Discover Top Posts Tagged with #santheestallion

life's a beach (choi taeyang / theo x reader) chapter one

"It’s funny to observe how the more exasperated-sounding your remarks toward him are, the more enthralled Taeyang appears to be with you."

chapter one - shipwrecked

pairing: theo/taeyang x fem reader

genre: enemies to lovers, romcom, slow burn, smut, angst

wc: 36k

summary: a curious relationship forms between yourself and a strange man who appears helplessly at your family’s island resort.

tags / warnings: explicit sex scene, piv sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex (reader receiving), taeyang blackmails reader, lots of mentions of vomit (in a non-sexual context lol), theo is referred to as taeyang

read on ao3

If you were asked to imagine heaven, then your hometown would come to mind first.

Here, the weather was always sunny, the ocean always glimmering with the promise of peaceful solace for those who wanted to seek it.

As ubiquitous as the palm fronds that decorated every patch of greenery were the cries of local children who played freely in the streets, reminding you of your own youth as someone who had never once stepped foot anywhere else.

Indeed, this island was all you had ever known, the center of your upbringing.

More importantly, this island housed what had been your family’s main source of subsistence for the past two-generations: a cozy, 30 acre-spanning resort that was currently under the leadership of your aging mother. As such, being her only child, it would soon become your responsibility to run it.

That was a distant thought though, and for now you were just a 22-year-old associate, taking things day by day and avoiding the questions of business when you could.

You liked working here, but like any employee, you felt that some tasks were better than others. Today’s dinner time rush had been rough; you were down a cook and it forced you, as well as some other non-kitchen staff — managers, receptionists, housekeeping staff even — to have to step in for small stuff, like draining pasta or delivering plates. Now, after things had finally slowed down, you took the liberty of coming outside for a smoke break.

A rush of cool, beachy air hit your face as you exited from the kitchen’s back door onto a wooden deck that faced the ocean. Your cigarette was lit and in your mouth within a precise, practiced amount of seconds. Then, you sat on the deck stairs, taking your shoes off and placing them beside you so that you could feel the sand between your toes.

In a manner which had become practically instinctual for you, you pulled out your phone and opened up the Instagram app, where you would do your biweekly check of your ex-boyfriend Intak’s profile. Curiosity, or perhaps masochism, would always win out when it came to this habit.

Today, you discovered, he and his girlfriend went out for drinks. Or maybe it wasn’t today, and he was the sort of person who posted old outings just because. Either way, the first photo that greeted you was of him kissing her cheek with the words my lady in black-bordered letters on the screen. It made your stomach twist in that sort-of hollow, familiar way, but you kept scrolling, long past the point where it hurt. When there was nothing else new left for you to observe, you put the phone down and indulged in another steadying pull of your cigarette.

With your phone put away and at your side, the environment which surrounded you came into renewed focus. If there was one thing you would never take for granted about working and living here, it was this view — the vast, blue ocean with its endless waves and curves, bordered by forests with delicious-smelling fruit and palm trees. The beach would usually not be empty at this time, and on other parts of it, you know it wasn’t. But this specific section of beach was secluded to the rear entrance of the resort, allowing only staff to roam. None of your coworkers, to your knowledge, utilized this space for much else than a quick smoke break. But you also enjoyed watching the ocean, and did so often when you got a chance to. It was nice to feel, even if for only a moment, that something was bigger than yourself.

Watching the ocean had the ability to wipe every coherent thought out of your mind. You were sure that nothing, not even the most obnoxious occurrence, could disturb the inner peace you were enjoying right now.

But then, you heard the unmistakable sound of someone retching in a nearby distance.

That would do it.

Your head snapped towards the sound, and without even having to get up, you noticed the presence of a stranger in the woods beside you. The man was hunched over, locks of blond-dyed hair obscuring his face, and with him was a rolling suitcase and a book bag. Clothing his body was a bomber jacket and some jeans, nothing out of the ordinary. He was a tourist, a vacationer, but how he ended up on this side of the resort eluded you.

The man looked like he was about to pass out. You wondered if he even knew you were there. Deciding to announce yourself, you stood up and yelled out to get his attention. “Sir?”

Barely even a second after the word had left your mouth, you watched as the man retched once more, adding to the existing puddle of vomit between his feet. The sight disturbed you, but you knew you had to do something. You had dealt with your share of drunk, disoriented guests before. It was your job to escort them somewhere safe and unseen before they could disturb the other guests who were sensitive towards anything that could ruin the memory of their vacation. The fact that this man still had his luggage meant he hadn’t checked in yet. You needed to help him to a room, but also make sure he didn’t wander off and cause any trouble.

Feeling a mixture of both annoyance and resignation, you rose from your seat with a sigh, sliding your shoes back on and ashing your only quarter-finished cigarette. You then approach the man, who had not moved from his spot on the edge of the forest. Cautiousness buoyed your movements so that your steps were slow and calculated. You were bracing yourself, not just because he could possibly decide to vomit all over you, but also because he was a stranger, whose intentions were unknown to you.

“Sir, are you okay?” you asked, standing a few feet away from him so as to avoid the vomit in the sand.

You wonder if he’ll even answer, noticing the way he’s clutching his stomach in pain, leaning all of his weight on the suitcase to remain upright. Finally in a hazy, garbled voice, he replies, “Too…many…mojitos…”

His answer confirms what you already thought, although you can’t help but wonder what this man was going through that had him drinking so much to the point where he found himself lost and wandering in the woods. Storing that curiosity for later, you then proceed to ask, “Sir, do you have someplace to stay?”

He says something, but you have a hard time deciphering anything meaningful from his shaky, incoherent speech. He seems barely equipped to stand up, let alone tell you what his plans were in coming here. You suppose, then, that it's up to you to decide what to do with him, and with that in mind, you remark decisively, “Sir, I’m going to take you to our resort. You can pay for a room and have a place to stay for the night. Would that be okay?”

At this, he makes a loud coughing noise that has you jerking back a step in fear of him throwing up again. He tilts his head up slightly to look at you, causing more of his face to come into view. You notice his teary, red-rimmed eyes and thick, wet lips. Rather than vomit, what comes out of his mouth is a snarled, “What do you think?”

It takes you a second to figure out how you should react to what was clearly a sarcastic, abrasive comment, in fact wondering whether you maybe misheard the man or if he’s truly that impolite of a person. You think to yourself that surely, if the situation were reversed, and you were helpless and disoriented in an unfamiliar environment, you wouldn’t treat your savior with anything but the utmost gratitude and kindness.

But whatever his attitude, you have no choice but to swallow your irritation and help him anyway, remembering that he’s drunk and that you’re an employee who has to maintain an illusion of friendliness with even the most prickly of potential customers.

You step forward, avoiding the man’s puddle of sick and positioning yourself beside him. You take one of his arms and sling it around your shoulder, helping to steady him as you then grab his luggage with your free arm. The position is awkward; he’s taller than you, and so wasted he can barely use his legs. To walk, you anticipate having to drag him each step of the way.

Sighing in acceptance of this reality, you begin to move forward unsteadily, knowing already how uncomfortable it must be for the stranger but hoping he’ll be too drunk to notice or care. You’ll have to take a longer route to get him to the front entrance, wanting to avoid bringing him through the kitchen, where he could disturb the chefs or at worse, get his germs on the food.

The trek through the sand is fine, at first, until you hear the man beginning to complain just as you reach the paved path leading to the entrance.

“Ya!” he cries out, squirming just slightly in your hold. He has an accent, a lively, strong, city one that makes his complaints sound extra colorful and passionate. “Is this your idea of hospitality?! I should stay somewhere else if this is how you treat your customers!”

You feel immature for how much his remarks truly incense you, so much so that you fight off every inclination that tells you to just release him onto the pavement with his luggage for someone else to find. Remembering yourself, you decide instead to argue back with him a bit, something you wouldn’t normally consider doing with rude guests but are willing to wager he’ll forget in the morning.

“Sir,” you begin, the word sounding strained as you grit your teeth in an effort to drag him over a hump in the pavement. “The next closest place is a few miles down the road. Based on your condition, I doubt you’ll even be able to remember it if I gave you the directions. I don’t see a phone on you either. So unless you want me to leave you here, on the beach where you’ll likely freeze to death and have your body left behind in the sand for the seagulls to eat, you’ll calm down and follow me to my family’s resort, alright? I promise you, it’s a nice place.”

You expect him to say something scathing back, but in a reminder of the man’s current state of inebriation, all he does is mumble back a few distorted phrases that sound faintly like curse words. Ignoring him entirely, you become grateful when he goes quiet upon your silence.

The non-flat terrain is of no assistance to your current state of irritation as you struggle to keep the man and his luggage upright. Finally deciding to take a short break, hoping to possibly adjust how you’re positioned, it’s then that your phone accidentally tumbles out of your grip and onto the ground.

You watch it fall out onto the pavement and groan when you realize you’ll have to figure out how to bend down and pick it up without causing the man to fall.

Before you can decide what to do, the weight on your right arm is lifted off of you before you can make sense of it. Suddenly, you’re watching the man who just before couldn’t walk begin to stagger awkwardly towards your fallen phone.

At first, you’re prone to thank him as he returns with your thankfully undamaged phone in his shaking hands.

But then you notice what the screen is opened up to — a picture of your ex-boyfriend from his Instagram, particularly one where he’s kissing his girlfriend — and realize that the stranger is chuckling.

“Ha. Stalking your ex, ey?” he sneers, looking down at you with an expression of pity and derision. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of a pathetic thing to be doing?”

You snatch your phone away from him, incensed not just by the stranger’s audacity now but by his ability to immediately perceive and judge you for your actions. After laughing, the man once again wobbles in a way that makes it seem like he’s gonna fall, which forces you to lean him on your shoulder once more, despite every part of you wanting to leave him where you stand.

It’s lucky for everyone involved that you make it to the entrance doors within a few minutes after that. Heading inside the resort, you're met by the sight of the large, wooden receptionist table, behind it a familiar face. Harvey, your cousin and coworker of several years, only looks up when the stranger collapses his body against the table loudly, his head hitting the small silver bell that’s there to alert the receptionist of a new presence.

And indeed is Harvey alerted as she looks up to meet your gaze, at first relieved to see a familiar face but then confused as she notices the half-asleep man at the desk. She says in a flat, apathetic voice, “Who is he?”

You sigh, catching your breath after finally freeing yourself of the man’s luggage and body weight. Then, you tell Harvey all of the events that led you to encountering him.

“I figured we could get him a room,” you remark in finality, breath finally steadying in time with your last words.

Harvey stares at you quizzically. “Well he has to pay, doesn’t he?”

The two of you look down at the man, who is now snoring softly as he lays against the table with his arms folded underneath his head. Harvey’s face scrunches in disgust at the sight of him. You hadn’t thought about him being too incapacitated for you to ask how he would pay. In fact, as you now realize, you never confirmed whether he even could pay. For some reason, you just figured he would.

Staring down at his things, you make the impulsive decision to reach for his backpack, thinking maybe you’ll find a wallet in there. It’s not the most ethical thing you’ve ever done, sure, but you’re not about to lug this man back outside, where he’ll likely fulfill every part of the threat you wagered earlier.

Besides, if there comes to be questions, you can always make up your own version of things and trust Harvey to back you up — he’ll be too hungover to contest any of it, anyway.

“Let me just…” you grunt as you rummage through the tight expanse of his bag, finding nothing at first but ink pens and crumpled-up notes. Finally, your fingertips close around a rectangular piece of leather that you confirm as his wallet upon pulling it out. The small, embroidered Gucci logo on the front of the tan wallet has you optimistic that you’ll find something for him to pay with.

Opening it though, you’re not expecting to be greeted first thing by a shiny, black, American Express card and enough cash to pay for at least a five month stay at the resort.

When you pull the card out of the wallet and into the air for both you and Harvey to view, the two of you exchange looks that don’t require any explanation. This guy, you telepathically assert, is loaded.

It was as if your opinion on the stranger had changed significantly. Big fish customers of this sort were rare, and of course, enticing. They’d come, usually fleeing from their wives after a fight, and would end up staying for months, spending big money and tipping everyone handsomely upon their exit. Could this be another rainfall? you wondered, already giddy at the thought.

“Here,” you hand the card to Harvey, who takes it and begins searching for an open room. As she clicks away at the computer, you continue looking through the man’s wallet, out of curiosity more than necessity now. You try to find an ID or anything that would indicate who he is. He should be someone of stature, you think, to have so much money on him just for a vacation. But besides even more indicators of his wealth – several folded-up 100-dollar bills and a few more bank cards — you come up short.

“Regular room or suite?” asks Harvey, and after taking one last look at his wallet, you mouth with raised eyebrows, “Suite,” knowing it to be the most expensive rooming option.

As you’re safely inserting the wallet back into the man’s bag, Harvey finishes with her end of things and presents a newly activated room key card. “Sir, please enjoy your stay in Suite 5502—” she begins customarily, but the stranger is still completely out of it, and the only response he offers to indicate he heard her is a grunt that’s like a zombie’s. Harvey, looking disgruntled, hands you the card instead.

You look down at the man, sighing as you realize you’ll have to once again help him to a far-off destination. At least this time, the presence of a nearby elevator promises a shorter journey. “Come on, sir,” you call out, shaking the man’s shoulder gently yet firmly in an effort to wake him out of his stupor. “Let’s go to your room.”

Harvey mumbles out a good luck as you manage to get him on his feet again, and you give her a half-hearted salute before grabbing his things and slinging his arm over your shoulder like you did before.

You head off in the direction of the elevator and luckily make it there without any major hiccups. Inside it, the man manages to stand upright on his own by leaning his arm against a nearby rail, something you’re grateful for as you wait silently to be transported to the fifth floor.

After a few quiet seconds go by, you’re caught off guard when the man who had his back turned to you for almost the entire ride suddenly whips around to face you. His cold eyes meet yours as a passive yet inquisitive expression takes over his face, and not exactly alarmed by his attention at first, you instead wonder what’s causing his sudden interest in your presence.

Wonder morphs into alarm, however, when the man begins to abruptly close the gap between your two bodies by walking towards you in slow strides.

It takes you a second to realize what he’s doing, and not expecting him to get so close, you fail to put your arms out until he’s already a few inches distance away from your face. You have to keep your hands pressed against his chest to otherwise stop the man from barreling into you, like he for some reason seems intent on doing as he never backs up from your personal space.

He’s drunk, you remind yourself, which is why he’s acting so strange and also why he smells like five different pubs in one. Despite how disconcerted and confused you are, It’s perhaps bad timing that in his closeness, you realize for the first time that the man who's been bothering you this entire night is also ridiculously attractive. Underneath the curtains of his sand-colored hair are eyes that draw you in completely, and below his perfectly proportioned nose are his thick lips that you noticed earlier, though are no longer sheened in throw-up and thus, are more enticing.

“Sir?” you ask with a steady but unsure voice, wondering what the man in front of you is thinking as he continues to stand close to you without a word.

He stays silent in reply, surveying your flushed face with his dark eyes. If this were another context, you’d think he was checking you out, although you suppose you shouldn’t rule that out now. That would be the worst possible thing to happen at this moment for several reasons, one of them being that you’re alone and could easily be overpowered should he possess any malice beneath his drunken haze.

“Who are you?” he finally voices, the question sounding deep and completely sincere, as if he’s truly noticing you for the first time since you encountered one another.

Even though it’s a simple question, you find it hard to come up with an answer under the pressure of his intense staring, and so you remain silent. After a heavy bout of staring at each other with no words, you watch as the man’s lips curl into a smile. He starts to laugh, rather obnoxiously and loudly, as if him asking you who you were was all just a part of some joke.

Feeling troubled and exasperated, you aren’t given the chance to react before the elevator dings and opens up on the fifth floor. The man attempts to stumble out himself but slips, and so you rush to carry him and his things once more.

Reaching the front door of suite 5502, you use the key given to you by Harvey to gain entrance, finding the moment during which the man staggers into the room one of catharsis, of finally realized freedom. You place his stuff down in the front entrance and immediately bow as you prepare to exit.

“I hope you enjoy your stay—” you begin hastily, but when you rise from your bow, the man runs out of your sight and towards the bathroom. The rest of your customary exit speech dies in your throat, and your eyes can’t help but to follow him as he collapses onto the tile in front of the toilet, the now familiar sound of retching beginning in stead once again.

You’re beyond disgusted as you watch the man throw up for what is now the billionth time, wanting nothing more than to leave hurriedly so that you’re no longer subjected to him or his boorishness or the smell of his vomit. But somehow, you find yourself concerned for the man’s well-being, especially as the sound of him throwing up never seems to cease.

After a few minutes, the vomiting stops, and you hear the toilet flush before his body collapses against the seat. From your vantage point in the entrance — a few feet away from the bathroom door — and with his back facing you, it’s hard to tell if he’s simply catching his breath or has gone still altogether. “Sir?” you call out loudly, seeing if he’ll respond. He doesn’t.

As enticing as the thought of leaving him here is, the most morbid parts of you begin to suspect in fear whether you just watched this man take his final, dying breath. If so, there’s no way you’d just leave him here, not when your viewing of far too many true crime documentaries reminds you that you’ve been the last person attached to this mysterious man for the past hour. Leaving abruptly would make you seem suspicious and evasive. Your actions tonight have been questionable enough; you don’t need a rich man’s death on your hands.

Anxiously, you begin to approach his limp body, pinching your nose in anticipation of any smells. With a shaky finger, you go to reach for his neck, where you should hopefully find an active pulse. But before you can even make contact with his skin, you’re startled when his hand suddenly jerks forward, thin fingers seizing around your wrist.

Okay, he’s not dead, but he for sure just scared the life out of you with his abrupt movement.

“Don’t leave,” you hear him say, and at first you’re not sure if you heard him right, or if this is another one of his drunken mumblings. But then he looks up at you, blond hair giving way to eyes that are sullen and lifeless. Vomiting has seemingly taken all of the energy out of his body, and now, rather than looking drunkenly blissful, he appears sullen. Sounds like it, too, as he utters his next words: “Stay with me.”

You’re confused and troubled by the man’s sudden change in demeanor, going from insulting you earlier to now urgently seeking your presence. But because you’re empathetic, or possibly just a glutton for pain, you decide to fulfill his request, at least for a little while; you’ll help him to bed, lay out a water bottle or two for what will likely be an epic hangover in the morning, and leave him to hopefully get some rest without vomiting again.

Helping him onto his feet is much more difficult this time with him being on the floor, but you somehow manage it, groaning as you drag him upwards by the arms and realize once more that god, he’s tall.

From there, you walk his lifeless form to the queen-sized bed a few feet away, releasing him onto the mattress and watching his body bounce slightly from the impact.

Once you’ve maneuvered him onto his side for safety, you wander off to another part of the suite, finding the kitchenette where a few complimentary water bottles are scattered. You know the suite rooms a bit and you’ve always liked how they’re laid out, spacious and almost like a mini-apartment.

By the time you return with water, the man appears completely knocked out, his snores reassuring you that for now, he’s fine. You place the water bottles on the nightstand and give him one last look over. Finally, you head for the door, closing it gingerly so as to not wake him.

It was as if your own tiredness had been awaiting you, building and ready to hit you all at once. As soon as your back is to the door, it’s with all of your might that you manage not to collapse and crumple onto the floor.

Sighing deeply, you begin to walk towards the elevator, making slow, tired strides in pursuit of your own bed, wondering when or if you’ll have time to process everything that just happened.

The next morning, you woke up to what was likely the last message anyone would ever want to receive so early after getting up: a member of the morning cleaning staff had gotten sick, and it was your job to temporarily fill her role. Tired and displeased by the unexpected assignment, you nonetheless found yourself in the hallways of the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors, being kept awake by the fumes of various cleaning supplies contained in your cart.

Also in the cart were about a million different towels, organized by the folded clean ones and the discarded dirty ones. For the most part, your job was simply to give out the new, fresh ones to each room. It was an easy enough task with most of the guests out of their rooms already, probably getting breakfast or beginning whatever vacation activity they had planned. You supposed that with some diligence and the right attitude, you could get the rooms done quickly and then have time to return to your own bed before lunchtime.

But that assumption would soon become disproved by the person you hadn’t yet noticed was staring at you, the stranger’s silhouette merely a shadow in your peripheral vision as you bend down to organize some items in your cart.

“Ya!”

