summary. you're not a big fan of your boyfriend's hobby. but, you wouldn't mind tagging along with him— even if it means danger.
contains. au, fluff, mature themes
WITNESSING a car blowing up was not a rare sight for you and your boyfriend, Choi Su-bong, most commonly known as Thanos.
Tasting the sweet flavor of your lollipop on your tongue, your eyes scanned the view across the street, watching the siren retrieve the deceased person inside the ambulance.
Without looking at your boyfriend, you muttered enough for him to hear, "Do you think he crashed the car on purpose?"
Your boyfriend replied, clearly unbothered at the scene in front of him, "Nah, babe. He's just stupid."
The reply made you nibble on your bottom lip, feeling worried start to creep in inside your head.
Su-bong felt your nervousness by the way you lightly tapped his hand, indicating you wanted to hold him. He let you hold his hand, squeezing your hands softly, "What's wrong, babe?"
You whispered honestly, "Just nervous about tonight..."
"Do you trust me?"
You immediately answered, "Of course!"
"Then there's nothing to worry about, babe. If anything out of hand happens, I'd handle 'em for you."
You nodded, your fear slowly subsiding at his words of reassurance. You leaned your head on his shoulder, listening to what he was going to say next, "That dude crashed his car because he didn't follow that one rule when it comes to driving."
"What?"
You asked your boyfriend in pure curiosity and anticipation. He stared at our expression for a few seconds before answering.
"Don't be stupid," he nonchalantly said as he took the lollipop from your mouth to his.
"Hey! That's mine— really?"
You watched him chew the lollipop into small crumbs until it melted right into his tongue. You frowned, clearly not happy about what he'd done.
Suddenly, his finger lifted your face by your chin. And without giving you a warning, his lips touched yours.
Although confused, you reciprocated the kiss.
He pried your lips open, pushing his tongue inside your mouth, intertwining with yours.
You could taste the sweet flavor of your lollipop as Su-bong's hands squeezed your waist, pulling you closer. Your face flushed at the sudden action, whining as the two of you continued to make out in public despite the judging eyes of the people passing by.
After a few minutes, the two of you separated from each other, leaving a trail of saliva from both your lips. You wiped it off, feeling your lips start to feel sore at the rough treatment it received.
"You could've just bought me a new one."
He smirked, "But you would've preferred my lips anyway."
That was the truth.
ᯓ★
The dark alley wasn't as silent as it had been on the previous nights that passed. People's voices mixed with the loud, booming music created a party-like atmosphere in the street.
The sound of the car engines roared through the night, the drivers inside speeding up as they left their imprint on the road.
Holding your boyfriend's hand, you never took your eyes off of his back as he led you out of the crowd, walking towards the rows of cars parked not far away from the main road that was used for the race.
Once you and him were finally released from the crowd, his hands let go of yours, placing it to your waist, pulling you closer as you walked side-by-side.
You could feel the heated glare your best friend's eyes, Myung-gi, were sending towards Su-bong's direction. He was not happy that your boyfriend decided to bring you with him.
Myung-gi was aware he shouldn't do anything rashly knowing that he's under the influence. But, the sight of you being with Su-bong made something stir inside of his head.
Without thinking of the possible consequences of his actions, Myung-gi released himself from his girlfriend's hand.
"[Name]!"
Myung-gi called out, putting on a smile as he approached you. Disregarding the unwelcome look your boyfriend was giving him, he pulled you in for a hug.
He held you tightly, "I missed you, you know? You never have the time to hang out with me after you got with... him."
Holding your hands up in the air, you slowly patted his back, "Yeah, I missed you and Jun-hee too."
You smiled at Jun-hee who was following Myung-gi. You thought he was going to let you go soon, but he didn't.
Feeling the hug was a bit way longer than it should have been, you patted his back, "Myung-gi?"
Su-bong pushed the other man away from you, obviously pissed, "Woah, woah! That's enough hug from my woman. You're not his boyfriend, yeah?"
Jun-hee held the man steady, making sure he was okay before shifting her eyes to the two of you, "Sorry about that. Myung-gi's drank a lot tonight."
"What? I'm not drunk, I didn't even drink that much!"
You smiled awkwardly, "Yeah, he's drunk. We should probably go now since the race is about to start," you waved at her, dragging your boyfriend away.
ᯓ★
"Baby, wait— mhm, not now!"
You begged your boyfriend, feeling his hands slither under your skirt, caressing your thighs. You tried to hold in your moans as he continued to litter kisses, bite, and suck on your neck— you were sure you wouldn't be able to hide it for the next few days no matter what you do.
Although breathless, you managed to whisper in his ears, "I only love you, baby. Not him, so don't be jealous of him."
He grumbled, "I'm not jealous of him, I just hated how he touched you."
You giggled at his response. Placing your hands on his cheeks, you kissed him passionately.
ᯓ★
"Brace yourself, baby. This is gonna be the best ride you'll ever experience in your whole life."
Rolling your eyes at his smug expression, you fastened your seatbelt and put your helmet on, ready to take off.
With his hands squeezing your thigh one last time, he asked, "You ready, baby?"
You deadpan, "Do I have a choice?"
"Nah."
With one final look at you, the final signal was sent, and the car he drove accelerated.
Your grip on your seatbelt tightened in fear. You felt like any second from now, the car would crash and both of you would die from how fast everything was going at the moment. You held yourself back from fainting.
Your boyfriend's reaction was the complete opposite of yours. He seems to be having the time of his life.
His opponent, Myung-gi, didn't seem to be the same.
Su-bong decided it was a good chance to teach this dude who's the boss. He lightly lowered the speed of the car, getting on the same level as Myung-gi's.
Lowering the car's window after sensing your best friend's eyes in your direction, he steered the cars wheels to the side, aggressively bumping the side on Myung-gi's car causing it to sway and almost crash in a nearby light post.
"Baby, what the f*ck are you doing?"
He answered, "Just being friendly."
Seeing the annoyed expression of Myung-gi, Su-bong felt satisfied as he closed the window and burst out laughing. The speed of vehicle went even faster before, overpowering the opponents as they were left behind.
The gap between him and the opponent's car was quite significant, showing you how skilled and talented your boyfriend really in in this field. Hell, he even had the audacity to place one of his hands on your thighs.
As much as you hated to admit it, your boyfriend's ability to maneuver the car was out of this world. It's as if the car and he turned into one entity.
With only one hand on the steering wheel, his control of the situation didn't affect how well he avoided obstacles that the two of you faced along the way.
You could feel the finish line was getting closer. You're certain your boyfriend's going to win.
Out of nowhere, a loud bang echoed at the back of the car. Confused, she asked her boyfriend, "What was that?"
"Well, well. Guess what? The motherf*cker finally decided to show his true colors," he sneered.
The attack didn't end just there. Multiple rounds of shots were sent towards the car. Unfortunately, Su-bong was preoccupied as he was controlling the car, making him unable to do anything but try to dodge the bullets from touching the wheels.
But, your hands were free. And Su-bong knew just avoiding it wouldn't help all that much. If they don't attack back, they'll get hit by the bullets.
"Baby, get the gun. It's in the back of my car"
"What? What do you want me to do?!," you choked, fear visibly showing on your face.
He asked in a serious tone, "Choose your side, baby. Me or that bastard?"
"You, of course."
His eyes softened at your answer before giving a light squeeze on your thigh, "Then, get the gun for me and let that bastard have a taste of his own medicine."
Although you still feel hesitant to do it, you nod your head and followed your boyfriend's order.
Sensing your nervousness, he reassured you, "Don't worry, baby. I'll handle everything else for you, just focus on what I said."
Believing his words, you put your head out the window, and without giving a warning, you released your first shot.
Bingo.
Luck seemed to be on your side as the first shot landed on the enemy's wheels, making the car stagger and almost crash. But you didn't stop there, you released another one.
The aim didn't miss, not even once. Seems like the shooting practice with your boyfriend was finally paying off.
Witnessing this through the side mirror, your boyfriend whistled, "That was so f*cking hot, baby!"
You couldn't help but smile at his proud expression, feeling a little bit proud of yourself knowing you just protected and saved you and your boyfriend's lives.
But still, you felt guilty for doing that to your friend.
"Baby, don't feel guilty. He was the one who did it first," he seemed to be able to read your mind at how he knew what was going on inside your head.
You nodded, releasing your negative emotions through a sigh.
Finally, the car reached the finish line.
Everyone who placed their bets on your boyfriend to win cheered, congratulating him whilst they surrounded his figure as soon as he left the car.
He ignored the crowd as he proceeded to walk on the other side of the car, opening it as he led you out.
With his hand placed on your waist, he kissed you passionately in front of the crowd before whispering in your ears, "Baby, I'm gonna kill that bastard tonight, is that okay?"
It’s a Sunday morning that smells like spring rain and clean laundry.
The apartment’s quiet except for the sizzle of spam frying and a faint playlist humming low through Su-bong’s Bluetooth speaker. Something mellow, a few soft synths, his kind of sleepy morning music. You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in your pajamas, his old “ZUTTER” hoodie swallowing your frame, blanket wrapped around your legs like a cocoon.
Your laptop rests against your thighs, tabs open with names like Seoul Hanok Weddings and Late Summer Florals. You scroll through venue photos, clicking anything with rooftop gardens or soft string lights, heart fluttering every time you imagine Su-bong standing at the end of that aisle waiting for you, gold chain peeking out, hair styled just barely messy, his eyes all yours.
“Babe?” you call. “What do you think about cream and sage green? For the color palette? It’s classy but not boring.”
There’s a pause in the kitchen.
Not long. Just long enough that it doesn’t sit right.
