#luvbytaerungz writes

[tobiosbbyghorl]

accidentally booked! 🔞

- Two best friends go on a budget trip to Japan, only to accidentally book a love hotel for their entire stay. What starts as laughter and harmless fun slowly turns into lingering touches, stolen glances, and undeniable tension—until one night changes everything, and they’re forced to confront feelings they’ve been hiding for far too long.

tags: explicit sexual content, consensual sex, multiple rounds, oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), filming with consent, mirror sex, semi-public setting, overstimulation, light possessiveness, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, breast fixation, shower/jacuzzi sex

wc: 11,900

rie's note: this was from last year>< so expect errors ahead! enjoy the ride! like,reblogs, and FEEDBACKS 👉🏻🥹👈🏻are highly appreciated :3 added more scenes hence the lil different writing style heh

You were halfway through your iced americano when Park Sunghoon slid into the seat across from you with the kind of urgency only someone who forgot to buy concert tickets would have.

“I did it,” he said, slightly breathless. “I found the cheapest possible hotel in Tokyo for five nights. I’m talking dirt-cheap.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And by ‘cheapest’ you mean we’ll be sharing a closet with a raccoon family or—?”

“No, no. This place looks fine. Clean. Themed. Cute. I think the rooms are based on trains or something.”

You blinked at him. “Trains?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, like that explained everything. “It’s called ‘Fantasy Express.’ Kind of a vibe, right?”

“…Doesn’t that sound like a porn parody of the Shinkansen?”

Sunghoon gave you a blank look. “You said budget. I delivered. Be grateful.”

You snorted and took a sip of your drink. “Right. This better not end with me cuddling you for warmth in a windowless shoebox.”

He grinned. “Is that a threat or a promise, bestie?”

You flipped him off, laughing. But deep down, you were buzzing with excitement — not just because of the trip, but because it had been years since you and Sunghoon got away together.

After college, everything changed. Jobs, time zones, relationships that fizzled out before they even began. But Sunghoon was constant. He was the one person who could make you laugh even when you were crying into your broken laptop at 2 a.m. He was the voice note at midnight, the “I made too much ramen, come over,” the comfort in chaos.

So when the two of you finally managed to book this long-overdue trip to Japan, it felt like pressing pause on real life. No deadlines. No drama. Just the two of you, trains, street food, and maybe — if the stars aligned — a little karaoke.

You’d been talking about it since your second year in college. A pinky promise made over shared takoyaki from a food stall on your campus lawn.

“One day, we’ll go. Just you and me. Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka. A no-plan plan.”

You remembered that promise because Sunghoon never broke his.

Which is why you didn’t question it when he said he’d handle the hotel. And flights. And a few “must-see” locations, because even though you called it a “no-plan plan,” you both knew you were the chaotic one.

The night before your flight, Sunghoon came over to help you pack. In reality, he just sat on your bed, eating your snacks and judging your underwear choices.

“Why do you need seven pairs for five days?” he asked, mouth full of chips.

“In case I fall into a river. Or sweat. Or get possessed and pee myself. I don’t know, leave me alone.”

He laughed and reached over to zip your suitcase, fingers brushing yours for a second too long.

Neither of you mentioned it.

The flight was smooth. You watched a rom-com, he watched anime. You fell asleep on his shoulder. He didn’t move.

When you landed in Tokyo, everything felt surreal — the bright signs, the clean air, the sense that something new was about to happen.

The train ride to the hotel was quiet. You scrolled through Instagram while Sunghoon triple-checked the hotel address on Google Maps.

“We’re almost there,” he said, pointing to a small tucked-away building near the corner of a quiet street.

It looked decent. Small. Cozy. A glowing pink sign above the entrance read:

“Welcome to FANTASY EXPRESS — All Aboard the Love Line!”

You stared at it. Then at him.

“Hoon.”

“Yeah?”

“…Did you just book us into a love hotel?”

Sunghoon blinked. Looked back up at the sign. Back at you. “…No?” he tried, voice cracking halfway through. You deadpanned. “This is literally vibrating with sex energy.”

“I thought it was themed!”

“It is. The theme is fucking.”

He dropped his suitcase. “I swear on everything holy, I didn’t know. I just thought it was quirky. It said ‘train carriage rooms’ and had cute colors!”

You stared at him, unblinking. “You booked us into a love hotel. For five nights.”

A silence.

And then, slowly, the two of you burst into uncontrollable laughter — loud, ugly, bent-over laughter as passersby gave you weird looks.

Sunghoon wiped a tear from his eye. “Guess we’re really going on a ride.”

You shoved his shoulder, still laughing. “Idiot.”

The door slid open with a hiss, revealing the room Sunghoon had confidently reserved for five full nights.

You took one look inside and immediately stopped.

“…You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Sunghoon said in a flat voice, already sounding like he regretted every choice he’d ever made.

There were train handles hanging from the ceiling.

The walls had digital screens showing looped footage of Japanese countryside rolling past at high speed.

A faux train announcement played in the background every few minutes: “Next stop… pleasure.”

You turned slowly toward him. “Sunghoon.”

“Okay, wait—just hear me out.”

You stepped in and did a slow, horrified turn.

There was a chrome pole right in the middle of the room.

The bed looked like it was upholstered with actual train seats, complete with seat belts and tray tables. And worst of all, the mirrored ceiling had a blinking LED banner that read:

🚨 “ALL ABOARD — NONSTOP EXPRESS” 🚨

You gaped. “So its really is a love hotel.”

“No it’s not! …Okay maybe. Technically. But—look, I didn’t know! I thought it was just themed!”

“You thought this was a railway-themed budget capsule, and not a sex train hotel?!”

“I didn’t read that far down the listing, okay?! It was cheap and looked… clean! Plus the review said ‘lots of amenities!’”

“Sunghoon. There’s a vending machine for underwear's and condoms next to the door.”

He paused. Looked. “…Okay, I’ll give you that one. You sighed, dragging your suitcase in anyway. “We are going to get diseases just by existing here.”

Sunghoon followed behind sheepishly, dragging his bag. “You know, in a different light, this place is kind of hilarious.”

You turned to him and blinked. “We’re literally sleeping in a porn set.” “A very affordable porn set.”

You flopped dramatically onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling mirror.

He was right. It was funny. And the more you looked at the blinking lights, the mood lighting, and the suggestively placed towel basket beside the bed, the harder it was to stop laughing.

You both ended up bent over, wheezing from laughter as the fake train announcement repeated:

“Passengers, please hold on… for your own safety.”

Ten Minutes Later

“…Wait,” you muttered from the bathroom doorway. “Is that a jacuzzi?”

Sunghoon looked up from his phone. “A what?”

You pointed. “There’s a jacuzzi in here. And… no way. Is that a sauna?” He came over and peeked in. Sure enough, tucked behind the ridiculously clean glass partition was a legit two-person jacuzzi tub with sleek jets, LED lighting, and a discreet shelf of complimentary scented oils. And beside it? A cramped but actual mini sauna, already set to a cozy 45°C.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “They really want people to… marinate before they—”

“Okay! I’m not letting this place win,” Sunghoon cut in. “We are taking full advantage. This shit is expensive in normal hotels.”

You looked at him in disbelief. “You want to use the sex jacuzzi?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a tub. The jets don’t know what’s going on. You want to spend the night pouting, or do you want a hot bath with free tea tree oil?”

You groaned. “I hate that you’re making sense.”

Twenty Minutes Later

You were in the tub first — submerged in warm water, hair tied up, sighing as the jets eased the travel ache out of your spine.

“I feel gross about how good this is,” you mumbled.

Sunghoon was sitting just outside the sauna, half-wrapped in a towel, drinking water. “Don’t get used to it. This is our peak. We’re about to suffer in a train-themed sex chamber for five nights.”

“You say that like it’s not your fault.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Fair.” You watched as steam curled off his shoulders, his skin flushed slightly pink from the sauna. He looked good. A little too good.

You quickly looked away and sank deeper into the water. Nope. Not thinking that.

You were best friends. The kind who shared hoodies and bitched about exes and had matching pajamas from a failed couples Halloween sale. You weren’t supposed to be noticing how broad his chest was, or how low his towel sat on his hips.

He caught you looking. You snapped your head the other way.

A pause. “You okay?” he asked, voice lower.

“Yup,” you replied, too fast. “Just tired.”

You heard him chuckle under his breath. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You splashed water at him. “Go back to your sauna.”

But the heat in your chest had nothing to do with steam.

You both climbed into the ridiculous velvet-upholstered bed and laid side by side, limbs awkwardly angled to avoid touching too much.

The train screen looped soft countryside visuals.

The LED sign above the mirror blinked softly:

“Don’t miss your stop…”

You stared at the ceiling. “Why does this feel like the foreplay part of a drama?”

Sunghoon’s voice was low. “Because everything here is designed for people to fuck.”

You both went quiet. Too quiet.

Then he added, a little too casually. “If you get cold tonight, just say something.”

You turned your head slightly. His profile glowed in the soft red light. “I won’t.”

“I know.” But neither of you moved. Not yet.

You woke up to the smell of grilled fish and miso soup.

Blinking groggily, you turned your head to find Sunghoon already sitting up in bed, hair messy, skin flushed from sleep, and a gleam of childlike wonder in his eyes.

“Room service,” he said simply, holding up a laminated card with neat checkboxes. “And it’s actually good. Like. Too good for this place.”

You sat up, blinking blearily at the silver-domed trays on the fold-out tray table. “Wait—this place has room service?”

“Apparently. I checked last night before sleeping. They serve breakfast to the room for ‘maximum comfort and pleasure.’” He did finger quotes around that last part. “Very suggestive. But also… delicious.”

He peeled the lid off one tray, and the smell immediately hit you: steaming rice, grilled salmon, soft tamagoyaki, pickled vegetables, and even a little matcha jelly cube for dessert.

Your stomach growled audibly.

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, crawling across the bed like a zombie. “I’m never leaving.”

He passed you chopsticks. “See? You talk a big game, but deep down, you’re just here for the perks.”

You dug in. “Mmf—if you booked this place on purpose for this breakfast alone, I forgive you.”

“I’ll take that as my official pardon,” he said, chewing on a piece of miso-glazed eggplant.

For a moment, the room was quiet — just soft clinks of chopsticks, muffled chewing, and the fake train sounds looping in the background.

And then, as always, came the banter.

“So,” you said, mid-bite, “you gonna keep walking around in that towel all morning or…?”

Sunghoon glanced down at himself — still shirtless, his towel hanging loose around his hips as if he were starring in a shampoo commercial. He smirked. “Jealous?”

You scoffed. “Of what? Your man boobs?”

“First of all,” he said, popping a grape into his mouth, “these are pecs. Try not to cry when you see me in real lighting.”

“I’ve seen you in fluorescent kitchen lights eating ramen at 2 a.m. I’ve survived worse.”

“I’ve also seen you drunk with a sheet mask on and mismatched socks, so don’t act superior.”

“Those socks were a fashion statement.”

He snorted. “A cry for help.”

After breakfast and a little too much matcha jelly, the two of you finally started getting dressed.

Or trying to, anyway.

You were standing at the small mirror near the door, brushing your teeth and fussing with your hair when you heard Sunghoon behind you, grunting in frustration.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, spitting out toothpaste.

“Where the hell is the other sock I packed?”

You glanced over and nearly choked — he was half-dressed, hair still wet from the shower, towel hanging on the rack, shirt hanging off one shoulder like a K-drama lead in distress.

You raised a brow. “Check your suitcase. Or maybe the laundry bag?”

He groaned dramatically and flopped onto the bed. “Why does this always happen to me?”

“Because your packing skills are trash.”

“You packed seven pairs of underwear for five nights!”

“Prepared. Not chaotic.”

“Psychotic.”

You tossed a sock at his face. “Shut up and wear this.”

He caught it, looked at the pattern — pastel pink with tiny peaches on them — and grinned.

“Wait… these are your socks.”

“They’re clean. Be grateful.”

He gave you a playful look. “If my feet feel too soft and feminine later, it’s your fault.”

You rolled your eyes. “You could use a little softness.” There was a beat of quiet as you both finished dressing.

And then, almost too casually, Sunghoon asked, “You good with the plan today? Shibuya, food, maybe teamLab Planets?”

You smiled. “Hell yeah. Let’s go get blinded by LED art and overpay for strawberry mochi.”

You grabbed your tote bag, he slung his camera over his shoulder, and together you stepped out into the Tokyo sunlight — blinking against the sudden warmth, the city buzzing with life all around you.

The love hotel’s sliding door closed behind you with a soft mechanical hiss.

“God, being outside feels illegal after that room,” you muttered, stretching.

Sunghoon yawned beside you. “We need to get out as much as possible. If we spend too long in there…”

“…we’ll end up using that pole, and not ironically.”

You said it jokingly, but the second it left your lips, you realized you were both thinking it.

You looked at him. He looked at you.

You both looked away.

Sunghoon cleared his throat and started walking. “Right. Food. Vibes. Let’s pretend we’re not staying in horny train hell.”

You followed, heart doing weird things.

By 10:30 a.m., you were already on your second iced drink and your fifth photo taken by Sunghoon.

"This one’s blurry,” you said, looking over his shoulder as he flipped through the camera roll.

“You moved,” he replied, flicking to the next one.

“I was mid-chew.”

“Exactly. Candid.”

“You got my molar in HD.”

He laughed, slinging the camera back over his shoulder. “You’re welcome. That’s raw content.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and tugged him toward the next street corner, where a little taiyaki cart was steaming golden fish-shaped cakes onto paper trays.

He bought one with custard and one with sweet potato, handing you the first without asking — he always remembered your favorite.

The day passed in a colorful, unfiltered blur.

From Asakusa’s temple streets to Ueno Park’s shaded paths, you strolled through the buzzing city under soft summer clouds, sharing bites of grilled yakitori, stopping at claw machines, and laughing until your stomach hurt every time Sunghoon got scammed by a vending machine.

“Bro,” he groaned as his Pocari Sweat got stuck halfway. “I just wanted electrolytes.”

“That’s what you get for bullying me about my socks.”

“They are ridiculous.”

“And now they’re your lucky socks, so shut up and suffer.”

He grinned, defeated, as you shook the machine for him until the drink finally dropped.

He brought the good camera — the one he only took out during special trips or when he really wanted to remember something.

At first, it was just the usual:

Colorful alleyways, Vintage signs, Cats in front of bookstores and Neon billboards starting to glow as dusk rolled in

But then the lens kept shifting toward you.

He’d tilt the viewfinder just slightly to the left whenever you were sipping your drink, or smiling up at a paper lantern, or holding up a peace sign in front of a giant tanuki statue.

He didn’t make a big deal out of it.

He never did.

Just snapped quietly, a small smile on his face, pretending to be adjusting settings every time you caught him in the act.

“Stop taking pictures of me looking ugly,” you said as you leaned against a vending machine at golden hour.

“You never look ugly,” he replied without thinking.

You blinked. He clicked his shutter.

You smacked his arm. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Park.”

“I was talking about the vending machine, actually.”

“Oh, screw you—”

By late afternoon, the two of you were barefoot, wading through glowing water and walking across mirrored floors.

The floating flowers, the endless lights, the reflection of stars above and below you — it all felt surreal.

Sunghoon was quiet most of the time, too busy adjusting focus, waiting for the exact second a projection shifted, or the water stilled, or your silhouette lined up against the light.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, crouching low.

You stood still, bathed in blue and purple.

A single glowing lily floated past your ankles.

Click.

When he finally looked up from the lens, his expression was soft, like he’d forgotten where you were — like the whole room was quiet just for a second.

You waved your arms. “Earth to perv?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, standing up and brushing dust off his knees. “Just… this lighting’s good.”

“Mm-hmm. You’re not slick.”

Dinner was ramen from a tiny shop hidden in an alley where no one spoke English and the broth was so rich it felt illegal.

You walked off the food through quiet backstreets, with neon signs humming above your heads and laundry flapping on upper balconies.

Sunghoon carried your bag without saying anything.

You bought him an ice cream without asking.

It was so easy. The kind of night you wanted to fold up and keep in your pocket forever.

At one point, you stopped to take a photo of your own — just a snapshot of him in the warm city light, licking ice cream and grinning.

“Got you,” you said, triumphant.

He raised a brow. “You finally captured my beauty?”

“No. I finally got proof you like vanilla.”

“You said you wouldn’t judge.”

“Too late.”

The fake train ambiance greeted you again as you entered the room — soft station chimes, muffled track sounds looping on the hidden speakers. You kicked off your shoes with a groan and threw your bag down like it betrayed you.

Sunghoon collapsed face-first on the bed. “We’ve walked 23,000 steps. I checked.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“My knees are 47 years old now.”

You laughed as you peeled off your socks. “Okay, Grandpa. Want me to book us an onsen for tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the frosted-glass door in the corner.

“…wait. We still haven’t used the sauna together.”

You followed his gaze.

The in-room sauna and jacuzzi setup was tucked into the corner like an afterthought — sleek, surprisingly clean, and wildly over-the-top for the price. You hadn’t dared touch it yet.

You raised a brow. “You serious?”

He was already standing.

“I’m not walking like a gremlin tomorrow. Sauna it is.”

The small wooden sauna heated up quickly — enough for the two of you to sit side by side, towels wrapped around your waists, foreheads already glistening.

It smelled like cedar and something citrusy.

“I feel like we’re in a rich person’s armpit,” you muttered.

Sunghoon cracked up, head tilted back, eyes closed. “I feel like we’re about to get a motivational TED Talk from a man named Daisuke about financial freedom.”

You snorted. “We are literally boiling ourselves in a love hotel sauna. What freedom?”

There was a pause.

Then—

“This is nice though,” he admitted. “Like… surprisingly.”

You hummed, wiping sweat from your brow. “We deserve it. That yakitori hunt was a whole workout.”

A beat passed.

“Also, you were sweating this much at the gacha machine, so I feel like this is just your brand.”

“Don’t come for my capsule toys. They bring me joy.”

“Your suitcase is full of tiny plastic sushi. Let that sink in.”

After the sauna, you both flopped into the jacuzzi — towels still on, bubbles swirling lazily, the overhead lighting dimmed to a soft purple glow.

You leaned back against the edge and sighed so dramatically that Sunghoon mimicked it seconds later.

“Haaaaa~”

“Haaaaa.”

“…Why do you sound like a dying anime girl?”

“Why do you sound like a wounded elk?”

You flicked a handful of bubbles at him, and he retaliated by splashing water into your face.

By the time you both settled down, your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He nudged your foot underwater. “Hey. For real.”

You looked over.

“This whole day was perfect. Thanks for not letting me book some sad capsule hotel instead.”

You smiled softly. “Thanks for accidentally giving us the weirdest five days of our lives.”

A pause.

You both sank a little deeper into the water, the bubbles rising quietly between you.

Nothing else needed to be said.

Not yet.

After the sauna and jacuzzi, everything felt heavier — your limbs loose, your muscles relaxed, your brain pleasantly fuzzy in the best way.

Sunghoon handed you your toothbrush like always. Same side of the sink. Same rhythm. You brushed shoulder to shoulder, bumping elbows whenever one of you leaned over to spit.

You wore your oversized shirt — the one with faded cartoon prints and sleeves too long for your arms.

He wore a black tank top and gray sweats, his hair still damp and curling a bit at the nape.

It looked domestic.

Dangerously so.

You didn’t comment on it.

The sheets were still warm when you both flopped down again — you on your side of the bed, Sunghoon sprawled diagonally, legs halfway off the edge like a kid after a sugar crash.

"What do we watch?” you mumbled, tugging the blanket over your legs.

“I found a channel earlier that only plays weird food documentaries,” he said. “One of them was about a guy in Osaka who makes noodles with his feet.”

You blinked.

“That sounds unappetizing.”

“And yet I couldn’t look away.”

He flipped on the TV, and soon enough, soft narration in Japanese filled the room. Onscreen, a slow montage showed close-ups of dough, broth, and a man lovingly caressing noodles like they were his own children.

You both stared.

Then:

“His foot game’s strong,” Sunghoon muttered.

You snorted, smacking his arm. “Stop.”

A second later, he tilted the screen toward you and snapped a photo of your mid-laugh face.

“Delete it,” you said.

“Nope.”

“Sunghoon—”

“That’s a top-tier smile. Archive-worthy.”

You reached for the camera.

He held it just out of reach, laughing as you tried to climb over him, only to lose your balance and flop onto his side of the bed.

He oofed softly as your elbow landed against his stomach.

And then…

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You were both breathing, barely, quiet again except for the soft murmur of the food show and the faint rumble of train sounds from the wall speaker — still looping, still somehow comforting.

Your head rested near his shoulder. His arm lay beside you, palm up.

You didn’t think about how easy it would be to lace your fingers through it.

Because that wasn’t the point.

Not tonight.

Eventually, you mumbled, “I’ll fall asleep right here.”

“Good.”

“Then you’ll complain that I drool.”

“I always do. Doesn’t stop you.”

“…True.”

A beat passed.

Then Sunghoon shifted slightly, pulled the blanket over you too, and said, soft as a sigh:

“Night, dummy.”

You smiled into the pillow.

“Night, Hoon.”

You both woke up later than planned.

To no one’s surprise, the blackout curtains plus the post-sauna coma plus the gentle train track sounds had knocked you both out cold.

When you opened your eyes, Sunghoon was already awake beside you, scrolling on his phone with bedhead and one eye squinting at the light.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he greeted without looking.

You groaned and threw the blanket over your face. “Why are you always so chipper in the morning?”

“I already ordered breakfast. It’ll be here in ten.”

That made you peek out

“Pretty good options. Surprisingly tasty too.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you ate already?”

“I may have had a mini croissant. For science.”

The tray rolled in like a hotel drama — miso soup, boiled eggs, tamagoyaki, rice, fruit, juice, and coffee, all neatly arranged in little porcelain dishes.

“This is way too fancy for a place with a pole in the corner,” you whispered.

Sunghoon burst out laughing. “We should eat on the pole.”

“Try it. Break your back.”

You sat cross-legged on the bed, carefully pouring soy sauce into the tiny saucer while Sunghoon buttered his toast like an old man at a countryside inn.

It was… cozy. Stupidly cozy.

He took a photo of the spread — and then one of you holding a strawberry between your lips.

“You’re so annoying,” you said.

“Smile,” he replied.

And you did.

You both dressed quickly — jeans and sneakers, matching windbreakers by accident (he insisted you copied him), camera packed again.

The plan today was Shimokitazawa, the artsy thrift-store-filled neighborhood that smelled like espresso, vinyl records, and dreams of quitting your job.

You wandered between secondhand shops and cafés, trying on sunglasses, picking up ugly mugs, posing in front of graffiti.

Sunghoon’s camera was out the entire time — and even though he pretended he was just testing settings, you saw how he always pointed it at you when you weren’t looking.

You caught him once.

He didn’t deny it.

“I like how you look when you’re not trying.”

You blinked.

He looked away, adjusting the lens. “Lighting’s better.”

“…Right.”

It was small.

You reached for a cold canned drink at the exact same moment.

Your fingers brushed his. Barely. Briefly.

But it lingered — just a half-second too long.

You felt it. So did he.

Neither of you said a thing.

You were sitting on a bench outside a vintage bookstore, sipping soda while he reviewed the photos on his camera.

“What are you deleting?”

“Blurry ones.”

“Let me see.”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Because some are mine.”

“…Some?”

He paused.

Then smiled a little — not in a teasing way this time.

“Some are just for me.”

You didn’t ask what that meant.

You just let it sit there between you.

Warm. Quiet. Weightless.

But not really.

You returned to the hotel a little earlier than Day 1, shoes dusty, legs tired, hands full of little finds — enamel pins, a thrifted shirt, a random keychain he insisted matched your vibe.

In the jacuzzi again. This time quieter. You both leaned back and let the water do the talking.

Later, you brushed your teeth side by side again, yawning into your sleeves, shoulders bumping gently.

You climbed into bed first. This time, when he laid beside you, you noticed how close your hands were on the blanket.

Not touching.

Just… close enough. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he. It started small.

Just a joke, really. After another long day out — this time at the Shibuya Sky deck and walking through Harajuku — you’d peeled off your jacket and complained about how sweaty you were.

“You’re melting,” Sunghoon commented, flopping dramatically onto the bed while you stood near the mirror, tying your hair up.

“You’d melt too if you had boobs trapping heat.”

He snorted. “Do you want me to confirm that or—” You threw a pillow at him.

“Okay, but real talk,” Sunghoon said as the door hissed shut behind him. “This sauna is saving my life. I’m starting a petition to install one back home.”

You chuckled, stepping inside after him in your towel, feeling the warm steam immediately cling to your skin.

Tonight felt hotter somehow — and not just because of the temperature.

Maybe it was how Sunghoon looked right now. Hair swept back slightly damp, skin already glowing, the soft edge of his collarbone visible. His towel was secure but low, and he sat with one arm resting over the wooden bench behind you, casual, almost… cocky.

“So,” he started, turning slightly toward you. “You gonna keep avoiding the fact that you made a noise when you sat down yesterday?”

“I did not.”

"You groaned like you were starring in a drama.”

You blinked at him. “Are you being flirty right now?”

He smirked. “Would it work?”

You gave him a look.

He laughed, leaning his head back against the wall. “Relax. I flirt with everyone.”

“…No, you don’t.”

He looked at you again, slower this time.

You felt it — that shift.

The quiet drawl in his tone when he said, “Right. I don’t.”

Ten minutes in, the steam got thicker.

You leaned forward to reach for your water bottle, not realizing your towel had come a little… loose.

You tugged it quickly and pressed it tighter to your chest, but the damage was done.

Sunghoon’s eyes had flicked down.

And then—back up.

He cleared his throat and smirked. “…Nice catch.”

You threw him a glare, cheeks hot, but not from the heat.

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not being gross,” he said, tilting his head lazily. “I’m just observant. It’s part of my charm.”

“Your charm is a menace.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice dropping just enough to make your skin prickle. “Still keeping me around, though.”

Later, while drying off, you were both laughing over a dumb quiz show playing on the love hotel TV, towels replaced with your usual comfy clothes. But the air still hadn’t gone back to normal.

You sat on the bed, brushing your hair.

He sat behind you, watching something on his phone, absently letting his fingers toy with the end of your shirt hem.

You didn’t realize he was doing it until he stilled.

Then—

“You always wear this one,” he said softly. “It’s got a little hole in the back.”

You turned to look at him.

“You’re really paying attention, huh?”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I always do.”

There was no laugh this time. No grin. Just the warm glow from the room lamp and the way his eyes dropped for a second — from your face, to your lips, to your collarbone — before he looked back up.

You swallowed.

He looked way too close all of a sudden.

And yet, not close enough.

You stood up.

Quickly. Casually.

“I’m brushing my teeth.”

“Okay,” he said behind you, quiet… amused. “Run away, then.”The night settled in earlier than usual — maybe because you both agreed your legs needed a break, maybe because the city lights felt better admired from the bed with snacks and cold drinks.

You kicked your feet up, pulling the blanket over your lap while Sunghoon scrolled through the hotel TV’s library.

"We’re not watching something sad,” you warned.

“Why not?”

“Because every time we do, you start doing that emotional whisper voice after.”

He raised a brow, amused. “‘If I die, tell my cat I loved her’ isn’t emotional. It’s factual.”

You snorted and popped a grape into your mouth.

He settled on a coming-of-age romance film — something soft, slow, with golden lighting and friends-to-lovers tension that hit a little too close.