Startled by the shrill, rude sound, and also faintly roused by the familiarity of the voice, you look up to find the man from the night before — blond, tall, and with his hands in his pockets — looking over at you from the entrance of his room a few feet away. How could you have forgotten everything that happened last night? you wonder, as the memories begin to flood back to you in a violent fashion. The vomiting, the disrespect, the random specks of sincerity, all of it happened so abruptly and unexpectedly that with your already harsh awakening this morning, you had neglected to recall or process any of it happening.

But you remember now, the memories of his insolence lingering particularly strongly in the forefront of your mind. You want to think that maybe he was just drunk and not aware of his actions, but then you watch as he begins to stalk over to you, something about his piercing gaze not giving the impression of someone intending to apologize.

“You,” he says to you menacingly, surprising you as he comes close and you realize how different he looks now that he’s no longer a drunken, vomiting mess. He appears clean in his plain white tee, shorts, and neatly-styled hair. However, betraying his polished appearance is how he makes the rather aggressive move to seize hold of your bicep, pulling you away from the cart and towards a secluded part of the hallway.

Affronted by the gesture, you tear away from him, and if his neutral expression is any indicator, he seems no more thrown off by your overt discomfort than you are by his audacity. Nonetheless, he succeeds in bringing your two bodies closer to a nearby corner so that you’re provided a modicum of privacy before he says to you accusingly, “You’re the one that brought me here.”

Rubbing your arm in recovery from his rough contact, you’re indignant but still mindful of him being a customer as you reply, “That’s right, sir. You were drunk and in the woods without a phone or ID. I helped you get a room so that you wouldn’t freeze to death.”

“Freeze to death? Stop it, it’s 100 degrees outside,” he asserts sharply, moving his head from side to side in stubborn disbelief. “Doesn’t help that the AC in here doesn’t work worth a damn. I could barely sleep last night.”

You want to tell him that he would’ve been outside in the night time, that his proximity to the ocean would have made him even colder. That he was drunk and disoriented and likely to have continued wandering aimlessly without any awareness of the danger. But these are statements too rational for someone so clearly upset, and so you decide that it’s worthless to try and argue them. Your next remark, however, is unable to be held back. “You probably didn’t sleep well because just a few hours before, you had vomited what looked like your entire body weight—”

“...and how did you know I didn’t have my ID? Were you looking through my things? My wallet? How much did you charge me to stay here?” he asks, silencing you.

Of course, he is questioning the one detail that you were hoping he’d forget. You don’t know why you thought he wouldn’t; wouldn’t you too be asking questions if all of a sudden you woke up in an unfamiliar resort, room the size of an apartment? You can’t think of any excuse either, and trying to make something up on the spot will likely get you in even more trouble.

Noticing how you remain silent, guilt written all over your flustered expression, the man scoffs, looking away from you with his arms crossed. “It doesn’t matter,” he states indifferently, surprising you with how easy he seems to get over the matter at hand. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Might as well make the most of it.”

Relieved by his apathy but also eager to get away from him as quickly as possible, you ask stiffly, “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

You’re unsettled by the way he looks you over in response to the question, a smug look on his face before he finally nods. “Yeah, actually. I want a tour of the island.”

“Alright. I can recommend you some agencies in the area that conduct tours for a low pric—”

“No. I want you to do it,” he interjects, sounding completely serious.

You’re not sure how to react to such a request, ludicrous and random as it is. You find yourself shaking your head, in disbelief as you reply, “I’m sorry sir, but that’s not possible.”

“You work here, don’t you?” he quips, stating the obvious. “You know the place well enough, so why not?”

“Because I don’t know you,” you snap, forgetting all of the professionalism and manners that would typically buoy your responses. Why and how this stranger can so deftly provoke you, you’re not sure, but you can’t help yourself from letting the roughly-spoken words out anyway. “Because we don’t know each other and I’ve never even given anyone a—”

“If you don’t do it, I’ll tell everyone who works here that you’ve been social media stalking your ex.”

Hearing those words leave his mouth, you find yourself caught between feeling both astonished by his memory and angered that he would try to levy such information against you. He has no idea what he saw when he picked up your phone last night and noticed the image of a couple kissing on Instagram.

But dammit, why didn’t you disavow his assumptions immediately instead of becoming flustered and pretty much confirming what he already knew was most likely true?

Refusing to give in to his tactics this time, you decide to bluff. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man says nothing at first, but smiles knowingly as if to silently communicate his amusement at your attempt to seem composed. You think for a second that maybe he’ll have mercy on you, but the second you relax is when he takes a deep breath and turns out into the hallway to yell, “Y/N IS OBSESSED WITH HER E—”

Startled by his boldness, it’s without thinking that you launch yourself at him, covering his mouth before he can finish and feeling the vibration of his words die against your hand. He reacts to your sudden forcefulness by staring at you with a mixture of pleasure and curiosity in his dark brown eyes.

Meanwhile, you’re steaming with a feeling of such profound anger, it’s as if you could choke him right here in this hallway for other guests to potentially peek out of their rooms and see.

When it seems like you’re not going to move, anger and frustration paralyzing you into stillness, the stranger reaches up to remove your hand from his mouth. Raising an eyebrow, it’s with your palm still in his grasp that he asks, “Are you usually this touchy with strangers?”

It takes you a second to process the meaning of his words, but once you do, the sudden consciousness of your actions hit you like a slap to the face. You snatch your hand out of his hold and take a few steps backwards, face warming in recognition of the embarrassing mistake. You’re humiliated not just because you jumped on him like that, but also because of what he almost revealed and how strongly you reacted to it.

He’s won, and he knows it; you can see it in his self-satisfied expression.

“When do you want the tour?” you ask, not even trying to hide how defeated you feel as your voice comes out quiet and shameful.

“As soon as you're done with the towels,” he says, gesturing to your cart. “And don’t try to take a long time on purpose, either. Otherwise, I’ll find the nearest staff break room and make good use of my vocal chords.”

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this strongly angered by someone your entire life. It causes your limbs to shake in a feeling that helps you truly understand why some people refer to rage as making their blood boil.

And what’s worse is that there is absolutely nothing you can do, say, or change, because this strange man has on you knowledge not even your most intimate of friends could hope to have.

A secret you would do just about anything to make sure never got out.

With a look on your face so deadly it’s as if even a glare from you could cause a person pain, you go to get behind your cart, pushing it towards the next room. “I’ll be back, then,” you inform the man, who watches you leave with a smug expression on his face.

“You better!” he yells after you, and so irritated by the statement, you find yourself muttering curse words under your breath without confirming if he’s out of earshot or not.

The sun is beating down on your restless form as you wait impatiently in the sand, watching with your hands on your hips as the man finishes taking a selfie in front of a resort monument. This is about the 500th stop he’s made during your impromptu tour, each one a little more frivolous than the next. At the very least, the stops provide you with a moment of relief from the grating sound of his voice, as well as a chance to marvel at how silly he looks trying to get the right angle with just a digital camera and nothing else.

At this point in the tour, you’re already almost finished, and you couldn’t be more grateful. You’ve spent the entire hour wondering about the stranger and his motives in blackmailing you. Could it all just be some weird way to entertain himself, or was this a punishment for your earlier mistake of checking him into the resort without his consent? Either way, you weren’t sure what he was getting out of this, or how far he intended to go. All you knew was that if you finished the tour and never saw him again after that, it would be not a moment too soon.

You start to notice him approaching you again after he finishes taking his photos. He looks incredibly pleased with himself as his gaze fixates on the camera, presumably to check the results of the images. In observance of such pompousness, you fight back an eye-roll, managing to keep a straight face when you hear him mutter, “Okay, got it,” before finally asking, “Where to next, tour guide?”

Turning around stiffly to face the rustling shore behind you, both of your arms open to gesture towards the ocean. “This is the last place,” you inform him monotonously. “The beach.”

He takes a wistful look at it, making a low whistling sound to communicate his admiration. “Ahhh. So this is where my body would've been found had you not saved me from freezing to death last night.”

It’s obvious in his tone that he’s mocking you, and so tired are you from having to defend actions that were ultimately done in service to his comfort, you don’t even care anymore about how you might look or sound as your next words come out angry and exasperated. “You know what? Maybe I should’ve just left you. Then both of us would’ve been happier right now.”

He’s unaffected by your words, maintaining a passive expression as he pulls out his camera once more. “Are you kidding me? I’m having so much fun right now,” he quips, sounding both sincere and sarcastic as he takes an incredibly dad-like photo of himself with the beach in the background. Watching him act so excited, smiling happily in the photo like a stereotypical tourist would, causes you to feel irrationally annoyed.

“At least it was just you that found me,” he continues once he’s done, angling the camera downwards and humming approvingly at the image before him. “Would’ve been terrible if I got mobbed.”

Just about everything this man says or does confuses you, and up until now, your anger towards him overpowered any desire to be curious. But in a feeling akin to remembering the spelling of a simple word, you blurt out a question you probably should’ve thought to ask him a long time ago. “Who even are you?”

Your question, sounding blunt and accusatory, causes the stranger to appear taken aback as he pivots to better meet your gaze. “You don’t know who I am?” he asks surprisingly.

Is he trying to be funny? you wonder, trying to figure out why he looks so genuinely serious in asking you that. You stare hard at him, eyebrows pursed as you search for any hint of amusement in his expression. Either he’s super committed to the bit, or he’s truly being serious in implying that he’s someone you should know already. Deciding to humour the question, you think back and try to recall every major detail you’ve observed in your limited interactions with him, searching for anything of significance. Really, only one thing seems to stick out. “I know that you’re rich.”

The stranger hesitates for a second, looking mildly conflicted as he decides what he wants to say in response. You watch him carefully, feeling like you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Something about his contemplative silence gives you the sense that he’s evaluating whether or not to be honest with you about something. Bracing yourself for the moment in which he opens his mouth to speak, you’re surprised when what he ultimately settles on is a straightforward, “My name is Taeyang.”

You feel his eyes warming the side of your face warily as if he’s waiting to see if you’ll react in any way to his statement. But nothing about his name causes any alarms to go off in your brain, so you simply hum in response to him, using the admission as an opportunity to officially introduce yourself as well. “I’m Y/N,” you tell him plainly.

“I know, stupid. It’s been on your uniform since yesterday,” he says, playfully flicking the metal pin with your name on it that you have attached just above your breast. He then walks away from you and towards the resort, where you follow behind him, rolling your eyes and remembering all of the reasons why he makes you so livid.

“Next time, you should try not to forget where you’re going so much, yeah? It’s unbecoming for a paying guest like me.”

These are the words Taeyang leaves you with as you arrive at the resort entrance, his footsteps having slowed considerably since you left the beach, likely so that you’d be forced to catch up with him and hear his complaining.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” you reply through a clenched jaw, smiling forcibly as you go to open the door for him when it seems like he won’t do it himself.

“And work on that tone, too. I’m beginning to think you dislike me, and I haven’t done anything to deserve such feelings,” he relays, all while maintaining a completely straight face. You watch from behind as he enters the lobby with his camera in his hand, still scrolling through his photos, though with a bored look on his face this time. He turns to you before heading in the direction of the elevator. “Thanks for the tour. It could’ve been worse, I guess.”

Even in saying thank you for something, he has the ability to make you see red with his endless sarcasm and asshole sensibilities. Snapping, you yell out “You’re welcome!” in an obviously fake, cheery way. He responds by throwing his arm up in a lifeless salute, walking away without another word.

As soon as he’s out of sight and earshot, you slump your upper body onto the receptionist desk with a huge sigh. You noticed Harvey earlier, sitting and observing the two of you without a word. Now that Taeyang is gone, she stands up from her seat to stare at you, eyes wide with curiosity. “What was that?”

You take a few seconds to finish sulking before finally lifting your head up to face her. Looking around to make sure no other guests are around — knowing they’ll likely think badly of workers who spend their time gossiping — it’s after confirming you’re alone that you begin to explain what she saw.

“It’s that guy from last night. The drunk one, with the black card? He was complaining about the room, and then he goaded me into giving him a tour of the resort,” you explain, exasperated. It isn’t until the words leave your mouth that you begin to worry faintly about Harvey pressing you for additional details.

Because without that little tidbit about your social media stalking habit, it makes a lot less sense as to how a random stranger managed to force you into giving them an unnecessary tour.

Luckily, Harvey seems relatively unimpressed by the story, neglecting to comment on most aspects of it as she remarks, “What? The suites are so nice, though. I’ve been trying to get your mom to let me stay in one for a year.” Her focus is clearly occupied by more important matters; you notice as she sits back down that her laptop contains several tabs, many of them shopping websites.

“Apparently not enough for him,” you grumble defeatedly in reply. Harvey doesn’t respond, the glasses that she’s decided to wear today reflecting back the image of an expensive looking dress from her computer screen. When she pipes up again, it’s only to say, “You won’t believe what Kesha just told me,” — Kesha, being one of the other rotating receptionists. You listen to her tell you the latest employee gossip, ensuring to add the right number of mmmhms and reallys, but all you can really think about is Taeyang, and how he’s managed to make you feel more in two days than most have in 22 years.

It would be a stretch to say that you’ve forgotten completely about Taeyang in the seven days that go by without you hearing from him.

But you certainly feel a lot more at ease the further you get from the memory of his madness.

You’re able to go about your daily duties — even the ones on the fifth floor — without much of a fear of running into him. In fact, you might’ve thought he’d checked out of the resort completely, had you not confirmed otherwise with Harvey one day out of curiosity.

With Taeyang slowly but surely becoming a fading memory in your brain, other aspects of your life as a resort associate came into renewed focus. Today, you were completing all of your morning duties, which usually involved checking in on each respective department, making sure they were set to welcome new visitors.

Your mother promoted you from receptionist to a managerial position just this year, and you came to learn that it was mostly a supervisory role, which gave you some freedom of movement and action.

Still, you sort of missed being in the eye of the gossip, constantly attuned to the visitors and their sometimes crazy stories. You missed working closely with the other staff, many of whom you considered friends. Most of all, you hated the extra attention and pressure that came with this new role, understanding that for your mother, putting you in a leadership position was a test, a way to groom you into one day running the resort yourself.

As you’re in the supply closet, taking inventory of various bath products, you’re approached by a brown-haired girl who you recognize as Minji. You know everyone’s face and name here, and Minji works in the kitchen along with a gang of other grandmas and their kids. She’s small and has a quiet demeanor and just started working here, which is why you’re surprised when she comes up to you.

“What’s wrong, Minji?”

“Nothing,” she answers, twiddling with the ends of her long hair nervously. “A customer wanted me to get you. They want to talk to you.”

“A customer requested me specifically?” you confirm with her, wondering maybe if she misheard someone. You don’t interact with guests that often anymore, nor would any be familiar enough with you to request your presence by name. But Minji nods, sure that she heard someone call for a Y/N, so it’s with a sigh that you put down your notepad, dust off your uniform, and follow her towards the guest in question, hoping it’s just a minor inconvenience.

In the bustling dining room, at least 200 or so guests are seated at their respective tables, laughing and chatting with their families as they enjoy the buffet-style breakfast on offer. Entering with Minji who stands almost imperceptibly at your side, your eyes follow the direction of her finger, which points towards the guest in question.

From what you can tell, the guest is a normal-looking man who wears a big, floppy straw hat, seated in the very corner of the dining hall and holding a comically large newspaper that covers the entirety of his face. You dismiss Minji, then go to approach the table, preparing your best manners in anticipation of whatever he might request from you.

“Excuse me, sir,” you greet in a calm, measured voice, feeling awkward as the guest’s face remains from view. “I was told you asked for me—”

Your words die in your throat when the man who you dumbly and innocently assumed was just a random guest allows the newspaper to fall from his hands to reveal his face.

Taeyang, dressed in a simple attire of a t-shirt and sweat shorts, pulls off innocence quite well. In a hall of least a few hundred others, he’s a relatively insignificant sight.

But the moment you lay eyes on him and realize that he personally requested you, you can feel your body tensing in a mixture of anger and exasperation. Without being able to control yourself, you exclaim in astonishment, “You!”

Taeyang smiles smugly at your reaction, crossing his legs to take on a more comfortable posture. “Took you long enough. Poor girl didn’t seem to know who you were. I told her to look for the crazy looking woman who acts like she runs the place,” he says, smirking at his own joke. When you don’t reply — both because of pride and because you don’t want to risk bursting with a statement that might cause a scene — he proceeds to look you over from shoes to hair, a judgemental look in his eye as he asks, “Get enough sleep last night?”

“What do you want, Taeyang?” you ask bluntly, a drag of annoyance present and evident in your taut voice. Once the words leave your mouth, you realize that you forgot to call him sir as you’ve always been taught to do with customers. At this point, you couldn’t care less. You’re not in the mood for his games, not after a pleasant week of forgetting he existed.

He doesn’t say anything in reply to your question for a long time; in fact, he simply stares at you with wide, doe-like eyes, causing you to grow visibly more aggravated.

Finally, as you’re just about to repeat the question, he says, “The pillows in my room are too soft. I need firm pillows, or else I feel like I’m sinking in the bed.”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes at the frivolous request, you grab the little notepad on your waist that you were just using to take inventory and open it up to a new page, copying down his words. In faint frustration, you realize that this interruption has caused you to lose count of the bathing products; you’ll have to start your inventory over again. Storing that mental pain for later, you return your focus to Taeyang, giving him the programmed apology you’ve been taught to offer guests in the event of such complaints. “Sorry about that. I’ll have someone bring up new pillows before the day ends.”

“I’m having issues with the TV, too,” he replies closely after you're done, leaning on his knee and looking off as if in serious contemplation. If you doubted yourself before, it’s obvious now that he’s making these complaints up as he goes, knowing that you can’t say anything to contradict him. He can’t even help the slight grin on his lips as he gets into the details of each so-called issue. “The way that the audio sounds is grating me. I can’t listen to my dramas in peace.”

“I’ll have a technician come and look at it,” you answer calmly, scribbling TECH 5502 onto your notepad without complaint. If he’s going to make efforts to provoke you, you should at least try your best not to play into it. After all, it doesn’t cost you anything to send a technician to his room or find some firmer pillows.

When you don’t appear rattled enough by his provocations, Taeyang resorts to requests of the unreal variety. “And I’d like a daily delivery of filtered ocean water, too. Bottled and ready for me to drink. So my throat doesn’t dry out as much from the weather.”

“I’ll see if that’s available, sir.”

After writing down the request dutifully, you look up from your notepad to find Taeyang silent and staring at you. To your amusement, he looks displeased at your utter lack of a reaction.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a refund or something? For all of my difficulties?”

“If you’d like to vacate the room, we can process a refund at the front desk, sir,” you reply robotically.

Taeyang half-sighs, half-scoffs, looking troubled as he stares down at his feet. “I’m not vacating the room. I just…” After a long, pensive pause, it’s in a sudden burst of emotion that he exclaims, “I’m just BORED, Y/N!”

His admission takes you by surprise; you weren’t expecting him to claim boredom as a reason for his anguish. You’re at a resort, after all; from your perspective, there’s nothing but things to do.

“I’ve been staying here for more than a week in that big-ass suite, and I’m dying for entertainment that isn’t just the sound of my own voice. It’s killing me,” he says, sounding genuinely exasperated.

It takes everything in you not to laugh or smirk in response to his misfortune. Indeed, you have to force your voice not to waver as you reply to him, “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I’m afraid I can’t help.”

He looks up at you suddenly, a flicker of light appearing behind his previously defeated eyes. It unsettles you, especially when his next words are an ominous, “Actually, you can.”

You stare at him dumbly for a few seconds, hoping and praying to God that he’s not implying what you think he’s implying. Finally, it’s in a shaky voice that you reply, “No. Whatever it is that you’re thinking of, no.”

“I just need someone to go with me and try different activities on the island,” he explains with a pout, sounding like a petulant child committed to getting their way. “You don’t want me to spill your little secret, do you?”

So badly were you hoping not to hear those words that when you do, your body immediately reacts in the form of a clenched fist and stiffened jaw. You want to tell him that you don’t care, that he can tell as many people as he wants and it won’t matter. But just as quickly as that flare of rebellion blooms in your chest, he tames you with a reminder of your powerlessness.

“There are a lot of people in this room right now. A lot of staff. Maids, cooks, servers. How fast do you think you can cover my mouth before I let everyone know you’re a weirdo stalker?”

Any thought of dissent in your mind dies the moment that those words hit your ear. If even one person in the staff were to find out about and spread the rumor of you being a psycho who stalks their ex, you’re sure that you wouldn’t be able to recover from it.

You want to cry and kill at the same time, watching Taeyang smile so pompously in reaction to your obviously defeated silence.