Then the hiss of the gas burner clicks off. A cupboard opens. You glance up to see him walking toward you with two mugs in hand. One’s your favorite pale pink one, the other is the black ceramic cup Se-mi got him years ago that says WORST BOYFRIEND EVER in bold white font.
He still uses it like it’s a badge of honor. Says it’s funny. Ironic.
You smile automatically at the sight of him, hair a little flattened from sleep, sweatpants slung low, his gray t-shirt rumpled and hanging loose. But there’s something off. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
He hands you your mug, then sits cross-legged beside you, a little slower than usual.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, then pauses. “No. I don’t know. Can we talk?”
You blink. “Sure. About the wedding?”
“No… not that.”
Your heart skips once. Not in the dreamy way.
He exhales hard through his nose, staring down into his coffee like it might rearrange the words for him. Then he lifts his head and looks you in the eyes, no laughter there, no casual Su-bong cockiness, just something raw.
“I need to tell you something before we go any further,” he says.
“Okay…” you say slowly, straightening a little. “What’s going on?”
His fingers tighten around the mug. You can see his knuckles go pale.
“I should’ve told you a long time ago,” he says. “I almost did, so many times. But I didn’t want to ruin what we have. And now that we’re engaged… I feel like I’d be stealing something from you if I didn’t tell the truth.”
The air goes quiet between you. Even the playlist fades out, like the room knows to hold its breath.
“I love you,” he says quickly, like it matters more than anything else. “You have to know that first. I’m so fucking in love with you I don’t even know what I’d do if I lost you. But back when we first started dating… I didn’t know we’d get here. I didn’t know you’d be the one. And I..”
He chokes on it. You see his throat bob.
“I messed up,” he says finally, voice low and brittle. “The first few months, maybe three or four in, I… hooked up with a couple girls.”
The world doesn’t spin, but something inside your ribs goes silent. You blink once.
He rushes to fill the space, but gently, like he knows he can’t fix it.
“It wasn’t emotional. It was just sex. Dumb, selfish shit from a version of me who thought we were gonna fade out like everything else. I didn’t think I deserved anything real. And then suddenly it was real. You were everything. And I panicked. I told myself it was too early to matter, and I buried it, and I’ve hated myself for it ever since.”
You stare at the blanket pooled in your lap. The laptop is still open. A photo of a wedding hanok in Seoul stares back at you, glowing against the screen. Your chest feels hollow and heavy at the same time.
“How many times?” you ask quietly.
“Two.”
You nod.
“Names?”
He hesitates. “You don’t know them. It was casual. Random.”
“Was it before we got serious?”
“We were exclusive. But it was early. Still figuring things out. No labels yet, but… yeah. I still knew it was wrong.”
You chew your bottom lip. Something hot and cold brews at once behind your eyes.
“And you were just gonna keep that a secret forever?”
“No,” he says. “Not forever. I just… I kept waiting for the right time. But there isn’t one. So I’m telling you now. Before we build a life on something I know I should’ve told you before.”
You nod again, lips pressed tight, the ache in your throat spreading.
He scoots a little closer. “You can yell. Or throw something. Or tell me to leave. Whatever you need.”
You finally look at him, his dark eyes glassy, lower lip trembling. This man you’ve loved nearly six years. This man who learned how to fold your laundry the way you like it. Who brought you heat packs when you had cramps. Who sang you to sleep more than once, even if he’d deny it in public. Who just proposed with shaking hands and a tear in his eye three weeks ago on your rooftop, clutching the ring like it was the last card he had in his deck.
“I’m not gonna throw anything,” you say softly.
He blinks fast.
“I just need space,” you say. “Somewhere to think.”
He nods, eyes already wet. “Okay.”
You stand slowly, folding the blanket off your legs. You grab your phone and charger. Your tote bag. A hoodie. You hesitate at the door, then turn back.
“I love you,” you say. “That’s the worst part.”
He lets out a soft, broken laugh, like he’s too afraid to let hope win.
“I love you more,” he whispers. “I swear I always have. Even when I didn’t know how to act like it.”
You press your lips together, nod once, and leave before the tears win. The door clicks shut behind you like a line being drawn.
In the elevator, you finally pull out your phone and type the one name you know will give you sanctuary without question.
[You] Hey… can I stay with you for a few nights?
The reply comes ten seconds later.
[Se-mi] Of course. Want me to pick you up?
You take a shaky breath. You stare down at the ring on your finger, still catching the light.
Se-mi doesn’t ask any questions when you show up at her door.
She just pulls you into her apartment, one hand warm at your back, the other taking your tote bag, and says, “You want tea or something stronger?”
You manage a weak laugh. “Tea’s fine.”
She makes citron tea in the mug that says Sassy but Soft, the one she bought during your last girls’ trip to Busan. You sit on her couch wrapped in a fleece blanket, eyes sore from crying but mostly just exhausted.
When she finally sits beside you, she doesn’t press. She just waits.
And after a long breath, you tell her.
Everything.
How Su-bong made you coffee that morning. How you were talking about colors and hanok wedding venues and you were literally mid-sentence when he interrupted with a voice that didn’t match the sunlit kitchen. How his hand was shaking around his mug when he finally said it: the truth he’d been holding onto for six years.
Two hookups. The first few months. No labels yet, but still wrong.
How he said it like a confession and not a defense. Like he was ready to lose you just to stop carrying the weight of it alone.
When you finish, Se-mi sets down her mug and pulls you into a sideways hug, arm tight around your shoulders.
“What a fucking idiot,” she says, soft but sure. “But also… what a stupidly honest idiot.”
You exhale a sound that might be a sob or a laugh.
“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. “I feel like someone just rewound my whole relationship and said, ‘Actually, here’s where it started. And surprise, you didn’t even know.’”
Se-mi nods, resting her chin on your shoulder. “Yeah. I get that.”
“I don’t hate him.”
“I know.”
“I just… don’t know if I can trust him the same way again.”
“That’s fair.”
You sit there like that for a while. The tea goes cold on the table. The playlist shifts into acoustic covers. The apartment smells like citrus and vanilla body spray. Outside, the sky turns peach-pink with evening.
Eventually, Se-mi pulls back and tucks your hair behind your ear.
“Want to do something with me tonight?” she asks. “Nothing wild. Just… something that reminds you who you are outside of him.”
You blink. “Like what?”
“Like dressing hot and going to Club Pentagon.”
You almost laugh. “You want me to go to the club where he raps?”
“I want you to go to the club that you used to dance in with me every Friday before he even knew your name.”
You hesitate. She stands, already rifling through your tote. “You brought your makeup bag, right? You’re lucky I love you more than I love my setting powder.”
You let her pull you up.
You let her dress you in a tiny black skirt and a fitted long-sleeve that shows off your collarbones.
You let her sit you on the floor between her knees while she does your eyeliner.
You let her remind you that you were whole before him, not better, but still whole.
And when you look in the mirror and barely recognize the girl with sharp liner and glossy lips, she smiles and says, “There she is.”
—
Club Pentagon is already buzzing when you arrive.
The bouncer recognizes Se-mi and waves you both in without a word. You squeeze through the crowd, fingers laced in hers, until you find the side hallway where staff passes are worn and the noise thins out into heartbeat-level bass.
Nam-gyu’s there, leaning against the back wall with a soda in one hand and his other buried in the pocket of his cargo jacket. He’s in all black, as usual. Hair swept clean off his forehead. He doesn’t flinch when he sees you, just tilts his head and raises a brow like he’s been expecting you all night.
“Se-mi,” he says.
“Nam-gyu.”
He looks at you next. “You good?”
“Not really.”
He nods once and pushes off the wall. “Let’s talk.”
Se-mi squeezes your hand and hangs back, letting you follow Nam-gyu down the corridor to a back stairwell, half-lit and quiet. The music thumps somewhere below, but here it’s just cement walls and soft blue light.
Nam-gyu leans against the railing, arms folded.
You sit on the steps and look up at him.
“You know, don’t you?”
He nods. “Yeah. I’ve known since it happened.”
Your stomach twists.
“You were friends even back then.”
“Still am,” he says, voice calm. “But I told him at the time he was a dumbass. He said, and I quote, ‘It’s not like she’s gonna be the love of my life.’”
You wince.
“Then a week later he couldn’t shut up about you,” Nam-gyu adds, eyes crinkling slightly. “Like a puppy who accidentally imprinted.”
You manage a weak laugh.
Nam-gyu sits beside you on the stairs, elbow on his knee.
“He’s been carrying it for years,” he says. “I watched him try to tell you three times. He choked every time. You’d be tying your shoes or making ramen and I’d see it in his face, that ‘I should tell her’ look. But then you’d smile at him or say something dumb and cute and he’d just… swallow it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs. “Not my relationship. Not my mistake to confess. If it had happened last year? Yeah, I’d have told you myself. But that early? I figured it wasn’t my place.”
You nod slowly.
“Did he love them?” you ask.
Nam-gyu snorts. “He didn’t even like them. One of them kept calling him ‘baby boy.’ I don’t think he’s recovered.”
You bite your lip to stifle a laugh.
He leans back against the wall.
“Look,” he says, “I’m not defending it. It was a dumbass move. And it hurt you. But I’ve known him for a long time. I’ve seen him change. Grow up. Become… like, this whole domestic idiot who leaves the club early to cook you pasta because your period started. He worships you. You’re not just the love of his life, you’re the guilt of it too. Every song he’s written in the last year has had at least one line about your mouth or your laugh. I’ve had to edit out so many cheesy bars.”
You laugh softly, despite everything. “Really?”
He pulls out his phone and scrolls. “Hold on. I have one written down.”
He finds it, then clears his throat dramatically.
