.
This time, there was no hesitation, no interruption. Just warmth and certainty and something that felt… right.
You melted into it for a moment before pulling back slightly. “People might see us.” You murmured.
“I don’t care.” he replied.
And then he kissed you again, your hands grasping his shirt while his fingers pulled you flush against his chest.
When you finally pulled away, with your breath uneven and your heart racing, he smiled faintly.
“I might have done something else that could make you mad.” He announced sheepishly.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What did you do?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys.
Your breath caught when you recognised them. “No way…”
He held them out. “Your car,” he said simply. “I picked it up from the mechanic. It’s fixed.”
“You’re unbelievable!” you muttered, hitting his arm lightly.
He winced dramatically. “Ow.”
You grabbed the collar of his shirt, kissing him again. You weren’t sure of many things: you didn’t know if you could manage paying rent, or if you could actually make a living with rehab.
You didn’t even know what to eat for breakfast, always debating whether you preferred toast or cereal.
But what you were sure of was that if you gave your heart to this man, he wouldn’t break it.
genre: established relationship, soft angst, comfort, fluff
wc: 2.7k
warnings: brief social embarrassment, overthinking, insecurity, fear of being "too much" (no one is ever too much!!!), lovesick Taesan, chronic yapper
a/n: to all my yappers out there, you are loved and appreciated!! @yoonlxlla thank you for proofreading, you're my star!!
You were a yapper.
A chronic yapper, according to your friends.
Not in an annoying way—at least that’s what everyone always insisted. You just loved talking. About stupid little things, about serious things, about things nobody else noticed. You could turn a five-minute story into forty-five if someone let you. Your thoughts moved too fast for your mouth to keep up, and sometimes words spilled out before you even realized you were speaking.
But people usually smiled through it.
They laughed when you got dramatic over tiny inconveniences. They listened when you rambled about a movie theory nobody asked for. They let you explain random facts you’d learned at two in the morning from some questionable internet rabbit hole.
And honestly?
You liked that about yourself.
You liked being passionate. You liked caring loudly.
So maybe that was why it hurt more than it should’ve when the newest addition to the friend group sighed softly halfway through your story and said,
“Can you maybe let other people talk too?”
The words weren’t even harsh.
Her tone was polite. Calm. Casual.
But it still felt like someone had poured cold water directly over your head.
The entire table went quiet for a split second.
Not long enough for anyone to acknowledge it.
Just long enough for everyone to hear it.
Then conversation resumed almost immediately, awkwardly stumbling forward as if nothing had happened.
You felt your smile strain at the corners.
“Oh,” you laughed quietly. “Yeah. Sorry.”
And just like that, you shut up.
You stopped talking mid-thought. Stopped adding onto conversations. Stopped interrupting yourself with excited little side tangents. Even when people directly asked you things afterward, your answers stayed short.
The worst part was how painfully aware you suddenly became of your own voice.
Every time you almost spoke, your chest tightened.
Were you talking too much again?
Were people secretly annoyed all the time?
Did they only tolerate you because they felt bad?
You hated how quickly your brain spiraled.
So instead of risking it, you stayed quiet, and apparently nobody noticed.
Well.
Nobody except him.
Later that evening, the apartment door opened and Taesan walked in.
The atmosphere shifted almost immediately.
Maybe it was because Taesan naturally carried himself like someone impossible not to notice. Tall frame wrapped in an oversized black hoodie, dark hair slightly messy from the wind outside, rings glinting against his fingers as he pushed the door shut behind him.
Or maybe it was because your stupid heart still reacted to him like it hadn’t learned better yet.
“Finally,” Leehan groaned. “You’re late.”
Taesan snorted. “I brought food. That cancels out the lateness.”
“It absolutely does not.”
“It literally does.”
Everyone started talking over each other immediately.
Taesan laughed under his breath while slipping off his shoes, and then his eyes found you almost instantly.
Always.
It didn’t matter how many people were in a room.
His attention somehow landed on you first every single time.
Your chest squeezed painfully.
You forced a smile before he made his way over, setting the takeout bags down on the table first before dropping onto the couch beside you.
“Hi,” he murmured.
“Hi.”
He leaned down automatically to kiss your cheek.
Usually you’d immediately start talking after that.
You’d tell him something random before he could even settle properly. Maybe about the weird guy you saw earlier, or how Hana almost burned the garlic bread, or some ridiculous thing you read online.
Instead, you stayed quiet.