“Sounds like we’re on the same page, then,” he declares, blind to the deadly glare that you give him as he uncrosses his legs energetically. “I wanna go out right now. Do you need an excuse to give your boss? I can tell them I lost my phone during the tour and that you’re helping me find it.”

You shake your head immediately, refusing to give such an outrageous notion any thought. The last thing you need is for your family to know about any of this. “No. Let’s just go,” you reply, knowing Harvey will cover for you if needed; you’ve done the same for her plenty of times.

The two of you exit the dining room together, although you’re deliberate to keep a safe distance between your bodies, not even wanting to be seen next to him. He doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with a folded map that he pulls randomly from his pocket. It depicts the resort and all of its various attractions and activities. You provide it for free to guests upon arrival, not thinking they would actually use it.

But just like the digital camera from before, Taeyang seems strangely analog as he points out a marker on the map. “I was thinking, I want to try the pool downstairs. What do you say?”

You just shrug lifelessly in reply, not wanting to fool yourself into thinking you have any real say in the matter. “Whatever you want.”

“How kind of you to say,” he replies sarcastically, and you refuse to look at him, not wanting to face the sheer rage that his happiness causes you.

There are several pools on the property, and to your relief, the walk to this specific one is relatively short. Compared to the others, the downstairs pool contains giant, iridescent foam bubbles that make the whole thing appear like an oversized bubble bath. It’s no surprise to you that Taeyang mentioned it first; you faintly remember him expressing excitement about it during your tour, and it’s one of your personal favorite attractions.

As you walk outside and begin down the path that leads to the pool, you’re caught off guard by the intensity of the sunlight hitting your face. Already irritated by your circumstances, the fact that it’s boiling hot outside only adds to your frustration. Still, you suppress any complaints, moving instead to put a hand in front of your face to shield your eyes. It’s only a few seconds later that a floppy, textured hat comes into your view, and when you look up, it’s Taeyang’s arm offering you the cover.

“Here,” he mumbles indifferently, shaking out his flattened blond hair with one hand while the other keeps the hat in front of you. You stare at the accessory, unable to process why it’s in front of you, confusion causing your eyebrows to furrow as you wonder if perhaps the hat is doused in some kind of invisible poison that only his eyes can perceive. You make no move to grab it.

Arm probably hurting from the long couple of seconds he spends holding it up, Taeyang looks down at the unclaimed hat, then at the unmoved you, asking in a puzzled voice, “What?”

You look up and stare long and hard at his face, and when you find no obvious signs of malice in his aloof expression, you make the hesitant move to take the hat from him. Instantly, placing it on your head relieves you from the burning glare of the sun. But why is he acting so kind all of a sudden? Unsure how to interpret the gesture, you don’t even say thank you, convinced it might still be a trick somehow, even as minutes go by without him mentioning it.

“So how long have you been here? At the resort, I mean,” asks Taeyang casually.

Once again, you’re caught off guard by the seemingly unassuming question. If this were an interaction with a regular guest, you’d chalk it up as small talk and appease them with the story of growing up as the daughter of a resort-owner. But Taeyang is no typical guest, and with this being the second of two back-to-back, out-of-character niceties, you can’t help but to question his motives.

Your unresponsiveness doesn’t go without notice this time. Taeyang asks, “Are you just going to be silent this entire time? ‘Cause if so, I’d feel really disappointed. So disappointed, in fact, that I’d—”

“All my life,” you finally answer, cutting Taeyang off from another threatening rant you’re sure he would’ve revelled in. Indeed, you can tell from his face that he’s annoyed by your interruption, something you suppress a laugh at before continuing. “My mother runs the place. And before that my grandfather. My family’s never not been here.”

“So you’ll be next, then?” he deduces, proceeding to then feign shivers at the thought. “God, I pray for the people who have to stay here under your leadership.”

You scoff resentfully at his joke, then listen as he launches into another, separate question. “Surely you didn’t go to school here, too?”

“I did,” you confirm. “There’s a high school, middle school, and elementary school all in one, just a few miles from here.”

He doesn’t seem to believe you at first, wondering aloud how an island this small could house and educate several other families. You explain to him that most of the families who live here are like your own: the children of resort owners who know nothing else but the island. Taeyang seems so genuinely and purely interested in this that you’re not expecting it when he turns to you and says, nearly chuckling, “That must be why you’re so hung up on your ex, huh? Was he the only guy in your small town?”

At just the mention of the topic, you feel your face warming from intense humiliation and bitterness. Taeyang, noticing this, lets out a guttural and derisive laugh, getting louder the longer you remain silent. Angered by him, and also quickly wanting to change the topic, it’s in a change of roles that you proceed to ask him questions about his life. “So what about you, then? What brings you here?”

Showing almost no change in expression, Taeyang looks straight ahead before casually remarking, “The weather we’re having is beautiful, isn’t it?”

At first confused by the non-answer, you realize he’s being purposefully evasive and wonder why the question made him respond in such a way. You’re about to press him on it, but he escapes just in time as you arrive at the pool, where the sounds of people’s laughter and chatter distract you from pursuing the matter further.

Taeyang, surveying the area, puffs his chest out in what you perceive to be an expression of pure contentment. “Nice. Very nice,” he murmurs happily, confirming your assumption. Looking pleased, he turns to you and says, “I’m going to get in, yeah?”

Though you assumed he was going to get in, it’s only upon hearing those words that you become suddenly aware of your own presence and the fact that you’re not wearing a swimsuit. Wondering worriedly whether he intends to blackmail you into doing that, too, you stammer out, “W-what am I supposed to do?”

It’s without answering you that Taeyang goes to remove his shirt from his body. He struggles with getting the fabric over his head for a moment, giving you a few seconds to stare unintentionally at him and his chiseled torso.

The fact that he takes his shirt off in front of you so indifferently throws you off, but what’s even more surprising is that for a guy so easy to dislike, he has a shockingly stunning body. It seems strange to say, but for some reason, you’ve never imagined him as a person with any appealing physical attributes. In fact, you haven’t ever really imagined him or his body at all. In your mind, he’s always just been an angry, nagging voice, and not much more.

You’re still recovering from the moment and the confusing feelings it caused you when finally, he manages to fully remove his shirt, proceeding to throw it at you with such carelessness that it immediately reawakens your fiery dislike towards him. “Find a seat,” he orders airily, gesturing towards the poolside lounge chairs. “We can continue chatting after I do a few laps.”

Your mouth is agape as it feels like you process just about every emotion at once — anger, frustration, confusion, curiosity — but Taeyang is oblivious to all of it as kicks off his slides, focusing his attention on the pool. He walks backwards to give himself a good running start before leaping into it. You watch him silently, feeling embarrassed when he proceeds to cannonball directly into a crowded area of the pool, eliciting several groans from a few nearby swimmers. Foam, too, scatters everywhere, managing to reach even your clothes despite the fact that you’re standing a few feet away.

The image of him as he breaks the surface of the water, throwing his hair back with both hands as he makes brief eye contact with you, causes an unwelcome spark of something unrecognizable to course through your body.

But as promised, he immediately goes to swim laps, and you find a nearby lounge chair to seat yourself in the meantime.

It feels weird to be in your uniform, an obvious member of the resort staff, sitting poolside without any obvious task to attend to. If one of your coworkers happens to see you, you’ll tell them that you’re supervising the area, making sure everything’s in order. A quick side-to-side glance tells you that no one is presently looking, so you allow yourself to relax into the cushy lounge chair.

You use the hat Taeyang gave you as a shield for your face, then close your eyes and listen to the sounds of people talking that slowly transforms into white noise. If Taeyang has done you one kindness, it’s allowing you this time to have a few moments away from work, where you can enjoy the pleasant and healing atmosphere of the resort undisturbed.

Less than 30 minutes pass, it seems, when you hear the sound of someone calling you that disrupts you out of your pleasant stupor.

“Ya!”

Had the shrill, complaining voice not been so immediately and unfortunately recognizable to you, you likely would have remained oblivious to the rude and unsettling disturbance. But it’s with a groan that you’re forced to sit up and acknowledge Taeyang, who you find is swimming on the very edge of the pool, resting his chin on the edge to stare at you energetically.

“Having fun?”

You give Taeyang a dead-panned look, resting your chin in your palm as you reply unenthusiastically, “I’m having a great time. Just spectacular.”

Seemingly unperceptive, or perhaps uncaring to your sarcasm, Taeyang says rather sincerely, “That’s too bad,” while maintaining an aloof, happy expression that contradicts his otherwise regretful-sounding words. “Because I’m about ready to leave.”

Finding it spiteful how he announces his intention to leave only after making sure to confirm that you’re having fun, you roll your eyes in an unconcernedly overt gesture of your own contempt. This causes Taeyang’s eyebrows to furrow, an offended expression on his face as he says, “Stop making that face.”

“What face?” you retort stubbornly.

“Like you’re upset with me. You look ugly when you do it,” he answers snidely, and as you angrily open your mouth to make an equally as childish comment back, he retreats in the water before anything but unexpressed air can leave your mouth.

For a second there, you almost thought he was genuinely concerned with whether his actions may cause you to become upset or not. You should’ve known not to assume anything positive of the man that has so far made you more frustrated than you’ve ever been in your life. Resisting the urge to violently express these suppressed emotions, you instead have to watch Taeyang cut a few more arcs through the water before yelling that it’s time to go.

You get up and meet him at the pool's steps, not expecting to be affronted once more with the image of his annoyingly perfect physique as he exits the water. His entire body is dripping wet, and the moment he’s in front of you, he starts to shake his hair out.

Your entire upper body gets wet in the process.

You notice him smirking and realize that the gesture was on purpose. Just like that, you’re back to wanting to kill him.

As you’re walking back to the resort, Taeyang suddenly holds a hand in your direction. You look down at his palm and see that there’s nothing in it, wondering, once more, if he’s playing a trick on you. Even stranger, it seems like he’s trying to get you to hold his hand, a gesture which might make sense if the two of you were friends or lovers.

But you abhor Taeyang, and you’re pretty sure he knows that you do, clearly finding entertainment from this fact. So why is he suddenly trying to be affectionate with you?

Looking down and noticing that you haven’t done anything, Taeyang utters lowly and confused-like, “My shirt?”

Like a person remembering that they left the stove on at home, it’s with a jolt of slight panic that you realize what he’s asking for and quickly go to hand him the balled up fabric you’d been storing underneath your arm. Your face warms as you cringe at your own clumsiness, hating that you even thought of something as ridiculous as him wanting to hold your hand. You must be going crazy, because after today, you seem no longer able to as easily think and behave around Taeyang in the way you could before.

Luckily, he doesn’t seem interested in teasing you for the misunderstanding. Instead, he uses the shirt to wipe off his face, and when he’s done, there’s a smile painted on his lips that you perceive warily.

“This was fun,” he says, looking genuinely pleased, although you can’t tell if it’s because he actually enjoyed himself or because he simply likes seeing you suffer. Perhaps it’s a bit of both. “I’m going to see about us doing stuff like this more often from now on.”

Little did you know just how much truth was embedded in that statement.

Beside you, Taeyang looks incredibly pleased with himself as he uses both hands to mold a cup-full of sand into a cone shape.

Yesterday, he goaded —- blackmailed —- you into going horseback riding, during which he hilariously got stuck in his stirrups and couldn’t get down. The day before, you indulged him in an afternoon activity of renting bikes and going for a ride around the island.

Today, you were forced to join him on the beach, where he challenged you to a competition of who could build the most impressive sandcastle.

It has been a week of attending after every single one of Taeyang’s relentless whims, and judging by the grin currently plastered on his face, he seems to be having the time of his life dragging you along for every ridiculous adventure.

A few days ago, you were shocked to discover that despite keeping a relatively low profile, your mother had finally seen the two of you together.

It happened as you and Taeyang were leaving the resort one day to go kayaking on the nearby shore — his idea, not yours. Without knowing it, your mother was apparently lingering in the lobby, completing some routine duties and not expecting to see you with a man who was obviously not a staff member.

How she perceived anything from the interaction, which was technically innocuous, was beyond you. But the last time you spoke, she made her judgments perfectly clear: you should avoid getting too close to customers, as they will likely try and ask for sex.

Guys like that, she said — the rich type who frequented resorts in exotic islands — only wanted one thing, and it wasn’t your hospitality; at least, not in the traditional sense.

You were aware of the sort of situations she was referring to. Harvey, your cousin, who had been a receptionist for the resort since she was a teen, had her fair-share of run-ins with older male guests who made their intentions very clear as they attempted to charm her into leaving the front desk and joining them in their rooms.

Some of your coworkers played into such behaviors, albeit, never talking about it openly. They knew your mother would fire them on the spot if she discovered they even considered it. The last thing she wanted was for the resort that she treasured and which had been in your family’s possession for generations to become a site for sex tourism.

Lately, you had been wondering if you were naive for thinking wholeheartedly that Taeyang had no such intentions with you.

You could not say that you liked Taeyang, or even that he was a good man. After all, he had been levying your greatest secret against you as a means of getting you to comply with his various whims.

But you had become used to his attitude by now, so the sharp remarks didn’t phase you as much. Going with him on outings across the island allowed you some much-needed time away from work. At times, he behaved so sincerely that it made you believe, as he first complained to you, that he truly just wanted some company.

You looked at him now. It was hard to imagine him as someone capable of genuine cruelty. He looked like a child in a man’s body, getting excited about building a sandcastle. He wouldn’t stay at the resort for much longer; none of his type ever did. You’d just have to comply until he was ready to leave.

“There. The final touch,” he says, adding the cone of sand he made earlier to the roof of the sandcastle, which has a medieval, ancient look to it. Sweeping his hands both in a gesture of completion but also to wipe the sandy texture from his palms, Taeyang then proceeds to stand up, giving the castle a look-over from a further distance away. He raises an eyebrow pleasantly as if to say, hmmm, I did better than I thought.

Then, flitting a look in your direction, where you’re still struggling to build a base that goes over two inches from the ground, he lets out a loud-mouthed guffaw. You just look away and furrow your eyebrows, continuing to add little touches.

In the corner of your eye, you notice Taeyang bending down to grab something from the sand. When he comes back to the area where you’re building the sandcastles, there appears to be a small seashell in his hands. You don’t make anything of it until you notice little red legs poking out from the bottom of the shell.

Taeyang brings the baby crab close to his face, inspecting it with a look of pure childlike wonder on his face. “Holy moly. They don’t have any of these at home.”

He places the crab in one of the “rooms” of the sandcastle, then sits back on his knees to watch it fumble around within the sturdy walls. “The real final touch,” he warbles, while beside him, you’re still pitifully building the foundation of your castle, more like a sand-shack at this point. You can feel Taeyang watching you now that he’s finished with his, and you brace yourself for another one of his rude and sarcastic comments.

But before he can open his mouth to say anything, a sudden rush of seawater rolls up onto the shore, drowning the sandcastles and soaking both of you in a cool, gritty spray.

It takes you a second to react as the cold seawater manages to soak the entire bottom half of your body, shocking you into stillness. Your first move after a few seconds of open-mouthed surprise is to look over at Taeyang, who you expect to appear more sentimental over the fact that his beloved sandcastle has now been reduced to mush.

Instead, he simply gets up from the ground and shakes out his slightly wet clothes, making sure to rid his knees and hands of any lingering grains of sand. “Welp. That was fun while it lasted,” he says indifferently.

You notice Taeyang’s hand in your view as he offers to help you get up from the sand. Even in performing such gestures, his voice is short and vexed with you as he mutters, “Come on. I wanna walk the shore for a minute.”

Still hesitant to accept any of his supposedly kind advances, you avoid his hand, moving to stand up on your own. However, you embarrass yourself when you accidentally trip on your sagging wet pant leg while trying to stand up. It causes you to fall face first into Taeyang’s chest.

Never have your two bodies been as close to each other as they are now, with Taeyang forced to grab you by both shoulders to keep you upright. His touch disorients you, and your brain is slow to process the fact that he’s just saved you from falling onto the sand. Only when he helps you onto your feet do you finally regain your sense of balance, both mentally and physically.

“Clumsy,” scolds Taeyang wryly as he lets his hands fall from your shoulders.

You don’t know why your body and brain both take so long to recover after the almost-fall. What unnerves you the most is how the feeling of Taeyang’s fingers against your skin refuses to fade, even after the moment is long gone. These thoughts, like stains on a t-shirt, have to be scrubbed and pushed out of your brain, only then allowing you to weakly reply, “Whatever. Let’s just go wherever you’re taking me next.”

“I told you,” he states impatiently. “I want to walk the shore.”

“And do what?”

“Talk,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing to do. “Is that okay with you, Y/N?”

More than ever, you find yourself confused by Taeyang and his seemingly random desires to do things that conflict with his image in your mind as an uncivil, thoughtless person. Unsure of yourself and how you want to respond, you simply reply, “Lead the way,” suppressing any trace of emotion from your voice.

The two of you walk unhurriedly down the shore, staying quiet until you suddenly think to ask, “Where is home for you?”

Lately, you had been asking him more questions. You figured if you were going to be forced to spend time with him, you might as well get to know your captor.

“What?” he replies bemusedly.

“You said earlier, with the crab, ‘they don’t have these at home,’” you remind him. “Where are you from?”

Taeyang looks away from you with a neutral expression on his face. Suddenly, he spots a group of people playing foot-volleyball on the beach a few feet in front of your path. “Oh look, they’re playing jokgu,” he observes with rising interest in his voice. “Do you know how to play?”

Observing another one of his evasive tactics, you refuse to let him get away without scrutiny this time. “You always dodge my questions when I ask about your life.”

“So do you, when I ask about your ex.”

Taeyang’s point is initially proved as even just the mention of the topic paralyzes you into stunned and caged silence. Finally, after letting out an aggrieved scoff, you ask, “Why do you care so much about that?”

“Because clearly, you care. And it’s fun to watch you get so upset everytime I bring it up,” he answers back in a sharp rebuttal you are unable to refute. After all, there is nothing that you want to talk about less than your history with the man in question; the fact that Taeyang’s been able to so expertly blackmail you proves that.

You wonder faintly if Taeyang’s got a similar story, something that’s stopping him from answering any questions about his life.

If so, then it puts you at a stalemate, neither of you willing to discuss anything of substance, stuck in a prison of silence.

The two of you are quiet once again as you pass by the group of about five or so boys playing volleyball near the shore. Suddenly, you hear Taeyang yell close to your ear the words, “Look out!”

At first, you think he’s just playing a trick on you, an act of revenge for your earlier persistence in asking him questions he’s made clear he’s not interested in answering. You’re about to shout back at him for being annoying, but then, a sharp, startling pain radiates through your skull as something hard smacks into the front of your head.

The impact of the jokgu ball making contact with your face causes you to stagger backward a few steps, almost falling and losing your balance. Clutching your throbbing forehead, you feel wetness against your hand and realize that you’re bleeding.

Distantly, you hear the chorus of are you okays? coming from indistinct voices that sound like they’re coming slightly closer. But it’s Taeyang’s voice which is the loudest as you hear him announce, “She’s good,” while gesturing for them to stay away. You wonder if he could be so cruel as to prevent others from offering you help when you’re clearly in pain. But then, it’s with one of your eyes partially covered by your arm that you watch him take his shirt off, offering you the fabric and telling you, “Here. Use that to soak up the blood.”

Unlike most times in which Taeyang offers to help you in some way, you accept the gesture without question, your head throbbing too painfully for you to insist otherwise. Then, you remember something. “There’s a first aid kit. In one of those shacks by the forest. It should be unlocked.”

He nods, then runs to one of the wooden shacks which are scattered all along the perimeter of the island, there in case of an emergency which requires immediate access to first aid materials. By the time he returns, you’ve decided to sit down in the sand, feeling too light headed to remain standing. You notice Taeyang’s presence as he comes to seat himself next to you, holding a red case containing peroxide, cotton swabs, and other supplies you’ll likely need to clean up the unseen cut on your head.

When you put your free arm out to grab the kit from him, he places it on the other side of his body so that it’s out of your reach. It’s with his torso twisted away from you that he fumbles around in the kit’s contents, all while you frown at him for refusing you the chance to clean up the cut yourself.

After locating all of the necessary items, Taeyang turns to face you. He has a jar of peroxide held tightly in his hand, and in order for him to begin applying it, you’ll need to drop the shirt you’ve been holding so tightly to your head.

When Taeyang reaches out to move your hand himself, you twitch away from his touch on instinct. Despite the neediness of your current situation, you can’t help yourself from feeling distrustful towards him and his help.

