SUMMARY: Being trapped in a loveless marriage with an unfaithful husband has led you to seek validation from others through your scandalous online persona. When an alluringly masked camboy keeps hitting your DMs, you can’t deny the undoubtable attraction you feel for a man you can’t have. And when a new neighbor sporting the same red hair and mole under his eyes moves into the apartment next door, you know you’re screwed. Is it really being unfaithful if your husband’s doing it too?
PAIRING: camboy!yeonjun x housewife!reader
WORD COUNT: 13k
GENRE: smut, angst
WARNINGS: nsfw, mdni, porn with plot, cursing, INFIDELITY, condom use, dacryphilia, mentions of financial abuse/lovebombing from the reader's husband, forced marriage, manipulation, dirty talk, soft(?) dom!yeonjun, big dick, overuse of the term ‘baby’, squirting, masturbation, filming during sex, slightly dubious consent, breeding kink (kind of), if i’m missing stuff feel free to lmk
A/N: Here is my magnum opus. Please follow if you enjoy reading and lmk what you think! I have some things cooking in my noggin for future stories… Anyway, enjoy! (I DO NOT CONDONE CHEATING!!!)
This is the last time, you swear to yourself, that you would willingly participate in a conversation with the nosy middle-aged aunties in your apartment complex.
"You know you're running out of time," Mrs. Lee lectures. "It'll be good for you to have kids soon while you still have your youth."
Mrs. Park nods knowingly next to her as if her friend spouted something incredibly profound. What was supposed to be a quiet walk to retrieve a package from the mail room had once again turned into a conversation impossible to wiggle out of.
"It's not our place to pry," Mrs. Park chimes in. "Your husband would probably want you to have one sooner rather than later, right? Hell! At his age, he’s old enough to even be your father-"
Mrs. Lee punches her blabbering friend's shoulder lightly in an attempt to shut her up. Mrs. Park rubs her shoulder, flustered but taking the hint.
"Thank you for your wonderful advice," you muster a polite smile, "If that’s all, I'll be heading back up. I hope you two have a good day."
You walk past the two with a small package in hand, turning the corner of the hallway. Being curt with them would be the only way to escape their intrusive grasp. However, you find yourself slowing your steps when you hear bits and pieces of their lowered voices.
"You!" Mrs. Lee grumbles at Mrs. Park. “Why would you mention such a sensitive topic to that poor girl?! I’m sure she sees how big their age gap is! There's no need to bring it up.”
Mrs. Park grumbles.
“That’s the least of her worries when it comes to that husband of hers,” Mrs. Park scoffs. “You know, I heard from the security guy that he’s been coming home late every night, all disheveled with bruises all over his neck..."
You hear Mrs. Lee gasp, and you can’t help it when your grip on the cardboard box tightens.
"No wonder she's looked so out of sorts these days,” Mrs. Lee sighs. “She used to have such a bright personality. Much prettier back then, too…"
You grind your teeth, tempted to walk back and ask the two to continue their conversation in front of you instead. You save yourself the embarrassment and walk towards the elevator.
It’s not like anything they said was a lie. There was no use in getting angry about the truth being spoken out loud; you convince yourself.
You sit at the dinner table, watching as the clock strikes midnight. He probably won't come home tonight either, you think to yourself.
Dinner is laid out so meticulously, two perfectly cooked salmon glistening with soy sauce glaze at the center of the table. All done by you to appease a husband who doesn’t even want to be home most of the time.
It’s the third night in a row he's been staying over at his lover's place.
Married life with Kwon Sehoon, a man you met through your parents, was ultimately a passionless one.
Straddled in debt from starting a failed business, your parents had married you off to an older man who was willing to pay a pretty penny for a young and beautiful wife.
You remember that day clearly, with you coming back home from an evening lecture, standing in front of your kneeling parents who begged you to save them from their financial ruin. The parents you once thought were invincible to pain and suffering were groveling right in front of you. So afraid of what the loan sharks would do to your parents, of having to pick up the pieces of their debt if they up and disappeared, you agreed. It seemed like the easy way out.
Sehoon seemed nice enough during your first meeting. He told you almost immediately how he didn’t like women his age.
"Younger women don't drain you like the older ones do," he once said.
You remember feeling flattered at first, not knowing the gravity of his words until you really got to know him.
You got married shortly after completing your degree, and at first, Sehoon was absolutely fixated on you. He doted on you like a pet, showering you with gifts and compliments. He lived quite modestly for someone with an affluent job. His apartment, the one you live in now, was practically empty before you came into his life. He gave you free rein to decorate as you pleased and insisted that you buy anything you wanted with his card.
He asked very little of you in return; all you had to do was be a good wife for him. And as you sit by yourself tonight, pondering his return, you feel like you failed even in that regard. Four years into marriage, you noticed the signs of waning interest trickle into everyday life.
His initial gestures of kindness led you to feel something akin to love towards him, just thankful that he didn’t treat your parents badly, like the loan sharks did. Though now that you look back, your affection seemed more akin to Stockholm Syndrome.
Your parents had promised him a warm and caring stay-at-home wife. At the ripe age of 45, he expected a lot from you– more than you could possibly give in your early 20s. Inexperienced nights of lackluster sex would drive him into fits of annoyance, giving you days of silent treatment when you would reject his advances to explore unsavory kinks in the bedroom.
You always tried to pick up the pieces, changing parts of yourself to match his ideal type of girl. Pleasant, obedient, and doll-like. It never worked.
He started accusing you of using him if you bought too many pastries from a bakery, immediately regulating your credit card use to groceries and household items. He started murmuring insults in hushed tones, knowing full well you could hear him.
Everything you thought he was crumbled within the first year of marriage. Sehoon morphed into someone unrecognizable. You never fathomed being in a situation where a man who wanted you so badly now wanted to act like you never existed. You never thought he could betray you after all the hoops he went through to have your hand in marriage.
You remember that night, just a year ago, when you heard his quiet voice in the bathroom. He was talking to someone over the phone. You couldn’t help but listen by the door that was slightly left ajar. Sehoon had been in such a bad mood at the time, lashing out at you at every chance he got.
"I miss you," he sighs lovingly, and you feel your heart sink. You hadn't heard him talk in such a gentle tone in years. "She's such a prude, you know? Always tenses up when I touch her. She can't even get me hard. I wish I were with you instead."
He cackled as the pit that you've always felt in your stomach when you were with him expanded. Though the affection you had for him had already waned by then, your husband's infidelity still felt like a shot to the chest. You wasted so many years trying to be who he wanted you to be, only for him to toss you to the side like an old toy with no batteries.
You were ashamed to say you followed him once during his escapades, watching across a dark alleyway as he entered a seedy hotel with a young beauty in his arms. Though she looked nothing like you, she reminded you of yourself. She seemed so nervous, so eager to please that treacherous man. All you could feel was pity, unsure if it was more for her or for yourself.
"You know I can't leave her right now, my love," he hummed into the phone, and you couldn’t help but gag. "I took her parents' debt in my name. I'm still paying it off. I feel nothing with her, I promise! Bitch can't even give a proper blowjob. She’s nothing like you."
Disgust seeped through your whole body that night. You couldn't even bear to face him in the bed you shared, tears welling up at the thought of having to be with him for any longer.
Your parents pleaded with you to hold out until the debt was fully repaid, until he no longer had control over them. Sehoon, ever the calculating person he was, wrote a clause stating that if you were to ever ask for a divorce, you would have to pay him back the remaining debt he still owed the loan sharks.
With no job and no escape plan, you had fallen into his trap. Sehoon would be the one to decide whether he ever wanted to set you free.
You wait another 30 minutes, packing the leftovers on the table into the refrigerator when he doesn't show up. Your duties as a wife did not and could not stop even after finding out about his affair. Sehoon reported every mistake and any sign of resistance to your parents. He knew the power they held over you, about your unwavering need to appease them. They scold you over the stories they hear from him, and you attempt to right every wrong to mold yourself into what he wanted.
But he doesn't know one thing, you think to yourself as you head to your shared bedroom. You lock the door, just in case.
You pull your phone out and open Twitter without hesitation. Typing away, you draft up a post that reads like every other one of your complaints about your mundane life.
housewifeblues: husband left me home alone again… how can you leave your wife like this, feeling so lonely?
But you know that’s not why 2.4k people follow you.
You peel your shirt off your body, unclasping your bra and positioning yourself under the dim lights of the city outside your window. You let out a deep breath, psyching yourself up for what you’re about to do. You push out and accentuate the curves of your breasts as you arch your back forward.
You snap a few pictures with only the lower half of your face and naked chest visible.
You bite your nails as you hesitate to hit the ‘post’ button. You do it after a few seconds of indecisiveness. It’s not like it’s your first post, so why do you still feel so nervous? To Sehoon, you may be undesirable, but your online persona was worshipped like a goddess by so many.
The attention and validation of those who lusted after you on the internet filled in the hole of loneliness that Sehoon had opened in you.
The noticeable birthmark above your breasts was a point of self-consciousness since the start of your marriage. Sehoon always pushed you to have it removed, stating it was unsightly against your skin. But the thousands of followers who complimented it constantly led you to cancel that appointment. It gave you a sense of pride knowing that you could drown out your husband's harsh words with the positivity of your online fans.
Your followers enjoyed how openly you talked about your miserable marriage, your qualms about being a housewife, and your husband's infidelity. Your posts garnered traction from those who relate to your struggles and those who fetishize them. At some point, you stopped caring what kind of person interacted with your posts. You just wanted to bask in some flattering words for once.
The likes had started to roll in, but at an abnormal pace. Since when was your engagement this high? You see in your notification tab that someone named "yawnszn" retweeted your post almost immediately after you uploaded it.
yawnszn: if he doesn’t want you, i volunteer as tribute
You catch yourself chuckling. Who was this?
Clicking on his profile picture, a page pops up of a bright red-haired man with a mole underneath his right eye, wearing a black face mask. 300k followers? And he was reposting your content? You rub your eyes to check if you were seeing correctly.
Intrigued, you scroll down and you almost drop your phone from the shocking imagery that fills your screen. The pinned video on his feed was of him, stroking his perfectly curved length with such focused concentration. He was thick beyond comprehension, veins so beautifully etched on the underside of his heaviness.
You hesitantly click on the video, cheeks warming at the lewd sounds that start to echo through the bedroom.
"You like that?" he would say in between grunts of pleasure. "I bet you do, huh? Bet you wanna make a mess all over me."
His brows were furrowed, glistening chest heaving as he resisted the urge to buck his hips up into his large hands. If only you could see him with that stupid mask off.
The stranger was methodical with his strokes, slowing his relentless pace when he teetered too close to his high. He was edging himself into a stronger and more drawn-out climax, rolling his head back onto his chair as Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
Though his eyes were covered by wispy bangs, you could feel their intensity through the screen. The way he squinted and scrunched his nose in pleasure, staring daggers into the camera. He could tell you to lick the bottom of his shoe and you would probably do it.
Wait–what?
You exit the app in a hurry, attempting to calm yourself. You were having very bad thoughts, ones you never even felt with your own husband. It wasn't right to think these things about another man, you tell yourself, as your thighs clench together from where you sat on your bed.
When Sehoon surprisingly comes home at 4 a.m., with his back turned towards you on the bed, you pretend to sleep. You replay the video of yawnszn in your head over and over again. You can't help but feel pathetic to feel so hot and heavy over a man retweeting you while your husband still reeks of another woman.
As Sehoon snores loudly next to you, you find yourself typing another post.
housewifeblues: he’s home with hickies on his neck... why does he even bother coming back?
It’s almost instant, the masked man’s reply. You bring a hand to your mouth to stifle a gasp.
yawnszn: let’s make it even. i can leave some on your pretty neck, too
You suppress a giggle that threatens to leave your lips. You stare back and forth between Sehoon’s hunched back and your phone to this masked man’s profile. There’s no harm in flattery, is there?
It's like an addiction, scrolling through his page on your burner account. You don't even follow him back on your main, but you can't help but refresh for more content. He posts daily, with livestreams every Friday. You tune in when Sehoon isn't around, which is almost all the time. Guilt is etched into your heart whenever you see his notifications, despite your husband's own infidelity not affecting his own psyche.
"Such fucking sluts," Yeonjun would scold his chat with his red hair pushed seductively away from his forehead. He plunges a plush fleshlight roughly down his pulsing cock. "You wish this were you riding me, huh? Too fucking bad."
The urge to touch yourself worsens after each livestream, but you hold out. You couldn't let yourself stoop to Sehoon's level. It’s not like you enjoyed posting photos with racy captions, you promise! It’s just a hobby, one that elicited flirty responses from a man you were very attracted to. You admit, maybe some photos were posted for him. He just didn’t know it.
During a livestream, you remember him talking about his love for doggy style. The next day, you miraculously posted a photo of your face planted on a pillow with your underwear-clad body arched eagerly with your ass in the sky.
housewifeblues: never been fucked in this position.
You swear it isn’t just for him specifically, even when you can’t wipe the stupid grin off your face at his comment the next day.
yawnszn: i think you need to take the picture at a better angle from behind… need help with that?
Even as you squirm in the shower and in the bed at the thought of a red-haired man plowing into you, you vowed to not be tempted to interact with him on your main account.
You were better than that, you convinced yourself. Better than Sehoon.
You're in the bed this time, lacy pink bra in full display on your phone’s camera. Your nipples are peaking through, and you lay your hand atop your chest to emphasize their shape. Tonight, you wanted to tease your followers.
yawnszn’s constant interactions with your page fueled you to post more frequently. You found different angles and poses, anything that would let you stay relevant (and always on yawnszn’s feed). At some point, you noticed his likes and retweets were filled with only you.
It made your heart flutter at the thought of him being just as obsessed with you as you were with him.
And even better, it was a Friday. You chuckle to yourself as you lie on your stomach, clicking on his profile like clockwork. His room looked emptier than usual, with boxes piled up in the corner. The red-haired man's toned body finally comes into frame, gleaming with sweat from the warm lighting of his floor lamp. He looked like he had just finished working out.
"Wow," he stares at the chat, voice muffled by his mask. "Must be real fucking horny to join so early."
You let out a chuckle. It felt like he was actually talking to you.
"Some new names in here," he says as he sinks into his chair, carefully unzipping his jeans. His abdomen glistened with sweat, white briefs peeking through his unzipped jeans. He reads comment after comment, palming his bulge almost mindlessly.
You groan in frustration, wishing he were quicker at taking his stupid pants off. You feel almost compelled to comment just that– and so you did.
You: you’re teasing us…
His eyes scan the screen, and you can tell he seems genuinely shocked by something despite his masked expression.
"Well, look who it is," he laughs darkly as he starts to grip his clothed member more roughly. "Thanks for tuning in, housewifeblues. I didn't take you for such an eager viewer, pretty girl."
Your blood turns cold. Did he just say your username? But that couldn't be possible. You were on your burner account. Unless-
You scroll up to your comment, clearly showing the profile picture of half of your face and cleavage as the commenter. Burying your face into your pillow to let out a scream of sheer humiliation, you kick your feet in the air.
This can't be real.
"I'm flattered," yawnszn continues, not knowing the stages of grief you were going through. "I've been thinking about those pretty tits all day."
He pulls out his throbbing cock. It looked painful, you thought. His fingers traced over his angry tip, red and beating like it ached for release.
You swallow, mouth watering at the view. His head was leaned back now, stroking himself languidly as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip. You clench your pillow.
"Why don't we have some fun together, hm?" he asks teasingly, his hand pumping with half the force he usually uses. "I bet I could make you feel so good, baby. We can make your useless ass husband watch if you want."
You let out a small whimper, scanning over the comments from equally shocked viewers.
"god I'd pay good money to see you two fuck"
"me next?"
“is this ur kink?”
"stop talking about another bitch!!!"
He chuckles, reading the last one.
"My jealous babies," he teases, tugging his hair back with his unoccupied hand and showing his beautiful forehead. "There’s plenty of me to go around."
A wave of possessiveness washes over you, suddenly conscious that this wasn't just for you. He was selling his fantasy to all the viewers who watched him. There was no affection there, only the delusions of your touch-starved self. You feel a sudden pang of guilt in your chest. You wanted this stranger so badly, but you couldn’t have him. You're married. And it wasn't up to anyone else but Sehoon to change that.
"I'd fuck you on every surface I could get you on," he sighs out so sensually, pumping himself in a steady rhythm. "Have you begging for my cock until you're dependent on it."
Though tears well in your eyes from the mix of humiliation and regret, you rest your head on the pillow and grind against your mattress to the sounds of his arousal.
"And you'd thank me each time I give it to you, wouldn’t you?" he laughs dryly. "Because that's all you want, right? Want me deep down in your throat. In your pussy. You'd even let me fuck your ass too, huh, baby?"
The comments flood in with crazed sentences, and you are no better.
You whimper at the vulgarity of his words, back arched against absolutely nothing. You wish he were positioned right behind you with those long fingers of his curling inside your deepest parts, coaxing your climax out of you. You’re almost tempted to slide a hand up your shirt, until you hear a familiar jangling of keys.
Quickly standing up, you exit that God forsaken app. Smoothing out your clothes, you prepare yourself to be ignored by Sehoon once again. He moves past you to walk to the bathroom, no greeting exchanged whatsoever. Your cheeks warm with frustration.
"Dinner is in the fridge," you say plainly. You sit back down on the bed, grabbing the phone to make sure his livestream was no longer playing. A few minutes pass, and you mindlessly stare at the wall as you hear your husband grumbling and mumbling in the bathroom. A notification pops up on your phone.
yawnszn has sent you a private message.
You feel the acceleration of your pulse almost immediately and check it against your better judgment.
yawnszn: come back, baby. i wasn't done with you yet. was putting on that show just for you ;)
You cover your mouth to stifle a scream, but immediately straighten your posture and harden your expression when Sehoon comes out of the bathroom. He reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap motel sheets.
“Would it hurt you to smile once in a while?" he sneers. “Look so fucking creepy all the time.”
You muster up a small grin, one that doesn't meet the eyes. All he does is sigh.
"Can't even follow simple instructions," he grumbles, slamming the door behind him. "Just leeching off me like a fucking parasite..."
You purse your lips. Sehoon always knew which words would hurt you the most, like he practices them in the mirror before he throws them at you. At one point, you wanted to be good for him. Wanted to show him that you could be the respectable wife he always wanted you to be.
So, how the hell did it end up like this?
What were you doing, squealing like a teenage girl over some camboy on the internet? You shake your head rapidly, quickly deleting the message yawnszn sent. You didn't even get a chance to put your phone back on your lap when you heard another buzz.
It's him again.
yawnszn: i wanna show you how a real man could make you feel. won't you let me?
And though you wanted nothing more, you leave him on ‘seen’.
An entire week goes by, and it was another Friday you couldn’t help but anticipate. You tried to stop viewing his page, you really did. But when the nights got cold and loneliness seeped through your bones, you couldn’t help but reread the messages yawnszn would boldly send you.
Today, you vowed not to think about that red-haired devil.
As you walk past the boxes stacked in the hallway, you make your way towards the unit right next to your apartment with Sehoon. A new neighbor was moving in. From sandwiches to tea cookies, you had spent your entire day making treats for the new addition to the ever-so-nosy apartment complex. With a cautious knock at the door, you stand in front of the unit with a basket of your handmade foods.
Sehoon had conditioned you to be a good neighbor, never wanting Mr. Do's family on the second floor to look better than him after they gave everyone in the building a bottle of whiskey for New Year's. He forced you to greet new tenants and make cards for everyone's birthdays so he could soak in the compliments of having such a loving and kind wife. Meanwhile, he never even bothered to learn the names of the people on your floor.
He always assumed with your "immense amount of free time as a housewife" that all of these responsibilities would be handled by you. You roll your eyes at the thought. He couldn't even bother to take showers to get rid of his mistress's rancid scent. Did he really think people in this apartment thought he was a good husband?
You almost knock again until your new neighbor finally opens the door. He's tall, wearing a tight-fitting black hoodie. It wasn't zipped up fully, and his naked chest was slightly visible underneath. Was he wearing nothing under?
You look up and tense at the sight. Red hair and black face mask. Mole under his right eye. You blink rapidly, almost as if his face would morph if you did it fast enough. It can't be… But who else could fit his description much better? This had to be yawnszn.
“Hello?” he greets, confused. His voice sends shivers down your spine. Was it wrong to assume that every strikingly red-haired man with fierce eyes and wearing a mask was your online crush?
"Hi," you say, stomping down the stutter that wanted to come out. "I'm [Y/N], your next-door neighbor. My husband and I wanted to welcome you to the building with some treats."
He looks past the top of your head as if searching for someone behind you.
"Where is this husband?" he asks in a teasing manner. You bite back a frown. Wasn't it a little inappropriate to ask these things?
"He's at work," you say plainly.
"I'll only give my thanks to you then," he replies, resting his body on the doorframe. You feel electricity course through your veins as he brushes your hand softly, taking the basket from your tightened grip.
"I would love to repay you," he says, leaning his head toward your flustered face. You shy away from his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable that you're wearing a V-neck shirt as he looks down at you. You sense a flash of emotion in his gaze, quickly replaced by a gentle stare.
Did he know it was you?
No, that’s ridiculous, you thought to yourself. How could he even tell?
"No need," you reply, embarrassingly quickly as you take a step back. "We don't expect anything in return."
"I insist," he says slyly. "Once I'm all settled in, I'll come see you."
He looks around the hallway again before bringing his masked mouth to your ear.
“Hopefully, when he’s not home.”
You freeze at his words as he closes the door with a small wave and a mischievous glint in his eyes. As soon as you rush to your apartment, you cross-examine his profile picture with the memory you had of your neighbor’s features. He didn’t even tell you his name! You scream into your living room cushion. You shake your head.
Nothing will come out of this, you try to convince yourself. He was just being friendly.
You stand up, ready to busy yourself with chores around the house to distract yourself from the feeling of dread forming in the pit of your stomach. He said he was stopping by, and you couldn't tell whether the funny feeling in your stomach was butterflies or something far more sinister… You touch your ear from where you felt his warm breath. Perhaps desire?
Later that day, you wait anxiously for his stream to start. Your back was against the headboard of your bed, twiddling your fingers from anticipation. Triple-checking, you made sure you were on your burner account this time. You click the notification as soon as it comes, and his empty room comes into view.
You stiffen at the new format, not at all like his old set-up. In fact, the walls and floor were the exact same shade as your own room. You groan, looking at the wall that faced your new neighbor’s place. That guy was definitely yawnszn.
His masked figure is already naked, save for the white towel draped around his waist and his signature black mask.
"Moved into my new place," he says to the chat. "Like my new room?"
He scans the comments and sighs in disappointment.
"Did I scare my baby away?" Your eyes widen. Was he looking for your username?
You can tell he's pouting through the mask, and you can't help but smile. Fuck. Why was this man so irresistibly hot and annoyingly cute at the same time?
"I don’t wanna do solo streams anymore, guys," he whines, his bulge already evident through the thin towel. You wonder how he's able to get hard so quickly.
"Wanna show y'all a different side of me," he sighs, dropping his towel to reveal the growing heaviness underneath. "Show you I'm not just all talk."
You clench your thighs, tensing when his large palm finds his towering length. He was always so vocal during his sessions, and even now, as he has barely just started, he was a mumbling mess. He’s seated now, clenched eyes in full view as he strokes himself in drawn-out movements.
Your eyes widen. You can hear him, but not just on video. His sounds reverberated through the wall. It's like you’re in the room with him as he's hunched over, drowning in his own pleasure.
"Don't be jealous when I bring someone in, okay?" he teases the chat that’s filled with comments of disapproval. "Just think it's you that I'll be fucking. Imagine how I’d cum inside a real pussy. How I’d shove it all back in. Doesn’t that sound nice? Making that pussy full of me."
You bite your lip at the thought, clenching the sheets beneath you as you hear his dirty whispers from the wall.
You didn’t want that, you thought to yourself darkly. You didn’t want to see him, moaning and talking so filthy like this, with anyone. You couldn’t bear it. You were already suffering at the thought of your husband fucking his much younger mistress, you couldn’t lose yawnszn too. He was the only sense of freedom you felt in your dull, repeating life.
As crazy as you felt, you sat up to press your ear against the wall to hear him better. Your fingers dangerously ghost over your pajama shorts.
"Wanna have sex so bad, baby," he whines out. "Won't you let me?"
You let out a squeak. You can't take your eyes off his perfectly sculpted body, nor could you take your ear off the wall that separated the two of you in real life. You feel like a sick, deranged pervert. Your twisted desires are egging you on as your hand trails down your stomach and into your underwear. Your fingers run up your slit, already so wet from just watching him.
"I'd have you on your fucking knees," he sighs out, letting out that grunting sound he does when he's nearing his climax. "Take you from behind. You'd have to beg me to get off of you. I'd be in that pussy every day, every fucking night."
Your eyes roll back at the thought. Your pace quickens with his, drawing rapid circles on your swollen bud. You're grinding down against your own fingers, searching for something that you knew only this intoxicating stranger could give you. In some way, the fact that you are masturbating next to your oppressive husband’s pillow made everything feel that much more erotic. He doesn’t need to know how another man makes you feel.
"Gonna cum," his nose scrunches. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."
As white, hot liquid spurts out of his beautiful cock, you let out a silent scream as you come undone yourself. With your right hand sticky with your climax, you feel tears well up in your eyes. What the fuck were you doing?
The next day, you see your mysteriously masked neighbor in the halls. It was instinct to give a small smile, tensing as he approached your cowering figure.
“Do you need help with that?” he asks. You blink back your confusion as he gestures at your fistful of groceries. You completely forgot you were holding them the moment you saw him.
“N-no,” you reply a little too quickly. “I’m almost at my door.”
He chuckles. He attempts to grab one of the heavy-looking ones from you, but you dodge him just in time. The red-haired man had no idea what you did last night because of him. You felt dirty just being in his presence.
“I’m happy to help, you know?” he insists. “You don’t have to carry that all by yourself.”
Your grip on the groceries tightens. In all the years you were married to Sehoon, he never offered to help you with anything once. If it had nothing to do with finances or working, the rest was handled by you. It was sad to feel so happy hearing such minuscule gestures of kindness come from your neighbor of all people.
“I’ll let you know if I ever need it,” you smile at him, genuinely. To your surprise, he ruffles you on the head affectionately. He leans down, his face at the same level as yours.
“I’m Yeonjun,” he whispers as if he were saying a deep, dark secret. “I forgot to tell you yesterday.”
His name. He finally told you his name. How beautiful it sounds on those unseen lips.
His eyes meet yours, and for a second, you just want to lean in and kiss him through that stupid mask. But he stands up straight, towering over you once again.
“Don’t be a stranger, [Y/N],” he says teasingly, walking away with his hands shoved down his jean pockets. Your heart flutters, and your attempts to push down the butterflies in your stomach were thwarted once again.
It’s like you see him everywhere now. From the convenience store down the street to the garden rooftop of your apartment complex. Yeonjun seemed to permeate every part of your existence, offline and online. Though he was probably unaware of how often you were posting in your underwear just to get a flirtatious response from him in your comments, you swore he was flustering you on purpose.
The way he would casually help you out of carrying heavy packages from your hands when you’d see him in the apartment lobby, or how he would casually talk about missing “housewifeblues” at the start of each stream. He was driving you crazy.
You weren’t an idiot; you knew his intentions. And though you keep your interactions as polite as possible, you find out a little too much about the man you’ve been lusting over for the past few weeks.
Yeonjun tells you he doesn’t have many friends. He moved back home recently after doing university abroad and working there for a bit. He’s close with his mother and talks to her over the phone every day. He volunteers at pet sanctuaries over the weekends and wants to get a cat of his own someday. But when you pry, asking him how he’s able to afford the high rent your husband was paying for this swanky apartment complex at such a young age, he avoids answering completely. Simply says “I work a remote job,” but you know better.
You know how he posts on OnlyFans daily, subscriptions increasing after every sensual stream where he gets paid thousands a night to pleasure himself on camera.
It’s one of those days when you run into him in the hallway. You’re wearing a tank top and yoga pants, and you just finished an at-home workout routine while you waited for your laundry to finish drying. You were exiting your place to make a quick run to the grocery store to prepare dinner for the night.
Yeonjun was walking back to his apartment, eyes scanning you as you gave him a weak greeting.
“Heading out?” he asks in a low tone, hands in his pockets. You nod, growing nervous at his intense gaze. He’s eyeing you over now, and you don’t notice how he hyperfixates on a certain area of your chest.
“My husband wants me to cook pasta tonight, and I forgot some ingredients,” you lie through your teeth, always feeling an urge to mention Sehoon in Yeonjun’s presence. Like you had to remind yourself that you still have one.
“Can’t he pick them up for you?” he asks inquisitively. You let out a small laugh at the suggestion.
“Dinner should be done before a husband gets home from work,” you say, as if it were routine. It’s what your mom would tell you. It’s what Sehoon would tell you. So why did you feel so small when Yeonjun looked at you with such pity in his eyes?
“If I were him,” he steps forward, brushing a stray hair from your flushed face. “I wouldn’t let my pretty wife cook all by myself.”
Your breath hitches as he looks at you. What you would give to have him. What would you do to keep that same expression on your face at all times? It wasn’t fair, you thought to yourself, that you should be subjected to a life of dissatisfaction when the one who could cure it was so near.
“Are you free tomorrow?” he asks, the feeling of his hand still lingering by your ear.
“I always am,” you softly reply. And to that, he smiles.
You couldn’t look away, even as he walked away.
“I’ll see you soon then.”
You hear the doorbell ring. Today was your deep cleaning day. You already washed the dishes, watered all the plants, and got dinner started. It was also the day after yesterday, which meant Yeonjun was coming over.
You open the door a little too eagerly. It was a little pathetic, you admit to yourself, how much you wanted to see him.
His livestream after your conversation yesterday was intense, more so than usual. He propped his phone on his bathroom counter, stroking himself in the shower. You searched for his moans in your walls, imagining his hands on you like they were just hours prior. You ached to hear him, addicted to the way he sounded since the last time you watched him live and heard him through the walls.