You didn’t comment.

Thirty minutes in, the movie faded into the background. You were half-focused, shoulder-to-shoulder with Sunghoon beneath the same blanket, a bowl of chips between you.

He reached over to grab one, and his fingers brushed yours again.

This time, you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

You felt him glance at you — not a quick flick, but a lingering stare.

“…What?” you asked, not looking at him.

"Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring.”

Your heart thudded once.

“…What?”

He smiled slowly, eyes dropping to your mouth. “I said nothing.”

Somewhere between the third snack break and the movie credits, Sunghoon nudged your leg.

“Truth or dare?”

You looked at him sideways. “What are we, twelve?”

“Pick.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Truth.”

He leaned back against the headboard, one arm behind his head.

“Have you ever thought about kissing me?”

Your breath caught

He didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t smirk.

He just watched you — calm, unreadable.

You stared at him, pulse ticking louder.

“…Is that a real question?”

His voice dropped lower. “You chose ‘truth.’”

The silence stretched. You felt it thick in your throat, in the space between your knees touching beneath the blanket.

Then, softly—

“Once or twice,” you admitted.

His lips curved, slow and smug.

You shoved his shoulder, embarrassed. “Okay, your turn.”

“Dare,” he said immediately.

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to lie.”

You stared at him.

“…Fine. I dare you to—”

“Kiss me.”

Your breath stalled.

“What?”

“I dare you to kiss me.”

He said it casually, but you saw the way his hand gripped the blanket — the slight twitch in his jaw, the sharp inhale he tried to hide.

You licked your lips slowly.

“Sunghoon—”

"It’s just a game, right?” he said, voice velvet-soft.

You looked at him.

At his eyes. His mouth. His flushed cheeks and the way he was so close but not making a move.

Like he was giving you control.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because suddenly, the game didn’t feel like a game anymore.

You leaned in.

Just a little.

Just enough that he felt your breath.

But before your lips touched, you pulled back and whispered, “Next round.”

He exhaled sharply, a chuckle slipping out — part relief, part frustration.

“You’re evil.”

You smiled.

“Just playing the game.”

“I’m sleepy,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

The tension from the game still clung to your skin, warm and heavy. Your heart was doing too much—pounding like you just ran up a hill instead of almost-kissing your best friend.

You tugged the blanket up and turned on your side, facing away from him.

Or so you thought.

Because as you lay back on the pillows, eyes half-lidded and breath evening out, your gaze landed somewhere else.

Above you.

The mirror on the ceiling.

You blinked.

It was such a stupid, love-hotel thing to have, and you hadn’t even paid attention to it since the first day. But now?

Now you saw everything.

You.

Sunghoon.

Lying side by side, under the same blanket, bodies close enough to share heat.

His head tilted toward you slightly, lips parted like he was going to say something—but didn’t.

Your breath caught.

The image in the mirror wasn’t what friends looked like.

It wasn’t casual. It was intimate.

Too much.

Not enough.

You shifted, just barely.

And in the reflection, you watched Sunghoon do the same.

His hand moved above the blanket.

Closer.

Not touching you—but hovering near your waist.

You felt his knuckles brush the hem of your shirt, barely there.

Goosebumps rose instantly.

Your eyes flicked up again—to the mirror.

He was watching it too.

Watching you.

“…Sunghoon,” you said, barely audible.

He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t blink.

“I know,” he said softly, like he already knew what was in your chest. “You’re sleepy.”

But he still didn’t pull away.

Instead, he let his fingers rest lightly against your side—just enough pressure to make you feel it.

His voice dropped, rougher now.

“But if you weren’t…”

Your stomach twisted.

“If I wasn’t?” you asked.

He met your eyes in the mirror.

“I’d kiss you,” he murmured. “And this time, you wouldn’t stop me.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

The air between you was thick. You felt the heat from his body, the blanket suddenly too warm. His words echoed, burning a hole into your chest.

Still, you didn’t move.

Not away.

Not toward him.

Just… there. Caught.

Heart racing.

Eyes locked in the reflection.

And then—

He pulled his hand away slowly.

A soft breath left your lips.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

But you didn’t sleep for a long, long time.

Not with his voice still in your ear.

Not with his hand still ghosting your skin.

And not with that mirror burning above you, showing you something you couldn’t unsee.

“C’mon,” Sunghoon said, tugging your wrist gently as you both stepped out of the taxi and into the Tokyo night. “We’re not leaving Japan without at least one club night. Live a little.”

You gave him a look. “You’re the one who googled ‘clubs that don’t have a cover fee’ and filtered by ‘low noise.’”

“Exactly,” he grinned. “I’m a responsible party animal.”

You snorted, but let him guide you in.

The club was tucked away under a neon sign and a set of stairs, with a cozy, crowded feel—dark corners, glowing drinks, and music that thudded deep in your chest.

He ordered you both something sweet and sparkling. The kind of drink that made your lips sticky and your smile looser.

It was supposed to be harmless.

Just a night out.

You wore a black dress—Sunghoon’s pick, actually, from earlier that day.

“I’m not letting you pack a bunch of oversized hoodies for a night out,” he said back in the hotel. “Show some skin. It’s Japan. Everyone’s hot.”

So you did.

And now?

Now you were paying for it.

Two drinks in, you danced near the edge of the floor, swaying with the beat, laughing with Sunghoon beside you. His hand hovered low on your back—not touching, but close enough to be there if you stumbled.

Until he stepped away for a second to use the bathroom.

And they showed up.

Two guys—tall, confident, clearly a little tipsy.

“Hey, you alone?” one of them asked, smiling too much, eyes dipping low.

You smiled politely, shaking your head. “I’m with someone.”

“Oh?” The second guy grinned. “Boyfriend?”

Before you could answer, you felt it—a hand on your waist. Warm. Familiar.

Sunghoon.

“No,” he said smoothly, his voice sharp behind you. “She’s with me.”

You blinked, surprised by the edge in his tone.

Sunghoon wasn’t the jealous type. Or at least, he’d never acted like it before. Not when guys checked you out. Not when they flirted harmlessly.

But tonight?

He wasn’t joking.

One look at his face and you knew.

The guys backed off, muttering something in Japanese you didn’t catch. But you didn’t care. Not when Sunghoon’s fingers stayed on your hip even after they were gone.

You turned to him.

“…You okay?”

He stared at you for a second.

Then he laughed—short, breathless.

“You have any idea how you look tonight?”

You blinked. “Sunghoon—”

“No,” he said, pulling you gently toward a quieter corner of the club. “I let you out in that dress and thought, yeah, sure, I’ll be normal about it. But then I see guys eyeing you like they have a shot and suddenly I’m—”

He cut himself off.

You stared.

“Suddenly you’re what?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And for the first time tonight, there was no filter.

“I’m not normal about you,” he said simply. “Haven’t been for a long time.”

Your heart stuttered.

The music faded into nothing.

“…Sunghoon.”

“I know,” he said, eyes flicking to your lips. “We’re best friends. This whole trip’s been fun. Flirty. Safe. But tonight?”

He leaned in.

“Tonight, I want to make it clear.”

Your back hit the wall, gently.

Not rough.

Not rushed.

Just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re with me,” he whispered, lips barely brushing your jaw.

And you didn’t move.

Not away.

Not at all.

The cab ride back to the hotel was dead silent.

Not because there was nothing to say.

Because everything had already been said — in the way Sunghoon looked at you when those guys tried flirting at the club, in the way his hand gripped your waist like it belonged there.

And in the way he whispered, low and rough:

“You’re with me.”

The words looped in your head the whole ride. And when you stepped into your room — the one with the ridiculous train-themed decor, mood lighting, and giant mirror above the bed — it was over.

The second the door clicked shut—

He kissed you.

Not like a friend.

Not like someone testing the waters.

Like he knew what you tasted like.

Like he needed it.

His hands were everywhere — cupping your face, sliding down your waist, pressing into your lower back until your bodies were flush. You were barely able to keep up with his mouth — all tongue, teeth, urgency.

You gasped when his lips left yours to nip your jaw.

“Sunghoon—”

“I told you,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I’m not waiting anymore.”

He walked you backward toward the bed, kissing you between every step.

You fell onto the mattress, breathless, heart racing. The mirror above showed your reflection — the two of you tangled in shadows and heat, your thighs parting instinctively as Sunghoon leaned over you.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, nose brushing yours, “how many nights I’ve watched you sleep in this bed.”

His hand slid under your dress, fingertips grazing your thighs.

“Thinking about this.”

You gasped when he squeezed your leg, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re soaked through,” he murmured.

“I’ve been—thinking about it too,” you admitted, cheeks warm.

That was all he needed.

Sunghoon yanked off his shirt, revealing the hard lines of his chest, the trail of muscle down his abs — you stared shamelessly.

He noticed.

“Like what you see?”

You nodded.

“Use your words, baby.”

“I like it,” you whispered, eyes blown wide. “I want all of you.”

He groaned. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

Then he was kissing down your neck, tugging your dress off slowly, his mouth dragging over every new inch of skin.

“No bra?” he murmured against your chest.

“You told me to wear something easy to take off,” you whispered.

His eyes burned.

“I was joking,” he growled, “but fuck, that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said.”

His tongue circled your nipple before sucking hard, making your hips buck.

“Sunghoon—”

“Be patient,” he said, sliding your panties off. “I’m going to make you cum on my tongue first.”

Then he was kneeling at the edge of the bed, pulling your legs over his shoulders, and diving in.

You cried out.

He licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’d just tasted heaven.

Then again. Slower.

His fingers gripped your thighs, keeping you open as he licked you deep — tongue teasing your folds, swirling around your clit, then flattening with just enough pressure to make your legs shake.

You tangled your fingers in his hair. “Sunghoon, please—please—”

He paused, pulled back just enough to speak.

“Say it again.”

You moaned. “Please, Sunghoon—make me cum—please—”

“Good girl.”

He dove back in, and you were gone.

Your orgasm ripped through you, thighs clenching around his head as you came with a broken moan of his name.

He didn’t stop — he kept licking, slow and lazy now, lapping up everything you gave him until you were panting, trembling.

He crawled back up your body and kissed you — letting you taste yourself on his lips.

Then you felt him.

Hard. Heavy. Pressing against your thigh.

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, and his head dropped to your shoulder with a groan.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “If you touch me like that, I’m gonna lose it.”

You smirked, kissing his jaw. “Then lose it.”

He laughed — low and rough — then pulled back to line himself up.

You were still soaked. Still twitching from your first orgasm.

He met your eyes, voice hoarse.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He slid in with one deep thrust.

His hips rolled into you, slow and deep.

One thrust — thick, stretching, deliberate.

You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders as he filled you to the hilt.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—”

“I know,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “You’re perfect like this.”

He stilled inside you, chest heaving. You could feel how hard he was — how much restraint he was using just to not lose control.

Then he pulled back.

And pushed in again.

Deeper.

Your breath hitched.

Above you, the mirror reflected everything — the way your body arched into him, how your mouth parted when he bottomed out, the tension in his jaw as he watched you take him like you were made for it.

You whimpered.

“Look up,” he said softly.

You did.

And your entire body shivered.

The sight was unreal.

His body between your legs.

The way your back curved.

The way your nails pressed into his skin.

Sunghoon leaned in close, lips dragging across your jaw.

“Now imagine if you could see this again.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

He reached for his phone.

Tossed a look toward the dresser, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

“I brought the tripod.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re joking—”

“Nope.” He was already sliding the legs out, adjusting the angle toward the bed. “Consent. One hundred percent. Just for us. Just for tonight. I want to remember everything.”

Your thighs instinctively squeezed around his waist.

He placed the phone on the stand, hit record, and returned to you.

Settled between your legs again.

Caged you in with his arms.

Kissed you like it would never be enough.

“This okay?” he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, eyes wide, chest rising.

“Say it, baby.”

You swallowed. “Yes. I want it. I want you.”

He groaned — guttural, raw.

Then he started moving.

Long, slow strokes at first.

His hips grinding into yours, dragging over every sensitive spot with maddening precision.

His hand slid under your lower back, lifting your hips slightly — angling you better, deeper — until you were gasping his name.

“God—Hoon—”

“You hear that?” he rasped, breathless. “That sound you make when I hit here—”

Thrust.

You cried out.

“—that’s going to ruin me.”

His thumb brushed your clit in tight circles while he fucked you, rhythm getting messier — your thighs slick, sheets twisted, the air thick with skin and heat and moans.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Look at how fucking pretty you are when I’m inside you.”

You forced yourself to glance up at the mirror again—

And it was filthy.

Your eyes glassy.

Your body bouncing gently with every stroke.

Sunghoon — hair messy, jaw clenched, sweat slicking his chest — completely lost in you.

His thrusts got faster.

Your fingers clawed at his back.

You were getting close again. Too close.

“Sunghoon—Hoon—I’m—”

“Let go,” he growled. “I want to see it. Want to see you cum all over me.”

His hand gripped your thigh tighter, holding you in place as he slammed into you, dragging your orgasm out until you were moaning shamelessly, your body shaking under him.

You came hard.

Eyes rolling.

Toes curling.

He groaned loudly, head dropping to your shoulder.

Then he pulled out suddenly — tugged his cock in his fist once, twice—

“Where?” he panted.

“Stomach,” you gasped. “Please—”

And he spilled with a sharp grunt, hot ropes across your skin, your belly, his hips still twitching from the force.

The room was silent except for your panting.

You both stared at the mirror.

Then each other.

Sunghoon let out a soft, broken laugh.

“...We’re fucked.”

The room was still warm.

The soft buzz of fake train sounds from the speaker had long since faded into the background, replaced by only your uneven breathing and the low whirr of the air conditioner above the bed.

Your body was still tingling.

Muscles relaxed, core aching in the best way, thighs sticky with the aftermath of everything you just shared.

Sunghoon was lying beside you — one arm tucked under his head, the other draped lazily across your bare stomach. His fingers traced little, absent-minded shapes there, gliding through the mess he’d left on your skin like he couldn’t bear not to touch you.

He looked wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes soft. Lips red from kissing too hard.

But the way he was looking at you now?

Completely different.

Like the teasing and jokes were stripped away.

Like he was finally seeing you.

And maybe for the first time—you were really letting him.

“You okay?” he murmured.

His voice was soft, a little hoarse.

You turned your head slowly, looking at him. “Yeah. More than okay.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Good.”

Then, quieter, “Because that... wasn’t just for fun.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I mean—” he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, looking up at the ceiling. “I know we’ve been friends forever. I know this trip was supposed to be, like, low-budget ramen and chaotic sightseeing and those vending machines you’re obsessed with, and I definitely didn’t mean to—book a fucking love hotel—but—”

You cut him off with a quiet laugh, rolling over to face him. “Hoon.”

He looked at you, eyes wide.

Your fingers reached up, brushing his hair from his forehead.

“I know it wasn’t just for fun.”

You paused.

“...Did you really mean everything you said tonight? At the club? Back here?”

His gaze didn’t flinch.

“Every word.”

Your breath caught.

“You’ve... thought about this?” you asked, almost shy. “Us?”

He nodded slowly, like he was afraid he’d scare you off. “For longer than I should have.”

You swallowed, heart thudding.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He smiled, soft and bittersweet. “Because I didn’t think I had a chance. You’re...you. You flirt with ramen vending machines.”

You laughed, burying your face in the pillow. “I do not.”

“You do,” he teased. “You called that one in Shibuya a good boy.”

You giggled.

Then his fingers stilled on your stomach.

“But the second I saw that guy at the club looking at you like you weren’t the most precious thing in the room... I snapped. I couldn’t keep pretending.”

You looked up at him. “And now?”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours.

“Now I want to be the only one who gets to touch you.”

Your breath caught.

“I want to take you on real dates. Hold your hand in public. Make you breakfast. Wake up beside you without wondering if I crossed a line the night before.”

Your chest ached — in the best way.

You wrapped your arm around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Then let’s do that.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“Yeah?” You nodded. “You idiot. I’ve wanted this too.”

He smiled — slow and real, the kind that reached his eyes.

And then? He kissed you again.

Gentle this time. Lingering. No rush.

Just the start of something real.

When you finally broke apart, curled in the sheets, your limbs tangled—

Sunghoon rested his cheek on your chest, humming softly.

“We’re kind of gross,” he mumbled sleepily.

You blinked. “What?”

He pointed up lazily.

You looked. And laughed. The mirror.

Still foggy. Still showing your bodies — flushed and messy and completely tangled up in each other.

“Let’s clean up,” you whispered.

Sunghoon groaned dramatically. “Can’t move. Dead. Died from your pussy.”

You smacked his arm with a pillow. “Romantic.”

He grinned.

Then he sat up—still shirtless, still glowing—and stretched.

As you slipped off the bed to grab your robe, something caught your eye.

That little panel near the bathroom. The one that looked just a little too clean. Too new.

You padded over, curiosity tugging.

Pushed it open— And found the train.

“Sunghoon…”

Your voice was breathless, laced with awe and disbelief as you stared into the hidden room tucked behind the bathroom mirror.

He came up behind you, still shirtless, eyes scanning the strange, atmospheric glow pouring out of the secret space.

“…What the hell?” he murmured, stepping in beside you. The small room looked exactly like the interior of a luxury train car.

Gold-trimmed velvet seats lined both sides.

The projected windows showed nighttime scenery rushing past, as if the whole place were actually moving.

And above it all? Mirrors. Full-length. Perfect angles.

“Did you book this on purpose?” you whispered.

Sunghoon laughed quietly, slipping his arm around your waist. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

You turned to look at him, still flushed, still warm and full from earlier.

He stared back at you—his gaze darker now, hungrier.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “we can’t just find a secret room like this and not do something stupid.”

You shivered.

“Define stupid.” His lips ghosted your neck.

“Take off your robe,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Here?”

“Here,” he said, nodding toward one of the seats. “There.”

Then he tilted your chin toward the mirror above.

“So you can watch.” Your stomach flipped.

He pulled you inside gently, guiding you toward the plush velvet seat like it was a throne.

“Sit,” he said, voice deeper now. “Right here. Legs open.”

You did. Robe sliding down your arms, bare underneath.

The second you sat, the coolness of the velvet against your thighs made you gasp.

Sunghoon dropped to his knees between your legs, spreading them wider, mouth just hovering over your center.

He looked up at you once—dark eyes, flushed cheeks, messy hair. Yours.

“I didn’t get enough of you earlier,” he murmured. “Wanna taste you right. Wanna take my time.”

You whimpered.

Then his tongue was on you. Sunghoon devoured you.

Tongue slow and firm, licking up every drop, nose pressed into your folds, mouth working you open until your head fell back and your hips jerked against his mouth.

You glanced up, dazed—and moaned when you caught the mirror reflection.

Everything. Your legs trembling. Your hands gripping the seat. His messy hair buried between your thighs.

He glanced up mid-lick, locking eyes with you through the mirror.

“Keep looking,” he said, mouth shiny. “I want you to see what you do to me.”

He sucked your clit into his mouth then—hard. You gasped, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Oh my god—Sunghoon—!”

“You gonna cum again, baby?” he whispered, licking slow circles again. “Right here, in this fucked-up train fantasy room?”

You moaned—loud, desperate.

“Say it.”

“Yes—please—yes, I’m gonna—fuck—”

He flicked his tongue in a perfect rhythm, and when his fingers slid inside you—two, slow, deep—you shattered.

You came on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head, crying out as he licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him.

When you finally stopped shaking, he kissed the inside of your thighs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up.

Still on his knees. Still hard.

But now? Smiling. Smug. Possessive.

“Still alive?” he teased. You gave a breathless laugh. “Barely.”

“Good,” he said, standing. “Because I’m not done with you.” He pulled you up to your feet and spun you to face the mirror.

Your reflection was glowing—lips parted, chest heaving, legs weak.

Sunghoon pressed up behind you, cock dragging along your ass as he leaned in to whisper:

“Bend over the seat.”

You obeyed—bare hands gripping the backrest, legs shaking as he kicked your feet further apart.

He stroked himself behind you, tip brushing your folds.

“Look how ready you are,” he murmured. “Already dripping again.”

He slid in with one thrust. You both moaned. You watched in the mirror as he grabbed your hips and began to move—slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch inside.

Then harder. Faster. Filthy.

The sound of skin slapping, your breathy moans, his rough grunts—it was insane. His hand slid around to grip your throat gently, tipping your face toward the mirror again.

“Watch, baby. Watch me fuck you.” You did.

And it was the most erotic thing you’d ever seen.You—bent over, mouth open in shock. Him—behind you, wrecked, hips snapping, muscles straining.

And you couldn’t last. You were already so full. So overstimulated. So his. “I’m—gonna—again—”

“Do it,” he panted. “Cum for me. Make a mess. I’m right behind you.” You came again—harder this time, louder, a cry ripped from your throat as your body clenched around him.

And with a final groan—“Fuck, yes”—he came too, spilling deep inside you, his hips twitching, hands gripping your waist tight as he gave you everything. You collapsed onto the velvet seat, breathless, shaking.

Sunghoon leaned over you, arms wrapped around your waist from behind.

You both stared into the mirror. Sweaty. Marked. Ruined.

“…Best love hotel ever,” you mumbled.

Sunghoon laughed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Welcome to the last stops, baby.”

The water steamed around you, warm and humming, tiny waves lapping at your sides as you sank back into the love hotel’s private jacuzzi.

The bathroom light was dim, glowing low and amber, reflecting off the tiled walls like candlelight.

You barely had time to close your eyes before a pair of arms slipped around your waist from behind.

“Round three,” Sunghoon murmured into your shoulder.

“Already?” you whispered, dazed. “You’re serious?”

“You’re mine now,” he said simply. “I’m never gonna be done.”

You moaned as he pulled you back into his chest, your legs floating around his hips, his hands sliding across your stomach beneath the water.

Then higher.

Until he had your breasts cupped in both palms.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I’m obsessed.”

You bit your lip, gasping as he started to play with them — thumbs brushing your nipples, squeezing gently like he’d been waiting to get his hands on them all night.

“I always noticed,” he confessed, pressing kisses to the back of your neck. “Every time you stretched in front of me, every time your shirt clung to them when it rained—"

“Sunghoon—”

“—and now they’re mine,” he said, voice rough with need. “So I’m gonna touch them whenever I want.”

His mouth trailed down your neck, then he reached around, shifting you to straddle his lap in the water.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he muttered, lowering his mouth to your chest.

Then he kissed your breasts—slow, wet kisses, tongue flicking across your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.

You let out a soft moan, your hands burying in his wet hair. He groaned into your skin, pulling your body even closer until your tits were pressed to his face. His voice was muffled. “I could live right here.” You giggled breathlessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m obsessed,” he corrected, licking again. “Let me worship you.” You felt his cock harden again beneath you, hot and heavy in the water.

“Sunghoon…”

“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered, mouth brushing your chest. “One more. Just one more.”

He reached under the water, lining himself up, and slowly eased you down onto him — warm water swirling around your waists as you sank onto his cock, inch by thick inch.

You both groaned. It felt so full like this. So warm. Slippery. Intimate. His forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your waist.

“Move for me, baby,” he whispered. “Nice and slow.”

You rolled your hips, riding him gently in the water, the movement easy and fluid with the water supporting your weight. And he couldn’t stop watching your chest.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “Bounce for me, just like that. Look at them—"

Your tits bounced with every movement, droplets clinging to your nipples, glistening under the soft light. His hands returned to them again and again — massaging, squeezing, sucking one into his mouth as you moved on him.

You whined. “You’re too into this—”

“I warned you,” he growled. “They’re mine now.”

Then he grabbed your hips, took over the pace, thrusting up into you as the water splashed gently around you. Slow, deep strokes. His cock dragging against your sensitive walls, your body already so used to him but still twitching at the stretch. You clung to him, lips brushing his. “You feel so good.”

“I want you to cum on my cock like this,” he breathed. “Wanna feel you clench around me again.”

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb brushing over your clit under the water — slow, tight circles until you were gasping again.

“Cum for me, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “While I’m buried inside you. I want to feel it.”

You did. With a broken gasp, body trembling in the bubbling heat, your walls tightened around him, clenching so hard he swore under his breath—

“Fuck—yes—fuck, you’re perfect—”

And then he came too, moaning into your mouth as he spilled inside you again, his arms tightening around you as if he couldn’t let you go. You stayed there, clinging to him, your body spent and warm, water lapping gently against your skin.

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your boob. Again.

“Seriously?” “What?” he said innocently. “They’re the love of my life now.”

The water steamed around you, warm bubbles churning against your skin as Sunghoon's hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you flush against his hard body. His lips trailed hot kisses down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to send shivers racing through you despite the heat. "Mine" he growled low, voice rough with need, his cock already throbbing against your thigh, slick with the jacuzzi's warmth and his own arousal.

You arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders as he lifted you slightly, the water sloshing around your waists. His mouth captured yours in a fierce kiss, tongue plunging deep, claiming every inch while one hand slid between your legs. Fingers parted your folds, stroking your clit with firm circles that made you gasp into his mouth. He didn't tease for long—Sunghoon never did when possession burned this hot. Two fingers pushed inside you, curling to hit that spot that had your walls clenching around him.

"Fuck, you're still so wet for me," he murmured against your lips, pumping his fingers faster, thumb grinding your clit. The water made everything slicker, hotter, your body responding with desperate bucks against his hand. But he wasn't done worshipping yet. Withdrawing his fingers, he brought them to your mouth, pressing them past your lips. "Taste yourself. Taste how much you want this." You sucked eagerly, tongue swirling around his digits, eyes locked on his darkened gaze.

Satisfaction flashed in his eyes as he pulled his hand away, replacing it with the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. But instead of thrusting in right there, he stood fully, water cascading off his toned chest and abs, muscles flexing as he hauled you up with him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the jacuzzi's edge pressing into your back for leverage. "Not like this," he said, voice husky. "I want to fuck you standing, feel every inch of you gripping me while I hold you open."

He shifted, one arm banding around your back to support you, the other guiding his cock. The tip breached you slowly at first, stretching your pussy with that delicious burn as he sank in inch by inch. You moaned, head falling back, the steam-filled air thick with the scent of sex and chlorine. Water lapped at your joined bodies, but it was nothing compared to the heat building where he filled you completely, balls pressing against your ass.

Sunghoon groaned, hips snapping forward in a sharp thrust that buried him to the hilt. "God, yes—tight like this, just for me." He started a rhythm, powerful and unrelenting, each drive lifting you slightly against him, your breasts bouncing with the force. His free hand roamed, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, then soothing it with his mouth, sucking the peak between his teeth. You clung to him, nails raking down his back, urging him deeper.

The standing position let him angle just right, his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting your g-spot with every plunge. Water splashed around you as he fucked harder, possessive grunts escaping him. "No one else gets this. No one else fucks you like I do." His pace quickened, hips pistoning, the slap of wet skin echoing in the steamy enclosure. Your pussy fluttered around him, building toward that edge, clit grinding against his pelvis with each thrust.

He sensed it, shifting his hold to free a hand, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed in tight, fast circles, matching his brutal rhythm. "Cum for me. Milk my cock while I fill you up." The command pushed you over, orgasm crashing through you like a wave, walls spasming as you screamed his name. Sunghoon followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, hot cum flooding your pussy in thick spurts. He held you there, both panting, his forehead pressed to yours as the aftershocks rippled through.

But even spent, his grip didn't loosen. "We're not done" he whispered, already hardening inside you again. "I want more".