“Why are you flinching?” he asks impatiently, his tone sounding like he’s making fun of you and scolding you at the same time. Despite his insistence, you’re no less tempted to move your arm; as impractical as it may be, you’d rather take care of the cut yourself than allow him to do it, feeling like he might purposefully cause you pain in his idea of being clever, or give an improper assessment because of his desire to see you squirm at all times.

Ultimately, Taeyang is uncaring to your hesitance as he commands, “Stop it. Move your hand,” in such a forceful and dominant manner that despite your reservations, it feels like you have no choice but to allow the bloody fabric to land in your lap.

And so, despite the frown of frustration on your face, you nonetheless allow him to begin working on the cut, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he goes to carefully apply peroxide to the area. It stings painfully, but when he’s done, all that’s left is to put on a bandage.

When he’s about to put on the large sized Band-Aid, Taeyang leans closer so that your two faces are just inches away from each other. At first, your eyes move to avoid looking at him, but his proximity makes it impossible to ignore the way that his dark eyes, usually filled with mischief, are now soft with focus.

You feel the warm touch of his fingers against your skin as he carefully smoothes the first bandage into place. When he’s peeling the film off a second one, you hear him scold, “Could you stop putting yourself in danger like that?” sounding his usual annoying, reproachful self.

You want to say something equally as petty back, but for reasons you’re unsure of, you can’t seem to find the words. Taeyang, noticing how you perk up but then hesitate, lets out a derisive laugh. As you watch him, more up close than you’ve ever seen him before, it hits you suddenly and unwillingly that you don’t think you’ve ever met someone as good-looking as he is.

Little as you would care to admit it, he is devastatingly attractive — his sharp jawline, long lashes, and ridiculously gorgeous smile work together for an image that’s much like how this island feels sometimes: too good to be true.

Still surprised by the way you remain silent, Taeyang raises a teasing eyebrow. “What? No comeback from Ms. Witty?”

You lowly mumble for him to shut up, rolling your eyes while the heat in your cheeks intensifies.

If there was a thing you consistently disliked about working for the resort, it was having to deal with the devastating heatwaves that would occasionally befall the island. Today was the third in a series of record-breakingly hot days, and you were beginning to wonder how much more you could take. The heat felt like a relentless, suffocating blanket that surrounded you everywhere, making even the smallest of tasks unbearable to get through.

After the air conditioner suddenly decided to stop working at dinnertime, you and a few other coworkers gathered in the lobby, where at least five electric fans had been set up and turned towards your sticky bodies. No one wanted to move, let alone work, so you all huddled at the front desk, lazily fanning yourselves and avoiding anything that resembled productivity. If a guest occasionally wandered out of their room to ask for something, you could not find it in you to care about how unprofessional it looked for so many of you to be out here doing nothing. The only time you moved was to occasionally fidget with the bandaid on your forehead, which was becoming burdensome due to the heat.

Next to you, Harvey fluctuates between watching bits of her K-drama and trading gossip back-and-forth with your other coworkers. This routine is interrupted, however, when the telephone at the front desk begins to ring loudly. As the receptionist on duty, Harvey has the job of answering guest phone calls whenever you get them. She gestures for everyone around her to quiet down before bringing the receiver to her ear.

It’s hard to judge by her facial expressions, which are neutral, and her words, which are short and restrained, what the nature of the call is. But when she finally puts the receiver down and turns in her chair to face the group of you, it’s with a grave and exasperated expression on her face that she announces, “Noise complaint.”

The majority of you groan in recognition of the fact that someone will have to get up and address the customer’s complaint. A voice from amongst the crowd of aggrieved staff perks up to ask, “What room is it?”

“5502.”

It takes you barely a few seconds to recognize the room number and even less time to realize where you know it from. Taeyang. Of course. You should’ve known it was him, because who else would be at the scene of a situation that involved bothering others?

“I got it,” you announce, rising onto your feet and grabbing the universal room key without sparing anyone around you a glance. Your eagerness to handle the situation earned you a few confused glares from your coworkers, though no one questioned you in recognition of the fact that you were ultimately saving them from having to deal with the situation themselves.

In your mind, there was no need to involve anyone else in Taeyang’s antics; you’d go upstairs and confront him yourself.

Appearing in front of Taeyang’s suite an elevator ride later, your fists pound against the door loudly, irritation causing you to completely abandon all notions of civility. Luckily, he opens it after a few seconds, and the look on his face as he takes you in is one of pure, obnoxious teasing. It’s as if he expected it to be you to arrive on the other side of his door, clearly vexed and upset.

Without saying a word, he turns his back on you and walks into the room while leaving the door ajar. You know it’s his subtle way of insisting that you follow him inside. Loathing the fact that you have no choice in the matter, it’s with a roll of your eyes that you walk in after him, making sure to close the door behind you.

Taeyang has already turned the corner by the time you come in, leaving you to gawk at the mess he’s made of the foyer. It’s the first time you’ve seen the place since the night you helped him check in, and already you’re aghast as you take in the random pieces of ripped notebook paper he has scattered all over the floor and walls. They each have something scribbled on them in handwriting that is rough and imprecise, which you assume to be his.

“What is going on, Taeyang?” you ask restlessly, your feet practically stomping as you go to look for him in the living room. “Someone called and said you were making a bunch of noise and—-”

You’re stopped in your tracks both verbally and physically when you enter the living room and come upon an image you weren’t expecting. Taeyang, with a nonchalant sort of stance, picks up a guitar from the couch and brings the strap for it around his neck. Taken aback by the out-of-place item, the next words out of your mouth are, “When did you get a guitar?”

“It’s awfully hot up here, you know. I should really take my business somewhere else,” says Taeyang in a characteristically avoidant fashion, all while positioning the guitar at his waist as if getting ready to play it. It’s clear now that this was all intentional on his part: forcing you to come up here so that he could amaze you with what is surely an unexpected explanation behind the noise complaint.

“Answer the question,” you persist in agitation.

Brushing his fingers against the taut strings, which generates a low humming sound, he replies off-handedly, “I bought it, how else?” It’s another admission that seems to confirm just how rich he is, having the ability to buy? order in? an expensive-looking guitar just because it suits him.

You watch as he begins to play the instrument, battling between feelings of curiosity and vexation. “And you did all of this to get my attention, I’m assuming?” you ask, listening to him strum a pretty melody that reminds you faintly of a song you’ve heard on the radio before.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he remarks while looking down at the instrument. “Although, I maybe might’ve seen you in the lobby doing nothing and figured you could use some entertainment.”

You observe how he plays the guitar with a casual and effortless touch, appearing like he’s done this a million times before. As you also now realize, the pieces of paper which greeted you at the door were partly sheet-music, partly half-cooked musings likely meant to be interpreted through song. Out of all the assumptions you’ve made about Taeyang, you would’ve never guessed that he was musically inclined. He lacks the grace and poise you’d usually associate with a musician, though you suppose his kookiness is in line with how most tortured artists behave.

After minutes spent standing there and watching him, you have to force yourself to snap out of being interested, remembering that he did this to upset you and becoming renewedly upset at the thought. “Well I’m here now, so what do you want?”

After strumming a bit more, as if wanting to drown your accusatory question out with the sound, he finally puts the guitar down and grabs a nearby brochure from the couch. Flipping through its shiny, laminated pages, he explains, “There’s this dinner place I found from this brochure. It has a wicked five star review, and it’s only a few minutes away.”

He locates the correct page in the brochure, then turns it in your direction so that you can see the restaurant he’s referring to. You’ve heard of it, but it’s not like you frequent restaurants much. The kitchen staff do a good job and serve different types of cuisines every night, so you’ve never found a need to patron elsewhere.

“No offense, but the food here leaves much to be desired,” says Taeyang flippantly. “So I wanna go.”

“And let me guess, I have to come with you?”

“Mhhhm,” he confirms cheekily, grinning to communicate his satisfaction with the idea. Maybe it’s the heat that’s zapped up all your energy, but you find yourself becoming uncharacteristically accepting of his request. Usually you’d at least show a bit of a fight in response to his bizarre inclinations toward going out almost everyday, but now, you figure there is no point in trying to argue him anymore. It’s not as if you can come up with an excuse, either, since he already saw you in the lobby doing nothing.

“Fine,” you reply indifferently. “Let’s go.”

But Taeyang doesn’t move an inch, not even seeming pleased by your easy acquiescence. In fact, there’s a glint of contempt in his eyes as he says to you, “Well? Aren’t you gonna change clothes?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a fancy restaurant, not a hotel. Surely you’re not gonna wear your work uniform to go out,” he replies, making it sound like the most offensive notion.

Understanding what he’s implying, you immediately find yourself becoming resistant to the idea of changing. It’s one thing to indulge him in going on various outings within the resort walls, where in your uniform, you are ultimately still a worker helping out a customer.

But to get dressed up and go out to dinner with him, you would feel almost like you were on a date.

And that is a line you’re not willing nor prepared to cross.

“I don’t even know if I can afford to eat there,” you assert in expression of a separate, yet equally as valid concern, hoping it’ll reach him in a way your other worries likely wouldn’t.

But you forget that Taeyang is incredibly rich, and seemingly ambivalent towards spending money. Without hesitation, he replies, “It’s covered,” leaving your brain deprived of any additional excuses to convince him into abandoning his plans.

“Now, back to clothes. Where can you get some? Because this isn’t it.”

You roll your eyes at the ease in which he manages to insult you and your outfit, which in your mind, isn't that bad. You’d go to the restaurant without changing if it were up to you, but since he seems to be persistent, you’ll have to find something to wear in your house.

“In case it never occurred to you, I live here,” you inform him aggressively. “I’ll just stop by my place on the way there.”

“You have a place? Do tell.”

“You’re not coming into my house.”

“A house, then? Because I was imagining some tiny room in the resort.”

The bungalow that you live in is about a five minute or so walk from the resort, and exists next to two other places that house your mother and formerly your grandfather. They were built as a way for your family to continue working and commuting to the resort without much day-to-day issue. You explain all this to Taeyang, adding in, “they’re built far enough away so visitors can’t just come and annoy us whenever they want.”

“That would be dreadful, wouldn’t it?” he retorts, tilting his head in mock offense to communicate the irony of your statement — he hasn’t needed your home address to annoy you plenty.

“Anyways, stay here. I’ll get dressed and then come back.”

Yelling behind you as you go to leave the suite, Taeyang in a loud voice threatens, “Don’t leave me waiting too long, or I’ll make even more noise!”

“Wouldn’t want that!” you yell back cheerfully, an expression of fake sincerity on your face until you turn your back to him and immediately return to scowling. It wasn’t until just now that you remembered the noise complaint as being the entire reason why you came up here, and now it feels absurd to think that you’re leaving his room worried more about going to dinner with him than your original purpose.

This wasn’t at all how you planned to spend your evening, but you suppose if he’s forcing you, you might as well cooperate and look the part while doing it.

You head downstairs to the lobby, where your group of coworkers are still lingering by the receptionist desk. Returning the room key you took, you let them know that you handled the situation, and that you’ll be headed out for a few hours.

You have to ignore Harvey, who you can feel giving you a curious and imploring looking look in the corner of your eye. The rest luckily don’t seem too concerned about your various comings and goings and accept your explanation without much of a reaction.

On the walk to your house, your mind is blank, but your body is alive with feelings of nervousness and anticipation. You can feel it in the way your hands shake just slightly during the routine act of unlocking your front door. Confused by the origin of these emotions, you push them away in your mind and focus your attention on the more urgent task of finding something to change into.

Your house, exactly how you left it, is cluttered and in need of a good deep cleaning, but luckily easy to navigate. In the bedroom is where you rummage for something appropriate to dress yourself in.

Whenever you’ve been unsure of what to wear for an event or outing, a sundress has always been a safe and comfortable bet. You own quite a few but ultimately decide on a cobalt-colored one that fits the evening time of day.

Sneakers are swapped out for sandals, perfume is sprayed in areas where you could use some freshening up, and lastly, on your way out, you make sure to do one final check in the mirror to make sure your appearance is fine. Even when it seems like you should be satisfied, you do a couple final tweaks to your hair and shift around the cotton material of your dress.

Why you seem to be so suddenly invested in your appearance for an outing you’re being forced to go on is a question you purposely avoid considering.

Finally, as you rush to leave the house, you open the front door and come in immediate contact with the chest of an unknown figure. Not knowing who it is at first, your body grows tight from fear, but quickly it dissolves into weariness when you step back and realize that you’ve just bumped into Taeyang.

His posture is relaxed as if he’d been simply leaning against your doorframe before you came out. He’s also changed his outfit, and is now wearing a loose-fitting, white button up shirt with a pair of khaki dress pants.

“Jesus, you scared me! Didn’t I tell you to stay?”

“I followed you,” he answers calmly, shrugging in a gesture that makes it seem like he’s just admitted something boring and obvious, and not what you view as a huge violation of your personal boundaries. But who is Taeyang if not unapologetically indifferent to your feelings, evident as he quickly flows into a new thought without acknowledging your currently displeased expression. “You know, those girls at the front desk really don’t do anything, do they? They saw me coming out and wouldn’t stop giggling.”

What he says concerns you, especially considering Harvey’s curiosity and how easily she could put two and two together by seeing Taeyang leave the resort so shortly after you did. But as you’re quietly pondering how you might explain yourself to your cousin later, Taeyang’s sarcastically insulting comment of, “Nice shack you’ve got,” brings you back to the present moment, moreover reawakening your feelings of disdain towards him.

“Let’s just go,” you forcefully suggest, impatient with him and his jests towards anything and everything involved with you. After locking your front door, you charge ahead of Taeyang on the path to the resort’s designated rideshare area. For some reason, it feels like he lingers at your house for longer than normal, watching you walk away. Is something wrong with my outfit? you wonder, seeing no other reason for him to be giving you looks from behind.

Whatever. You’ll be lost forever trying to understand any of what motivates Taeyang’s intricately confusing actions. For now, you just wait for him to eventually catch up with you, beginning the search for an unoccupied taxicab once he does.

Upon reaching the rideshare parking lot, you and Taeyang easily locate a driver and proceed to enter their canary-colored vehicle. You’re wary as usual of Taeyang, who opens the door to allow you into the car first. Later, as you both settle into the backseat, you find the sedan to be cozier than you would care for, and with how forcibly close you become, Taeyang’s hand and yours touch briefly as you reach for the same seat belt buckle. It troubles you to observe how the contact provokes in you a level of awareness inappropriate for an occurrence so insignificant.

The cab driver begins their route, and despite your best efforts to focus only on what’s going on outside your window, you can’t help but to notice Taeyang in the corner of your eye, suppressing his laughter, perhaps finding it funny how stiff and tense you can feel yourself being though can’t seem to help.

A few minutes later as promised earlier by Taeyang, and you arrive at a restaurant that has a dark and moody exterior. Heading inside, you find the inside equally as intimidating. It's fancier than you were expecting, with lots of mood lighting to accentuate rows of crowded tables that seat guests who are dressed in head-to-toe formal wear.

In an environment obviously suited for customers of a higher tax bracket, it’s no shock that Taeyang appears entirely at ease as he walks up to the host and informs them that you’ll need a table for two.

“Date night?” inquires the host teasingly, giving the two of you a knowing look that you try not to appear too mortified at for the sake of not being impolite. Your mouth is halfway open in a passionate denial of the assumption when suddenly, you feel Taeyang’s hand resting itself on the side of your waist.

His touch, while soft, is the precursor to him forcibly tugging you towards his body. The abruptness of which you tumble into his chest causes the one syllable no to die on your tongue before you can finish.

“Yes,” you hear Taeyang reply, and so shocked are you by his answer that you have to look up to confirm that the word indeed came from his mouth. What the hell is he doing? you wonder urgently to yourself, watching him appear completely normal in confirming such a ridiculous notion. You want to pull away from him and ask what he thinks he’s playing at, but with the restaurant host watching you, it feels like you have no choice but to play along or else risk causing a scene.

“In fact, do you happen to have any private dining options?” says Taeyang next, and the fact that he avoids your gaze lets you know that he is definitely aware of his actions and how they’re affecting you.

“Yes sir, we do. There’s a suite option in the back of the restaurant that costs $300 to use.”

“Perfect.”

The exchange between Taeyang and the host happens so quickly that you fail to identify any opening to interject with your own thoughts. Incensed by the position of powerlessness he’s put you in, you try your best to communicate your anger to Taeyang without the host noticing. At the juncture where his hand rests against your waist, your fingers meet his. You begin to slightly push against his touch, wanting him to let go of you, but he responds by increasing the strength of his grip, which pulls you into his body even tighter.

It’s as the host is finalizing your seating arrangement on the computer that Taeyang finally looks down to acknowledge you. Meeting your fiery gaze, he makes a low humming sound before mouthing the word, “Behave.”

You want to lash out at him, but in your compelled silence, all you can do is use your eyes to silently plead for him to stop whatever this is that he’s doing. But with the host finishing up on the computer, Taeyang just smiles at you brightly, looking as if he has no idea what’s causing you to appear wronged.

The host moves from behind the podium to begin leading you and Taeyang to your table. Only then does the Taeyang release his hold on your waist, but even after the moment passes, it’s as if his phantom touch against your body and the close smell of his cologne never disappear from your senses.

Eager for the chance to confront him, you barely process it when you enter into the ballroom-like restaurant suite, which is surrounded by ornate drapery and even boasts a private string quartet in the very corner of the room.

As the host guides you into sitting down at the pristine, white marble table, you watch as Taeyang immediately picks up his menu and begins to browse without sparing you a look. But so committed are you to questioning him for his actions just now that you remain still and lifeless, staring at him accusingly and refusing to drop your gaze until he notices you.

Finally, when it seems like neither of you are going to speak or acknowledge the other, it’s Taeyang who briefly looks up from his menu to give you a reproachful look. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’” you parrot in a short voice, mocking him as he attempts to appear aloof despite his obvious transgressions.

“The suite?” he says questionably in interpretation of your upset mood, nonchalantly explaining, “I’m a likeable guy. I didn’t want anyone nagging me while we ate.”

Briefly ignoring the overt ridiculousness of that statement, you pivot to questioning him on what you perceive to be the greater issue. “Why did you tell the host we were on a date? Pretend like we were a couple just now?”

“It’s not a big deal. I figured we might get a free dessert out of it,” he answers, and while his flat tone of voice might communicate indifference, the fact that he’s still avoiding your inquiry by pretending — rather poorly, with a bored look in his eyes — to browse the menu has you even further inclined to believe that what he’s telling you is bullshit.

But if you don’t believe him, what should you believe?

That the reason why he claimed you as his date was so that he could touch you without scrutiny?

If that were true, what would it mean for your continued compliance in his antics?

Brewing with about a million questions in regards to your relationship, you find that your scrutinizing gaze is unable to leave his face, where you search for answers that seem impossibly buried behind his unreadable eyes.

Noticing how you still appear unsatisfied, Taeyang peers over his menu to finally acknowledge you for a period of longer than a few seconds. Taking in your intense expression with a quizzical look on his face, he asks you inquisitively, “What’s that look?”

You’re not sure how to answer. In all of his unpredictability, Taeyang has never caused you to question his intentions to this much of a degree. But no matter how much you yearn to get a peek into his mind, it feels like you might do yourself more harm than good by trying to force him into answering questions that you yourself aren’t sure you want to hear the responses to.

“Nothing,” you reply dismissively, hoping that as you grab your menu you’ll both be able to abandon the issue.

But for a few seconds, it’s in a reversal of roles that you can feel Taeyang staring at you curiously as you pretend not to notice with your menu as cover.

Later, after you’ve both decided on what you want to eat, a waitress comes by to take your orders. She has fast moving, nervous hands and an overly cheerful expression on her face, attributes which you perceive indifferently until she opens her mouth to say, “Hello, what can I yet you? Sorry, I meant how can I–what can I….Jesus, I’m stuttering. I’m so sorry.”

You’re about to assure the waitress that she’s fine, remembering your days as a young resort associate not knowing how to deal with customers and thinking that perhaps her mistake is similarly motivated by inexperience.

But then you look up and notice that her eyes are fully focused on Taeyang, to the point where her body is almost completely turned to his and in turn, blocking you from her view.

Watching Taeyang to see how he’ll react, it makes you cringe a little to see him smiling so nicely at her before saying, “Don’t worry about it. Just take a deep breath, hmm?”

She seems to freak out a little bit at his words, giggling uncontrollably like he’s just said something revolutionary. Meanwhile, you fight the urge to roll your eyes at both his grossly flirty comment and her annoyingly girlish reactions toward him. They continue to banter as Taeyang leads her in bringing her hands up, then down, in a gesture of deep breathing. She seemingly finds everything that he says to be hilarious and thus never stops giggling, laughter he begins to shyly reciprocate so that it really does seem like they’re in their own flirty, sentimental bubble.