Shaking your head to prevent yourself from getting carried away by your thoughts, you finally open the door.
It was him, red hair and all.
"Hey," your masked neighbor greets you with a bag in his hand. "I brought some cake. I finally got around to finishing everything in the welcome basket. They were all so delicious, thank you."
"You shouldn't have," you say politely, holding back your giddiness. "My husband’s at work right now, but I'll save some for him later."
He holds the bag up to you, and you take it from him cautiously, careful not to touch him. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your fingers quiver.
"Oh?" he looks past you at the empty apartment. "It's already dinner time, though?"
You smile sadly.
"He's not actually home that often," you say, trying to push down the bitterness in your voice. “He gets busy.”
You can't tell from his mask whether he feels sorry for you, but his eyes do seem rather intense.
"Shall we eat the cake together then?" he suggests. "I like sweet things."
Your heartbeat quickens. The only man who has ever set foot in your apartment was Sehoon and your father. It felt wrong to invite him in, but it felt even more wrong to say no to him. And so you take a step back as an invitation for this stranger (who isn't really a stranger) into your tidy space.
He's sitting next to you on the couch, a healthy distance away from you. He slices the cake evenly between you two, handing you the small plastic fork that came with the bakery.
"It's so rare for neighbors to greet each other these days," he commends you. "When you showed up at my door, I thought I was in a movie.”
“It’s just common courtesy,” you reply. “I’ve done it for everyone who’s moved into the complex.”
He chuckles.
“If I had known I'd be moving in next to someone so kind and beautiful, I would have signed my lease sooner."
You smile at his compliment, warmth seeping into your cheeks. You take a bite out of the cake. Strawberry shortcake. Your favorite. You notice that familiar gaze of his as it lingers on you. His foxy eyes scan you up and down slowly, and you'd never felt more exposed in your life despite being fully clothed.
"What a waste of a husband," he starts, leaning into you slowly, "to neglect you."
You freeze under his fiery gaze. His voice sounded different, unlike his playful teasing in the hallways. No, this was not Yeonjun. This was the camboy who moans out dirty words through unrelenting thrusts into his hand, biting back at viewers who command him to take it slow.
The fork falls from your mouth and onto your lap as he inches closer.
"You deserve a better man," he says closely in your ear. "Someone who doesn’t leave you lonely."
You hold a shaky hand against his chest, preventing him from getting closer.
“What do you mean?”
He’s grinning underneath the mask.
"[Y/N]," he draws your name out teasingly. "You're on a naughty part of Twitter, aren't you?"
You bring your hand down in an attempt to seem normal, but your nervous lip biting fails to make you look even remotely convincing.
"I have no idea what you're-"
"Don't worry," he interrupts, laying his arm around the couch behind you. "I'm not planning to dox you or anything."
He digs his phone out of his pocket with his other hand and shows you a sight you're already so familiar with: his Twitter profile.
"Look," he says, carelessly scrolling through his lewd content right in front of you like it was normal. "I know you know who I am. Like how I know who ‘housewifeblues' is.”
No, you tell yourself. This can’t be happening.
"Listen, Yeonjun," you start carefully. "I don't know what you're talking about or who you think I am, but I don't feel comfortable continuing this conversation with you."
You can sense a smirk behind that damn mask of his.
"You know you don't do a very good job of hiding who you are," he chides. “Not very quiet when you’re touching yourself either.”
Your eyes widen, and he lets out a muffled laugh.
"I didn't even have to see your beauty mark to know it was you, baby,” he continues lazily. “The way you looked when I mentioned your husband the first time I met you was enough for me to know. Reminded me about all the times you complained about him with those pretty pictures of yours."
His eyes fixated on your beauty mark and back up to your face, revelling in the way you nipped at your bottom lip anxiously.
"You don’t understand,” he whispers, his hand ghosting over your cheek. “How often I imagine it’s your hands on me when I go live.”
"Oh," you purse your lips, attempting to prevent noises of pleasure from coming out of your mouth.
"What's wrong?" he gazes into you. "Cat got your tongue?"
Yeonjun’s large hand hovers over your breasts, and you unknowingly arch your back toward him like it was instinct. When he sees nothing but lust clouding your vision, he takes a mound in his palm and massages you gently. You gasp at the feeling. It's been ages since you've been touched like this.
He kneads with both hands this time, intently watching your face for any signs of discomfort. But all he could see were your furrowed brows in pure ecstasy. He scoots closer to you, dragging his fingers across your abdomen as he lifts your shirt. Yeonjun's gaze darkens, your bare tits heavy in his hands. He massages, circling your nipples. They’re stiff from the cool air and his prodding fingers. Your head rolls back, moans coming out in meek bursts.
"I h-have a husband," you stutter out in between moans. It comes out like you’re reminding yourself more than to remind him. Yeonjun’s back rests on the couch, dragging you so that your spine is against his chest. He continues the push and pull of his eager hands on your breasts as you sit between his legs.
"According to you," he starts, burying his masked face into your cheek, directly whispering into your ear. "He's already cheating, isn't he? Is it fair that he gets to have all the fun?"
You rest your head back onto his shoulder as he continues to tease you, pulling at your erect nipples harshly and then soothing them with his soft thumbs.
It’s like he’s debating something in those furrowed brows of his, and when you roll your hips back into his, it feels like something snapped. Yeonjun pulls his mask down in one swift motion, and you almost moan out loud at the sight of his gorgeous face.
His features are simultaneously sharp and soft, his lips so full and so kissable. No wonder he kept his face hidden; he was too dangerous for the internet to see. Everyone would fall in love. He'd be swarmed on the streets. Wars would be waged over him.
"I wanna fuck you so bad," he says, his gaze following your parted mouth. His face hovers over yours, and you shut your eyes in anticipation. It's almost soft the way his lips meet yours, slowly molding you to follow his rhythm. He pushes his tongue into your mouth gently, prodding so deeply that your saliva mixes with his. He grinds up into you from behind, the tent of his pants meeting the curve of your ass at a perfect angle.
You kiss him back with an equal amount of fervor. You push yourself against him harder, eliciting a stifled moan from him.
Images of Sehoon flash in your mind, but are immediately erased as Yeonjun grounds your hips into his. He pulls down your pants hurriedly, his mouth never leaving yours. You spread yourself wide for him. You knew for the first time in your life what you wanted. He runs his finger through the wet spot of your lacy lilac underwear, latching his index finger to do small circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves just above your slit. His tongue clashing with yours as you attempt to stifle the low moans coming out of your throat.
He parts from your lips slowly, a trail of saliva connecting the two of you. He looks down to where he's touching you, a shit-eating grin on his gorgeous face. So that’s how he smiles, you think to yourself, lost in the feeling of his fingers on the soft material of your cloth-covered clit.
His pace is slow and methodical, leaving you conflicted on whether you should grind down on his twitching cock or buck your hips into his coaxing ministrations. It's not enough for you, but you'll take anything he can give.
"You're so wet already, baby," he croons. "Your underwear is soaked."
You whine when Yeonjun stops his movements suddenly, searching for friction by thrusting up into his still palm. You whine in relief when he pushes your panties to the side, running a teasing finger up and down your bare slit.
"Fuck," he looks over your shoulder and past your chest, to get a better look at the effect he has on you. He inserts his middle finger in, your folds practically engulfing him with a loud squelch. In and out, it disappears into you with fervor and stretches you out so deliciously. Everything about him was so long, you couldn’t imagine what his dick would feel like.
"You swallowed my finger so well, baby. Think you can fit another?"
You nod, breathing so heavy you can't find it in yourself to quell your anticipation.
"Yes," you practically plead. Yeonjun chuckles.
"Lift your hips up," he directs you, planting another open-mouthed kiss on your lips as you follow him mindlessly. "I'm gonna take these panties off you, okay?"
You nod again, your feet high in the air so your godforsaken underwear could finally be removed. He pumps his finger, now slow and controlled. When he feels you loosen up a bit, he inserts his index finger in too, with slightly more resistance from your tightness. You groan, from both pain and pleasure. His hands were so big. So veiny. The way he curled his fingers up to reach a spot you never knew you had in you. Fuck, you felt so full already.
You don't know how it happens or how you got there, but you're on your back as Yeonjun hovers over you, pistoning his fingers in and out at a faster pace. His palm is grinding down on your mound, hitting every right spot as his fingers scissor into you. His tongue finds yours again, battling for dominance to distract you from the dull ache of being stretched out. He inserts a third finger in, and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You’re not sure your body could take it, but you would. For him. His fingers, so thick and relentless, buried deeper inside your aching folds.
"I feel weird," you say as a bubbling and fiery sensation starts at your toes. You’re a muttering mess. "Never... felt.. this… good…"
Yeonjun chuckles, purposefully removing his fingers inside of you slowly, preventing you from reaching that elusive high you didn’t know you were chasing. Your hips meet the sky, mourning the loss of his touch. He traces featherlight kisses down your body, his face now directly in front of your pretty cunt.
"Your husband's never made you feel like this, baby?" he says, giving a few teasing kisses on your inner thigh.
"N-no," you cry out loud. "H-he's never even gone down there."
He stops his lapping to look up at you.
"He's never eaten you out?" he scoffs. "What a fucking loser."
Yeonjun dips his head between your legs and drags his tongue along your wet folds in one long stroke. He laps at you like a dog, addicted to your nectar on his lips.
“Oh my god, Yeonjun-”
Your toes curl as he buries his tongue in you. He pumps it in and out of you as his hands grip your ass so tightly, you start to think you’d bruise from it. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. The fiery sensation building inside you returns almost immediately.
He peppers kisses on your mound, his mouth finding its new target. He sucked your clit hard, tongue circling your bundle of nerves until your stomach starts to tighten. Yeonjun lifts your hips up, pushing his face deeper into your folds. You clench around nothing, whining at both the pleasure and the loss of his tongue fucking into you. As if he read your mind, Yeonjun’s fingers find their way back to your folds. Teasing the entrance, you push yourself up into him, burying his digits deep in you as he continues his attack on your clit. Yeonjun licks and prods like a man starved of food, relishing in the messiness coating his chin and the addicting melody of your moans.
Your hips stutter as you feel the waves crash down on you.
"Ahhh," you whine. Your body writhed underneath him, fingers clawing the couch armrest above your head.
You plant your heels onto the couch with shaky legs, and you cry out again. You feel something, whatever it is, building inside you. Your moans come out in panicked bursts until you start to see white, your juices spraying all over Yeonjun's face. He groans at the feeling, still burying his face into you. He lets you ride out your high as you grind languidly onto his nose. It takes him years until he pulls away, chuckling at your fucked out face and splayed out hair.
"You squirt, baby?" he teases, getting back on his knees to tower over your lying figure on the couch. "To think you couldn't get more perfect."
You shake your head, chest heaving up and down.
"I didn’t know I could do that," you confess. Yeonjun laughs in response, a little distracted. He pulls his hair back away from his face, his forehead glistening against your warm living room light. You want to kiss those pouty lips of his again. Your eyes travel downwards, to his strained gray sweatpants. Though you couldn’t see it, you knew. He was bigger, much bigger in real life.
“He doesn’t know what to do with you,” he mutters to himself, his thumb finding your lips. “Can’t get you wet like I do, huh?”
You nod mindlessly, taking his thumb into your mouth as he pushes your tongue down with it.
“Probably fake your orgasms with him, hm?” His eye contact never broke away from your hooded lids. “Don’t ever need to pretend with me, baby. I can make you feel good.”
You barely notice it at first, but Yeonjun pulled his phone out. It’s quiet as he takes his thumb off of you to open the camera app. You stare silently as he props up his phone using the cake box he brought, sitting all neglected on the coffee table.
You say nothing, pursing your lips as you watch him put his face mask, soaked in your fluids, back on. He adjusts the camera. You look away in panic when he hits the red button to record a video.
“Don’t get my face,” you say hurriedly. You wonder why that’s the first thing you say. Not “stop”, not a refusal. Some part of you wanted this, craved it so badly your legs widened for him again. He chuckles, glad that you don’t seem displeased with him.
"Don't worry, baby," Yeonjun says as he strokes your hair affectionately. “I'll pixelize it."
He unzips his hoodie, the same one he wore the day you first met him, revealing his toned body underneath. He did not take it off, letting it hang from his body like an accessory. You couldn't take your eyes off Yeonjun and the way his chest gleamed with sweat.
"Fuck," he says breathlessly as he looks down at you, masked and still so hot. "I need to be inside you."
He pulls his pants down, and you bite your lip as a reflex. His cock was so pretty, standing tall as it slapped against his stomach. So big and so girthy, tip so vexingly red like in his videos. You've never taken anything his size ever.
"You want a taste?" he asks teasingly, slowly stroking himself up and down at the sight of you. You nod, but you don't know why. You hated giving blowjobs. The smell, the taste. You were even open about it on your account.
But here you are, climbing over Yeonjun as he lies down on the couch your husband always sleeps on when a football match is on. Your doe eyes were level with his pulsating length, mouth salivating in anticipation. Inhaling him, it was nothing like Sehoon's mustiness. He smelled clean, like fresh laundry.
"Need my help?" he teases. "Want to make me feel good?"
You nod. "Yes, please."
The voice you hear coming out of you doesn't feel like your own. Your eyes shift to the phone, shuttering at the lewd sight of you in between his naked thighs. What did Yeonjun turn you into?
His hand holds your head, wrapping your hair in a makeshift ponytail. He pushes your face down gently, closer to his cock. You take the hint and hold him in your hand, tightening your grip. You drag your tongue on the underside of his heaviness, and he lets out a hiss that makes you clench around nothing.
"Take it into your mouth," he commanded softly, propping you onto his shoulders to watch you more intently. "Use your tongue. No teeth. And stroke what you can't take, baby."
You listen to him without hesitation. Mouth enveloping his tip, you swirl your tongue around it. The further your head bobs down, the more confidence you gain as you hear Yeonjun curse under his breath. His hand gently guides you down deeper as you swallow around his throbbing length. You pump him up and down from his base, using your dripping saliva as lube. Yeonjun’s whines permeate the room, just like in his videos. Pride swells up in your chest to know that it was you who made him feel this good. He’s never had a video with anyone else. You were the first.
You want to make him feel even better, make him feel like how you did just minutes before. You take your hand off him and lower your mouth further down his length. You work your way up and down his cock to ease the stretch of him as he thrusts up into your mouth listlessly.
"So good," he says through muffled moans. "Fuck-"
Before you can bottom out, Yeonjun pulls you up haphazardly. Your mouth came off him with a small ‘pop’ that had you smiling slyly. His eyes are glazed over, dragging you up by your shoulders.
"Need to taste you again," he says through bated breaths, pushing you down where he was lying mere seconds ago. “Need this pussy all over my tongue.”
"Did I do good?" you ask, lips shimmering with his fluids, as he positions his face above your folds once more. He smiles up at you.
"Don’t ask dumb questions, baby," he says, lowering his mask down to plant a kiss right above your clit. “Was gonna cum all over that pretty face of yours from how good it fucking felt.”
Your thighs hide his face from view, hiding the brutal pace of his tongue on your wet cunt from the camera’s view. Yeonjun did not hold back, so different from earlier. His mouth was relentless on your clit, planting French kisses on it like his tongue was searching for something underneath. He grabs the plushness of your thighs, forcing you to wrap them around his face. Scared of suffocating him, you try to pull away, but Yeonjun keeps your legs locked in place with an unyielding grip.
Your eyes are blurry with tears from the sensitivity, eyes meeting the phone as you watch yourself get devoured so messily. You grasp at his red hair, pulling him away, but to no avail. You need him so bad it’s starting to hurt.
"Wanna cum with you inside me, please," you beg, already feeling that familiar coil in your stomach. "No more..."
He lifts his head up with a languid lick up your slit. Yeonjun licks his lips, his mouth and chin drenched in your fluids. He laughs as he looks up into your face, so eager and needy for him. Fuck, where were you all his life?
"You think you're ready, baby?" he asks, freeing himself from the cage of your supple legs that he willingly trapped himself in. He pulls his mask back on before crawling back up to you. His cock ghosts over the area below your belly button, guiding it down lower with his right hand.
“Think you can take all of me?”
He aligns his length atop your entrance, stroking it along your wet outer folds. He taps his angry, hot tip against your clit, and it’s enough to make you whine. Your tears threaten to spill over.
"Please," you cry out. "I want it so bad."
"Want what?" he teases.
"I can’t," you whine as you try to avoid his intense gaze. He laughs darkly.
“I need to hear you say it,” Yeonjun smirks. “How else am I supposed to know what you’re asking for?”
Your face contorts into a silent scream when you feel his rawness slowly sink into you. He holds it there, thrusting only the tip into you.
“I need you inside me,” you whine. “Please, I need you to fill me up with your cock and fuck me.”
Yeonjun smirks.
“That’s all you had to say.”
He digs out a condom from his hoodie's pocket. He rips the packet open with his mouth and hands it to you, chuckling at your confusion.
"Put it on me," he coaxes.
Your husband never ever used a condom, always assuming that you'd be okay with having unprotected sex and bearing his child. For the first time in your life, you wished a condom wasn't in the picture. You wanted to throw it to the other side of the room and beg him to fuck you raw and full. That you would be happy to carry his child and leave your husband for good.
But you push those twisted fantasies to the deep recesses of your mind and take the stretchy material in your hand anyway. He watches as you hesitantly run the condom down his pulsing length. You're slow and deliberate, like you’re waiting for him to change his mind and fuck you without it. All he does is smile, stroking your hair out of your face.
“Good girl.”
Yeonjun positions himself behind you in a sitting position, your legs draped over his thighs to give the camera a good view of your puffy folds. He lifts you up high as he grips the back of your knees from behind, rubbing his tip up and down your slit to pick more of your juices up.
“Look at you,” he whispers into your ear. “So fucking needy. Dripped all over my face, but all you wanted was this cock, huh?” You nod, mindlessly, whimpering in pathetic agreement.
Slowly, he impales you onto him.
You roll your head back onto his shoulder, biting down on his neck to distract yourself from the pain. Despite all the foreplay, you were still not used to his size. He was just too thick, still too large for you to take in. When you see his tip disappear into your folds, your tears start to fall down your face. It hurt, but you couldn’t have him pull away. You needed him right where he was. Inch by inch, you suction him in until-
"Shit," Yeonjun moans as the base of his cock hits your entrance. Fully engulfed in your folds, he steadies his breathing. You were so warm, so fucking irresistible in the way you clench around him in waves. He waits a few seconds until he starts to lift you up again. His hands are holding you from underneath your thighs, and with his support, you drop yourself back down on him. You cry out from the pressure you feel in your stomach. You can feel him against it, the small bulge visible underneath your belly button. He's hitting the deepest parts of you.
"Your pussy was made for me. So fucking tight.”
Yeonjun’s grip on you is tensing so suddenly. He bends you forward, so that your hands are on his knees as he pistons up into you. You can’t help but stare at the screen, moaning as you watch him push into you from behind.
"Oh my god," you cry out as he pulls your hips down against him. His length grinds against a spongy spot inside of you, and when he realizes he’s hit it from the way your mouth morphs into a silent O-shape, he smirks. What started as slow, cautious thrusts suddenly turned into a brutal and unforgiving pace of his monstrous cock within the deepest parts of your pussy. Yeonjun hit your G-spot again and again and again, his thrusts deep and unwavering.
"Look at how you’re letting me fuck you dumb," he groans out, grabbing your tits from behind as they bounce mercilessly in front of the camera. "So fucking wet for me."
You fall so forward that you're grabbing onto the coffee table now as Yeonjun stands up, while unrelenting in his thrusts into you. He kicks back the couch slightly, propping a leg up on it to have a better angle to fuck you. He pushes you down, having your back arched perfectly for the camera, as his thrusts quicken.
“Ngh— Ah— I can’t—”
You try to quiet your moans, afraid of who might hear. Afraid of who might come into the living room to see you getting railed so hard and so desperately by someone who isn't… Wait, who was he again?
"Taking me so well," Yeonjun grunts, pulling you away from your thoughts. "Like a fucking bitch in heat."
He slaps you hard on the ass, grabbing it right after, like you’d disappear if he didn’t. You squeal at the impact, shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you.
“P-please, Yeo-” He stuffs his fingers in your mouth, preventing you from saying his name. You forget what this was, you forget that he was recording.
“Shut the fuck up and take it like a good girl,” he snarls.
“Wha-”
Pushing you off him, Yeonjun throws you onto the couch. You let yourself be manhandled by him, reaching out for his shoulders desperately, wanting so desperately for his dick to find its way back inside you.
“You like when I’m mean, huh?” Yeonjun laughs as your mouth holds open at the absence of his fingers. “Like when I break you, hm?”
Inserting himself back in your wetness, Yeonjun holds you against the couch in a mating press. His eyes gaze intensely into yours.
"Let me hear you, baby," Yeonjun coaxes, his thrusts slow and shallow just to hear you whine. "Let them know who this pussy belongs to.”
You whimper, grinding up against him. You're desperate for him to be rough again, to put you in your place. To have your mind only clouded with thoughts of him and his cock only. God, he made a mess of you.
“Or am I not doing enough to hear you scream?” he pouts underneath his mask, clearly enjoying your desperation. “Maybe I should go harder…so I can hear you better."
He laughs, and you don't even have a chance to reply as Yeonjun pushes into you with a force so guttural that you feel his tip hit the entrance of your cervix.
Like he predicted, you screamed at the painful ecstasy of being filled to the absolute brim.
“Fuck–”
He continues his pace hard and fast, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Your nails are clawing at his back, his head buried deep in your neck. His own moans rival yours.
“Yes, baby. Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this pussy for so long–”
You don't realize the cry you let out when he hits that inner spot again. He thrusts, grinding against it again and again and again until you start seeing stars.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” you breathe out. “I’m–”
“Louder, baby,” Yeonjun coaxes. “Need to hear you.”
Your mind breaks as the world comes undone around you. Your moans have devolved into ear-piercing whines, tears running down your face in pure ecstasy.
Your climax hits you in droves as he continues to fuck you through it. He did not stop.
"I'm sensitive," you cry out in between your unintelligible babbling. "Please..."
Yeonjun shushes you, bringing your head close to his chest. You're practically sobbing now, pleasure overriding every other emotion in your body. Even the one nagging you about what Sehoon would think of you right now. About what your parents would think of their precious daughter.
"It's okay," he whispers soothingly as he continues to slowly thrust into you. "You can do it again, right? Just give me one more, baby."
Your face is contorted into a million different expressions as he adjusts to pick up his pace. It never stopped feeling good, but it was too much for your body to handle. Were you ever supposed to feel this much pleasure in your lifetime?
"I'm so close," he whines, his masked face buried deep in your neck. The noises your bodies produce are sinful. Squelches and slapping of bare skin echo throughout the living room. Your tits bouncing against his chest, your nipples rubbing against his. You can feel his breath quicken, and you tighten the grip of your folds to push him towards it. You want to see it, want to see how he comes undone from someone other than himself.
Yeonjun’s thrusts become erratic, and his hold on your ass intensifies. You wanted to see it bruise the next day. He brings his left hand to your clit, and you yelp at the sudden intensity. His thumb circles you softly, so different from the brutal pace of his cock. The different sensations have you moaning into his neck.
“I can’t. It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s–”
“Shh,” Yeonjun pushes out through his own whines. “Need you to cum with me, need to feel it.”
You never knew you could want someone so bad, to be so lustful over another. The way his brows contort, so focused on bringing both of you to your peaks. You wish you could kiss him, but his mask brings out a different desire inside of you.
You might be the only viewer of his to have seen him without it. A wave of pride consumes you; the thought of other people watching him fills you with rage mixed with lust.
You feel the dam of your floodgates come undone once again as you clench around at the thought. Wouldn’t it be so nice to have him all to yourself? No husband to worry about, no viewers to get jealous over. Just him and you, fucking every damn moment of your lives.
Your tears of hot pleasure surge once again, and he groans at the sight of you so fucked out by him.
“So fucking perfect,” he groans.
Your tightness propels him to grind into you harshly, the couch scratching the floor with his movements. One final thrust has him cumming hard into the condom, fully bottomed out inside you.
“Fuck-” Yeonjun moans as he buries his hair in the crook of your neck.
You milk him of his climax, your body grinding into his to soothe his comedown. What you would do to rip the stupid condom off him and let his cum trickle out of you and down your thigh. You think you’d be willing to actually be a mother if it meant that Yeonjun could fuck you raw.
He sighs as he rides out both your highs with small, steady thrusts. Shaking from oversensitivity, you stop his movement to pull him in closer.
Yeonjun collapses on top of you, not noticing the phone lying flat on its back from the impact of his roughness. You sigh out contentedly, petting his fiery hair.
'So this is what real sex feels like,' you think to yourself.
You felt like you were drifting on a cloud, with a man so beautiful lying on your chest. He scans your face, and a sudden wave of anxiety washes over you. Before you could push him off, Yeonjun removes his mask to plant a soft kiss on your flushed lips.
“He’s lucky to have you,” Yeonjun says with a sad smile, stroking your cheek. “Don’t ever let him think it’s the other way around.”
"Sorry for staying so late," Yeonjun apologizes, his plate fully cleaned out. "Your cooking is amazing."
You smile. He wasn’t wearing his mask anymore, as it sits in your laundry hamper desperately waiting for a wash. You couldn’t get over how glaringly beautiful he is. What did he do in a past life to be blessed with such features?
“It’s not all me,” you say, standing up from the dining table. “I had a great assistant.”
Yeonjun smirks.
“Cutting vegetables is the easy part,” he chimed in. “The fact you can season stuff perfectly without measurements is insane, [Y/N]. If he doesn’t come home to eat your dinners, I will gladly take them off his hands.”
You stand up, take the dishes, and put them in the sink. The guilt crept into the back of your mind. What were you doing letting this man fuck you in your home and help you cook dinner with you after?
This was not right. This is not the person you wanted to become. You can’t let this happen again.
‘I am married,’ you tell yourself over and over again. What would people think if they knew?
"Look, [Y/N]," Yeonjun stands up, making his way behind you. He dangles his phone in front of your face. The thumbnail of a pixelized girl and a masked man fucking on a pristinely white couch, one eerily similar to the one in your living room.
He uploaded the video. Without telling you.
"Yeonjun-" you gasp, your eyes widened with shock.
"Before you say anything," he starts. "I promise your face isn’t visible. But people may or may not have already picked up that it’s you– or at least the online version of you.”
56,000 likes and 5.4k retweets. You start to feel dizzy. Too many people have seen your body react in ways you hadn't even known it could until today. Although your face was pixelated, everything else was you. The way your toes curled when he fucked you with his tongue. The way your mouth wrapped around his big, veiny cock so willingly. The way you bounced on his dick, legs wide open just for him.
You felt your body turn cold at the thought of your husband finding out, of seeing you so intimate with another man. Would he tell your parents? Would you have to waste the years you spent with him by having to pay him back?
"You're at 20k followers now," Yeonjun continues, not noticing the inner turmoil you were going through. "I uploaded the full video on OnlyFans and we really raked it in. I'll send you the money we earned next week. So far we've made this much already."
Your eyes widen. Your whole body freezes when he turns the screen over to you. The amount of 0s had you doing a double-take.
"Like just from one hour?"
Yeonjun nods.
“More than usual for me, too.”
You weren't allowed to have a job. Sehoon said it would make him look bad to have a wife who works. You could never put your hard-earned degree to use, could never get some extra money to spend on yourself. He gave you nothing to work with. The money that Yeonjun showed you will be the first time you've had any type of income on your own since you got married.
"You like that, huh?" Yeonjun says teasingly, wrapping a hand around your waist from behind. He nuzzles his neck into your shoulder. "I'm sure you'll be living a good life in no time with what we're earning."
“What do you mean?” you ask cautiously. You can feel his face nearing yours.
“You know what I mean,” he starts slowly.
He brings his other hand to wrap around your neck, applying a soft pressure.
"I can satisfy your cravings," Yeonjun whispers darkly. "Make you forget all about that piece of shit.”
His hands trap you against the counter.
“Should we make more videos together, baby?" He draws out his pet name for you, and it almost makes you want to pounce on him.
Without your consent, he uploaded a video of you two having sex for the whole internet to see.
You should say no. Every part of you is telling you to say no, but you don't want to.
You don’t think you could live without his cock inside of you at least one more time. His attentiveness, his care for you… You wanted it all. Was it so wrong to be selfish?
"It's not cheating," Yeonjun assures you, filling in your silence. "We'd just be business partners after all."
He licks the back of your ear, coaxing you to look at him. His eyes are wide with expectation, so out of character for his usually hooded gaze.
“I won’t push your boundaries again,” Yeonjun insists. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
How could you say no to him with his fluffy hair and seductive eyes? He had you the moment he stepped through those doors. Hesitantly, you nod.
"Okay," you say shyly under his gaze. "Let's do it."
Yeonjun smiles through the mask. In swift movements, he reaches around you and underneath you to stuff his hand in your pants.