Sunghoon's cock twitched inside your still-pulsing pussy, the mix of his cum and your juices leaking down your thighs into the bubbling water. He didn't pull out yet, instead rocking his hips in slow, deliberate grinds that kept the friction alive, his mouth crashing back onto yours. The kiss was messy, tongues tangling with renewed hunger, his teeth nipping at your lower lip as he swallowed your whimpers. "You feel that?" he rasped between breaths, one hand cupping your ass to tilt you higher on his shaft. "I'm gonna fuck you until you're ruined for anyone else."

He thrust up again, harder this time, the water churning wildly as he bounced you on his length. Your oversensitive walls clenched around him, every slide sending sparks of pleasure-pain through your core. You gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss to beg, but he silenced you with another deep plunge, his free hand tangling in your wet hair to yank your head back. His lips attacked your throat, sucking marks into the skin—dark bruises that would linger as proof of his claim.

The rhythm built fast, his hips snapping with possessive force, cock stretching you wide with each entry. Your clit rubbed against his base, the pressure coiling tight despite the fresh ache from your first climax. "That's it, take it all," he growled, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise. You shattered again sooner than expected, body trembling as another orgasm ripped through you, but he didn't stop. Sunghoon kept pounding, chasing his own release while your pussy fluttered helplessly around him, overstimulated nerves firing wildly.

"Fuck, yes—squeeze me like that," he grunted, finally spilling inside you with a guttural moan, hot ropes of cum painting your walls anew. He held you impaled, panting against your shoulder, but his cock stayed buried deep, semi-hard and insistent. Slowly, he lowered you both back into the jacuzzi, the warm jets massaging your joined bodies as he pulled you onto his lap facing him.

His hands roamed your back, tracing the scratches you'd left earlier, before cupping your face for a slower makeout. Lips brushed softly at first, then deeper, his tongue exploring lazily while his hips shifted beneath you. You felt him thickening again, the third round stirring as he broke the kiss to murmur, "On your knees. Show me how much you need my cock."

You slid down eagerly, the water lapping at your chest as you positioned yourself between his spread thighs. His erection stood proud, veined and glistening with your combined fluids. Wrapping your hand around the base, you leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the salty mix of cum and arousal. Sunghoon's fingers threaded through your hair, guiding you gently at first. "Suck it. Take me deep."

Your lips parted, sliding over the head, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed down, taking more with each pass. The jacuzzi's bubbles tickled your skin, adding to the sensory overload as you worked him with your mouth—tongue swirling along the underside, hand stroking what you couldn't fit. He groaned, hips bucking slightly, fucking your face with controlled thrusts. "God, your mouth... so fucking good. Look at me while you do it."

Eyes locked on his, darkened with lust, you hummed around his length, the vibration drawing a hiss from him. Saliva dripped down your chin, mixing with the water, as you deepthroated him, throat relaxing to accommodate his girth. His grip tightened, possessive, holding you there for a moment before letting you pull back for air. "Enough." he said hoarsely, hauling you up for another searing kiss, tasting himself on your tongue.

He spun you around then, pressing your back to his chest, legs draped over his as he positioned you. One arm locked around your waist, the other parting your thighs wide. "Spread for me," he commanded, fingers dipping into your soaked pussy, scooping out some of his cum before rubbing it over your clit. You moaned too cock drunk to speak, arching into his touch, but he was already lining up his cock, slamming home in one fluid motion.

This angle let him go deeper, the head of his dick battering your cervix with every upward thrust. Water splashed over the jacuzzi's edge as he fucked you relentlessly, his mouth on your neck, biting and licking. "You're mine to use"he whispered hotly, fingers returning to your clit, pinching and rolling it until you were sobbing with overstimulation. Your body betrayed you, hips grinding back despite the intensity, chasing the building pressure. "Yours only-fuck— yours." You managed to replied back.

He didn't let up, pace brutal, cock dragging against your g-spot with precision. The coil snapped violently—your pussy gushed around him, squirting in forceful arcs that mixed with the jacuzzi water, soaking his thighs. "Fuck, yes—squirt for me, baby," he praised, thrusting through it, prolonging the waves until you were a trembling mess.

Sunghoon came with a roar, flooding you once more, his body shuddering against yours. He held you close through the aftershocks, kisses turning tender, lips brushing your temple, your jaw. "All mine,"he murmured, finally softening and slipping out, cum trickling from your abused pussy.

Exhausted, he lifted you effortlessly, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you to the nearby lounge chair. The steam still hung in the air as he settled beside you, pulling you into his chest. His arms encircled you possessively, one hand stroking your hair as your eyelids grew heavy. "Sleep now" he whispered, voice soft and kissing the top of your head. You drifted off to the rhythm of his heartbeat, safe and claimed in his embrace.

The scent of miso soup and freshly baked melonpan woke you before sunlight did.

You blinked against the soft morning glow spilling in through the patterned blinds.

The mirror above the bed was foggy now from the jacuzzi steam the night before — a quiet, ghostly reminder of everything you’d done in this ridiculous love hotel.

The sheets were wrapped around you like a cocoon, and when you turned over, the space beside you was empty. But only for a second. Because then Sunghoon walked in, shirtless, hair a mess, tray in hand. Room service.

“Good morning, superstar,” he grinned. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes. “You ordered food?”

“I ordered everything.”

He plopped the tray down on the bed — steaming rice bowls, tamagoyaki, cut fruit in flower shapes, and melonpan fresh enough that you could smell the butter. Two iced coffees sat sweating in the corner. You blinked. “You remembered melonpan?”

“You moaned about it in your sleep,” he teased, climbing back into bed. You slapped his chest lightly. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” he grinned. “Maybe I just like hearing you moan.”

You groaned, flopping face-first into a pillow. “Stop talking.”

He chuckled. “That’s rich, coming from someone who begged me in a fake train room last night.”

You threw the other pillow at him.

He caught it mid-air. “I’m keeping this one. Smells like your shampoo.”

You peeked out from under the sheets, still flushed.

“Are you… always like this in the morning?”

“Only when I wake up with my favorite person naked beside me.”

He leaned over to kiss your cheek.

Then your shoulder. Then your chest.

You shoved him back with a laugh. “Eat your breakfast.” “I’m trying, but my meal’s hiding under all those blankets—ow, okay, I’m done—!”

He handed you a cup of coffee like it was the holy grail. You drank. Grateful. Warm in more ways than one. After a moment of silence, your voice dropped.

“So… this isn’t just a one-time thing, right?”

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

“Babe. I came like a dozen times and cried into your neck. You’re not getting rid of me.” You snorted into your cup. He reached across the tray, brushing your fingers with his.

“I mean it. I want you. All the time. After we go home. Even when you’re being annoying.”

You narrowed your eyes. “When am I annoying?”

“Specially when your annoying,” he smiled. He reached for his phone and, without asking, snapped a picture of you wrapped in blankets, coffee cup in hand, cheeks flushed from laughter.

You groaned. “No—delete that—!”

“Nope,” he grinned, adding it to an album. “This is my favorite version of you. Hair messy, barely alive, and mine.”

You went still. Then softly, “Yours?”

He looked up. “Of course.” Then quieter.

“...Always hoped you’d be.” You leaned in and kissed him slow. Sleepy. Full of a new kind of sweetness.

“Okay,” you whispered. “So what now?”

Sunghoon leaned back against the headboard, arm around you.

“We’ll finish the trip,” he said. “Take more pictures. Eat ridiculous food.”

Then, with a cheeky grin:

“See if the other rooms here have different themes. Maybe one with clouds? A plane? Hospital bed—?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, but hear me out—”

You shoved a piece of fruit into his mouth.

He chewed, smug.

Then he laced his fingers through yours.

“I want to do this every year,” he said seriously. “Travel. Get lost. End up somewhere weird.”

“With me?” you whispered.

“With you,” he said. “Always.”

@ tobiosbbyghorl 2026

series taglist: @vissnipherwifeey @jnsknls @tessa365 @acute4angel @seranghaesvt @blueluvies @missoxy @pastahoon @renatojr @katishot147 @nimeah @je-tsime @hyyhwriter @satorus-slut @simjakeyjake @choke-on-flowerz @enaesthetix @ynzyy @chromeheartsquartz @hoonsucker @bkatarina @zsrcx @rikidaze @f-nari @tia-08 @paleunhee @lisie-loves-u @nikidikiy @shadesodc00l @heehee67 @shaiimuraaa @la-choiblog @babbatt @et3rn4lmo0nl1ght @defnoterda @devilish-meangadh

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[tobiosbbyghorl]

kimchi my way to your heart | psh

- You thought turning down your CEO would be the end of it—until he shows up in your grandmother’s kitchen, wearing a ridiculous floral vest, dramatically praising homemade kimchi like it’s a Michelin-star meal… and quietly trying to win over the one person who matters most.

wc: lost count...💔

From the moment you started working at the front desk, you already understood—quietly, instinctively—that people like Park Sunghoon didn’t end up with people like you. His world was glass walls, tailored suits, and decisions that carried weight you couldn’t even measure.

Yours was warm greetings, ringing phones, and knowing exactly which employee liked their coffee a certain way. It should’ve stayed that simple. But it didn’t—because for reasons that still didn’t make sense, he kept choosing you. Lingering by your desk, asking questions he didn’t need answers to, calling you directly just to ask if you’d eaten.

Then came the coffee you didn’t order, the flowers without a name, the way he stood beside you fixing a printer like he had nowhere else to be. And when he asked you out—calm, sincere, no pressure—you said no. Not because you didn’t feel it, but because you did, and that scared you more than anything else. You thought that would end it. It didn’t. He didn’t push—but he stayed.

And somehow, that persistence led him here. To your grandmother’s house. An hour away from the city.

In a full suit.

You were in the middle of making kimchi, hands stained red with chili paste, apron slightly crooked, when the knock came. You opened the door without thinking—and froze.

“Sir?” you blinked, because there he was, like he had stepped out of your other life and into this one without warning. “Hi,” he said, like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just shown up uninvited in your hometown. You didn’t even get to question it properly because your grandmother appeared behind you, took one look at him, and immediately decided he belonged to you.

“Oh! You finally brought a man home!” she beamed, already pulling him inside while you stood there in disbelief. “Grandma, no—he’s not—” Too late. She had already dragged him into the kitchen, and the worst part? He didn’t correct her. Not even a little. You grabbed his sleeve the second you could. “Did you follow me?” you whispered sharply. He leaned just slightly closer, voice calm.

“Your coworker talks too much.” Your eyes widened. “That’s creepy.” “That’s effort,” he corrected—and before you could argue further, your grandma shoved a bright red floral vest into his hands and told him to put it on if he was going to help. And he did. Without hesitation.

At first, it was almost entertaining. Watching Park Sunghoon—your intimidating, always-composed CEO, stand there in a ridiculous vest while your grandmother handed him vegetables like he’d been hired on the spot. “Not like that,” she said, grabbing his wrist gently and adjusting how he held the knife.

“Cut properly. You’ll hurt yourself.” He nodded immediately, following every instruction like it mattered, like this was just as important as anything he’d ever done. You leaned against the counter, watching with a smirk. “Careful, sir. That’s a big career shift.” He glanced at you, calm but with that quiet challenge in his eyes.

“I adapt quickly.” “We’ll see,” you muttered.

Your grandma, meanwhile, had already started her questioning—casual in tone, but sharp underneath. “So,” she said, watching his hands as he cut, “you’re the boss, right?” “Yes, ma’am,” he answered respectfully. You almost choked. He never talked like that in the office. “You make a lot of money?” she continued.

“Grandma—!” you cut in, mortified, but he didn’t even hesitate. “I’m comfortable,” he said simply. She hummed. “That means yes.” You pressed your lips together, watching him, but he stayed composed, continuing to cut more carefully now.

“You work all the time?” she asked. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I make time for what matters.” Her eyes flicked up. “And my granddaughter matters?” You froze. Sunghoon didn’t. “Yes,” he said, steady, like it was the easiest truth he’d ever told. Your chest tightened, but before you could process it, your grandma tapped his hand lightly.

“Focus. Your cuts are uneven.” “Sorry,” he murmured, adjusting immediately.

But soon enough, cutting turned into mixing—and that’s when things changed. At first, he kept up. Then slowly… he didn’t. Your grandma moved like she had endless stamina, hands quick and practiced, while Sunghoon—despite trying—started to fall behind. You noticed the shift immediately: the slight tension in his shoulders, the slower movements, the controlled breathing he was trying very hard to hide.

You bit back a smile and leaned closer. “What happened, sir?” you whispered teasingly. “Too much for you?” “I’m fine,” he replied, but there was a faint strain under his calm voice now. You tilted your head, grinning. “You can go home, you know.” That did it. His hands paused for half a second, then moved again—faster this time, more deliberate. “I’m not going home,” he said quietly. “You’re about to collapse.”

“I said I’m fine.” “You look like you’re negotiating with your own arms.” He shot you a sharper look—and then just like that, something in him shifted. He doubled his effort. Faster. Stronger. Determined. You blinked, surprised, as he pushed through it like losing wasn’t an option. Your grandma paused, watching him—and then smiled. “Oh?” she hummed.

“Pretty boy’s stubborn.” You nearly laughed out loud. “Pretty boy?” you repeated under your breath, and this time, a faint flush crept up his neck—but he didn’t stop.

Then your grandma reached for a piece of kimchi, wrapped it with meat, and held it up to him. “Here,” she said. “Eat.” You went still. That wasn’t just feeding—it meant something. Sunghoon blinked, just once, caught off guard—but then he leaned in and took the bite.

And immediately—immediately—he turned dramatic. “Oh—” he breathed out, eyes widening like he’d just experienced something life-changing. “Mm. Mm!” He nodded quickly, covering his mouth slightly as he chewed, like he was trying to process it. “This is—wow—this is incredible.”

You stared at him. He wasn’t done. “The flavor—” he continued, pointing slightly like he was analyzing fine dining, “—it’s deep, but not overwhelming. The spice hits, but it doesn’t overpower the meat, and the balance—this is perfect. Actually perfect.” Your jaw dropped. Your grandma’s face lit up. “Really?” “Yes,” he said immediately, completely sincere—or at least convincing enough to be dangerous.

“I’ve never had anything like this.” You kicked his foot under the table. He ignored you. “I might need another bite,” he added thoughtfully. “Just to confirm.” “Eat more!” your grandma laughed, clearly won over, and you watched in disbelief as he nodded like he’d just secured approval in a board meeting.

Then he turned to you—of course he did—picked up another piece, and held it out. “You too.” You stared at him. “…You’re unbelievable.” “Eat,” he said softly, and you rolled your eyes but leaned in anyway, taking the bite just to shut him up. He watched you the entire time, that small, satisfied smile creeping back like he’d just won something.

Later, when everything was done, your grandma sent you outside to set the table for dinner. The air felt cooler, quieter—but your thoughts weren’t. You moved slower than necessary, adjusting plates that didn’t need adjusting, because something about the way he had just fit into your world so easily was unsettling in the best way.

Through the open door, you could still see them—your grandma and Sunghoon—alone now. She turned to him, arms loosely crossed.

“You like my granddaughter,” she said plainly. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” She studied him carefully. “You have money, status, everything already. Why her?” He exhaled softly. “Because she doesn’t treat me like I’m any of that,” he said. “She treats me like I’m just me.”

Your grandma hummed. “And that’s enough?” “No,” he admitted. “But it’s where it starts.” A pause. Then quieter, more certain, “I’m here because I’m serious about her.” She watched him for a long moment. “And if she refuses again?” “Then I’ll respect it,” he said. “But I won’t stop caring about her.”

Outside, your hands stilled against the table.

Your chest felt too full.

You hadn’t told him to leave.

And maybe… you didn’t want to.

By the time you finish setting everything up outside, the sky has softened into that warm, late-afternoon glow that makes everything feel slower, gentler. The low table—your grandma’s old soban—is already filled with dishes you grew up eating, the kind that never needed recipes because they lived in memory. You’re adjusting the last set of chopsticks when you hear the door slide open behind you.

“Careful,” Sunghoon says, stepping out with a bowl in his hands like it’s something delicate, even though you know it’s heavy. “Where do you want this?”

You glance over your shoulder—and pause.

He still has the vest on.

Blazer now off, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly out of place now, a faint sheen of effort still clinging to him—and somehow, instead of looking out of place, he just looks… there. Like he’s settled into this version of himself far too easily. “…There,” you say, pointing, before quickly looking away.

Your grandma follows right after him, carrying the rest like she hasn’t spent the entire afternoon working. “Sit, sit,” she insists, waving both of you down. “Food is better when it’s eaten warm.”

You settle onto the floor, legs folding naturally beneath you. Sunghoon hesitates for half a second—clearly not used to this—but then lowers himself across from you anyway, adjusting awkwardly at first before finding his balance.

“Comfortable?” you ask, already knowing the answer. He meets your eyes, completely serious. “Very.”You snort. “Liar.”

“I’m adapting,” he corrects.Your grandma laughs, clearly entertained, and starts piling food onto his plate before he can even protest. “Eat more. You worked hard.”

“Thank you,” he says immediately, straightening slightly like he’s receiving something important.

You watch as he takes his first proper bite of the meal—and like earlier, he doesn’t just eat. He reacts.

There’s a small pause. Then— “…Wow.”

You close your eyes. Not again.

“This is dangerous,” he continues, shaking his head lightly like he’s processing something serious. “If I eat like this every day, I’m never going back to my own house.”Your grandma bursts into laughter. “Then don’t go back!” she teases. You groan. “Grandma, please don’t encourage him.”

“I’m just being honest,” Sunghoon adds, placing a hand over his chest like he’s making a formal declaration. “I think I’ve found where I belong.”

You shoot him a look. “You’ve been here for three hours.” “And I’ve already been fed better than I have in years.”

“That’s because you eat like a stressed executive.” “I am a stressed executive.”

Your grandma laughs again—louder this time, clearly delighted—and reaches over to add more food to his plate. “You’re funny,” she tells him, shaking her head. “A pretty boy and funny. That’s rare.” You nearly choke on your drink. “Grandma—” But Sunghoon just nods, completely unfazed. “I do my best.”

You stare at him in disbelief. He glances at you briefly, just enough for you to catch the small, teasing curve of his lips before he looks back at your grandma.

“So,” he says, tilting his head slightly, “if I keep eating well and working hard, do I get promoted?” “Promoted?” your grandma echoes.

“Yes,” he replies smoothly. “From kitchen assistant… to someone who’s allowed to come back.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then your grandma laughs—really laughs this time, shoulders shaking. “You’re bold,” she says. “I learned from the best today,” he answers without missing a beat.

You cover your face. “This is ridiculous.”But you’re smiling. You can feel it. And he notices. Of course he does.

“Eat,” he murmurs, softer now, nudging a dish slightly closer to you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You glance at him, then at your grandma, who’s still watching the two of you with that knowing look she thinks you don’t notice.

“…You’re enjoying this too much,” you mutter. “I am,” he admits easily.

There’s no hesitation. No pretending. Just quiet honesty. And somehow, that’s the part that gets to you the most.

The conversation flows easier after that—your grandma asking him random things, him answering without that usual corporate filter, slipping into something more relaxed, more real. At one point, he even tries a joke—an actual, intentional joke—and it’s so painfully obvious you brace yourself for impact.

“If I come here often,” he starts, completely serious, “do I get a loyalty card? Like—ten meals and I earn a permanent seat?”

You stare at him. “That’s your joke?” you deadpan. But your grandma, Your grandma loves it.

She laughs so hard she has to set her chopsticks down. “Ay, you’re funny!” she says, wiping at her eyes. “Okay, okay—if you come ten times, I’ll give you a special seat!”

Sunghoon nods like he’s just secured a contract. “Deal.” You look between them, incredulous. “You’re both unbelievable.”

“And you’re outnumbered,” he adds calmly. You scoff—but you don’t argue. Because as the evening settles around you, laughter mixing with the quiet hum of your neighborhood, something shifts in a way you can’t quite explain.

He doesn’t look out of place anymore. Not across from you. Not here. And when he catches your eye again—soft, steady, like he’s not in a rush for anything—you realize something you’ve been avoiding all day.

This doesn’t feel impossible.Not like you thought it would. Not anymore.

Dinner stretches longer than you expect, the kind that doesn’t end when the food is gone because the talking keeps going—your grandma asking him about everything from traffic in the city to whether he knows how to fix a leaking faucet (“I can learn,” he says, completely serious), and Sunghoon answering like none of it is beneath him, like this is just another version of a conversation he wants to be part of.

At some point he even refills her glass before his own without thinking, and she notices—of course she does—and gives you that look from across the table that says he was raised well. You pretend not to see it, focusing very hard on your rice while he, completely unhelpfully, slides one of the better pieces of meat toward your side of the table like it’s second nature.

“Eat properly,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear, and you nudge his foot under the table in warning. He doesn’t even react—just keeps talking to your grandma like nothing happened, like he didn’t just casually act like he’s always been part of your space.

By the time the sky deepens into evening, the air cooler and quieter, it’s finally time for him to leave. You stand up first, brushing your hands together, already preparing yourself for the awkward shift back to reality—back to sir, back to distance—but your grandma beats you to it. “Wait,” she says, already heading inside before either of you can ask why.

You glance at Sunghoon, arms crossing instinctively. “You should go before she decides to adopt you.” He tilts his head slightly, lips curving. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“You should.” “I don’t think she would agree with you.” “You’ve known her for one afternoon.”

“And yet,” he says lightly, “I’ve been fed, praised, and given a title.” You narrow your eyes. “Pretty boy is not a title.”

“It sounded official.” Before you can argue, your grandma returns—carrying a container.

Not a small one. A proper container, filled generously with kimchi and neatly packed side dishes.

You blink. “Grandma—”

“This is for you,” she says, handing it straight to Sunghoon like it’s been decided. “You liked it so much, right?”

For the first time that evening, he actually looks a little surprised—but it melts quickly into something softer, something warmer. He takes it carefully, almost respectfully. “Thank you,” he says, and there’s no playfulness in it this time. “I really appreciate it.”

“You eat well,” she replies, nodding in approval. “Come back if you want more.” You choke. “Grandma—!” But she just waves you off.

Sunghoon glances at you then, just briefly, and there’s something in his expression—quiet, pleased, a little victorious—before he bows his head slightly to her. “I will,” he says simply.

You walk him out to the gate, arms still crossed, trying to ignore the way your chest feels oddly tight now that he’s actually leaving. The street is quieter, the kind of stillness that makes everything feel more real than it did a few minutes ago. “You didn’t have to do all that,” you mutter, not quite looking at him.

“I know.” “…Then why did you?”

He adjusts his grip on the container slightly, gaze settling on you. “Because I meant it.” You swallow.

Before you can respond, your grandma calls out from behind you. “Wait!” You both turn.

She’s standing just a few steps from the door, squinting slightly like she’s just remembered something important.

“What’s your name again?” she asks. There’s a brief pause. And then—

“Park Sunghoon,” he answers. And just like that— Everything clicks.

Your grandma’s expression changes.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. But you see it—the realization settling in, the way her eyes widen just a fraction before narrowing again, this time with recognition.

“Park… Sunghoon?” she repeats slowly. You freeze. Oh no. Because you know that look. That I’ve heard that before look. And then she turns to you. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Oh,” she says. Your stomach drops.

“Ohhh.”

“Grandma—” you start, already panicking. But it’s too late.

“You’re that Park Sunghoon?” she says, pointing at him now, half amused, half impressed. “The one she keeps talking about?” You close your eyes. You actually close your eyes.

“Grandma, please don’t—”

“The one who keeps bothering her at work?” she continues, completely ignoring you. “Sending her coffee, asking if she ate—” “I don’t—” you try to cut in.

“And the one she says is handsome but too much trouble—” “Grandma!”

Sunghoon goes very still beside you. “…Handsome?” he repeats quietly. You want to disappear.

“She complains about you all the time,” your grandma adds helpfully. “But it’s the kind of complaining where she smiles after.”

You make a strangled noise.

“That’s not—” “And she said,” your grandma continues, clearly enjoying this far too much, “that you make her nervous.”

Silence.Thick. Heavy. Dangerous silence. You slowly turn your head toward him. Big mistake.

Because he’s already looking at you. And he’s smiling. Not smug. Not teasing. Something softer. Warmer. “…You like me,” he says quietly. “I never said that,” you fire back immediately, face burning. “You didn’t have to.”

You glare at him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”“I’m just confirming what I heard.” “You heard wrong.”

Your grandma hums behind you. “Mm. Sure.” You whip around. “Grandma, go inside.”

She waves you off like you’re a child. “Just don’t take too long. It’s getting late.” And then she leaves. Just like that. Leaving you alone with him. Again.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “This is so embarrassing.” “I think it’s helpful,” he says. “Helpful for who?”

“For me.” “Of course it is.” There’s a small pause.

Then “…You really talk about me that much?” he asks, softer now. You hesitate.“…Sometimes.”

“How often is sometimes?” You sigh, defeated. “…More than I should.” He nods slowly, like he’s processing something important.

Then he takes a small step closer—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to close the distance a little. “I’ll take that,” he murmurs.nYou shake your head, but there’s no bite left in it.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he says, that quiet steadiness returning, “you didn’t deny liking me.” You open your mouth— Then close it again. Because for once—You don’t have a quick answer. And he notices. Of course he does.

“Goodnight,” he says gently, like he’s decided not to push further tonight. You blink, a little caught off guard.

“…Goodnight.”

He turns, finally heading toward his car, the container still in his hands like something precious. But before he gets in, he glances back.

Just once. And the look he gives you—

It’s not victory. It’s not teasing. It’s something quieter. Something certain. Like he’s not guessing anymore. Like he knows and somehow…

That makes your heart beat just a little faster.

taglist: @hoszhe @ditt0

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife @soona-huh @laylasbunbunny @maveysoup @kirakun @aishigrey @multicolorfandoms @celestialensemble @kookiesnkim @lvskjen @1-itsneverthatserious-1 (open)

💌: i hope you liker it! i was smiling ear to ear from just watching the video and got ideas from sunghoon's goofy ass😆 and happy 2,159k followers to me~ (didn't even notice it huhu im super busy for uni and upcoming finals — god i can't believe in a month ill be in my 3rd year) i love you all and thank you for sticking up until now~ to more memories with you lovely beings~ 🥹🫶🏻

@ tobiosbbyghorl 2026

[tobiosbbyghorl]

submissive loser goon hoon....🔞

The only sound echoing in the shared apartment is the faint buzz of your phone on the kitchen counter and the soft, rhythmic panting filtering through the crack of Sunghoon’s door.

You were just getting water. Just water.

And yet here you are.

Frozen. In the hallway. Barefoot in his oversized shirt because laundry day got delayed, staring at the way his door is just barely ajar.

You should’ve walked past. You should’ve respected boundaries.

But the whimper that escapes from inside?

You blink. Slowly.

“Fuck—oh my god,” his voice stutters, low and raspy. “F-fuck, Y/N…”

Your name.

Your. Name.

You inhale sharply, but it doesn’t help—your thighs press together instinctively, and your fingers curl against the cold glass of the water you were holding like it’ll ground you. But it won’t. Not with the image now forming behind your eyelids. Sunghoon. One hand gripping his phone, the other likely between his legs. Probably leaking and messy and looking so desperate it’d be laughable if you weren’t imagining pressing your foot against his chest while he begged.

It’s not the first time you’ve suspected something. He’s always too nervous around you. Always lingering in your laundry loads. Always stuttering when you wear those old shorts. You’d catch him sneaking glances, acting like you were some goddess and he was just your awkward little servant.