After what seems like forever, the waitress finally jots down Taeyang’s order, then turns to you. You notice how she appears visibly less excitable in your presence than she was in his. Suppressing your indignation, you begin to relay your order, but find that the menu items are difficult to pronounce.

“It’s min-yon,” quips Taeyang correctively when you can’t seem to get the word mignon right, and the waitress, nodding excessively in agreeance with him, also repeats it for you. Suddenly, it feels like you’ve been excluded by a stranger at your own dinner, the two of them in kahoots while your aloofness makes you the subject of their entertainment.

After the waitress leaves – making sure to wave goodbye just to Taeyang on her exit – you turn to him and expect that he’ll reciprocate your feelings of bewilderment. “I guess you were right about being a likable guy, huh?” you mention in a joking voice, though without intending it, you can hear how scrutinizing the words end up sounding.

Taeyang just shrugs as if to say, duh, of course I am, and you surprise yourself with how agitated you feel at his comprehensive lack of a reaction. To your relief, a different server comes to bring your food, and you enjoy it deliciously without having to say much to Taeyang other than an occasional yes or no in response to his overly dramatic exaggerations about how good his food is. As you’ve come to expect, he pulls out a disposable camera, not a phone, to take several pictures of the occasion, snapping some of the surrounding interior decorations as well as the food itself.

The waitress you had been dreading appears one last time before the evening ends, and it’s to deliver your check. When she places the leather package down on the table, you notice how she positions it closer to Taeyang than she does to you. Though she’d be right, it offends you to think that just by looking at the two of you she assumed that he would be the one to cover the bill.

Then, in one last aggravating gesture, the waitress tucks a small napkin underneath the check that has neat, black handwriting written all over it. She leaves, and before you have a chance to decipher the upside-down writing, Taeyang takes it and reads it with a mildly pleased expression on his face.

“I’ll be right back,” he announces suddenly, and you watch him get up from the table with increasingly resentful thoughts bubbling in your mind. You’re sure that whatever note she left was an invitation for him to follow her. If your hunch is right, then Taeyang is about to meet her outside in the hallway, where they’ll likely exchange numbers or continue whatever flirty banter they were just having in your presence.

But why does it matter to you so much? If he decided to go make out with her right now, it would be of no consequence to you.

And yet, your heart pounds with agitation just the same.

Minutes that feel like hours are spent before Taeyang finally returns to your table. He doesn’t bother sitting down, only asking in an unphased tone of voice, “Ready to go?” after presumably paying for the meal. Saying very little, you follow him out of the restaurant, feeling drained after a night of several inconvenient emotions.

Outside, where you turn to find the rideshare area, Taeyang goes in the opposite direction towards the beach.

“Where are you going? The cabs are going to be that way,” you inform him, a slight edge to your voice that makes the question sound brusque and short-tempered.

“Relax,” he says, languishing. “I just wanted to walk the beach a bit before we left.”

The announcement of a sudden detour causes you to feel annoyed, but as usual, you are powerless to Taeyang and his various demands; where he goes, you go. You let out a sigh, hoping for some of your irritation to exit with it, then say what have become familiar words — “Lead the way,” — before following Taeyang onto the beach.

This is the second time Taeyang has asked you to come with him on a walk down the beach, and you’ve always found it off putting to witness him become quiet and contemplative as a result of the activity. Used to his bombasticness, his utter delight with the sound of his own voice, you’re left in confusing and ambiguous waters trying to predict what he might do or say in these situations.

Just as you begin to become somewhat comfortable with the silence, it’s in an unprompted manner that he suddenly remarks, “You know, I never thought you’d agree to going to dinner with me.”

At this admission, you raise a confused and questioning eyebrow, displeased by the fact that he’s making it sound as if you wanted to come here. “It’s not like I had a choice in the matter,” you remind him matter-a-factly, perhaps a little too resentfully.

He surprises you by shrugging in reply to what has so far been an unquestionable constant in your relationship — he says you go somewhere, and you go, or else be threatened otherwise with the reminder of the blackmail he has on you. But Taeyang seems suddenly oblivious to this context, asserting in an airy voice, “You could’ve said no. You always could.”

“So you can tell all of my friends and family that you saw me cyber-stalking my ex?”

In response to your starkly-spoken assertion, Taeyang just shrugs. “I never understood why you cared so much about that. Who hasn’t checked up on their ex at least once?” he says, unabashedly chuckling at the thought. “Do you really think your friends and family will care that much?”

You feel embarrassed at the fact of him pointing out how truly frivolous, in the grand scheme of things, the blackmail he has over you is. Many times in the recent past, you’ve scrutinized yourself for being so easily controlled by this one, relatively unimportant secret.

But there are years of context that make your simple routine of checking your ex’s Instagram page much more than a passing joke, something your friends and family at the resort would tease you about but get over later. If anyone in your close circle were to discover the truth behind your actions in relation to your ex, you’re not sure if those relationships could recover.

That’s why you can only sigh in response to Taeyang, who looks at you imploringly as you reply, “It’s a long story.”

“Then tell it to me.”

His fascination surprises you. Looking into his eyes, there’s nothing funny or humorous about the way he seems genuinely interested in why this topic seems to affect you so much. You suppose it makes sense, given that this one secret has been the anchor keeping the two of you in shared orbit for the past 30 days. It feels funny to think that the person he’s so thoroughly been able to blackmail you with is someone he knows close to nothing about.

All it took was one accidental drop of your phone for the two of you to become — even if it was forced on your part — regular staples in each others’ recent lives.

“Do you really want to know?” you ask, needing final confirmation that this isn’t another one of Taeyang’s practical jokes, that you can, maybe foolishly, trust him with the information surrounding your most intimate secret.

“No,” he says decisively, but you can tell immediately by the tone of his voice that he’s aiming to throw you off with the sharp refusal, rather than actually meaning it. “But you’ll tell me anyway, won’t you?”

You want to disprove Taeyang, who is staring down at you smugly as if expecting you to finally reveal what he’s long been curious about. As much as you’d likely revel in disappointing him, it’s for the first time in a long time that you feel the slightest bit open to discussing this with someone.

It seems absurd to want to confess to him out of all people. Taeyang, who is almost like a stranger to you, is also someone you’ve spent more time with in the past month than you have with some people over the course of years. And while you obviously do not look highly on the fact that he’s achieved this time with you through threats and blackmail, it’s strange to admit that you actually feel safer around Taeyang than you would with most.

Or maybe your sudden acquiescence is because you’ve been suppressing these emotions for so long that all it took was the exact right moment for you to finally feel okay enough to express them. And so, in the shade of moonlight, on a beach where no one else but the two of you roam, you finally decide to free yourself from the weight of this long-held secret.

“My ex’s name is Intak.”

At the sound of these five words, you can feel Taeyang’s eyes burning into the side of your face in a taken-aback sort of way. Maybe he – like yourself in some ways – wasn’t expecting the beginnings of your most hard-kept secret to tumble out so easily. Despite the initial reaction of surprise, it’s comforting to notice how he manages to appear quiet and attentive only seconds later, assuring you that he’s taking what you’re about to say seriously.

“We went to school together, and he also worked at the resort. At school, he was your typical jock: excellent at sports, and really popular among girls. Never would I have thought to approach him. But when he started working here, and we were both on cleaning staff, working together all day made us friends. Pretty soon, I started having a crush on him.”

As these words leave your mouth, every memory associated with them comes back to you very vividly, as if you can see, taste, and smell all of the features which made the summer before your senior year the meaningful, bittersweet experience that it was. These emotions bleed into the wistful tone of your next statement.

“One day, we were in the store room, avoiding work. We started talking about our futures and how we both wanted to leave the island someday. Then, he kissed me,” you vocalize, not even realizing how timid your voice has become until your next sentiment hits the air in a delicate, dreamlike murmur. “It was the best day of my life.”

If Taeyang was being his usual self, then he’d make a joke here about how sappy and nostalgic you sound. Aware of this, you faintly feel yourself bracing for the moment in which he’ll open his mouth and say something to taunt you, making you regret telling him any of this in the first place.

But even as you pause briefly to collect your thoughts, he never tries to interrupt you. It’s a side of Taeyang you’ve never seen before, considerate and in tune with your emotions, making you feel confident to continue without worries — even as the story becomes more and more raw-feeling.

“That summer, we spent almost every day together. We did things that…I had never done with anyone else before.

“When our senior year came and it was time to figure out what to do for graduation, he wanted us to apply to the same school together. I did it because he asked me to, but I wasn’t serious about it. I had already told my mother I’d be taking on a full time position at the resort when I graduated,” you explain, the words carrying a mix of both fondness and regret. “But he was insistent and had all of these big dreams for me. For both of us. He said we’d move to the city and live in an apartment together while getting our degrees. I didn’t believe him. I was right not to, in the end. But I got accepted, after thinking I never would, and for that entire second half of my senior year, I was convinced we were going to run away together.”

You have to stop yourself when it feels like you’re becoming unnecessarily lost in the time during which these events took place. Ultimately, only one part of the story really matters — one single, life-shattering discovery that changed the course of what you thought would become the rest of your life.

“Anyway,” you intone flatly. “He had a girlfriend.”

Taeyang makes a small noise of surprise in reaction to the confession, which you state with almost no emotion. You feel almost numb to be discussing this after years of agonizing, crying, and feeling like the world itself had crumbled right in front of your eyes.

“She worked at the resort, too. I knew her, but not well. It made sense now why everything we had done had been in secret. I only found out because I saw them making out, in the same store closet where he and I had discussed our biggest fears,” you recall with a humorless, wet-sounding laugh. “He knew that I had caught him, so he came to me and tried to explain everything. It was still his goal for us to move to the city; we’d just have to be together in secret, so his girlfriend didn’t find out. He essentially wanted me to be his mistress.”

You look out onto the beach, where the ocean waves sway softly and steadily in rhythm with your breathing. “I could’ve done it. Or, I could’ve gone to school without him,” you explain, stating these options with a sort-of cold, detached indifference to your voice.

“But he had hurt me. So, so badly. I can’t even really call him my ex, because he never even claimed me in the first place!” you state in an almost joking way, the absurdity of your own misfortune dawning on you in a way that feels laughable.

But it’s the kind of laughter one does to keep from crying, and indeed does your voice shake unsteadily as you mumble out your final words. “And so I decided to stay on the island. Him and his girlfriend moved to the city, everyone congratulated them, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

Whether Taeyang’s simply waiting to see if you have anything else to say, or he’s stumped by what he’s learned, you notice how a few beats of silence go by before he’s saying anything at all. In a curious voice, he eventually asks, “So that’s why you don’t want any of the resort staff to know, then? Because it would mean admitting to your family that you want to leave the island?

You look up at Taeyang, shocked at how he’s managed to almost psychically capture your emotions with only a snapshot of context. “Yes,” you confirm in faint amazement, noticing how his eyes then narrow in an expression of confusion.

“I don’t understand. Why can’t you just leave?”

Letting out a small scoff in response to his bewilderedly-spoken statement, you shake your head as your eyes move down towards the sand. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“How?” demands Taeyang, who sounds impassioned in a way you’ve rarely heard him before. “Seriously, give me one reason why you can’t just leave right now.”

This is what you feared in deciding to share this story with Taeyang, or with anyone for that matter. You know that your actions aren’t simple to understand, and that you could easily be made to feel dumb for making the choices that you have. At times, you’ve troubled even yourself with the question of why you hadn’t followed your heart and decided to leave the island for the city which had long been pulling you toward it.

The truth is that the island, as well as the resort, are your home. The place where you’ve created lasting memories that date all the way back to your early toddlerhood. The place where your family has — for two generations — built roots that have sustained you through the hardest of periods. Given you food and shelter and a foundation to build a stable future.

It wasn’t easy for you to express wanting to leave, even if only temporarily. You weren’t like Intak, who had something to contribute to the world with his big ideas and fantastical dreams. Your place was – and had always been – at the resort, where you would eventually take up ownership just as your mother and grandfather had done before you.

Leaving to go to college felt especially pointless to your mother, who could not be convinced that your life on the island wasn’t already perfect. In her eyes, you were privileged. You had a guaranteed job, housing, and food waiting for you upon graduating high school. There was nothing for you anywhere else. It was your duty to stay here.

These days, you had no idea how you felt about your life’s trajectory any more. In some ways, leaving with Intak felt like a distant dream, a fragment of a life no longer yours.

But at other times, you recognized the ways in which working here at the resort limited you in the pursuit of a happy life. You had not once considered your own dreams or desires living here. The mundanity of your day-to-day tasks prevented you from doing so.

Leaving the island was a dream that was never quite yours to begin with, and yet, you cannot lie and say that it wouldn’t have been a great joy in your life to have gone through with it, or that you didn’t — still, to this day — think of it as a regret.

“You don’t understand what it means to have a family,” you state resentfully, your own passion rising to match Taeyang’s in a moment when it feels like your entire livelihood is on defense. “You have to care about someone to know why it’s not possible to just abandon them whenever it suits your selfish desires.”

These remarks sound scathing to even your own ears, and you know it’s unfair to make any sort of sweeping statements or assumptions about things Taeyang hasn’t shared with you. With the way he’s always remained mum on the topic of his life, you can guess that there are things in his past that are also painful to discuss.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to take back any of what you’ve said. Instead, you prepare yourself for the deserving taunts he’s likely to throw your way as a result of your overstepping.

To your surprise, Taeyang is quiet as he moves to sit down in the sand. Without knowing exactly why, you mimic him, and together you face the ocean that’s surprisingly still and noiseless, perhaps mirroring the mood you both seem to be in.

Unable to meet Taeyang’s eyes, it’s from your peripheral vision that you notice him spreading his legs out before leaning backwards onto his hands. “I left home when I was 13,” you hear him confess feebly, and the shock of his sudden candor hits you like a freight train. Immediately, you look sideways to face him, and find that his head is tipped upwards in an uncharacteristic expression of sentimentality. “To train. Music always came natural to me, but I needed someone to show me how I could succeed.”

Music. You wondered before about Taeyang’s relationship to the discipline after seeing him play the guitar so well. Perhaps he was a prodigy when he was younger, relating to whatever story he’s about to tell you.

“Everyday, I wonder how different my life would be had I gotten the chance at a real childhood,” he says, looking out into the sky with a wistful look on his face. “But I know now that I’d be a completely different person. I would have had to give up on my dreams.”

It’s the first time that Taeyang has ever shared anything about his life with you, and while he remains a mysterious figure in your eyes, you can feel the sincerity in his words and understand that it must have been difficult for him to share even this much. Grateful for this rare moment of vulnerability, even when his advice is still hard for you to grasp, it feels like you view Taeyang in a new, improved light.

“By the way,” he adds, after a long stretch of contemplative silence from the both of you. “I’m not going to tell anyone. About your ex.”

His statement causes you immense pause. Because if he’s serious about not telling anyone about your ex, that means that this — the blackmail, the last month or so of being forced to attend to his every whim, of spending almost everyday together — is over. Finally, you’re free.

Surely the liberation you've been looking forward to for the last few weeks shouldn’t feel this empty.

You haven’t said anything, you realize, and when Taeyang gets up from the sand, you decide that any moment for additional discussion has passed. He extends a hand to help you get up, and rather than the usual pride, it’s because you’re still dazed from everything he’s told you tonight that it takes you a second to accept the gesture. Eventually, you collect yourself and allow him to pull you up onto your feet.

“I’m going to walk back,” he tells you upon your heads becoming level. “But I can pay for a cab, if you want.”

“It’s fine,” you answer, swiftly deciding to go with him. For some reason, you’d rather be with someone else, even if that someone else is him, than alone in this precise, emotionally confusing moment.

And so you walk, this time with a purpose, using your memory as a guide while Taeyang pulls out a map in what promises to be at least a 30 minute journey. Somehow you don’t mind, allowing yourself to enjoy the nighttime, beachy atmosphere at a pace that’s easy and comfortable.

“Do you think you can begin again?”

These are the words Taeyang allows to hit the air after you’re already halfway through the walk, remaining mostly silent up until this point. Feeling his eyes watching you closely, you face him and notice a look of intensity behind his pensive eyes. At this moment, it’s as if he’s looking through you rather than at you.

“After everything that’s happened with your ex. How he hurt you,” he continues in a blank, measured tone of voice. “Do you think you could begin again, with someone else?”

You stare at Taeyang, understanding exactly what he means with the question in spite of the lyrical way it’s been put. In a world before today, you might’ve questioned why he would even ask you such a thing in the first place. But tonight, you’ve been invigorated with a renewal of something you thought you’d lost — trust. In yourself, in your future, and in him.

“Yes.”

After sharing a wordless goodbye comprised of somewhat awkward hums and head nods, you and Tayeang part ways outside the resort. He heads inside to his suite, while you follow a sideways path leading to your bungalow.

Immediately upon entering into your home, you notice that the A/C has luckily been repaired in your absence. Spent after a tiring and tumultuous night, you take off your clothes and retreat into the shower, making it purposefully cold and standing directly underneath the steady spray, The temperature of the water unfortunately does nothing to ease the heat that still lingers in your body — no longer caused by the weather, but by continuously reflecting on the intimate moment you and Taeyang shared tonight.

An hour passes in the time that it takes you to shower and change into your pajamas, and yet, you cannot seem to slow any of your passing thoughts, which grow in intensity and persistence. Deciding some fresh air might be your last chance at peace of mind, you open the front door and once again come in contact with a chest that you pull back to discover, for the second time, belongs to an undisturbed Taeyang.

“Jesus fricking Christ, Taeyang. You scared me again!” you exclaim angrily, wrapping yourself tighter in the cardigan you wore to come outside. The blond-haired boy stares at you with a look that’s completely unphased, resting one shoulder against the doorframe as he takes in your frazzled form.

You feel like you should be angrier at him for appearing outside of your house like this after telling him several times not to. But for some reason, the actual sight of him has you becoming easily dispassionate and calm despite the circumstances.

After several seconds spent in silence, most of which you use to instinctively check whether anyone is nearby to notice him outside your door, it’s in a gentle voice that Taeyang asks you, “Can I come in?”

You have every reason to be wary of Taeyang and his intentions in wanting to come inside. But it’s also in awe that you recall this as being the only time in which he’s ever asked you for permission before doing something. It shouldn’t impress you, but after tonight’s conversation which revealed a side of Taeyang you had never seen before, you’re more curious than ever to discover the meaning behind his sudden change in temperment.

Hesitantly, you get behind the door and pull it backwards to give him room to walk inside.

When you shut the door closed, you find Taeyang with his hands on his hips, looking around and becoming familiar with the inside of your home. In staring at him, you observe for the first time how delicate he can sometimes look when he isn’t saying anything and is simply taking in his surroundings. You like him like this, you decide, and for some reason that thought isn’t as scary to acknowledge as it once was.

Taeyang turns around to face you, where you’re still standing at the door. His presence has rendered you nervous and unable to move around in your own home. When you make eye contact, it’s like everything in you softens, and the world around you ceases to exist for the tiniest moment. Has he done this to you, or are you the one that’s changed in your time together?

In the mental haze you suddenly find yourself in, such questions become unanswerable. All that is clear to you is that the most handsome man you’ve ever met is staring at you, and the look on his face is unyielding. You blink, and suddenly he’s walking closer to you.

You’re blocked in, sandwiched between the door and Taeyang’s body. Inches away from one another, you watch as his arms lift from his sides to cradle your face in his hands.

When your heart’s beating so fast it’s as if you’re about to pass out, it’s then that Taeyang leans in to bring his mouth to yours in a kiss.

You’re not expecting his kiss to feel as soft as it does. With a personality that’s like fire, how could you foresee him kissing you like he is now, with such slow, genuine care it’s as if he’s scared to break you in the process? Your arms come to rest against his waist as you hesitantly contribute to the kiss by moving your mouth in rhythm with his. The feeling of his lips, plush and alive against yours, is so pleasantly addicting that it leads you to whimpering quietly into his mouth.

Taeyang walks you backward slightly so that your back fully touches the door. Passion begins to bleed into his movements so that a kiss which was once careful now becomes feverish and intoxicating. Your accepting mouth parts to allow his tongue access, and soon the two of you are lost in a kiss more enjoyable than anything you’ve experienced before.

There is surely no name for the magnetic, electrifying feeling that seemingly glues your two bodies together. But you’re certain that neither of you need words to express just how profoundly right this feels.

Eventually, reality and time dawn, and the two of you pull apart. But the intensity of the moment lingers so strongly that neither of you can think to say anything to each other.