Taesan pulled back slowly. His brows furrowed almost instantly. There it is, you thought miserably.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He greeted everyone else casually, fell into the rhythm of the conversation for maybe five minutes, but you could feel him glancing at you every few seconds.
Studying you.
By the sixth glance, you couldn’t even focus on the conversation anymore.
Then he leaned closer.
“You’re quiet,” he said softly enough that only you could hear. “What’s wrong?”
You shook your head immediately.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
You even smiled a little to make it convincing.
It didn’t work on him for even half a second.
Taesan stared at you for another moment before narrowing his eyes slightly.
“You sure?”
“Mhm.”
“You’ve said maybe six words since I got here.”
You shrugged.
“I’m just tired.”
That earned you an unimpressed look. Because Taesan knew you. Knew you in the terrifyingly specific ways that made lying almost impossible.
He knew your fake smiles from your real ones. Knew the difference between your annoyed silence and your hurt silence. Knew when your thoughts were moving too fast because your fingers twitched against your sleeves.
And right now?
He knew something had happened.
Still, he didn’t push.
Not there.
Not in front of everyone.
Instead, he rested his arm behind you on the couch and stayed quiet.
But you could feel it.
The way he kept looking at you.
The way his jaw tightened every time someone else spoke while you stayed silent.
The way he frowned slightly whenever you laughed too softly at something.
You hated that he could tell.
You hated that you cared this much.
The evening dragged on painfully after that.
Usually you were the loudest person in the room. Usually Taesan spent half his time teasing you for bouncing between topics too fast for anyone else to follow.
Tonight, you mostly just listened.
And somehow that felt worse.
At some point, Riwoo brought up conspiracy theories.
Normally that would’ve been dangerous territory for you because you loved talking about weird things. Taesan especially loved listening to you spiral through theories with dramatic hand gestures and completely unnecessary diagrams drawn on napkins.
Tonight, you stayed quiet, and Taesan noticed immediately.
His head turned toward you.
“You don’t have anything to say about this?” he asked.
You blinked.
“Hm?”
“The conspiracy thing.”
“Oh.” You looked down at your drink. “Not really.”
Now everyone was staring at you like you’d grown a second head.
“Not really?” Hana repeated. “You literally made a thirty-minute presentation once.”
“It was not thirty minutes.”
“It was forty-five.”
Normally you would’ve argued dramatically. Normally you would’ve laughed. Instead, you just shrugged again.
Taesan’s expression darkened slightly.
He looked genuinely concerned now.
And honestly?
That almost made you emotional.
Because nobody else seemed to realize how weird this was except him.
The conversation continued, but you could feel Taesan getting quieter beside you too.
Observing.
Thinking.
Then eventually he leaned down near your ear.
“Come outside with me for a second.”
Your stomach twisted.
You nodded quietly.
Nobody really questioned it when he stood up and held his hand out toward you. You slipped your hand into his automatically and let him guide you toward the apartment balcony.
The cool night air hit your face immediately.
Nights always felt strangely comforting to you. Cold enough to wake you up a little, soft enough to calm you down.
Taesan slid the balcony door shut behind him.
Then he turned toward you fully.
“What happened?”
You looked away instantly.
“Nothing happened.”
“Baby.”
That voice.
That soft, patient voice he only used when he knew you were lying but wanted to give you the chance to tell the truth anyway.
You swallowed.
“It’s stupid.”
“Then tell me the stupid thing.”
You rubbed at your sleeve nervously. Taesan waited quietly. Somehow that made it worse. Because he wasn’t rushing you. Wasn’t dismissing you. Wasn’t acting annoyed. He just looked at you like what you said mattered.
Always.
Finally you sighed.
“I think I talk too much.”
Taesan blinked once.
“What?”
You laughed awkwardly.
“There. See? That reaction alone proves it.”
“What are you talking about?”
You hesitated.
Then quietly explained what happened earlier. The more you talked, the more Taesan’s expression changed. Not annoyed. Not embarrassed. Just increasingly upset on your behalf.
“And I know she didn’t mean it badly,” you rushed to explain. “Like logically I know that. I probably was talking too much. I do that sometimes and I know it can be annoying and—”
“Hey.”
Your words stopped immediately.
Taesan stepped closer.
“You know what I noticed when I got here?”
You frowned slightly.
“What?”
“You weren’t talking.”
“Well obviously.”
“And that bothered me.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Taesan shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie before continuing.