"You look good in this apron," Yeonjun whispers, pushing his sweats down with urgency. "Let's film another one right now."
summary: in a dystopian future where the government enforces arranged marriages to combat plummeting birth rates, you’re assigned a husband—choi yeonjun, a stranger you’ve never met.
warnings: explicit sexual content, soft breeding kink, language, forced marriage system, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy, domestic intimacy, power imbalance due to forced pairing, first time sex, creampie, dirty talk, oral sex,
wc: 19,1k
notes: hi everyone! ✨ so recently this idea popped into my head—i’ve been wanting to write something with an arranged marriage trope but the whole cold ceo x neglected wife thing was starting to feel a bit repetitive, especially since i’ve already written something in that genre (which i still LOVE btw, but i just wanted to try something new) 🥲 then i remembered this anime called koi to uso — it’s about this dystopian world where the government assigns you a partner and yeah… i never finished it because it turned super harem-y and that’s not really my vibe AJSJHSKJJH but the concept really caught my attention, so i thought hmm maybe i should give it a try 🫣
hope you guys enjoy it!! 🫶
everything begins the day you turn twenty.
you wake up to the faint noise of birds outside your window, sunlight filtering through the pale curtains, painting quiet shadows across your bedroom floor. your mother is already in the kitchen, humming lowly, but there’s something off in her tone. a tremble, maybe. or maybe it’s just you. maybe you’re imagining it because today’s the day you have to register.
the day you officially surrender your right to choose who you’ll love.
in this country, love is not a decision. it is a number, an equation, a state-mandated obligation for survival. for years now, the country’s birth rate has been plummeting. desperate to avoid demographic collapse, the government instituted the pairing system: when you turn twenty, your data—genetic markers, temperament, emotional intelligence, compatibility rates—is run through the database. the algorithm does the rest. your match is chosen, your future locked in, and within the year, you are expected to marry and attend compulsory family planning. you have one job: produce offspring.
love is banned unless sanctioned by the state.
you walk into the government building with your hands shaking, your mother squeezing your fingers too tightly, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. she’s been crying in secret, you know. she didn’t want this for you. no one does.
and yet—there is no other choice.
the registration is swift. a photo, a signature, your blood drawn for one final compatibility cross-check. they tell you the letter will arrive in three to five business days. the envelope will be yellow. unmistakable.
“please return home and prepare for assignment.”
you try to keep your days normal after that. university lectures. cafeteria lunches. walking home with your head down, ignoring the couples holding hands across campus, each one with an official barcode tattooed on their ring fingers—a symbol of government approval. your own hand feels heavy just looking at them. branded love. manufactured desire. they never really chose each other.
sometimes you wonder if any of them are happy.
three days later, the yellow envelope is in your mailbox.
you freeze when you see it. fingers trembling, breath caught, skin going cold. the paper almost burns in your hands. you don’t open it right away. you walk straight to your room, lock the door, sit on your bed with your heart racing so violently you think you might throw up. and then, slowly, carefully, you tear the seal.
your eyes skim the top. the official logo of the bureau of demographic affairs. your name, your assigned number. and then:
assigned partner: choi yeonjun. age: 20.
a small, passport-sized photo is attached to the right side of the letter.
you stare.
he’s... beautiful.
cat-like eyes, tilted just enough to make him look a little wild. dark lashes, long and thick. a soft, upturned nose with a gentle slope that suits the elegant structure of his face. lips—full, plush, the kind that look perpetually kiss-bruised even in monochrome. his jaw is sharp but not too much, softened by a slight pout in his mouth. he’s unnervingly symmetrical. there’s a balance to his features, a harmony, like he was designed—crafted—to be attractive.
your throat feels dry.
beneath the photo, there’s a line of text confirming the date of your preliminary meeting—next friday at 2 p.m., government center, family conference room 2B. both sets of parents are expected to attend. your wedding will be planned based on that meeting’s outcome.
you lie back on the bed, letter pressed to your chest, and stare at the ceiling.
it feels... wrong to think this—but he’s attractive. unfairly so. and that terrifies you even more. because you were always taught not to feel. not to dream of fairytales or meet-cutes or falling for someone in the rain. love at first sight is a myth now. it's forbidden. it would disrupt the system. too much emotion, too much unpredictability. and yet—
yet here you are, cheeks warm, heart skipping, staring at the grayscale face of a boy you’re about to marry.
a boy you’ve never met.
friday. 2:00 p.m.government center, family conference room 2B.
you’re early.
your dress is navy, modest, but it hugs your figure in a way you wish it wouldn’t. you didn’t pick it to be pretty—you picked it because it was formal, appropriate. your mother insisted on curling your hair, and your father didn’t speak the entire ride over. only your little brother tried to smile at you, but even his usual mischief was subdued. he kept playing with the sleeves of his hoodie in the backseat, pretending not to be upset.
the building is tall and silent, cold in a way that doesn't come from the air conditioning. it's the sterility of a place that sees life as a series of documents and laws. a place that doesn’t care about dreams.
you sit on one side of the long glass table, your family beside you. your mother keeps wringing a tissue in her lap. your father’s jaw is clenched, his hands crossed tightly. this is the last time they will sit with you like this—before you are someone else's.
and then the door opens.
you hear his voice before you see him. low, warm, laughing quietly at something one of his parents said. and when he walks in, it’s—
it’s hard to breathe.
he’s wearing a black suit that fits too well. slim, tailored, crisp like a page never touched. his hair is pushed back, soft and styled, a few strands falling delicately onto his forehead. and his face—his photo didn’t do him justice. his features move with his expressions, eyes gleaming like obsidian, mouth curved just slightly at the corners as if he’s always on the edge of a smile.
choi yeonjun.
his mother is elegant, her hair in a low twist, expression unreadable. his father looks composed, dignified, already halfway through a handshake with the government official present. this isn’t their first pairing. you remember reading his file—third son. they’ve done this before.
you feel like you’re being auctioned off.
“this is my assigned partner?” yeonjun asks, voice lilting, curious—not judgmental. he’s looking straight at you. and then he bows.
you stand and bow too, polite. your voice stays caught in your throat.
“you’re pretty,” he says softly, once he straightens. “i’m glad.”
it shouldn’t affect you. it shouldn’t. and yet your stomach flutters, just for a second, before you kill the feeling dead.
you don’t say anything. not because you’re rude—but because this isn’t real. this is a performance. this is a sentence.
the government mediator begins to speak, outlining the stages of the arrangement: the preliminary meeting. the planning process. the mandatory cohabitation. the one-year marriage trial before reproduction is expected.
you zone out after a while. your mother is crying again. your father’s voice is hoarse when he answers the legal questions. your little brother won’t look at you. and across from you, yeonjun looks like he’s done this in another life. calm. collected. but not cruel.
then, the mediator clears her throat.
“now, if the parents could please give the pair some time to speak privately. it is customary.”
your mother hesitates. she squeezes your hand until her knuckles turn white. she whispers something—"don’t let them take your heart too, okay?"—and then lets go.
and just like that, you are alone with him.
just the two of you, in a silent room that smells like paper and polished wood.
yeonjun exhales once your families are gone. his shoulders relax a little.
“wow,” he says. “that was intense.”
you nod. your hands are in your lap, clutching the fabric of your dress.
“you don’t talk much, huh?”
you glance up at him. he’s watching you with a soft kind of curiosity. not the kind that pries. more like he’s observing the weather—trying to guess if rain is coming.
“i do,” you say finally, voice quiet. “just... not today.”
he smiles. “that’s fair.”
a pause. he sits across from you again, legs crossed, posture easy, like he’s not under the weight of state surveillance. like this is his decision.
“i know this is strange,” he says. “i’m not gonna pretend it’s not. they pick someone for you, give you a name and a photo, and you’re supposed to start building a future. it's... a lot.”
you say nothing. you’re watching the way his fingers tap on the edge of the table. rhythmical. patient.
“i’m not here to make this harder for you,” he says, gentler now. “i know some people get assigned to assholes. i promise i won’t be one.”
your brows knit together, surprised.
he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in one palm.
“if we have to go through this, we might as well not suffer through it.”
and you look at him then, really look.
his gaze is steady. not forceful. not manipulative. he’s not trying to make you like him. he’s just... honest.
"you’re used to this,” you murmur.
his smile falters. “not really. i’ve just watched my brothers go through it. and i learned what not to do.”
there’s something about the way he says it. like he’s seen what happens when the system doesn’t pair people right. like he knows how love can die before it’s even born.
you swallow, throat tight.
“i didn’t want this,” you admit.
he nods. “me neither.”
silence settles between you again. it’s not awkward. just full. like both of you are trying to breathe in a place with no air.
“but...” he says softly, after a while. “i think you’re interesting. and you’re easy to talk to. even if you don’t say much.”
your cheeks flush, and you hate that you can feel it. he notices, of course. but he doesn’t tease you. he just smiles to himself, quiet and pleased.
“so,” he says, tilting his head. “can i know something real about you? not government data. just... you.”
you blink.
he waits.
slow burn. that’s what this is. he’s not rushing. he’s not playing pretend. he’s offering you a chance to make something human out of something cold.
and even though everything in you is screaming don’t trust it—
you speak.
you tell him a little. not much. just enough.
and he listens. attentively. sincerely.
maybe that’s how it starts. not with a kiss. not with a confession. but with someone sitting across from you, asking who you are when no one’s watching.
two weeks later.
the wedding is on a thursday.
you don’t get a white dress. there’s no music, no flowers. no ceremony beyond a document and a pen and the sterile voices of government officials making sure everything is binding and accounted for.
you wear beige.
yeonjun wears black again. no tie this time. his hair is messier, like he didn’t bother too much. he looks good anyway, like he always does. like someone who never had to try.
the room is almost identical to the one where you met: glass, steel, a flag in the corner.
your mother sobs quietly during the signing. your father doesn’t let go of her hand. your brother tries not to look, but when you lean down to hug him goodbye, he hides his face in your shoulder and mutters a broken, “please don’t forget us.”
and that’s when you finally cry.
not loud. not messy. just silent tears running down your cheeks as you sign the paper that says you no longer belong to them. your name next to yeonjun’s. your status: married. active participant in national repopulation initiative.
they even stamp it. a red seal. final. absolute.
you don't remember the ride to your new shared apartment. only the sound of the car, the blur of the buildings, your hands gripping the hem of your coat in your lap like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.
yeonjun doesn’t speak for a while. and when he does, it’s soft. careful.
“you don’t have to pretend around me,” he says, eyes on the road. “i know this hurts.”
you don’t answer.
he pulls into a residential complex. government-provided. modern, quiet. two bedrooms, a shared kitchen, everything fully equipped. it smells like fresh paint and new plastic. not like home.
your boxes are already inside. so are his.
the apartment is... neutral. beige walls. grey couch. chrome kitchen. there’s a small balcony, but it faces another building.
you walk into your assigned bedroom and close the door without saying a word.
and to his credit, he doesn’t follow you. not right away.
but now, days pass like fog.
there’s a schedule pinned to the fridge now. a printed routine from the bureau: acclimation period, cohabitation adjustment, health preparation. underlined: mandatory hospital check-up before family planning begins.
you go to the hospital together a week later.
the nurse greets you by your couple ID number.
yeonjun jokes to break the tension—something dumb about feeling like a robot in a factory—and you don’t laugh, but you glance at him sideways. just a little. he notices.
you both go through blood work, fertility testing, infectious disease screening. the nurse asks personal questions. too personal. about cycles and hormone levels and sexual history—
you flinch.
yeonjun speaks for you when you freeze.
“she’s not comfortable,” he says simply. “ask me first.”
his voice is calm, but there's steel beneath it. the nurse adjusts her tone after that.
on the ride home, you stare out the window. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh, nervous energy he never shows in his posture. it’s the little things you’re starting to notice.
“you didn’t have to speak for me,” you say, finally.
“i know,” he answers. “but i wanted to.”
and again—there it is.
that kindness you didn’t ask for. that warmth he keeps offering, even though you haven’t given him much back.
nights are the hardest.
you pretend to sleep early, even when your eyes stay open in the dark for hours. the room feels too still, too foreign. the bed smells like the laundry detergent they gave you in the relocation kit. the ceiling fan turns slowly, quietly. your chest feels tight, like grief has found a home inside your ribs and refuses to move out.
sometimes, you press your ear against the bedroom wall. you can’t hear much. just the occasional soft shuffle, the hum of yeonjun’s voice when he speaks on the phone in hushed tones. he never speaks long. never laughs out loud. not anymore.
you miss your mother’s voice echoing from the kitchen, your brother’s heavy footsteps running down the hallway. the scent of warm rice and grilled mackerel. the sound of your father clearing his throat before calling everyone to eat.
now, there’s only silence.
until one night, a knock.
not loud. not urgent. just... present.
“hey,” comes his voice through the door. “you don’t have to open. i just wanted to say... i know this feels like the end of everything, but it isn’t.”
you sit up slowly. your hand hovers near the handle but doesn’t reach it.
“i know we didn’t choose each other,” he continues, voice low and careful, “but maybe that doesn’t mean we can’t choose to be good to each other.”
you swallow. your throat feels raw.
after a pause, your voice comes out in a whisper, hoarse but steady. “okay.”
you don’t open the door. but you walk to it, lean your back against the cool wood. and then—almost imperceptibly—you hear the sound of him lowering himself on the other side. sitting with you. just like that. no pressure. just presence.
you stay like that for a while. breathing the same air, separated by a few centimeters and a thin barrier. but somehow... it feels closer than anything else has in weeks.
you don’t talk more that night. but when you finally slide back into bed, you sleep without crying.
that’s a first.
the next morning, there’s tea waiting on the counter.
he doesn’t say it’s from him. but he’s the only other person here, so you thank him anyway.
a nod. a tiny smile. you sip it, and it’s sweet.
from that night on, something shifts. neither of you says it aloud, but the air is different now.
you start having breakfast together. simple stuff—toast, boiled eggs, fruit. you sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table and talk about nothing. weather. uni schedules. news updates.
one afternoon, you both arrive home soaked from the sudden rain.
you were out grocery shopping. he met you on the walk back by chance. no umbrella. you ran together. you laughed—really laughed—for the first time since being assigned. your clothes clung to your skin, your breath short from the sprint.
in the elevator, he looks at you and says, a little breathless, “you’re kind of cute when you’re mad at the rain.”
you blink at him. cheeks warm. you don't know what to say.
that night, he passes you a hairdryer through your door.
“so you don’t catch a cold.”
you murmur thanks. he lingers in the hallway a moment, like he wants to say something else. but then he leaves.
the next few nights, he knocks more often. never asks to come in. just talks through the door. sometimes you join him on the floor again, your backs pressed to opposite sides of wood. you start to open up. a little at a time.
one night, just past midnight, you both end up in the kitchen again.
you couldn’t sleep. neither could he. you make tea, he brings a packet of cookies.
the city outside is asleep. your apartment is bathed in soft fridge light.
you find yourselves sitting on the floor, backs to the counter.
he asks, voice low, “did you ever fall in love before all this?”
the question feels heavy. you stare into your cup.
“no,” you answer honestly. “i didn’t let myself. what was the point, if it was forbidden? if we were all going to be assigned anyway?”
he nods slowly. you notice the way his eyes flick toward the window, as if remembering something far away.
“i did,” he says finally.
your heart stirs.
“in high school,” he goes on, “i fell for this girl in my class. she had this ridiculous laugh and used to bring snacks for everyone. i liked her for three years. never told her. i thought... i don’t know. part of me really believed she’d be assigned to me.”
you watch the way his lips twist into something halfway between a smile and a wince.
“i used to daydream about it,” he admits, almost embarrassed. “our names printed together on the envelope. hers next to mine. like it was meant to be.”
you don’t say anything. you let him speak.
“and then she got married last year. to someone else. she posted a photo with her husband and... i laughed. like, really laughed. because it was so stupid. how much hope i’d put into something that was never mine to decide.”
you imagine it. the version of him in a classroom, heart racing every time she turned around. young, hopeful. painfully innocent.
you don’t know her name. you’ll probably never meet her.
but you hate her a little.
you hate that she had his love, his dreams, his belief. something you were too scared to even touch.
and you hate that your chest aches when he says her name without saying it.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “that it didn’t work out.”
he looks at you, and there’s something tender in the way his eyes soften. “i’m not,” he says after a beat. “i wouldn’t have met you if it had.”
the silence after that is heavy, electric.
you don’t answer.
but you stay there with him. knees almost touching. the scent of tea between you. eyes a little too full. hearts slightly ajar.
the email arrives quietly, with the mechanical ding of a notification breaking the silence of your morning. it’s nothing dramatic—just a government seal, a cold subject line: YOUTH EMPLOYMENT PROGRAM FOR NEWLYWEDS.
you’re still in your oversized sleep shirt, hair loosely tied up, your fingers wrapped around a warm mug of barley tea as you sit at the small kitchen table. the place smells like toasted bread and laundry detergent. yeonjun walks in a few minutes later, yawning, dressed in sweatpants and a faded university hoodie, a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. he glances over your shoulder to see what you're looking at.
you click the email open. it’s from the ministry of social and familial affairs—another mandatory policy. another thing the government arranges for you, like you’re pieces on a board.
“because both parties are currently enrolled in higher education,” you read aloud softly, “the government will provide access to part-time employment opportunities and offer a financial subsidy for essential living expenses during the first year of marriage.”
you don’t say anything for a long while after that. the words hover in the air, bureaucratic and impersonal. but somehow, they make this life feel more real. more permanent. like you’re not just living in a temporary dream—you’re expected to stay here. build something.
“well,” yeonjun finally says, mouth half-full, “that’s... something. we should check it out later.”
you nod, even though your stomach feels hollow.
you still think about that night. the night he told you about his first love. about how he spent three years loving her in silence, convinced she'd be the one fate would give him. the girl with snacks and a bright laugh. the one who got married last year. not to him.
and no matter how much you tell yourself it’s ridiculous, it still gnaws at you sometimes. there’s this faint, irrational heat in your chest whenever she crosses your mind. you don’t even know what she looks like. you don’t know her name. but something about the way he talked about her—with such tender resignation—makes something sour rise in your throat.
you hate that it lingers.
you hate that it hurts.
that night, the rain starts late.
it begins with a steady tapping against the glass, the kind that would normally soothe you—white noise for your thoughts. but then the wind picks up, howling through the narrow alley between your apartment and the building next door, and you know what’s coming.
the first clap of thunder makes you freeze.
your fingers curl around the blanket. your chest tightens. you try to breathe slowly, like your therapist taught you when you were younger. but then comes another one—louder, deeper. it shakes the walls. it shakes you.
you’ve always hated storms. they made you cry as a child, and when you were too old to crawl into your mother’s bed, you forced your little brother to sleep beside you just so you wouldn’t feel alone.
now you’re in a place that doesn’t smell like your mother’s laundry, that doesn’t hold your brother’s sleepy warmth.
you’re alone again. except you’re not. not really.
you don’t think. you just move.
barefoot, your steps light across the cold floor, you open your bedroom door and cross the hall. you knock on yeonjun’s door twice, already feeling embarrassed, but unable to stop.
he opens almost immediately, wearing a gray t-shirt and sleep-tousled hair. his eyes are soft when they meet yours.
“are you okay?” he asks gently, already understanding.
you hesitate. “can i… stay here tonight?”
there’s a beat of silence. he nods, stepping aside without a word, and gestures for you to come in.
his room is dim, smelling faintly of his cologne and clean linen. it’s warmer than yours. there’s a stack of books by his bed, an open laptop with half-written notes still on the screen, a navy blue hoodie slung over the chair.
he grabs an extra blanket and starts to lay it out on the floor, but you shake your head, already trembling from another rumble of thunder.
“i… don’t want to be alone,” you whisper.
yeonjun pauses. and then, slowly, he walks back toward the bed and lifts the corner of the blanket for you.
you crawl in on one side. he lies down on the other. space between you, but not coldness. not indifference.
“i’ve always been scared of storms,” you murmur into the dark. “when i was little, i’d run to my parents’ room. then i made my little brother stay with me. i thought that when i grew up, i wouldn’t be scared anymore. but i guess… i still am.”
you feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. his voice is low, almost a hush.
“nothing’s going to break tonight.”
those five words feel like something heavier than comfort. they feel like a promise. and they make something fragile inside you twist.
you’re quiet for a long time after that. the silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that lets your heartbeat slow. the kind that feels full of something new—something you don’t have a name for yet.
you fall asleep to the sound of rain and his breathing, even and steady beside you.
and when you wake up in the early morning light, his hand is resting over yours.
you slept like a baby.
it's the first thought you have when you blink your eyes open, bathed in the pale light of morning seeping through the curtains. the room smells like faint detergent and something unmistakably yeonjun—warm cotton and the slightest trace of his cologne. the air is quiet now, no more thunder shaking the walls, no rain tapping restlessly against the windows. and your chest feels… calm.
it surprises you, how rested you feel. how deep your sleep was. how safe.
you remember all those nights with your younger brother, clinging to him as the storm rattled outside, whispering stories or counting sheep until your mind shut down from exhaustion. sleep was never easy back then. it was something you wrestled for, clawed your way toward, until it finally overtook you like mercy. but last night... last night, it came softly. it held you.
and now you realize why.
yeonjun’s arms are around you.
not tightly, not possessively—just gently draped, like he forgot to move in the night, like his body instinctively curved around yours in sleep. one of his hands rests over your wrist, the other loosely against your waist, warm even through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. and his face is so close, calm and boyish, lips slightly parted, his breath even and soft against your skin.
your heart pounds immediately, panic fluttering low in your stomach—not because you’re scared, but because this is unfamiliar. because you don’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness.
you want to pull away. you should. you really, really should.
but instead you stay.
you stay because there’s something about this moment that feels too fragile to break. something inside you, some cracked place, is being filled just by existing in this quiet closeness. and you realize—though you’ve never wanted to admit it—that you’ve been touch-starved for a long time. that there’s a part of you that’s been aching for connection, for warmth, for someone.
his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, adjusting against your hip, and your breath catches. the movement is innocent, unconscious—but your skin reacts like it’s been branded. you swallow hard, trying to still the storm inside you, even though the one outside is already gone.
you stay like that for several more minutes, listening to the soft hum of the apartment, watching the way the sunlight plays over his features. you trace the line of his brow with your eyes, the soft curve of his lashes, the shape of his lips. he looks so peaceful like this—unguarded, almost boyish. and for a second, you wonder what he’s dreaming about. if he ever dreamed of something like this.
he stirs eventually, a sleepy sound escaping his throat as he blinks slowly awake. his gaze is unfocused at first, but then it lands on you, and something warm flickers in it.
“…morning,” he mumbles, voice still gravelly from sleep.
“morning,” you whisper back, suddenly aware of how close you are, of how your bodies are still tucked together like pieces of the same story.
neither of you moves.
there’s a pause where his eyes search your face, slow and unreadable. and then, with a sleepy smile tugging at his lips, he lets out a soft breath.
“you didn’t run away in the middle of the night. that’s a good sign.”
you laugh quietly, your cheeks burning. “i slept too well to even think about moving.”
he hums, pleased. “me too. i usually toss around like crazy, but i guess… you were a good influence.”
you want to joke. to deflect. but instead you find yourself whispering something real.
“i felt safe.”
his eyes soften.
you don’t say anything else. you just lie there a while longer, not moving, not rushing. there’s a peace in the way your bodies still fit together, in how neither of you seems quite ready to let go.
but the world, eventually, pulls you back. responsibilities, the clock ticking louder in your head. breakfast. classes. life.
yeonjun stretches lazily and finally pulls back, giving you space without question, his smile sleepy but kind. “i’ll make us coffee.”
you nod, watching him slip out of bed, hair tousled, shirt riding up slightly at the back. you press your hand to where his body had been, still warm, and you sit there a little longer, your thoughts spiraling in slow, confused circles.
because even though last night was about fear and storms… this morning feels like the beginning of something else entirely.
the waiting room smells like antiseptic and soft lavender, a strange combination that doesn’t manage to calm your nerves. you sit side by side with yeonjun on a sleek government-issued bench, your fingers clasped tightly on your lap, trying not to let your knee bounce with the anxiety pressing into your chest.
he seems more composed than you are—back straight, hands relaxed, legs slightly spread in his usual confident posture—but when you glance sideways, you notice how he keeps licking his lips, how his jaw clenches just a little every few seconds.
the appointment with the planning officer had been scheduled right after your wedding—clinical, efficient, emotionless, like everything else in this system. you hadn’t talked about it. hadn’t even wanted to think about it. but now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to hide.
“choi yeonjun. choi y/n,” a nurse calls softly from the doorway, clipboard in hand. “follow me.”
you walk side by side into a white, spotless office where a woman in a pale beige suit greets you from behind a desk. she looks to be in her forties, composed, direct, her nametag reading ms. kang – reproductive health officer.
you sit across from her. the air feels heavier now.
“so,” she begins, smiling in that polite, unyielding way government workers do, “you’re about a month into your union. how’s the adjustment been?”
you blink, unsure how to answer. yeonjun speaks first.
“we’re getting used to it. slowly.”
“good,” she nods, tapping something on her tablet. “you’ve both passed the health screenings, no genetic flags or fertility concerns. so the next step is to begin trials of compatibility-based conception.”
you shift in your seat. trials.
“have you already begun your sexual relationship?” she asks, her tone calm, like she’s asking about the weather.
your breath catches. your eyes widen slightly, and your face goes hot. “uh—no. not yet,” you manage, your voice too soft, almost guilty.
yeonjun straightens a little, eyebrows twitching, his tone sharper. “we’ve only been married a few weeks. there hasn’t been time.”
ms. kang doesn’t flinch. she only nods and types something on her screen. “i see. while it’s natural for some couples to take time, we recommend initiating intimacy soon. it will help establish the rhythm of your connection and allow us to track progress for planning interventions if necessary.”
your ears are burning now. her words play back in your head like static: initiate intimacy, track progress.
you glance at yeonjun without meaning to, and he’s already looking at you—but his expression is unreadable. his jaw is tight again.
“we’ll… take that into consideration,” he says curtly.
the rest of the appointment passes in a blur. you nod and agree to things you barely hear, accept pamphlets on fertility monitoring and hormonal optimization. by the time you walk out of the clinic, your skin feels too tight for your body.
you don’t speak on the way home.
you sit beside him on the train, trying to focus on the passing buildings outside the window, but your thoughts keep circling the same place. the way she said it. the expectation of it. and worse—the idea of it.
because the thing is… you’ve thought about it. even before this meeting, in the quiet moments, in the space between shared breakfasts and brushing past each other in the kitchen, in that night you slept in his arms like you belonged there.
you’ve wondered what his mouth would feel like pressed to your neck.
you’ve wondered how his hands would move if he weren’t just offering comfort.
you’ve wondered how his voice would sound if it wasn’t so composed—if it cracked with want.
but that was all private. safe in your imagination. not something stamped into paperwork. not something tracked by government programs and fertility logs.
and now you can’t not think about it.
when you finally get home, it’s too quiet. you move around each other like magnets unsure if they should attract or repel. you both pretend you’re just tired. that it was just a long day.
but the silence drips between you, thick and unspoken.
you head to your room without a word, tossing the clinic folder on your desk like it burns. you try to sleep. but the image of yeonjun, tense and handsome in the cold clinic light, won’t leave your mind. his voice, defensive. his fingers, twitching on his knee. and most of all, the memory of his arm around your waist from that night—the heat of his skin under your palm.
an hour passes. maybe two.
you shift in bed, restless. you toss the blanket off. put it back on. stare at the ceiling. you hear footsteps in the hall.
a soft knock at your door.
you sit up, heart hammering. “come in.”
yeonjun stands there, messy hair and hoodie half-zipped, eyes unreadable in the dim light. he doesn’t come in right away. just leans against the doorframe and runs a hand through his hair.
“sorry,” he says after a moment. “about earlier. the clinic.”
you nod. “it’s okay.”
he looks at you then, longer, and something flickers in his expression—something caught between curiosity and hesitation.
“they make it sound like it’s supposed to be… mechanical,” he murmurs, crossing the room slowly. “but it’s not, right? it’s not supposed to be.”
your breath catches.
he stops by your bed. close enough for you to see the flutter of his lashes, the nervous line between his brows. close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body.
you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s both of you at the same time. but suddenly, the space between you disappears.
his hand brushes your cheek, soft and hesitant, and you lean into it without thinking.
“i don’t want it to be just… a task,” he says quietly, voice barely a breath now. “not with you.”
you don’t answer. you just let your forehead rest against his chest, your heart beating too loudly, your breath catching in your throat.
and when he wraps his arms around you again—warm and strong and familiar—you feel the storm rising again.
but this time, it’s not outside.
it’s you. it’s him.
and it’s not fear anymore.
it’s something else entirely.
you don’t kiss that night.
you could’ve. maybe you almost do. there’s a moment where his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and your eyes lift to meet his, and you feel it—that shift, like the world holds its breath. but then he steps back, gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and says goodnight in a voice that’s too soft, too careful.
he leaves your door cracked open behind him. and somehow, that’s worse than closing it.
after that, the tension lingers—thick and quiet like smoke.
in the mornings, you find yourselves together more often than not. your coffee mugs sit side by side now. sometimes you forget whose is whose. he steals sips from yours and you pretend to scowl, but your heart trips every time your fingers brush when you both reach for the sugar at the same time.
you fall into a rhythm. not romantic. not domestic. but something else. something intimate in a quiet way.
when the job placement emails come through, you sit together on the couch, scrolling through them on your shared government-issued tablet. yeonjun lands a spot as an assistant at a community cultural center downtown—flexible hours, reasonable pay. you get placed in a local library, part-time shelving and cataloguing.
it’s not exciting. it’s not your dream. but it’s… stable.
“at least we won’t starve,” yeonjun says one evening, his arm slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you. “thanks, government.”
you snort. “maybe next year they’ll assign us a kid and a dog, too.”
he laughs—really laughs, loud and full—and something about the sound makes your chest ache. it makes you want to say something dumb just to hear it again.
but what sticks with you, what haunts you, is that night after the storm. not because of what happened—because of what didn’t.
and what happened at the clinic. what the officer said. what yeonjun said after.
you think about it too much. think about him too much.
and you think about her.
the girl he loved once. the one he talked about in that quiet, midnight voice, when the rain had softened and you were wrapped in his hoodie like armor.
you remember how his gaze turned distant as he spoke of her, how he confessed that he truly believed she’d be the one assigned to him. that he waited. that he hoped.
how the disappointment burned when he found out she wasn’t.
and you shouldn’t feel anything about it. it’s in the past. he told you that.
but sometimes, when you catch him staring into space or fiddling with that little leather bracelet he always wears, your chest twists a little. and you don’t know why.
you’re not in love.
you’re not supposed to fall in love.
yet it keeps slipping in—quiet and slow. like water through cracks.
one evening, it rains again. not a storm, just a steady drizzle that makes the air smell clean. you’re both tired from work and university, but neither of you wants to be alone in your room.
you sit on the windowsill together, knees touching, sharing a bowl of strawberries yeonjun bought on the way home. the fruit is sweet and cold against your tongue.