In the darkness of your home’s entrance, it’s hard to make out Taeyang’s expression, or tell what it is that he’s thinking in the time you spend quietly catching your breaths. But after a long bout of silence, he finally moves, though it’s to reach behind you and grab the doorknob, which he uses to let himself out of your house without a word.

That leaves you standing by yourself, feeling more thoroughly dazed than what 1000 hot, island days could ever do to you.

In the hallways of the resort the next day, a heap of unfolded linen, the announcement of a staff member’s sick leave, and several of your other morning tasks all await your eager attention.

But your attempts to focus on work are continuously thwarted by the memories of last night with Taeyang.

It took you some time after waking up to realize that what you recalled as a moment of shared tenderness between the two of you wasn’t the beginnings of some nightmare you were still fighting to gain consciousness from.

On the contrary, your kiss with Taeyang was as real as real gets, no matter how much your confused and embarrassed brain willed otherwise.

The kiss was so real, in fact, that it was as if you could feel the lingering heat of his mouth moving against yours, even as hours have passed since he last left your bungalow mysteriously.

Let your body tell the story, kissing Taeyang was a pleasant experience, the ripples of which still cause you butterflies even in the mundane act of folding towels.

Getting your mind on the same accord, however, is a much harder hurdle to overcome.

Because how can you make sense of the fact that someone you previously harbored so much dislike and disdain for could now be the source of your unshakable desire and longing?

Brewing with questions of increasing emotional scrutiny, you try your hardest to forget them by aggressively perfecting your folding technique. But no such method succeeds in wiping the phantom feeling of Taeyang’s touch against your face, or the fact that it’s as if your lips are still wet from his mark on them.

The longer you remain distracted, the more it becomes as if you’re barely conscious in the act of folding the towels; it’s like your brain and body are on two completely different planes.

In such a state, it’s no wonder that you don’t notice the shadow of a figure approaching you from down the hallway—

—or why you become so shocked when that same shadow grabs hold of your forearm and drags you into the nearest store closet.

“Taeyang,” you half-whimper and half-scold upon catching your bearings, realizing when the blur of being hurriedly taken somewhere wears off that it’s his tall figure standing in front of you. “What the hell are you doing?

Seemingly uncaring to how frazzled he’s made you, Taeyang — wearing a blank yet mischievous expression — cuts immediately to the chase. “I wanna show you something,” he says, not bothering to provide any additional details before questioning, “Are you free?”

It feels weird — actually being given a choice as to whether you want to go somewhere with him. If you were to answer with your current list of tasks in mind, then you aren’t free, not even close to it. But if following him to wherever he plans on taking you is your way of perhaps getting the answers to all of your curiosities, especially in regards to his intentions in kissing you last night, then you’ll happily oblige.

“Y-yes,” you answer shakily, feeling intimidated as it suddenly dawns on you how close his body is to yours. You can feel his breathing against your face in almost in the same way you could when he was kissing you. And he smells really good too, like freshly showered cleanliness with a hint of cologne on top.

“Then let’s go,” he intones decisively, and in the same aggressive, hurried way he dragged you into the closet, you're met with an equal amount of fervor as he pulls you out into the hallway.

Wherever Taeyang’s taking you must excite him, because the way he walks is furious and fast, with a strong intention clearly in mind. It becomes hard to keep up with him at a certain point, especially when he decides to go down the stairs instead of the elevator.

The sudden urgency of his movements rouses your curiosity. You have so many questions you want to ask him, so many things it feels like you need to talk about, but right now, what becomes your most important question is that of wondering where he’s taking you. To your frustration, he doesn’t answer any of your inquiries to that end, only instructing that you wait and see.

Eventually, you find yourself outside on the beach, where luckily it’s not as hot as it was in the days before. Still, the pace with which Taeyang scampers down the shore is tiring even without the sun beating down on you, which is why you’re about to stop and tell him that wherever he’s taking you is meaningless if you’ve passed out before making it there.

Before you can do so, Taeyang’s fast moving steps suddenly come to a halt, and you understand by the satisfied look on his face that you’ve arrived at the intended destination. Looking around, you can’t immediately tell what you’re supposed to find special about this specific section of plain, regular beach. Besides a few surrounding rock cliffs, there’s nothing remarkable about it at all.

“Is this it?” you question skeptically, a waft of disappointment in your voice as you circle the area in small steps, trying to discover what was so urgent about him bringing you here. As you’re looking around, wondering if perhaps this is the latest in a series of childish tricks Taeyang’s always loved to play on you, your curiosity is interrupted by the suddenness of his tall figure walking up to you.

Maintaining a completely neutral expression, an intense Taeyang enters your personal space by taking a few eager steps towards your body. Confused and caught off guard, you step back on instinct, but find that he’s – possibly intentionally – backed you up against the edge of a nearby rock cliff.

Nowhere to escape or look besides his penetrating brown eyes, you can only yield as you listen to him announce in a blank tone, “You know, we kissed last night.”

The sudden mention of last night has your face warming bashfully, and you have to fight the urge to look away from him so as to avoid seeming as affected as you are by both his observation and his closeness. He’s stating the obvious in a way you’re surely meant to react to by sharing your own interpretations of the moment, but all you can manage is an equally as deadpanned, “Yeah, I know.”

Privacy, then, seems to be the reason why he wanted to bring you here. There’s no one around to hear the two of you discussing what — for you, at least — is still a secret. In the daytime, it would’ve required some extensive sneaking for him to reach your house without your mother seeing him. And in the resort, any combination of staff could have caught the two of you and spread the gossip of your conversation far and wide until it became the topic of everyone’s interest, likely before lunch.

This becomes a distant thought, though, as Taeyang further closes the existing gap between your bodies by taking another step forward. Rendered tense by the fact that your noses are nearly touching, you become even more heady when the next words out of his mouth are connected to a heavily suggestive confession.

“I couldn’t sleep last night. And it wasn’t because of my crappy pillows, which by the way, still aren’t fluffy enough for my liking,” he remarks, something you’d roll your eyes at if you weren’t so presently captivated by his every word. “It was because I couldn’t wait to do it again.”

Before you have a chance to react to his statement, and to your utmost stupefaction, Taeyang’s hands find your hips as he proceeds to hoist you up onto the edge of the elevated rock. It brings your faces to the same level, and now you’re able to more clearly see the look of unguarded longing that lights up his handsome features.

With his arms braced on either side of your body, and your heart beating fast in your chest, you’re relieved when after a few seconds of wavering, Taeyang correctly interprets your silence as permission to lean in and kiss you passionately.

With Taeyang, there is no build up — just immediate, blissful domination. The moment you just barely part your lips to communicate your shared desire for the kiss is when he deepens it by sliding his tongue into your mouth. It scares you just how good together the two of you are when it comes to this single, intimate act. For once, you no longer have to wonder whether you and Taeyang are on the same page. The answer reveals itself in the way his hand moves to squeeze your waist at the same time that your arm raises to pull at the hair growing from the nape of his neck.

Your faces tilt in opposite directions to accommodate for the way in which Taeyang’s mouth almost completely overtakes yours. His taller height contributes to the sense of submission that blooms within you, causing you to allow little hesitant sighs to escape between your swollen lips in an uncharacteristic expression of contentment. Standing between your parted thighs, your mind briefly wonders what it might feel like to roll your hips against him. It’s a sultry, unexpected jump from your usually harmless observations of his attractiveness, but you can't help it when he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting forever to do this again.

You don’t know how much time passes in the time you spend making out on the rock — seconds, minutes, even? Far enough that his full face comes into view, but close enough that you can still feel the broken remnants of his breathing, Taeyang finally retracts from you. Slender fingers on either side of your jaw keep your head in place as he stares at you wordlessly, reverently. You’re so unused to this — the intense tenderness of his staring, the warm feeling that it stirs within you. It renders you shy and hazy, a quiet, “What?” leaving your mouth through a smile as you wonder what he’s thinking as he looks at you.

“Nothing,” he says nonchalantly, allowing his hand to return to its usual position at his waist while the warmth from them is left behind like a burn against your skin. “Let’s go back to the resort. I’m so hungry I could die.” Rolling your eyes at his dramatically-intoned complaint, you allow Taeyang to help you down from the rock, relishing in the short few seconds of his palms pressed against your hips.

What a crazy turn of events it’s been. Going from loathing him, tolerating him, relating to him, enduring him, to now being relentlessly attracted to him.

Suddenly, as you’re preparing to head back to the resort, Taeyang looks at you with a mischievous grin on his face. “Race you back?”

You scoff at the surprising, somewhat childish request, though nonetheless smirk as the competitive side of you rears itself. “You’d lose.”

“Wanna bet?”

“What do I get if I win?”

Taeyang comes close to you, his intoxicating, masculine scent filling your senses once more. Tall and straight, he blocks the sun from your view, creating a dark, shadowy bubble in which only the two of you exist in.

In his closeness, you wonder if he intends to kiss you again; peck you in that routine, casual sort of way. Instead, he’s whisper quiet and teasing as he replies, “My mouth.”

Processing his words, you notice something almost modest and playful about the tilt of his lips, like he doesn’t quite realize how suggestive he’s being with that statement. Your face warms, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re embarrassed to be spoken to in such a way, or ignited.

What’s sure is that when you pivot away from Taeyang, refusing to look back as you run down the beach, it’s with the intention of catching him off guard, just as he’s constantly done to you. You know he’s following when you hear the sounds of high-pitched, winded laughter trailing behind you; soon, he’s lingering directly in your peripheral, washed-out blond hair blowing after him. Exchanging wholesome, gleeful glances, you sprint in relative congruity with one another all the way back to the resort.

You’re both so sincere and earnest in your efforts despite the pointlessness of the activity, and so you bicker aimlessly as to who won the race upon your even arrival at the resort’s front lot.

Still needling at each other as you approach the entrance, you find yourself quieting, then frowning, when you notice the crowd of a dozen or so resort staff hovering nearby. Stirred by the sight, you spot among them a receptionist with whom you share a pleasant relationship, Kesha, giving you a deathly, dissatisfied stare as you draw near.

That’s when you remember, particularly as you process the fact of each staff member holding a clipboard close to their chests, that you were supposed to be assisting with an event today. Each week, the resort hosts an outdoor performance, boasting dancers, singers, instrumentalists, and interactive aspects for guests. The latest one is tonight, which means you were supposed to report to the main conference room for a briefing at nine am. Instead, you were outside on the beach, making out with Taeyang.

Taeyang seems to somehow sense the tense atmosphere as he trades glances between you and the rapidly roused group of staff. He asks no questions when you wave him inside the resort, mumbling a wavered, “See you later,” as you attempt to quickly blend in with your coworkers. They’re gracious with their dirty looks but luckily demand no sort of explanation from you — it’s not like you had an easy one, anyway.

With a few hours work, the help of several contractors, and the combined efforts of your coworkers, a show featuring the resort’s highly regarded dancers, singers, and entertainers had been prepared. A stretch of beach typically utilized for leisure activities was transformed so that 200 or so chairs faced a newly-erected soundstage. Even if this was your 400th time helping to execute one of these, you could not help but be prideful of your fellow staff who dressed in uniform formal attire — girls in red dresses with purple flowers in their hair, guys in suits with identically colored corsages — and feel giddy about the occasion, as if it were prom night.

The sky changing from a burnt orange to a depthless obsidian meant that the show was about to begin. While the performers would head on stage, usually in some kind of march or choreographed routine, your place was at the very back, where you’d be practically imperceptible to most guests. There, you’d periodically survey the crowd, making sure to watch for any rowdy audience members or worse, signs of heatstroke that would require emergency services.

Kicking off the show are a group of drummers who arrive spontaneously from the side of the beach, weaving themselves between the rows of chairs and enthralling the packed group of families, couples, and solo vacationers who have come to watch. Following them are dancers that guide the audience through a routine made easy for beginners, then flame-throwers who evoke lots of ooohs and aaahs from their dexterity with lit torches.

With the beginning of the show going off without a hitch, you focus your attention on the audience, searching for things that might require your attention.

And in the process, you discover Taeyang as he suddenly enters the area in a relaxed stance.

Seeing him now evokes completely different feelings than it would’ve a few weeks or even days ago. You’ve gone crazy, surely, recognizing it in the fact that you yearn to be near him instead of away from him. The hands he chooses to stuff in his pockets remind you of the kiss you shared on the beach this morning, how he cradled your face with them and squeezed as if never wanting to let you go. Never have you felt something as intense than in those fleeting, exhilarating seconds — unless, of course, you’re counting the other kiss you shared in your bungalow.

It’s these feelings of longing that cause you to consider following Taeyang over to the bar he’s reclusively decided to seat himself at. Conveniently located near the back, you’d still be able to keep a watchful eye over the crowd, even while your personal entertainment is derived from elsewhere.

You’re well aware of the fact that leaving your post could get you in trouble. But if your only task is to keep your eyes peeled for problems, then you’ll surely have no trouble around an exuberant Taeyang, whose unpredictable presence always requires a little extra vigilance, anyway.

Approaching the bar from behind, you seat yourself in the stool directly next to Taeyang, keeping your movements light and your eyes toward the stage so that it appears as if you just stumbled over here, not made the intentional move to be closer to him. Upon noticing you, Taeyang’s dark and concentrated eyes immediately, shamelessly trail up and down your body, and in the process bring warmth to every place they linger — your exposed legs, your perfumed collarbones, your delicate neck.

You don’t explain yourself or your intentions to Taeyang. Rather, you stare enduringly straight at the stage and say nothing at all, acting almost as if he isn’t there. Something brings you pleasure about forcing him to greet you first, particularly during a moment in which he’s already made his satisfaction at your appearance clear.

Clearing his throat, Taeyang squirms a little in his seat before turning to you and saying in a neutral, mild voice, “You look nice.” When you swivel in your chair to finally face him, you notice how he becomes immediately robotic and stiff under your gaze. It was as if you were making him nervous.

“Thank you,” you reply otherwise cooly in gratitude. It’s in an attempt at starting up a conversation that you ask, “Enjoying the show?”

“It’s alright,” he answers in a short, somewhat strained manner, seeming entirely tense and reserved in your presence for reasons you don’t immediately perceive. His unsettled behavior is strange, but then again so is he — always — so you ignore it and proceed to focus your attention back on the performance when Taeyang seems uninterested in saying anything else.

Even as you both try to silently enjoy the show, it’s in your peripheral vision that you notice Taeyang constantly fidgeting in his chair. Restless and nervous energy radiates off of him with each sudden jerk of his hand or bounce of his foot, affecting you to the point of being unable to pay attention to what’s occurring on stage.

Finally, when it feels like you’re going crazy because of him, Taeyang turns to you and leans in so that his mouth is at your ear, an action so unexpected it causes your entire body to stiffen. “I’ve got an idea,” he whispers sultrily. “You wanna go upstairs and fool around for a bit?”

You turn to look at Taeyang, who is staring at you with a humorously grave expression on his face. Caught off guard by his words, the only statement you can muster in response to his question is a disbelieving, “What?”

Upon your confused reply, Taeyang’s disposition changes. He turns away from you to look at the stage, and while it’s painfully obvious that he’s paying little to no attention to whomever’s performing, he swings his leg onto his lap, statuesque and seemingly focused. Out of his mouth is a nonchalantly absurd reply of, “Lovely weather we’re having tonight, huh?”

You scoff openly at his cheekiness. It seems, as you now realize, that the tension you’d been feeling so strongly from Taeyang was in fact, romantically motivated. So electric is the energy coursing between the two of you that your attempts to stay composed, to stare at the stage and pretend like you’re engaged, are foiled almost immediately as you can’t help but to throw subtle glances his way. He does the same until finally, after far too many seconds spent in a state of almost awkward silence, he leans in once more to say, “So are you saying you’d be opposed if we walked out of here right now and—-”

“No. I’m not,” you interrupt him to declare, and as you meet each other’s equally attentive gazes, you for once find Taeyang in a rare state of surprise and awe. “So are you going to continue staring at me,” you continue in a slight-mocking tone, confident and composed despite the boldness of your words, “or will you lead the way?”

The straightforwardness with which you proposition him has Taeyang stunned and slack-jawed for a few moments, staring at you as if he’s just now fully waking up to your presence. Then, once the reality of the situation dawns, you can see little flares of enthusiasm appearing behind his brown eyes before he’s casually getting up from his stool, proceeding behind the actively occupied crowd in the direction of the resort. You follow him, the ends of your dress blowing behind you as a gust of cool, night time wind goes by.

Watching the two of you leave the area is Harvey, imperceptible amongst a group of other staff who have situated themselves in a far away corner, assigned with the same task of overseeing the crowd. Seeing you sneak off with the same blond-haired stranger that’s been plaguing you like a shadow for almost a month, albeit not incredibly obviously, confirms a growing suspicion of hers that you’ve been badly influenced. But Harvey’s emerging knowledge of your relationship with Taeyang is a problem you’re oblivious to, at least for now.

Inside the resort, you find that the hallways and lobby appear mostly empty, likely because of the show going on outside. With it feeling almost like you and Taeyang are the only people around, there’s a carefree buoyancy in your steps, making it easy to forget that you’re technically sneaking around right now, and for reasons you’d never be able to explain to Harvey or your mother.

The elevator ride to the fifth floor is only the second you’ve shared with Taeyang, and like the first on the night in which he arrived at the resort, 30 seconds feels like hours. Taeyang, a gentleman up until the metal doors closing, makes his eagerness noticeable to you by pressing the front of his body against your back. While reaching to hold your hand in his, slender fingers weaving between the gaps of your placid ones, his lips begin their pursuit down your neck. Short, purposeful pecks decorate the skin between your exposed shoulder to the area beneath your ear, causing you to sigh dreamily while battling the parts of you that know you shouldn’t be doing this in an elevator, where anyone could enter at any time.

“Taeyang…” you murmur, dragging out the syllables of his name as you grow more and more weak from his tactics. What was meant to be a reprimand comes out sounding more like a moan, the fault of a greedy Taeyang who stupefies you by using his free hand to affectionately sweep hair away from your neck.

“Hmm?” you hear him hum back innocently, and with his voice, touch and closeness all working in service to your demise, you’re certain that with just a few more seconds, you’ll turn around and allow him to plant a few more of his kisses in areas that are itching to be touched. But with the elevator making its loud dinging noise to communicate your arrival on the fifth floor, Taeyang retreats from your body without needing to be told — although in slow, delayed movements that make it seem like he’d rather not.

It’s your anxious, fast-moving feet that lead the way to Taeyang’s suite, where you assumed you’d be going once you noticed him not taking the sideways path to your bungalow. At the familiar door is when you remember that he’s the one with the key, and therefore you whip your head around to face him. In doing so, you notice how close he is behind you. Only turning around has caused your faces to be within inches of each other. When he leans down to scan his key, you’re briefly pressed into the wall by his arm. Eyeing his ringed fingers as they close around the metal door knob, the twist of his wrist causes you to tumble clumsily into the room without warning.

Quickly, you find your footing and turn around to watch Taeyang enter the room after you. You feel slightly embarrassed by how your eyes unconsciously rake his tall, slender form, enjoying especially how he looks when he’s wearing casual attire; tonight is a simple pair of black shorts and a subtle graphic t-shirt. In what has been so far an overwhelming haze of attraction that has motivated your actions thus far, it suddenly dawns on you that you have no idea what you and Taeyang will be getting up to tonight, or how far you will go in doing whatever it is you decide to do. But you feel giddy and excited at the possibilities just the same.

Carefully, you observe how Taeyang’s first move after the door closes is to kick his slides off at the entrance. While seeming so utterly relaxed, it amazes you how his gaze is an intense mixture of lust and desire. He walks slowly towards you, in movements so intimidating you find yourself backing away from him just to try and gain some control over the situation. What catches you off guard is when a single, stretched hand of his comes up to push at your chest, causing you to stumble backwards onto a cushioned chair you didn’t even know was behind you. He smirks at the surprised expression you make, then stands above your lowered form.

With Taeyang, it’s best never to predict what his next move will be. That’s why, even when he leans down as if about to kiss you, you never close your eyes. In fact, you’re partly of the mind that in all of his unreal singularity, he could disappear if you did.

So instead, you watch with keen eyes as Taeyang comes closer, not to kiss you, but to take hold of one of your exposed legs. He brings it up to his waist, and after allowing his fingertips to drag across the span of your calf, he finally lands at your ankle, where he carefully removes the heel you were wearing. He does the same to your other leg, throwing both shoes by the door with his slides.