But this? Hearing him moan your name while gooning out alone in his room?

You should walk away.

You don’t.

You push the door open instead.

His eyes snap up in a panic, his phone slipping from his hand mid-stroke. He’s a wreck— sweats pulled all the way down only wearing a shirt on , flushed skin glowing in the dim glow of his laptop screen. And of course, your Twitter page is open. One of your thirst traps playing on loop. Low volume, but not low enough to hide.

“Y/N—!” he gasps, scrambling, trying to cover himself but making it worse because he’s still so obviously hard, cock twitching as if it knows you’re watching.

You blink slowly, leaning against the frame. “You forgot to lock your door.”

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. His face burns red. He’s petrified.

“Or maybe you didn’t want to.” You step forward. “Maybe you wanted me to see you like this. All fucked out over nothing. Over me.”

Sunghoon lets out a helpless little sound, hand still halfway frozen between covering himself and not wanting to lose the contact.

“You really are such a loser, Hoon,” you coo. “Jerking off to my videos? In our apartment?”

He nods.

He fucking nods.

“I can’t help it,” he rasps, barely audible. “You always look so—fuck, I didn’t mean for you to hear—I just—I was gonna clean up, I swear—”

You reach out and curl your fingers under his jaw, forcing him to look up.

“You really want to come for me that bad?” you whisper. “Then keep your hands off yourself. And let me watch you fall apart properly.”

The way he whines at that, eyes fluttering, cock throbbing untouched?

Yeah.

Your loser gooner roommate’s never going to recover from this.

You haven’t even said another word before Sunghoon’s already halfway falling apart again.

He’s still trembling — half-naked, sitting pathetically at the edge of his bed like a dog caught misbehaving. Your phone is in his lap, your video still playing, but his eyes won’t leave you now. Like you're the real thing. Like you’re his goddess incarnate.

You slide closer, push his laptop off the bed without a care, and straddle his thigh. You feel him tense — his hands twitch like he wants to grab you, but he’s too scared to move.

“You’re such a mess,” you whisper, tilting his chin up. “Wanna be useful for once, baby boy?”

His throat bobs. “Y-Yes. Anything.”

“Good.” You lean in, breath hot in his ear. “Then get on your knees.”

He drops so fast you almost laugh. Not even a second of hesitation. He’s already settling between your legs as you recline back on his bed, spreading them slowly, letting him see the wet patch soaking through your panties.

His eyes widen. Lips part.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “I made you wet?”

“You’ve been making me wet,” you admit, tugging his hair. “You’re just too much of a clueless little loser to do anything about it. Always walking around with that hard-on, thinking I didn’t notice?”

He whimpers. Literally whimpers.

But you don’t wait for him to get shy. You hook your thumbs under your panties and pull them to the side, baring yourself right in front of his face.

“Go ahead,” you purr. “Use that mouth. Let me see if you’re good for more than just jerking off to my voice.”

Sunghoon dives in like he’s been starved.

And god — he’s so eager. All tongue, all sloppiness, mouthing at you with zero rhythm but so much heart. You almost laugh again when he moans into you like your pussy is the holy grail. And honestly? The way your hips twitch? Maybe it is.

“God, you’re obsessed,” you groan, grinding against his mouth. “Do you even know what you’re doing or are you just that fucking desperate?”

But Sunghoon doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets worse — hungrier, messier, hands grabbing at your thighs like you’ll float away if he lets go. He’s making the kind of sounds you should be making. Like he’s the one getting off from this.

He probably is.

When you glance down, he’s rutting his hips into the bed, fully hard again, untouched. You tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his head back, slick coating his lips, chin dripping, eyes glazed over.

“Look at you,” you smirk. “Fucking gone.”

“I can’t stop,” he pants. “You taste so—fuck, please let me finish. I can make you cum, I swear—”

“Oh? You think you earned it?”

He nods wildly, tongue flicking out as if he's hoping you'll drag him back in.

So you do.

And this time, he figures it out — tongue flattening just right, sucking at your clit like he’s trying to memorize it. When you moan and grab the back of his head tighter, he whines into you, bucking against the bed like he’s close just from this.

“God—Sunghoon—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. Can’t.

You cum on his face with a sharp gasp, legs trembling around his ears, and he just stays there — moaning, still licking, worshipping like your pleasure is the only thing he exists for.

And when your hips twitch from overstimulation and you finally tug him off with a shaky breath, he looks up at you like he’s been reborn. Panting. Rock hard. Flushed and so stupidly in love with you it hurts.

“You came, right?” he says breathlessly. “Was I… Did I do good?”

You pause, eyeing the mess between his legs, your slick still on his lips.

Then you smile.

“Better than your hand, loser.”

You haven’t even caught your breath yet.

Your thighs are still trembling, still sensitive, and Sunghoon’s face is still between them, lips swollen, chin soaked. His eyes are dazed and glassy — drunk off your taste, off the sounds you made, off the fact that he was the one to pull those sounds out of you.

He looks like he’s floating.

You tug him up by the collar of his shirt — the only thing he’s still wearing — and he comes willingly, breath ragged, eyes wide.

You kiss him.

You shouldn’t. It’s too much. It blurs the line between filthy and… real.

But the moment your lips crash against his, it’s over. He melts into it, mouth moving sloppily against yours, tongue eager and messy and needy. He moans into your mouth like he forgot he just made you cum with his tongue.

You taste yourself on his lips. He doesn’t care. He kisses like he’s grateful. Like he never thought you’d let him this close.

“Fuck,” you whisper into the kiss. “You’re so fucking gone.”

Sunghoon nods frantically, lips brushing yours, voice breathy. “I—I’ve never—no one’s ever tasted like you. No one’s ever let me—”

You shut him up with another kiss. He sighs into it.

It’s filthy. Sloppy. Your spit is on his chin, his on your lips, your slick still drying on his cheeks and neck. His hands tremble as they rest on your hips like he’s afraid to grip too tight, like he still thinks this is a dream he’ll wake up from.

And god — the way he ruts up against your thigh, still hard, untouched — it’s almost adorable.

“Still hard?” you murmur against his mouth. “You’re such a little gooner. All I did was let you taste me and you’re ready to blow again.”

“Can’t help it,” he groans. “I think about you all the time. Every day. You walk around in your towel and it’s over. I—I almost came in the laundry room once just smelling your shampoo.”

You let out a soft, delighted laugh. “You’re sick.”

He nods like it’s a compliment. “Only for you.”

And maybe it is.

You push him back onto the bed with a firm hand, and he falls flat on his back with a breathless “oof”—and his cock jumps at the sound.

“Stay,” you command.

Sunghoon obeys immediately, hands by his sides, chest rising and falling with every labored breath. You climb over him, hovering above his twitching cock — flushed, leaking, desperate for any kind of friction.

“Been saving this for me?” you ask, dragging a finger down his stomach, nails grazing lightly. “Bet you could’ve cum from just eating me out if I let you.”

He whines. “I almost did. I didn’t even—fuck, please. Please ride me.”

You cock your head. “That what you want, baby?”

“Yes—yes—I need it, I need you so bad—”

You pull off your shirt in one smooth motion and the sound he makes is feral. He’s practically vibrating beneath you. Like his skin’s too tight for his body.

You sink down slowly onto his cock, watching his face contort — brows scrunching, mouth dropping open, the sweetest, most broken moan spilling out of him. His hands fly to your waist but hesitate again, unsure.

“Touch me,” you breathe. “Hold me while I fuck you.”

And he does. Oh, he does. His grip is reverent, tight like he’s holding the sun in his lap and doesn’t want it to burn him. You start to move — slow, teasing, letting him feel every inch of you with every roll of your hips.

Sunghoon is loud. Whining your name. Gasping like he’s overwhelmed.

“You fit so good,” he groans, hips bucking without meaning to. “Tighter than I imagined—fuck—I’m sorry—”

“You imagined this?”

“Every night,” he confesses through a breathless moan. “After you shower, when you say goodnight in those shorts. I fuck my hand so hard thinking about your pussy wrapped around me—fuck—I even used your towel once—”

You laugh, wicked and warm. “You really are disgusting.”

“I know,” he whimpers. “I’m sorry—I’m so fucking obsessed with you—”

You ride him harder.

His back arches, head pressed into the mattress, and he makes this pitiful, high-pitched noise as your pace increases — your slick dripping down to his thighs, his hands clawing at your skin.

“Gonna cum,” he sobs. “I-I can’t—I’m gonna cum so fast, I’m sorry—please don’t stop—”

“Don’t,” you growl, gripping his face. “You’ll cum when I say.”

“Y-Yes—yes, please—just tell me when—”

He looks ruined. Pretty and red and trembling beneath you. It’s not just sex — it’s worship. He looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. Like he can’t believe this is real.

You lean in, kissing him again — messy and uncoordinated, teeth clashing, his whimpers swallowed by your lips.

“I want you to cum inside me, loser,” you whisper darkly into his mouth. “Wanna feel how full you can make me. Think you can do that for me?”

He sobs — actually sobs — and then cries out, “Yes, yes, please, please—fuck—I’m cumming—!”

And he does. Hard.

It hits him like a freight train — his entire body jolting as he empties into you, gasping your name, pulling you close like you’re air. He holds you like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t.

You fuck him through it. Ride it out until he’s twitching and oversensitive, until he’s begging through whimpers, tears in his eyes.

“I can’t—I can’t—it’s too much—”

You finally slow, leaning down to kiss his damp cheek, his jaw, whispering softly.

“You did so good for me, Hoonie,” you murmur, brushing sweaty strands from his forehead. “My good little gooner.”

He smiles weakly, eyes fluttering.

And then?

He passes out. Fully wrecked. Totally blissed out. Still twitching inside you.

The sun is barely up.

Your thighs ache in the best way. Your neck is marked, your core is still dripping from what happened last night — and Sunghoon?

Sunghoon is snoring quietly. Dead to the world. One arm thrown lazily over your waist, face pressed against your chest like you’re a body pillow he clung to in his dreams.

You should feel awkward. Or guilty. Or something.

Instead, you just watch him.

There’s a little bit of drool dried at the corner of his mouth. His hair is a mess, and he smells like you — your sweat, your slick, your shampoo.

You slowly shift, brushing your thigh between his legs.

He twitches.

Hard.

Still hard.

You grin.

Sunghoon stirs, nose nuzzling your skin, a low groan escaping his lips before his eyes crack open. He blinks blearily at your chest, and then—slowly—realizes you’re still here. Naked. In his bed. Tangled with him.

And his morning wood is pressed right against your thigh.

“Morning, baby,” you whisper sweetly, brushing hair from his eyes.

He flushes deep red. “Oh my god. I didn’t dream that, did I?”

“Nope.” You kiss his nose. “You came so hard you passed out. It was adorable.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck. “Kill me.”

You laugh softly, running your nails down his back. “Why would I kill my favorite toy?”

Sunghoon’s whole body shudders at that. You feel his cock jump.

“You’re evil,” he whispers.

“And you love it,” you counter.

He doesn’t deny it.

You roll slightly, nudging your hips just enough to feel him twitch again.

Sunghoon swallows, cheeks flushed, eyes flicking to your lips. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

“You already did. Last night. Multiple times.”

He groans again, hiding under the blanket like it’ll erase the memory of his whining and sobbing into your mouth while you rode him senseless.

“…I liked it,” he says after a beat. Voice soft. “All of it. Even when you called me a pathetic little gooner.”

You smirk. “Because you are.”

He blinks. Hesitates. Then — with the shakiest burst of confidence — rolls over you, pinning your wrists. It would be hot… if he didn’t immediately look panicked like he’s not sure if he has permission.

“…Sunghoon.”

“Yeah?” he whispers, already nervous.

“You think you’re gonna take control now?”

He bites his lip. “I just thought—maybe—I could try?”

You look at his arms trembling, his cock twitching against your thigh like he’s overwhelmed just from being on top. He’s so pretty. So eager. So doomed.

You pull one hand free easily and cup the back of his neck, dragging him down into a kiss.

It’s slow, hot — tongue and teeth, his hips jerking without rhythm. And then you roll your hips up just once — grinding your slick against his length — and he whimpers right into your mouth.

That’s all it takes.

He collapses back into submission, lips trailing down to your jaw as you whisper, “You really thought I’d let you flip this on me?”

“I—I just…” He sighs. “I wanted to make you feel good.”

“You did,” you hum, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding up against him again. “But you do that better when you’re whining under me.”

Sunghoon lets out a helpless sound as you push him back, reversing your positions again until you’re on top. His eyes flutter, chest rising fast.

“Round two?” you murmur, guiding him to your entrance.

He nods so fast it’s almost dizzying. “Yes. Please. Ride me again. I’ll be good—better—I’ll last this time, I swear—”

You sink down on him in one smooth motion, and his sentence dissolves into a cry.

“Fuck—! I’m gonna—!”

You put a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t even think about cumming until I say so, loser.”

His eyes roll back.

You’re not letting him out of that bed until the sun’s fully up.

You sink onto him in one smooth, claiming motion — his cock stretching you again, thick and warm, filling you so perfectly you can’t help the soft gasp that escapes your lips.

Underneath you, Sunghoon looks like he’s about to cry.

His fingers dig into the sheets, arms trembling as he fights the urge to buck into you, to chase that pleasure like the pathetic little addict he is. His mouth falls open — no words, no sounds, just wide eyes and flushed cheeks and one trembling breath after another.

You’re not even moving yet.

“Still sensitive?” you whisper, dragging your nails up his stomach.

“Y-Yeah,” he pants. “Too much—you're too warm, I—I’m gonna—”

You press your palm to his chest, steadying him. “No, you’re not.”

He nods quickly — like a good boy — biting down on his lip hard enough to leave a mark.

You grind down, slow and deep, circling your hips just once.

Sunghoon sobs.

“Fucking hell—” he gasps. “Why does it feel better this time—?”

You lean in, your chest brushing his, lips at his ear. “Because you’re pussy drunk , baby.”

He whimpers.

“Because your loser brain is short-circuiting. Can’t even think straight. Just lying here like a pretty little toy for me to fuck.”

His hands fly to your hips, but you grab both wrists and pin them down.

“I didn’t say you could touch me.”

“I-I’m sorry—!”

You roll your hips again, slow and deliberate, your pussy gripping him tight — dragging over every sensitive nerve inside him. His head throws back against the pillow, a choked moan tumbling out, and his toes curl against the sheets.

“You said you’d last,” you purr. “So show me, Hoonie.”

You begin to ride him — slow at first, deep, every bounce designed to drive him insane. He’s shaking. Trying to stay quiet. Trying so hard to obey you even though he’s unraveling.

Your hands press to his chest, and you can feel how hard his heart is racing.

“You can’t handle this, can you?” you ask sweetly. “This pussy’s too good for your pathetic little brain.”

His whole body shudders.

“I c-can!” he moans. “I swear, I—I can take it—please, just don’t stop—please—”

You ride him harder.

The sound of skin against skin fills the room — slick and obscene and perfect — and Sunghoon starts making those noises again. Those pretty, broken, breathless moans like he’s being ruined all over again. His body jerks every time you sink down on him, thighs trembling, abs flexing.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—”

“Say it,” you growl, bouncing faster now, grinding your clit against his base with every thrust. “Say you’re my fucktoy.”

“I’m—!” His voice breaks. “I’m your fucktoy—I’m yours—please use me, I wanna make you cum again, I’ll do anything—”

You slam down hard — all the way — and stay there, grinding in tight circles.

And that’s when he starts to cry.

Just a tear or two at first — overwhelmed, overstimulated, emotionally wrecked — and it’s beautiful. He’s flushed and glassy-eyed, his lip trembling, looking up at you like you’re everything.

“Can’t—can’t hold it—”

“Yes, you can.”

“I—I can’t—I’m gonna—”

You slap his cheek — gentle, firm — just once.

His eyes roll back, and he screams as he cums inside you again, loud and messy and raw, his whole body arching up off the bed as he spills everything into you.

Hot.

Heavy.

Way too much.

You ride him through it — overstimulating him, holding him down as he thrashes, twitching under you, gasping your name like a prayer and a curse.

His legs kick weakly, his hips jerking, a sob caught in his throat.

When he finally goes limp — sweaty, flushed, trembling — you slow your movements, grinding slowly just to ride out your own wave.

Your orgasm hits a second later.

Silently, this time. Deep, intense. Your walls fluttering around him, milking every last drop out of his twitching, oversensitive cock.

You collapse onto his chest, panting, skin hot, sweat clinging.

Sunghoon is wrecked.

Tears streaking his temples. Lips parted. Eyes barely open.

He looks so ruined, so small beneath you — but so happy.

You brush his hair back and kiss his damp forehead. “Still with me, baby?”

He swallows thickly. Nods.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispers.

You smile.

“You did good.”

He smiles too — soft, dreamy.

Then mumbles, “I think you broke my brain.”

You laugh softly, shifting just enough to tuck yourself against him without pulling off yet. “Good. You won’t need it anymore.”

And like the good, sweet, dumb little loser he is, Sunghoon falls asleep with you still wrapped around him — twitching every few minutes from overstimulation and murmuring your name like it’s carved into him.

When you wake again, the room smells like sex and sweat and still-Sunghoon.

Your legs ache, your body’s sore in all the right places — and wrong ones — and your head is still spinning from the blur of moans and messy kisses and the way he cried when you came again on his cock.

But now it’s morning.

And everything is… still.

You’re tucked into his side, but the space around you is cold — his body heat only lingering on the sheets. For a second, panic flickers in your chest. Did he leave? Did he freak out?

Then—

Soft footsteps.

The bathroom door creaks open.

He stands there in only a towel, hair still dripping, cheeks flushed.

“I started the shower,” he says, voice gentle. “It’s warm now. Thought you’d want one.”

You stare at him for a beat too long, brain catching up.

“…You’re being weird.”

He gives a soft laugh. “I know. Just—come on. Let me take care of you.”

You slide off the bed, muscles stiff, but his arms are there — immediately — wrapping around you like you’re precious. No teasing, no filthy comments. Just warmth.

Just him.

The shower’s fogging up the mirror. He helps you in first, hands on your waist, steadying you when you wince at the water hitting your sore thighs. Then he steps in behind you and pulls the curtain closed.

Silence.

Steam.

You wait for him to say something pervy.

But instead?

He pumps the body wash into his hand and starts lathering it down your back — gentle, focused. Massaging sore muscles, kissing your shoulder softly as he works.

You blink. “Okay. Who are you and what did you do with loser Hoon?”

He grins — shy. Still Hoon. “He’s still here. He’s just… being serious for once.”

“…You sure about that?”

He turns you around — softly — cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. His eyes hold yours, and they don’t wander. Not to your chest. Not between your thighs.

Just… you.

“You didn’t have to be gentle with me last night,” he murmurs. “I wanted to be used. I meant it. But…”

His voice wavers just a little.

“…that’s not all I want from you.”

You blink. Heart thudding louder than the water falling between you.

“I know I’ve been a fucking mess,” he says, laughing at himself softly. “A gooner. A loser. Whimpering over you like a dog in heat. But I swear, that’s not the only me.”

He takes a shaky breath.

“And I know you’ve been in control. I loved that. I love how you take me apart. But I still want to be someone you can lean on, too. Someone who remembers to heat the shower before you step in. Who learns how to actually last more than two minutes just so I can take you apart. Not just your body, but…”

His thumb brushes under your eye.

“…your heart.”

You stare at him, stunned speechless for once.

He takes the chance to finish washing you — gentle hands gliding over your skin, washing between your legs with care and reverence, kissing your knuckles when he reaches for the shampoo. And when the water runs clear and warm again, he finally speaks once more:

“I don’t wanna be your toy forever,” he whispers. “I wanna be your person.”

You blink, breath caught.

“What are we?” he asks, voice raw. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Not with anyone. Not even close. I don’t want this to just be some hookup that fades when we get awkward or bored. I want more.”

You don’t speak yet. You can’t.

But he keeps going.

“Can I… court you properly?” he asks, voice almost shaking. “Old school. Dumb, maybe. But like—real dates. Home-cooked dinners. Learning your favorite coffee order. Earning it.”

“Sunghoon…”

“If you don’t feel the same, it’s okay. You can still use me. I’ll still be here. But if there’s a part of you that wants more, too…”

You step forward.

And kiss him.

Soft, steady, meaningful.

His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you close like he was holding back until now.

And when you finally part, forehead resting against his, you whisper:

“Then earn it, Park Sunghoon.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, eyes squeezing shut in relief.

“Gladly.”

@ tobiosbbyghorl 2026

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[tobiosbbyghorl]

The Picture Hidden in the Back of the Closet

pairing: husband!sunghoon! x wife!reader!

series: Appa,Always

It happened on a random Tuesday afternoon.

The kind of ordinary day that should’ve passed without consequence.

Jihoon was three years and four months old, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by her stuffed animals and speaking to them in a language that was about sixty percent understandable and forty percent adorable nonsense.

Her words were still soft and clumsy around the edges—little syllables bumping into each other, vowels stretched where they shouldn’t be.

“Dish one sit here. No, no—dat’s Mama bear’sh seat.”

You smiled to yourself as you folded laundry nearby. Sunghoon was at work. The house was quiet.

And because your husband had once again shoved random things into the hallway closet instead of properly organizing them, you’d decided today was finally the day to tackle it.

That was his first mistake. His second mistake? Hiding that photo where you could eventually find it.

You were halfway through muttering under your breath about Sunghoon’s inability to throw anything away when you spotted an old photo album tucked behind a stack of winter blankets.

Curious, you pulled it free and sat down right there on the floor.

At first, the photos were harmless.

Tiny baby Sunghoon bundled in blankets.

Sunghoon being held by his mother.

Sunghoon asleep in a crib.

Cute? Absolutely. Dangerous? Not yet. Then you turned another page and froze.

“…No way.”

There he was.

A tiny little toddler sitting on a swing over pale sand, bundled in a puffy brown winter jacket with fur lining around the hood.

His little legs dangled awkwardly, tiny red shoes hanging just above the ground. His jeans bunched around his knees.

His hair was sticking up in every possible direction like he’d just rolled out of bed and refused to let anyone fix it.

And his expression—

That tiny pout. That serious little face. Those huge dark eyes staring blankly ahead like the world had mildly inconvenienced him.

It was Sunghoon. At one year and eleven months old.

And he was so offensively adorable that your body physically reacted. Your hand flew to your mouth.

“Oh my god.”

Jihoon looked up from across the room.

“Mama?”

You slowly turned the album toward her like it was sacred scripture.

“Come here.” She scrambled over on her knees, peering down.

Her eyes widened. “…Appa?”

“Yes.”

She poked the picture. “Baby Appa?”

“Yes.” She gasped dramatically.

“Sho tiny.”

“Very tiny.”

Her little brows furrowed. “…Why he look mad?”

You stared harder at the photo and burst out laughing. “He does look mad.”

Jihoon nodded seriously. “Appa grumpy baby.”

And then— you felt it.

That unmistakable ache. That dangerous, irrational, all-consuming wave of baby fever.

The kind that made your chest squeeze and your brain whisper: You need another one. Immediately.

Within approximately forty-seven seconds, you had:

Taken a picture of the photo. Cropped it perfectly. Set it as your lock screen. Sent it to Yeji. Sent it to Sunghoon’s mother. Zoomed in specifically on the cheeks

Because the cheeks deserved focus. Jihoon watched all this happen from your side.

“Mama.”

“Yes?”

“Can I shee Baby Appa gain?”

You showed her. She giggled “He look like tiny bean.”

“He does.” You sighed dreamily. “He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jihoon frowned immediately. “Cuter dan me?”

You gasped. “No, sweetheart. Never.”

Then pointed again. “But almosht.”

You wheezed.

Sunghoon came home an hour later.

The second he walked through the door, Jihoon ran to him dramatically.

“APPAAAA!”

He bent automatically, scooping her up with one arm. “Hi, princess.”

Then she pointed accusingly at him. “You wash tiny and grumpy.” Sunghoon blinked. “…What?”

You appeared in the hallway holding your phone like evidence in a criminal trial. “Explain yourself.” The second he saw the screen light up— tiny serious toddler him staring back from the swing— he physically deflated.

“…You found it.”

“Found it?” you repeated.

He sighed deeply.

“Yes.”

You marched closer. “Why.” He rubbed his forehead. “Because I knew this would happen.”

“What would happen?” He gave you a pointed look.

“You’re staring at me like I personally betrayed you.”

“You DID betray me.”

Jihoon gasped. “Appa bad?”

Sunghoon immediately panicked. “No, no—Appa not bad.”

You thrust the phone toward him. “Why did you hide this?” He glanced at the photo.

Then at you. Then back at the photo.

“…Because I knew you’d react like this.” You squinted.“Like what?”

He deadpanned perfectly:

“‘Oh my god, Hoon, look at your tiny shoes. We need another baby right now.’”

Your mouth dropped open. Jihoon looked between you both.

“…Need baby?”

Sunghoon pointed accusingly.

“See?”

You crossed your arms. “That is not what I sound like.”

“It is exactly what you sound like.”

Jihoon nodded. “Exacly.”

“Whose side are you on?!”

“Mine,” she answered proudly.

It got progressively worse over the next week.

You became unbearable. Everywhere you went, the lock screen followed.

At breakfast:

“Hoon.”

“No.”

“Look at your tiny shoes.”

“No.”

At bedtime:

“Imagine little matching shoes again.”

“No.”

While watching TV:

“Your cheeks were illegal.”

“Please stop saying that.”

Even Jihoon had started joining in.

“Appa, why you sho puffy?”

Sunghoon would bury his face in his hands every single time.

Then came the final attack.

One evening after Jihoon was asleep, Sunghoon was washing dishes while you leaned against the counter pretending to scroll through your phone.

Really, you were just staring at the photo. Again.

Sunghoon noticed.

Of course he noticed. “You’re doing it again.” You looked up innocently.“Doing what?”

“Looking at it like it personally wronged you.”

You smiled sweetly. “Hoon.”

He sighed instantly. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“Yes, I do.”

You walked over slowly, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. He softened immediately.

Always did. “What if…”

“No.”

“…Jihoon had a little sibling?”

“No.”

“With your hair?”

“No.”

“With your pout?”

“Still no.”

You pulled out your phone and held up the photo right beside his face. “Look me in the eyes and tell me the world doesn’t deserve another one of these.”

He stared. At the photo. At you. At your ridiculously hopeful expression. Then groaned.

“You are weaponizing my toddlerhood.”

“It’s working.” He muttered under his breath.You kissed his jaw softly.

Then whispered, “Please?”

And that was his downfall. Because your husband had never once survived that voice.

He exhaled heavily. “…One more.” You froze. “Really?” “One more because I love you. And because if I say no, I’ll never know peace again.”

You squealed and launched yourself at him. He barely caught you in time, laughing helplessly. “You’re impossible.” “You love me.”

He kissed your forehead. “…Unfortunately.”

TIME SKIP — ONE YEAR OLD JISUNG

And apparently, the universe had heard every single shameless wish you made while staring at that photo.

Because now— one-year-old Jisung sat in your lap wearing tiny red shoes.

And looked exactly like that picture.

Exactly. Same fluffy messy hair. Same serious pout. Same sleepy, mildly offended expression. Same little tilt of the head.

Even Sunghoon’s mother had nearly dropped her tea the first time she noticed.

“That is literally my son.”

And you? You had cried. Actually cried.

Because this was exactly what you’d asked for.