“Your lips taste like truth / I used to lie in bed / Now I lie beside you / And hope this love outlives me.”
You groan. “That’s so bad.”
“He cried when he wrote it.”
“Oh my God.”
Nam-gyu grins and pockets his phone. “He’s a dumbass. But he’s your dumbass.”
You look down at your hands in your lap. Your ring still on your finger.
“I’m not ready to forgive him tonight.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“But I think I needed to hear that,” you whisper. “That it wasn’t just me romanticizing it all.”
“It was real,” Nam-gyu says quietly. “Even when he didn’t know how real yet.”
You don’t knock.
You think about it, just for a second, standing in the hallway with your hand on the door, the weight of the last few days still pressing behind your ribs. But in the end, you just turn the knob and let yourself in. Because it’s still your home. Because he still loves you. Because you still love him.
Even if everything still hurts.
The scent of garlic and rosemary hits you first. Then the warmth. Then the music, low and steady, something jazzy and quiet, almost like the apartment’s holding its breath.
And then the roses.
They’re everywhere.
Scattered on the floor, across the entryway and through the living room. Petals trailing from the door like a path he hoped you’d follow. A small table is set near the window, candles glowing, two plates already dished. The lights are dimmed. The room feels like a scene out of a movie you both used to make fun of.
But this? This is real.
He steps out of the kitchen like he’s afraid he’s dreaming. Black shirt tucked in for once, sleeves rolled at his forearms. Chain around his neck. Hair styled, like he got ready for you hours ago and never stopped waiting.
You can tell he hadn’t expected you tonight, not really. His eyes widen when he sees you. His breath catches. And then, almost instantly, his posture changes. He straightens like he’s trying to be worthy.
“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper.
“Hi,” he echoes. “Don’t say anything yet. Please, just let me do this part first.”
You nod.
He walks to you slowly. Not reaching, not touching, just moving with purpose. When he gets close enough, he glances down at your hands like he’s wondering if it’s okay to take one.
You give it to him.
He brings you to the table, pulls out your chair like it’s a promise. You sit, and he pours wine into your glass with hands that still tremble slightly. Then he sits across from you, hands folded tightly together like if he lets go, the whole thing will fall apart.
“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” he says softly. “But I wanted… I needed you to see what I should’ve done right from the start.”
Your throat aches.
You look at the food, pasta tossed in a creamy white sauce, warm bread on a ceramic plate, a small bowl of salad. You blink once. “You cooked this?”
He nods. “I googled like, seven different recipes. Nam-gyu talked me out of setting the fire alarm off. Barely.”
You laugh before you mean to. Just a soft breath of it. And he smiles, like it’s the first sunlight he’s seen in days.
“I don’t know what to say,” you admit.
“You don’t have to say anything yet,” he says again, voice barely a whisper. “Just eat. Please.”
You eat in silence at first. The food is good. Warm, buttery, comforting, but you barely taste it. You’re still watching him. He barely eats at all. Just sits there, his eyes flicking to your face every few seconds like he’s checking to make sure you’re really still here.
“I talked to Nam-gyu,” you say after a while, setting your fork down. “And Se-mi.”
He nods slowly, almost like he expected it.
“They told me what I already knew,” you continue. “That you’re not the guy you were back then. That you haven’t been for a long time. That you’ve spent the last six years trying to be someone I could trust.”
“I tried,” he says quietly. “But I failed at the beginning. And I hate that the version of me you said yes to… didn’t have all the truth.”
Your heart twists.
You push your chair back and stand, walking over to him slowly. You reach for his hand and pull him up, watching the way his eyes widen, how his breath catches like he’s still waiting for a storm that might not come.
You press your forehead to his.
“I’m not done hurting,” you whisper. “But I’m done punishing you.”
His hands rise slowly, one to your waist, the other to your jaw, like he’s still asking permission.
You nod.
And then he kisses you.
It’s soft. So soft. No rush. No hunger. Just warmth. Just lips that remember you. Just breath and patience and the trembling press of two people who almost lost everything.
He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you again.
You kiss him like you’re trying to let him.
When he pulls back, he whispers, “Are you sure?”
You nod again. “I want to come home. I want this to be home again.”
He leads you to the bedroom slowly, one hand at your lower back, the other gently tangled with yours. He doesn’t kiss you again until you’re inside, standing by the bed, the last of the rose petals scattered across the sheets.
“I cleaned everything,” he murmurs. “Twice.”
You laugh quietly, and it cracks the tension in half.
“Of course you did.”
He smiles, barely, and brushes his fingers against your cheek. “Tell me if you want to stop. Or slow down. Or just lie here. Anything you want.”
You nod and pull him down with you.
He kisses you again, deeper now but still careful. His hands slide under your shirt with reverence, not hunger, like touching you is still a privilege he hasn’t earned back. He whispers “I love you” between kisses, breath stuttering when your hands slip beneath his shirt, tugging it off.
You undress each other slowly. There’s nothing rushed. No urgency. Just trust, slowly rebuilt with every kiss, every glance, every soft inhale.
He looks at you like you’re sunlight and breath and forgiveness all wrapped together.
When he finally pushes into you, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for days.
There’s no sound in the room except for the soft slide of skin, the quiet creak of the mattress, the whispered “you’re mine” he doesn’t mean possessively, only with awe. You tangle your fingers in his hair and kiss him like you’ve just come back from the dead.
And maybe you have.
He holds your face the entire time. He kisses your cheek when you gasp. He murmurs your name when you move beneath him, when your hips rise to meet his, when your hands find the small of his back and pull him closer.
You come undone with his name on your lips.
He follows soon after, face buried in your neck, trembling.
You lie tangled in the sheets, breath slowly evening out, his arms wrapped tightly around you. His nose is tucked behind your ear. Your hands rest over his heart, still thudding in your palm like it’s trying to remind you it’s still there. Still beating. Still yours.
“I missed you,” he whispers.
“I missed us.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
“Are we… okay?”
You hesitate. Then kiss his cheek.
“We’re healing.”
He smiles, for real this time, and tucks your hair behind your ear.
“Do you still want to marry me?”
You reach down and tug the sheet up over your bare chest, mock-scowling.
“You made me pasta and gave me rose petals. I’d marry you twice.”
He laughs, low and hoarse. “Good. ‘Cause I wrote a new lyric, and it’s corny as hell.”
You groan. “Tell me.”
He smirks. Leans in close.
“You kissed me like home, and I never moved out.”
You cover your face with a pillow.
He pulls it off and kisses your shoulder. “Too soon?”
You shake your head, grinning, even as your eyes sting a little.
“No. It’s perfect.”
Just like this night. Imperfect, honest, and real.
Fifteen-year-old Ha-yeon pressed against the front of the stage, arms flailing, sweat-soaked from yelling every lyric louder than the speakers can handle. She’s the only girl in a crowd of sleepy college guys and high schoolers skipping hagwon, but she acts like this half-empty basement is a sold-out stadium.
She knows every bar. She even shouts the ad-libs, pointing like she’s in on the joke.
Her brother’s in the back, pretending not to know her.
But Su-bong notices. He always does.
After the set, while the “crowd” disperses and her brother is still tearing down cables, Ha-yeon’s already waiting by the green room, sneaker toe tapping, a list of critique and praise in her phone’s notes app.
Su-bong comes out with a towel around his neck, still grinning, and she ambushes him, “That was your best run-through of ‘Night Drive’ yet. You actually didn’t screw up the third verse. Are you finally practicing, or did you just copy someone else’s flow this time?”
He laughs, voice wrecked from the set, but he’s too tired to be annoyed. “Damn, you’re more savage than half the internet. Remind me how old you are again?”
She straightens, puffing out her chest. “Fifteen. But I’ve been listening to you since you sucked.”
He gives her a look, mock-offended, but the smile’s real. “Oh, so you’re an OG hater. Should I be flattered?”
Ha-yeon just shrugs. “I only spend this much time on people I care about. Or people who need it.”
He snorts. “Lucky me.”
Her brother slides by, muttering, “Don’t encourage her,” but Su-bong just grins at Ha-yeon like he’s found a new toy.
He’s used to girls giggling at him, but not ones who openly roast his music then demand a signed setlist.
When he finally signs her phone case (“don’t mess up the stickers, that’s my favorite one”), he sees she’s already got a selfie of him as her lock screen.
“Jesus, you’re obsessed.”
“Someone’s gotta be,” she fires back, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
It’s only been a week since the last gig, but Ha-yeon shows up to the next set early, like she’s been counting the hours. She barely waits for her brother at the door, just flashes her student ID and struts into the venue like she owns the place, skirt hiked a couple centimeters higher than school would ever allow, crisp white shirt knotted at her waist, and her hair in two tight braids.
She finds Su-bong slumped over the soundboard, mumbling with the sound guy, pencil behind his ear. He looks up, startled, when he hears her voice, “Yah, you’re gonna fry your brain if you keep staring at that screen. Not that you have much to lose.”
He tries for a straight face, but he’s already grinning. “Did you get lost on the way to class or are you skipping again?”
She spins, showing off the uniform with a sly little twist. “Nope, just came straight from school. Priorities, you know?”
She’s got confidence now, all fake-grown-up and gleaming with sweat from running to catch the subway, her skirt riding scandalously high, legs bare.
He feels the panic flicker, if anyone else sees, they’ll think..shit.
He clears his throat, aiming for Big Brother energy. “You keep showing up like that, you’re gonna get me arrested.”
She beams. “I’d break you out. Besides, nobody’s looking at you when I’m around.”
She leans on the soundboard, close enough to bump his arm. “You gonna let me sit in for soundcheck again, or is that only for VIPs?”