“i used to love the rain,” he murmurs, watching it trail down the glass. “when i was a kid, i’d sit on the porch for hours just listening. it felt like… everything else stopped for a while.”
you glance at him. his profile is soft in the dim light, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.
“it used to scare me,” you admit quietly. “storms, i mean. as you may know...”
he smiles without turning to you. “you were scared.”
“yeah.”
there’s a pause.
“you weren’t scared the other night,” he says. “not with me.”
you shrug. “you made it easy not to be.”
the silence that follows is gentle. not awkward. just… full.
“do you think it’s still possible?” he asks suddenly. “to fall for someone? even with all of this?” he gestures vaguely, and you know he means the system, the laws, the matching algorithms and fertility checkups and pre-written life paths.
you don’t answer right away. you don’t know how to.
“i think we’re not supposed to,” you say after a long pause. “but maybe… that doesn’t stop it from happening.”
his eyes find yours then, and they don’t look away.
your heart stumbles.
neither of you speaks. the air feels like it’s crackling again—not with lightning, but with something just as dangerous.
the next night, you fall asleep on the couch together. not planned. not anything.
you were watching something. you don’t even remember what. but you woke up with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, heartbeat steady against your ear.
you don’t move. you can’t move.
it feels too good. too right.
his shirt smells like laundry soap and skin. his fingers shift in his sleep, brushing lightly along your back. it makes you shiver. it makes you think about things you shouldn’t.
you stay there until the sun begins to rise.
you pretend to be asleep when he finally stirs and lifts his head slightly, blinking at your face. you feel the weight of his gaze.
but he doesn’t move either.
and neither do you.
because something’s changing. you both feel it.
you just don’t say it. not yet.
not until it’s too loud to ignore.
and maybe that moment is coming faster than either of you is ready for.
you try not to overthink the moments.
you try.
the accidental sleep on the couch becomes less accidental. the next week, it happens again—this time during a shared late-night study session. you're both exhausted, papers and notebooks strewn across the coffee table, half-finished cups of coffee gone cold.
you wake up tucked under the same blanket, the light off, the tablet blinking low battery on the floor. yeonjun is beside you, his legs tangled with yours, his breathing soft against the crown of your head.
he doesn’t say anything when you open your eyes. he’s already awake, watching you, and when he sees you stir, he whispers a faint “morning” like it’s a secret.
you nod, throat dry. “morning.”
neither of you moves.
and maybe it’s the silence. maybe it’s the way his hand is resting lightly on your hip, not possessive, not bold—just there.or maybe it’s because of the way your name sounds in his voice lately—gentler, more familiar, too intimate for two people who were supposed to be strangers made spouses.
whatever it is, it roots itself deep in your chest, wraps vines around your ribs, and refuses to let go.
but things are still complicated.
you remember the appointment at the family planning center far too clearly. how the sterile walls and uncomfortable chairs felt like a sentence being handed down. the woman at the desk, clipboard in hand, speaking in clinical terms while smiling too much. the questions.
“have you two begun sexual relations yet?”
your body stiffened so fast it hurt. you’d shaken your head, cheeks burning.
“no,” you said, barely above a whisper.
and then yeonjun.
his voice didn’t waver. didn’t shrink. but there was a hint of something—offense, maybe, or just discomfort buried beneath practiced calm.
“not yet.”
not yet.
those words echoed for hours after.
the woman nodded, unbothered, flipping her pen in one hand.
“you should consider beginning soon,” she said, checking off a box. “intimacy will help strengthen the emotional bond and allow us to begin identifying which fertility path will suit your needs. the government recommends couples begin within the first ninety days of union.”
you had never wanted to disappear more.
the walk home was silent.
yeonjun didn’t mention it. you didn’t either.
but it sat between you like a stormcloud, buzzing with electricity, waiting to crack open.
you catch him watching you more after that. not in a bad way. not in a way that makes you feel unsafe. no—it makes you feel too safe, and that’s somehow worse.
he’s careful. always. but he’s still a boy. and you’re still you. and your bodies know things your minds are afraid to say.
the small space you share only makes things more dangerous.
his cologne clings to your pillows. your lotion starts appearing on his arms. he hums the songs you listen to in the shower. he buys your favorite snack without asking.
you start wearing his shirts to sleep without realizing. you only notice the third time it happens—when he stops in the hallway and his eyes dip, linger, then flick back up with a quiet clearing of his throat.
“is that mine?”
you glance down at yourself. it’s an old oversized gray tee. soft. worn. familiar. his scent baked into the fabric like sunlight.
“uh… yeah. sorry. it was just on the chair and—”
“keep it,” he says, not letting you finish. “looks better on you.”
you go to bed that night with your skin buzzing.
and things only build from there.
he starts cooking more, pulling you into the kitchen with an easy “help me” that really means just stand here while i talk to you. you lean on the counter while he cuts vegetables, while he stirs sauces, while he tells you about his classes and how boring statistics is, how he almost fell asleep mid-lecture. you laugh and call him dramatic. he grins and tells you it’s your fault for not waking him up when he left.
“you’re supposed to be my wife now. you have responsibilities.”
he says it like a joke. you laugh like it is one.
but your heart stutters anyway.
one night, it rains again. not a storm, just heavy and constant, soft thunder echoing in the distance. you find yourself awake at midnight again, restless, curled on the couch in the living room with your knees tucked to your chest.
yeonjun finds you there.
he doesn’t say anything—just sits beside you, close but not touching, and watches the rain drip down the windows.
“can’t sleep?” he asks.
you shake your head. “not really.”
“you okay?”
you nod, even though you’re not sure.
the air between you hums. it’s familiar now. this closeness. this heavy, unsaid thing growing slowly between shared silences and sidelong glances.
you lean your head on his shoulder, unsure why. maybe it’s because the rain feels lonelier tonight. maybe it’s because it feels like something is shifting again.
his breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move away.
“do you think they’re watching us?” you ask softly. “the government, i mean. checking how fast we fall in love. how fast we sleep together.”
he’s quiet for a moment.
“maybe,” he says finally. “but they can’t measure the parts that matter.”
“like what?”
he tilts his head toward yours. “like this.”
you feel the words like fingertips down your spine.
you close your eyes, and his shoulder under your cheek feels like solid ground.
this is the moment where maybe everything could change.
but you don’t kiss. not yet.
you breathe in together.
and for now, that’s enough.
the power cuts out a little after ten. it happens suddenly—an abrupt flicker, followed by darkness swallowing the apartment whole.
you blink, heart skipping, your body already tightening with reflex from the sound, from the silence that follows too quickly.
then the soft sound of rain begins again.
but unlike the last time, this one is gentle. no thunder, no flashes of light through the windows. just rain, steady and calm like fingers tapping against glass. it’s the kind of rain that makes the night feel softer than usual. quieter.
yeonjun lights a candle he keeps in the drawer near the kitchen, its flame swaying in the center of the living room table, casting shadows on the walls. he brings it over to the couch where you sit curled up under a blanket, your knees pressed to your chest, already waiting.
he joins you without asking.
“guess we’ll have to pretend we’re in the 1800s,” he murmurs, glancing at the candle.
you laugh softly. “at least you’re not reading me poetry.”
“don’t tempt me,” he grins.
the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it rarely is now. something about the rain, the flicker of light, the way you’re seated side by side with your shoulders barely touching, it all feels… close.
your gaze drifts to the window, where the raindrops race each other down the glass. and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts start circling again. you’ve been doing that more and more—ever since that night. ever since yeonjun told you about her. the girl he loved in high school. the one he thought would be assigned to him.
you swallow. your chest tightens, not with pain exactly—more like an unfamiliar ache. something raw you haven’t named yet.
“can i ask you something?” you say, voice quiet.
yeonjun hums, eyes still on the candlelight. “of course.”
“i haven’t stopped thinking about her.”
he turns to you, brows faintly furrowed. “who?”
“the girl you were in love with.”
his expression doesn’t change much. he just blinks slowly, watching you. “why?”
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “i don’t know. maybe because… i’m jealous of her.”
that makes him laugh—soft, surprised. “jealous?”
you nod, heart pounding. “yeah. i guess it’s stupid. but… she got to be your first love. she got all of you when it meant something. and now, i’m just—”
“my wife?” he cuts in, still smiling, trying to lighten the air. “you’re my wife now. kind of a win, don’t you think?”
but you don’t smile back.
you turn to face him, the dim light catching on your lashes, your jaw tight. “it’s not the same,” you say softly. “i know this is supposed to be a marriage, but it doesn’t feel right… hearing about your past like that. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that i have to be the one who came after.”
yeonjun’s smile fades. the playfulness drains from his face, replaced by something heavier. something slower. he looks at you like he’s really seeing you now—like maybe he’s been seeing you all along but didn’t know how close you were to unraveling.
“hey,” he says quietly, voice low and careful. “you’re not after anyone.”
you try to look away, but he catches your chin between two fingers, guiding your eyes back to his.
“she’s the past,” he murmurs. “but you—you’re the present. you’re the one who’s here. who sleeps beside me. who leaves hair ties on the bathroom sink and wears my shirts and steals my side of the bed.”
your lips part, but no sound comes out.
“don’t do that to yourself,” he whispers. “don’t compare. it’s not the same because this is real. and growing. and you—”
he leans closer.
“you make me forget her name.”
you blink, breath catching. the air feels different now. the candlelight flickers between you, but you can barely see it. all you can see is him—his face inches from yours, his voice warm and deep and trembling just enough to make your pulse race.
“yeonjun…”
“can i kiss you?” he breathes.
you nod.
slowly, his hand slides to your jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath your cheekbone. he closes the space between you inch by inch, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. you lean in.
when his lips finally meet yours, it’s not fireworks. it’s gravity.
you sink into it, into him, into the warmth and tenderness of it. it’s careful, at first—testing, soft, a question asked in the silence. but then you tilt your head, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and he answers with a deeper kiss, one that pulls a sound from the back of your throat you didn’t expect.
it’s too much. it’s not enough. it’s everything all at once.
when you finally part, you’re breathless.
he presses his forehead to yours. the candle crackles gently nearby. the rain keeps falling.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper.
“don’t be,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “i should’ve known. i should’ve said something sooner.”
you shake your head. “no. i needed to feel it. to say it. i think i’ve been holding everything back since this marriage started.”
“me too.”
you both fall quiet again, but this time, it’s different.
you’re not two strangers trying to survive a system anymore.
you’re two people finally reaching across the space that was never meant to last.
and outside, the rain sings soft lullabies to the city, and the candle flickers like a heartbeat, and in his arms, you no longer feel like a second choice.
you feel chosen.
the next morning, something has changed.
it’s subtle. nothing overt. not at first.
you wake up earlier than him and find yourself just… watching him for a moment. the soft rise and fall of his chest. the curve of his lashes against his cheek. how he frowns slightly in his sleep, like he’s still half in a dream. you should look away—you’ve always looked away before—but now your eyes linger.
when he stirs, blinking against the light, he sees you watching. he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles, sleep-warm and real, and your heart does something uncomfortable and sweet in your chest.
“morning,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“morning,” you whisper back, your voice catching a little.
he reaches out lazily, his fingers brushing your arm beneath the blanket, and even though it’s nothing, just that, your breath hitches. you tell yourself it’s the closeness. the aftermath of the kiss. but the warmth in your chest says something else.
and then the day goes on—but not quite the same.
at breakfast, he sits closer than usual. your elbows touch when you both reach for the sugar. he doesn’t apologize like before. doesn’t pull away. just grins and bumps your shoulder on purpose this time.
you roll your eyes. “you’re annoying.”
“you kissed me last night,” he says, way too casually. “you don’t get to call me annoying anymore.”
“you asked first.”
“still counts.”
the banter is light, teasing, familiar. but under it, there’s a new current. an awareness. every glance feels heavier. every touch lingers a second longer than it should. when he hands you a dish, his fingers brush yours, and neither of you lets go right away.
the silence between you becomes something else entirely. no longer filled with obligation or awkwardness. now it feels like a question that neither of you is brave enough to answer out loud.
until it happens again. in the kitchen, late at night, as you’re washing dishes and he comes up behind you. at first it’s innocent—he says something dumb, you laugh—but then his hand finds the small of your back, and you freeze, not because it’s wrong but because it’s not. it feels too good. too natural.
you turn, slowly, water dripping from your hands, and he’s already looking at you like he wants to kiss you again.
he doesn’t. not yet. he just leans in and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers graze your cheek, his eyes drop to your lips, and then—he walks away.
you stand there for a moment, heart pounding, wondering how the hell he keeps doing this to you.
a few days later, you’re invited to visit your family.
it’s your first time back since the marriage. your parents had called to check in, of course, had even video called once or twice, but nothing replaces being home. your mother’s cooking. your father’s quiet warmth. your brother’s chaotic energy.
the moment you walk through the door, your mom pulls you into a hug so tight you almost cry again. your dad claps yeonjun’s shoulder, awkward but trying. your brother, now twelve, looks like he’s grown taller.
he eyes yeonjun up and down, squints a little, then smirks at you.
“so, are you pregnant yet?”
you freeze.
your dad chokes on his tea. your mother lets out a gasp so sharp it could cut metal. yeonjun’s eyes go wide—like someone just yanked the floor out from under him.
“yoonho!” your mom yells, already reaching for the nearest dish towel like it’s a weapon. “you can’t ask that!”
“what?” your brother yells as he runs from her, laughing like a maniac. “i just wanted to know if the government system’s working!”
your dad is still coughing. you’re standing there redder than a tomato. burning with mortification.
yeonjun, after a stunned beat, laughs. really laughs. full chest, head-tilted-back laughter that’s so contagious you can’t help but giggle through your hands.
“don’t encourage him,” you say, smacking his arm lightly.
he grins down at you, eyes sparkling. “i’m sorry, that was—really something.”
“he’s an idiot,” you mutter, still mortified.
“he’s your idiot,” he says, voice softer now.
you glance up at him and smile, something warm spreading in your chest. it surprises you, just how much that smile feels like home.
and even after the chaos settles, even after your mom manages to drag your brother back by the collar to apologize properly, even when you sit around the table laughing and eating and telling stories—there’s a small, secret current running beneath it all.
the way yeonjun’s hand grazes your lower back when he leans past you to grab a dish. the way you lean into him just slightly when your mom starts talking about your childhood, and he listens like he wants to know everything.
and when the night ends, and you both return to your apartment, it’s quieter—but it’s a good quiet. that kind of peace you only feel when someone’s truly, finally getting under your skin.
the drive back home is quiet, but not in a bad way. it’s the kind of silence that lingers after too much laughter, after too much emotion crammed into too little time. the windows are fogged slightly from your breaths, and the hum of the road is the only sound between you. outside, the city lights blur in soft halos, the streets wet from the rain earlier in the day, reflecting neon and moonlight.
you’re leaning against the car door, eyes heavy, body full from dinner, from memories, from everything. your family had insisted you stay the night, but you knew it would’ve made leaving harder. too emotional. too permanent. so you thanked them, smiled through the tightness in your throat, and left.
and now, here you are, beside him. yeonjun’s one hand is on the wheel, the other resting between the seats, fingers tapping idly against the console. you glance at it once. then again. his profile is calm, a faint curve to his lips like he’s still smiling at your brother’s chaos.
you break the silence first.
“sorry about today… my family can be a lot.”
he lets out a soft chuckle. “i liked it.”
you turn to him, a little surprised.
“really?”
he nods. “they’re… warm. chaotic, yeah, but it felt real. like they love you so much they don’t even try to hide it.”
you press your lips together, looking down at your lap, suddenly blinking back something stinging in your eyes. you weren’t expecting that answer. or maybe you were, but not the way it made your chest ache so gently.
“thanks,” you whisper.
you don’t realize you’re still staring at him until he speaks again, this time softer.
“and your brother…” he smirks a little. “i can’t believe he said that.”
you groan, hiding your face in your hands. “please don’t remind me.”
“i’m serious,” he laughs, and then looks over at you, his gaze lingering longer this time, “you were so red.”
“because it was embarrassing,” you shoot back, but your voice is lighter, warm with the trace of a smile.
his eyes flick down to your lips.
“you’re cute when you blush,” he murmurs, and it’s so quiet you’re not even sure he meant to say it out loud.
your breath catches. your heart stutters. suddenly the space between you feels smaller. the console is no longer an arm’s length—it’s a breath. the air is thicker. hotter.
you look at him, really look at him—his jaw sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps, the tendons in his neck tense, his grip on the wheel a little tighter now. he looks back, just briefly, but it’s enough. something electric pulses between you.
and then he pulls over.
not far from your building, not quite home yet—but enough to be alone. enough to pause. the engine hums low, a steady heartbeat in the silence. he doesn’t look at you right away, just stares forward, fingers tightening, loosening, tightening again on the wheel.
you feel your pulse in your throat.
“i…” he starts, then stops. he turns to you, eyes darker than before. clearer. “can i ask you something?”
you nod, heart racing.
“why did it bother you?” he asks quietly. “about the girl i told you about.”
you stare at him. that familiar heat returns to your chest, crawling up your neck. you bite the inside of your cheek before answering.
“i don’t know,” you lie at first. but then, you sigh. “maybe because it was real for you. maybe because… you had someone you wanted, once. and i never did. and now i’m supposed to just… live with that. pretend like i’m not wondering if she would’ve made you happier.”
he watches you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then, finally, he leans a little closer, voice low.
“do you think i’m not happy?”
your throat dries.
“are you?” you whisper.
he exhales slowly, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s about to do this. and then he shifts, fully turning toward you. his fingers reach up, brushing lightly against your chin, lifting your face to his.
“you’re not her,” he says. “you’re you.”
and then, without waiting, without asking again—he kisses you.
it’s not urgent. not rough. it’s slow, deliberate, tender with something sharp hidden beneath. like he’s been holding it back for too long and now that it’s happening, he’s pouring everything into it. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. your lips part before you even realize, and his tongue grazes yours, soft, testing, like he’s still asking if this is okay even now.
you melt into it.
your hand slides up his arm, gripping his bicep, grounding yourself as heat spreads through your veins. your bodies don’t move much, still confined by seatbelts and space, but it’s intimate. intense. and when he finally pulls back, breathing harder than before, he rests his forehead against yours.
“you’re not her,” he whispers again. “and thank god for that.”
you sit there, breaths mingling, skin flushed, hearts racing in tandem. your hand is still on his arm. his thumb is still tracing your cheek.
and this time, neither of you says a word. because you both know—something just changed again.
you’re not lovers. not yet.
but your hands brush again on the way to bed. he holds your gaze a little longer. and when you lie down, back to back, you find yourself pressing closer, just enough that your spine feels the heat of his chest.
you fall asleep like that.
and neither of you says a word.
you both had an appointment early in the morning. the ministry of civil labor had sent a formal notice last week, listing the available part-time positions for couples still enrolled in university, and now you were seated across from an administrative worker who barely looked up from her screen as she explained the contracts. yeonjun was placed in a logistics department for a government-run supply chain—something with inventory and system inputs. you were assigned to a small local archival center where they'd digitize old birth and marriage records, which felt ironic in a way that made your stomach twist.
“you’ll receive your first schedule by the end of the week,” the woman said without emotion, and you both nodded, signing at the bottom of the page, pens scratching the paper in tandem.
walking out of the building, yeonjun nudged your shoulder with his and whispered, “look at us. signing contracts like a real married couple.” and you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips.
“you mean we weren’t real before?” you asked, raising a brow.
he smirked, unlocking the car and opening your door. “we were married on paper. now we’re married... and employed.”
you both laughed, climbing into the vehicle, and the warmth lingered even after the engine hummed to life. it was a quiet kind of happiness, soft and simple, like the feeling of your bare thighs against the leather seat, like the sun warming the dashboard. you wore a dress that day—casual, nothing too fancy, but it clung lightly to your frame in the breeze when you walked out earlier, and you caught the way yeonjun had looked at you from the corner of your eye. not blatant. just... noticing.
the road was mostly empty. the hum of tires on pavement filled the silence as the laughter faded, replaced by something thicker. something weightier.
at a red light, he stopped the car smoothly, one hand still on the steering wheel. the other lifted, slowly, casually, and without looking at you, he placed it on your thigh.
he didn’t squeeze. he didn’t slide his fingers higher. just let his palm rest there, warm and firm, like it belonged.
your breath hitched.
you tried not to move, tried not to tense up, but the sensation crawled up your spine like wildfire. it was such a simple touch, so ordinary, but it landed somewhere deep in your belly—hot, twisting, coiling. your skin tingled where his fingers barely pressed into the flesh, and your thighs felt suddenly, achingly aware of how little separated them from him.
he said nothing.
neither did you.
but your body betrayed you—the way your chest rose a little faster, the way your knees shifted slightly, as if trying to find an answer to the question that touch had asked.
the light turned green.
he drove on.
his hand didn’t move.
the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was charged. heavy with something that neither of you dared name yet.
you exhaled, slow and shaky, and he glanced at you briefly, lips curving—not into a smirk, but something softer. something fond. he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc, barely there, and your fingers curled around the hem of your dress to keep from shaking.
by the time you got home, the tension had woven itself into your skin like a second layer. you both stepped out of the car and walked toward the apartment quietly, but the air buzzed with every step.
inside, the routine resumed—shoes off, bags down, water poured into glasses—but your thoughts were nowhere near the surface. every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence more than you saw him. every brush of his hand, every graze of his arm felt like a firestarter.
you stood near the sink, rinsing the cups, when he came up behind you. didn’t touch you. just stood close enough that you felt the heat of his chest on your back, close enough that your breathing stuttered.
“need help?” he murmured, voice low, mouth near your ear.
you shook your head, but your body leaned slightly into him anyway. traitorously.
his hands didn’t move—not yet—but his presence surrounded you, a quiet pressure that built with every second. you turned your head slightly to glance at him, and the proximity was enough to make you both pause. your lips weren’t touching, but they could’ve. your noses almost brushed.
and then he reached for the cup beside you, taking it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing yours. your breath caught again.
“thanks,” he said, voice still low.
you watched him walk away, your hands trembling under the water, and you knew—tonight, you wouldn’t be able to pretend this tension didn’t exist. it was burning its way into your bones.
that night, everything felt like it was humming. the silence between you wasn’t really silence—it was full of what hadn’t been said, of what hadn’t been done but nearly was. the ghost of yeonjun’s hand on your thigh still lingered, burned into your skin. your legs still tingled from the pressure, the weight, the heat. and when he brushed past you in the kitchen again after dinner, it felt deliberate. or maybe you just wanted it to be.
your heart hadn’t settled since the drive home.
later, after you’d both changed into your sleep clothes, you met again in the hallway, the light above you casting a golden hue that made his skin look warm and soft. you paused at the same time, eyes locking. your breath caught in your throat, because he wasn’t just looking at you—he was seeing you. seeing the hem of your shirt, the way it clung slightly to your waist. seeing the bare stretch of your legs, your collarbone, the fine line of your neck.
you thought he’d say something.
he didn’t.
he just stepped past you, heading to the shared living room like usual. the storm from earlier had passed, leaving a cool breeze in its wake. you followed, drawn to him like always. you both sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath you, shoulders close but not quite touching. it was dark. the power had gone out temporarily again, only the soft blue emergency lights casting faint shadows across his face.
“you’re quiet,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
“just thinking,” he replied, his tone low, almost distant.
you turned your head toward him. “about what?”
he hesitated. “about earlier... the car. and how it felt.”
you sucked in a soft breath. “me too.”
silence again.
and then, slowly, as if guided by instinct, he reached over and touched your hand. fingers brushing the back of yours. the contact was small. barely anything. but it was enough to pull the air from your lungs. you turned your palm and laced your fingers with his.
it felt dangerous.
he looked at your joined hands like he didn’t recognize his own, and then back at you—his eyes darker than usual, hooded, like he was holding back a tide. you weren’t sure who moved first. maybe it was him. maybe it was you. but one second you were sitting apart, and the next your bodies were angled toward each other, your knees brushing, your breaths tangled. his hand cupped your jaw gently, fingers trembling against your skin, and he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly grazed yours.
your pulse roared in your ears.
his mouth touched yours like a whisper—featherlight, testing.
you responded before you could think, lips parting for him, heat blooming low in your stomach like wildfire. the kiss deepened slowly, wet and slow and dizzying. his tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then more certain, like he needed to taste you, like he was starved. your hand curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth, deep and breathless.
his hand slid down your side, fingers skating over the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, and you gasped when they reached your hip. he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling him, bodies pressed together too close to ignore. the heat between you crackled—your hips shifted without thinking, and you felt the hardness of him, solid and hot beneath you.
his lips broke from yours for a second, his breathing rough. “fuck... y/n...”
his hands gripped your thighs, sliding up, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. you whimpered, pressing closer, grinding down gently. it was heady. dizzying. perfect.
and then—
his phone rang.
the sound shattered the moment like glass.
you both froze.
you were on his lap, panting, trembling, your lips swollen from the kiss, your heart pounding like a war drum. he didn’t move for a second. then he cursed under his breath and gently lifted you off him, muttering a strained apology as he reached for the phone. his voice cracked when he answered, trying to sound normal.
you stood there, stunned, breathing hard, still tasting him on your tongue.
after the call, which only lasted a few seconds, he didn’t look at you.
“i think... i’ll sleep in my room tonight,” he said quietly.
you blinked. “oh.”
he didn’t explain.
he just walked away.
and something cold settled in your chest.
you crawled into your bed alone, wrapping the blanket around yourself tightly, but you couldn’t sleep. not when you still felt the ghost of his hands on your body. not when your lips were still tingling from the kiss. not when he had looked at you like he needed you, and then walked away without a word.
you turned over. again. again. and again. your heart ached with confusion. was it too much? did he regret it? had you done something wrong?
you couldn’t take it anymore.
you got up, padded down the hall to his room, and raised your fist to knock.
but then you froze.
because you heard it.
soft, muffled sounds, irregular breathing. your eyes widened.
a low groan, deep and drawn out.
then a quiet, wet sound—rhythmic, unmistakable.
your breath caught.
you didn’t mean to listen. but you couldn’t move.
then, you heard it.
“y/n...”
your name, moaned out—quiet but desperate. raw. like a confession.
your knees weakened.
another moan, louder this time, almost a whimper.
and then—your name again, breathless, almost broken, followed by the sound of skin slapping softly against skin, faster now.
he was close.
he was touching himself.
thinking of you.
you pressed your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a sound, cheeks burning, body trembling. you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t hear this. but your legs wouldn’t move. your breath came in shaky gasps, your heart thundering as heat rushed between your thighs, pooling heavy and hot.
you didn’t know what this meant.
but you knew one thing.
he wanted you.
and now, you didn’t think you could ever look at him the same again.
you didn’t mean to lean closer.
you didn’t mean to press your ear too tightly against the door.
but your balance faltered—just a second too long standing on your toes, your weight shifting, your breath too shallow—and suddenly your foot slipped on the edge of the smooth hallway floor. a soft, startled sound escaped your throat as your body tilted sideways, your hand fumbling for the wall, failing.
and then—thud.
a soft crash, your hip hitting the floor, your palms slapping down just in time to soften the fall. you gasped and quickly clamped your hand over your mouth, praying he hadn’t heard, that you hadn’t been loud enough—but inside, panic bloomed like fire. your chest heaved as you tried to stay perfectly still, your cheeks on fire, the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—riding high around your waist from the fall.
then you heard the shuffle. footsteps. hurried. a sudden rush from the other side.
“y/n?” his voice was sharp. worried. confused.
before you could react, the door swung open.
and there he was.
yeonjun.
bare-chested, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his hair disheveled, lips swollen and flushed, his hand still adjusting the waistband of his boxers as if he hadn’t had time to fix himself. and then he saw you.
on the floor.
his shirt up around your waist.
your bare thighs. your panties exposed.
your hand covering your mouth, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
time froze.
he stared at you, blinking once, then again. his mouth parted, but no words came out. his gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—but you saw it. the flicker. the hunger. the tension that snapped into existence like a spark to gasoline.
you scrambled to tug the shirt down, cheeks burning, breath caught.
“i—i slipped, i wasn’t—i mean—”
“were you listening?” his voice came out low. rough.
you opened your mouth, then shut it. your throat tightened. your heart was pounding so violently you felt it behind your eyes.
“y/n…” he whispered, stepping closer.
your breath hitched.
“i heard you,” he said, his voice strained now. “outside the door. you… you heard me too, didn’t you?”
you nodded slowly, like it was all you could manage.
he knelt beside you without thinking, his hands hovering for a moment before one slid to the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin gently, eyes searching yours. “you heard me… say your name.”
you couldn’t speak.
“fuck,” he whispered. “i didn’t mean for you to know. i tried to walk away because i couldn’t control it. i thought... if i gave us space—”
“why?” your voice cracked. “why did you walk away after kissing me like that?”
his jaw clenched. “because i wanted more. i wanted too much.”
your lips trembled. “me too.”
something inside him snapped.
he surged forward, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that was no longer restrained. this wasn’t careful. this wasn’t gentle. this was weeks of stolen glances and soft touches and building need exploding all at once. his mouth was hot, possessive, his hand slipping to your thigh, then gripping, pulling you into him as you moaned against his lips.
you tasted everything—desperation, desire, the salt on his skin from sweat, the sound of his breath ragged and wild. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his bare shoulders as he leaned you back slowly onto the hallway floor, his body covering yours, fitting against you perfectly. your thighs opened for him without thought, welcoming the pressure of his hips between them, the hardness of him pressing directly against the wet heat soaking your panties.
“fuck, y/n,” he groaned against your mouth, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
his hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—the one you wore to sleep every night, the one that smelled like him. his palm caressed your waist, your ribs, then cupped your breast softly over the fabric of your bra, his thumb teasing the sensitive peak until you whimpered, arching up into him.
“you shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, but didn’t stop. “i’m trying so hard to do this right. to be careful.”
“then don’t,” you whispered back, your voice broken, needful. “don’t be careful.”
his eyes burned into yours.
his lips kissed down your jaw, your neck, biting softly at the tender skin just below your ear. “you’re gonna make me lose it,” he growled.