“You know what this friend group sounded like before you joined?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“Dead.”
You snorted softly despite yourself.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Nobody talked this much. Nobody got excited this much. Half the hangouts used to be everyone staring at their phones.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s true.”
You rolled your eyes weakly.
Taesan leaned against the balcony railing.
“You talk a lot because you care a lot.”
Your throat felt weirdly tight now.
“You get excited over things. You tell stories like every detail matters. You make people laugh because your brain moves faster than your mouth.” His lips twitched slightly. “Sometimes significantly faster.”
You finally smiled a little.
“There she is,” he murmured immediately.
Your smile faltered from embarrassment.
“You don’t think I’m annoying?”
Taesan looked genuinely offended.
“Annoying? Baby, I voluntarily listen to you explain things I don’t even understand for hours.”
“That doesn’t count. You’re biased.”
“I’m absolutely biased. But I’m also right.”
You stared down at your shoes.
Taesan sighed softly before reaching over to tilt your chin up gently.
“I like listening to you.”
The sincerity in his voice made your stomach flip.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it because I have to.”
You looked at him carefully, and unfortunately for your emotional stability, he looked completely serious.
Taesan laughed quietly under his breath.
“You know what's my favorite thing?”
“What?”
“The way you start rambling when you’re excited and then halfway through you realize you forgot the original point.”
You groaned immediately.
“Oh my god.”
“And then you try to backtrack but somehow the story gets even longer.”
“Taesan.”
“And your hands start doing this—” He mimicked your overly animated gestures badly.
You smacked his arm instantly.
“That is not what I look like.”
“That’s exactly what you look like.”
“You’re evil.”
He grinned.
“There she is again.”
You hated how easily he could pull you out of your moods sometimes.
Taesan’s expression softened after a moment.
“Do you know how quiet you got in there?”
You looked away again.
“Yeah.”
“I hated it.”
That surprised you.
“You did?”
“Mhm.”
He reached for your hand absentmindedly, playing with your fingers while he spoke.
“When you’re quiet because you’re tired, it’s different. Tonight you looked like you were trying to make yourself smaller.”
Your chest ached immediately. Because that was exactly what you’d been doing.
Taesan sighed softly.
“I don’t like when people make you feel like you need to shrink yourself.”
You blinked rapidly.
“It wasn’t even a big deal—”
“It hurt your feelings.”
The simple certainty in his voice almost undid you.
You laughed weakly instead.
“I sound dramatic.”
“You are dramatic.”
“Wow.”
“But you’re also sensitive.” He squeezed your hand gently. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.”
You stayed quiet for a moment before mumbling,
“I was trying really hard not to talk too much afterward.”
“I know.”
“I kept thinking about everything I said before speaking.”
“I know.”
“And then I got scared to talk at all because what if everyone secretly agrees with her?”
Taesan’s face softened painfully.
Then suddenly he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you. The hug caught you off guard enough that you melted into him almost instantly.
“You know what I think?” he murmured against your hair.
“What?”
“I think if somebody genuinely didn’t like you talking, they wouldn’t keep inviting you everywhere.”
You hummed quietly.
“And I think,” he continued, “you’re way too loved for that.”
Your throat tightened embarrassingly fast.
Taesan pulled back slightly just to look at you.
“And personally? I could listen to you talk forever.”
“That’s insane.”
“It probably is.”
You laughed quietly into his hoodie.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The city lights glowed softly around you while distant traffic hummed below.
Then unfortunately your brain started functioning normally again.
“So anyway speaking of conspiracy theories—”
Taesan burst out laughing immediately.
“There she is.”
“No because listen,” you said, suddenly animated again. “Why do celebrities always wear sunglasses inside buildings? That’s suspicious behavior.”
“Oh my god.”
“I’m serious. There has to be a reason.”
Taesan leaned against the railing again while you started talking properly for the first time all evening.
And because he loved you hopelessly, completely, disgustingly much—
He listened. Not the fake kind of listening either. Not the kind where someone nods while waiting for their turn to speak.
Taesan listened like every word mattered.
Like your thoughts were something precious.
You started pacing slightly as you spoke, hands moving dramatically while you explained your ridiculous theory about celebrities, government replacements, and weird airport behavior.
Halfway through, you got distracted by another thought entirely.
“Wait actually speaking of airports, did I ever tell you about the guy I saw eating tuna at like six in the morning?”
Taesan smiled immediately.
The topic switch.