He rolls his eyes but waves her into the front row. “Sit, but behave. If you mess with the mic again, I’m telling your brother you got suspended.”
She flops down, skirt riding up even higher, legs swinging, not a single ounce of shame. “You could never handle me, Oppa. You’re all talk.”
He snorts. “Handle you? You’re fifteen and terrifying. I’ll take my chances with the crowd.”
She giggles, too loud. “Admit it, I’m your favorite fan.”
“Favorite stalker, maybe.”
She grins, leaning back like a queen. “You wish.”
He turns away to hide the flush in his cheeks, muttering to himself as he sets levels, what kind of kid acts like this?
But he can’t help the way her energy lifts the whole room, makes his jokes land better, makes him feel like he’s already famous.
After the soundcheck, her brother grabs her by the backpack strap and drags her out, scolding. She just blows Su-bong a kiss as she’s tugged away, leaving him staring after her, shaking his head and biting back a smile.
Ha-yeon’s sixteenth birthday lands on a gray, rainy Friday, but she’s glowing like it’s her own private holiday. Her brother grumbles about having to “babysit a bunch of her weird friends,” but Su-bong’s the one she’s texting all morning, peppering him with “where are you?” and “you better come or I’ll cry” and “don’t forget my present!”
He arrives late, sneakers squeaking on the wet stairs, hair flat from the humidity. He barely gets in the door before Ha-yeon’s on him, cheeks flushed from sugar and soda, grinning wickedly, already wearing the “Birthday Princess” sash she forced on herself.
“About time!” she crows, tugging him into the kitchen where her friends are crowded around a melting cake.
He gives her an awkward little salute. “Couldn’t miss your big day, right? You get taller or am I just shrinking?”
She rolls her eyes, then steps closer, lowering her voice so only he can hear. “You know what I want for my birthday, right?”
He blinks, a little wary. “You already made me bring you that signed vinyl. What else could you possibly need?”
She leans in, voice syrupy sweet. “A kiss.”
There’s a beat, her friends go quiet, watching, and Su-bong feels all their eyes on him, like he’s the punchline to a very dangerous joke.
He laughs, trying to play it off. “You’re not old enough for all that. You want a kiss, go ask your brother. Or one of those boys from school.”
She pouts, arms folded, eyes shining with challenge. “I don’t want one from them. I want one from you.”
He glances at her brother, who’s busy yelling at a kid for dropping cake on the rug, then back at Ha-yeon. He sighs, leans in, and plants a quick, dramatic smooch, right on the top of her head.
“There. Birthday wish granted. Try again next year.”
She groans, stomping her foot in protest, but she can’t hide the laugh bubbling up behind her outrage.
“You’re such a coward, Oppa.”
He just grins, ruffling her hair. “Yeah, and you’re trouble.”
All night she follows him around, still fishing for that “real” kiss, poking his arm, flirting shamelessly. He keeps ducking, laughing, teasing, never letting her get closer than a playful side-hug or a joking high-five.
Sixteen feels different to Ha-yeon, old enough to sneak out, old enough to pull off eyeliner, old enough to fake her way into a packed Friday night at Club Pentagon.
Her brother’s working the door, distracted, and she slides in with a knot of older girls, heart hammering, fake ID burning a hole in her palm.
It’s the first time she’s managed more than a sip of anything stronger than cola. By midnight, she’s tipsy, laughing too loud at nothing, perched on a barstool swinging her legs, eyeing Su-bong over the rim of a stolen cocktail.
He sees her before she spots him, sees the uniform skirt, the deliberate way she sips, the way the bartender is already rolling his eyes.
He slides in beside her, voice low. “You wanna tell me why you’re drinking my gin and tonic?”
She flashes him a syrupy grin. “You wanna tell me why you look so good tonight?”
He snorts, plucking the glass from her hand. “Nice try. Where’d you get this?”
She bats her lashes, not even pretending innocence. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here, right? Especially not drinking. You trying to get your brother fired or just give me a heart attack?”
She pouts, propping her chin on her hand. “You’re no fun. It’s just one drink.”
He holds out his hand. “ID. Now.”
She hesitates, then pulls out the fake with a flourish, waving it like a trophy. “You gonna arrest me, Oppa?”
He takes it, squinting at the bad photo and obviously fake name. “’Min-ji Park,’ huh? Wow, you’re really a criminal now.”
She glares, all pout and fire. “Give it back!”
He pockets it, shaking his head. “Nope. Go drink water and dance with someone your own age. You’re lucky I’m the one who found you and not your brother.”
She scowls, cheeks flushed. “You’re ruining my night. You know that?”
He softens, nudging her shoulder. “Yeah, well, I’d rather ruin your night than your whole life. Drink water or I’m calling your mom.”
That gets her, she gulps, then sags, letting him steer her toward the back room where the noise is softer, her anger giving way to petulant sulking.
She sits in the green room, arms folded, glaring at the wall while he brings her a bottle of water and a pack of chips.
He watches her for a while, the chaos in her shrinking down to a sniffling, messy-haired girl in a too-short skirt, shoes kicked off, fake ID confiscated.
“Next time you wanna act grown,” he says gently, “do it somewhere safer. And wait till you’re actually grown, okay?”
She grumbles, “You’re not my dad.”
He laughs, tossing her a hoodie to cover up. “Thank god. I’m not sure I could survive you.”
She pulls the hoodie over her head, finally meeting his eyes with a huff. “You still owe me a kiss, you know.”
He just rolls his eyes, heading back toward the club lights, her fake ID still in his pocket, proof that no matter how hard she tries, she’s still just a kid to him.
—
Seventeen isn’t what Ha-yeon thought it’d be.
Her boyfriend’s older, flashier, loud in ways she isn’t, always with a hand somewhere it shouldn’t be, on her hip, in her hair, draped over her shoulders even when she shrugs him off. He’s not dangerous, just annoying as hell, the kind of guy who talks louder than the music and thinks owning a leather jacket makes him cool.
It’s a Thursday when Su-bong comes over. He’s expecting ramen, old movies, maybe a chance to crash Nam-gyu’s tiny home studio. What he isn’t expecting is to open the door and see Ha-yeon’s boyfriend making himself at home on the couch, sneakers kicked off, arm slung tight around her shoulders.
Nam-gyu’s in the kitchen, pretending not to notice, but Su-bong sees the twitch in his jaw every time Ha-yeon’s boyfriend calls her “babe” in that drawling, ugly voice.
Su-bong drops onto the arm of the couch, deliberately close enough to make the boyfriend move his legs. “Didn’t know we were having company tonight.”
The boyfriend grins, all teeth. “Just hanging out with my girl. She said her favorite rapper might swing by, but I guess you’ll do.”
Su-bong keeps his face smooth, doesn’t rise to the bait. “Yeah? Hope I’m not interrupting your date.”
Ha-yeon, stuck between them, laughs too brightly. “You’re never interrupting, Oppa.”
The boyfriend pulls her in for a kiss, messy and public. She stiffens, eyes flicking toward Su-bong, just for a second, but he sees it.
He wants to say something. He wants to tell this clown to get his hands off her. But he just forces a smile, shifting his attention to Nam-gyu.
Dinner is awkward. The boyfriend cracks jokes, brags about a fight at school, shoves more food into his mouth than anyone else.
Su-bong catches Ha-yeon watching him, not her boyfriend, every time he laughs or wipes his mouth.
She tucks a napkin into her pocket after he uses it, pretending not to care. No one notices, except Su-bong, who catches her eye and winks, thinking it’s just another of her little quirks.
When her boyfriend leaves (after way too many pointed glares from Nam-gyu and a “maybe don’t come back next time” muttered at the door), Ha-yeon drifts into her room.
She closes the door, pulls out a battered old shoebox from the back of her closet, and opens it on her lap.
Inside:
The napkin from tonight, with a smudge of Su-bong’s ramen broth
A wristband from one of his old shows
The Sharpie he used to sign her phone case two years ago
A ticket stub, a guitar pick she “borrowed” from his bag, a crumpled setlist
A half-empty roll of mints he left in Nam-gyu’s car
A dried flower she pressed after seeing him wear it in his hair for a joke onstage
She runs her finger over each piece like they’re holy relics. This is the real obsession, not the loud crush, not the jokes or flirting, but a quiet, private madness no one could ever know.
Later, as the apartment quiets and the streetlights flicker outside, she closes the box and slides it back under her bed, heartbeat loud in her ears.
She thinks about Su-bong on the couch, the way his jaw tensed every time her boyfriend touched her. She wonders if he’d care if he ever knew the truth.
—
Ha-yeon knows she’s being unreasonable.
Knows it when she slams a cabinet just a little too hard, when she rolls her eyes at a joke Su-bong makes, when she pretends not to hear him say goodbye on his way out the door.
But it doesn’t stop her.
Because Sae-jin is beautiful in that effortless, clean-cut kind of way. The kind of girl who actually folds her laundry and wears perfume that smells like expensive soap. The kind of girl who doesn’t drink until she’s dizzy and never screams the wrong lyrics at shows. The kind of girl Su-bong brings around now.
They’re “just hanging out.” That’s what Nam-gyu said with a shrug when he asked.
“She’s chill,” he added. “Smart. Kind of boring, but not in a bad way.”
Ha-yeon hates her already.
It’s worse when Su-bong talks about her casually. “Sae-jin said that ramen spot on Gangnam-daero’s overrated.”
Or: “Sae-jin’s been editing her short film. It’s actually pretty good.”
And worst of all: “Sae-jin says I should do more acoustic stuff.”
Like her opinion matters. Like she gets a say.