YN NEVER LETS HIM LIVE IT DOWN

Now, every family gathering included your favorite activity:

forcing everyone to compare the side-by-side photos.

“LOOK.”

You shoved your phone toward Yeji.

On screen: baby Sunghoon on the swing. Jisung now.

It was absurd. Yeji laughed.

“I know!”

“No, really LOOK.”

“I HAVE BEEN LOOKING.”

Across the couch, Sunghoon sighed while Jihoon attempted to clip sparkly barrettes into his hair.

“Do we need to keep doing this?”

“Yes.”

Jisung reached over from your arms and smacked Sunghoon’s cheek. Softly.

Exactly the way his mother had once said baby Sunghoon used to.nYou gasped so loudly everyone turned.

“HE DID THE THING.”

Sunghoon groaned.

“Oh no.”

You clutched Jisung dramatically.

“My beautiful answered prayer.”

Sunghoon looked at you then— really looked.

At your glowing smile.

At Jihoon giggling beside him.

At Jisung blinking sleepily in your arms.

And his expression softened into that quiet, helpless smile he only ever wore for you.

“…You got exactly what you wanted.”

You shook your head. Looking at all three of them.

“No.”

Your voice softened.

“I got more.” and just like that— Sunghoon leaned over and kissed your temple while Jisung, tiny pout and all, smacked his father again.

And everyone burst into laughter. 💗

TOBIOSBBYGHORL 2026

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife @soona-huh @laylasbunbunny @maveysoup @kirakun @aishigrey @multicolorfandoms @celestialensemble @kookiesnkim @lvskjen @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @kristynaaah (open)

[tobiosbbyghorl]

Paper Hearts, Unspoken Things

Pairing: Husband!Park Sunghoon x Wife!Reader

wc: 11.4k (oops! it progress fast ip)

rie’s note: haii this fic has been sitting on my drafts for a while and i decided to share it with yo heheh~ so expect errors! ily mwa

synopsis: Y/N and Park Sunghoon enter a marriage bound by rules—but behind his composed exterior, he isn’t as distant as he seems.Through quiet mornings, shared glances, and subtle, unexpected gestures, a connection slowly begins to take shape.

For a woman married for ten months, Y/N sure spent a lot of time wondering if her husband even liked her.

Not that she blamed him. It wasn’t like they fell in love or anything so poetic. Their marriage had been a strategic merger—two powerful families shaking hands and tying knots in the form of two unsuspecting twenty-somethings. Park Sunghoon, her husband in legal terms and roommate in technicality, made no secret that he only played the doting spouse when their parents were around.

But when the doors closed and the charade ended, he always said the same thing whenever she dared call him by anything but his name.

“Sweetheart, dinner’s ready,” she chirped from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

A beat of silence. Then came his bored reply from the living room, eyes still on his laptop.

“It’s Sunghoon for you.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it almost gave her a migraine.

Their house was beautiful, sleek, minimal—like Sunghoon. But she filled the rooms with warmth anyway: vases of fresh flowers, post-its on the fridge, fairy lights above the balcony. He never said anything about them, but once, she caught him replacing a dead sunflower with a new one.

“Hey, are you coming home for dinner later?” she texted as she stirred a pot of stew that had taken her three tries to get just right.

She added a second message: I made your favorite. Well, I practiced. You better show up and eat every bite.

At first, his reply was what she expected.

No, I have meetings.

She pouted and turned the stove off.

Okay, more for me and my lonely soul then.

Bring me home some dessert, I’ll pretend it’s from you.

She left it there, phone discarded on the kitchen counter as she set the table out of habit. She didn’t expect him to actually—

The front door slammed open twenty-five minutes later.

Y/N peeked from the kitchen. “What the—”

Sunghoon looked tired, his tie askew, his coat slung over one arm. “Smells good,” he said simply, dropping his keys on the bowl by the door.

“You said you had meetings?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I moved some things. Eat with me. I’m starving.”

She blinked. “…You’re serious?”

He paused in front of the table. “I wouldn’t come all this way just to look at your stew.”

-

Sunghoon never said much, but he had his own language. She was beginning to learn it—through the things he didn’t say, the things he did instead.

Like the way he always replied within ten minutes to her silly lunchtime updates.

Don’t forget to eat, workaholic.

And hydrate. Or I’ll cry.

His reply came back seconds later.

Having lunch now.

With who? A girl? Should I prepare the divorce papers already?

Jungwon. He’s not your type.

She chuckled.

Damn. Foiled again.

She sent him a picture of her lunch—a messy sandwich with too much lettuce. His reply?

Lettuce ratio is off. 6/10.

“Hey, I might not be home for dinner tonight,” Y/N said, swirling her spoon through her cereal while seated at the kitchen island. “Heeseung and I are catching up. He’s been begging me for weeks. You remember him, right?”

Sunghoon, who was scrolling through his tablet across from her, barely looked up. “I remember.”

“He said he’ll take me to that fusion place near the river. You know, the one with the cocktails that come in teapots?”

Sunghoon hummed. It wasn’t enthusiastic. It wasn’t even interested. It was neutral. Neutral in that very Sunghoon way that always made her squint a little and wonder what was going on behind that perfect blank face of his.

“You don’t mind, right?” she asked, nudging his foot under the island.

“It’s not like you need my permission,” he replied smoothly, sipping his coffee. “We’re just married on paper, after all.”

“Right. Just on paper.” She chuckled, but her eyes lingered on him for a second longer.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything after that. Didn’t protest. Didn’t ask her not to go. She figured it was settled.

-

The day passed like any other.

She texted him at lunch, attaching a picture of her food and teasing him about his rabbit-like portions.

If you’re gonna eat like a bird, at least eat something cute.

Yours looks like it was stepped on.

She grinned at his reply. Classic.

Later, she started getting ready, slipping on her favorite dress—nothing too fancy, just something she knew looked nice in low lighting.

At exactly 6:10 p.m., just as she was applying mascara, her phone buzzed.

[Sunghoon | 6:10 PM]

Are you home?

She blinked at the message, confused.

Not for long. Remember? Dinner with Heeseung.

A pause.

[Sunghoon | 6:11 PM]

Don’t go.

Her heart skipped. Her hand froze mid-mascara swipe.

Excuse me?

No reply. Instead, the front door unlocked moments later. She turned around to find Sunghoon stepping into the apartment, already loosening his tie, face unreadable as always.

“Didn’t you say you were working late today?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“I moved things,” he said simply, setting his briefcase down.

“To eat?”

He nodded.

She raised a brow. “You want me to cancel on Heeseung?”

“I want my wife to eat dinner with me,” he said, not looking at her as he shrugged off his coat. “I’m having a bad day.”

That gave her pause. “Sunghoon…”

He didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t explain why.

Didn’t even glance in her direction.

But then he added, as casually as if he were talking about the weather, “You always eat with me when I’m having a bad day.”

Her heart thumped hard.

That wasn’t true. She didn’t even know when his bad days were. He never told her.

But apparently, he noticed when she was there for them.

“…Did something happen?” she asked softly, stepping toward him.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

She hesitated, then grabbed her phone and typed out a quick message to Heeseung.

Rain check? Sunghoon came home early. Emergency husband summoning.

Then she turned to him, arms crossing as she leaned against the table. “You’re lucky I like you, Baby.”

He finally met her eyes, a trace of amusement flickering in his.

“It’s still Sunghoon for you,” he deadpanned.

“Sure,” she said with a grin. “Sure it is.”

-

He left early one morning, stiff as usual, brushing past her with a muttered, “See you.”

She stared at the door after it clicked shut, still in her pajamas, coffee in hand.

So she texted him.

Excuse me, Mr. Husband. You forgot something.

What now.

You forgot to kiss me goodbye. How rude.

She added a dramatic selfie, lower lip jutted out, hair messy.

She didn’t expect anything.

So when the door opened again four minutes later, her jaw dropped.

Sunghoon walked in like a man on a mission, coat still on, face unreadable. He crossed the living room and stood in front of her.

Then—without a word—he cupped her jaw, leaned in, and kissed her.

Soft. Firm. Real.

When he pulled back, she blinked at him, dazed.

“…Sunghoon?”

“That was our first kiss,” he murmured. “Took you long enough to ask for it.”

The moment hung between them like steam from her untouched coffee.

Y/N swallowed. “So… you kissed me.”

“I did.”

“You walked back into the house to kiss me.”

“I did,” he repeated, this time softer.

She blinked. “…You’re insane.”

Sunghoon finally allowed a faint smile, like it physically hurt to let it curl onto his lips. “You asked.”

“I was joking.”

“You still asked.”

She couldn’t find a comeback fast enough. Her cheeks were warm—unreasonably warm—and her knees slightly unsteady, like they knew something her brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

He turned to leave again, just as quickly.

“Wait.”

He paused.

“You haven’t had breakfast,” she said. “Sit. I made eggs.”

“You’re wearing pajamas with dancing carrots on them.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

They ate in silence. Or, well, she ate while sneaking glances. Sunghoon sipped his coffee like nothing monumental had just occurred, like he hadn’t just turned back mid-commute to kiss his paper wife breathless.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, chin in her hand.

“That you forgot to toast the bread.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You kissed back.”

“Shut up.”

-

Three days later, chaos had a name.

And that name was Soobin, her cousin’s six-year-old.

Sunghoon stared at the child sitting cross-legged on their cream-colored couch with a crusty lollipop stuck to his palm and jam smeared under his nose.

“You’re kidding,” he said flatly. “You agreed to babysit him?”

Y/N shrugged, already chasing Soobin with baby wipes. “You weren’t supposed to be home until late, Mr. I-have-meetings.”

“I canceled one.”

“Why?”

Sunghoon didn’t answer.

Instead, he sat on the armchair with a long sigh, watching her scoop the kid up like she’d done it a hundred times. Soobin giggled and kicked, shouting something about pirates. Y/N snorted and tickled him, totally in her element—bright, soft, sunshine incarnate.

And something tight twisted in Sunghoon’s chest.

He had no idea what it was.

Maybe the part where she wasn’t his, not really. Not yet.

Soobin fell asleep in the guest room after hours of hyperactivity, a movie, and five bedtime stories.

Y/N collapsed on the couch, hair a mess, flour on her cheek.

Sunghoon, now in sweats, stood in the doorway with two mugs of hot chocolate. “You’re good with kids.”

She grinned. “Yeah? I’ll add that to my resume.”

A pause.

His face dropped just slightly. “Don’t.”

She blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t work.”

The air shifted.

“…Sunghoon?”

“You’re annoying,” he muttered, stepping closer. “Why are you applying for jobs when I can provide for both of us?”

She blinked, caught between confusion and amusement. “You saw my resume?”

“It was on your nightstand. You left it open like a trap.”

She scoffed. “You’ve been nagging about my spending lately. Thought I’d spare you the pain.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I’ll lie low on the nagging. Just stay here. Don’t work.”

She sat up, narrowing her eyes. “It’s embarrassing, relying on you like I’m a princess.”

“You are a princess,” he said, quiet. “My princess. So stay put and look pretty for me, hm?”

Her breath caught.

Sunghoon never flirted.

Not directly.

But this?

This was the equivalent of a dramatic serenade.

“Say that again,” she whispered, stunned.

“No.”

-

They were folding laundry together—domestic, mundane, routine.

She held up one of his button-downs and smiled to herself.

“You know,” she said lightly, “sometimes I think I love you.”

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause.

Just reached for a towel and said, “Your softener’s too strong.”

She laughed. “You’re allergic to feelings, aren’t you?”

“I’m allergic to your nonsense.”

But when she turned, she caught him glancing at her out of the corner of his eye—soft, unreadable.

Like maybe he heard her.

Maybe he believed her.

Maybe it mattered.

-

Rain poured hard that night. Soobin had gone home, and her room’s ceiling had sprung a leak. Sunghoon found her standing in the hallway, pillow in hand, drenched and scowling.

“You look like a wet mop.”

“Your guest room smells like dusty textbooks.”

He stared.

She stared back.

Ten minutes later, they lay stiffly side by side on his bed, blanket drawn to their chins like a cartoon couple.

“This is ridiculous,” she mumbled, back to him.

“You’re the one who came in here.”

“Because you’re the husband. You’re legally obligated to protect me from mold and mildew.”

“Sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“…You smell nice.”

He groaned.

But ten minutes later, when she fell asleep and curled toward him without thinking, he didn’t move away.

She woke up warm.

Which was strange, because she never slept warm. Always threw off the blanket halfway through the night. Always ended up cold again by sunrise.

But today… warm.

Solid.

Secure.

Her eyes cracked open, and the first thing she saw was the curve of Sunghoon’s jaw.

He was still asleep.

On his side. Facing her. Arm loosely slung around her waist like it belonged there. Like it always had.

She didn’t breathe for a full five seconds.

His breathing was steady, his lips slightly parted, his forehead just barely touching hers.

And she… she was entirely still, afraid that if she moved, he’d wake and pull away and ruin the one soft, stolen thing they had.

So she just whispered, mostly to herself, “Sunghoon…”

He didn’t wake.

But his arm tightened.

Just a little.

Just enough to make her heart thud once, twice, too loud for her own chest.

-

He woke an hour later, blinked slowly, and seemed to realize their position all at once.

“You drooled,” he muttered hoarsely. “I did not.”

He didn’t argue, just pushed the blanket off and sat up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Your room’s still leaking.” She blinked, caught off-guard. “You remembered?”

“‘Course I did,” he said, already heading for the hallway. “I’ll fix it.”

“Wait—”

“Go make coffee.”

“Sunghoon, you can’t just—”

“Woman,” he warned without turning, “if you fall off a chair trying to duct tape the ceiling by yourself again, I’ll personally file a restraining order… against your stupidity.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. And then mumbled under her breath as she padded toward the kitchen, “…Yes, my loving husband.”

-

Half an hour later, she found him in her room, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp, standing on a ladder as he patched up the leak like he did it every weekend.

“You’re surprisingly handy,” she said, biting back a smile.

“I have depth.”

“Who knew?” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes dragging over her slowly. “You wore that to say thank you?”

She blinked, then looked down at her oversized tee and sleep shorts. “This is my ‘I’m not climbing a ladder again’ outfit.” He smirked. “Try again. Maybe something with lace next time.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She tossed a pillow at him.

He caught it one-handed, still perched on the ladder like some stupidly hot handyman from a drama. “Is this our thing now? You act helpless, and I come fix your life?”

She shrugged. “You are a reliable husband. I might start leaking things on purpose.”

“I’m deducting that from your allowance.”

“You don’t give me an allowance.”

“Exactly.”

-

It started with a doorbell.

Well, more specifically, it started with Heeseung.

Heeseung, her old classmate, recently back in town, and far too friendly for Sunghoon’s liking.

He was at their door holding two cups of iced coffee and a bag of takeout. “You said you’d been craving this place, remember?”

She blinked, a little startled, but smiled. “Oh—you didn’t have to—”

“Come on. You basically drooled describing their dumplings. Let me treat you.”

From behind her, a voice like gravel dragged over stone cut through the air.

“She’s already eaten.”

Heeseung stiffened. So did she.

She turned around, eyes wide. “Sunghoon?”

He leaned against the doorframe, hair still slightly damp from a shower, white T-shirt clinging to his chest, arms crossed, gaze calm—too calm.

“She had lunch with me,” Sunghoon added evenly, like it was a daily tradition instead of a rare win in his favor. “Right, wife?”

Her brain sputtered. “Um. Yeah. I made him pasta.”

“Homemade. Creamy.” He tilted his head at Heeseung. “Not that fast food junk you brought.”

She gawked at him. Sunghoon—

Heeseung blinked, then laughed awkwardly. “Ah… right, of course. You two. Married.” His eyes darted to hers, teasing. “Guess I’ll have to find another lunch date.”

“Guess you will,” Sunghoon said before she could answer.

He shut the door gently but firmly after Heeseung turned away, and then turned to her with a look that said everything and nothing.

She crossed her arms. “Excuse me?”

“What?” He looked annoyingly innocent. “Didn’t like your guest?”

“You didn’t even let me answer!”

“You were going to say yes.”

“So?”

“So I didn’t feel like sharing.”

She stared at him.

Hard.

And then, slowly, a smile curled on her lips. “Is this jealousy I’m hearing, Mr. Logical?”

He didn’t flinch. “I just don’t like other men feeding my wife.”

“Feeding?”

“Bringing you food. Talking to you like he knows what you like.” He stepped closer, voice lower. “That’s my job.”

Her breath caught.

“You don’t even kiss me goodbye,” she whispered.

“I came back and did, didn’t I?”

She bit her lip. “You sure Heeseung didn’t wake something up in you?”

He leaned in, nose almost brushing hers. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It woke up a real urge to remind you whose ring you’re wearing.”

“Oh?”

He looked down at her, gaze flicking to her mouth. “Should I?”

She let out a shaky laugh. “Sunghoon.”

His mouth brushed the corner of hers, barely a touch, just enough to make her whole body tilt toward him.

“I’m not sharing you,” he said softly.

She found him on the balcony, leaning against the railing, sipping a drink, looking like he belonged in a moody movie.

She stepped up beside him, shoulder bumping his.

“Still brooding?” “Just making sure you’re not texting your new suitor.”

She laughed. “You’re the only suitor I’m legally bound to.”

He glanced at her. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

He hesitated. “You’ve been mine since before the paperwork.”

She blinked. “That’s not very romantic, Hoon.”

“It is,” he said, voice low. “If you knew how often I thought about you before we got married.”

“…Wait, what?”

But he didn’t answer. Just bumped her glass with his and turned away, that damn unreadable smile on his face again.

-

She knew something was off the moment she woke up.

Her skin felt too hot. Her head too heavy. Her limbs? Useless. Like she’d been run over by a truck, reversed on, and then left out in the rain.

Which was, funnily enough, exactly what happened last night when she got caught in a downpour on the way home because she insisted on buying a cake to surprise Sunghoon.

Idiot. She should’ve just let the man eat his boring office fruit platter.

Now, here she was, cocooned in blankets and positively melting, while the sunlight mocked her through the windows.

Her phone buzzed.

[10:23AM] HOON:

Did you eat?

She squinted at the screen and typed with slow fingers.

[10:24AM] You:

does soup air count

Three dots.

Then—

[10:25AM] HOON:

I’m coming home.

[10:25AM] You:

nooo

u said big meetings today

dont come i’m fine i’m just a lil cooked

[10:25AM] HOON:

Woman. You can barely text.

You’re obviously dying.

I’m leaving in five.

Thirty minutes later, the front door swung open with the drama of a K-drama husband mid-climax.

“Y/N?” Sunghoon called, setting down a plastic bag and tossing his coat on the chair.

“Bedroom,” she croaked weakly from the covers.

He appeared at the door a moment later, eyebrows knitting the second he saw her.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” she rasped. “Just what every sick wife wants to hear.”

He crouched down beside the bed and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. His jaw clenched.

“You’re burning up.”

“Hot girl era.”

“Delusional,” he muttered, already pulling out a thermometer from the bag. “Sit up.”

She grumbled but obeyed, swaying slightly. He caught her shoulder without a word and held her steady as he tucked the thermometer under her tongue.

She blinked at him. “Why do you have a thermometer in your work bag?”

“I stopped at a pharmacy, genius.”

She smiled, eyes half-lidded. “You’re such a good husband. My personal caretaker.”

“You’re so annoying,” he muttered. But he stayed kneeling there beside the bed, his hand still on her shoulder. When the thermometer beeped, he checked it, then exhaled sharply.

“You’re not dying,” he said. “Yet.”

“Oh good,” she whispered. “I wanted to be dramatic a little longer.” He rolled his eyes and stood. “Rest. I’ll make you something.”

Her brows lifted. “You can cook?”

“I can heat soup. Don’t push it.”

-

Twenty minutes later, she was propped up in bed with a tray in front of her — porridge, water, and a sliced apple arranged with uncharacteristic precision.

She blinked down at it.

“Sunghoon…”

“What.”

“You cut the apple like a flower.”

He didn’t look up from where he was placing medicine next to her cup. “I followed the internet.”

“You watched a tutorial?!”

He turned, deadpan. “Eat, or I’ll shove it down your throat.” She beamed, heart too warm for someone with a fever. “You love me.”

He didn’t respond.

But later, when he sat at the foot of the bed rubbing her calves through the blanket — muttering about poor blood circulation and “don’t make it weird” — she let herself believe it a little.

-

That Night

She had drifted off at some point mid-evening, and when she stirred awake again, the room was dim and quiet — the soft glow of a lamp casting a warm shadow across her comforter.

Sunghoon was still there. In the chair beside the bed. Asleep. Neck bent at an awful angle, mouth slightly open. And in his lap — a book she’d mentioned wanting to read.

She didn’t even know he listened when she talked about those things.

Her chest ached for reasons beyond the fever.

She reached out, brushing her fingertips over his hand, and whispered, “Hey.”

He stirred, eyelids fluttering open. “You okay?”

She smiled sleepily. “You stayed.”

He frowned like it was the dumbest thing she could’ve said. “Obviously.”

“Thanks,” she murmured. “You’re kind of…my favorite person, you know.”

He shifted forward, brushing her hair back off her forehead.

“Sleep,” he said, low and soft. “…You’ll still be here?”

“Yeah.” She closed her eyes.

And heard him whisper, barely audible, just as she was slipping away—

“I’d rather be here than anywhere else.”

-

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the humidifier he’d set up beside her bed, and the rustle of the blanket as she turned over, bleary-eyed and pouty.

“Sunghoon…” she whined.

He looked up from his seat, brows lifted. “What now?”

She sniffled pitifully. “I want a kiss.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “You have a fever of 38.6°C. Absolutely not.”

She pouted deeper. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being reasonable,” he deadpanned, setting down his book again. “Do you want both of us sick?”

“I want affection,” she muttered, curling deeper into the blanket. “My immune system is suffering, and so is my heart.”

He exhaled through his nose, dragged a hand over his face.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m dying and all I want is one kiss from my cold, emotionally unavailable husband—”

He stood.

She paused mid-sentence, wide-eyed, as he leaned over her slowly, bracing one hand beside her pillow. His face hovered inches above hers, expression unreadable.

“Still want it?” he asked, voice low. She nodded, lips slightly parted.

“…Okay,” he said, brushing her hair back gently before pressing the lightest, briefest kiss to her forehead.

Her face scrunched.

“That wasn’t a real kiss.”

“That’s the only one you’re getting, unless you want me coughing next to you in two days,” he muttered.

“But—”

“Sleep,” he said, already sitting back down and picking up his book.

She grumbled into the pillow for a minute. But ten minutes later, right before she drifted off again, she felt something warm press against the edge of her jaw — a quick, stolen kiss.

And his voice, barely audible:

“You’re lucky I like you.”

Three days later, she was no longer dying. Not technically.

The fever was gone. The cough had turned from death rattle to soft wheeze. She had regained control of her limbs and, unfortunately for Sunghoon, her mouth.

She stretched dramatically in the kitchen doorway, still in her oversized pajama shirt, hair a little messy, but cheeks no longer flushed with fever. “Guess who’s back from the brink of death?”

Sunghoon, halfway through pouring coffee, didn’t even look up. “You’re supposed to rest for two more days.”

“I rested for three,” she whined, padding toward him. “And you barely let me move. I’ve had enough sleep to last a lifetime.”

“Still pale.”

“Still dramatic,” she countered, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind and pressing her cheek to his back. “You can’t stop me from loving you now. I’m alive and dangerous.”

He went very still.

“…You’re clingier when you’re sick,” he muttered.

“I’m clingier now because I remember how nice you were when I was sick,” she replied smugly, swaying side to side as she hugged him tighter. “You fed me apple slices, Park Sunghoon. You cut them like a flower. That’s love.”

“It was survival,” he said. “You were pathetic.”

She gasped. “I was endearing! Helpless. Cute. A damsel.”

“You drooled on your pillow.”

“Yet you stayed. Slept in that chair like my own personal nurse. Don’t act unaffected.” He turned around, prying her arms off him — but not fully letting go.

Instead, he held her wrists gently, brows furrowed like she was some science experiment he couldn’t quite figure out. “You’re warm.”

“Lingering heat of passion.”

“Leftover fever.”

She grinned. “Maybe. You should kiss me again to check.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’ll infect me.”

“I’m not sick anymore,” she said sweetly, leaning in. “Doctor cleared me.”

“You are the doctor. You gave yourself a thumbs up in the mirror.” She leaned even closer, her lips inches from his. “Then what’s stopping you?”

A long pause. His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back up.

“…You’re insufferable.”

But then he tilted his head and kissed her anyway — brief, sure, but unmistakably real.

When he pulled back, she was smiling like she’d won the lottery.

“Told you I was dangerous.”

He rolled his eyes. “Finish your soup.”

“You didn’t make soup.”

“I will if you stop talking for five minutes.”

She beamed and followed him around the kitchen like a duckling while he sighed deeply, like a man under siege — but with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

-

It started with pancakes.

She had insisted she was “well enough to contribute to society again,” which apparently meant trying to make brunch while blasting a playlist called “Wife Era Energy” through the apartment speakers.

Sunghoon had been content sipping his coffee and scrolling through emails at the dining table—until he heard the smoke alarm beep once.

He looked up. “What are you burning?”

“Nothing!” she shouted too quickly from the kitchen.

He stood slowly. “Don’t lie. That’s the pre-scream of the smoke alarm.”

“I’m doing fine!” she insisted, flipping something aggressively in the pan. “It just got a little toasty on one side.”

When he walked over, she was waving a spatula at a barely-rescued pancake. It was shaped like a blobfish.

He blinked. “What is that.”

“A heart.”

He stared at it. “No, it isn’t.”

“It was until I flipped it and it broke. Like your heart, when I inevitably leave you for a Michelin star chef who respects my pancake artistry.” “I’m not letting you near chefs,” he said dryly. “You fall in love too easily.”

“You wish,” she teased, reaching over to boop his nose with flour-dusted fingers. “You jealous, Mr. Husband?”

He dodged late, leaving a faint white smudge on his nose. “Stop flirting while cooking. It’s dangerous.”

“You’re dangerous,” she replied with a wink, spinning to pour more batter into the pan.

He reached around her a second later, casually adjusting the heat on the stove.

“Too high,” he muttered. “You’ll burn the next one, too.”

She turned her head slightly. “Oh? And you’re an expert now?”

“I’m a man who doesn’t want to eat carbon.”

“Touché.”

They moved awkwardly around each other after that — him “supervising,” her swatting him away whenever he hovered too close.

But somehow, they ended up at the sink together. She was washing the bowl; he was rinsing strawberries. Their elbows bumped. Twice.

“Move,” he said.

“You move.”

“I’m doing you a favor.”

“I made you a pancake that looks like emotional baggage. That’s real love.”

He looked at her sideways. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yet here you are, still next to me.”

“…You’re messy,” he added, flicking a tiny drop of water onto her cheek.

She gasped. “Sunghoon!”

“That’s for booping me earlier.”

“You want war?”

“I want quiet.”

She reached over and flicked water back. He retaliated. The strawberry bowl wobbled dangerously. Somehow, her floury hands got on his black shirt.

“You’ve signed a death wish,” he muttered darkly, grabbing a dish towel and tossing it over her head.

She shrieked, yanking it off, laughing breathlessly.

By the time the pancakes were plated — heart-ish blobs and all — the kitchen looked like a flour bomb had gone off. Sunghoon sat down, deadpan, as she placed the plate in front of him with both hands and a dramatic bow.

“Your brunch, kind sir.”