Classic you.
“Yes,” he said fondly. “Three times.”
“Right, okay, but that’s because it was genuinely disturbing behavior.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No because imagine waking up and deciding tuna is breakfast food.”
Taesan watched you continue talking. Watched the way your face lit up again. Watched your eyes brighten more with every sentence.
And maybe it was pathetic how much affection filled his chest from something as simple as this. But he couldn’t help it. He loved listening to you. Loved the way your thoughts wandered unpredictably. Loved how passionate you got over tiny things. Loved how conversations with you never stayed on one topic for longer than three minutes.
You made everything feel alive.
Even silence felt warmer around you.
You eventually stopped mid-sentence suddenly.
Taesan blinked.
“What?”
You squinted at him suspiciously.
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you stare at me like I’m a cute puppy.”
“I’ve never made that face in my life.”
“You’re literally making it right now.”
He laughed quietly.
“Maybe I just like you.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically.
“Cringe.”
“And yet you stay.”
“Unfortunately.”
Taesan pulled you closer by your hoodie strings.
“You know what else?”
“What?”
“You look happiest when you’re talking.”
That hit you strangely hard. Because nobody had ever said that before, and maybe it was silly. Maybe it was stupid how emotional something so small made you feel.
But Taesan noticed things.
Tiny things.
The kinds of things people usually overlooked.
You looked away shyly.
“That’s embarrassing.”
“It’s cute.”
“Even more embarrassing.”
Taesan laughed softly before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
Then the balcony door suddenly slid open behind you. Riwoo peeked outside dramatically.
“Oh thank god,” he sighed. “She’s talking again. We were getting scared.”
You groaned instantly.
Taesan smirked.
“Told you.”
Riwoo pointed accusingly at you.
“Do you know how weird it was in there without you talking about something random every five minutes?”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not fake,” Leehan called from inside. “Come back and tell us more conspiracy theories.”
You blinked in surprise.
Taesan watched your expression carefully.
That tiny moment of realization. Maybe they did like listening to you after all.
Riwoo grinned.
“Seriously. The silence was depressing.”
You laughed softly before looking at Taesan again, and the look on his face nearly melted you alive.
Fond.
That was the only word for it.
Like he was genuinely relieved to see you smiling again.
You nudged him lightly.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m adorable.”
“You are adorable.”
“Taesan.”
“You’re literally pouting.”
You immediately stopped pouting. Which only made him laugh harder.
Riwoo gagged loudly.
“You two are disgusting. Get back inside.”
Taesan snorted before intertwining his fingers with yours again. As he led you back inside, he leaned down slightly and murmured near your ear,
“By the way.”
“Hm?”
“If anyone tells you to stop talking again, I’m fighting them.”
You stared at him.
“That’s insane.”
“Mhm.”
“You can’t fight people for not wanting to hear me yap.”
“I can and I will.”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
And that sound alone made Taesan think the entire world was worth it.
ᥫ᭡. being an idol is not easy, especially when dating rumors about you and your friend start to spread— but wait… could it be that these rumors are actually true?
a taesan x aespa’s 5th member!reader smau — 🐈⬛ . . . 🐈 !
⋆˚࿔ genre: smau, fluff warnings: swearing, everyone is a bit ooc but who cares, dating rumors, annoying twitter users, yaya’s attempt at humor, typos because english is not my first language sorry… — BEFORE READING !! reader’s representative animal is a black cat ; reader’s face claim is ive’s rei, it’s just a face claim i’m NOT shipping them .
to be added to my taglist > check here ! @poisonedwjne @jvsontddlvr
a/n very small silly smau for my best friend my oomfie my sunshine because i love my friends :^^ hope everyone else enjoyed this!! im also thinking of making a sungho x 6th illit member version of this — or maybe im already working on it… who knows — lmk your thoughts in the comments or, if you prefer, send an anonymous ask!!
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ KISS AND MAKE UP ! 🧸ྀི — dongmin’s way to comfort you after a fight is pretty simple (and works like a charm) ( word count 601)
[ extras ] kissing, crying, fluff/comfort
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ note ! i have another banger of an idea w taesannie otw plspls jingle jingle pay attention stay tuned okay!?also someone said he’s totally the type to grab ur neck and guide u into a kiss and guess what. i dig that.