Tonight, he’s over again, sprawled on the living room floor with Nam-gyu, writing out setlists and talking shit over ramen bowls. Ha-yeon lurks in the kitchen, refusing to come out. The sound of Su-bong’s laugh hits her like a slap.
He calls her name once, then again.
“Ha-yeon! You hiding or just ignoring me now?”
She steps out slowly, hoodie pulled over her head, arms crossed tight. “Why would I be ignoring you?”
He raises a brow. “You tell me. Been acting weird for a week.”
Nam-gyu glances up, catches the vibe, and decides he suddenly needs to “check something in the studio.”
Coward.
Now it’s just the two of them in the warm yellow light of the apartment, silence thick between them.
Su-bong sits up. “Come on. What’s up with you?”
She shrugs, eyes locked on the floor. “Nothing.”
“You sure? ‘Cause you barely looked at me on Sunday. Didn’t even roast my verse, and it was bad. I was counting on you.”
“I said it’s nothing.”
He studies her, that patient, infuriating calm in his eyes. “Is this about the girl?”
She flinches before she can stop herself.
“That’s not it,” she mutters, but her voice cracks halfway through.
He sighs, soft but steady. “Ha-yeon…”
She snaps her head up, jaw clenched. “I don’t care who you hang out with. Why would I care? I’m not your girlfriend.”
It lands heavier than she means it to. Her voice is louder than she wanted, her eyes too shiny. She can’t breathe right.
He opens his mouth, then closes it, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I never said you were.”
“Exactly,” she says, cutting him off before he can say anything else. “So it’s not about the girl. It’s not about anything.”
She turns and walks away before she can cry.
Before she does something really stupid.
Before she begs him to just look at her the way he used to.
Su-bong watches her door close, the sharp click echoing too loud in the quiet.
—
Ha-yeon’s eighteenth birthday is supposed to feel different.
She curls her hair. Wears the dress she’s been saving. Perfume, lip gloss, sharp liner.
Nam-gyu complains the whole morning about the food prep and her ridiculous guest list, but he still takes the trash out without being asked.
The apartment fills with warm lights, loud voices, and all the people who’ve watched her grow up.
And then Su-bong walks in.
With her.
Sae-jin.
Cool. Polished. Not even wearing heels and still somehow floating through the door like she owns the air.
She’s got her hand in the crook of Su-bong’s arm. She’s laughing at something he said. And he doesn’t even look guilty.
Ha-yeon wants to scream.
She keeps her distance at first. Talks to everyone but him. Smiles too wide. Laughs too loud. Pretends everything’s fine.
It isn’t.
He finally pulls her aside when the cake’s been cut, holding a small wrapped box in both hands.
“Happy birthday,” he says, smile crooked. “Don’t kill me if it’s cheesy.”
She takes it with shaky fingers, not trusting her voice.
Inside is a delicate cream-colored music box, tiny golden turn crank, soft red velvet interior.
When she opens it, it plays the first few bars of one of his old tracks, her favorite, from when he still recorded in closets and tin can studios.
“I had it custom-made,” he says, watching her reaction. “Figured you’d appreciate the nostalgia.”
She doesn’t cry. Not yet.
But the ache in her throat is unbearable.
She closes the lid carefully, then looks up at him, and for a moment, he sees it, the emotion storming behind her eyes.
But then Sae-jin calls his name from across the room, and he turns away.
Later, Ha-yeon’s in the kitchen, hands trembling as she rearranges forks just to keep busy, when Sae-jin steps in behind her.
“Oh,” Sae-jin says coolly, “you’re still pouting.”
Ha-yeon stiffens. Doesn’t look up. “Not pouting. Just cleaning.”
“Mmhmm,” Sae-jin hums. “It’s cute, you know. This whole little fantasy.”
“What fantasy?”
“That you matter.”
The words land like a slap.
“You really think he sees you? That he ever did?” Sae-jin continues, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “You’re his friend’s kid sister. A child. All this dressing up and puppy dog stares..it’s just sad.”
Ha-yeon turns slowly, jaw clenched.
“Excuse me?”
Sae-jin smirks. “You’ll always be the pathetic little girl playing dress-up and pretending you mean something to him. But I’m the one he comes home with.”
The shove isn’t dramatic. Just sudden. Instinct. Two hands to the shoulders, enough to knock Sae-jin back a step and slam her hip into the counter.
Not enough to hurt. But enough to snap the moment in half.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ha-yeon hisses, voice cracking.
That’s when the door swings open. Nam-gyu first. Then Su-bong, stepping into the kitchen mid-standoff.
“What’s going on?” he demands.
Sae-jin straightens, rubbing her arm for dramatic effect. “She pushed me.”
Everyone looks at Ha-yeon.
She’s breathing hard. Hands still half-raised. Eyes glassy with tears. And when she speaks, it’s the softest it’s been all night.
“She said I’m nothing to you. That I’m just a pathetic little girl.”
Su-bong’s face changes. Instantly.
Nam-gyu’s already moving to her, pulling her into a hug, muttering something sharp under his breath about throwing that bitch out.
But Ha-yeon’s not listening.
She’s crying now. Shoulders shaking. Clutching the hoodie she threw on over her dress, ruining her makeup, her birthday, her night.
Su-bong’s eyes haven’t left Ha-yeon’s face. “Is that true?” he asks, voice low.
Sae-jin lifts her chin. “If you’re asking whether I called her a pathetic little girl, then yeah. I did. Because that’s what she’s acting like.”
He blinks once. Slowly.
Then turns to her. “You should go.”
Sae-jin freezes. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re taking her side?”
“I’m not taking sides,” he says, but the weight in his tone says otherwise. “I asked you not to cause problems tonight. It’s her birthday. You didn’t have to say any of that.”
“She’s a kid..”
“She’s not,” Su-bong snaps. His voice doesn’t rise, but the room still flinches. “She’s not a kid anymore. And even if she was, she didn’t deserve that.”
Sae-jin’s mouth opens and closes like she can’t decide if she should fight harder or save face. Eventually, she just scoffs, grabs her bag off the counter, and leaves without another word.
The door slams behind her.
Ha-yeon doesn’t move.
Su-bong runs a hand down his face, exhaling hard. Then glances at Nam-gyu, who’s still holding her close. “She okay?”
Nam-gyu nods once. “Yeah.”
Su-bong crouches down in front of them. “Hey.”
Ha-yeon finally lifts her head. Her eyes are rimmed red, lashes clumped with tears, lips bitten pink from trying not to sob.
She looks like a kicked puppy. It wrecks him.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t know she said that.”
Ha-yeon doesn’t speak. Just presses her face back into Nam-gyu’s shoulder, as if she’s trying to disappear.
Nam-gyu gives Su-bong a long, unreadable look over her head. Then says, “We were gonna watch a movie. You still staying?”
Su-bong hesitates. Then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll stay.”
They sit on the couch with the lights low, Nam-gyu on one end, feet up, and Su-bong in the middle. Ha-yeon curls into the space between them, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, eyes puffy but dry now.
The movie plays, but no one’s really watching. It’s just sound to fill the silence. Ha-yeon’s leaning heavier and heavier against Su-bong’s side as the minutes pass, her head eventually resting against his shoulder.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense.
He just shifts slightly so she has more room, letting her settle.
Nam-gyu’s already half-asleep by the end of the first act, mumbling something about subtitles before his head lolls back against the cushions.
And Ha-yeon? She’s breathing slow now. Peaceful. Her hand is curled against Su-bong’s chest. The same fingers that were trembling earlier now twitch with dreams.
Su-bong stares at the screen without seeing it. His arm around her is light, but steady. Careful. Protective.
She smells like honey shampoo and a little leftover alcohol. He closes his eyes for a second, just one.
Then glances down at her again.
She’s beautiful.
The movie ends sometime after 2AM. Nam-gyu’s already passed out on the far end of the couch, arms folded, chin tucked into his hoodie like he’s trying to ward off a hangover before it starts.
Ha-yeon doesn’t stir when the credits roll. Still curled into Su-bong’s side, face pressed into his chest, soft little sighs escaping her lips as she sleeps.
She looks so young like this. But not childish.
Her makeup is smudged, the sleeves of her hoodie pulled down past her fingers, her knees tucked in close under the blanket they’d all shared. There’s nothing seductive in it. Nothing flirtatious.
But it still wrecks him.
He shifts slowly, careful not to wake her, then slides one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She’s warm and light against him, breath steady as he lifts her.
She doesn’t even stir, just burrows her face into his chest like she’s done it a thousand times before.
Su-bong carries her down the hallway, trying not to make a sound. He’s been here a hundred times. Knows exactly which floorboard creaks, which doorknob sticks. But it feels different tonight.
Everything does.
Her room is tidy in the way only someone obsessive keeps it, everything in place, bed made, notebooks stacked. He nudges the door open with his foot, steps inside, and lays her gently on the mattress.
She curls toward the pillow instinctively, hoodie rising just enough to reveal a sliver of her back before he tugs the blanket over her. Her fingers find the edge of it in her sleep, clutching it like a child would.
He watches her for a second too long.
Then steps back, closes the door softly, and exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Back in the living room, Nam-gyu’s awake.
Barely.
One eye cracked open, voice low and slurred from sleep. But sharp.
“Hyung.”
Su-bong turns.
Nam-gyu’s sitting up now, arms resting on his knees, expression unreadable in the low light.
“She’s my baby sister.”
Su-bong doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Nam-gyu lets the silence stretch. “She’s a decade younger than you.”
That lands.
Hard.
Su-bong swallows, runs a hand over his mouth. “I know.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Nam-gyu stares at him for a long moment. The kind that digs under your ribs and twists.
“You didn’t used to look at her like that.”
Su-bong nods once. “I know.”
“And now?”