When he’s done, and both of your bare feet are planted firmly onto the wooden floor, his quiet concentration leads him to grabbing your hands this time. He uses them to pull you upward into a standing position, and in your closeness, you tumble immediately into his chest.

The moment you look up at him is when he finally meets your lips in a kiss.

He takes your arms and drapes them one at a time behind his neck, where they stay as he walks you backwards into the kitchen. Despite the kiss rendering you both temporarily blind, he somehow manages, whether through muscle memory or luck, to land you right up against the granite counters.

The kiss between you and Taeyang is hungrier, more desperate, than any kiss before it. It takes very little time for his tongue to begin invading the wetness of your mouth, or for his hands to begin palming and squeezing at your ass.

Since you first met Taeyang, you were struck by his ability to pull such strong emotions out of you — anger, frustration, and vexation all came easily in his presence.

Knowing this, you suppose it shouldn’t be much of a wonder that in this separate, unexpected context, he similarly manages to make you insatiably turned-on, obvious in the way you kiss him back with an equal amount of fervor.

Taeyang breaks away from the kiss first, the look on his flushed face a mirror of your current crazed affliction. As you’re catching your breath, the symptoms of your arousal hit you all at once in an effect that’s like being doused in cold water — your legs feel like jelly, your heart is racing a mile a minute, and your body aches with the need to be touched.

In such a state, what you’re least expecting and wanting is exactly what Taeyang does next — he unravels himself from you completely, backing up onto the opposite counter with a glint of mischief present in his eyes.

You watch him part from you bemusedly, and without being able to control the falter in your voice, it’s in your desperation to continue that you question, “W-why did you stop?”

Looking obviously smug in a way that causes you both annoyance and butterflies, Taeyang runs a hand through his hair before answering you with an almost chuckled, “Because you haven't told me what you want.”

You can feel the corners of your lips pulling into a disbelieving smile in recognition of Taeyang’s familiar, immature games. “You were the one that suggested we come up here,” you remind him defiantly in reply.

“Yeah, to fool around. That could mean a lot of things,” he answers, shrugging. “Maybe I just wanted to play a game of cards.”

His latest in a habitual series of bizarre arguments causes you to roll your eyes incredulously, and yet, you can’t help but to find his absurdity amusing. Hints of suppressed laughter bleed into your voice so that you barely manage to sound assertive in your retort of, “I really, really can’t stand you sometimes.”

It’s funny to observe how the more exasperated-sounding your remarks toward him are, the more enthralled Taeyang appears to be with you. You witness his eyes hardening in an almost carnal way before he’s pushing off the counter to come close to you again. Standing so that the tips of your feet touch, he sweeps the hair out of your face gently in an act that contradicts his otherwise strong disposition. Similarly coy is how he plants a simple, barely-there kiss at your temple. Never one to linger too long in one place, Taeyang’s mouth lowers until he’s at your ear. He teases the shell of it with his teeth and his tongue, then sucks on your earlobe as you let out a quiet whine in response.

Sounding much like a parent explaining a difficult concept to a toddler, he says in your ear teasingly, “You have to use your words for me to understand you. I can’t read your mind.” You can almost feel the smirk on his lips as his mouth trails down the side of your neck, kissing and licking hickies into your skin that you tilt your head back to eagerly receive.

“I’ll give you anything you want,” he adds in a velvety, inviting voice, causing chills to appear up your spine and your lips to part in a passionate sigh. “Just tell me.”

It’s a testament to how disarmed you’ve become that you don't even second guess the words that come out of your mouth next, a desperate, “Want you to touch me,” sounding partly like a whimper, partly like a plea. With his hands currently rested on your hips, you half-expect Taeyang to mention that he’s already touching you. But it’s possibly in service to his own growing restlessness that he asks instead, “Where? Here?” just before slotting a leg between your thighs.

You’re not expecting it to feel as good as it does when his exposed, boney knee comes into contact with your clothed center, the pressure against your core so wonderful it causes you to let out an immediate, whiny answer of, “Yes.” Taeyang responds by pulling his head out from the side of your neck and kissing you hard on the lips, your tongues clashing in the passionate exchange that ends with your bottom lip being dragged out with his teeth.

With his hands now cradling either side of your face, Taeyang stares down at you quietly, a hazy look appearing behind his eyes as he muses, “You’re too pretty for your own good,” in a tone that causes your stomach to swoop. “It makes me want to completely ruin you.”

You’ve never heard or seen him this primal before, eyes scanning your face slowly like he wants to permanently etch every detail of your current lustful expression into his memory. Hoping to provoke him into saying more, you’re purposefully coy in allowing a quiet and curious, “How?” to exit your lips.

“What was that?” he asks distractedly in response, eyes meeting yours after a few moments of allowing them to rake the depths of your face. With Taeyang’s renewed attention comes a deeper press of his knee into your cunt, causing you to let out a quiet gasp.

“I asked you, how,” you repeat for him softly, biting back a moan as your clit is stimulated just right by the apex of his knee. “How do you want to ruin me?”

“By making you come so many times you can barely form a sentence,” he replies almost instantly, and the fact of him needing barely any time to vocalize exactly his desires has arousal shooting up your body in an effect that’s like an electric shock. Thumb tracing your bottom lip, he adds, “Although, it doesn’t look like it would be that hard to achieve already.”

In all of your nervous anticipation, you still somehow manage to prompt him into saying more with a shakily proclaimed, “Is that all?”

“No,” he answers, scanning your face with a sultry look in his eyes before saying, “I also want to fuck your brains out.”

His words set your body on fire, something about the bluntness with which he so candidly expresses himself to you sexually making your knees weak and your brain foggy in its attempt to find words.

“What are you waiting for, then?” you ask in a daring tone of voice, and with his eyes still staring into yours passionately, he answers, “For you to beg me for it.”

Taeyang’s incredibly self-indulgent request has you turning your face away from him so that you can roll your eyes, a reaction that causes him to chuckle before two fingers on your chin force you into meeting his gaze once more. “Say it. Tell me how much you want it,” he orders imploringly, and perhaps seeing in your face how resistant you are to the idea, it feels almost like a threat that his next statement is a serious, “I won’t do anything unless you ask for it.”

In a battle between your two very strong wills, it feels very plausible that the two of you could end things right here solely because neither of you are willing to give in. The last thing you want is to allow your pride to stand in the way of what you anticipate will be a pleasurable experience. Still, you won’t beg; that would be going too far.

Instead, what feels right is making things so tempting for him so that he’ll have no choice but to give in to you. While never having thought of yourself as a particularly seductive person, there’s something intuitive about your movements to begin pushing down the thin straps of your dress from your shoulder.

In simply noticing your arm moving, Taeyang’s attention is already roused. His eyes follow the journey of your hands as you purposefully allow the silk fabric of your dress to fall until it becomes clear by the lack of material that you haven’t been wearing a bra. A final tug at the collar causes your breasts to become fully exposed to the cold air.

As foreign as it feels to bare yourself for someone like this, the reward is in Taeyang’s reaction — the unsubtly of his staring, the eagerness with which he takes in the newly revealed skin, the dumbfounded, slack-jawed astonishment painted all over his expression. Maybe a little haughtily, it’s in one final act of provocation that you ask in an exaggeratedly timid voice, looking at Taeyang with eyes as big as you can manage them, “Will you fuck me, Taeyang?”

The look that Taeyang meets your eyes with is one of fiery awe, a reaction you interpret as a mix of both disbelief and satisfaction at your actions. To your relief, he quickly rewards you for your boldness with a kiss so passionate, it nearly knocks all of the air from your lungs. Burdened by desire, the two of you kiss in a manner that’s crazed, uninhibited. As your arms wrap around his neck in an eager attempt to pull him in closer by his hair, he uses the opportunity to lift you off of your feet and into his arms. Intuitively, you lock your legs around his waist, and with the kiss still ongoing, he begins walking you towards the bedroom.

Cushy pillows and an abundance of comforters provide you a soft place to land as Taeyang carefully lowers you onto the bed. He breaks the kiss, an act that causes both of you to moan, whether because of frustration at the loss of contact or in zealous anticipation of the pleasure that’s to come.

You eagerly accept it as Taeyang’s head retreats into your neck, where he once more begins a trail of open-mouthed kisses that trend downward until he’s at your decolletage, just above your beating heart and exposed breasts.

“You’re a little tease, aren’t you?” he declares thickly against your skin, assumedly in reference to how you took off your dress earlier. You beam internally at what you take as a compliment, then watch as Taeyang lowers his head in order to fit his mouth around one of your nipples. Your arms come down to drape around his head, breathy exhales leaving you at the feeling of his eager tongue flicking against your bud. Pulling off you with a wet-sounding pop, Taeyang ensures to give your adjacent nipple equal attention before looking up at you to say, “Bet that pussy of yours is soaking wet right now.”

In spite of your currently dazed state, you find yourself boldly replying, “Find out,” to which Taeyang raises a stunned eyebrow, perhaps equally as shocked by how you manage to maintain a back-and-forth dialogue with him even as his teasing renders you heady.

“Oh yeah?” he raises with a satisfied look on his face, chin resting on your sternum. “When was the last time someone made you come, Y/N?”

The unexpectedly straightforward and intimate question causes you to look away in embarrassment, a reaction Taeyang refuses to allow as his hand comes up to pull at your chin, forcing you to face him. “Don’t be shy,” he urges encouragingly. “I won’t judge you.”

Forced to genuinely ponder the question, your face warms as you recall the now tainted memory of your last time having sex, moreover becoming self-conscious as it dawns on you just how long it’s been since you’ve last got with someone like this.

“Not since…since a couple of years ago. Since him.”

Taeyang hums in quiet understanding, and with his hands bracketing either side of your torso, he tilts his head down to lay a chaste, almost apologetic kiss between your breasts. “And now you’re gonna let me eat you out until you come, right?” he looks up at you to ask, the straightforwardness with which he states the question causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

“That’s what you want? For me to help you forget all about him?”

You nod your head affirmatively, becoming less reserved as the tension you experience grows harder and harder to ignore. “Yes,” you answer verbally, but to your surprise, Taeyang shakes his head.

“Where are your manners? Say please.”

“Please,” you utter in a voice devoid of feeling, refusing him the satisfaction of hearing you earnestly beg.

“Please what?”

Losing your patience with his requests, you scrunch your eyebrows in frustration but are quickly appeased when in a rare move, Taeyang concedes rather than hassle you further. “Fine,” he hastens generously, and in actions that cause your body to spur back into renewed life, he begins kissing down your chest towards your stomach. “You’ve been a good girl, so I guess I should reward you.”

As your fingers tangle in Taeyang’s satiny hair, you tilt your head back in enjoyment of the short, wet kisses he leaves against your torso. Where the fabric of your dress gathers just above your waist, he is impatient in deciding not to bother with taking it off, instead pushing it upwards so that he can nestle between your legs. There, with your thighs on either side of his head and your pussy aching to be touched, he asks seductively, “Do you want my fingers, or my tongue?”

Your mouth almost opens to say whatever, Taeyang as you grow continuously impatient with his questions that further stall your pleasure. But the truth is, you want — no, need — both. Vocalizing this is a challenge, however, as you battle both feelings of pride and shyness at once.

Always quick to make observation of your silence, you’re unsurprised to hear Taeyang sounding arrogantly patronizing in his statement of, “Have I made you so horny that you can’t even think? That’s okay. I’ll decide for you, then.”

It’s after those words leave his mouth that Taeyang shifts his body to the side, making room for his hand that snakes between your legs and pulls your cotton panties to the side. Two of his long, slender fingers enter your sensitive cunt as you let out a gasp in response to the pleasant feeling.

“How does that feel?” he asks, to which you initially respond in a timid voice, “good.” Just like in your regular interactions, sex with Taeyang feels like a competition of wills, during which it would feel embarrassing to seem genuinely affected by his efforts.

Despite this, when Taeyang reaches his fingers deep inside of you, joints curling in a move that has your stomach caving on impact, you can’t control the loud proclamation of “fuck,” that leaves your mouth a few seconds later.

“There she is,” beams Taeyang pridefully, satisfied as you become slowly more effusive as a result of his ministrations. “Are you usually this wet? Or is it just for me?”

In a moment of poetic synchronicity, he pumps his fingers in and out of you in a rhythm that causes wet squelching noises to fill the room. The tips of his fingers, precise in their aim, repeatedly brush against a spot that causes stars to appear behind your rapidly fluttering eyes, and in a barely managed voice, you whine, “God, Taeyang…Just you.”

Your hips push and thrash in time with the motions of Taeyang’s flexed fingers, indulgently driven towards the pursuit of mind-numbing fulfillment. “Are my fingers that good? Do you even need my mouth to come?” asks Taeyang smugly, and despite the question sounding rhetorical, it’s in your eagerness to reach your peak that you answer almost breathlessly, “Yes. Please.”

But stringently Taeyang makes no move to put his mouth on you, continuing to push his fingers in and out of you in a maintained, steady pace while mumbling, “But you take my fingers so well, though? Such a wet, tight girl.”

The sound of those words, particularly as they’re spoken in the dialect of Taeyang’s deep, velvety tone of voice, has you feeling like you’re high on some kind of drug. His fingers, deep and unyielding while causing you a staggering amount of gratification, also leave you on a cliff, wanting so badly to fall into the bliss of an orgasm but feeling like it’s just barely out of your reach.

That’s why you invoke what you hope is the magic word, pride forgotten in your pleas of, “Please, Taeyang. Need your mouth to come.”

You begin to see Taeyang as slightly easy in this way, watching as his eyes gloss over at your words and listening to him attempt to sound nonchalant in his answer of, “If you insist,” though you can hear his voice vibrate with yearning.

The weakening of your orgasm as he pulls his fingers out of you is briefly agonizing, sated only with Taeyang sitting up and making quick work of tugging your underwear down your legs. Between your thighs is where he rests his head, and while you grow somewhat conscious of the fact that you weren’t prepared for this moment and therefore didn’t shave, Taeyang’s lust-filled gaze has the opposite effect in making you feel desired.

“You know, for someone with such a dirty mouth, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he states in a reverent tone, something ambivalent in the way he declares this, like it was an easy conclusion for him to come to. Surprising you, his head dips to plant a chaste kiss on your clit. “Do you like that?”

“Yes,” you mewl in reply, close to bucking your hips into his mouth as the reverberating impact of his simple kiss resonates through your entire body, making you eager to receive more.

“Want you to come with my tongue in your pussy,” he asserts in a drunk-sounding voice, a prelude to him laying small, kitten-like flicks against your clit that cause you to arch your back. “Think you can do that?”

An obedient, “yes,” exits from your parted lips, and that’s when Taeyang finally devotes substantial attention to your aching pussy.

He begins by licking you from top to bottom in a pattern that’s like drawing the letter s several times over, weaving his tongue between your folds and mumbling tributes about how you taste so good, not to mention have the prettiest, wettest pussy. Always considering his puffy lips to be one of his best features, it’s in this context that he uses them to make out with your folds, much in the way he frequently kisses you — passionately, and with tongue.

Tugging gently at your labia with his soft lips is how Taeyang gets you to throw your head back in an uncharacteristically overt display of your own contentedness. He is adept at forcing these sorts of reactions out of you, succeeding later at making you moan both in surprise and enjoyment when he decides in a lewd gesture to pull back and spit against your already wet center. With his face hovering just above your wetness, Taeyang uses two fingers in a butterflying v-shape to better expose your clit, blowing cool jets of air onto it and looking up to see how you’ll react. As you burrow two hands into his hair at the unexpectedly destabling feeling, you’re not prepared for him to then begin laying quick, flicking licks against your clit in such an eager manner that your toes immediately curl upon impact.

Taeyang makes quick work of you with his tongue as he alternates between long, broad strokes that utilize the width of the muscle and precise flicks during which only the very tip of his tongue can be felt. If your mental accounting is right — hazy as your mind currently is — it hasn’t even been that long since he buried himself between your thighs, and already, you can feel your stomach contracting with the unbearable demand of release.

“Taeyang,” you call out warningly, his name sounding rough and impatient on your lips. “I’m gonna come.”

Taeyang hums against your pussy, momentarily pulling his mouth off of your clit to say, “Ride my tongue, then,” in a gruff, demanding voice. Never has it been easier to listen to him than in this instance, with his mouth slowly trailing downwards until he’s at your wet opening. As he begins to fuck you open his tongue, your hips push upwards and downwards in accordance with his request until your orgasm hits, causing every part of your body to become limp and still.

You’ve came before, but never like this. A feeling that begins in your clit eventually spreads to your entire body in an explosion of profound relief and warmth. For a second, it feels like you’re floating, everything around you intense and still, until finally, you return back to Earth and must force your legs closed to escape the relentless flicks of Taeyang’s tongue.

Taeyang rises from the bed to sit up on his knees, looking down at your body quietly as he uses the back of his hand to wipe your fluids from around his mouth. His other hand, pressed dominantly against your inner thigh, holds you open so that he can admire the mess he’s made. He speaks reverently as his eyes remain locked between your legs, “I might be doomed. This is the best pussy I’ve ever tasted. What will I do if I can’t find this again?”

Sitting up on your elbows weakly and smirking as you observe how purely obsessed he appears with the image before him, you play into his words by replying confidently, “You’ll just have to find someone else to fill my void then, won't you?”

“But there’s no one else like you,” he retorts, something about the statement causing you butterflies as he leans his chest down to hover over your flattened body, proceeding to then make out with you in a slow, languid manner. “No one else who can make me this hard just from arguing with me.”

You chuckle at his shameless words. “Oh yeah?”

“You can feel it, can’t you?” he asks, shifting his lower body by a fraction so that you’re made entirely aware of the hardness poking out of his shorts. “My cock against your leg?”

He’s a bit like a horny teenager, humping your thigh in a gesture that seems more so motivated by his desire to show off to you, less than it is to relieve himself. In an overly-eager voice, he asks, “Wanna see it?”

Not wanting to seem too eager or impressed, your reply of, “Uh-huh” is spoken in as unceremonious of an inflection as you can muster. But your lack of overt enthusiasm doesn’t seem to deter Taeyang, who restlessly gets up to stand at the foot of the bed so that you can watch as he first removes the shirt off of his body. His eyes, brown and discerning, briefly flick upward to make sure you’re looking — which you are, unable to deny him just that level of interest — before he’s loosening the string on his cotton shorts, proceeding to pull them downward so that his cock manages to spring out against his stomach.

You’re struck first by how long he is, the pale pink tip managing to reach his belly button before he pulls it forward with his hands. It turns you on to watch as he begins to hedonistically stroke himself, getting carried away to the point of biting his lip before saying in a teasing, taut voice, “Don’t act so surprised.”

You ignore the indulgent remark, though your stubbornness is potentially contradicted by how difficult it becomes for you to stop staring. Only when he lets out a small whine do you remember yourself, tearing your eyes away from the leaking head of his cock to ask, “You have condoms, right?”

Jerking his head sideways in the direction of the hallway, Taeyang mumbles, “I have one in my bag, yeah,” as he continues to tug at his cock. Staring up at you with a satisfied grin, he asks conceitedly, “Why? Am I making you want to fuck me?”

“Is that not what this is?” you ask, wondering why he would even feel the need to confirm what you perceive as an obvious fact. Of course you want to fuck him; if you didn’t, this would’ve ended a long time ago.

In response to your words, Taeyang lets go of his cock and begins to crawl onto the bed in order to face you. As he does so, you fight the inclination to stare between his legs, feeling the tip of his manhood dragging up your leg in the process of him mounting you.

“Sure,” he answers nonchalantly, right in front of your face. “But I want to hear you say it.”

At what feels like the thousandth attempt by Taeyang to get you to submit to his desires, ones that usually involve you begging for him in some form or fashion, you roll your eyes. His arm comes up to hold your chin, and he pulls you forward so that your lips meet in a brief but electrifying kiss. “Say it,” he demands sensually. “Say you want me to fuck you.”

You’ve become somewhat skillful at finding alternate ways to earn his favor without having to sacrifice your pride in the process. In snaking your arm between your two bodies so that your fingers can comfortably close around his shaft, you do exactly that.

Just from leisurely raking your hand over his aching cock, familiarizing yourself with the veiny anatomy, Taeyang stiffens and lets out a throaty moan. When he’s at your mercy like this, breathing heavy and in a rare state of pliance, it becomes easy for you to fly at the mouth with confident observations like, “It feels like you might come in my hand. Don’t you wanna hurry up so you can fuck me instead?” that he reacts to you by making a noise that’s half-growl, half-whine. As you witness his eyes gloss over in what appears like an expression of overwhelming need and lust, it’s a matter of seconds before he’s moving to get off the bed, assumedly in search of a condom.