He looked up at her with the tiniest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

She leaned in with a cheeky grin. “You love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

-

It happened quietly.

She had been sitting on the couch, wrapping herself in a blanket like it was armor against the cold air creeping in through the open window. Sunghoon was at the dining table, going through paperwork — his usual stance, focused, detached. He wasn’t ignoring her. No, that would’ve been easier. He just didn’t know how to make it known how often his thoughts shifted from the files to her in the most unexpected moments.

She had been staring at him for what felt like forever, as if this moment was building up to something that didn’t need to be said. But there it was, sitting unspoken in the space between them.

“Sunghoon,” she said, voice softer than usual.

He didn’t look up. “Hmm?”

“I love you.”

He froze, pen in hand, posture stiffening as the words echoed in the air between them. His fingers tightened around the pen for a split second before he set it down, his gaze flicking over to her.

She was staring at him with that quiet sincerity, the kind she only reserved for when she meant it. It wasn’t a playful confession. She wasn’t expecting anything from him. She just needed to say it.

“I love you,” she repeated, this time a little more gently, eyes unwavering.

There was a beat of silence.

And then, his lips curved into a soft, almost imperceptible smile. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes but held warmth in its own way — the kind that was hidden beneath layers of restraint. He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest, and gave her a look that was impossible to decipher.

“I care for you,” he said, voice low but steady. He wasn’t looking at her fully, his eyes flicking back to the papers in front of him. But there was a soft edge to the way he spoke.

She blinked. “That’s it?” He met her eyes now, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “I can’t say it like you do.”

Her heart stilled for a moment as the words sunk in. He didn’t say it back. But… he cared. He was always showing it in his own way. The small things. The way he made sure she was fed, the way he checked if she was warm enough, the way his hand lingered a little too long whenever he touched her — things that didn’t need to be said.

“I know,” she whispered, a soft smile curving onto her lips. “I know, Sunghoon.”

He didn’t offer a word in return, but he stood up, closing the gap between them. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet.

Instead, he cupped her face with the palm of his hand, his thumb brushing over her cheek gently. His gaze softened just enough for her to catch the hint of something real, something more than just the surface.

“You know, I don’t need to say it to show it,” he murmured, voice low and quiet. “But I’ll show you in every other way I can.”

She didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. She leaned into his hand, letting his touch speak for itself.

It became a quiet thing between them.

She would say I love you like it was breathing — soft, natural, often when he least expected it.

Like when she handed him a coffee cup in the morning, still half-asleep herself, and mumbled, “Love you,” into the rim of her mug.

Or when he helped her zip up her jacket before she ran out to the grocery store, and she peeked up at him with a casual, “Thanks. I love you.”

Each time, Sunghoon’s answer changed.

-

The first time she said it in public, it was offhanded, thrown over her shoulder as she jogged to the car ahead of him.

“Don’t forget your keys! Love you!”

Sunghoon, walking a few steps behind, froze in place. The valet turned to look at him, amused. He blinked once, adjusted his collar, and muttered under his breath, “I care for her. Deeply.”

“You can just say it,” she teased once they were alone in the car. “It’s not a curse.”

“I don’t say things I can’t take back,” he replied without looking at her.

“You make it sound like loving me is a life sentence.”

He gave her a glance. “More like a lifetime contract.”

She grinned. “Aww. That’s so you.”

-

Another night, they were doing dishes together — her drying, him washing. She bumped her hip against his to get his attention, then leaned in just a bit too close.

“Love you.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“You like it.”

He sighed, lips twitching. “Unfortunately.”

“You should say it sometime,” she said, nudging his arm with her shoulder. “Just once. For scientific purposes.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he set the dish down, turned to face her, and with hands still dripping, reached up to tuck a damp curl behind her ear.

“I care for you,” he said, serious this time. “In ways I didn’t plan for.”

That shut her up more effectively than a kiss might have.

-

One late evening, curled up together on the couch with her head in his lap, she looked up with a sleepy smile and whispered, “I love you.”

He looked down at her, his fingers gently combing through her hair.

“I know,” he murmured.

Her brows furrowed. “You sound like Han Solo.”

“Who?”

“Uncultured.”

But she was smiling as she said it, because his hand never stopped moving — gentle and constant.

-

Then there were the in-between moments.

Like when she burnt her hand trying to grab a hot tray, and he all but shoved her into a chair to bandage it.

“You’re reckless,” he scolded, voice clipped.

“You’re worried,” she countered, lips quirked.

“I care for you,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

“Then kiss it better.”

He did.

And sometimes, the words came out of nowhere.

Like when he poured her a glass of water without being asked, or when she caught him folding her laundry because “you mix the socks up every time.”

“I love you,” she’d say softly.

Sunghoon, as always, wouldn’t say it back.

But he would look at her like the world began and ended in the space she took up.

And sometimes, when she was already asleep, he would whisper it against her shoulder as he pulled the blanket over them both.

-

It happened slowly.

Not with a fight. Not even with a sigh. Just… silence.

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t say I love you when he handed her coffee.

She just nodded, murmured a distracted “Thanks,” and went back to whatever she was doing.

At first, Sunghoon didn’t notice. Not really. He was too caught up in the tangle of deadlines and phone calls, and she was still there — still smiling, still joking, still cooking and humming and curling up on the couch like usual.

But the words were missing.

No “I love you” when he zipped up her coat.

No “I love you” when she left for errands.

Not even a cheeky one when she caught him watching her during dinner.

It took him three days to realize it. And another two to feel the weight of it.

Because once he noticed, it was everywhere.

Like the night she made his favorite kimchi stew, spicy and rich the way he liked it, and set the bowl in front of him without a word. She smiled at him when he looked up — the same smile she always gave. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

And when he muttered a quiet “Thanks,” she only nodded. No teasing reply. No flirty banter.

Just silence.

-

She was getting tired.

Tired of always being the one to reach out first.

Tired of baring her heart in soft laughter and lingering glances only to be met with his closed-off silences and half-answers.

Tired of carrying all the feelings like a secret between her ribs.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t cold. He cared — she knew he did.

But some days, she wanted to stop having to translate his version of affection. Some days, she wanted him to meet her halfway without being pushed.

So she dialed it back.

No more casual I love yous.

No more waiting for a reply that never came.

-

Sunghoon realized it fully one night while brushing his teeth. She walked past him in the mirror, mumbling, “Good night,” before disappearing into the bedroom.

Just good night.

Not Love you. Sleep well. Don’t stay up too late again.

Just… good night.

He spat the toothpaste into the sink and stared at his reflection, the silence in the apartment pressing in like a fog.

It wasn’t like her.

Not his sunshine girl who wore her heart like earrings, loud and proud and pretty.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t sad.

She was just quiet.

And somehow, that scared him more than any confrontation would have.

-

That night, he climbed into bed beside her, careful not to wake her. She was turned away, curled into herself, her breathing slow and steady. Her back faced him — something she never used to do.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, his hand twitching with the urge to reach out.

He didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Because the silence between them was louder than ever.

The silence didn’t end the next day.

Or the day after that.

She still smiled, still asked if he’d be home for dinner, still offered him half of her strawberry milk when she brought one home from the store.

But there were no more I love yous.

Not in the mornings when he slipped on his coat.

Not in the texts she sent asking if he was eating well.

Not in the soft looks she used to give him from across the dinner table, the ones that used to make his stomach twist in ways he didn’t understand.

The words were gone.

And now that he’d noticed, it was like living without background music. The silence rang in his ears.

-

He tested it a few times.

Walked past her in the kitchen one morning, brushing his fingers against her lower back — something he didn’t do often — just to see if she’d respond with her usual flirty, “If you’re gonna touch me like that, at least say good morning properly.”

But all she said was, “Want eggs or just toast?”

Neutral. Not cold. Not distant. Just… tired.

He hated it.

It got worse at night.

They still shared a bed — ever since the leak in her room weeks ago, she never moved back. But she’d started curling up at the edge now, wrapped tight in her blanket like a cocoon.

She used to press her feet to his legs and grin when he flinched.

Used to steal his pillow and pretend it was hers.

Used to whisper love you when the lights were off, like it was just a fact of life.

But lately?

Nothing.

Just her soft breathing, turned away from him. Like she didn’t have the energy to try anymore.

-

A week into the silence, Sunghoon opened their group text with his mom and hers. He scrolled back weeks, looking at her bubbly replies and endless hearts and the little selfies she used to send when he stayed late at the office.

He hadn’t realized how often she’d reached for him.

How many times she tried.

How little he gave her in return.

The guilt was slow, but steady. Like water wearing down a stone.

-

On the ninth day, she made pancakes. His favorite, golden on the outside and fluffy in the middle, with just the right amount of syrup.

He stared at the plate.

“…Why?”

She blinked at him. “You don’t like pancakes anymore?”

“No, I—” he stopped, throat tight. “You haven’t cooked like this in a while.”

She just shrugged, flipping another one for herself. “Had extra time.”

No teasing. No smug little Because I love you, dummy. No request for a kiss as payment.

Just pancakes.

He hated how quiet her eyes looked.

-

By day ten, he started talking more, just to fill the silence.

“How was your day?”

“Did that delivery ever arrive?”

“I saw that place you wanted to visit reopened.”

She answered. Always.

But her eyes didn’t linger on his.

And she never asked about his day back.

-

By day eleven, she fell asleep on the couch.

And for a moment, Sunghoon just stood there, watching her breathe.

She always looked smaller when she slept — like the world didn’t sit on her shoulders when her eyes were closed.

Without thinking, he crouched down in front of her and gently pushed her hair out of her face.

She stirred a little. Eyes fluttered. But she didn’t wake.

He hovered there for a long moment, biting the inside of his cheek.

Then, quietly — so soft it barely reached the room — he said,

“I care for you.” She didn’t hear it. Of course she didn’t.

He was always too late. Sunghoon was used to figuring things out quickly.

Contracts. Mergers. Timelines. He’d spent his life solving problems with quiet efficiency and minimal fuss.

But somehow — when it came to her — he had been painfully, devastatingly slow. Because it wasn’t until she stopped trying that he realized how much she had been holding them together.

And how badly he’d taken it all for granted.

-

It started with breakfast.

He was not a morning person. Not even close.

But one Tuesday, he got up earlier than he needed to, quietly padded into the kitchen, and scrambled eggs the way she liked — soft, creamy, slightly cheesy.

When she walked in, still rubbing sleep from her eyes, she froze at the sight of him at the stove.

He didn’t look at her.

Just slid a plate across the counter.

“I added chives,” he muttered. “You like chives.”

She stared at the food. Then at him.

“…You okay?” “I’m fine.”

She blinked, hesitated, then gave a small, cautious smile. “Thanks.”

He didn’t expect the way his chest warmed just from hearing that.

-

Next came the flowers.

Not grand bouquets. Not showy centerpieces.

Just little bundles from the market she liked — baby’s breath and peonies, sometimes daisies. Whatever looked the most like her.

He never said much when he gave them. Just left them on the dining table or kitchen counter with the receipts already thrown out.

But she noticed. Every time.

She’d pause, fingers brushing the petals, eyes going soft for just a second before schooling her face again.

-

And then he started kissing her more.

At first it was awkward — short, stiff, like he wasn’t sure how to be casual about it.

But over time, it became habit.

A kiss on the temple before she sat down to read.

One at the crown of her head when she yawned too loudly.

A soft one at the corner of her lips when she passed him the remote.

She never asked anymore.

But she never pulled away either.

-

The hardest part, though — the one he’d danced around for far too long — was the words.

He could build a company. Run numbers in his head like equations. Predict a market shift months in advance.

But this?

This was terrifying. Because he could lose deals and bounce back.

But if he said it, and it wasn’t enough?

If she looked at him and smiled politely, like it was too late? He didn’t know what he’d do with that.

Still. She deserved it.

And maybe — just maybe — he needed it too.

It happened on a Sunday.

They were cleaning up after dinner, her humming some tune he couldn’t name, the sleeves of her sweatshirt bunched around her elbows as she rinsed plates.

He dried in silence. Watching.

Noticing. She didn’t glance his way. Didn’t ask how the stew turned out. Didn’t lean into him like she used to.

And he couldn’t take it anymore.

“…I love you.”

She paused.

The plate in her hand stilled under the running water. Her head tilted just slightly, eyes still down.

Then — a beat later — she hummed.

Low. Neutral. Nonchalant. Just like he used to do.

And it wrecked him.

Because he finally understood what it felt like to say something real and get nothing in return. But he didn’t regret it. Not one bit.

Because for the first time, he was reaching.

Finally.

He told her he loved her.

And she hummed. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t smile. Just turned off the faucet, dried the plate, and walked past him like he hadn’t just said the most vulnerable thing of his adult life.

Sunghoon stood in the kitchen, towel clenched in his hand, heart pounding. So that’s what it felt like.

He didn’t chase after her.

He just cleaned the rest of the dishes and accepted it — not because he was giving up, but because he wasn’t. This wasn’t a race to win. It was a mess he made, and he was going to sit in it.

And fix it.

Even if it took forever.

-

The next few days, he didn’t back off.

If anything, he doubled down — not with desperation, but with patience.nHe kissed her forehead when he left for work. Sent photos of his lunch like usual, except now with dumb captions.

Does this chicken look dry or is it just my soul without you? She replied with a deadpan emoji, but it made him grin.

He brought her chocolate milk on the way home, the exact brand she liked.

He left notes around the house. Nothing dramatic. Just little Post-its on her mirror:

You looked really pretty last night. Don’t forget your umbrella.

I love you, by the way. Still.

Each one disappeared without a word. He had no idea if she kept them. But he kept writing.

-

And then she got petty.

Playfully so. He came home one night to find she’d left a single sticky note on his pillow.

“You forgot to kiss me again. Tragic.”

His jaw actually dropped.

Not at the note, but at the doodle of a tiny broken heart beside it. He marched into the kitchen, where she was munching on strawberries, and kissed her — firm and full on the lips — until she squeaked.

Then she shoved a berry in his mouth before walking away with a smug, “Took you long enough.”

He laughed. Actually laughed.

God, he missed her like this.

-

Things eased.

Softened.

She started saying goodnight again. Started stealing bites of his food like old times. Started kicking his feet under the table.

And then one night — finally — she kissed him first. They were brushing their teeth. Just standing there, side by side, spitting and rinsing like two semi-functioning adults. And she suddenly leaned up, wiped a bit of toothpaste from the corner of his mouth with her thumb, and kissed him.

A soft, warm press. Her lips tasted like mint and relief.She didn’t say anything after. Just walked back to bed, braid swinging behind her.

He stood in the bathroom like an idiot for a full minute.

The next morning, she didn’t say “I love you.”

But she packed his lunch. With a tiny heart drawn in sharpie on the container.

And when he kissed her goodbye — longer than usual, slower — she sighed against his mouth like she meant it.

“You’re not going to make me say it back first, are you?” she mumbled. Sunghoon smirked. “Nah. You already did.”

“When?”

“The moment you kissed me with toothpaste breath.” She groaned and tried to shove him out the door. He went, laughing.

And for the first time in a long time, they both felt like they were home.

-

It started with a tweet.

She didn’t even know he had seen it — a late-night repost of a fluffy white puppy chewing on a sock, captioned “I’m not a mom yet but I’d kill for this little guy.”

She thought nothing of it. Just something cute during a bout of insomnia.

But Sunghoon saw it. And Sunghoon — logical, calculated, definitely not a dog person Sunghoon — did not scroll past.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, then quietly messaged someone. And two days later, on a random Friday, he came home with something moving in a blanket.

She was sprawled on the couch in sweats, rewatching her comfort drama with a blanket over her legs and a half-eaten snack bowl on the floor.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hmm?” she blinked, eyes still on the screen. “You’re home early.”

“No meetings this afternoon.”

“Oh. Nice.”

He walked over, expression unreadable. “Got you something.” That caught her attention.

Her head turned slowly. “What kind of something?”

He didn’t say anything. Just set the bundle down on the couch beside her.

She peered over the edge. And gasped.

It was tiny. Fluffy. Blindingly white. With the roundest black eyes and floppy ears and a pink tongue that immediately tried to lick her fingers.

“A… a puppy?” Her voice cracked. “Is this a joke?”

He looked a little sheepish. “You tweeted about wanting one.” Her eyes snapped up. “You saw that?”

“I see everything you post.”

She blinked. Heart thudding.

Then back to the dog. Then to him.

“Wait—is this ours?”

“…Yours. But yeah.”

She let out an undignified squeal and scooped the pup into her arms, practically crying as it wriggled and yipped and climbed all over her chest.

“Oh my God, you are so cute,” she cooed, completely ignoring her husband now. “Look at your little paws. I’m naming you—wait. No. Let me think.”

Sunghoon just stood there, watching her melt.

And for once… he didn’t mind the chaos.

Didn’t mind the little paw prints already on the couch.

Didn’t mind the way her laugh cracked too loud or how she immediately started talking in a baby voice.

Because it was hers. And he had made it happen.

She looked up at him, eyes glossy. “You really got me a puppy?” He shrugged, like it was nothing.

“You said you’d kill for one,” he said flatly. “Figured this was safer.”

She stared at him.

And then—without warning—launched herself forward and kissed him. Fierce and unfiltered and full of everything she hadn’t said in days.

The puppy yipped between them in protest, but she didn’t care. Neither did he.

When she pulled back, breathless, she whispered, “I love you.”

And this time, he didn’t hesitate.

“I love you more.”

-

“You’re spoiling him.”

“You bought him.”

Sunghoon stood in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed as he stared at his wife and the small white puppy now fast asleep in a ridiculously tiny cable-knit sweater.

It was baby blue.

With a hood.

“You let him sleep on the bed,” he said, accusatory.

“He has tiny legs!” she said, scandalized. “He gets cold! What kind of monster would make him sleep alone?”

Sunghoon blinked. “He has a bed. A memory foam one. That cost more than my office chair.”

She gasped dramatically. “How dare you say that in front of him?” He stared down at the puppy. It snored softly. Dreaming, probably, of chewing through another pair of his socks.

“Great. He’s spoiled and entitled,” Sunghoon muttered.

But he still crouched down and covered the dog gently with the edge of the throw blanket before walking off.

It didn’t take long.

He cracked faster than she did.

One morning, she woke up to find Sunghoon curled around the puppy, his usually perfect hair an utter mess, one arm under the dog’s round body, the other draped protectively over it.

She snapped a photo.

He didn’t even flinch.

“Don’t show anyone,” he muttered.

“You look like a proud single mother in a 90s drama.”

“Woman—”

“My princess,” she corrected sweetly, poking his cheek. “Get used to the third wheel. He’s sleeping in the middle now.”

He grumbled.And kissed her temple anyway.

They split the duties. Sort of.

She handled the outfits. The vet appointments. The excessive toy collection.

He handled the training — which meant he paced the hallway at 1AM with a leash and muttered “go potty” under his breath while the dog just rolled in the grass.

“You’re soft now,” she teased one night as she caught him lying on the floor teaching the dog to sit.

He glanced up, a treat in his hand. “No, I’m not.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He tried again. “I’m just committed to excellence.”

“You call him ‘son’.”

Sunghoon looked at the puppy.

The puppy barked once.

He caved.

“…He’s my son.”

Their conversations shifted.

“Did he eat today?”

“He pooped twice. Solid. Good color.”

“Where’s his giraffe toy? He only sleeps with the giraffe—NO, NOT THAT ONE, THE ONE WITH THE WONKY EYE.”

She caught him one evening scrolling through his phone and smiling.

“Looking at pics of me?”

“No.”

“Other girls?”

“…No.”

“Wait—are you looking at him?”

He turned the screen.

The puppy. Wearing a bib. Sitting in a tiny high chair.

“I love him,” Sunghoon admitted, eyes soft.

She climbed into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck. “I know. You’re a good dad.”

He kissed her nose. “Still not letting him lick my face.”

Five minutes later, the dog was licking his face.

-

One night, they were curled on the couch — her legs thrown over his, puppy stretched across both their laps. The TV played something forgettable in the background.

“You’ve changed,” she said suddenly, gaze soft.

He tilted his head. “For the worse?”

“For the better.”

He didn’t respond right away.

But then he leaned in and kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips. Soft, slow presses like punctuation marks between thoughts.

“I just needed time,” he murmured.

“And a dog,” she said into his neck, grinning.

He huffed a laugh. “And a wife who never gave up.”

She smiled.

The puppy snored.

And for the first time in a long time, Sunghoon felt like he had everything he didn’t even know he wanted — all piled on one couch in soft blankets and too much love.

-

It was supposed to be a normal day.

She wasn’t snooping.

She was just being helpful, cleaning out Sunghoon’s office while he was in meetings all morning. He worked too hard, let the clutter build — old folders, dust, half-drunk coffee cups. She was humming while she dusted the bookshelf, hair tied up, a warm cup of tea waiting on the desk for him.

Then she found it.

Tucked under a stack of signed contracts, in the back of the drawer he usually kept locked.

A folded document with bold letters.

Mutual Agreement for Marriage Termination.

At first, she just… stared.

She re-read the words.

Twice. Thrice.

Marriage. Termination.

Her hands started to shake.

She didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

Just folded it back as neatly as it was and placed it on the center of his desk like it had been waiting for a confrontation. And then she sat on the couch. Quiet. Still. Puppy in her lap, sensing the shift in her mood, nuzzling her thigh.

She didn’t even pet him back. When Sunghoon came home an hour later, the air felt wrong instantly.

“Babe?” he called, loosening his tie. “You—”

His eyes fell on the paper. Then on her. And everything stopped.

She lifted her gaze, voice barely above a whisper. “What is this?”

He opened his mouth.Closed it.

Ran a hand through his hair and cursed under his breath. “I was cleaning,” she said, trying to stay even. “I didn’t mean to find it. But now I have. So—what is this?”

He exhaled sharply. “It’s not what you think.”

“It says termination, Sunghoon.” “I know what it says.” His voice broke a little. “It’s just old. From before.”

She swallowed. “From before what?” He looked like he wanted to bolt. But instead, he walked forward, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. “Are you okay,” he said softly, “with just being married on paper?”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

He sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing her, elbows on his knees. “That was the plan, right? From the beginning. Just pretend. Sign the papers. Merge the families. Move on eventually.” Her lip trembled, but she bit it hard. “Things changed.” “Yeah,” he said. Quiet. “They did.”

Then his hand reached out and took hers.

“I fell in love with you.”

She blinked. “I didn’t mean to,” he went on. “Didn’t plan to. But every day, you… you made it harder not to.” She shook her head, overwhelmed. “Then what is that document—?”

“I was going to propose,” he said, tone suddenly desperate. “I have this whole plan—something stupid and elaborate. With the dog and your favorite flowers and I even bought a fucking ring that’s been sitting in my desk at work because I wanted it to be perfect.”

Her breath hitched.

“I forgot I had that draft,” he muttered. “I meant to shred it weeks ago. But work got in the way and then you started smiling at me like I was your whole world and I thought—‘she doesn’t even know yet, but soon.’”

She stared at him.

Eyes wide. Disbelieving.

“I was going to ask you to really marry me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “To stay with me. Forever. Not just in documents. Not just because our families said so.”

He reached up, fingers brushing her cheek.

“Fuck,” he said again, softer this time. “Baby, please pretend you didn’t see that.”

Silence. Long. Heavy. Then—

“I wasn’t going to leave,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I thought we were finally okay.”

“We are.” He cupped her face now, both hands, like she was something fragile he had broken. “We’re better than okay. I just—I wanted to do this right.”

Her voice trembled. “And now?”

“Now?” he kissed her forehead. “Now I have to earn your yes before I lose you again.” She let out a weak laugh, watery and shaking.

“You could’ve just used the puppy again.”

He smiled — small, guilty. “I still might.”

She nudged his chest lightly, the tiniest hint of playfulness peeking through the ache in her chest. “Also, you’re swearing a lot. For someone who always tells me off for saying ‘shit’ when I stub my toe.”

Sunghoon groaned softly, resting his forehead against hers. “Yeah, well. You found the one thing that made me forget my own rules.” She smirked, eyes still glassy. “Tsk. You’re such a hypocrite, husband. What would our parents say?”

“They’d say,” he murmured, tilting his head just slightly, “I’m in love with my wife, and I’m scared shitless I just ruined everything.” She gasped. “Again? There you go! That’s two!”

He gave her a flat look, but she caught the corner of his lips twitching. “Swearing Sunghoon,” she teased gently, poking his chest. “You’ve really lost it.”

“I’ve always been the sane one,” he muttered, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “And then you walked into my life calling me dumb pet names and putting flowers in the bathroom.”

“You liked the flowers,” she whispered, eyes soft.

“I loved the flowers,” he said. “I love everything you do.” And this time, she didn’t tease him back. This time, she let it settle. Let the words reach where they always failed to before.

“I hate that you were scared to tell me,” she admitted.

“I hate that I waited this long,” he replied. “I should’ve said it the day I kissed you goodbye and drove back just to do it right.”

“Still the best kiss,” she muttered.

“Oh?” He leaned in, nose brushing hers. “Want a better one?”

“…Maybe,” she whispered, letting her eyes fall shut.

And this time, when he kissed her — it wasn’t out of obligation, or affection hidden beneath sarcasm. It wasn’t a favor, or a joke.

It was a promise.

The document was never mentioned again — not out loud. But something changed after that night.

He brought her coffee in bed the next morning, unprompted. Kissed her temple before heading out, eyes softer than usual. And she didn’t flinch when he swore under his breath at a work email during breakfast — though she did raise an eyebrow and mutter, “That’s three for the week, sailor.”

Sunghoon grumbled something about her corrupting him, but he smiled. Smiled — and didn’t try to hide it. He came home earlier. Ate her food with less nagging. Bought her favorite snacks without asking. And three days after the confrontation, when she came back from grocery shopping, there was a tiny box of her favorite pastries on the kitchen counter with a sticky note that read:

Eat before you forget again. I love you.

– The husband who never swears. Ever.

She rolled her eyes. Blushed a little.

The silence that had once been heavy was now… light. Full of things unsaid but felt. Words passed through glances, half-smiles, shared spoonfuls of soup.

Still — he hadn’t proposed yet.

It happened on a Sunday morning.

Rainy. Cozy. The puppy snoring in her lap while she flipped through a magazine, messy bun and oversized hoodie, glasses sliding down her nose.

“Hey,” he said from the kitchen, casually. “Hmm?”

“You free today?” She gave him a look. “I’m your wife. What, you think I’ve got a date with someone else?” He looked suspiciously thoughtful. “That friend of yours from college keeps texting you.”

“Sunghoon.”

“Kidding,” he said quickly, already grabbing her hand. “Mostly.” She snorted but followed when he tugged her toward the hallway.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“I’m in pajamas.”

“You’re always in pajamas.”

“And you’re always in a mood when you plan something.”

“Woman,” he warned playfully, “get your shoes.” She gasped. “The tone! That’s the Serious Husband tone!” But he didn’t respond. He just smiled.

He took her to the dog park first. Let her laugh and coo and race the puppy through wet grass. He stayed beside her the whole time, holding her hand whenever he wasn’t holding the leash, helping her wipe muddy paw prints off her jeans.

Then they stopped by the café she loved — the one with the cozy booths and the cinnamon rolls the size of her face. He let her order two.

She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with Sunghoon?” He shrugged. “I’m just in a good mood.”

“Okay, now I’m scared.” Still, he didn’t say anything strange. Didn’t act particularly suspicious.Until they got home. Until she saw the living room. Candles. A dozen. Her favorite flowers — white ranunculus — all over the coffee table. The puppy had a bowtie.