Su-bong hesitates. “Now I don’t know how to not look at her.”
The words hang between them. Heavy. Final.
Nam-gyu scrubs a hand down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I’m not going to touch her,” Su-bong says quickly. “I haven’t. I wouldn’t.”
“But you want to.”
Another silence.
Then Su-bong says, quieter, “I don’t want to hurt her.”
Nam-gyu leans back, looking up at the ceiling like he’s trying to keep himself from punching something. “She’s eighteen, hyung. Barely. You’ve known her since she was fourteen. I let her tag along because I trusted you.”
“I didn’t mean for it to..”
“I know you didn’t,” Nam-gyu snaps. “But now it’s here. And she’s not subtle. You think I don’t see it? She’s been gone over you for years.”
Su-bong stays quiet. There’s nothing he can say that doesn’t sound like an excuse.
Nam-gyu finally sighs, long and tired. “You need to figure out what you’re doing. And fast. Because if you hurt her…”
He doesn’t finish it. He doesn’t need to.
“I won’t,” Su-bong says. And he means it.
—
It’s been a week since her birthday.
No calls. No texts. Not even a “thanks again” for the music box.
Su-bong doesn’t expect anything. Not really.
But he thinks about her more than he should, wonders if she’s still upset, if she’s still thinking about that night, that moment in the kitchen, the way she slept against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then Friday comes.
And so does she.
Club Pentagon is packed by ten. Low lights, high bass, bodies moving like water in the dark. And right in the middle of it, Ha-yeon.
Mini skirt. Crop top. Platform boots. Hair glossy and loose down her back.
She looks older tonight. Not like a girl trying to look grown, like a woman who already knows exactly what she’s doing.
He sees her before she sees him. Leaning on the bar, sipping a drink (non-alcoholic, thank god), laughing at something Nam-gyu’s saying.
Nam-gyu looks annoyed. Of course he does. He told her not to come tonight. But Ha-yeon doesn’t care.
And then he sees Jung-wo.
Seventeen, maybe. Loud. Tries too hard. One of the newer kids who’s been hovering around the underground scene trying to get noticed.
And tonight, he notices her.
Su-bong watches it unfold like a slow-motion car crash.
Jung-wo sidles up to her. Says something cheesy. She laughs. He offers her his drink. She refuses. He says he’s a rapper.
“Oh yeah?” she asks, chin tilted. “Spit something.”
And he does.
Right there at the bar. Cocky freestyle, full of punchlines and swagger. It’s not terrible. But it’s not good either.
Still, Ha-yeon claps. Claps.
Su-bong feels his jaw tighten.
She leans in, says something that makes Jung-wo puff up like a proud rooster. Nam-gyu looks like he’s about to commit a crime, but before he can intervene, she disappears into the crowd, with Jung-wo on her heels.
Su-bong tells himself he doesn’t care.
He has a set in ten minutes. He’s got a mic check to finish. He doesn’t care.
But he does.
By the time his set ends, he hasn’t seen her in an hour.
He packs up slow, trying not to look around. Trying not to care.
Then, just before he hits the stairs to the green room, he sees them.
In the corner by the hallway.
Her back against the wall. Jung-wo’s hands on her hips. Her mouth on his.
It’s not delicate.
It’s not sweet.
It’s messy. Hungry. Purposeful.
She’s making a point.
And Su-bong gets it.
He just stands there for a second, long enough for Jung-wo to spot him over her shoulder. The kid smirks.
Su-bong doesn’t flinch.
He just turns and walks away.
Backstage, he punches the wall once. Quiet. Hard.
Then wipes his hand, checks his knuckles, and goes back to pretending everything’s fine.
Because it’s still a game.
Because she’s still Nam-gyu’s baby sister.
—
Nineteen looks different on Ha-yeon. She’s not softer, she’s sharper. Funnier, crueler sometimes. She leans into Jung-wo’s arm at Club Pentagon but never lets him hold her for long, eyes always searching the room, always finding Su-bong.
Jung-wo’s a menace. He’s with Ha-yeon but always brings backup, other girls with heavy makeup and lighter laughs, girls who call him “oppa” and drape themselves across his lap when Ha-yeon’s in the bathroom. Nam-gyu hates him. Su-bong hates him more.
Tonight’s set ends early. The club’s humming, the night sticky and heavy. Su-bong’s still in the green room, half-listening to Nam-gyu grumble about setlists, when his phone vibrates.
He checks the screen. It’s a photo from Ha-yeon.
It takes him a second to realize what he’s seeing, her hand, holding her own breast, thumb teasing at her nipple, face cropped out but unmistakable. The caption is a string of hearts and a single, breathless:
“You coming over tonight?”
His pulse spikes.
A second later, a follow-up:
“Shit..sorry, wrong person!!”
Sure.
He tries to breathe. Types out:
You sent this to me.
…then deletes it.
You okay?
Another photo, even bolder, her on her bed, crop top pulled up, breasts bare, her lips parted and wet, a string of pearls around her neck he bought her for her birthday last year.
His mouth goes dry.
“Oops. Again. Can you just delete those?”
But a third picture comes before he can even reply, her ass, mini skirt hiked up, thong barely visible, knees pressed together, toes pointed just so.
He exhales, hard. Adjusts himself in his jeans, cursing under his breath.
She sends one last message:
“Sorry, Oppa. I’m such a mess lately. Can you forgive me?”
He closes his eyes. Knuckles white around his phone.
He knows what this is. Knows it’s not an accident, not when she keeps sending them, not when every angle is perfect, not when every picture is more intimate, more impossible to ignore.
He wants to do the right thing. He wants to be good.
But he’s not.
Not anymore.
His thumbs hover over the screen, breathing shallow, heartbeat thick in his ears.
Alone in his apartment, he locks the door, phone in hand, heart thudding. He shouldn’t, but he does, scrolling back, thumb shaking as he studies every detail. The softness of her breasts. The way her ass curves under that skirt. The bite of the pearls at her throat.
He palms himself through his jeans, already hard, already leaking at the thought of her, messy and wanton and wanting him, not that scumbag boyfriend she drapes herself over in public. He pulls his cock free, hand working slow at first, then faster, chasing relief he’s tried to deny for years.
His phone vibrates, sudden, loud, unexpected.
A FaceTime request.
From her.
He means to hit ignore.
He swears he does.
But his thumb slips, nerves fried, and suddenly the screen is full of her face, wide-eyed, a little blurry, lips parted.
For a split second, neither of them says a word.
And then her eyes flick down. The front camera captures all of him: flushed, hair mussed, cock hard and glistening in his fist. Caught mid-stroke.
She gasps. A wicked, breathless little sound. “Whoa. Holy shit.”
“Fuck..!” He fumbles, scrambles to cover himself, hand darting for the edge of the phone, but the damage is done, her laughter bubbles up, electric and wild, and he can’t even be mad.
He ends the call, slamming the phone down, heart jackhammering in his chest.
His mind races. Shame and arousal tangle, feeding on each other. He curses again, tucks himself away, but he’s still rock hard, still burning with the image of her shocked, delighted face.
A minute later, the texts start.
Ha-yeon: You’re huge.
Why’d you hang up?
Come over right now.
Please, Oppa. I’m so wet I can’t breathe.
He stares at the screen, chest heaving, every scrap of restraint shredded.
He stares at the last text until his vision blurs.
Every cell in his body screams to give in. It would be so easy, he could be at her door in twenty minutes, could be inside her in thirty, could make her forget every boy who ever hurt her.
He wants it. God, he wants it so bad it feels like a fever.
But that’s not who he is.
He’s not the guy who ruins everything for a night he’ll never forgive himself for.
He’s not the guy who betrays the trust that’s held this crooked little found family together since Ha-yeon was a kid with braces, heckling him from the crowd.
He closes his eyes. Takes a long, shuddering breath.
Opens the chat.
Su-bong: No.
This can’t happen.
You know why, Ha-yeon.
Her reply is almost instant.
Ha-yeon: Why not? Don’t pretend you don’t want it. I saw you.
You want me. You always have.
He swallows hard, hands shaking, but keeps going.
Su-bong: Of course I want you.
But I’m not going to do this. Not with you drunk, not when you’re pissed at your boyfriend, not behind Nam-gyu’s back.
You’re too important to me for that.
Go to sleep, Ha-yeon.
There’s a pause, a long one. He imagines her in her room, half-undressed, furious and humiliated and so heartbreakingly young. He hates himself for how much it hurts to do the right thing.
Another text appears.
Ha-yeon: So what, you’re just going to ignore this? Pretend you don’t care?
He types, erases, types again.
Su-bong: I care more than I should.
That’s exactly why I have to stop.
Goodnight.
He silences his phone, throws it across the bed, and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until the room goes black.
Tonight, restraint is agony.
But tomorrow, at least he’ll still be able to look Nam-gyu, and Ha-yeon, in the eyes.
Morning comes gray and cold, the city still groggy from last night’s rain.
Ha-yeon wakes up with her phone still in her hand, the thread with Su-bong unread, his last words burning behind her eyelids. She’s never felt so exposed, or so stupid.
So she does what she’s always done when her heart cracks open: she runs toward the worst possible thing.
Jung-wo texts her at noon:
You out tonight? Bring that skirt.
She doesn’t even reply. She just shows up at Club Pentagon in the shortest skirt she owns, lips glossed, anger like armor. Jung-wo’s already there with his boys, laughing too loud, but he lights up when he sees her.
He puts his arm around her waist, hands wandering like he owns her. She lets him. She lets him kiss her neck, whisper filth in her ear, even press her up against the wall outside the bathroom where anyone could see.
If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend it’s Su-bong’s hands, Su-bong’s mouth. Almost.