“maybe i want you to.”
his hand slipped lower, over your stomach, fingers grazing the band of your panties—when suddenly—
a sharp knock on the front door shattered the moment.
you both froze.
his chest rose and fell against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
another knock. then a voice from outside.
“government delivery. lights restored. system check.”
“fuck,” he hissed.
he helped you sit up, both of you breathing like you’d just run miles.
you looked at each other.
your lips swollen. your skin flushed. your bodies aching.
you wanted to scream.
but instead you swallowed it down, tugged the shirt over your thighs, stood on shaky legs. he followed you in silence, running a hand through his messy hair, still visibly hard, still clearly affected.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered.
you didn’t respond.
because you weren’t sure you wanted him to be.
you weren’t sure what you expected when you whispered, maybe i want you to. maybe you thought he would pull away, maybe he’d laugh and tell you to go to bed, that you were just talking nonsense, caught up in the tension of it all. but he didn’t. instead, the room stayed still, save for the thrum of the rain against the windows and the sound of his breathing, which was slow, deep, heavier now, as he looked down at you with something dark and burning in his eyes.
his voice was low, but not soft. "do you know what you're saying?" he asked, barely above a whisper. you nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you could feel his body, warm and solid, pressed against yours as he leaned in again, and this time the kiss wasn’t tentative. it was hungry, deeper, drawn out, and you could taste the restraint in him, the way he held himself back even as his hand gripped your waist tighter.
you barely noticed how he guided you back onto the mattress until your head hit the pillow. your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, the same one you'd stolen from him to sleep in, and now it was twisted between your hands as he kissed you again and again, lips trailing down the line of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, your pulse fluttering under his mouth.
every touch was slow, deliberate. when his hands slid under the hem of the shirt you wore, it wasn’t rushed—it was reverent. he looked at you like you were something sacred, something he’d been aching for, something forbidden and now finally his. his fingers traced the line of your hip, the soft skin just beneath your navel, pausing just above the waistband of your panties. you shivered beneath him, your body responding before your mind could catch up.
"tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. you shook your head immediately, a breathy no escaping your lips before you could second guess it. and something in him broke. or maybe it snapped into place. he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands roaming, learning the shape of you, the softness of your thighs, the arch of your back as you gasped under his touch.
he took his time. he whispered how beautiful you were, how long he had wanted you like this, how the thought of you in his bed had driven him insane since that first night the storm pushed you into his arms. every kiss lower was met with a pause, a glance, asking, confirming, cherishing. his hands didn’t fumble; they explored, gentle and firm, his mouth hot against your skin.
you had never felt like this before. it was more than arousal—it was a kind of unraveling, a melting of all the fear and restraint you had carried for so long. the rules, the systems, the cold logic of the world outside—none of it existed here. here, in his arms, you were just a girl wanting a boy. no laws. no assignments. no duties.
just him. just you.
and when he finally touched you, really touched you, the moan that escaped you was soft, stunned, your fingers digging into his shoulder as he kissed the side of your neck. you were wet, aching, needy in a way you hadn’t even known your body could feel, and yeonjun seemed to know exactly how to handle you—teasing, stroking, whispering your name like it was a prayer.
his own self-control was fraying at the edges. you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his voice broke when he groaned your name against your collarbone, the way his hips rocked against your thigh without even realizing it.
"you make me crazy," he whispered, biting gently at your shoulder. "since that kiss. since that first night. fuck—i think about you all the time. you wearing my shirt, you laughing in the kitchen, you sleeping next to me—"
"yeonjun," you gasped, your back arching as his fingers slid beneath your panties, finally, finally touching you where you needed him most. he cursed under his breath, kissing you again as your legs parted naturally for him.
he kept you on the edge, slow, patient, as if he was memorizing every sound you made, every breath you took. he didn’t rush to have you—not yet. this was still the prelude, the first taste, the careful unraveling. but you were close. too close.
and then.
he leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear, his voice hoarse. "can i make love to you?"
you nodded, heart pounding. "yes. please."
every movement after that was reverent, every sigh swallowed into a kiss, every tremble in your limbs steadied by his hands. he helped you out of your panties, gently, and shed his own clothes with a kind of urgency that was quiet, controlled, but full of need. when he settled between your legs, he paused, eyes meeting yours with a question so full of tenderness it made your chest ache.
his hand wrapped around himself, and your breath caught in your throat. he was thick, long—too much. your eyes widened without meaning to, and he noticed, chuckling softly as he kissed the corner of your mouth.
“it’s okay,” he whispered, but your voice came out shaky when you murmured. “it won’t fit…” he hushed you gently, his palm stroking down your thigh.
“we’ll go slow,” he promised, though the way his jaw clenched told you even he was struggling to hold back.
the stretch was new, unfamiliar, but he moved slowly, letting you adjust, kissing you through the discomfort, murmuring praises against your lips. he held you like you were fragile, like the world would stop spinning if he hurt you, and when you finally relaxed around him, he moved with a rhythm that spoke of restraint and reverence, yet underneath it burned a fire he could barely contain.
it was gentle, yes, but not shy. it was soft, but not without heat. the way he groaned when your nails scraped down his back, the way he whispered your name like it anchored him—it was everything. his hands never stopped touching you, his mouth never far from yours, and the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the center of the universe.
the pace picked up only slightly, but the angle shifted when he gently maneuvered your body, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before whispering, “turn around for me, baby.” your heart skipped as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach, your cheek resting against his pillow, flushed and dazed, breath hot against the fabric. he settled behind you, large hands caressing the curve of your hips, his voice low and rough against your ear. “you look so good like this… fuck, i could lose my mind.”
you felt him guide himself back in, slower this time, deeper, and the gasp that left you was nothing short of a whimper, your back arching instinctively. the new position had him hitting that spot—the spot—with a precision that made your eyes roll back, your mouth dropping open against the pillow. “yeonjun—oh my god—” you choked, voice muffled, and he groaned above you, one hand gripping your waist as the other gently turned your face just enough so he could kiss your parted lips. “look at you,” he breathed, panting, watching your blissed-out expression with dark, desperate eyes. “you feel so fucking good—so tight around me… you were made for me, weren’t you?”
your voice came out broken, shaking. “it feels s-so good… i can’t—yeonjun, i—” but you didn’t need to finish. he could feel it. your body clenching around him with every slow, deep thrust. he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, skin to skin, and whispered filth in your ear in between kisses down your spine. “such a good girl,” he rasped, “taking me so well… fuck, i’m close. i can’t—i need to pull out…”
you nodded weakly, barely able to breathe, trembling as he gave one more thrust, then another—and with a strangled moan of your name, he pulled out and spilled his release onto the dip of your lower back, hot and heavy against your skin, dripping down to your ass. he groaned, his forehead against your shoulder, panting hard as he tried to come down from the high. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice ragged. “so fucking perfect.”
when he collapsed beside you, he didn’t pull away. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, both of you still catching your breath. the rain still tapped gently against the windows, the room now full of the scent of sweat and skin, of something new, something sacred.
"i’ve wanted you for so long," he murmured against your hair.
"i know," you whispered back, curling into him.
and for once, you didn’t feel cold. you didn’t feel alone. you didn’t feel like someone forced into something by a cruel system. you felt wanted. chosen.
his.
yours.
the morning came too quickly, the sun bleeding gently through the curtains, casting a golden warmth across the tangled sheets. your body still ached in the most delicious ways, and your skin was marked with soft reminders of his mouth, his hands, the way he held you like you were breakable and wanted all at once. you hadn’t said much when you woke. yeonjun had only kissed your forehead, helped you get dressed, and now you were sitting in the waiting room of the ministry’s planning clinic, the air sterile and overly bright.
the doctor, a warm-looking woman with gentle eyes and an enthusiastic tone, greeted you both like old friends. “ah! newlyweds,” she smiled, scanning her clipboard. “i see you’ve finally started your sexual life together. that’s wonderful news!”
your cheeks flamed immediately, and beside you, yeonjun coughed, suddenly fascinated by a poster about prenatal vitamins on the wall. “uh, yeah,” you mumbled, barely able to meet her gaze.
“good, good,” she said brightly, motioning for you to follow her behind a curtain for a quick checkup. “we need to make sure everything’s healthy and progressing normally. it’s still early, but we want to optimize for fertility, yes?”
you nodded, letting her guide you onto the examination table. her hands were professional, but the whole thing still made your stomach twist. you were sore—still a little tender—and she noticed, humming under her breath.
“you’re fine,” she reassured you, adjusting her gloves. “some sensitivity is natural after a first experience. but you’re healthy, everything looks good.” she smiled. “do you track your cycle, darling?”
you nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “yes… i keep a calendar.”
“perfect. when was your last period?”
you told her, and she did some quick math on her tablet before her smile brightened. “then your most fertile window should be starting in about four days. if you’re trying to conceive—and you should be, of course—it’s best to be active every other day during that period. that increases the chances significantly.”
you wanted to sink into the floor. “o-oh.”
“don’t be shy. this is natural.” she patted your knee, then stood. “you’re young and healthy. your compatibility score is ideal. You just need to be consistent now. and relaxed. it should be something enjoyable.”
you weren’t sure what your face looked like when you stepped out, but yeonjun blinked and stood instantly. the doctor gave him a little wink and whispered something about keeping the environment fun, and you could practically feel the tension coil between your ribs as you exited the building together.
the ride home was quiet for a while. the hum of the engine, the soft buzz of traffic, the way your thighs were pressed together beneath your dress. he tapped the wheel with his fingers, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye.
finally, you exhaled. “she said i’m entering my fertile window soon.”
his hands stilled on the steering wheel.
“in four days,” you added, your voice too high, too soft.
“oh.”
another silence.
“and she said we should—uh—every other day. during that window. for higher chances.”
“right.” he adjusted his grip again. “makes sense.”
but neither of you looked at each other. because the thing was, last night hadn’t felt like a scheduled duty. it hadn’t felt like a requirement, or a step in a plan designed by the state. it had felt messy, desperate, slow, sweet, and hungry. it had felt human.
and now the idea of doing it again, like you were just checking off boxes on a clinical list, felt… weird.
“does it feel weird?” you blurted, staring out the window.
yeonjun looked at you, startled. “what?”
“this. talking about it. like it’s a chore or something. when last night—” you trailed off, cheeks heating.
he nodded slowly. “it feels weird because it wasn’t just about the system. it was… about us.” his voice was quiet, unsure, but honest.
you twisted your fingers in your lap, the weight of his words settling between your thighs like the lingering ache from last night. you didn’t know how to act now—how to go from that kind of vulnerability to pretending you were just following instructions.
“i want to do it again,” you admitted, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. “but not because of the calendar. because… i liked how it felt. with you.”
his knuckles tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he looked at you again. something in his eyes flickered—warm, molten, restrained. “good,” he said roughly. “because i haven’t stopped thinking about it since i woke up.”
your breath caught.
the red light ahead turned green, but neither of you were breathing normally anymore.
this wasn’t just about reproduction.
not anymore.
and neither of you knew how to navigate that yet—but the thought of exploring it again?
set your blood on fire.
you didn’t even make it past the front door.
as soon as it clicked shut behind you, he turned to you like something had snapped loose inside him—like the silence in the car, the weight of what had been said at the clinic, the image of you squirming in your seat all flushed and embarrassed, had pushed him past the edge. his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in with a force that made your breath stutter, his lips crashing into yours with none of the hesitation from the night before. it was need—pure, undiluted need—and you melted into it like you’d been waiting all day.
your back hit the wall, your fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his abs while he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. his hands found your thighs, lifted you slightly, pressing your hips together in a rhythm already too hungry for the softness of conversation.
you moaned into his mouth, and that was it—he growled low in his throat, carrying you the few messy steps to the living room, collapsing with you onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and breathless gasps. you straddled him instinctively, the dress you wore bunching at your hips, and the way you ground down against him made him curse under his breath, hands tightening on your waist.
"fuck, baby, you're driving me insane," he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging the straps of your dress off your shoulders as his thumbs traced soft, dizzying circles into your skin.
"then do something about it," you whispered, breathless, rocking your hips again just to feel him buck up into you, so hard already it made your mouth go dry.
he didn't need more encouragement.
he kissed down your chest, taking his time, pulling down the top of your dress to reveal more skin, his mouth hot and greedy as he licked and sucked at your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipple until you were gasping his name. his fingers pushed the fabric higher, baring your panties and the damp patch growing darker by the second, and he groaned, burying his face between your thighs like he needed to taste you just to stay sane.
you cried out, your hands tangled in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue worked slow, devastating circles against your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with the edge of release only to pull away. “so wet for me already,” he whispered, voice thick, lips glistening. “you’ve been thinking about this since the car, haven’t you?”
you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewarded you by sucking harder, his fingers slipping inside to stretch you just right, his other hand holding your hips down while you rode the edge again and again until you whimpered, begging, thighs trembling.
“please, yeonjun… i need you, now.”
he didn’t make you ask twice.
he pulled you onto his lap again, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips. and then he stood, shifting you onto the couch, turning your body gently, hands guiding your knees onto the cushions, your chest pressed to the armrest, your ass up for him—offered, exposed, throbbing.
"you’re so fucking perfect like this," he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other gripping your hip as he positioned himself behind you, dragging the tip of his cock along your slit, teasing, wet and hot.
you whimpered, pushing back slightly, and when he slid in, inch by inch, you gasped—eyes rolling back, the stretch sharp and addictive all over again.
“fuck, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, sinking in all the way until your ass met his hips. “you’re gonna ruin me.”
he started to move slowly, the position letting him hit deeper, every thrust punching little moans from your lips. the slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, his hands gripping your waist, your thighs, your hair. and still, he kissed your spine, leaned over you, whispered filth against your neck.
“you like this, baby? you like being fucked like this?”
“yes—yes, fuck, yeonjun—it feels so good—”
he reached around, rubbed slow circles against your clit as he fucked into you deeper, faster, making you cry out into the pillow, your body arching under him, thighs shaking again.
"let me see your face," he panted, one hand turning your head slightly so he could kiss you, so he could see your expression—your flushed cheeks, your lips parted, eyes unfocused.
“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled. “you’re gonna make me come just looking at you.”
you felt it building again, heat coiling low in your belly, your body tightening, trembling, your moans turning desperate as he kept you right on the edge, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over.
“yeonjun—i’m gonna—”
“me too—fuck—i need to pull out—”
but you reached back, grabbing his hand, voice shaking. “don’t. please. come inside.”
he choked on a moan, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling into you with a groan so deep it made your toes curl, holding you tight as he filled you completely, shaking from the force of it. your own climax hit just seconds later, white-hot and blinding, and you collapsed onto the couch, boneless, his body draped over yours, both of you gasping for air.
his come dripped slowly down your thighs, warmth spreading between them, and he didn’t move—just pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your back, your spine, whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.
neither of you said anything for a long time.
but you both knew.
there was no going back.
the following days slipped into a blur of aching need and restless nights. you both tried to keep the doctor’s advice in mind, to space out your moments, to give your bodies time to recover, but desire doesn’t listen to calendars or rules. every morning, before you left for university, you found yourselves tangled together, breathless and desperate, fingers tracing familiar curves as if memorizing every inch again and again. afternoons after classes weren’t any different; the moment you closed the door behind you, yeonjun’s hands were already on your waist, pulling you close, his lips claiming yours with the same fierce hunger that never dulled.
the days were a patchwork of stolen touches and whispered promises, of quick, heated moments before rushing to your part-time jobs—him with the university’s cultural center, tutoring students in language and literature, and you at a small café nearby, pouring coffee and smiling through the haze of exhaustion and longing. you came home exhausted but your body still hummed with anticipation, the ache of missing him settling low and deep, urging you back into his arms. your skin grew sensitive, your senses sharper; even the smallest brush of fingers sparked a fire beneath your skin.
and every time he pulled you close, you let him come inside you—every time—forgetting the cautious rhythm the doctor had suggested, letting your bodies rewrite the rules in the heat of the moment. the cool logic of planning was swallowed whole by your hunger, your need to be closer, to feel him deeper, to lose yourselves entirely in the mess and sweetness of this forbidden, stolen intimacy.
sometimes you’d catch yourself wondering if the doctor would be surprised—or scandalized—to know how little control you really had, how much your hearts raced and how your bodies begged for more. but in those moments, all that mattered was yeonjun’s warm breath against your neck, the way his hands shaped you like a secret only he was meant to know, and the way your own voice trembled when you whispered his name.
it was messy, it was frantic, but it was yours. and for the first time since everything began, it felt like freedom.
you were wiping down the counter when one of your coworkers, a woman named hana, leaned over with a gentle smile. she was older than you, maybe 35, and had a quiet confidence about her that made people listen. she lowered her voice just a little, as if sharing a secret.
“you know, i was assigned a husband too. i thought it would be awful, honestly. i was scared. but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. at first, i wasn’t sure if i could love him, or if he even cared. but slowly, i saw who he really was. and now, i’m so happy. we have two kids, and we’re thinking about a third. it’s scary, getting older, but i go to family planning a lot, trying to make sure it’s possible. the government even recognized me for wanting to keep repopulating. it’s strange, isn’t it? how these arrangements can lead to something real.”
you nodded, the thought settling deep inside your chest. could yeonjun and you be like that someday? sure, you cared for him. he was your husband, your partner in this harsh world. you pictured mornings waking up next to him, the soft light catching his face, the two of you building a life, maybe even raising children together. but love — real love? you had never felt it before, not like this. the feeling was foreign, like a story you’d read but never lived. still, yeonjun was everything to you, and that was enough for now.
later that day, when your shift ended, yeonjun was waiting by the door like always, leaning casually against his car. you slipped inside and immediately started talking about your day, the small victories, the tiring moments. he listened, eyes bright, then shared his own stories, laughter in his voice. the rhythm of your lives syncing quietly, comfortably.
and then, on a quiet street, just as the light ahead turned red, you suddenly blurted out, “do you love me?”
the car jerked slightly as yeonjun slammed on the brakes, both of you moving forward with the momentum. the question hung between you, heavy and unexpected.
he was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and you could almost see the weight of the thought pressing on him. love was a strange word, loaded with promises and fears. but then his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, steady and sure.
“i do,” he said slowly, voice low but certain. “maybe not like the stories you hear — wild and all-consuming — but i love you. from the moment i saw you, from that first kiss in the storm, from every day since. every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment. it’s real. and it will only grow.”
your heart fluttered in a way that was both new and familiar, and when the light turned green, he eased forward, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter.
back at the apartment, the world outside disappeared as yeonjun pulled you close. the night was gentle but full of fire, his hands exploring with a tenderness that spoke of trust and deep desire. lips brushed your skin with reverence, soft whispers mingling with quiet moans. you traced the curve of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. every touch was a promise, every kiss a new discovery.
he took his time, patient and caring, making sure you felt cherished, safe. the moments stretched between you, slow and delicious, as if the world had paused just for this — for the two of you, tangled in sheets and warmth, sharing something sacred.
and as you finally melted into him, the love he had spoken of filled the space between your bodies, unspoken but undeniable.
“congratulations,” the doctor said, her voice warm, glowing even, as if she had just handed you the entire sky. “you’re pregnant.”
the world stilled.
you blinked, lips parting, heartbeat stuttering in your chest. yeonjun, who had just stepped inside the room after waiting anxiously outside, froze beside you. his eyes darted from your stunned face to the doctor and back again, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard correctly.
“what?” you breathed, voice barely there.
the doctor smiled, gentle and knowing, like this was her favorite kind of moment to deliver. “you’re about six weeks along. everything looks good so far. the symptoms you’ve been experiencing — the nausea, the cravings, the mood swings — they all point to a healthy early pregnancy. we’ll begin prenatal care from today.”
you felt yeonjun’s fingers slip into yours, holding tight, like he needed to anchor himself. like you were both floating. he didn’t say anything right away — his throat worked around words he couldn’t seem to find — but his hand trembled slightly in yours.
the tears came slowly, not from fear or sadness, but from something else entirely. wonder. disbelief. awe.
a baby.
your baby.
with him.
“i…” you started, then shook your head with a small, breathless laugh. “i thought it was just stress. i didn’t want to hope.”
“and yet, here we are,” the doctor said kindly. “your next steps will be regular checkups, nutrition monitoring, and continued intimacy when you feel comfortable. you’re doing great already.”
you could hardly focus after that — her voice faded to a background hum as your eyes lifted to meet yeonjun’s. he was already looking at you, completely undone. his gaze was soft, watery, reverent. like you were something holy.
he squeezed your hand. “we’re going to be parents,” he whispered, like saying it out loud would make it real.
and it did.
you nodded, blinking away fresh tears. “we’re going to be a family.”
the drive home was quiet, but not empty. yeonjun kept stealing glances at you at every stoplight, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like he couldn’t believe the little life beginning inside you was real. his hand never left yours on the console between you, thumb tracing absent-minded circles over your knuckles.
when you stepped into the apartment, he didn’t let go. he guided you gently to the couch, like you might break if he wasn’t careful. and then he was kneeling in front of you, both hands now on your stomach, even though there was nothing visible yet — just warmth. just possibility.
“thank you,” he whispered. “for this. for you. for everything.”
you touched his hair, carding your fingers through the soft strands, heart swelling. “i didn’t do this alone, junnie.”
he leaned forward, lips brushing your still-flat belly, and then rested his forehead there, breathing slow and deep. “i’m gonna do everything i can to be good to you. to them. we didn’t choose this world, but i’ll choose you every day in it.”
you’d never felt more seen. more loved.
later that night, he held you closer than ever in bed, your back to his chest, one hand cradling your stomach, the other tangled with yours. the rain tapped gently against the window again, just like it had the night everything between you shifted.
and now it had shifted again.
you weren’t just husband and wife anymore.
you were parents.
you were a beginning.
and wrapped in his arms, with his heartbeat pressed against your spine, you let yourself dream — not of what the government wanted, not of duty or numbers, but of soft mornings and tiny fingers, of lullabies and laughter echoing through the walls.
of a future you hadn’t dared imagine.
but now, it was here.
growing inside you.
growing between you.
and it was love.
the apartment smelled of cake and laughter. pink balloons were tied to every chair, streamers hung slightly lopsided from the ceiling, and tiny frosting handprints decorated the corners of the tablecloth. your baby girl — chaeyeon — had turned one.
she was currently asleep in your arms, a little drool soaking into your blouse, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. you'd never seen her smile so much in one day, or so determined to wobble around on her chubby legs while everyone clapped for her.
your parents had cried. yeonjun’s mother had brought enough food to feed an entire village. your brother had looked absolutely horrified when asked to hold chaeyeon and had instead stood frozen like she was made of glass. yeonjun’s older brothers had been more relaxed — juggling their own kids, swapping parenting tips with you and yeonjun, their wives giggling over how much yeonjun had softened in just a year.
it was a blur of love. of family. of a happiness you never expected from a life that had once felt forced upon you.
now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
when the door closed behind the last guest, you let out a long breath and leaned against it. yeonjun was on his knees collecting bits of wrapping paper and cupcake crumbs, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a bit messy from carrying hana all afternoon.
“i think i have frosting in places i didn’t know were possible,” he muttered.
you giggled and padded over, gently placing a hand on his head. “she’s finally asleep. like… deep asleep. miracle of miracles.”
he looked up at you and smiled, slow and soft. “we survived our first birthday party.”
“barely.”
you both laughed, exhausted but giddy, and after tidying up the last of the chaos, you shuffled into your shared bedroom — the one that now held a rocking chair, a baby monitor, and the scent of lavender oil and baby lotion.
you sat on the bed, back against the headboard, and looked at yeonjun as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. his skin glowed faintly from the sweat of the day, and his eyes were crinkled with something tender when he looked at you.
“hard to believe we’ve made it here,” you murmured.
“i know.” he crawled onto the bed beside you, resting his head against your shoulder. “long time ago we were just trying to figure out how to be in the same room without losing our minds.”
“or jumping each other.”
he snorted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “that too.”
you fell quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through his hair. “when they told me we were being assigned… i hated it. the system felt so cruel. mechanical. like love didn’t matter.”
“me too,” he admitted, voice low. “i kept wondering who you’d be. if you’d hate me. if i’d hate you.”
“and now… i can’t imagine waking up without you next to me.” you turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “you’ve become everything.”
he lifted his head, eyes dark with something more than just love. “you gave me a family. you gave me her.”
“we gave her to each other,” you whispered, lips brushing his.
he kissed you then — slow, deep, familiar in a way that made your toes curl. and when he pulled back, eyes half-lidded, he murmured, “i need you.”
“then take me,” you breathed.
you barely finished speaking before he was on you, lips claiming yours again, more urgent this time, tongue teasing, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. you gasped, arching into his touch as he rolled a thumb over your nipple.
“fuck, i love how sensitive you still are,” he muttered against your neck, biting softly before soothing the skin with kisses. “you get wet the second i touch you, don’t you?”
you nodded, already trembling as he dragged your panties down your thighs, fingers grazing your slick folds. “you make me like this… only you.”
he groaned, dipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his thumb circling your clit until your hips were grinding against his hand.
“look at you,” he said, voice rough, “needy little wife. always so eager for me. i could fuck you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”
“never enough,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders. “please, junnie—”
he flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you were on all fours, head turned into the pillow. “you know what this does to me, seeing you like this,” he growled, running the head of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing in. “fuck, still so tight for me.”
you moaned, face burying into the pillow as he filled you to the hilt, rocking his hips with slow, brutal precision. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you back to meet each thrust, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.
“tell me how good i make you feel,” he said through gritted teeth, fucking you deeper.
“so good—oh god, junnie—right there,” you whimpered. “you fuck me like you own me.”
“because i do,” he hissed. “you’re mine. every inch. every breath. and this pussy? fuck—this was made for me.”
your cries were muffled into the pillow, tears prickling at your eyes from the pleasure building impossibly fast. he bent over you, pressing kisses to your back, your shoulder, your neck, never stopping his rhythm.
“gonna come, baby?” he whispered in your ear. “cream on my cock like you always do?”
you nodded desperately, clenching around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a strangled moan.
he followed right after, cursing low and dark, emptying himself inside you with a final thrust. “fuck—gonna fill you up again. maybe give chaeyeon a little sibling.”
you both collapsed onto the bed, boneless and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around you from behind.
and in that moment, as the warmth of him settled over your back and your heartbeat steadied with his, you smiled.
because this was the life you never asked for — and yet, it was everything.
and now, there was no one else you’d rather be loved by.
this was made for my perfect gorgeous loml serene @beomiracles <3 (sorry it took 2 months)
Sleeping with Beomgyu the first time? A mistake fuelled by rage and tequila. The second time? Annoyance and desperation — you stopped counting after the fourth. When your best friend finds his stupid hoodie in your bedroom you end it — not that he lets you anyways.
⤷ contains — ˎˊ˗ smut (three separate scenes), unprotected sex, angst, fluff, avoidant reader, they are both stupid, lots of kissing, marking, hair pulling, objectification, degrading, praise, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, semi public sex, fingering, oral (fem rec), face sitting, pet names (angel, sweetheart, slut, baby etc), implied bi!reader. probably alot more
thank you to my beautiful friends who sprinted w me for these writing sessions ilysm
scan here for group masterlist → 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 ˎˊ˗
You've always hated Beomgyu.
For many logical reasons.
He was arrogant, annoying and he always somehow knew every single button to push to piss you off.
Okay logical to you.
Objectively you knew he wasn't a bad person — despite you wishing he was so your dislike towards him would be valid to others.
You like to think of yourself as a rational person, you don't overreact to things, you're calm and collected.
There is just something about him that irks you.
Maybe it's the fact he's always around, like a fly buzzing around you slowly bringing you to the brink of insanity.
Unfortunately for you he was also inescapable.
Somehow despite being the most annoying, egotistical, competitive, immature person you know — his sister is the opposite.
Haeun — who you met on the first day of elementary school, after a random kid was pulled out of class for being disruptive the whole class was left unattended — chaos ensuing because what else happens when you leave twenty something kids with no supervision. Unlike the other kids who started shouting and being annoying.
Your focus was drawn to her — Staying silent in her seat, drawing.
Confused you walk over to her simply observing her — immediately forgetting why you went over there when you see her drawing something from your favourite show.
And the rest is history —
If only it was that easy though.
Because additionally — meeting your best friend, twin flame and person, came with the added bonus of someone who you truly believe was put on this earth to humble you.
The kid who got in trouble for being a pest? — Beomgyu, who always brings up the fact he caused you and Haeun to be friends and that you're basically indebted to him.
And because Haeun and Beomgyu were twins — he was constantly around.
Unfortunately.
Growing up he was there — always, every achievement he was right next to you and Haeun — because somehow your parents thought you three were inseparable, despite your multiple complains ending in your parents laughing at 'kids being kids.'
As you got older it only got worse.
Merging into your teenage years you thought he'd become less of a pest, focusing on himself more than pissing you off.
Wrong.
Beomgyu was smart — in a way where he didn't have to try too hard. Just naturally knowing the answers after barely paying attention in class.
Another reason you hated him.
While you work your ass off, studying for hours to get the best mark possible — he just knows.
When you offhandedly mentioned wanting to enter the science fair to Haeun, Beomgyu who has no interest in science joins purely to win instead of you.
And when you accidentally told him the wrong day of the math exam? Well you watched with the proudest grin when you were put first on the honours list instead of him.
You never knew what he was thinking about, whenever you retaliated and awaited his reaction he just smiled.
You were sure his sole existence is to drive you insane, and he does.
In all honesty you don't remember why you started disliking him, you just have — even before you got to know him you knew he was loud and bothersome.
The only reason you haven't strangled him is because of Haeun.
Because somehow.
Somehow.
He's amazing to Haeun.
It's like a shift — he'll be annoying you teasing you, then he's all nice to Haeun.
All things aside you can begrudgingly admit he's a good brother, watching out for her, always wanting the best for her.
They never had the phase of hating or bullying each other, he's always looked after her. Haeun told you multiple stories of him being amazing and nice.
You honestly admire him for being a good brother (unwillingly you admit it only in your subconscious mind).
It honestly pissed you off and made you dislike him more.