She froze. Sunghoon gently took her tote bag and set it aside.

“What is all this?” she asked, cautiously. “A cult ritual? Are you about to sacrifice me?” He huffed a laugh. “Close.”

Then he dropped to one knee. Her heart stopped.

“You found the document before I could do this,” he began, voice rough with nerves. “And I could’ve waited longer. I had a whole rooftop dinner plan. Fireworks. Probably a string quartet. But I realized I don’t care about making it perfect.”

She stared. Tears welled, slow and hot.

“I care about making it real.” He opened a small velvet box. The ring was simple. Classic. Just like him.

“I married you on paper,” he said, “but I want to marry you for real. To wake up beside you knowing you chose me, not our families. I want a million quiet mornings with you and loud nights where we argue about whose turn it is to take the dog out.”

She let out a teary laugh.

“I want the chaos. The sweetness. Your ‘I love yous’ and your swearing and your dumb jokes.”

He looked up, eyes soft.

“So… marry me, Y/N. For real this time.” She blinked hard. Heart pounding. And then — her voice cracked, but clear:

“Yes.”

He stood immediately. Crushed her into his chest. Kissed her — slow, sweet, and tasting faintly of cinnamon. And when they broke apart, cheeks flushed, he whispered, “I really fucking love you.”

She gasped through her tears. “Four!”He kissed her again before she could finish scolding him. Married life, as it turned out, suited them.

Sunghoon still had his resting stoic face and soft grumbles. She still left flowers in weird places and stuck grocery lists on his monitors with glittery cat-shaped post-its. Their white puppy, now full-grown and dramatically clingy, had taken over their bed and most of their attention. But even that wasn’t enough to quiet the creeping, fluttery want that had started blooming in her chest.

It started small. A passing stroller at the park. A tiny shoe left behind on a café bench. A baby giggling on TV.

Then it grew.

A soft sigh when she held a friend’s newborn. A dreamy stare when she saw Sunghoon playing with their puppy, gentle and patient, even letting it bite his shoelace just to keep it entertained.

And then, one night, she whispered it into his chest. Post-dinner, post-shower, wrapped up in bed with his arm thrown over her waist.

“Do you ever think about having a baby?” His hand paused. Just slightly. Then resumed drawing lazy circles on her stomach. “…What kind of question is that?”

“A curious one.” He was quiet. Long enough that she almost changed the subject. Then—

“I do.”

She blinked.b“You do?” He turned slightly, eyes still half-lidded from sleep. “Yeah. Sometimes. I think I’d be decent at it.”

“‘Decent,’” she snorted. “You’d probably be one of those dramatic, overprotective dads.”

“…So?” She grinned. “So I’d love that.”

He kissed her cheek. “You already call me daddy sometimes when you’re drunk or in bed.”

“Park Sunghoon!” He laughed. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

She whacked his chest and turned around, red in the face.

Still — the conversation stayed

A few months later, something shifted.

She was a bit more tired. A bit more forgetful. Spent two mornings in a row hugging the toilet bowl and cursing the yogurt she’d had for breakfast. Sunghoon, who kept telling her to stop swearing like a sailor, looked suspicious the third time.

“You’re not sick,” he said one night, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not even feverish.”

“No,” she muttered, cheeks warm. “I just—maybe—it’s just stress?”

“Hmm.”

“…Stop staring like that.”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Let’s find out.”

Five minutes later, she was hiding behind the bathroom door with a stick on the counter and Sunghoon standing on the other side like a military commander waiting for mission results.

“Woman,” he warned. “Open the door.”

She did.

The test was positive.

Neither of them spoke for a full three seconds.

Then she whispered, eyes wide, “Sunghoon?”

“…You really are gonna start swearing again, aren’t you?”

She laughed. Sobbed. Launched herself into his arms.

He held her like she was made of light. Then kissed the side of her head, his voice quieter than she’d ever heard it.

“I care for you, remember?” he said. “Now I care for both of you.”

“Sunghoon,” she sniffled, “I love you.”

This time, there was no delay.

“I love you too,” he said, without hesitation, one hand already on her stomach. “So damn much.”

She gasped.

“Five!”

END

tobiosbbyghorl 2025

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Between Wound and Us | sjy

pairing: detective!jake x nurse!reader

— A careless fight seems meaningless when your husband is rushed in with a serious injury. Every glance, every touch becomes a quiet confession of love.

rie’s note: finally posted this req from anon! so sorry it took so long and i hope you will love it! ily

The argument hadn’t been loud.

That was the worst part.

It lived in the spaces between words—unfinished sentences, glances held a second too long, the way Jake didn’t reach for you before bed.

He’d come home late again. Jacket smelling like rain and cold air, eyes still sharp with adrenaline from the case. You were already in your scrubs, hair damp from a rushed shower, dinner reheated and forgotten on the counter.

“You didn’t text,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

“I told you I might be late.”

“You said that three nights ago.”

He sighed, rubbing his face. “I can’t just walk away from this one.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “I’m asking you to care if you don’t come home.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s unfair.”

And there it was. That thin crack.

“You’re obsessed,” you said quietly. “You don’t even see it.”

“And you’re overreacting,” he shot back. “You always do when it comes to my job.”

The words landed heavier than either of you expected.

You stared at him. He stared back. Neither of you apologized.

That night, you slept facing opposite walls.

The next morning, the silence followed you to work.

You moved through the hospital on autopilot—checking charts, changing IVs, smiling when you had to. Every so often, your mind drifted to Jake. To whether he’d eaten. Whether he’d slept. Whether he’d thought about the things he said.

You hadn’t texted.

Neither had he.

The ER was loud in the way it always was—controlled chaos wrapped in fluorescent light.

Monitors beeped. Shoes squeaked against the polished floor. Someone laughed too loudly at the nurses’ station, and you remember thinking how strange it was that the world could keep moving like this.

You were checking a chart, pen tapping absently against the clipboard, mind still half-stuck on the night before. On Jake’s back turned to you. On the way neither of you said I love you.

The automatic doors slammed open.

Hard.

“Gunshot wound incoming!”

The shout cut through everything.

Your head lifted instantly, heart skipping—not because of the words, but because of the tone. Urgent. Sharp. No room for error.

You straightened, already moving before you realized it. “ETA?”

“Now!”

The gurney burst through the doors seconds later, wheels rattling loudly against the floor.

And then—

No.

Your breath left your body all at once.

Blond hair darkened with sweat. A familiar jaw clenched tight. Hands pressed against his side, red seeping between his fingers faster than you could process.

Jake.

Your Husband.

For a split second, your brain refused to connect the dots. This wasn’t possible. He was supposed to be at work. He was supposed to come home late. He was supposed to be fine.

Someone was talking. “Entry wound, flank—significant blood loss—”

You couldn’t hear anything past the pounding in your ears.

Jake’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then snapping straight to you the moment he recognized your face.

Relief washed over him so visibly it hurt to see.

“Hey,” he breathed, voice strained but unmistakably his.

Your chest constricted.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Your feet moved on instinct, hands already reaching for gloves as if muscle memory could keep your heart from breaking right here in the open.

“Vitals?” you asked, voice eerily steady.

“BP’s low but holding. Conscious. In pain.”

Holding. Barely.

The word echoed uselessly in your head as blood soaked through his jacket, spreading across the fabric like something alive.

You cut the material away with shaking hands, forcing yourself not to look at his face. Not yet. If you did, you’d stop functioning—and he needed you to function.

Pressure. Gauze. Commands barked softly but firmly.

Jake hissed when someone pressed down harder, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab onto something—someone.

You felt it when his hand brushed yours.

His grip tightened instantly.

“Y/N…” he murmured, like saying your name might ground him.

You pulled your hand away.

Not out of cruelty.

Out of survival.

“Stay still,” you said, eyes fixed on the wound. “Don’t move.”

Your tone was professional. Detached. Too calm for the way your insides were screaming.

The gurney rolled forward again, faster now. The room seemed to blur as you walked beside him, one hand maintaining pressure, the other steadying the IV line.

Blood. Too much blood.

Your throat tightened painfully.

This is exactly what I warned you about.

The thought hit hard and ugly, followed immediately by guilt for thinking it at all.

Jake groaned softly as the gurney turned, breath hitching. “I’m sorry,” he muttered under his breath, words barely audible over the noise. “I should’ve—”

“Don’t talk,” you interrupted quietly. “Save your energy.”

He glanced at you then—really looked.

Your face was blank. Controlled. Eyes hard in a way he’d never seen before.

It scared him more than the pain.

They transferred him onto the bed, voices overlapping, hands everywhere. You stepped back just enough to let the trauma team work, but you never left the room.

You couldn’t.

The doctor’s voice cut through. “How long since injury?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Any loss of consciousness?”

“No.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

Good.

Nothing about this felt good.

You stood at his side, charting with mechanical precision, reading numbers you already knew by heart. Every beep of the monitor felt too loud. Every shallow rise of his chest felt like it might stop at any moment.

Jake reached for you again—slower this time, weaker.

You felt it.

You ignored it.

Not because you didn’t want to hold his hand—but because if you did, the dam would break, and you couldn’t afford that. Not yet.

Not while he was bleeding.

“Bullet missed major organs,” someone said eventually. “He’s lucky.”

Lucky.

You stared at the wound, vision blurring.

If this was lucky, you didn’t want to imagine anything else.

Jake let out a shaky breath when the pressure finally eased, exhaustion settling into his bones. His eyes drifted closed for a moment—too long.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

“Jake,” you said sharply, stepping closer. “Stay with me.”

His eyes snapped open immediately.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I promise.”

You nodded once, swallowing hard.

Only then did you realize your hands were trembling.

And only then did it truly hit you—

Last night, you went to bed angry.

This morning, you almost lost him.

They move fast after that.

Too fast and not fast enough all at once.

Someone calls out orders you don’t need to hear because your body already knows what to do. The bed is wheeled deeper into the trauma bay, lights glaring overhead, the air suddenly colder. You stay close—close enough to see the way Jake’s breathing evens only when he hears your voice, close enough to notice how his fingers keep curling like he’s searching for something.

For you.

“Pressure’s holding,” someone says.

You nod, eyes never leaving the wound.

Then—softly, almost apologetically—a paramedic steps closer to you.

“Nurse?” he murmurs.

You glance up, distracted, halfway through reaching for fresh gauze. “Yes?”

He holds something out in his gloved palm.

Your heart stutters.

It’s a ring.

Jake’s ring.

The gold is dull beneath a smear of dark red, blood dried into the grooves where you once traced your thumb absentmindedly while half-asleep in bed. You recognize every scratch, every tiny imperfection from years of shared life.

“It fell off in the ambulance,” the paramedic explains quietly. “We didn’t want to lose it.”

For a second, the room tilts.

Your breath catches so sharply it hurts.

“Oh,” you manage, voice barely there.

You take it from him with hands that suddenly feel too weak to hold anything at all. The metal is cold against your skin. Sticky.

Blood-stained.

The reality of it hits harder than the sight of his wound ever did.

Your husband nearly died—and this is what’s left of him in your hand.

Jake turns his head slightly, eyes finding you again. He notices immediately. Of course he does.

“My ring,” he whispers, guilt flickering across his face like he’s failed you somehow. “I didn’t even notice it fell—”

You close your fingers around it.

“Don’t,” you say softly. “Just… don’t.”

Your voice wobbles despite your efforts.

You slip the ring into the pocket of your scrubs, pressing your palm flat over it for a brief second like you can keep him safe that way. Like the simple act of holding it means he’ll come back to you whole.

When you turn back to him, your professional mask is still there—but it’s cracked now.

Just enough.

“Stay with me,” you say again, quieter this time. “Okay?”

He nods. “Always.”

The imaging confirms it soon after—no organ damage, no internal bleeding. Severe, painful, frightening—but survivable.

The word survivable settles into your chest like a fragile promise.

They clean and suture the wound carefully. You assist when asked, hands steadier now that you know he’ll live, though your heart still aches with everything unsaid between you.

When it’s over, when the bleeding has stopped and the bandages are secure, Jake looks utterly exhausted. Pain lines his face, eyes dulled by medication and fatigue.

They move him to a monitored room.

Not ICU.

Still serious.

Still terrifying.

But stable.

You walk beside the bed as they push him down the hall, the ring heavy in your pocket with every step.

Inside the room, the noise fades. The door clicks shut softly behind you. Monitors beep at a slower, steadier rhythm.

Jake exhales like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

You stand at the foot of the bed, clipboard in hand, staring at numbers you barely register.

“You’re still mad,” he says quietly.

You don’t deny it.

Instead, you reach into your pocket.

The ring rests in your palm, cleaned now but still faintly stained, as if the moment refuses to let go.

You step closer and slide it back onto his finger with careful hands.

“There,” you murmur. “It belongs with you.”

His throat works visibly.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice rough. “I scared you.”

You finally look at him fully—really look.

“I thought,” you whisper, eyes burning, “that this was all I’d get back.”

You curl your fingers around his hand, the ring glinting softly between you.

He squeezes weakly. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

A shaky breath leaves you—half laugh, half sob.

“Don’t ever make me hold your ring like that again,” you say. “Not covered in blood. Not without you.”

His eyes soften completely.

“I promise,” he says. “I’ll come home. I’ll listen. I won’t shut you out.”

You nod once, leaning closer, resting your forehead against his.

The fight from last night feels small now. Not gone—but softened, put into perspective by the quiet truth beating steadily between you.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

And his ring is back where it belongs.

TOBIOSBBYGHORL 2026

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[tobiosbbyghorl]

wish up(w)on a star | yjw

- You wake up to a miracle you never asked for twice—your fiancé Jungwon is gone, and in his place is four-year-old him, calling you “eomma” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You honestly didn’t expect the universe to listen.

It was supposed to be teasing—light, harmless, the kind you always did when it came to Jungwon.

You were lying beside him the night before, phone in hand, replaying the videos his mom had sent you. Tiny Jungwon waddling across the living room, baby Jungwon with puffed cheeks and teary eyes at the beach, clutching a little floatie like his life depended on it.

You were giggling into your pillow.

He, on the other hand, looked… mildly offended.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he muttered, peeking over your shoulder.

“You were so cute,” you shot back, grinning. “I wanna meet this version of you. Just one day. Four-year-old Jungwon? I’d win.”

He scoffed, tugging you closer. “You won’t survive me.” You tilted your head toward the window, the moon glowing soft and full.

“I wish I could spend a day with little Jungwon,” you murmured, half-joking, half-sincere.

He kissed your temple like it didn’t matter.

Like the universe wasn’t listening

Morning came… wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

Your hand reached out lazily, expecting to find him—but instead, your fingers brushed against something small.

Warm. Tiny.

Your eyes snapped open.

And your brain immediately stopped working. Curled up beside you, wrapped in a shirt way too big for him, was a little boy.

Messy hair. Round cheeks. The same face.

“…Jungwon?” you whispered. The child stirred, blinking up at you slowly, eyes glassy with sleep.

Then his lips trembled. “…Eomma?”

Your soul left your body.

“What.”

Before you could even react, he crawled closer and clung to you, small arms wrapping around your waist like it was instinct. “I had a bad dream,” he mumbled, voice soft, burying his face into you.

You stared straight ahead. At the wall. At your life choices. At the moon.

“…Okay,” you whispered weakly. “Okay. This is happening.”

Your hands hovered for a second before gently patting his back.

He melted into you instantly.

Oh. Oh no.

The realization hit you properly when he followed you around the apartment like a shadow.

“Eomma, where are you going?”

“Eomma, wait.”

“Eomma…”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to lose your mind. He didn’t remember you. Not as his fiancée. Not as anything else. Just— Eomma.

And the worst part? You were starting to like it. “…Wonie,” you called softly, testing the nickname.

His head perked up immediately.

“Yes, eomma?”

You clutched your chest. Dangerous. This was dangerous.

Then it hit you. The clothes.

“Oh my god—wait here,” you suddenly said, rushing to the cabinet where you had carefully kept the box his mom gave you. You dropped to your knees, hands scrambling as you opened it.

Tiny clothes. Folded neatly.

Preserved memories.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you pulled out a familiar piece. The panda bathing suit.

You turned— And there he was, peeking over the couch.

“Eomma?”

You held it up slowly. “…Wanna wear this?”

His eyes widened. And just like that— You knew exactly what you were doing today.

The beach was lively. Waves rolling, kids laughing, the sun warm against your skin. And there you were— Phone already recording. Because of course you were.

“Say hi, Wonie,” you teased, zooming in.

He hid behind your leg instantly.

“Eomma…” he mumbled.

You smiled softly. “It’s okay. Let’s just walk a little.” He hesitated. Looked at the ocean. Then at you. A deep breath.

“…Okay.”

You almost cooed. He was trying. You held his hand as he slowly walked forward, floaters bobbing slightly with each step.

One step. Two. The water kissed his feet. He stiffened. “…It’s cold.”

“I know, baby,” you said gently, still recording. “You’re doing good, Wonie.”

Another step. The water reached his ankles. Then slowly— Up to his calves. And that’s when everything changed.

He froze.

His fingers tightened around yours. “…Eomma.”

You were already biting your lip. “Yes?”

“It’s getting big.” “It’s okay—” Another small wave pushed forward.

The water moved around his legs. His face crumpled.

“…Eomma, I don’t like it.” You laughed softly, trying to encourage him. “You’re okay, Wonie—”

“I wanna go back.” You crouched slightly. “Come here, I’ll carry—” But he didn’t jump. Instead, he turned— And started walking back.

Fast. Tiny steps splashing. And then— He grabbed your shorts with both hands. Hard.

“Eomma, where are we going?!” his voice cracked, panic rising as tears spilled down his cheeks. “Where? 😭😭” You lost it.

You were laughing so hard your phone shook, but you followed him anyway as he dragged himself back to shore, still clinging to you like his life depended on it. “I’m right here!” you managed between laughs.

“Don’t go there again!” he cried, voice high and shaky. “No more big water!” By the time you reached the shore, he was fully wailing, face flushed, tears nonstop.

You crouched down, trying to calm him, brushing his damp hair back. “Okay, okay. No more ocean,” you said, still smiling. He sniffled, clutching your shirt now.

“…Promise?”

“Promise.”

You should’ve stopped there. You really should’ve.But— You didn’t. Because the moment he sat down, still sniffling—

You noticed the wet sand. Mud-like. And your brain went:

Do it.

“…Wonie,” you said sweetly. He looked up at you, eyes still glossy.

“Yes, eomma…?” You smiled. And gently— smudged a bit of mud onto his leg.

Silence. Then—

A SCREAM. High-pitched. Sharp. Immediate.

“AAAAAAAAAAH!”

You burst into laughter instantly.

“EOMMA!!!” he shrieked, lifting his leg, trying to shake it off without actually touching it. “WHAT IS THAT?!” “It’s just mud—”

“I DON’T LIKE IT!” he cried, voice breaking as he frantically tried to avoid it, arms flailing helplessly. “TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!”

“I’m trying!” you laughed, absolutely failing to help as you recorded everything. He looked at you— Betrayed.

Tears spilling again and then “I’M GONNA PUT IT ON EOMMA’S HEAD!!! 😭😭😭”

You gasped between laughter.

“Oh really?!”

He tried to scoop some— But immediately recoiled.

“EWW!” he cried, shaking his hands mid-air without touching it. “NO, I CAN’T—!”

You doubled over, laughing so hard you nearly dropped your phone. People nearby were laughing too now. But he didn’t care.

He was in full meltdown mode again, teary and offended and trying to get the mud off using literally anything except his hands.

“Eomma, help meee!” he wailed.

“Okay, okay,” you softened, finally wiping it off gently. “I’m sorry, Wonie. No more.” He sniffled, immediately climbing into your lap again, clinging to you tightly.

“You’re mean,” he mumbled. You smiled, pressing a kiss to his head. “Just a little.”

You reached into your bag.

“…Look what eomma has.”

Jelly.

Instant silence. “…Mine?” “All yours.” Tears gone. Crisis over. You blinked. “…That fast?”

He leaned into you, quietly eating, hiccuping slightly between bites. Then he scooped a little. Held it up. “For eomma.”

Your heart melted again. “…Thank you, Wonie.”

You took it, smiling softly. He rested his head against you, small fingers gripping your shirt once more.

Your phone was still recording. Messy. Chaotic.

Full of his cries, your laughter, his tiny voice calling “eomma.” You saved it anyway.There was no way you were ever deleting this.

As the sun dipped lower, he held onto you a little tighter. “Eomma…” “Yes, baby?”

“…Don’t go far.” You brushed his hair back gently, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I won’t.”

And as he settled against you—Still a little pouty, still clingy, still your tiny Wonie for the day— You smiled to yourself. Because somehow… This chaos? Was exactly what you wished for.

~•~

That night, after he falls asleep in your arms, still clutching your shirt—

You carry him back to bed, whispering, “Goodnight, Wonie.”

When you wake up…

It’s not a small hand you’re holding anymore.

It’s him.

Adult Jungwon. Your Jungwon.

“…You’re staring,” he murmurs sleepily, pulling you closer.

You don’t answer. You just reach for your phone—play the video.Him crying. Calling you eomma. Clinging to you.

He goes silent. Then slowly—

“…You had fun, huh?” You grin.

“You said I wouldn’t survive you.” He scoffs, but his ears are red.

Then softer, quieter—“…Did I cry a lot?” You hum. “A little.”

He hides his face in your neck. “…Don’t delete it.” You smile. “I won’t.”

And somehow, it feels like you got to love every version of him.

tobiosbbyghorl 2026

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife @soona-huh @laylasbunbunny @maveysoup @kirakun @aishigrey @multicolorfandoms @celestialensemble @kookiesnkim @lvskjen @1-itsneverthatserious-1 (open)

[tobiosbbyghorl]

Hoodie Thief | psh 🔞

pairing: roommate!sunghoon x reader

epilogue

You weren’t sure when it became a habit—stealing Park Sunghoon’s hoodies. Maybe it was the night you came home late from a party, heels in one hand and a headache blooming behind your eyes, and he tossed you his oversized black one without even looking up from his laptop. Or maybe it was because they always smelled faintly of cinnamon and clean laundry, like comfort itself.

Whatever the reason, you were wearing one again. This time it was gray, soft, and swallowed you whole. Sunghoon was seated on the living room floor, laptop open, knees drawn up, glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he squinted at some code on the screen.

“You know,” he said, voice casual but laced with amusement, “at this point, I’m not even sure which hoodies are mine anymore.”

You sank onto the couch beside him, tugging the sleeve over your hand. “Well, technically, they’re community property now. Roommate rules.”

“That so?” he asked, glancing up at you over the rim of his glasses. His eyes lingered on your frame, his gaze unhurried as it dropped to the hoodie you wore. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You tried not to grin, but your cheeks betrayed you. “Flattery, Park?”

“Observation,” he replied smoothly, returning to his screen.

The teasing between you two had always been like this slow, drawn-out, never quite tipping over the edge. He’d brush past you in the kitchen, hand resting on your lower back just a second too long. You’d find excuses to fix his crooked tie when he got ready for class presentations, fingers grazing his collarbone just because. The tension was a thread stretched taut but never snapped.

You leaned in slightly, your knee pressing lightly against his. “You know what would really seal the roommate bond?”

He raised a brow, not looking up. “What’s that?”

“You letting me keep this one,” you said, tugging at the hoodie like it was a prize.

Sunghoon’s lips curved into a smirk, subtle and dangerous. He closed his laptop slowly, setting it aside.

“That depends,” he said, voice low, “on what I get in return.”

Your breath caught, but your smile didn’t falter. “Oh? You charging a fee now?”

He shifted just a little closer, the space between your knees gone. “Just thinking… maybe you owe me dinner. Or..” his eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up “a study session. You, me, one of my hoodies, and absolutely no distractions.”

You huffed a laugh. “Sounds like a trap.”

“Maybe.” He leaned in a fraction. “But I think you’d look good in all of them. Might as well make it official.”

Your fingers played with the drawstring of the hoodie, heartbeat ticking just a little faster.

“We’re still talking about clothes, right?”

He gave you a look. “Sure.”

But neither of you moved. The line was still there drawn faintly in the space between your breaths, in the ghost of his smile. And maybe it would stay there a while longer.

Maybe not.

-

You had one rule living with Sunghoon: do not thirst after your roommate.

It was a rule you followed diligently. Mostly. Despite the flirty banter and hoodie theft, you’d never crossed that line—because he never gave you the chance to. He was always in those oversized hoodies and loose sweats, glasses low on his nose, hair constantly ruffled like he just rolled out of bed (which, annoyingly, made him even hotter). His appeal was subtle—nerdy, quiet, maddeningly soft.

So nothing could’ve prepared you for what you walked in on that Wednesday afternoon.

You pushed open the apartment door mid-call, rambling into your phone, “I swear if he left his ramen bowls in the sink again, I’m gonna—”

And then you stopped.

Dead in your tracks.

Sunghoon was in the living room. Not in a hoodie. Not in any sort of baggy fabric, actually. Instead, he was standing in front of the open window, sipping water from a bottle, wearing a black tank top that hugged his toned chest and grey sweatpants that did dangerous things to your attention span.

He looked over when he heard you, and the way his biceps flexed slightly as he twisted the cap back on the bottle had you gripping your phone like a lifeline.

“Oh. Hey,” he said casually, like he wasn’t currently breaking the internet. “You’re home early.”

You blinked. Your phone beeped. You’d accidentally hung up.

“I—yeah.” You were proud you even managed words. “I… am.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow as he walked over, towel slung around his neck. He was glistening slightly—post-workout, apparently—and his hair was a little damp.

“I was just finishing a quick workout. Didn’t think you’d be back for another hour,” he said, stepping past you to grab something from the kitchen. “You okay?”

“Yep,” you squeaked, eyes very much not okay as they followed the flex of his back muscles beneath the thin tank top.

He looked like a completely different person. Still nerdy. Still Sunghoon. Just… cursed with forearms now.

You finally tore your gaze away and flopped onto the couch like your soul had left your body. “I’m fine. Totally normal. Regular day. You just—uh—changed your outfit game without warning.”

He smirked as he opened the fridge. “What, the hoodie empire falling apart for you?”

“I just wasn’t expecting…” You gestured vaguely in his direction, cheeks heating. “That.”

Sunghoon leaned against the counter and quirked a brow. “You mean the tank top? Didn’t know it would have such an effect.”

You glared. “It doesn’t.”

He crossed the room slowly, stopping right in front of you. “Your face is red.”

“I’m warm.”

He bent down slightly, his face hovering closer to yours. “You want me to go change back into a hoodie?”

You swallowed. Your hands were very much not behaving, already fisting the hem of his tank like they had a mind of their own. You weren’t even sure when you’d stood up. His scent—clean sweat, citrus, and something entirely him—was clouding your judgment.

“Don’t,” you said quietly, fingers still clutching his shirt.

He looked down at where you were touching him, then back up at you, his voice lower. “You sure?”

That line—the one you two danced around for months—was right there. So close. So fragile.

You looked up at him, heart racing. “No. But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to cross it.”

His eyes flickered to your lips, then your hand. And when he leaned in just slightly, the heat between you burned bright and slow, like something inevitable finally unraveling.

-

Since the tank top incident, something changed.

No, scratch that—Sunghoon changed.

The very next day, he emerged from his room wearing another fitted black tee. Not a hoodie. Not even a crewneck. It clung to his chest just enough to make you pause mid-bite of your cereal, spoon hovering in the air like gravity forgot to exist.