“I’ll be back. Don’t move, okay?” says Taeyang on his way out of the room, standing fully naked in the doorway of the bedroom after deciding to wholly remove his shorts. You nod, too heady at the sight of him to form words, then wait patiently as he goes out into the hallway to look through his things. After a while of nothing but rummaging noises, you get up to remove the dress neither of you bothered to take off before now, returning to the edge of the bed completely naked and wishing Taeyang would hurry up.

Luckily, he reenters the room just as you’re about to squeeze your thighs together in order to ease the pounding between your legs — you can’t say the inclination is any easier to fight with him wearing that cocky grin of his, handsome features coming into perfect view as he hovers over your sat form.

“I’m back,” he announces sultrily. “You didn’t miss me too much, did you?”

Eyeing his erection — which he seems to intentionally position right in front of your face, something you might find disrespectful if it weren’t for the paradoxically gnawing urge to kiss it or touch it — you reply after taking a deep breath, “You took so long. Thought I might have to get myself off.”

You listen as Taeyang makes a disappointed clicking sound with his tongue, followed by the resonant tear of the condom package opening. “That’s no fun. Unless I get to watch you do it,” he says, pouting like a child denied their favorite treat. In an attempt to reconcile the situation for himself, he adds in a pert, “Next time,” that has you wanting to interrogate him over the implication of there even being a next time. But that’s a reaction you must postpone for later, because right now, the only thing you can focus on is watching him slide the condom over his aching length, moisture gathering in the canals of your mouth merely from observing the attractive act.

Now sheathed in protective latex, Taeyang is no longer keen to waste time, evidenced by how he impatiently and roughly pushes you onto your back before proceeding to pull your knees apart with both hands. “Spread your legs for me, pretty,” he lets out sensually, and the use of a moniker other than your own name causes you an unprecedented amount of butterflies.

In a gesture surely meant to tease you, Taeyang holds his cock at its base and aims a few steady taps against your clit with his tip. A neediness you’ve never felt before blooms stunningly beneath your ribs.

“Will you be good for me?” asks Taeyang teasingly, eyes darker and more hooded than you’ve ever seen them as his focus zeroes in on your face, all while he continues to swirl the tip of his cock over your sensitive clit. “Will you come for me one more time?”

Fighting the brain-numbing haze that his words and actions bring you, it’s with a steely robustness in your voice that you reply flippantly, “That depends on how well you fuck me.”

Your words bring a certain kind of amused softness to Taeyang’s eyes, formerly fierce and stormy like a predator looking down eagerly and hungrily upon their prey. Taking your statement as a challenge, he raises an eyebrow and comments, “Let’s see then,” while aligning his erection towards your pulsing entrance.

Instinctively, you feel yourself stiffen as your body braces itself for the intrusion. But an unpredictable Taeyang takes a beat before making any sudden moves, muttering a low command of, “Eyes on me, Y/N,” that you obey faster than you might his usual requests, the stakes of your pleasure at all time high. And so while maintaining the most intimate of eye contact, skin searing hot and wound tight from the anticipation of it all, it’s with an assertive press forward that Taeyang’s body and yours become one.

Biting your lip, feeling a mixture of slight strain from how long it’s been while also delight at being so full from just the initial thrust, is how you begin this exciting, new endeavor. Taeyang anguishes in the pursuit of situating the entirety of himself inside of you, muttering words through a handsome grimace that cause your entire stomach to cave with butterflies. “Fuck, Y/N. You’re so tight. I don’t think I can fit the rest.”

Picking up on something distinctly cocky in those words, you reply defiantly, albeit through shaky breath, “I can take it. Trust me.”

“Yeah?” he answers, obvious in his breezy tone of voice that he doesn’t believe you, and yet surely in an effort to take you off guard, he fits the remaining half of his length inside of you in one destabilizing, snapping thrust that causes your entire back to bend upwards. “How’s that?” he questions with a wolfish smirk.

Seeing Taeyang and feeling him are two completely different things, you realize. Your eyesight failed to capture the impalement-like experience that would be getting filled with him in totality. It’s somewhat of a crave now to know what it will feel like for him to enter you in and out, over and over again, until you reach a second peak you didn’t even know your body was capable of until this exact moment. There’s a sense of desperate vigor in your voice as you reply, “G-good. You can move.”

It surprises you how quickly Taeyang listens, maybe a little desperate himself so much as to forget his usual teasing, prolonging self. You’ve never been more grateful for this change in disposition than you are now, when the feeling of his first thrust, in spite of its slowness, feels like a form of divine salvation amidst a sea of endless longing.

He goes at a careful, tepid pace in those first initial moments, testing the waters to see what you’re capable of handling, learning what angles make you mewl and the amount of pressure you can just take before your toes curl to communicate the intensity of what you're feeling. In a gentlemanly gesture, Taeyang pauses mid-thrust to ask you, “This okay? Want me to go slower?”

“Faster,” you demand, and you can tell that this surprises him, while also causing his eyes to flash in lustful excitement as he not only increases his pace, but also positions your legs so that they rest on the tops of his shoulders, bringing him deeper inside of you with each speedy push. The result is a feeling of ardent satisfaction that's paradoxical; your mind is an animal, wanting it harder, faster, while your body is overstimulated almost to the point of losing all sense of control. And so your hand comes up to push at his abs, hoping to slow him, but Taeyang grabs your wrist and throws it onto the bed, a devious-looking smile spreading across his face.

“I thought you said you could take it, pretty,” he drawls from above you, a return to his usual devilish self that you simultaneously are attracted to yet abhor. While holding your legs to his chest, he thrusts inside of you at a cadence that’s unrelenting, careful not to go any faster and risk hurting or overwhelming you, and yet continuing at the same pace that had you pushing away from him in the first place. “You wanted this, right?”

You’re completely powerless in the face of Taeyang’s vigor. Every comeback that might usually come to mind, every attempt you might usually make to get the upper hand, is futile. All you can manage in reply is a weak, “Fuck, Taeyang. You’re so…mean.”

He chuckles, causing your face to become warm. “And you like that, don’t you? Your pussy is so fucking wet for me.”

A vigourous, consuming feeling starts to build in your lower torso the longer Taeyang and his able manhood glide in and out of you. Only for a brief moment do his movements slow, and it’s to lean his body forward and above yours, allowing him the ability to hover his mouth over your ear. There, he rasps, “You used to be such a brat, babygirl. Always talking back to me, making me so mad.” You can almost hear the satisfied and wistful nostalgia dripping from his voice, and in turn, it causes you to reflect on those moments when what you wanted most was for Taeyang to never speak to you again. Now, he’s fucking you better than anyone before him has, and all you can think about is how good it will feel to come around his cock.

“What happened?” he continues, his voice teasing and degrading in that way that has consistently managed to turn you on. “Did I fuck the attitude out of you?”

Too bashful to say anything in reply, you opt to stretch a hand out so that you can pull Taeyang’s face in your direction and meet his lips for an electrifying kiss. It’s a union primarily made up of saliva and tongue, but it’s not as if you can manage much else when you’re currently being fucked into euphoric transcendence.

You make out sloppily until your lungs burn from the effort of it, and then, once you’ve both pulled away, Taeyang grabs your arms so that they’re draped around his neck. “Come here,” he orders hoarsely, and before you can respond to the directive, he’s standing up from the bed and pulling you along with him.

Your legs and arms wrap around Taeyang’s sturdy body, ensuring there’s no parting between his presently throbbing cock and your rapidly fluttering entrance. With an attractive level of strength and ease that admittedly contributes to your arousal, Taeyang walks you over to the nearest surface he can find, which happens to be a wall, and while pressing you up against it, he fucks you, passionatley and openly, all while remaining standing.

A thousand sensations hit you all at once, all of them crippling pleasurable, and that’s when you know that it’s only a matter of time before your orgasm overtakes you. Taeyang seems to sense it, too, as he doesn’t decide on speeding up or slowing down; Rather, while maintaining one consistent rhythm, the fire inside of you is allowed to rapidly build without wavering. As you burrow your face into his neck, quieting your ragged-sounding cries into the smooth skin of his shoulder, Taeyang eases you further towards your peak with more roughly-spoken, sensual statements. “Go ahead and come, baby. I can feel how close you are. Let go. I’ve got you.”

You’ve never experienced a pleasure this blinding, this earth-shattering. While your outstretched hands cling onto the broad plane of Taeyang’s shoulders, the stable firmness of him keeping you tethered to reality, the rest of you is broken apart and put back together again by the feeling of your orgasm. It wipes out every coherent thought from your head until all that’s left is Taeyang — his skin, his smell, his touch, his voice, all of it taking over your senses.

You’re still on the second or third wave of it when the haze lifts just enough for you to perceive Taeyang in the beauty of his own peak. He cusses into the crook of your neck, grazing his teeth against you but just barely resisting the urge to bite, and with a last, anguishing effort, he groans with the finality of his release. Spent and satisfied, you both breath heavy in each other’s embrace.

Two powerful orgasms in a row have you feeling tired and faint in Taeyang’s arms, desiring very little to be released from his hold though not protesting when he walks over to a nearby dresser and plops your body onto the edge. It’s once you’re sat securely on the wooden surface that he pulls out, an act that if you were judging solely on facial expressions, he seems almost pained to do; it’s an image you think will forever be etched into your memory, enjoying especially how his eyebrows crease and his bottom lip quivers as he tugs the condom off of his drained, softening erection.

In the silence that follows, and as the intensity between the two of you quietly diminishes, you’re reminded of Taeyang’s capacity to be humorous as he leans a hand on either side of your body, intentional in pushing his face right up against yours. He makes his eyes overdramatically wide, giving you a blank, unblinking, almost uncanny stare while his lips form a pout, a combination that reminds you of the emoji you use when you want to express that something is too cute for words. In this instance, his expression feels almost like the human embodiment of the question So? How was it?

The fact of him behaving in such a cheeky, shy way after just saying and doing the most dirtiest things to you has you wanting to kiss him, and so despite the fact of you still being unsure of the dynamic between the two of you, you cannot help yourself from gripping his cheeks firmly in your hands, positioning his face in a way that allows you to peck his lips.

Afterwards, when your eyes meet and his don’t waver, you’re hit with a sudden reflective clarity that has you regretting not the sex itself, but all the uncharacteristic reactions you allowed Taeyang to pull from you tonight. Every utterance of a whimper, every mention of a please, plays back in your head like a cringey movie, and suddenly you’re slumping your head against Taeyang’s chest, flustered and not wanting to be perceived by him.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t make verbal observation of your obviously embarrassed state, though the laughter he lets out in response to your actions has you feeling made fun of just the same. As his fingers play with the back of your hair affectionately, you hear him ask, “Do you wanna sleep here?” in a voice gentle enough that it forces you out of your self-pitying lull.

Rather than allow you to look up at him on your own volition, Taeyang is quick to brace a hand underneath your chin, pushing your face up so that you’re forced to look at him. Tiredly, you reply a quiet, “Yes,” but are dismayed when his answer, spoken through upturned lips is, “But I thought I was soooooo mean.”

As you become renewedly embarrassed at the reminder of your earlier words, Taeyang picks you up and off of the dresser before you have the chance to potentially change your mind about staying the night. You giggle in tandem on the way to the bed, something about the act of getting under the covers naked feeling a lot more raw than it should be for two people who just finished having sex.

In bed, Taeyang is his usual, obnoxious self, kicking you under the covers and reaching over your body to flip the switch on a lamp you already made obvious that you wanted off. When he starts to tug at the comforter, going overboard in ensuring that your naked body is fully exposed to the cold air, you accept it as his stubborn way of getting you to move in closer. Indeed, it’s once you lay your head on top of his chest that he permissively offers you your section of the blanket back.

With his arm closing around your back, thumb circling your spine in a repetitive motion that has your body becoming slacked and relaxed, it feels like you might actually – finally – get some sleep. But something intuitively tells you to look up at Taeyang. His eyes are open, and rather than being turned up at the ceiling, he’s looking down at you with a look of affection so discernible you can see it even in the dark. With a wordless understanding shared in your matching expressions, you share a kiss that’s like fulfilling a familiar ritual, nothing particularly sexual or charged about it. And that’s when you know that what you did tonight was not a one-time thing, that with chemistry this strong it would be almost impossible to go back to acting as if you were indifferent to his attention.

Before you even open your eyes, you know that it’s morning by the feeling of warmth against your face. Sunlight pouring in from tiny openings in the blinds turns the vision from your eyelids an orange color, making it hard for you to ease back into unconscious sleep.

It takes your tired brain a few moments to remember why the bed that you’re in is not your own, or why you’re naked, or why you can feel and hear someone breathing closely next to you. Once you find the strength to crack an eye open, you’re greeted by the sight of a still-asleep Taeyang, answering all of your questions immediately.

His body faces yours, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his breathing. His face is an expression of pure and profound calmness. The memory of all the things you got up to last night, of his touch and his roughness, brings your tired body to life.

Something tells you that he might be awake, or close to it, which is why you don’t hesitate to reach out and touch his face with your hand. You trace his puffy lips in remembrance and gratitude for all the ways in which they claimed your skin, then playfully begin to trail your finger up his nostril. The latter action succeeds in stirring him, his hand seizing around your wrist as he crunches up his face in feigned discomfort. Finally, he opens his eyes, the sunlight from the opposite window revealing in them a bright brown color.

“Good morning,” he says to you hoarsely, softening his grip on your wrist so that it’s simply as if you’re holding hands. You echo the greeting, then watch as he moves to lay on his back, bringing you with him by pulling your arms upward. “Come here,” he mumbles instructively, adjusting you so that the side of your face is rested against his shoulder, and his chin is able to comfortably nestle in your hair. You relax into the new position, draping your arm over his torso and enjoying the warmth that his body provides.

Somewhat unconsciously you begin to trace his chest with your finger, drawing mysterious shapes that trail past his sternum and down to his pecs. You stop just before his ribs when you notice something significant. “You have tattoos,” you note curiously.

He laughs when he hears how interested you sound, finding it amusing how you call out their presence in an almost innocent, tepid way. “Are you just now noticing?” he teases, wondering how they went unseen by you during the time he spent last night, naked in your presence.

“No,” you answer, wanting to explain to him that you noticed them before, but weren’t able to ask questions given that you were quite distracted by the anticipation of him about to fuck you. You find instead that your early-morning tiredness limits you to only the most necessary of statements. “What do they mean?”

He proceeds to explain each one of them for you: there’s a spade, crown, and key on both of his arms, and two other designs — one on his shoulder, one the side of his torso. You listen to him speak intently, wishing he would never stop, liking how the bass from his voice vibrates your entire upper body. It feels like an honor to be let in on the significance of such an intimate aspect of his personhood. “That’s really nice,” you reply sincerely when he’s finished.

“Thank you,” he answers, and when you feel the pads of his fingers slightly tugging at your hair, you know it’s his way of silently requesting that you look at him. Tilting your head upwards to meet his eyes, it’s after a second of scanning your face longingly that he leans in to kiss your lips.

In sharing what was a slow, unhurried kiss with Taeyang, you realized the quickness with which such an act had become effortless and instinctive for the both of you. It continued to amaze you how much of an impact his attention had on your body, and how little the feeling compared to anything else you’d experienced before.

The physical chemistry between the two of you could not be denied; Taeyang, having so perfectly cracked the puzzle that is you, knows exactly what things to do to make you feel ignited inside.

If you were to get in touch with your one-month-ago-self and tell her that you were currently enjoying a post-sex kiss with the same stranger who caused you so much trouble by showing up at the beach that day, you know you’d find such a notion too ludicrous to believe.

But right here in this moment, it warms you to think that such passionate initial feelings toward each other could lead to something that feels this good, this natural.

No longer did it confuse you how one could go from hating someone so badly to wanting them with an equal level of fervor. Through your recent interactions, it had dawned on you that what you always perceived as your own hatred of Taeyang was really your mind’s way of coping with how uncontrollably strong you felt about him.

He would always find ways to get under your skin, yes, but it didn’t change the fact that you felt more of a pull to him than you ever have for anyone else.

Taeyang, all confidence even as the early morning hour renders his movements slow and lazy, pulls you flush against his naked form in a way that causes your body to light up with need.

But something unexpected forces the two of you apart.

Out of nowhere came the sound of banging up against the suite’s front door, followed by the faint noises of someone yelling on the other side.

Upon hearing it, you and Taeyang freeze, pulling apart to share matching looks of confusion with one another. Neither of you called for room service, nor should any housekeeping staff be pounding against someone’s door this early in the morning. So exactly who the hell is wanting so eagerly to come inside that they’d be willing to create such a loud commotion in order to do so?

The sound of unintelligible yelling on the other side of the door grows louder, as does the knocking. You can faintly separate two different voices, and the thought of not one but two people wanting to come inside this urgently has your heart pounding.

Relieving you is Taeyang, who after sharing your shocked silence, calmly gets up from the bed.

“I’ll get it,” he announces bravely, though you can see in his face that he too doesn’t know what to expect as he goes to find a nearby robe to cover himself in. Your eyes follow him around the room anxiously, and despite feeling pain in your joints as a result of last night’s activities, you still sit up from the bed so that you can be alert and aware of what’s going on.

Taeyang leaves the room with his hair a mess, feet dragging in an almost zombie-like way as his fingers scramble to finish tying off the white bathrobe. Though you lose sight of him when he turns the corner towards the entrance, you can hear the heavy-sounding door creak open a few seconds later, and unmistakably come the sounds of overlapping, excited chatter.

Shortly after the door opens, the noise settles. Only faintly are you able to discern any words from the muffled, nearly silent conversation between Taeyang and the anonymous visitors. Relieved to no longer hear any yelling, you optimistically ponder whether this could all be a miscalculated accident — perhaps the visitors got off on the wrong floor and are currently apologizing to Taeyang for the mistake.

But if so, the apology is taking a lot longer than it should; minutes go by, and you can still hear the low sounds of back-and-forth conversation.

Unmoving as you hold the bed’s comforter to your chest, you close your eyes and try to listen, really listen, in an effort to make out coherent words from their mumbles. Amongst the voices is a vaguely familiar inflection — is that who you think it is?

Suddenly, what sounded to you like a normal, civil conversation erupts once more into yelling and chaos. Included in the loud burst of overlapping noise is Taeyang’s high-pitched ya!, alarming you as the cacophony of eager noise sounds as if it’s coming closer, approaching the bedroom door that in his way out, Taeyang left ajar.

Before you can react or process any of what’s going on, the door you’ve been facing bursts open, and in comes a woman you’ve never seen before. She, however, is not who you focus on — your mother, dressed in her usual resort uniform, comes in next to the woman with Taeyang at her toes.

And so, in a most humiliating fashion, you now have three people — your mother, a stranger, and Taeyang — staring at you in bed with only a blanket to hide your naked form.

Surely, this must be a nightmare you’ve yet to wake up from.

“Y/N, what is going on?” asks your mother urgently, her face distraught in a way you’ve rarely ever seen before. “This woman—” she points accusingly in the direction of the stranger, “—came storming into the resort, saying she was looking for her husband. But what are you doing in this man’s…”

Slowly, you watch as comprehension dawns on your mother’s frazzled expression, the realization of what she’s just walked in on — you bare in bed, last night’s clothes still strewn all over the floor, Taeyang in just a robe — causing her face to fall.

“…bed.”

You don’t think you’ve ever been more mortified in your life.

Except, when you become conscious of the fact that there’s a random woman still in the room, and she’s staring at you with a surprising amount of contempt for someone you’ve never met before. Did your mom just say she’s been looking for her husband?”

“Y/N, then?” perks up the woman, your name sounding strange and twisted on her lips. Sharp and neat-looking, like someone out of a drama, she looks back and forth between you and Taeyang, who you are just now noticing has his head tilted downward in the posture of a child who's been caught by his parents for breaking curfew. “So you must be the whore that’s been screwing my husband?”

It takes you a few seconds to process the several shocking things that have occurred in the last few moments.

You look at the woman, who in spite of her tidy and calm outward appearance, is very clearly steaming in anger.

And then you look at Taeyang, who selfishly avoids your gaze.

Just like that, you realize that the person you’ve been spending almost every day with, the person who you allowed to touch you in ways few else have, is a married man.

end of part one

Taeyang’s got more secrets up his sleeves, and i’m excited to reveal them in this next part. Let me know if you enjoyed this first part by leaving a comment or sending me an ask <3

series masterlist | blog masterlist | next chapter

#santheestallion

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#santheestallion