Because he's capable of it — you've seen him be amazing to Haeun, his friends — hell even people you know he hates, and to your knowledge you haven't done anything to him so why.
Is it just you he likes to endlessly pester and piss off.
The 'feud' if you can call it that was honestly harmless to both of you, no real damage done — just endlessly annoying each other.
Until it wasn't.
You'll admit now, you know what he did was an accident, or so everyone tells you.
You didn't even know what had happened, people in your class staring at you for seemingly no reason — until at lunch you get pulled aside by Taehyun.
Taehyun who you had a massive thing for.
You honestly didn't hear most of it — blood rushing to your cheeks, ears ringing in embarrassment. All you knew is that somehow he knew that you liked him. Now he was very nice letting you down but still.
The only time you ever admitted out loud that you liked him was at a sleepover — putting the pieces together that Beomgyu overheard.
After that it grew petty, purposefully doing shit you both knew would end badly.
It wasn't cruel or too far, you both seemingly knew where to draw the line.
It still wasn't nice.
Jokes that had edges to them you knew would affect the other. Petty things you both got in trouble for.
Whether it was him sabotaging your academics or you sabotaging whatever relationship he was in.
In university nothing changed.
Once after he told a rumour to the whole campus about you sleeping with a teacher for better grades, resulting in you having to drop your favourite class.
So when you got wind of Beomgyu being head over heels for this girl? The next week you're hard launching her on your stories to his favourite song.
Two weeks later he sends you a fucking 'hey girly' message which did make you chuckle but still! — pissed you off.
Okay maybe it started getting mean.
The only thing stopping you both from taking it too far is Haeun, forced to tolerate each other for her sake at least.
You truly think Beomgyu was put on this world punish you for past sins in previous lifetimes, to be a perpetual dull needle stabbing into your eyes and test your self control as to not end up in a jail cell.
Because if it was anyone else? You'd just ignore him, Unfortunately he's not anyone else.
He's the brother of your favourite person in the world, the one person whos seemingly able to calm both of your indifferences.
Haeun always said that you fight because you're alike, always getting a death glare from both of you.
Deep down you think shes right.
You don't think about it too deeply, you'd rather not get too psychological on the undeniable similarities between you and him, the thought of being like him honestly making you pissed off and offended at your own unconscious mind for suggesting you're like that fuckhead.
You've had a love hate relationship with parties, they're loud and usually held in a filthy frat house of someone you don't even know.
Always feeling like an extra in some sorority girls main character arc as you watch guys fighting like idiots, girls gossiping over who slept with who.
You loved however letting go of every ounce of sensibility with the excuse of alcohol, being able to blame mistakes and idiotic choices on the copious amounts of shots of the cheapest and highest percentage alcohol college students could legally find.
What you didn't like about that was how out of body you felt, the downside of all of that being the fact every choice you do make doesn't feel like your own, the inner monologue becoming your course of action whether you like it or not, your common sense on the sidelines shouting endlessly into the void.
Because unlike every other time, this one was at Beomgyu's place.
Haeun dragging you to the party, telling you the place was big enough to not run into him, and fortunately that was half true.
The place was huge, thanks to Beomgyu rooming with one of his rich friends whos parents pay the rent.
Unfortunately Haeun underestimates how much the universe hates you.
For the first hour or so it's fine, drinking playing party games with your friends, flirting shamelessly with random guys.
You don't notice Haeun left till you check your phone, seeing her tell you she had to go back to your apartment because her boyfriend was sick. You didn't really mind, if you were slightly more sober you would have been pissed she left you here of all places.
After an unfortunate run in with your ex, desperately trying to get away from him you try find any free room — bathroom? You don't wanna talk about who and what you heard in there.
Ending up in a room collapsing against the door. You don't really check your surroundings until you hear a cough. Opening your eyes — immediately landing on Beomgyu.
Because of course the first free room you enter is his.
"This is breaking and entering." He hums with a smirk bringing the cup of whatever liquid was out there to his lips.
Letting out a dry breathless laugh, leaning your head back against the door with a thud. "Of course you're here."
His voice dripping with arrogance, the subtle comments already ticking you off. "You're in my apartment? — uninvited by the way."
"Haeun dragged me along, wouldn't be here otherwise."
"You act as if this place has an infestation."
"It does, you."
He doesn't immediately reply to your last comment, looking at you for a moment before there is a banging on his door.
With an annoyed groan he gets up from his bed walking to the door about to open it, startled by you grabbing his hand your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not here." You say firmly your eyes glued to his.
Beomgyu cant help but grin, despite your silent pleas he opens the door, thankful you're hidden behind the door.
"Is y/n here?" Immediately recognising the voice to still, looking at Beomgyu's side profile as he also recognises who it is.
"Hm?" Feigning innocence as he looks your ex up and down. "Nah she wouldn't be caught dead here."
"I just saw her —"
"You didn't."
"I did —"
Cutting him off again with a grin. "You really didn't, maybe cool it on Kai's mixer, yeah?"
Before he can even respond he closes the door shut on him.
An audible sigh of relief escapes your lips when you suddenly are pulled back to reality.
Opening your eyes you're met with Beomgyu, smiling as if he won the best prize in existence.
"Anything you wanna say to me?"
"Not really."
"Not even — thank you Beomgyu! You're so awesome and handsome thank you for scaring away my evil ex!" He says an exaggerated tone, enjoying watching your eye twitch.
"Only one of those three things are correct." you resort, not immediately noticing when he gets closer to you.
"Yeah? Which one." He whispers with a grin, looking at you, enjoying your annoyed state.
"Drop dead." You say flatly, unimpressed.
"Cmon not even a thank you?" Close enough to where you can smell the faint traces of whatever flavoured vodka was out there.
You don't respond to him — you also don't pull away despite every rational part of you telling you to.
You cant tell if the room shifted from the close call with your ex or the way he's looking at you.
Or the way you're looking at him.
Both of you in no right mind, clearly.
"You barge into my room while I was peacefully drinking — bringing drama and a man child with you, not even asking for an apology just a thank you." His voice teasing, enjoying this too much, using all your might to bite back a comment.
"Peacefully drinking alone, at your own party — kinda pathetic really."
"I was escaping." He says quickly.
"Escaping what?" Replying instantly, turning the tables on him — smiling as you await his response.
"You."
Both of you shocked at his instant response.
"Glad I have that effect on you." you tease pushing him.
Unsure of how much time has passed, seconds, minutes — feels like it's been an eternity.
All you know is his eyes haven't left yours.
Now — you're drunk! you both are, not nearly in the right state of mind.
That's your excuse! as said earlier, sensibility is a mere bystander when drunk.
Neither of you know what you're doing but you know that this isn't supposed to be happening. Despite that, neither of you are making any move to stop.
"God — you're insufferable." You spit out, your voice breaking only making him grin.
"Then why are you still holding onto me." His words snapping you back — your fingers still clinging to his wrist from earlier.
"What? No quick response?" His voice dropping slightly, looking you up and down, watching as your breathing quickens.
"You're all talk yknow — the second something real happens you cave, you hide behind witty remarks but it's all bark no bite."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
Years of stupid fights, petty revenge and unresolved animosity pilled into a single kiss.
You don't know who started it, but everything else fades.
The taste of him taking over you — the cheap beer, flavoured vodka is all you can taste. His hands holding onto your face as if you'll disappear if he lets go. The kiss messy and unfocused, both of you too out of it to process whats really happening. Grabbing desperately onto each other, teeth clashing, heavily breathing into the kiss not pulling away to breathe properly.
Whatever he's mumbling into your mouth you don't register, your head foggy from the alcohol and him.
Not remembering how you ended up on his bed.
Definitely not remembering how you ended up naked.
Waking up in the morning you're immediately hit with a dull throb in your head, not just the back — the front the sides it's seeping down your body — fuck what happened.
Opening your eyes you see an unfamiliar ceiling.
You feel unfamiliar sheets on you — fuck are you naked.
Panic sets in as you try recalling last night — trying to make sense of anything — everything. Looking around the unfamiliar room, a tinge on recognition and remembrance.
Before you can even process your eyes snap to the door, Beomgyu.
Standing in the door frame pants hanging low on his waist, a smirk also gracing his lips as he looks at you.
Slowly it comes back to you — in blurred memories, your heart dropping to your stomach as you let out an exhale.
"No." You say simply your eyes running over the room, yourself — him.
He simply smiles deviously knowing you're panicking.
"Morning sleeping beauty." He says in a sing song voice — looking too smug for your liking, enjoying this too much.
"No." You reiterate, unable to say anything else as you process whats happening — what happened.
"Was last night so good I fucked the rest of your vocabulary out of you — doesn't really make sense though.. All you were saying was yess Beomgyuuu, harder Beomgyuuuu don't stop Beomg—" His exaggeration immediately cut off as you get off the bed cupping your hand over his mouth your eyes meeting his.
His eyes don't stay on yours for long, drifting down to your frame — your very naked frame. Groaning as you push his face to the side reaching down to the floor grabbing the blanket that fell, wrapping it around yourself.
"What did you do." You spit out through your teeth, shaking from a multitude of reasons because what the fuck.
"Wasn't just me, baby — though I did do most of the work, shouldn't have expected more from you 'course you're a princess —" He teases, his eyes still roaming your frame.
"God, do you shut up," you groan walking away from him, desperately trying to find your clothes from last night around his mess of a room.
Instead of retaliating like you expect he's just watching you, as you scurry around his room. When you find your clothes you don't even bother preserving your decency, dropping the blanket as you try to quickly put your clothes on.
You feel his eyes focused on you, the heat spreading across your body as you get dressed as quickly as possible.
As you stand up you look at him and for once you can't read him, which is infuriating — looking at him, all memories flooding back to you.
"This never happened." You say flatly and seriously, Beomgyu of course not ever taking you seriously.
"Then why are you standing in my room in yesterdays clothes." He hums eyebrows raised, his voice cocky.
"A glitch in the timeline, an error in the universe." You say simply shoving past him, your shoulder knocking his.
Instead of letting you leave peacefully he follows, because of course he does.
"You're acting like this is the end of the world." He eyes trail over you with a grin as you stand at the entrance putting your shoes on, catching your dishevelled state in the mirror, shaking your head slightly before looking at him.
"Shut up." You respond, taking a deep breath, your hands shaking as you try lacing up your shoes.
Beomgyu watches in amusement for a moment, enjoying your unfocused state before kneeling down slapping your hands away tying your laces for you.
"So snappy in the morning, huh?" He finishes your laces with an annoyingly perfect bow, looking up at you with a sly grin.
"It's not happening again." You state, pissed at how he's not taking this seriously.
"Whats not happening again?" He feigns innocence — to annoy you but you just ignore him, slamming the door in his face, standing against it as you try wrapping your head around this nightmare scenario.
God you despise him.
If you didn't see him in this lifetime it would still be too soon for you.
Unfortunately they didn't give you a life time — they gave you two weeks.
When you enter the sanctuary of your apartment after a gruelling class you expect to just shower, eat leftovers and rot. Instead you see Beomgyu relaxing on your couch as if he owns the place.
You freeze in the doorway, your eyes locking on his, a smirk wide on his face as he meets your gaze.
Before you can say anything Haeun enters from her room, her signature smile greeting you as you snap back into reality, smiling softly at her as she envelops you in a hug.
"Hi — how was class? I know you always hate your Thursday classes, and I know we had plans but Gyu asked to come over and yeah it just happened yknow? — but also he was telling me about how you guys are finally getting along —" At this point you're used to her ramble, not knowing how she can talk without breathing. Listening, nodding along until you hear what she said about Beomgyu. Her words fading into background noise.
Refocusing as you smile at her, your eyes glancing at Beomgyu, clearly that's the reason he's so smug, your eyes lingering on his, a shit eating grin plastered on his face, snapping back to Haeun who looks so happy you genuinely can't say anything.
As she finishes talking you plaster on your best smile nodding slowly in agreement.
"Yeah — we're good" you say through your teeth, side eyeing Beomgyu who looks so pleased with himself.
"Really? Really Really — oh good because I need to duck out to see Siyun — something about our project and Beomgyu's staying for dinner so I'm glad you're getting along so you can stay in the same place unattended without murdering each other." she smiles laughing slightly, squeezing you before dipping out of the apartment before you can process.
Closing your eyes, you drop your bag, not bothering to acknowledge him hoping he'd just go away, obviously he doesn't.
Before you can slam your bedroom door on him he stops it with his foot, barging into your sacred space, groaning as you turn to him.
"Get out." You say flatly, unable to deal with his shit for much longer.
"That's not how you speak to guests, did nobody teach you manners?" He teases smiling at you enjoying your annoyed state.
"An unwanted guest mind you."
"Still a guest."
A moment passes, the tension becoming thick and unbearable, your voice catching in your throat as you look at him.
You're not blind, or stupid he's hot, he knows it which makes him even more annoying.
The silence breaks with your voice, slightly uneven from your heavy breathing. "I hate you."
"Feelings mutual." He says simply before making one long step towards you, hands gripping onto your face, capturing your lips in a heated messy kiss, pushing you back onto your bed, groaning into the kiss.
Unfortunately you can't blame alcohol on this one.
Or the time after that at Yeonjun's party.
Orrrr the time when Haeun asked you to pick up some notes for her.
You stopped counting after the 'accidental' run in at the bar.
It's not like you seek him out. That's always been the problem.
He's just always there.
You haven't defined anything with Beomgyu — you don't need to, or want to. He's there when he shouldn't be, there when you need him to be annoyingly enough.
He's always had the uncanny ability to be there when you're already at your wits end, Now instead of making your life a living hell.
He makes your life a living hell then fucks you after.
It's nearing the start of term, everyone's prepping for the dread of exams and assignments, enjoying he last free week before everything starts up again. The campus filled with rowdy college students partying like usual — with a purpose this time though.
Not that Heeseung needs a reason to throw a party, the guy celebrated his professor being absent by throwing a party saying it's what he would have wanted? you don't really question him.
It's nice though — his place, perks of going to a fancy college is most of them are rich, well the parents are anyways.
The party majority outside, a pool party after all — a rare party in the daytime, the disadvantage is seeing all the drunk college kids in daylight, seeing unsightly things you wouldn't usually.
Of course he's here, he's best friends with Heeseung — also seeming to have a slight tendency to go to every party happening but hey.
You don't talk still.
Well — you talk, not nicely, despite sleeping with each other now you still bicker and argue constantly, it usually just ends in him fucking you.
You're inside in the kitchen, not particularly in the mood to day drink — dragged here by your friends against your will.
You hear the foot steps coming into the kitchen, paying no real attention, more focused on whatever was happening in the group chat. That was until you hear an obnoxiously fake cough you recognise. Looking up and seeing Beomgyu, your mood immediately souring, clicking your phone off.
"Seriously." Your tone flat, annoyed simply by his presence.
"Fancy seeing you here." Beomgyu's voice the opposite of yours, a grin plastered on his face.
"You knew I was coming." Folding your arms over yourself, trying not to focus on him — because of course he's in just swim trunks, it's a pool party, you can still be annoyed though.
"Mhm, you knew I was too though so don't act so sour." He steps slowly closer to you, his eyes dragging over your frame, his eyes lingering on your chest before meeting your eyes again.
"Was hoping the universe was on my side considering the house is big enough to count as three apartments." You don't miss his eyes lingering on you unapologetically, your breath hitching slightly.
"Ill find you in every universe." His attempt to flirt only pissing you off, which he knew — it's why he does it.
"You're annoying." You hum, feigning disinterest, heat rising through your body — unable to ignore the way he's looking at you like he knows where this is heading.
"You say that every time." Beomgyu's words coming out nearly in a singing voice, his fingers faintly running up your side, sending shivers down your side.
You can feel his breath faint against your neck — knowing your should pull away — you never do though.
"Still doesn't seem to register to you though." Your voice a careful whisper, acutely aware of your surroundings.
"Kinda hard to considering whenever you say it you stick around anyways ." His voice matching yours, only his is heavier and lower.
"I hate you." Your voice sharp, the harsh words only fuelling him even more. Beomgyu's hands trailing down your waist, holding onto your hip, feeling his lips brush against your neck.
"Keep saying that and ill start to believe you." His voice barely audible, muffled from your skin, only pressing faint kisses against your neck.
"Beomgyu." You say as a warning, your voice not nearly as strong as you'd like it to be.
"They are all busy outback, well be quick.." His voice mixed with his lips pressing right into the sensitive part of your neck not helping you at all. "Well — we might be, depends if you'll behave or not." He teases, feeling him smile against your warm skin.
"Fuck you." Is all you manage to say, your voice cracking, your chest rising unevenly, the only thing stopping you from buckling down is his hold on your hips.
"Only if you ask nicely." He coos against your skin, his breath hitting the wet skin of your neck from his kisses.
Before you can even quip back at him he's pulling you down the hall, closing the bathroom door behind you, immediately his lips crash onto yours, his tongue pushing past your lips, trying to claim every part of you.
Moaning into the kiss, your hands holding onto any part of him you can reach, fingers lacing into his long hair tugging on the soft strands.
Your hold on his hair elicits a moan, only then does the kiss break — Beomgyu not straying far, his nose nudging against yours as you both catch your breath.
Beomgyu's eyes are trained on you, admiring how you're giving in so easy for him already. His grip tightening on your hips.
Pushing you against the bathroom counter, his hold on your hips helping you sit on the counter, absentmindedly playing with his hair — forcing yourself to focus, your eyes trailing over his features — noticing his long lashes, the slope of his nose, his stupidly perfect eyes.
Quickly silencing your own thoughts you pull him against you, your lips colliding, his tongue tracing your lip before pushing into your mouth — fighting for the upper hand.
Neither of you stepping down, tugging on his hair only fuelling him further. Beomgyu's hand snaking up your body, groping one of your tits over your shirt a moan escaping from you unwillingly, using that he nips on your bottom lip.
The kiss is heated and messy, no real sense or rhythm, only the tension you have bubbling over like this is the only output you have.
When he pulls back he doesn't stray far, latching onto your neck, kissing around your skin leaving sloppy wet kisses all over. He settles on the specific spot he may as well have memorised, sucking hard, knowing deep purple bruises will form later on.
Your breathe hitches from the tingling sensation, your grip on his hair loosening only for you to cup his neck for support, feeling your body get simultaneously lighter from his touch but also every mark weighing you down.
"If you leave a mark I swear to god —" Your voice trying to have some bite, quickly failing when Beomgyu nips at your skin, pulling a barely audible whimper from you.
"Or what? You'll stop me — we both know that's not happening anytime soon, angel." You can feel the bastard smile against your shoulder, pressing a final kiss against the already forming bruise before his hands make their way up your shirt, squeezing your tits through your bra.
"You talk all this shit — but when it comes down to it you're all talk, kinda pathetic really." His voice lower and breathy.
Continuing on his hands leave your chest, one slipping under the hem of your shorts straight into your panties, cupping your bare heat.
Only momentarily removing himself to push your shorts off, leaving your panties on, pushing them to the side.
Your forehead falls against his shoulder, trying to mask your embarrassment, failing miserably and only encouraging him.
"See, shes begging for me.. can feel you clenching 'round nothing — shit look at her.." His words not aimed at you, talking straight to your pussy — his words alone forcing a strained whine to escape your lips, your hands gripping onto his shirt, trying to rut your hips to meet his touch, so close but Beomgyu's purposefully putting no pressure on your cunt.
His free hand snakes up to your neck, around to hold you by the back of your neck, fingers softly tracing your skin before pulling you back out of his neck, forcing you to look at him.
The sudden pressure on your neck makes you moan, his fingers pushing down on the sides of your neck forcing you to look at him.
"If you react like this for someone you 'hate' id love to see how you are for someone you like, god — you're such a slut, would let anyone do this to you wouldn't you." His words mean, putting emphasis on hate, as if the word is funny to him, His hand cupping your pussy move slightly, finger slightly nudging your clit, a soft desperate sound escaping you only to fuel him.
"Nah — wouldn't let anyone else touch you like this, only for me right — nobody else can get her like this.." His nose brushing yours, feeling his breath brush against your lips he's that close.
"Eat — ah! shit.." Your voice cracking with your words, cursing yourself internally, Beomgyu lets out a faux mocking sad sound with a grin.
Beomgyu's looking at you at you with his eyes dark, trained on every reaction you make, storing it away for later.
He doesn't say anything right away, letting out an overly dramatic sigh, his thumb brushing over your clit putting sudden pressure on it making you whine, desperate for more.
"What was that — say it again, didn't quite hear you.." His voice quiet, mocking — his lips turned into a smile.
Trying to regain your composure you take a shaky breath, all your senses overwhelmingly taken over by him.
"I said eat sh —" Before you can even finish your sentence his fingers are circling over your soaked hole. Immediately every part of your brain fails you, only focused on his fingers, trying to grind your hips up to push them in.
"You say that but your beggin' for me, sweetheart." He teases, his voice sending shivers down your spine.
Your breath hitches, your brain clouded, unable to think of anything to respond, your lack of response only droning him on.
"So much prettier when you don't open your mouth yknow that — almost can make you tolerable." His fingers tracing softly over your entrance, not pushing in, just putting enough pressure on you to have you needing more.
Your response is a broken moan, trying to bury yourself into the crook of his shoulder again, his hand holding your neck in place stopping you, forcing you to look at him. "Got nothing to say now, huh — all it takes is a little and you're all sweet f'me yeah?" he coos mockingly at you, throwing you a fake pout before breaking into a grin.
"It's okay, m'gonna take good care of her, yeah? shes dripping all for me.." His fingers finally prodding your entrance, stretching you ever so slightly, making you crave more.
"Not gonna deny her any attention because you're being a bitch, god shes craving me, clenching around barely anything."
You're barely processing his words — the sharp words targeted at you then his sweet words for your pussy sending you spinning.
Beomgyu's fingers push into your heat, sucking in a sharp breath as he feels you soaked around his fingers, his hand that rested on your neck moving to your thigh, holding you in place, pressing wet kisses over your shoulder.
Your desperate pleas echoing across the bathroom, finding it hard to remember your in public — at a pool party and all of your close friends metres from you.
Trying to grind your hips against his hand is a failed effort, his hold on your thigh keeping you firm in place. Beomgyu's fingers start thrusting into you fast — giving you no room to adjust to the sensation.
His body memorised yours at this point, knowing exactly which buttons to press, which angle gets draws out the prettiest moans he's been dreaming of since you last fucked.
He's muttering something you can barely hear — not understanding him at all — all your focus on his fingers hit that intense spot dead on.
Your legs start trembling when his thumb starts rubbing raw, harsh but pleasurable circles on your clit, hearing him groan at your walls clenching around his fingers.
Your brains foggy, so focused on the feeling of him — the way you can feel him curving his fingers to hit every spot better, his nails digging into the plush of your thigh — knowing there is going to be small crescent marks lingering for a bit.
You can feel the familiar feeling form in your gut lingering, making it clear that you're close, Beomgyu knows too — the way your whines are getting needier and your walls fluttering so sweetly around him.
Then he pulls out.
Your impending orgasm fades into an afterthought — your whole body tingling from him, fading into a dull throb between your legs.
"Beomgyu I swear to god —" Immediately he cuts you off with a kiss, silencing any complaints.
"Hold your horses angel, don't get your panties in a twist." He says with a grin, stepping back from you only to unbutton and unzip his jeans, pushing them and his boxers down enough to pull out his half-hard cock.
Your eyes go down to his cock unapologetically , subconsciously clenching your thighs, a smirk twitching on his face when he notices.
"Always wondered if there was a way to shut you up." His eyes stay on you, his fingers wrapping around his cock, giving himself a few strokes before lining up with your entrance, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist, your hands flying to his broad shoulders trying to stabilise yourself.
Before you can even think of a response he pushes himself into you, giving you no time to adjust, the room filling with both of your panting, your whines shifting to whimpers at the sudden pressure.
"Who knew all it would take was you being a little slut." He whispers into your ear, sending shivers down your spine. Your nails digging into his shoulders, only making him groan from the pain.
Giving you no time to adjust to the heavy feeling in you he pulls out of you, pushing back into you with one mean thrust.
His pace is fast, your walls sucking him in with ease, his tip prodding the spongy spot on your walls with no trouble.
Your moans only growing louder as he thrusts in and out of you, the sound of your skin slapping and the squelch of your hips meeting and your wetness pooling at the base of his cock. One of his hands move to your mouth covering it, trying and failing to muffle your moans.
"So loud huh, what — want everyone to know who owns this pussy? Let everyone know you're a little attention whore who starts fights with me just sp I can fuck the attitude right out of ya?" He says in between thrusts, his voice breathy, trying his hardest not to moan when you clench hard around him.
Beomgyu's thrusts grow sloppy, a sign he's getting caught up in his own pleasure. He may be an asshole but he's not cruel, at least when it comes to sex.
His hand snakes down between you too, using your slick to circle your neglected achy clit. As he removes his hand from your mouth, you immediately catch his lips in yours, your hands cupping his jaw — moaning into his mouth as he fucks into you.
Using one of his hands to hike your leg up higher, hitting a deeper angle immediately, pulling desperate whines from you.
The duel sensation of his attack on your throbbing bud, his hips crashing against yours in mean deep thrusts — you can feel your orgasm brewing.
"Taking me so well, baby — this pussy was made for me." The unexpected praise only pushes you over the edge — your orgasm ripping through you hard.
"That's it, come for me sweetheart — knew you had it in you." His thrusts growing even more sloppy and uncoordinated, the feeling of your walls sucking him in deeper from your orgasm — the warm feeling you overtaking him — pushing him to his own orgasm shortly after yours.
Fucking you through both your orgasms he doesn't stop — his fingers growing slower as he draws out your orgasm, making sure to not overstimulate you.
Your moans slowing down as your orgasm washes over you, riding it out, both of you breathing heavily, the room smelling of sex and chlorine.
His movements on your bud only stopping when he snaps back into reality, you wincing slightly from the unintentional overstimulation.
Resting your head on his shoulder as you catch your breath — his unintentionally hard grip hold on your thigh loosening, his fingers rubbing on the red skin.
After a moment of you both gathering yourself, your voice scratchy. "I hate you." Lacking any serious bite, from your voice breathy and throat sore.
He only hums in acknowledgement, his fingers catching your chin forcing you to look at him, a usually uncharacteristic look of concern on his face only reserved for after sex.
"You good." Beomgyu silently hopes the slight concern doesn't show in his tone, if you notice you don't say anything, still trying to think clearly after your intense orgasm.
Not responding verbally, only with a nod, the look dissipates, a cocky smirk replacing it, somehow lighter.
"Not talkative?" He teases, unable to take your annoyed look seriously.
"Shut up."
Both of you seemingly realising he's inside you, feeling his cock soften inside you.
Beomgyu slowly pulls out, making you both wince slightly from the cold air hitting you. Before you can process his fingers dip down between you pushing his cum inside you making you moan suddenly.
When he's satisfied he pulls your panties back into place, enjoying the small wet patch forming from his cum trying to slip out.
"Beomgyu get me tissues we are not doing this." You say with a deadpanned look, the party having hours left and you are not walking around like this. "I already have fucking marks all over me."
"Nobody knows they were from me though." He hums, smiling at your annoyed state.
"Beomgyu." You say as a warning, watching him pull up his pants tucking himself back into his boxers. Looking just as dishevelled as you probably.
"Haeun's probably looking for you, don't wanna keep her waiting do you?" He says heading for the door, giving you a once over. Before you can retaliate he's out the door leaving you alone with your own thoughts.
Hopping off the counter, turning around you look at yourself in the mirror, hair that was perfect before now messy, your make up smudged and lip gloss long gone.
Faint purple marks forming under your shirt, just barely hidden. Silently cursing Beomgyu, and probably cursing him out later for no apparent reason to everyone else but you two.
Your whole body buzzing from your orgasm, and just him in general, trying to get a hold of yourself, fixing everything to try and make it look like you didn't just get fucked on a bathroom counter.
Just as you take a deep breath there is a knock on the door followed by a familiar voice.
"Hey — are you in there, ive been looking for you!" You can hear Haeun's muffled voice from behind the door startling you, giving yourself one last moment.
"Yeah — ill be right out." Haeun seemingly satisfied with that answer wanders off to join the rest of the party, leaving the bathroom you look around, making your way outside to everyone else, your eyes immediately locking on Beomgyu — whos acting like he didn't just ruin you in one of your friends bathroom, you see him glance in your direction, hiding a smirk by taking a drink.
Exams are killing you, metaphorically and literally.
Surviving off TV dinners and a prayer.
Now you're smart, you know that but this is hell — starting off the semester sick and missing a bunch of classes, playing an endless game of catch up, ontop of your other classes.
On top of that Haeun as a roommate is like having excitement reincarnated as a roommate. Constantly coming in to talk, then helping her with her homework and forgetting what you were doing entirely.
Haeun's at her parents over the long weekend, begrudgingly leaving you alone — begging you to come with her.
Unfortunately — or fortunately for you; you couldn't go, your academics crying and in desperate attention.
With Haeun gone you actually are making good work, enjoying the alone time you desperately needed.
You've been at it for hours, energy drinks and water bottles piled up next to your textbooks, everything scattered around your desk, overlapping each other. Trying to cram as much information into your head on all different topics you probably wont even need for your exams.
So you don't particularly notice when you hear movement in the living room — assuming it's your cat being mischievous and or just the hallway traffic outside the apartment.
That's until you feel a hand on your shoulder you jump out of your seat nearly, feeling your soul leave your body, instantly hearing the wheezing laugh of Beomgyu, turning your chair around to see him laughing, nearly keeling over in amusement.
"What the fuck is wrong with you." Your heart may as well dropped to your stomach, beating hard in your chest.
Beomgyu only stifles his laughs for a second before you hit him with your textbook, making him wince and hold his arm, a stupid grin still plastered on his face.
Holding back a small laugh of your own, taking a deep breathe before you look at him, feigning annoyance. "What are you doing here."
The question snaps Beomgyu out of his fit of amusement, looking at you, his eyes trailing over you. "Haeun's at our parents." He states, obviously you know that but not sure why it means he can come over.