You thought it might be a one-time thing, but the days kept coming—and so did the outfits. Sunghoon in slim joggers, Sunghoon in soft, clingy tees that rolled up just slightly at the arms, Sunghoon walking around the kitchen post-shower with a towel slung around his shoulders and that same tank top clinging to his skin like it had no shame.

He was weaponizing himself. There was no other explanation.

And worse? He knew.

“Laundry day?” you asked innocently one morning, nodding toward the fitted navy tee he wore as he poured coffee into two mugs.

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, setting a mug in front of you. “Nope. Just thought I’d mix it up. You don’t mind, do you?”

You took the mug and muttered, “Not even a little bit.”

He chuckled, brushing past you to grab something from the fridge, his hand grazing your waist in that way he did sometimes—just long enough to leave sparks behind.

It kept happening. His touches were still subtle—always plausible, never overt—but now they lingered. His hand on your back as you reached for a mug. Fingers brushing yours when you both reached for the remote. His knee pressed against yours on the couch and never moving away.

And you? You were slowly unraveling.

That Sunday night, it nearly broke you.

You came out of your room, sleepy and disoriented, in search of water. The apartment was dim, quiet, save for the soft hum of music from the living room.

And there he was.

Sunghoon, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, wearing a white tank top and black sweatpants, hair slightly damp, fingers tapping lazily on his laptop.

You paused in the doorway like some unprepared victim in a slow-burn romcom.

He looked up and saw you. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Mmhm,” you managed, forcing your legs to move. You grabbed a glass of water, hoping the cold would slap some sense back into you.

“C’mere,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Why?”

He patted the floor beside him. “Just sit. You look like you’re one hoodie away from losing it.”

You hesitated, then walked over and lowered yourself beside him. Close enough that your thighs touched. Of course.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” you muttered.

He didn’t look away from his screen. “Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured at him with a wave of your hand. “The… arms. The fitted shirts. The lack of hoodies. I’m barely hanging on here, and you’re out here being a thirst trap with glasses.”

Sunghoon let out a soft laugh—quiet, amused. He finally looked at you, and his eyes were dangerous in the low light.

“You’re the one who kept stealing my hoodies,” he murmured, voice low and full of teasing. “I figured I’d give you something else to lose your mind over.”

You stared at him. “So you admit it.”

“Oh, I knew exactly what I was doing.”

Your heart was in your throat now, pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “And now?”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking to your lips. “Still doing it.”

You should’ve kissed him. Should’ve dragged him down onto the floor and ruined the tension once and for all. But instead, you just exhaled, shaky, and leaned your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Just let you rest there, warm and solid.

And the line between you both?

Still unbroken. But trembling.

-

You decided it was time for revenge.

If Park Sunghoon was going to spend his days parading around in tank tops and fitted clothes like he didn’t know what he was doing to your sanity, then fine. Two could play this game.

So that’s how you found yourself in the living room on Saturday morning, casually stretching on the yoga mat in the center of the room—wearing nothing but one of his hoodies (slightly cropped from how you’d tucked it up) and tight Calvin Klein bike shorts that hugged you like a second skin.

You didn’t acknowledge his presence at first. Just stretched with exaggerated slowness, arms over your head as the hoodie rose—high enough to show off the sliver of your waist and the underside of your chest with every movement.

You knew he was watching. He was always up by now, usually making his precious pour-over coffee in the kitchen. And sure enough, you heard it—the shift of the kettle, the sudden clatter of a spoon, and then silence.

You smirked to yourself as you leaned forward in a deep stretch, back arching just slightly, your position giving him a full view of your curves.

“Didn’t know you were up,” you said sweetly, still not turning around.

“I—I wasn’t,” came his voice from behind you. Rough. Caught off guard. Like he’d swallowed air wrong. “I mean—I just woke up.”

You slowly straightened, finally glancing over your shoulder.

“Oh?” you blinked innocently, lips curling. “Hope I didn’t distract you.”

Sunghoon was standing by the counter, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, his gaze locked on you like you were an equation he couldn’t solve.

His hoodie on you was driving him insane—you could see it in the way his jaw ticked, in the way his eyes trailed down to your exposed waist and back up with a slow drag.

“New shorts?” he asked, voice notably lower.

You stretched your arms above your head again, feigning a yawn. “Mmhm. Comfortable, right?”

“They look…” He cleared his throat. “Tight.”

You smiled. “Flattering, you mean?”

He stepped closer, slowly, like his body was moving without permission.

“You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?” he murmured.

You turned fully to face him now, still sitting on your knees, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “I’m just stretching, Sunghoon.”

He stared at you, and something flickered in his eyes—like he was this close to crossing that line you’d both danced around for months.

Then he leaned down, just slightly, meeting your gaze head-on.

“If I lose my mind,” he whispered, “just know it’s your fault.”

You tilted your head, heart thundering in your chest. “Who says you haven’t already?”

The tension was electric, heavy in the space between your lips.

But then, like always, it hovered. Close enough to taste—but not enough to break.

Not yet

Sunghoon exhaled, straightened, and turned back to his coffee like nothing happened.

And you?

You grinned, wicked and satisfied.

Game on.

-

It was late. Past midnight. The kind of quiet that only happened when the city slept and the apartment dimmed into that safe cocoon of shadows and soft hums.

You hadn’t meant to test fate tonight. You were just thirsty, literally. Woke up parched and wandered into the kitchen half-asleep, wearing one of Sunghoon’s zip-up hoodies. No shorts. No bra. Just that oversized hoodie zipped halfway, loose and dangerously low from tossing and turning in bed.

You were barefoot. Hair messy. Eyes squinting at the fridge light as you grabbed a bottle of water and twisted the cap off.

You didn’t notice him at first.

But he noticed you.

Sunghoon stood frozen by the hallway, bathed in low light, eyes glued to you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. And maybe he couldn’t. Because the zipper of his hoodie had slipped just a little lower—low enough to reveal the swell of your bare chest, the delicate dip of your waist, your skin glowing under the fridge’s light like you were meant to be seen in that moment.

You turned, bottle at your lips, and jumped when you saw him.

“Shit—you scared me,” you laughed softly, not thinking, not realizing what you looked like yet.

But Sunghoon didn’t laugh.

He just stared.

His voice came low. Tense.

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

You blinked. Finally glanced down.

Oh.

Oh.

Your heart skipped. “I—I wasn’t thinking. I just came out for water, I didn’t think anyone was—”

He stepped closer.

Each step slow. Controlled. Like he was trying to hold something back and losing the battle by the second.

“You’ve been teasing me for months,” he said, voice rough, his eyes never leaving yours. “Wearing my hoodies. Stealing my space. Touching me like you know I want more.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening on the bottle. “Sunghoon—”

“You come out here,” he went on, “dressed like that… at midnight… looking like that—and you still expect me to stay quiet?”

You stepped back instinctively, but you hit the counter.

He kept walking.

Now he was right in front of you, towering, chest rising and falling fast. One hand braced against the counter beside your waist, the other hovering just an inch from the zipper hanging so precariously low on your chest.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

“I think I do now,” you whispered, breath shallow.

His fingers finally touched the zipper. Tugged it just enough for your breath to hitch. Not fully unzipping—just a threat. Just a taste of the danger you’d both tiptoed around for too long.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice barely more than a growl.

But you didn’t.

You tilted your chin, met his gaze, and whispered, “Don’t you dare.”

That was it.

The line you drew? Gone.

He crashed into you like the tension had been a match waiting for a spark—hands gripping your waist, mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was months in the making. Hot. Desperate. Hungry.

And you kissed him back like you’d been holding your breath for this exact moment.

The hoodie slipped.

The water bottle hit the floor.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon finally stopped pretending.

Your back hit the kitchen counter with a soft thud, the cool surface contrasting the fire suddenly burning under your skin.

Sunghoon’s hands were on your waist, sliding under the hoodie like he’d been dying to touch you. His mouth was still on yours, tongue teasing, devouring every gasp and moan that spilled from your lips like he needed them to breathe.

And then—he pulled back just a little.

His eyes dropped to the hoodie, to the way it barely clung to your shoulders, your chest rising and falling rapidly beneath it. His fingers caught the zipper again, this time pulling it all the way down.

The fabric parted.

His breath hitched.

“No bra,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice husky and ragged.

You watched the way his eyes darkened—like something snapped completely inside him.

He dipped his head instantly, lips ghosting down your throat. “You’re so unfair,” he groaned, mouth brushing your collarbone. “You know I have a thing for boobs.”

You gasped out a breathy laugh, hand tangling in his hair. “I didn’t, actually.”

“Well,” he murmured, kissing down the swell of your chest, “you do now.”

And then his mouth was there—hot and open and obsessed, worshipping every inch he could reach. His hands cupped you, thumbs brushing gently, then firmly, then teasing—his lips trailing lazy, wet kisses across your skin like he’d been starved and this was his first meal.

You moaned, soft and high, hips shifting against the counter as he sucked lightly at a sensitive spot. His fingers gripped your thighs, dragging you closer, so your knees spread around his hips and you were fully pinned, fully his.

“God, Sunghoon,” you whispered, breathless.

He looked up at you from your chest, eyes blown wide, lips red and swollen.

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “I’ve been dying to do this since the first time you walked out of your room in my clothes. You were always just... there, tempting me, touching me, looking at me like that.”

You swallowed hard, your hands now sliding under his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his torso. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to cross the line,” he said, kissing you again—deep, slow, possessive. “But baby… you broke it first.”

His lips were back on your chest before you could respond, sucking and kissing like he was making up for lost time, like he wanted to memorize every curve, every sound you made. The hoodie slipped off your shoulders entirely now, pooling behind you on the counter.

And he made no move to stop.

Not when your head fell back.

Not when your thighs tightened around his waist.

Not when you whimpered his name, and he groaned like it was the only thing he wanted to hear for the rest of his life.

Sunghoon’s mouth was obsessed—hungry, slow, and dangerously focused.

He pressed open-mouthed kisses across your chest, dragging his tongue deliberately over the soft swell of your breast before closing his lips around your nipple. He groaned at the contact, deep and guttural, like he’d finally gotten the one thing he’d been fantasizing about for months.

“Fuck, I knew they’d feel this good,” he muttered between kisses, hand splaying over your waist to keep you close. “I think about them way too much.”

You gasped, arching your back as his tongue flicked and swirled, switching sides with a low, satisfied sound. His hand moved to cup your other breast, thumb brushing over the peak, and when he sucked again—harder this time—you nearly lost it.

“S-Sunghoon—”

“I’m not stopping,” he mumbled against your skin. “Not when you look like this… sound like that.”

He licked back up the valley between your breasts, teeth grazing lightly. “You wore this hoodie knowing I’d see you, didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t, not when his mouth was doing sinful things to you.

He chuckled darkly. “No bra. Just this. Like you wanted me to snap.”

And then, without warning, his hands were under your thighs—lifting you off the counter like you weighed nothing.

You gasped and instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, hoodie falling completely off in the motion. His grip tightened under you, fingers digging into your skin as he walked you down the hall, kissing your neck, your jaw, your collarbone with reckless affection.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered against your ear. “No more teasing. No more pretending.”

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot, not bothering to turn on the lights, letting the soft glow from the hallway bathe you both in shadow.

The second your back hit the bed, he was over you again—pressing hot kisses down your chest, your ribs, your stomach.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging, anchoring yourself as his lips found your breast again, sucking harder this time. His hips rolled against yours with just enough friction to make you whimper his name.

“I love these,” he murmured like a confession, voice low and rough as he licked across your nipple. “I could spend hoursright here.”

You arched under him, heat pooling deep in your core. “Then do it,” you whispered, eyes wild and breathless.

He looked up at you through his lashes, smirk tugging at the corner of his kiss-swollen lips.

“Say less.”

And he did.

He kissed his way down, took his time, made sure every inch of you knew just how badly he’d wanted this. Every flick of his tongue, every bite, every graze of his teeth was slow and sinful and filled with months of held-back tension that was now unraveling between the sheets.

Your breaths turned to moans.

Moans to gasps.

And gasps into pleas.

By the time he finally stripped you bare and joined you in the sheets, it wasn’t just about want—it was about need. About all the nights you brushed hands in the kitchen, the mornings you wore his hoodies, the way his eyes always lingered just a second too long.

He took his time, but when he moved inside you for the first time, slow and deep, both of you lost all words—just soft curses, broken kisses, and the kind of moans that only came from finally, finally giving in.

And still, even in the heat of it all—his hands found their way back to your chest, mouth pressing against your skin like he was claiming it.

“Mine,” he breathed against your skin. “All fucking mine.”

The sheets were tangled around your legs, your skin warm and slick, heart still racing from the first time. You lay there in the dark, chest rising and falling fast, trying to catch your breath—trying to process what just happened.

But Sunghoon… he didn’t move much.

He hovered just above you, gaze roaming over your flushed face, your swollen lips, your body stretched beneath him like a dream. His hand was on your waist, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, but his eyes kept dipping back down to your chest—still heaving, glistening faintly with sweat.

“You okay?” he asked softly, a slight rasp in his voice.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Very okay.”

He smiled, just a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes—not because he wasn’t happy, but because the look on his face said something else entirely:

He wasn’t done.

Not even close.

His fingers slid up your waist, brushing between the valley of your breasts before he leaned down again, placing a kiss just above your sternum.

You sighed softly, running your fingers through his hair.

“I told you,” he murmured, mouth trailing down again. “I’m not over these.”

He kissed one breast, then the other—soft, slow, reverent.

“You’ve already had your fun,” you teased, voice low.

He looked up at you, eyes dark. “Yeah. Once. That’s not enough.”

Before you could respond, he wrapped his lips around your nipple again, sucking gently—then deeper, hungrier—until your back arched right off the bed and a soft cry slipped from your mouth.

Your thighs instinctively pressed together.

He smirked against your skin.

“Still sensitive?” he asked, fingers ghosting down your hips.

You barely managed a nod. “Yes. But also… don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His hand slipped between your legs, fingers teasing, already finding you wet again—still soaked for him. He groaned low in his throat.

“Fuck. You’re unreal.”

You whimpered when his fingers dipped inside you, slow and precise, the pads of them curling just right while his mouth stayed fixed on your chest—licking, sucking, marking you.

You were already unraveling again, body twitching under his touch.

“Sunghoon,” you gasped, hips lifting to meet every movement. “Please—”

He kissed up to your neck, whispering against your ear. “You want me again?”

“God, yes.”

He kissed your jaw. “Then get on top.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I want to see you,” he murmured. “Wanna see those pretty tits bounce while I’m inside you.”

Your breath caught. You scrambled to climb over him, straddling his waist, your hands braced against his chest as he looked up at you like you were a fucking goddess.

His hands slid up your thighs, settling at your hips before he guided you down slowly—inch by inch—until he was fully inside you again.

The both of you gasped.

You rocked your hips once—experimentally—and his head fell back against the pillows, jaw clenched.

“Just like that,” he groaned. “Keep going. Fuck, ride me, baby.”

You did.

You moved with him, chasing that dizzy, desperate high all over again, and he watched everything—his hands never leaving your waist or your breasts, gripping and teasing and obsessing the way he had since the very start.

Every time your hips met his, you felt yourself melt further—into the heat, into the rhythm, into him.

And when you came again, clenched around him with a cry of his name, he followed soon after—hands gripping your ass, thrusting up deep one last time as he spilled into you with a shudder and a curse.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you shaking, breathless, spent.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you tight, still inside you, still warm and pulsing and wrecked.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

But when you finally looked up at him, messy hair in your face, cheeks flushed—

He just smirked and whispered, “Still stealing my hoodies after this?”

You smiled, slow and sweet. “Every single one.”

Your legs still trembled, curled over his hips, when Sunghoon gently kissed your temple.

“You did so good,” he murmured into your hair, voice worn raw and honey-sweet. “But I think you need a bath, baby.”

You groaned something incoherent against his shoulder. “I need new legs.”

He chuckled, low and breathless, then slid his arms under you again. Without warning, he stood—effortlessly lifting you bridal-style, your bare body pressed against his chest, the hoodie still tangled somewhere in the sheets.

“Sunghoon—” you squeaked.

“Shh,” he whispered, kissing your forehead as he padded toward the bathroom. “I’ve got you.”

The bathroom lights were dim—just the warm ambient glow of the under-counter lighting—and the air was already humid by the time he knelt by the tub, one arm still keeping you close while the other twisted the knobs.

Warm water started to fill the space, steam curling up like the start of something sacred.

He set you on the edge of the tub gently and leaned over to pour in something from a bottle—lavender and vanilla, by the smell—and you just sat there watching him, dazed and still pulsing between your legs.

Sunghoon looked up at you from under his lashes, hair messy and lips swollen. “You okay?”

You nodded, still breathless. “You’re… ridiculous.”

He smirked. “You’ve said that twice now.”

“I mean it more this time.”

When the tub was full, he helped you in first, easing your body into the water, then slid in behind you, pulling you back against his chest. His hands roamed lazily—down your arms, around your waist, fingers playing just beneath the surface.

And then his lips pressed to your shoulder.

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re not gonna let me relax, are you?”

He nipped gently at your neck. “I was trying to. You’re the one pressing that pretty ass against me.”

You grinned, hips shifting just enough to hear him hiss.

“Okay,” he growled, arms tightening around your waist. “That’s it.”

He turned you gently in the water until you were facing him, your thighs straddling his lap again beneath the surface. The heat of the water mixed with the slow burn returning in your gut. His chest glistened, wet and warm under your hands.

You dragged your palms up his torso slowly, admiring the cut of his collarbone, the sharp lines of his pecs. Then, without warning, you leaned down and pressed your lips just above his heart.

Sunghoon inhaled sharply.

Your teeth grazed him lightly, followed by your tongue, and then your mouth again—sucking just hard enough to leave a mark.

He groaned, head falling back against the edge of the tub. “Fuck.”

You licked across the red blotch, then moved a few inches over and did it again. His fingers gripped your hips beneath the water now, holding you in place, twitching slightly with every kiss you left on his chest.

“You like when I mark you up, don’t you?” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “You have no idea how hot that is.”

You kissed lower, right over his sternum. “Wanna be covered in them?”

His breath hitched. “Only if I get to return the favor.”

You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes wicked. “Then you better sit still.”

You kept going—slow, open-mouthed kisses that turned into suckling marks across his chest, down the dip of his abs, making sure every moan he gave you echoed off the tiled walls.

And when you finally shifted your hips and sank down onto him again—warm, wet, slick from water and need—he nearly lost it.

“God, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, head falling forward, forehead resting against yours.

Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as you rode him again—slow this time, deliberately teasing, your hands braced on his shoulders as you whispered sinful little things into his ear and left even more hickeys along his collarbones.

You were in no rush.

You both dragged it out—bodies tangled under the water, teeth grazing skin, low moans bouncing off the foggy mirrors—until he gripped your ass and came with a deep, guttural sound, burying his face into your shoulder.

You followed with a soft gasp, body trembling for the third time, mouth pressed to his neck as your nails dug into his back.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

You just sat there, still connected, chests rising and falling together, bathwater lukewarm and covered in steam.

Then Sunghoon kissed your cheek and whispered, hoarse and completely blissed out, “You’re never getting this hoodie back.”

The water had cooled enough to make you both shiver a little. Sunghoon noticed first, of course. He always did.

“Okay,” he murmured against your temple. “Up you go, pretty girl.”

You were barely responsive, dazed and boneless in his lap, but you let out a tiny hum as he helped you stand, the water cascading down both your bodies.

He stepped out after you and grabbed one of the oversized towels from the rack. Without a word, he wrapped it around your body from behind, tucking the edges carefully under your arms before pulling you into his chest, your back flush against his warmth.

You felt his lips press to your shoulder, featherlight.

“I should probably dry you off,” he said softly. “But I just wanna hold you for a minute.”

You melted into him instantly, eyes fluttering closed, head resting against his collarbone. “Mmm. You smell good.”

He laughed under his breath. “You smell like me. That’s my body wash.”

“And your hoodie.”

“Exactly. You’re basically mine now.”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Basically?”

His grip on your waist tightened, just enough to make you feel it.

“Unless you’ve got a reason not to be,” he said, voice low, sincere.

You didn’t answer him right away—not with words. You turned around in his arms and wrapped your own around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Not frantic this time. Just soft and warm and unhurried, your lips moving with his like they already belonged there.

When you finally pulled back, you whispered, “No reason.”

That made him smile—wide and genuine. “Good.”

He reached for another towel and gently ran it over your legs, your arms, drying you with care. When he reached your chest, he hesitated—smirked—and kissed the bruised skin reverently before patting it dry.

“Still my favorite part,” he mumbled.

“Such a menace.”

Once you were dry, he carried you—again—to the bed, laying you down gently. He tugged on a soft sleep shirt and boxers for himself, then rummaged around until he found a clean hoodie.

He paused.

“You wanna wear this?” he asked, holding it up.

You sat up on your elbows. “Thought you said I wasn’t getting your hoodies anymore.”

“I lied. You can have all of them.”

He pulled it over your head, helping you into it like you were made of glass, then kissed your forehead before climbing in beside you and tugging you against his chest.

It was quiet for a while, the kind of silence that felt full instead of empty.

His fingers traced slow lines down your spine beneath the hoodie. “You tired?”

You nodded, mumbling into his neck. “A little.”

“Wanna sleep?”

You shrugged. “Kind of.”

He shifted slightly, his thigh slipping between yours, his hand settling low on your waist—dangerously close to temptation again.

You tilted your head and whispered, “Sunghoon?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way…”

He tensed a little, worried. “What?”

You grinned sleepily. “But I’m definitely stealing another hoodie tomorrow.”

He laughed, pulling you in closer until your leg was hooked around his hip and your bodies pressed flush again.

“I’ll just take my revenge in the morning,” he murmured against your skin.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Round four, babe. You better stretch.”

You woke up to the feel of warmth—heavy, solid, draped entirely around you.

Sunghoon’s chest was pressed to your back, one arm tucked under your neck like a pillow, the other curled tightly around your waist. His hoodie was oversized on you, but your bare legs were tangled with his beneath the sheets, and you were acutely aware of something hard nudging against the curve of your ass.

You blinked slowly, a lazy smile tugging at your lips.

“Sunghoon,” you murmured sleepily.

He groaned low in his throat, face buried in your hair. “Mmnn?”

“Are you…?”

Another sleepy shift. The thick press of him grinding instinctively against your backside made your breath hitch. You froze, and he stilled too.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. “Sorry—morning wood. Can’t help it.”

You smirked. “I’m not exactly complaining.”

He laughed quietly, but you felt his hips rock against you again, slower this time, deliberate. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

His lips brushed the back of your neck. “You’re evil. You know that, right?”

You rolled your hips just slightly, teasing, letting the hem of his hoodie ride up your thighs as you pressed back into him.

“Me?” you whispered, feigning innocence. “I’m just trying to get comfortable.”

Sunghoon growled softly and rolled you onto your back, slipping between your legs in one fluid motion. The bulge in his boxers pressed right against your center now, only the thin fabric separating you.

“You’re really gonna keep playing in my hoodie, no panties,” he said, eyes dark with hunger, “and act like you didn’t know what you were doing?”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, lips parted. “I just like how it smells.”

His jaw clenched, and the way his hips bucked forward told you everything.

“Yeah?” he rasped, leaning in close, lips brushing yours. “You like how I smell?”

You nodded, one hand slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie to palm at his lower abs. “You smell like sex. Like me.”

His breath hitched.

You slid your fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around him slowly. He was hot, hard, twitching against your palm.

“Baby…” he warned.

But you stroked him gently, thumb brushing his tip.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Since you’re already awake…”

He didn’t need any more convincing.

With one hand, he pulled his boxers down just enough. The other hand slid your hoodie up to your waist, revealing the soaked mess between your thighs.

“Look at you,” he muttered, eyes fixated. “Wet already, just from waking up next to me.”

You smirked. “You’re not exactly subtle with that thing pressed against me all night.”

He pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, slowly easing in. You both gasped—your body already welcoming him, warm and wet and soft around him.

His hands slid under your thighs, pushing them up, pressing your knees to your chest so he could sink deeper. The stretch was dizzying.

“Fuck, baby—” he whispered, biting his lip. “You feel unreal like this.”

Your nails scraped at his back, your head falling back against the pillows as he rocked into you with lazy, morning hunger. Deep, slow strokes. No rush. Just the steady rhythm of his body pushing into yours, skin slapping softly, lips finding each other in between gasps.

“You always gonna wake me up like this?” he asked, voice ragged.

You grinned, tugging him closer. “Only if you keep wearing those boxers.”

His laugh turned into a groan as he thrust harder, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth again—his hips relentless now, chasing that high you both knew was coming quick.

You moaned into his neck, legs wrapping around his waist.

And when you came—again—Sunghoon held you through it, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough, like you were still wearing his hoodie and nothing else for the rest of his life.

Because maybe you would.

You sat across from him at the little breakfast table, legs tucked under you, hoodie still slipping off one shoulder. Sunghoon had his fork in his hand, but his eyes were not—absolutely not—on the eggs.

They were on you.

Specifically, the way his hoodie dipped low across your chest every time you leaned forward to take a bite.

You bit into your toast slowly, watching his gaze drop. Again.

And then smirked. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “You’re teasing.”

You feigned innocence, licking a crumb off your lower lip. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

He tilted his head, squinting at you. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You leaned forward on your elbows just a little more—enough that the neckline of the hoodie dipped a few extra inches, revealing the bare curve underneath.

“What, this?” you said, blinking up at him sweetly. “The hoodie rides low. Not my fault.”

Sunghoon visibly swallowed, dropping his fork. “Babe…”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“You’re gonna kill me.”

You pretended to think. “Or maybe I’m just making it fair. You parade around in that tank top for two days and I can’t even exist in a hoodie without you getting handsy.”

He groaned. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“You’ve got your boobs out.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “I do not—they’re just slightly visible.”

“Slightly? I can see half the damn thing.”

You giggled and reached for your coffee, watching him glare at the mug like it personally offended him by hiding your cleavage.

“You really have a thing for them, huh?” you teased.

He didn’t even blink. “I admitted that last night. Several times.”

You raised a brow. “And during the bath.”

He smirked, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “And yet I still haven’t gotten enough.”

You licked your spoon slowly. “Poor baby.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He pushed his plate aside, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he stood up and walked over to your side of the table.

You blinked up at him, all feigned innocence again. “What are you doing?”

He leaned down, both hands on the arms of your chair, trapping you.

“Letting you know,” he whispered, eyes dropping to the neckline of your hoodie again, “that if you keep teasing me like this, you’re not gonna finish that coffee.”

You raised your chin. “Bold of you to assume I wanted to.”

He huffed out a laugh, biting his lip. “You’re evil.”

You tugged on the front of the hoodie, dipping the zipper just a little lower. “And you’re obsessed.”

“Completely.”

Then he dipped down, and for a second you thought he was going to kiss you again—but instead, he buried his face between your boobs, groaning dramatically like a man who’d gone to heaven and back.

“Unbelievable,” you said, laughing breathlessly.

“Your fault,” he mumbled against your chest.

“You’re literally addicted.”

“I’d cancel all my meetings for this.”

You rolled your eyes, running your fingers through his hair. “One day, you’re gonna have to learn to behave.”

He tilted his head back just enough to smirk up at you, still nestled between your boobs.

“And one day,” he murmured, “you’re gonna have to accept that I never will.”

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