@k-records (っ- ‸ - ς)⠀
dongmin couldn't handle it.
neither could you.
he was sitting in the bedroom, trying to focus on reels playing in his phone. trying to distract himself from thoughts gnawing on his mind like a dog starved.
you, on the other hand, were in the kitchen. sitting on the counter top, with gaze stuck at the boiling water.
the argument you had was silly, really. you were annoyed already, he was tired. he made a mess after you had just cleaned, you raised your voice when you shouldn't have.
and now guilt was consuming you both, resulting in you giving him the silent treatment. which you knew was bad but you couldn't bring yourself not to. you didn't even know what to say; was sorry enough?
the water boiled.
you put pasta in it and set a timer, observing the lively bubbles calming down.
"hey."
your eyes didn't budge. you felt ashamed to even look at dongmin.
he sighed softly, walking up to you.
you let him.
taking out his hands from his pockets, he placed them on your thighs. there was silence, only the sound of water bubbling between you two. he opened your thighs and stood between your legs, scanning your face.
"can we talk?" he asked. the softness of his voice made your gut dip with guilt even deeper. you shouldn't have yelled at him. he was so kind after you did and still–
you felt his hand making its way to the back of your neck, guiding your head towards him. his forehead rested against yours, hair gently brushing your skin. you closed your eyes, feeling a lump creating in your throat already.
"are you still mad at me?" dongmin questioned, voice calm as gentle breeze on a sunday morning.
"no" you croaked out.
"good" he huffed and before you knew it, his hands guided you by the neck to meet his lips.
once again, you allowed him.
the kiss was slow, pouring wordless apology from both of you. your hands found themselves seeking for him desperately, which just resulted in clutching his black top. he didn't rush but his hands on your neck guided you to deepen the kiss, angling your head in a way that allowed your lips to align comfortably.
only when he felt your breathing getting rigged and salty droplets on his tongue, he pulled away. not too far, he didn't want to.
his features softened and his hands slid from the nape of your neck to cup your tear stained cheeks.
"i-i'm sorry" you choked out, lower lip quivering. "i shouldn't have yelled. i just had a bad day…"
he stroked your skin in a reassuring motion, swallowing hard.
"and then i just… was too guilty to say anything. i'm sorry, dongmin" you sobbed. "i feel awful"
"it's my fault too. i'm sorry." he replied gently, wiping the falling pearly tears with his thumb.
"let's not fight over stupid stuff again" you sniffed and grabbed his wrists tenderly, looking up at him teary-eyed.
"and let's not do silent treatment, hm? i hated every second of that" he teased, canines poking out in a cat-alike smirk.
you just huffed, turning your head away.
"hey, don't sulk or i'll have to kiss it away again"
you just let go of his wrists and pulled him closer by his shirt.
"don't mind if you do" you whispered shyly and dongmin's hands sneaked once again to the back of your head, this time leading the kiss more passionately. your teeth clanked and you giggled through the kiss, tears already drying out in the corners of your eyes.
camboy!taesan x viewer!femreader
w: smut, masturbation (m, f), switch!taesan, subish!reader, overstimulation, dick slapping, nipple play (m), pet names (princess, angel, baby), taesan calls himself a slut, reader wastes her money on taesan, mention of mcr, dirty talk, multiple orgasms | wc: 984 | might have typos | eng isn't my first language | mdni author's note: wrote this in february 😭😭
"ah– fuck–! just like that..!"
you stare gawk at the screen, face blushing at the image of the man jerking off in your laptop.
he gets a donation, making him lean in to the screen, his hoodie sliding down. "t-thanks for the– ah, fuck– the f-five dollars, elytramia.." he thanked the donator with a whimper, hand squeezing his tip, dribbling down some of his precum over his hand.
he relaxes on the gaming chair once again, throwing his head back as he lifted his hoodie up until his chest, revealing his faint abs and firm chest.
you knit your brows together, feeling like a pervert for watching him even though it was literally his job.
"shit..feels s' good, princess.." he moans, half lidded eyes looking straight at the camera. your face blush once again, feeling heat pool down on your abdomen.
his moans and whimpers are so loud you can barely listen to the my chemical romance song playing on the background.
he teases his tip with his thumb as he does the same with his nipple on the other hand. he rolls his eyes back, overstimulated as he was on his third round by now. his cum from the previous rounds slipping from his thighs down to his seat, making you clench your thighs together at the sinful sight.
you reached for your laptop hesitantly, typing on the keyboard quickly "pls take the hoodie off plsss" with a 15 dollar donation.
he chuckles as he reads the donation popping on the screen. "so desperate~" he purrs before taking off the garment, throwing it on the bed behind him.
he is completely naked now that the fabric was gone. he settles back into the chair, spreading his thighs a little wider as one of his legs rests on the arm chair.
he grabs his cock with both hands this time, twisting his wrists up and down as his mouth opens in a O shape, small whines and whimpers slipping out of it.