"So you decide to break in and harass me?" You raise a brow, crossing your arms, noticing the small pause before he starts speaking, still grinning, but it shifting slightly.
"Not breaking in, if I have a key and also not harassment." He hums, slowly walking back over to you, crossing the small space in a few steps, entering your personal space.
"It's what id call it — and why do you even have a key." You mumble putting the text book back on your desk with a sigh, stretching over your head, the hours sitting down finally catching up to you.
Without warning Beomgyu spins your chair back around to face him, hovering over you, his face inches from yours.
slightly startled from the sudden act you let out a startled sound, bordering on a whine, that only drones him on.
"Missed you." His voice a low whisper, his nose nearly bumping yours.
"You missed sex — and annoying me." You try to deflect, purposefully ignoring the tightening feeling in your chest you definitely don't want to address.
Beomgyu pauses for a second, almost to think for a second, barely acknowledging your snippy remark. "Same thing."
His head dips, his lips brushing over your neck, pressing a faint kiss onto your warm skin before you groan slightly, making him pull back.
A small look of concern, mainly confusion washes over his face, shifting his mood instantly.
"You good?" He questions, the surprising lack of any humour catching you slightly off guard.
"I have to study." Your voice strained, apparent you're exhausted. Slowly he pulls back, raising a brow, his grin softening slightly, still slightly amused.
"You — need to study? Little miss honour roll?" His words teasing, laced with worry still but not as apparent.
"Fuck off, I'm way behind." Your words dragging, closing your eyes, in hopes it will magically cure the headache that's been a dull throb in your head all day.
Honestly you don't know why you're sharing this — the vulnerability, assuming he's going to make some sarcastic remark and leave.
For a moment he doesnt move or say anything, giving a small hum before pulling back. You assume he's finally gonna leave you alone.
Instead he fucking flops back onto your bed.
"What are you doing?" You say slightly exasperated, not a clue what is going on his head — you already said not today so you don't know why he's sticking around.
"Laying down." He shrugs, adjusting to be against your pillows, rustling in your bedside table for a book, pulling out a random one and flipping through the pages, uninterested.
"Why?" You take a breathe, your brows furrowed slightly, still amused — now fully distracted from your studies.
"Your bed is comfortable." He says flatly, his arms crossing above his head, eyes looking over you.
"You've been on it before." Unable to not notice the way he instantly relaxes into your space, as if he belongs there.
"Well — I'm not usually thinking of the mattress when I'm on it." A smirk plays on his lips, memories flooding through your head at the suggestive comment, making you throw a near by bottle at him, which he catches, throwing it onto the ground laughing at your reaction.
"Get out." Nearly at your wits end, a small part of you cant help but be content with this but you quickly silence that thought.
"I'm comfortable." He retorts quickly, the banter surprisingly light-hearted, you've made no real effort to kick him out yet, and he knows that.
"What if Haeun comes back early."
"Unlikely, and you know that."
After a moment passes you let out a groan, spinning your chair back around to your desk, resuming resuming to the best of your abilities to study, not that Beomgyu will let you get much done, also knowing he isn't leaving anytime soon.
Today was going great, well as great as it can go when you have an 8 am lecture. Haeun's classes aren't till the end of the day so you face the annoyance of campus alone.
Well not alone, catching a few of your friends hanging around a lecture hall you quickly join the conversation. As every parts ways, leaving campus or heading to class you continue with Jeongin — a friend of a friend you've met a few times, having a few classes together.
The conversations easy, not trying to force a laugh or pretend to be interested in whatever he's saying because you're actually interested — sharing the same major and interests for the most part.
What you don't notice is Beomgyu — who was originally deep in his own conversation with his friends, his focus shifting when you catch his eye as you walk past him, completely oblivious to him.
Beomgyu completely losing interest in his own conversation, his thoughts never straying from you. Who was that guy? Why are you smiling and laughing so hard — he cant be as funny as him. Not that you'd consciously laugh at Beomgyu's jokes anyways.
Unable to control himself any longer he's making long strides over to where your standing, immersed in conversation.
"Hey there." His tone laced with faux happiness a tight grin on his face, slinging a 'friendly' arm around your shoulders, unconsciously pulling you closer to him and further from Jeongin.
You can feel him on you before you can hear him, his cologne immediately clocking you, recognising the scent too quickly. Annoyance immediately taking over anything you were feeling before, your smile dropping.
Before you can even speak Beomgyu's arms leaving your shoulders, draping himself across your waist, his fingers grazing your hip, sending shivers down your spine.
Jeongin quickly noticing the vibe shift lets out a strained laugh, giving you a quick nod. "Ill see you around, ill see you in class Monday?"
Not fully trusting your voice you just nod apologetically at him. When he's out of range you push Beomgyu off you, looking at his pleased grin.
Looking around before you grab his wrist, pulling him to the nearest building, ending up in a staircase you drag him in, hitting his shoulder.
"What the hell — was that." You say in a whisper yell, quickly looking around to make sure nobody is around.
'What, I'm just looking out for you." He shrugs as if what he did was normal, his expression showing no remorse.
"Oh and you know whats best for me — really?" You let out a dry laugh crossing your arms, shaking your head in disbelief.
Beomgyu doesn't respond right away, stepping closer to you — invading your personal space, his voice dropping an octave, a smile replacing his look of indifference from earlier. "I know the best way to keep you in your place, angel. Might I remind you of last week — or even last night, begging for me —"
"Fuck you." You cut him off instantly, your breathing going uneven from him being so close — knowing exactly which buttons to push.
"Already done that before, baby." He moves even closer, his breath fanning your neck, still not touching you.
The hallway growing heavy with tension, both of your breathing audible — Beomgyu's lack of touch giving you an out if you want it — and you really don't.
"Heres what you're gonna do —"
"Oh yeah, really?" You scoff in disbelief, letting out a dry laugh, heat radiating from him — his calm demeanour sending you spiralling.
"Yeah — 'cause we both know behind this act — because it is an act.." His voice trails off, his fingers reaching up, barely grazing over your jaw. "You cant resist me." He says confidently, his eyes locking on yours briefly before looking over your features.
"You're gonna go to our spot in 10 minutes, and if you're late you're seriously gonna reconsider talking to that guy on Monday." His voice almost venomous when mentioning Jeongin. His fingers leave your jaw, leaving a faint tingle where the lingered, meeting his eyes once again, holding them for a moment — his eyes dark, filled with something you haven't seen before. Jealousy, you don't really want to unpack yet.. or ever.
Barely processing his words before he's out the door — the large entry doors swinging from the wind, leaving you alone in your own thoughts.
The walk alone to 'your spot' was already 6 minutes away, Beomgyu so adequately called it 'your spot' when it's not really your spot — just the most secluded spot in campus nobody has really found, perfect for whenever this — whatever you and Beomgyu are happens.
The walk was painfully slow, drawing it our purposefully to annoy Beomgyu — who has always been the impatient type.
When you arrived you checked your phone, 11 minutes. trying to bite back a small laugh you enter the small room — an empty storage room on no campus maps.
Looking around as you enter trying to scope out Beomgyu — immediately he grabs your hand, pushing you against the wall, his face only centimetres from yours. Feeling his own chest against yours as you try catching your breath from the shock.
"A minute, seriously?" He lets out a dark hum, his hold on your wrist tightening, not enough to be painful — just enough to keep you in place.
"My bad, was enjoying the scenery." You say, your voiced laced with fake sympathy. Your eyes locked on his.
"Cant even follow a simple instruction — god you're useless." He spits out, his other hand roaming over your body, dipping in your jeans.
Your breath hitches, a small pathetic whine leaving your lips involuntarily. Glancing down at his hand. Swallowing the lump in your throat.
"I swear — everything leaves that cute head of yours as soon as I'm around — cant think about anything but how good I make you feel right?" Beomgyu's hand leaves your wrist, unzipping your hoodie, which he immediately recognises as his own — only leading him on.
"Flirting with a random guy in my hoodie? — what would everyone think when they find out you pretend to hate me but act like a little slut the second we're alone."
His fingers leaving your jeans with a whine from you, unzipping the hoodie and letting it fall on the ground — leaving you in only your undershirt.
"God, you're insufferable you know that —" He cuts you off by fucking biting your shoulder. A sound teetering on a wince and moan escaping your throat. Beomgyu quickly soothing the skin with a kiss, resting his forehead on you.
"You talk all this talk but still come back to me — so really how much do you 'hate me' truly." Almost hearing his smile, his voice edging on a laugh only serving to piss you off.
Beomgyu's hands running over your body, settling on your hips, skimming over your waistband, teasing you.
"Beomgyu stop teasing." You try and fail to force your voice to have any sharpness, the words coming out nearly as a whine.
"Say please.." Beomgyu mumbles into your shoulder, pressing wet open mouthed kisses along your collarbone, leaning your head back against the wall instinctively to give him better access causing him to smile against you.
Not responding at all only causes him to sigh dramatically against you — his smile never fading. "Say please and ill give you everything you want baby, just one word."
"Fuck off." Your voice lacking any bite and confidence, Beomgyu pulls away from your skin, admiring briefly the wet marks adorn on you.
Suddenly you feel the pressure of his hand against your throat, pressing down on the sides just enough to make your heart skip, looking at you like prey — his leg slipping in between your legs, pressing against your heat pulling a desperate moan from you.
"Say please and ill be nice."
"You're never nice."
"I am to people who don't act like brats." Beomgyu's eyes trail over you, admiring you unravelling under him.
You mumble it, barely audible but enough to make his grin widen, pressing down on your throat again making you whine. "What was that, didn't quite hear you angel." His voice just above a whisper.
"Please."
"See, was that so hard, pretty girl." His hand leaves your throat — the sensation quickly being replaced by his lips, both his hands wandering over your body greedily.
You know you should probably stop — but you seriously cant.
It's like an itch that you know you shouldn't scratch a sore, you know if you keep scratching it, it'll get infected but it feels so good when you do.
You know you definitely shouldn't keep sleeping with him — he pisses you off, makes your life hell, he's your best friends brother.
You still keep ending up in his bed.
Or him in yours.
Which is exactly what happened, the sore got infected.
Well — You got caught.
Nearly.
Got off by the skin of your teeth.
It's winter, it's also one of your rare free days off from work and college. No assignments due, no homework just nothing.
Which honestly you're not complaining about, slightly glad you have no impending assignments to stress about.
Both you and Haeun are relaxing in your room - the only one with heating that works moderately well.
You're on your bed scrolling on your phone, paying no attention to whatever Haeun is doing, hearing her shuffling through your room.
You're best friends, ride or dies — having nothing to hide, in your room at least.
Well that you know of.
"Whats this?" Haeun's voice pulls you from your phone, glancing over at her by your closet. Unable to see what shes holding you lean forward a bit. When you see what shes holding all blood rushes from your face.
A hoodie, simple! But Haeun knows your wardrobe, this is not your hoodie and she knows that.
The simple black hoodie which could belong to anyone? Your laundry must have been mixed up, right? You can use that excuse —
"Weird, Gyu has one just like this, same brand and everything, and rip too —" Haeun trails on, immediately you cough, bringing her attention to you.
"It's apart of the design I think — must've gotten mixed up with someone from the laundromat" You shrug feigning innocence. Haeun looks at you for a moment longer than needed, not fully buying it but not pushing.
"I guess." She hums slightly, laying it on the back of your chair, flopping next to you on the bed, you hope she cant hear or sense your heart racing and your blood pressure rising with every second.
"So, any reason for the snooping?" You try shifting the topic, Haeun unaware smiles immediately.
"Siyun asked me on a date, tonight." She lets out a dramatic sigh, you cant help but smile at her excitement. "Said he wanted to be spontaneous, and that it's worth the surprise."
You hum in acknowledgement, letting her continue her rant, in your head you're just glad she believed you, then it hits.
The guilt.
The guilt of lying to your best friend, doing this behind her back and shes oblivious, knowing that both of you are the most important people in her life and you're both lying to her.
Moving through the apartment in a haze, following Haeun around as she talks and gets ready for her date, saying what you need to say, talking enough to not have her questioning where your head is.
Because if she did ask if something was wrong, you're not sure if you could lie any longer.
As she heads out for her date you're left with your thoughts, which is never good.
Because what would she think?
If she found out you were sleeping with her brother from finding his clothes in your closet — which how the hell did it get there.
God you don't wanna imagine her face — the pain, the lies.
The only reason she didn't question further was because she trusted you, and him. Because if she did question further — if she looked any closer to the hoodie, she'd see not only the 'designed rip' — she'd see the exact same stain from chem lab, his stupid doodles on the tag — and that you definitely couldn't blame on a stylistic choice.
Before you can think you're grabbing the hoodie that was plaguing your thoughts and you're out the door — not really thinking about it.
Well you know where you're going.
You know the way without even needing directions — you have the route memorised from late night walks to his, or him walking you back to yours even when you didn't ask.
You don't text him you're on your way or that you're going over; because you know he'll reply with some stupid and flirty joke which you definitely don't need right now.
It's only a ten minute walk, you wish it was longer — not nearly enough time to actually think about what you're going to say. Stopping yourself involuntarily at his door — you know his roommates not home — why do you know his roommates schedule, because he doesn't shut up so you're forced to listen to him.
No other reason.
You don't have a plan, the ten minutes feeling like three, fuck what were you going to say — what was he going to say.
You cant even knock before the door swings open, of course as you expected he answer — he's the only one home what did you expect — fuck why are you doing this.
What you didn't expect was him to answer looking like heaven or hell depending on how you look at it reincarnated, pants hung low on his hips, his boxers peaking through, the small happy trail visible, peaking out from them. Shirt slightly askew from whatever he was doing before — not bothering to adjust.
Trying to gather your thoughts you're just standing there in his doorway, basically gawking at him. His expression smug, amused at your clearly dishevelled state.
The next thing you process is his touch — his fingers lingering on your arm, pulling you inside. Tumbling inside you immediately recover from your daze, shoving the hoodie into his chest, letting it fall to his feet.
"What the hell is this." Your voice teetering between a yell and a whisper.
Beomgyu simply looks at you with amusement, looking you up and down a smug smile on his lips. "A hoodie, cmon angel, you're not that stupid."
"No I mean what is it doing in my closet." You spit out, feeling your blood pressure rise from him just existing.
"I put it there." He says like it's the simplest thing in the world, with the audacity to just shrug it off.
"No shit — I mean why, Beomgyu." Your voice raising, your anger growing into confusion. Your brain going a thousand miles a minute trying to figure out why he put it there so recklessly.
His eyes leave yours for a split second, his expression changing briefly before looking back at you. "In case you got cold or something."
His words linger in the air for a moment — processing what he said, what his words meant.
Turning around from him, groaning in annoyance your hands running over your face.
"Are you seri — Haeun nearly caught us." You say through your teeth, your palms digging into your eyes, taking a breath before turning to face him, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation.
Beomgyu freezes momentarily, taking in your state, his lips turning up in a small smirk, enjoying your frazzled state.
Letting you continue your spiel, his eyes following you as you pace across the room.
"The only reason she didn't is because she trusts me — us, so when I say it was some random persons laundry getting mixed up with mine she believed me — because why on earth would I ever lie to her." Your voice trailing off from anger to guilt, your fingers twirling the necklace dangling from your neck — ironically the matching one you have with Haeun.
"You're overreacting." He says calmly, in hopes to try and soothe whatever your feeling — his words only making it worse.
You scoff in disbelief taking a deep breath looking at him. "No — no! If anything I am under reacting right now — fuck I knew this was a stupid idea, we cant keep doing this."
Beomgyu stills for a moment, his feelings unreadable — confusion, maybe slight annoyance — hurt maybe?
"Because of a hoodie? If she questions further just say — I don't know, I left it at your place and you just sorted it with your —"
"Oh my fucking god, Beomgyu — not because of a hoodie! Because we are basically betraying Haeun!" Your sharp words cutting him off quickly, breaking off at the end, exasperated and exhausted, from everything — the hiding, the guilt — the unknown of what the fuck you are, both of you too stubborn or scared to ask.
You know in the grand scheme of it, you're overreacting but you cant help it — the months of guilt, unspoken feelings bubbling over.
The sharp contrast of before — when the neighbours could most definitely hear you arguing and now — an eerie quiet, both of you just — there.
"We need to end this."
"No."
"You cant just say no —"
"I am, I have a say in this."
"Beomgyu why are you fucking fighting this! — All we do is fight then have sex, it's unhealthy and —"
"You're only ending it because you're scared." His voice is steady, his arms crossed as he leans on the back of the couch, watching you unravel.
"God — you're so arrogant, I'm thinking of Haeun — and I swear to god if you keep interrupting me." You pace around in front of him, basically vibrating at this point, your skin warm, your hands flailing around as you talk.
"You're always thinking of Haeun, Y/n." His eyes follow you around, remaining calm, an unusual lack of any smart ass remarks.
The mention of Haeun makes you stiffen in your spot, your eyes locking on his.
"Fuck you."
You spit out almost like venom, your breathing growing uneven from getting worked up.
"Isn't that what you're trying to avoid?" He hums, a small cocky smile growing on his lips.
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, unintentionally moving closer to him, your fingers running over your face trying to calm down. "We are not doing this! God you're so —"
"What? Self absorbed, egotistical, arrogant? Try me, you've called me everything under the sun, angel." He tilts his head towards you, breaching your personal space, you make no real effort to move.
"I hate you."
"Every time you say that it gets less and less believable." He quips back instantly, his voice dropping an octave.
The tension between you growing palpable, laying it all on the table and still so much left unsaid.
Beomgyu takes a moment before moving even closer, feeling the warmth radiating off you.
"You're such a brat."
"Do you honestly think Haeun would care if we were sleeping together?" His voice flat, emphasising the honestly, trying to get you to see his view.
"Yes — what kind of question is that." You stammer, dumbfounded, his question seeming stupid, of course she would care — If you found out your best friend was hiding something like this you'd be pissed.
He doesnt respond instantly, just looking over you — gauging your expression, almost like he's analysing you. "No, you care. You're using Haeun as an excuse to avoid how you actually feel."
You scoff in disbelief shaking your head, a dry laugh escaping your lips. "That's not what this is — and don't act like you know me."
"No? Then what is this then — because I do know you, I know you better than you know yourself half the time."
Everything about this is wrong, You and Beomgyu have always been wrong, everything about him irks you irrevocably, you don't mesh, you don't work — so why doesnt it feel wrong.
Arguably you know that this is stupid — and that yes, you are using Haeun to avoid how you feel but that's just because you don't know how you feel.
Beomgyu is irritable in the same way a headache is — he's arrogant and obnoxious. He's competitive with only you, he's a dick to only you, so why the fuck is he fighting you on this.
You have your own revelations about this — whatever you are, but whats in it for him? Why you — why is he so protective of whatever you are, refusing to end this. Honestly it wouldn't surprise you if he's being hard just to piss you off, but you know that's not the case.
A part of you is desperate just to understand him — You've always prided yourself in being able to read people pretty well but you just cant with him.
When you break the silence it's with a dry laugh, your eyes meeting his, which were already trained on you.
"I'm not doing this."
"No we are, actually." His reply is instant, almost as if he predicted your response.
Your feet move before you can think, instinctively walking away — from him, this conversation, unsure if you even wanna hear what his opinion is because he's incapable of shutting up.
Before you can even make it to the door you feel him on you, his hand clasping around your wrist — not tight enough to hurt but enough to stop your movements.
Your back meeting the wall with a small thud — the space between you small, barely existing. The faint feeling of his breath against your skin, his fingers loosening around your wrist but lingering.
"You cant just walk away because you don't wanna talk about us, you don't get to just run away because your avoiding talking about how you feel."
"I'm walking away because the conversation ended, there is no us to talk about." Your body betraying you, your harsh words having no malice with your voice uneven, unable to even meet his eyes.
"Bullshit, you and I both know that's bullshit." He spits out, his voice low, barely louder than a whisper, if you didn't know better you could almost sense the hurt in his voice.
"Beomgyu." You say, nearly as a warning, for both of you.
"If there is nothing between us why are you so scared of Haeun finding out, if you think for a second what we have is just sex then you're not as smart as I thought."
His words instantly catching you off guard, the sudden vulnerability — the reality of it. What you had was 'just sex'. You don't think about the after, when he lingers, when he asks about your day, when he's always just there when you need him without realising you do.
Seeing it in the moment as an annoyance, because if you thought about the fact he actually makes you smile, and isn't always an arrogant asshole.
"It is just sex — you're acting like we have a normal relationship outside of it we aren't even friends! All you do is fight me on everything." The rational part of your brain trying to get him to see the logic — well your logic.
"Maybe it's just sex because you never even let yourself think it could be more, maybe I fight you on everything because it's the only time you're real." That familiar feeling — the stutter you always ignore, the small feeling whenever you see the other side of him takes over your chest.
He was right — to a point, you never let yourself think about him more than sex — because what then?
In a way you liked the way your relationship was, the way he always was there to fight you on things — to push you, fuck it was annoying but still.
Because you knew he was a good person — you've always known that, maybe that's why you could never hate him in the way you claimed.
Everything is too much — your own thoughts, his words — just him.
You let out a deep ragged breath, bordering on a laugh, unable to even look at him — your mind trying to find anyway to leave — because the bastard is right, you do run away.
Pushing him back enough for you to quickly walk away — again.
Again, Beomgyu is not having it.
His hand grabbing your wrist again, pulling you into him — his lips crashing onto yours. His hands cupping your jaw, not letting you even think about leaving again.
You immediately kiss back — its not soft, its desperate, his tongue swiping over your bottom lip briefly before his tongue slipping into your mouth, claiming every part of you, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, your fingers moving to lace into his hair, tugging at his hair, almost trying to pull him close enough to fuse into him.
The kiss is heavy — so much unsaid, trying to tell you everything without words, trying to show you how much he needs you.
Beomgyu only nips at your lip before pulling back, earning a pathetic whine from you, a string of spit connecting you, his forehead resting against yours, his fingertips barely on your cheek anymore, like he's trying to treasure you — too precious to touch.
You can barely even comprehend whats happening when you feel him laugh, his whole body shaking as he does, pulling his face from yours. His hand trailing down your cheek to your throat, wrapping around the front, his thumb pushing your chin up so you're forced to meet his eyes.
"Still easy." His voice having a rasp to it, his eyes so familiar — but also filled with something unfamiliar that you can now place — possessiveness.
"Fuck you."
"Only if you ask nicely."
Unable to stop yourself you crash your lips onto his again, desperate for him to just shut up for once.
It's desperate — messy, trying to pour everything between you into this, He's swallowing you whole — every part of you is consumed by him, his soft plush lips against yours — the faint taste of his lip balm, the coffee he was drinking before, everything about him making you dizzy.
Beomgyus hands are on you, his fingers kneading your hips — clumsily leading you to his room, both of you refusing to part from each other. Knocking into furniture — only making you huff into the kiss — a small moan escaping your lips when you feel his teeth nip at your bottom lip — swallowing the sound you make instantly.
The next thing you know is the kiss breaking — Beomgyu pushing you down onto the mattress, the small gasp that escapes only makes him smile above you, quickly kneeling to meet you, his hand cradling your face, tilting it up to meet him. Your lips parting instinctively — wanting him — needy for him.
"All this talk —" His voice gravelly, breaking with need, the deep sound echoing, going straight to your core, a small whine leaving your lips, looking up at him, silently pleading for him to do something — anything.
His lips trail down your jaw, when he gets to that particular spot he knows is sensitive his teeth nip at the skin, his tongue tracing over the mark, sucking hard making sure to leave a mark.
Because that's one thing he knows pisses you off — marks, does he do them anyways, yes.
You cant even bring yourself to fight him on it, every reasonable part of you turned against you.
His lips leave your skin, the sudden cold air hitting your wet skin making you whine, the whine only him smirk, unbelievably cocky that only he has this affect on you.
Beomgyu's eyes wander over you, noticing the small strip of skin exposed from your shirt riding up, the fact you clearly weren't thinking properly when you rushed over here, your legs exposed, the small sleep shirt barely hiding anything.
He's drinking you in — no matter how many times you've slept together he'll never get enough of this — you.
the sight of you; who is usually bratty, always running her mouth, laid out — begging for him, someone who she claims she detests.
God — the amount of times he's considered taping this, just to show you who is actually in charge.
He only snaps out of his trance when he hears your pathetic pleas, grasping at his hand, pulling him back towards you.
Grabbing at your wrist, his thumb presses against your pulse — the feeling of it beating under him only sending him crazy because its you.
Everything about you drives him insane — he can never get enough of you.
"Look at you, huh? I wonder what everyone would think if they knew how pathetic you were. Begging — being all sweet just for me, right?" His voice dripping with sarcasm, His fingers skimming over your torso, over the soft fabric that's leaving little to the imagination.
His eyes are trained on your face, focusing on all the small details, the way your eyebrows crease whenever he calls you one of the pet names you hate, the way your tongue pokes out when your concentrated — the way you get teary eyed whenever he teases you, how you look when his fingers press on your tongue — basically begging him to take all of you.
"Beomgyu.." Your strained voice only making it all worse — how even after everything you still needed him. Getting impatient, your head thrown back while your body arches into his touch.
a voice inside is telling him to hurry up because he needs you just bad, another part of him needs to prolong this — to show you just how much you need him, how much you really want him.
His fingers trace over the exposed skin of your stomach, not missing the way you shiver when his fingers touch you.
Every touch is electric — Your patience wearing thin, he's always had an affect on you — that's what got you here but this was different, he was drawing this out, taking his time messing with your head. His touches feeling different, lingering longer than necessary and on purpose.
Beomgyu's fingers dip under the hem of your shorts — so fucking close to where you need him, you think he's finally about to do something.
then he pulls his hand away. Not only that, pulling off you fully, standing tall over you.
The words die on the tip of your tongue when you see him pull his shirt over his head, throwing it across the room with no goal. Kneeling on the bed hovering over you again, his face close enough where you can feel his uneven breathes against your face.
"Do you have any idea what its like to deal with you." His voice is quiet — broken almost, like he's trying to hold back but cant.
His words instantly catch you off guard, taking a sharp breath, not even able to say anything before he continues.
"You're everywhere — I cant escape you even if I wanted too, and every time we fight — god do you know what it takes for me not to ruin you in that moment." His fingers tighten on your hip, voice dripping with need, you can hear him holding back.
You don't say anything — you cant, his words, bordering on a confession leave you breathless, not trusting your voice even if you tried.
"Always running that mouth but now, you're speechless?" He hums, his eyes focused on your shirt, his fingers bunching up the fabric at your waist, slowly pushing it up further and further.
His fingers graze over you mindlessly, his touch feather like over your side, the soft touch making you shiver. Beomgyus finger gently wrap around your wrist, pulling you up, quickly moving back to the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, letting it land on the ground.
You can feel his eyes on you — Guiding you to lay back onto the mattress, hearing him audibly take a breath, his eyes never leaving you.
His thumb tracing over your chest, over the thin fabric — purposefully ignoring your perked nipples peaking through the thin bra you were wearing.
"Beomgyu." The breathy whine doing nothing to pull him from his gaze, his fingers reaching around to unclasp it, the bra loosening instantly.
Slowly, his fingers pull down the straps, letting it fall onto the space beside you, leaving you exposed. Beomgyu doesnt let you feel insecure to worried, his head leaning over your tits, his breath ghosting over one of your nipples making you gasp.
His tongue poking out, teasing you — licking the top half of your boobs, pressing sloppy kisses everywhere but you need him to.
Finally, his lips wrap around your nipple, teeth grazing over the sensitive bud, sucking hard, his other hand creeping up to your neglected tit, fingers tugging on your nipple, twisting and flicking it between his fingers.
Your hands rush to his hair, arching into his mouth, a string of desperate moans leaving your lips. He only moans when he feels you tug on his locks, his other hand gripping on your hip, stopping you from moving, affectively caging you under him.
His hand leaves your hip, smoothing over the band of your shorts, wasting to time pulling them down, letting you kick them off. His fingers running over your newly exposed skin, making your breath hitch.
With a pop, his lips leave your tit, the skin red and spit soaked — you make the mistake of trying to look down at him — his eyes already trained on you. His pupils blown, cheeks dusted pink, his hair a mess from your fingers running through it. You can feel him everywhere — his touch leaving your skin tingling.
His fingers carefully trace over the plush of your thigh, tapping at your inner thigh, telling you silently to part them — of course you do so instantly.
"Such a good girl — why cant you be like this all the time?" He tsks at the end, biting back a grin, the smugness in his voice pulling an embarrassed whine from you.
Pushing your legs apart further, his fingers circle the exposed skin of your inner thigh — testing you, so close to where you need him. You try pushing your hips up, trying to meet his fingers.
A small chuckle escapes his lips — not that you're focused on that, your brain a one track mind — only thinking of him, his touch.
His middle and ring finger brush over your cunt, his touch barely counting — still it drives you insane.His eyes drift down, looking at your body — desperately arching into his touch.
His fingers sliding down your folds collecting your slick — letting out a strangled sound, before you can think his fingers push inside you.
The sound that escaped was small — somewhere between a gasp and a moan, finally feeling him. His fingers stretching you out, curling deep inside your cunt.
Your moans fill the room, his fingers pumping inside you — hitting that addicting spot every time.
"F-fuck — don't stop.." Your voice breaking midway — Beomgyu's fingers scissoring inside you stretching you out more, his rhythm is mean — giving you no room to breathe.
"So tight — fuck, she takes me so well — shes sucking me in like she doesnt want me to leave." He takes a sharp breath, almost like he's holding back a moan — barely even registering your words, focused on the feeling of your cunt around his fingers — sucking him in, your warm walls taking him so well.
The feeling of his fingers sliding in and out of you — the sudden loss of him only for him to slam his fingers back inside you, curling into that sweet spot that makes you clench around him hard.
His other hand grabs one of your thighs, hooking it over his hip, the sudden change of position only making his fingers push deeper in you.
You cant even do anything but moan, pulling him down to your level, your lips attaching back to his. "Beomgyu — ahh fuck! I'm gonna c-cum pleaseplease! —" Your words barely coherent, so focused on Beomgyu's fingers fucking you, the sound of your wetness echoing through the room.