Inside, Su-bong is behind the bar, faking focus. He catches them out of the corner of his eye, her head tipped back, Jung-wo’s lips all over her throat, hands sliding up her thighs, fingers leaving prints on her skin.
His jaw tightens. He breaks a glass, doesn’t apologize.
Nam-gyu notices. “Hyung. You okay?”
Su-bong shrugs. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”
But it’s not nothing.
It’s everything.
He watches Jung-wo lead her away into the crowd, sees Ha-yeon look over her shoulder one last time. Their eyes lock, hers shining with hurt, challenge, and something like surrender.
His, unreadable. Ashamed. Hungry. Helpless.
Jung-wo drags her out onto the street before midnight. Everyone knows what they’re about to do.
Su-bong cleans up spilled drinks, closes out tabs, pretends he doesn’t care.
But all night, he can’t stop picturing her, alone with that kid, giving away what he turned down, trying to erase him from her veins.
And he wonders, for the thousandth time, if being a good man is worth feeling this bad.
—
She’s twenty-one now, but in some ways, nothing’s changed. Jung-wo is still in the picture, loud, cocky, shallow as ever. He’s more a habit than a love, a bad tattoo she keeps under her sleeve. He shows up at Club Pentagon with new girls on his arm every week, but always goes home with her, and everyone pretends not to notice the way Ha-yeon’s eyes stray elsewhere.
It’s Su-bong she dreams about. Su-bong whose music plays in her headphones, whose scent she keeps on a hoodie folded at the bottom of her drawer, whose voice lives in her head, even now.
Her secret box has grown. It’s no longer a shoebox hidden in the back of her closet but a battered metal tin, heavy with years of longing. Inside:
The original napkin, faded and stained, wrapped around a dried-out flower.
Ticket stubs, torn wristbands, guitar picks she pocketed after shows.
Receipts from nights out, Su-bong’s name circled in pink ink.
A half-used tube of ChapStick she stole from his coat pocket once.
A button from his favorite denim jacket.
A clump of hair she snipped while he slept over after a long gig, hidden in an envelope labeled only with the date.
She adds to it quietly, compulsively, unable to stop herself.
Sometimes she sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor, lifting each item with reverence, arranging them like relics. It’s a ritual, a comfort, a sickness. Her love has never softened, it’s only gotten hungrier.
She still texts Su-bong. Not every day, not like before. Sometimes she sends old photos, little reminders of the time he spent at their apartment, sometimes just a song lyric she knows will haunt him. He never ignores her, never blocks her. But he keeps his answers safe, careful, never inviting.
Still, he can’t stay away. Not really. He plays at Club Pentagon every Friday, always finds a reason to talk to Nam-gyu, always finds her in the crowd, sometimes smiling, sometimes alone, sometimes with Jung-wo pressed close behind her, hand on her waist.
She tells herself she’s moved on.
But every time Jung-wo touches her, she’s thinking of someone else.
Every time she adds something new to the box, she wonders how much more she’ll have to collect before he’s hers.
Ha-yeon doesn’t really want to move in with Jung-wo, but she does it anyway, part stubbornness, part needing to prove something, part wanting to feel like an adult. His apartment is a mess: too many sneakers, takeout boxes everywhere, ashtrays overflowing on the balcony. It smells like cheap cologne and weed and sometimes other girls’ perfume, but she ignores it. She makes herself a tiny corner, organizes her skincare on the bathroom shelf, and slides her metal shrine-box beneath their bed, key looped onto her anklet.
Jung-wo barely notices her nesting; he’s too busy shouting into his headset or posting TikToks. When he does, it’s only to squeeze her hips, bite her neck, or pull her into his lap like a prop for the camera. She lets him. It means nothing.
What does mean something is the way her brother’s life changes overnight.
Nam-gyu’s new roommate is called Soo-ah. She’s bright-eyed, soft-spoken, always humming to herself as she drapes laundry or makes coffee. Ha-yeon meets her for the first time when she comes to drop off a set of house keys.
Soo-ah opens the door, smile bright. “You must be Ha-yeon! Nam-gyu’s told me about you, he said you were the troublemaker.”
Nam-gyu, red-faced behind her, groans. “Sis, don’t believe her, she’s making that up.”
Soo-ah winks at Ha-yeon, conspiratorial, and for the first time in a while, Ha-yeon grins for real.
Later, after Soo-ah’s gone to her room, Ha-yeon corners her brother in the kitchen, arms folded, eyebrow raised. “So, you finally got a crush, huh?”
Nam-gyu’s ears go scarlet. “What? No. We’re just roommates.”
“Uh-huh.” She leans in, poking his side. “You should see your face, oppa. You’re obsessed. You’re worse than me. If you start making a box of her hair, I’m calling mom.”
Nam-gyu groans, swatting her away. “That’s not funny, Ha-yeon.”
She laughs, genuine. “It’s a little funny. She’s cute. Way out of your league, but cute.”
He tries to glower, but he can’t hide the smile. “Just don’t mess this up for me, okay?”
She pretends to zip her lips. “My lips are sealed. But if you write her a song, you have to let me read the lyrics first.”
He throws a dish towel at her, grumbling, but the mood in the kitchen is lighter than it’s been in years.
—
Later, back at Jung-wo’s place, Ha-yeon lies in bed while he snores beside her, the city neon outside the window. She thinks about Su-bong, about obsession and yearning, about how her brother might finally understand what it means to want someone you’re not allowed to have.
She wonders if Soo-ah will break Nam-gyu’s heart, or teach him how to survive it.
She wonders if anyone will ever do the same for her.
Jung-wo’s moods are louder these days, anger coming in waves, breaking over Ha-yeon at random. He gets jealous of her phone, her brother, her clothes. He hates the way she does her hair, the way she laughs at Club Pentagon when he’s not the one making the joke.
One night, he grabs her wrist too hard. It leaves a bruise, faint but ugly, a thumb-shaped stain she covers with foundation before meeting Nam-gyu for coffee. She tells herself it’s not a big deal. She tells herself she’s tough.
But it keeps happening.
Arguments turn into shouting, shouting turns into slammed doors and glass breaking in the kitchen.
Sometimes he blocks her in the hallway, demanding to see her phone. Sometimes he throws her keys on the balcony, makes her beg for them back. Sometimes he says things she can’t repeat, even to herself.
He’s never sorry.
She stops bringing up his other girls. She stops going out at all.
One night, after a fight that feels like a car crash, she locks herself in the bathroom and texts Nam-gyu just to hear a safe voice. He doesn’t pick up, he’s probably out with Soo-ah, but she leaves a voicemail anyway.
“Oppa. I’m okay. Just wanted to hear your voice. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”
She deletes it before it sends.
Jung-wo pounds on the door. She steels herself, checks her makeup, wipes her eyes.
When she steps out, she’s all smile. All armor.
But even armor wears thin.
—
At Club Pentagon, Su-bong watches her move through the crowd, shoulders tight, face wrong somehow. When Jung-wo pulls her close, she doesn’t flinch, but Su-bong sees the way her hand trembles, the way she winces when Jung-wo squeezes her side a little too hard.
Nam-gyu notices too.
He corners her by the bar. “What’s going on with you two?”
She laughs it off. “It’s nothing, oppa. He’s just stressed.”
Nam-gyu scowls, not convinced. “You call me. Anything happens, you call me. You know that, right?”
She nods, smile wobbling, and changes the subject.
But later, in the bathroom with the metal tin of relics at her feet, she cries until she can’t breathe. For the first time, she starts to wonder what it would feel like to be truly safe.
It’s late, almost midnight, when Ha-yeon rings Nam-gyu’s buzzer. She’s got her hoodie pulled down low, hands shoved in her pockets, but her eyes are red and raw in the hallway light.
Soo-ah is the one who answers, bright and warm as always. “Ha-yeon! Did you eat yet? Come in, I made way too much pasta.”
Nam-gyu’s behind her, surprised but smiling. “What are you doing here so late?”
Ha-yeon shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “Jung-wo’s out. I was bored. Missed you guys.”
They eat in the kitchen, all mismatched bowls and late-night laughter, Soo-ah telling stories about her new job, Nam-gyu rolling his eyes at every cheesy joke. For a while, Ha-yeon almost forgets. She lets herself be small and cared for, wrapped in the glow of their attention.
But when she reaches across the table to help clear the plates, her sleeve rides up.
Soo-ah freezes mid-sentence. Nam-gyu’s gaze drops, sharp and surgical, to the dark mark ringing her forearm.
The room stills.
No more laughter.
Nam-gyu’s voice is quiet. “What happened?”
Ha-yeon pulls her sleeve down, too late. “It’s nothing. I bumped into the table.”
Soo-ah’s eyes flick to Nam-gyu, wide and worried. “That doesn’t look like the table.”
He stands up, chair scraping back. “Ha-yeon. Tell me the truth.”
Her breath shudders out, and she shakes her head, eyes filling. “It’s not, it’s nothing, oppa. Just..”
“Is it Jung-wo?”
The words cut through the room.
She doesn’t answer, but that’s answer enough.
Nam-gyu’s face goes cold. He moves so fast she barely has time to register it, phone already in hand, keys grabbed from the hook by the door.
Soo-ah rushes to Ha-yeon’s side, arms coming around her shoulders, anchoring her.
“Nam-gyu, wait..” Soo-ah calls.
He’s already dialing. “I’m calling Su-bong.”
Su-bong answers on the second ring, voice low and rough with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
Nam-gyu doesn’t waste time. “It’s Jung-wo. He’s been hurting her. I saw the bruise. I’m going over there.”