"fuck, angel, I'm s' close– gon' make a mess fo' you, princess." he groans out, voice cracking a little at the end.
he bites his lower lip as he tries his best not to get louder, the chat immediately filling up with comments telling him to be as loud as possible.
he smirks, lip still between his teeth, slowing down the pace on his cock, edging himself. "mm...I dunno...if only someone would donate right now..." he hums low.
you quickly type on your laptop as soon as he stops touching himself, turning around on his chair to grab his hoodie. "pls don't stop, pls make a mess" you donate 150 dollars, the highest he ever received.
his eyes widens at the number, making sure to quickly read your username. he quickly sets the hoodie aside, hand quickly coming to wrap around his throbbing dick.
"fuck, y/n, you must like me a l-lot." he moans out, a smirk tugging on his trembling lips.
you bite your lower lip as he moans your name, quickly hugging your legs to ease some relief.
he gives an experimental slap on his sensitive tip, making him buck up his hips, thrusting into his fist. "ohmygod–!"
"fuck– 'm cumming, I'm cumming–!" he whines out, a strangled sound tearing from his throat as he shoots white stripes of semen onto his chest, some dribbling down to his thighs.
his pupils are blown as he tries to recover his breath, a soft pink crawling his cheeks. he giggles softly as he sees the amount of cum resting all over his torso.
he collects the whiteish goo with three fingers, taking them to show the camera, spreading his fingers a little. he smears it on his red tip, a small squeak escaping his lips at the sudden stimulation.
he glides his cum along the side of his veiny shaft, thighs trembling. "fuuuuck.." he groans as his hand goes back to pump his abused cock.
his pace quickens up as some donations popped on the screen, encouraging him to keep going, some even calling him a slut and he obviously moaned in response.
"s-shit– yes, fuck, 'm a slut...your slut, f-fuck–!" he whimpers with absolutely no one in his mind, only his precious viewers <3
your heart hammers as you stare at the screen, a hand going under your pjs shorts, cupping your cunt and feeling the wet patch on your panties.
you pull your panties aside, slowly introducing a finger inside your pussy. fuck, you wished it was him instead.
you match his quick pace, your palm hitting your throbbing clit with each thrust, causing small whines to fall of your lips.
"fuck, baby, are you touching y-yourself?" he groans immediately as if he was watching you through your laptop's lens.
you whine in response. "fuck that pretty pussy for me, can you?" he moans, he free hand going back to tease his tip, the nail of his index finger poking his tiny slit, making him hiss.
"fuck– I wish you were here...fuck that little pussy open with m-my cock. you'd love that, huh?" he groans, a high-pitched moan coming from his lips after.
"jesus, baby, 'm close..." he moans, feeling the knot on his lower abdomen starts to unknit once again.
you feel your climax starts to build up embarrassingly fast too, the stimulation from your finger and palm being too much.
he squeezes his eyes shut as his mouth falls open, cock shooting more cum on his abs and hand.
you cum at the sight, a small whimper escaping your mouth. "fuck...taesan–!"
he lets out a small chuckle as he cleans himself with the tissues on his desk. letting out a small hiss as he clean his sensitive shaft.
you lean in again, wiping your finger on your sheets. slowly typing on your keyboard as you recovered yourself.
your boyfriend, taesan, confesses that he loves you for the first time. except, he doesn’t say i love you, he calls you his first love instead.
pairing: han taesan x gn!reader ; contents: established relationship, fluff, saying i love you for the first time, kissing, woonhak mention cause i can’t shut up abt him, just cuteness !! wc: ~0.9k
— now playing i hope my cat loves me
you have been dating taesan for around two months now. everything has come naturally for both of you since you were close friends even before your relationship turned into anything romantic.
comfort came easily. close physical proximity came easily. even staying up until 2 am delving into the political and economic state of the world with your legs tangled together on your couch came easily! there was only one thing that has not settled easily for the two of you yet; words of affection.
taesan will compliment you and vice-versa, but the idea of the words i love you coming out of your mouth feels too foreign. just the thought alone makes you internally cringe.
the odd part is, you do love taesan. that’s something you have never had a thought of doubt about. it’s just that you believe that this enormous sense of love you feel for him has a time and place. you don’t live every minute of your life with the itching urge to express this love in words when you can with your actions. and… the time and place has never come.
when exactly… will it come?
read more under the cut! (^_^*)
well! anyways, you and taesan are on your sofa in your pajamas, each on opposite sides with mugs full of hot tea—your respective favorite flavors—in your hands. your legs are tangle over each other’s in a complex criss-cross pattern.
“can you believe it?” taesan starts.
what a thought provoking question, you think. taesan always starts off a conversation with a question containing absolutely zero context.
you tilt your head a bit. “believe what?”
he emphasizes each word, “woonhak is onto his next talking stage already. it’s been, what, 4 days?” his eyebrows furrow as they always do when he’s talking about something with passion.
“i could believe it,” you respond with a hint of sarcasm.
you take a sip from your warm mug and watch as taesan shuffles in his seat. you like to test him, act like a know-it-all.
“okay, i could believe it too,” taesan surrenders, “but, still!”
you hide back your smile, finding how defeated he looks to be adorable. that is why you test him.
you reason, “we know that woonhak is just doing this out of hurt, though. this is his way of coping with… you know.”
taesan hums, calming down now. “mm, for sure. he’s still not over his first love. that got him good.”
you nod.
a short moment of comfortable silence passes. taesan takes a small sip of his tea before he subtly—or what he might think is subtle—clears his throat and looks at you with a glint of hesitancy.
that’s strange.
“you know…” his voice comes out quieter this time; a little strained like his throat is struggling to let the words flow out.
you wait for him to continue.
taesan’s eyes move to his lap. “i think you’re my first.”
there it is. taesan’s heart was too full that his throat could not possibly hold back such a strong confession.
“your first… what?” you blink.
he stares back at you, eyes full of an emotion you have never seen in your boyfriend before; by uncovering this blanket of indescribable emotion, one would find fear.
and, for the first time in you and taesan’s relationship, you sense a crack in the comfort. a change that cannot be determined to be good or bad at first glance. to define it, you’ll just have to wait and see.
“my first love.”
your heart begins to stutter. your mind can’t form a coherent thought anymore.
you let out a breath, “oh.”
then, as a common coping mechanism of yours, you wrack your brain to something that taesan had told you back when you were just friends.
you use this aged piece of information as an attempt to change the tone of the current topic. you ask, “taesan, i thought you didn’t believe in first loves?”
yet, taesan is determined to keep this conversation on track.
“i used to not believe in first loves. i do now.”
your mouth gapes open a little.
“because of me?” you test the waters back.
he’s still staring at you. “because of you, yeah.”
ah, fuck it. this feels about right for time and place.
“taesan,” you try to steady your voice, but your words still come out shaky, “you love me?”
“yes, yn. i love you.”
you shuffle in your seat to straighten yourself up.
“taesan, i love you too.”
it feels as if a truth that you’ve been holding onto has finally come to light. all of a sudden, you want to say the phrase that you once did not wish to be spoken of over and over again.
taesan fixes his posture as well, leaning forward so your faces are directly in front of each other. he smiles without his teeth, pupils dipping their focus from your eyes to your lips.
he slowly closes the short distance between your lips as his hand, warm from the mug, moves up to caress your cheek.
taesan smiles softly into the kiss, and the corners of your mouth can’t help but lift with his.
you pull apart just enough to make the tips of your noses touch. you admire his beauty; the emotion in his eyes is love. it always has been.
you desire to stare at taesan’s pretty face for longer, but he engulfs you tightly in his arms and the two of you fall onto the armrest of the couch. he stuffs his face into your neck and rapidly places more kisses there. that’s fine too. taesan’s pretty face can be there too, you suppose.
he mumbles “iloveyou” again, and again, and again.
you chuckle, “taesan! i get it, stop! our tea is gonna spill!”
the words i love you will never be foreign to you ever again.
please DO NOT translate, copy, or repost as yours. feeding my works into ai will NOT be condoned.
maia’s note: BNDBLR IM BACK . all roads lead back to boynextdoor it seems… this is also very rusty i just wanted to write for my own enjoyment and i really liked this idea and taesan so. i was aiming for this work to be more dialogue heavy, and i think it is, but it’s still quite description focused haha…. i’m thinking abt making a version of this for a cortis member but i’m not sure. reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!! 🤍