There’s a beat. Then Su-bong’s voice sharpens. “Don’t. Don’t go to Jung-wo. Leave Ha-yeon with Soo-ah. Come here. Right now. We’ll figure out what to do.”
Nam-gyu wants to argue, wants to break something, but something in Su-bong’s tone gets through.
He looks back at Ha-yeon, her face buried in Soo-ah’s shoulder, shaking with silent tears.
He softens. “Ha-yeon. Stay here with Soo-ah, okay? I’ll be back soon.”
She nods, not trusting herself to speak.
He squeezes her hand, then bolts out the door, phone pressed to his ear.
When he gets to Su-bong’s place, he’s shaking. Su-bong’s waiting at the door, jaw set, eyes blazing.
Nam-gyu starts, voice tight. “I’m going to kill him.”
Su-bong puts a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “No, you’re not. Not yet. You’re going to sit down, tell me everything, and we’re going to take care of her. Together.”
—
They don’t talk much on the way over, anger humming between them like a live wire. Su-bong’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, eyes fixed and deadly. Nam-gyu keeps clenching and unclenching his fists, pulse loud in his ears.
When they get to Jung-wo’s place, Nam-gyu buzzes the door and Su-bong just follows, silent and heavy. The elevator ride is a blur. Neither looks at the other. The only thing that matters is Ha-yeon.
Jung-wo answers the door in sweats, eyes red, hair a mess. He looks annoyed for half a second, until he sees who’s standing in his doorway.
“Whoa. No fucking way..Thanos? Like, the Thanos?” Jung-wo’s grin is stupid and starstruck, a fanboy’s face on a piece of shit.
Su-bong doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say a word. Just steps inside, shoulders broad, energy all wrong.
Nam-gyu’s voice is ice. “We’re not here for autographs.”
Jung-wo blinks, the bravado starting to slip. “Uh, what’s..what’s going on?”
Su-bong closes the door behind them, calm as a shark. “You know exactly why we’re here. And you’re going to listen.”
Jung-wo tries for a smirk, looking between them. “This is about Ha-yeon? Look, man, she’s crazy sometimes, I don’t know what she..”
Nam-gyu cuts him off, stepping in close, voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “You put your hands on my sister.”
Jung-wo’s jaw tightens, but he glances nervously at Su-bong, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him. “I didn’t..she’s making shit up. She..”
“Don’t lie,” Su-bong says, voice soft and low, the kind that makes your skin crawl. “Not right now. Not to me.”
Jung-wo’s breath hitches. “Look, I didn’t mean..sometimes we fight, but..”
Nam-gyu’s fists ball at his sides. “You ever touch her again, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“And you’re done with her,” Su-bong adds, each word like a dropped weight. “For good. You see her, you walk the other way. You message her, you regret it. You so much as say her name..”
He leans in, finally letting a little of the monster out, eyes dark and electric. “You know who I am. You know what I could do. But you don’t want to find out what I’d do to someone who hurts the people I love.”
Jung-wo tries to keep his chin up, but the swagger’s gone. He nods, swallowing hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. Okay, I get it. I won’t..I won’t go near her. I swear.”
Nam-gyu steps back, every muscle shaking. Su-bong stares one last time, making sure the message sinks in.
“Don’t ever forget,” Su-bong says, low and final. “She’s not alone.”
They turn and leave, the door swinging shut behind them. Neither looks back.
In the silent hallway, Nam-gyu lets out a shuddering breath. “You think that’s enough?”
Su-bong shakes his head, eyes still hard. “Nothing’s ever enough. But it’s a start.”
—
It’s late, a few weeks later, nearly two in the morning, when Ha-yeon texts her brother after she’s been out with her friends.
Ha-yeon: Oppa, can you come get me? I’m at the corner by the noodle shop. Don’t wanna wait for a taxi. Too many creeps.
Nam-gyu doesn’t answer right away, but ten minutes later, a car pulls up to the curb. It isn’t her brother. It’s Su-bong.
He rolls down the window, jaw set, eyes tired. “Your brother’s got work in the morning. Come on, get in.”
She’s already grinning, nerves buzzing, heat licking up her spine. “You came to rescue me, oppa?”
He shoots her a look, half warning, half helpless affection. “Don’t start.”
She slides in anyway, legs crossed, skirt riding high, perfume swirling around her. She’s tipsy, happy, untouchable. Tonight, she feels unstoppable.
They drive through the sleeping city in silence for a few minutes. The radio hums low. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road.
She can’t help it; she starts in, voice soft and teasing. “You missed me, didn’t you?”
He exhales through his nose, not looking at her. “You’re drunk.”
She leans over, head on his shoulder, hand sliding to his thigh. “Not that drunk. Just… brave.”
He shifts in his seat, jaw clenching. “Ha-yeon..don’t.”
But she keeps going, her words syrupy, too honest. “You know, I always thought about this. You, me, a car, nobody else around.” She laughs softly. “You’d always say no, back then. You’re still trying to, aren’t you?”
“Someone has to,” he mutters.
She grins, then suddenly, without warning, pulls her shirt down, flashes him full and bold, her breasts soft and perfect in the neon light spilling through the windshield.
He jerks the wheel, heart hammering. “Jesus..Ha-yeon!”
She laughs, not sorry at all, pulling her shirt back up but not all the way. “Just wanted to see if you’d crash.”
He pulls over, breathing hard, hand trembling as he parks. “What the fuck are you doing?”
She unbuckles, crawls over the console, climbing into his lap. Her thighs straddle him, skirt riding up, hands on his chest. Her face is right there, close, mouth soft and urgent. “Oppa, come on. Don’t you want me?”
His hands go to her waist, ready to push her back, but she feels so good, so real, and her lips brush his jaw, her body fitting against his like it always belonged there.
He groans, fighting for composure. “Ha-yeon, slow down, okay?”
She pouts, rocking her hips against him, fingers sliding down to his zipper. “But I want you. I’ve seen it. I want it so bad, oppa.”
His restraint is unraveling, heart pounding against hers. She gets his zipper down, slips her hand inside, fingers curling around him. He grabs her wrist, panting, eyes wild.
“Ha-yeon, slow down. We don’t have to do everything right now. We have all the time in the world.”
She huffs, frustration and longing all tangled up in her. “But I want you now. I’ve waited forever.”
He kisses her, finally, finally gives in, mouth hot and hungry against hers. Their bodies rock together, hands exploring, her name a broken prayer on his lips.
But even as he kisses her, he pulls her hand away, his forehead pressed to hers, eyes dark and serious. “Let me take you home. Let’s not rush. I want to do this right.”
She slumps against him, soft and warm and a little defeated, but she smiles as he zips up, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’re no fun, oppa.”
He kisses her one last time, softer now. “You have no idea.”
They sit there for a long moment, breathing together, his arms tight around her, the city silent outside.
—
It’s barely 8pm but Nam-gyu and Soo-ah are already making out in the kitchen, hands all over each other, laughter echoing through the apartment like they’re the only two people in the world. Ha-yeon can’t take another second of it.
She throws herself on the couch, shouts over her shoulder, “I’m leaving! I’m going over to Su-bong’s where I don’t have to watch you two freaks.”
Nam-gyu just grins, totally unbothered, and Soo-ah waves goodbye, lips swollen and shirt buttoned wrong. Ha-yeon rolls her eyes, grabs her bag, and calls Su-bong.
He picks up after one ring.
“Everything okay?”
She smiles, voice soft and needy. “Come get me, oppa? Your hoodie’s lonely. And so am I.”
Twenty minutes later, his car pulls up outside. She’s waiting by the curb, bare legs, hair up, drowning in one of his old black hoodies and nothing else. The air sizzles the second she slides into the passenger seat.
He eyes her, a slow, dangerous smile spreading. “You’re not even wearing pants, are you?”
She tugs the hem lower, grinning. “I didn’t want to make you wait. Oppa.”
He swallows hard, shifts in his seat, but doesn’t start the engine right away. “You really don’t care who sees, do you?”
She shakes her head, sweet and shameless. “Not when it’s you.”
The drive to his place is a minefield. Every red light she climbs halfway into his lap, whispering filth into his ear, hands tugging at his waistband, teeth nipping his jaw. She calls him oppa over and over, softer, then bolder, each time chipping away at his resolve.
At one stop, she grabs his hand and slides it up her bare thigh under the hoodie. He almost misses the turn.
“Ha-yeon..” he warns, voice rough, but she just grinds against his palm, breath hot in his ear. “Touch me, please.”
He pulls over, slams the car into park, catches both her wrists gently in one big hand. His voice is soft but sharp, shaking with how much he wants her.
“Ha-yeon. Stop. I’m not fucking you in my car.”
She pouts, lips parted, eyes dark with frustration and need. “Why not? You don’t want me?”
He leans in, mouth close, eyes fierce. “I want you so fucking bad I can’t see straight. But you’re not some backseat hookup. You’re not a quick fuck.”
She blinks, startled by the edge in his voice.
He squeezes her hands, slow and careful. “You’re my princess. You get the best. You deserve a bed. You deserve me, all of me. Not car sex. I’m going to fuck you right, Ha-yeon. I’m going to ruin you for every other man, but it’s going to be in my bed, where I can see you, where you can scream my name and not worry about anyone else hearing.”
She’s so shocked she just stares, cheeks burning, thighs pressed tight together. “Wait… really? You’ll fuck me?”
He smirks, kisses her forehead, lets his hands finally slide where they both want. “You keep asking, and you’re going to find out. Now get back in your seat, or we’ll never make it home.”
She fumbles for the seatbelt, face flushed, heart hammering.
And all the way home, she calls him oppa, voice shaking with anticipation.
Tonight, she finally gets everything she’s ever wanted.