You can almost taste the sweet release of your orgasm —
The he stills his fingers in aching pussy.
"Beomgyu what the fuck —" Your voice broken and coming out as a whine, the fading pleasure only making you try and chase it again — trying to buck your hips up to meet him, failing desperately.
"You think you deserve this — after being a brat?" His words teetering on a dry laugh, a dark, smug grin is all you see when you open your eyes.
You let out a choked sob — your whole body burning up — desperate for his touch again. "Please, — please." Your greedy — so desperate for that release you'll do anything.
Beomgyu's fingers suddenly start fucking into you — his palm meeting your clit with every thrust, his pace fast and rough.
"Look at her — so needy, just for me — gonna take care of this pussy, shes so sweet for me." Your back arches off the mattress, your walls fluttering around his digits, your clinging onto him — not letting him part from you for a second. Your head falling to his shoulder — sobbing into into him trying to muffle your loud, desperate moans.
The coil in your gut snaps — your orgasm rips through you. Your legs spasming around him, a string of nonsensical moans — his fingers pressing against that gummy spot on your walls relentlessly, fucking you through your orgasm — your release coating his hand, your walls sucking him further into your cunt.
Before you can even process Beomgyu's hands are on you — pulling you down to hover over his face, his hands kneading the plush of your hips, your legs already shaking from your previous orgasm making it impossible to stay stationary over him.
His arms wrap around your thighs pulling your cunt flush against his face, licking a long stripe up your cunt — drinking up your cum.
Falling forward you grab the headboard — trying to stabilise yourself, your brain working overtime, fuzzy from your orgasm and the warm, wet sensation of his mouth drinking up all your cum.
"Beomgyu — too much, shit! — " You gasp, your free hand tangling in his hair, unsure if you're trying to pull him closer or push him away.
Beomgyu's tongue laps up all of your juices — swirling over your oversensitive clit, the wet messy sound of his saliva mixing with your cum.
Already working in overdrive from your previous orgasm your next one crashes over you — Beomgyu's tongue swirling around your entrance licking up all of your cum — moaning low against your pussy making you jolt.
You cant help but grind against his face — using his tongue to ride out your orgasm, and he's letting you. His fingers digging into the skin of your thighs, keeping you right on his face, if you weren't so utterly fucked out you would have worried about his lack of oxygen.
After a moment his hold on you loosens, helping you off, leaning back on the mattress, her head hitting the pillows — the familiar scent of him consuming you.
Beomgyu settles between your legs, hooking your legs over his shoulders, basically bending you in half. His free hand strokes his cock, tapping his tip against your clit, smearing all the wetness over his cock.
"Look at you — fuck shes begging for me, mama." He hisses through his teeth, letting out a guttural groan deep from his chest. His eyes trained on your cunt — clenching around nothing, basically begging for his cock.
With one deep push he's inside you — the position only making him go impossibly deeper, feeling him everywhere in you, his hand smooths over your stomach pressing over the bulge in your stomach from how deep he is in your gut.
"Look at her — sucking me in, takes me so well every fucking time — doesnt she?"
You cant even reply — your eyes lolling shut, unable to keep them open, Beomgyu's cock sliding in out of of your pussy, pushing your legs impossibly closer, needing to be even closer to you somehow.
His cock buried deep inside you, roughly thrusting into you, his hips meeting yours.
Feeling every drag of tip against that gummy spot he's set on, his cock stretching you open — no matter how many times he fucks you dumb, your cunt sucks him like she never wants him to leave.
"Only I can fuck you like this, huh? Look at you — what? Fucked too stupid to even reply?" His lips brushed against your neck, his words coming out ragged and out of breath, almost punctuating every word with a sharp thrust.
The ache of your body being basically folded in half is in the far back of your mind — the pleasure ripping through you is all consuming — everything in your head being turned to mush only echoing one coherent thing — beomgyu.
"All angry at me when all you need is to be taken care off, yeah? Maybe instead of being a bitch just ask nicely and you can get — fuck, what you want." He hisses through his teeth, his pace faltering for a moment, his mocking words making you squeeze his cock tightly, nearly pushing him out.
Through all of the pleasure all you need is him closer — almost like he can sense it he leans down capturing your lips in a needy kiss, one of his hands moving off the mattress to cradle your face.
The kiss was heavy — it was laced with so many unspoken words, almost trying to tell you how he was feeling without speaking, holding onto your face tight, not letting you even try to move away from him, swallowing every sound — every pretty moan you let out.
you only break the kiss when a particular deep thrust knocks the air out of your chest, a small whimper escaping your lips. "Gyu — m'so close please.."
The sound that escapes Beomgyu's throat borders on a whimper — his thrusts growing sloppier, feeling him twitch inside you, taking a sharp breath against your lips, his head resting against yours.
"If you call me that again im not lasting, angel — fuck, squeezing me so tight, need to cum yeah?" He mumbled against your lips, you can practically feel him grinning against you, pulling back only to bury his cock deep into you — squishing your legs further into your chest, only letting him fuck you even deeper.
Fat tears are rolling down your cheeks, your sobs only morphing with your choked moans, the tight coil burning in your gut — so sensitive its too much but you need it — your pussy spasming around his length, your vision going blurry.
His cock heavy in your gut — his thrusts persistent and precise knowing exactly where every button to make you lose your mind is.
"For someone so — fucking sure she hates me, you sure beg for me like a little slut? You think you deserve to cum?" His words pull a desperate, choked sob, feeling his thrusts slow dangerously, feeling your high slowly slip out from under you. eagerly you shake your head in disagreement, his eyes lingering on the wet splotches of tears staining your cheeks.
"Cum for me, angel — that's it, good girl, let everyone know who you belong too, that's it —" his voice coming our raspy, dragging out the praise. With his words your orgasm comes crashing over you — your head throw back against the pillows arching impossibly closer to him — his hips crashing against yours, coming undone around his cock.
"Taking it so well — fuck gonna cum.. Gonna fuck you full, not gonna tell me to stop either, huh? She's begging for more, to fill her up — fuck. His words growing incoherent as his own orgasm comes crashing, the feeling of your walls tightening around his cock, creaming over his length as he fucks you through your orgasm.
Reaching up your fingers card through his hair tugging on the strands, pulling him closer to you, his thrusts not wavering, his own release making him more insatiable. The wet sounds of him fucking his cum into you — mixing with your own release only drones him on.
"She's taking me so well — gonna ruin her, only I get to have you like this, fuck shes dripping, can barely take it all." Your brain is shutting down — the only thing you can feel is him, its almost too much — orgasm after orgasm ripping through you.
After both of your highs calm down his thrusts slow, stopping after you let out a small whine. Slowly pulling back, his hand rubbing at the muscles of your sore legs, pulling out of you, mumbling under his breath. Watching as his cum mixed with yours, trickles out of your fluttering hole.
The room falls quiet, the small sounds of your breathing, the wind and rain from outside barely audible.
Beomgyu's eyes trail over you, taking in your state, focusing on your face — your eyes still shut, recuperating from just before. He leans over, pressing a feather like kiss onto your temple before standing up.
Stretching out, groaning comically loud only making you bite back a small laugh, He pulls up his boxers making his way out of the room, returning moments later with a wet cloth and a bottle of water.
You're staring up at the ceiling, just processing — the night ending in the way it always does for you both, but this time its different. You've both said things — maybe not a lot, or even all of how you felt but its not nothing.
Beomgyu settles between her legs, dragging the damp cloth over her, cleaning up the mess from between her legs.
Looking at him its almost domestic — a surprisingly soft expression on his face, cleaning you up gently, his free hand stationary on your leg, soothing the warm skin.
You only look at him briefly before his eyes meet yours, quickly looking back at the roof. Feeling Beomgyu pull away from you — you nearly felt colder, his warm presence shifting away from you.
Your mind is racing through everything — every thought ending with him, everything you try to distract yourself with somehow always ends in you thinking of Beomgyu in some shape or form.
Coming back to reality with Beomgyu calling out your name repeatedly, resting next to you on the bed. You swallow the lump in your throat giving yourself another moment before turning to him finally.
"I hate lying to her." Your voice small, the sudden shift is noticeable, finally having the conversation you've been avoiding since this started.
"I know." You were surprised when he actually took it seriously — didn't play it off as a joke, a part of you finally feeling like you can understand him.
you continue, "I feel guilty, like im hurting her —" Your short ramble quickly cut off.
"You know she wouldn't care, angel."
"Okay — logically I know that, okay but its one thing if we were serious but we're —" You trail off, breathless, a small weight simultaneously lifted off your shoulders and weighing you down.
Your eyes dart back to the ceiling, everything about this feeling new, undiscovered, raw — real.
He silently brushes some stray pieces of hair from your cheek, before taking a breath. The realisation that this conversation has probably been on his mind too — all your realisations are probably ones he's had.
"I don't think she needs to know what we are yet, and I don't particularly feel like telling her about me sleeping with her best friend."
The implication of yet doesnt brush past you — yet means that, yes he wants to tell her but also because he doesnt really know what you are yet.
"I don't hate you, I never did."
"Then why did you make my life a living hell?"
"Because — it was fun to see you riled up, enthusiastic."
"It was just a game to you?"
"You've never been just anything to me, you've been everything."
His words take all the air out of your chest, rendering you truly speechless. His vulnerable words shocking and you don't know what to say. All of his feelings out in the open — eagerly awaiting your response.
"You were that annoying and obnoxiously loud kid in class who always pissed me off." You say flatly, Beomgyu raising a brow at your sudden and harsh words.
"I pour my heart out to you and you say all that? Geez tell me how you really feel." He says lightheartedly with a small smile trying to lighten the tense mood.
'You were easy to hate." The words falling out of your lips quieter, more timid than you intended, he picked up on that.
"Were?"
"Shut up."
Beomgyu's face lights up with a cheesing grin, poking at your shoulder, amused by your embarrassment.
"No you said were — past tense."
"Oh my god do you shut up —" Your quickly cut off by his lips pressing against yours, his hand cupping your jaw, deepening the kiss. Only pulling breaking when you him gently, resting your hand on his shoulder.
"I was talking." You say unamused, Beomgyu however found his hilarious, only adding to the situation.
"I know."
He leans in to try and kiss you again, only for you to flick him, his dramatic reaction pulling a small smile from you.
"Beomgyu." You say hesitantly, still unsure of what this is — almost sensing it he quickly cuts off any thoughts.
"We don't need to talk about this all at once, as long as we are on the same page."
"And that page is?"
"That you're undeniably, irrecoverably —" Beomgyu's hand rests back ontop her cheek, pressing a kiss to her temple before pulling back, a stupid grin on his face " — obsessed with me."
"You're stupid." You reply instantly, not able to shake the amused smile on your face.
synopsis: the guy of your dreams finally asks you on a date. the problem? you've barely had your first kiss—and he looks like he definitely knows what he's doing. panicking, you ask the campus resident playboy, choi yeonjun, for lessons. strictly practical. no feelings. no strings. except yeonjun isn't as experienced as everyone thinks.
✧ pairing: playboy student!choi yeonjun x student!reader
✧ genre/warnings: explicit sexual content (smut with plot, 18+ mdni), rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, virgin/inexperience themes, anxiety/second-hand embarrassment
✧ word count: 10.8k
✧ status: completed
✧ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist
soobin: back next month
soobin: wanna go for dinner?
soobin: i’ve missed you
You stare at the screen until your eyes start to sting. Dinner. A normal word. A normal plan. A normal boy you’ve wanted for an unreasonable amount of time.
You should be thrilled. Your chest does flutter—soft, stupid, familiar. Then your stomach drops, because the version of you Soobin thinks he’s meeting at that dinner is not you.
Not really.
You’ve wanted him since you were sixteen and he was already the kind of boy teachers praised too eagerly and girls liked too openly. You wanted him while he had a girlfriend—pretty, polished, untouchable—so you learned how to want him quietly. You got good at it. You made it a background process in your life. A hidden tab.
Then university happened. He went to Switzerland on exchange. You told yourself it was a clean ending.
Distance didn’t end it. It loosened you. Because somehow, over the last few months, Soobin started talking. Properly talking.
Not just polite check-ins. Not just how’s class? and did you eat today? but messages that didn’t stop at midnight. Calls that started as five minutes and ended with the sky lightening outside your window. A private, dangerous kind of closeness where he starts saying your name a little slower, a little softer, until you can’t pretend it’s nothing.
It starts as flirting. Then it turns into sexting.
And you—who have no business to—kept up.
Because you were safe behind a screen. Because he was far away. Because your thumbs were braver than your body. Because he kept responding like he wanted more.
You didn’t just flirt. You performed. You told him you weren’t shy. You told him you’d done things. You told him you were good at things. You told him a body count that sounded impressive instead of honest.
And he believed you.
Your phone buzzes again before your brain can recover.
soobin: i want your mouth
soobin: i’m serious about dinner
soobin: and i’m serious about what you promised me
Your throat goes dry so fast it hurts. You sit up, duvet sliding down your waist, and for a second you’re too hot in your own skin. Your heart is loud. Your hands are damp.
Promised.
That’s the word that ruins everything, because you didn’t just talk. You bragged.
You scroll up.
You don’t want to. You do it anyway, thumb dragging the chat back through weeks of late nights and bad decisions. There you are—bold, filthy, fearless on paper.
you: i’m not going to be sweet about it
you: i’ll get on my knees if you ask
you: i’m good at swallowing. don’t underestimate me
you: i can take you
you: i won’t tap out
You stare at your own messages with a slow, horrified disbelief, as if someone else typed them. Someone with experience. Someone with practice. Someone with a real history and not—you stop.
Because the truth is humiliating in its simplicity.
You have never given anyone head in your life. You have never even seen a dick in real life that wasn’t in a medical diagram or an accidental photo someone flashed in a groupchat.
Your lips have kissed exactly one boy in your entire life and it barely counts. Year Four. A snotty boy with glasses. A thank-you kiss meant for his cheek. You misjudged the angle and pecked him on the mouth. You remember the sound he made—half gasp, half offended squeak. The way you both froze, staring at each other with the shared expression of two people who’d just committed a felony. The way you ran home and swore off boys forever, as if you’d been personally wronged by God.
You, age nine—already dramatic. You, age twenty-one—still dramatic. But now with consequences. Real ones.
Your phone buzzes again.
soobin: you’re not going to ghost me now, right?
soobin: i’ve been counting down
soobin: i want you
You make a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a noise of actual pain. “Jesus,” you whisper, voice thin.
Your brain starts sprinting ahead without you. Dinner, walking you home, his hand at your waist, him leaning in with confidence because you taught him to expect it. And you—you going rigid. You kissing him back wrong. You revealing yourself in the worst, most embarrassing way—not with a confession, but with your body freezing because it doesn’t know what to do.
You toss your phone onto the bed like it’s cursed. Then you grab it again immediately, because you’re weak and because seeing his name does something soft and stupid to your chest.
You type. Delete. Type again. Delete again.
You draft confidence and erase it. Draft flirtation and erase it. Draft something filthy—something that matches the girl you pretended to be—and erase it so hard your thumb aches.
Finally you type, yeah.
One word. Small. Safe. Harmless. A lie, considering the persona you’ve been feeding him at 2am.
You hover over send and consider adding something bolder. A wink. A threat. A promise. Your fear wins. You hit send. The message delivers.
You stare at it in silence for two seconds. Then you smack your forehead with the heel of your hand hard enough to make your eyes water.
“Why did I lie?” you whisper to the empty room.
No one answers. The room just holds you there—sitting upright in your bed with your phone in your hand, realising you have officially talked yourself into a situation you do not know how to survive.
Your friends answer instead—because they always do, and never gently. Cute little vultures with groupchats.
It’s Thursday night—which means someone’s flat, music too loud, cheap alcohol poured into plastic cups, bodies pressed into every corner of a living room. The air tastes of vape, perfume, sweat, and whatever fruity mixer is being spilled onto the carpet and ignored.
You’re perched on the arm of the sofa, clutching a cup you’ve had for twenty minutes without drinking. You’re not thirsty. Your anxiety has simply occupied every available body function and reassigned your hands to cup duty so they don’t start shaking.
Beomgyu is in his element. Beomgyu is thriving. He’s sitting cross-legged on the rug with smug confidence. He has an audience. He has momentum. He is about to ruin you for entertainment.
“And then,” Beomgyu says, raising his voice so half the room can hear, “she tells Soobin her body count is eleven.”
You make a sound that is half groan, half prayer. “I didn’t tell him. It just came out.”
“It just came out,” Beomgyu repeats, delighted. “Right. A natural phenomenon. An act of God. You tripped and fell face-first into lying.”
Mina’s eyes go wide. “Eleven is wild. Babe.”
Yuna squints at you. “Eleven is also—not even sexy. You could’ve said four. Four says I have a life without saying I run an underground operation.”
“I panicked,” you hiss. “He was flirting. It escalated. And I—”
“And you decided to go full porn star,” Beomgyu finishes, grinning.
“Beomgyu!” you yelp, lunging for the nearest cushion. You throw it at his face.
He catches it without looking. Smug bastard.
Yuna points at you, horrified and amused. “What else did you lie about?”
“I lied about everything,” you whisper, because there’s no point pretending now. Your face is on fire. “I lied about my body count. I lied about being experienced. I lied about—skills.”
Beomgyu slaps his knee. “Skills.”
“Stop saying it like that,” you beg.
Beomgyu is practically vibrating. “No, because this is insane. Soobin is coming back next month expecting you to be this confident, filthy menace, and you’ve never even—”
“Don’t,” you warn, voice shaking. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Mina tries to be helpful and fails. “Okay, but what exactly did you promise him?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “I promised him a whole night.”
Beomgyu snorts. “A whole night of what? Sudoku?”
Yuna makes a choking noise. Mina throws her head back, laughing.
You glare at Beomgyu. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he says, grinning. “You need me. I’m your emotional support bully.”
“You’re my emotional support executioner.”
Beomgyu raises his hands. “I’m just saying, you didn’t just flirt. You wrote him a brochure. You made claims.”
Mina wipes at her eyes. “What claims?”
Beomgyu smiles, evil. “She told him she’d get on her knees the second he asked.”
“Beomgyu!”
“She told him she likes it doggy.”
“Beomgyu!”
“She told him she could take raw.”
Yuna screams, “STOPPPPPP.”
You bury your face in your hands. Your entire body tries to fold into itself. “I was delusional,” you say into your palms. “I was horny and delusional and he was in Switzerland and it felt fake and safe.”
Mina’s laughter softens a notch. “Okay. Okay. So what’s your plan? Are you going to tell him the truth?”
You lift your head slowly, eyes stinging. “Absolutely not.”
Yuna blinks. “Then what happens when he tries to kiss you?”
Your stomach flips. “I’m going to die,” you whisper.
“You’re not going to die,” Beomgyu says cheerfully. “You’re just going to be exposed.”
“Can you stop saying that sentence,” Mina says, laughing and wincing at the same time.
Across the room, the music shifts. People keep dancing. People keep drinking. Your life is falling apart and nobody even pauses the playlist.
You stand up because you can’t sit still. Your skin feels too tight. Your lungs won’t fill properly. “I need air,” you say, not asking permission.
Beomgyu waves you off. “Go practise being mysterious.”
Mina calls after you, still laughing, “Go practise telling the truth!”
You flip them off without turning around.
Cold air hits your face and your lungs finally expand. The night is damp, streetlights turning the pavement glossy.
Your eyes sting. You tell yourself you are not crying at a party. You are not going to be that girl. You are going to be normal and composed and grown—your throat tightens anyway. You swipe at your cheek, annoyed at yourself, and step further out so the doorway light can’t expose your face.
And then you see him.
Choi Yeonjun.
Leaning against a lamppost with a cigarette between his fingers, shoulders loose, posture relaxed in a way that feels unfair. He’s with a few friends, but he stands half a step apart—present, included, not chasing attention. He laughs at something, and it’s easy. It sits on him naturally.
His hair falls into his face in messy pieces, dark and thick and grown out on purpose. It shadows his eyes when he looks down. When he lifts his gaze there’s sharp attention there—observant, not arrogant. The kind that makes you feel clocked even from across the pavement.
A silver hoop catches the light at his ear when he turns his head. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms bare, lean muscle moving when he brings the cigarette to his mouth. He exhales smoke into the cold and doesn’t look like he’s performing for anyone.
“Bro,” one of them laughs, loud enough that anyone with ears is now involved, “you cannot keep saying you’re taking a break when you’re still getting your dick sucked every other day.”
Yeonjun doesn’t even flinch. He takes a drag, exhales slowly, and says, deadpan, “I’m not keeping track.”
“You’re lying,” another one says immediately. “You absolutely keep track. You’re the kind of man who knows his Google Calendar password.”
“Yeah, you just stumble into it,” the first friend snorts. “Accidentally. Tragic. You fell down the stairs and landed in someone’s throat.”
“Shut up,” Yeonjun says, but it’s lazy. Practised. Like he’s said it before and enjoyed it every time.
A third friend shoves his shoulder. “Nah, he’s actually evil. He’ll flirt for twenty minutes, act all chill, then go, Do you want to come upstairs? like it’s a cuppa tea.”
Yeonjun flicks ash off his cigarette. “It’s not evil. It’s called being direct.”
“It’s called being a slut,” the first friend corrects, delighted. “Campus public transport. Tap in, tap out.”
Yeonjun turns his head slowly, brows lifting. “I’m not public transport.”
His friends erupt. Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking now, and it’s the kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what they’re doing and he’s letting them anyway.
“Okay,” the second friend says, catching his breath. “Serious question. Aftercare?”
Yeonjun exhales, unimpressed. “I’m not a psychopath.”
“Oh my God,” the third friend groans, laughing. “He’s a whore with ethics.”
Yeonjun shrugs, too calm. “I’m a man with standards.”
“Your standards are, she wants you and she’s breathing.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “She wants me. I want her. Nobody’s pressured. Everybody’s clean. Everybody’s fed. That’s the whole list.”
“The whole list,” the first friend repeats, wheezing. “He said fed. This man is handing out orgasms and snacks.”
Yeonjun taps his cigarette against the lamppost. “You’ll understand one day when someone actually enjoys having you around.”
“Yeonjun,” someone gasps, scandalised, “that was personal.”
He just smirks again—unbothered and comfortable in his skin—while your stomach tightens, because hearing him say it out loud makes everything in your head feel painfully real.
Your brain supplies everything you’ve heard about him without you asking.
Your chest aches with something humiliating. Not for him. For what he seems to have. For how he seems to exist without fear. For how he looks like he could teach confidence the way people teach a language.
The idea lands hard. You stare at Yeonjun—at the cigarette, the smirk, the calm—and you think, with awful certainty, I’m going to ask him for help.
You don’t do it at the party.
Because you are many things, but you are not walk up to the campus whore in front of witnesses and ask him to teach you how to suck dick insane.
So you try to be strategic. You try to be normal.
You fail.
The next day, you find Yeonjun alone in a lecture hall—back row, legs stretched out, phone in his hand. His hair is pushed back just enough to show his forehead, but it still falls forward in stubborn pieces. He looks expensive without trying.
You stop in the doorway too long. A girl brushing past you mutters, “Move,” and you jolt as if you’ve been caught committing a crime.
You march down the aisle anyway. Your brain is screaming ABORT. Your feet ignore it. Yeonjun doesn’t look up when you sit beside him. Of course he doesn’t. Of course the man who allegedly gets laid on weekdays doesn’t bother looking up at anything.
Your heart is punching your ribs. Your palms are damp. You swallow. Hard.
You stare at the front of the lecture hall like it owes you answers. Your throat keeps tightening every time you try to form a sentence.
Hi. Sorry. Weird question.
No.
Hi. I’ve been watching you smoke outside parties.
Absolutely not.
Hi. I lied to this guy named Soobin who’s on exchange in Switzerland and he’s about to come back and asked to go on a date and then do things but I have no idea how to do these things because of course I lied so now I need a man with a reputation to save me.
Jesus Christ.
Yeonjun scrolls on his phone, thumb moving slow, relaxed. He’s close enough that you can see the edge of his screen. Something brainless. Sports highlights. A meme. A girl’s name in his notifications.
You glance at him once. Sharp jaw. Lazy mouth. Heavy lashes. The faint scent of laundry, smoke, and something clean under it—soap, cologne, whatever. It makes your stomach do that humiliating drop it does when you remember you’re a sexual being and not just an anxious blob with student debt.
You look away fast. Too fast. Your neck twinges.
You sit there rigid for the entire hour, rehearsing one sentence over and over until it loses meaning—Can you teach me how to sex?
The lecturer says something about post-modernism. Somebody asks a question nobody cares about. Someone’s laptop fan starts screaming. Life carries on while you silently drown.
Yeonjun doesn’t look up once.
At the end, people stand. Bags zip. Chairs scrape. Yeonjun stands too, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
He walks past you without a glance.
You sit there for a full minute after everyone leaves, staring at the whiteboard as if it’s going to spit out confidence. “Okay,” you whisper, furious with yourself. “Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow arrives and Yeonjun is outside, cigarette between his lips, lighter flicking open and shut in his hand.
Your feet carry you there before your brain can file an objection. And then, at the last second, your body betrays you and you dive behind a bush.
A bush. You are hiding behind a bush on a university campus because you are terrified of a man with good cheekbones. You crouch there, peering through leaves, the damp smell of plant and dirt filling your nose.
Yeonjun inhales. Exhales. Smoke curls into the cold air.
You tell yourself, Go. Walk up. Speak. Use words. Ask him. Say “I need help, please.”
You don’t move. Yeonjun finishes the cigarette. Lights another.
You tell yourself, If you don’t go now, you’re going to end up on a date with Soobin pretending you know what you’re doing. He’s going to kiss you. He’s going to touch you. He’s going to expect your mouth to do the things you promised. You’re going to panic. You’re going to ruin everything.
You still don’t move. Your phone vibrates. You freeze, because the universe has a sense of humour and it hates you.
Yeonjun shifts slightly. His gaze flicks toward the bush.
Your soul leaves your body.
He stares for a beat then turns to his phone. Yeonjun finishes the second cigarette, tucks the lighter away, and walks off.
You remain behind the bush. You press your forehead to a leaf.
“Why am I like this?” you whisper.
The day after that, you decide you need a new strategy. A better one. A less humiliating one. Something with dignity.
So you go to the cafeteria with sunglasses on and a newspaper lifted to hide half your face. You look like a woman trying to commit fraud.
You spot Yeonjun across the room—sitting alone, phone in one hand, sandwich in the other, taking bites in between texts. He looks irritatingly relaxed. He looks annoyingly hot doing something as unsexy as eating cheese and mayonnaise.
You pretend to read the newspaper. You turn a page too aggressively and it makes a loud snap. The guy next to you flinches and stares. You stare straight ahead, as if you are not a lunatic wearing sunglasses indoors at lunchtime. You lower the newspaper by half an inch.
Yeonjun is still scrolling. Still chewing. Still minding his own business.
You tell yourself: Stand up. Walk over. Say “Hi.” Say “I need help.” Say “I lied.” Say “I need lessons.” Say “Before my date, I need someone to teach me how to not embarrass myself in bed.”
Your mouth goes dry. Your thoughts trip over each other. Just walk up. Just say it. Just—your sunglasses slip down your nose. You push them up too fast, flustered. The newspaper wobbles. You panic and lift it higher.
Someone behind you laughs. You don’t know if it’s at you, but your body assumes it is.
Yeonjun finally looks up. His eyes flick over the newspaper, the sunglasses, the tension in your shoulders. He pauses mid-bite. Then, very slowly, he goes back to his phone.
You exhale into the paper, miserable. “This is not going well,” you whisper.
And somehow—despite the humiliation flooding your face, despite the dread crawling up your spine—you already know the worst part. You’re not stopping.
By day five, Choi Yeonjun is done pretending this is normal.
He can handle the usual stuff. People staring. People whispering. People acting brave in front of their friends and then sending him titty pics at 2am with you up? and a location pin.
He can handle being a rumour. It’s easier than being a person. But even rumours don’t come with a five-day stalking schedule.
It starts small. Then it gets stupid.
Lecture hall—you sit next to him and sweat through your shirt. Outside—you appear near his smoke break and then vanish behind a bush. Cafeteria—you wear sunglasses indoors and hold a newspaper upside down to your eyebrows.
Yeonjun is not flattered. Yeonjun is not charmed.
Yeonjun is thinking, is this a dare? Am I about to end up on somebody’s private story with a caption that says caught the campus slut? If I ignore it, you’ll keep doing it. If I confront it, it becomes a scene.
Then there’s the men’s toilets. That’s when it stops being funny.
He’s half-awake, caffeine-deprived, walking toward the door, and there you are—posted up near it, pretending you’re waiting for someone.
You are very obviously not waiting for someone. You are waiting for him.
He slows. You freeze. Your eyes meet for half a second and your face does this whole panic spiral in real time—guilt, fear, shame—then you look away so fast it’s a neck injury. Yeonjun walks past because he’s not starting a public fight outside a toilet.
But he washes his hands longer than necessary, staring at his reflection. He looks normal. He looks calm. He looks exactly like the guy everyone thinks he is.
He doesn’t feel calm.
He feels watched. He feels set up. He feels one wrong move away from being a screenshot.
So by day five, he makes a decision. If you want to be weird, you’re going to be weird to his face.
He’s outside for a cigarette when he spots you again.
There you are, half-hidden behind a lamppost, doing a terrible job at pretending you’re just standing there. You’re stiff, shoulders high, eyes wide, cheeks already flushing because you know you’ve been seen.
Kian follows Yeonjun’s gaze. “Oh my God,” he laughs. “It’s her. The spy.”
Milo squints. “Is she the newspaper one?”
“Yeah,” Kian says, delighted. “Newspaper and sunglasses indoors. Absolute criminal.”
Yeonjun flicks ash off his cigarette. “Shut up,” he says, stepping away from them.
He just walks. Straight toward you. Your eyes widen further as he closes the distance. You look trapped.
He stops in front of the lamppost. He keeps his voice flat. Calm. No drama. “Are you following me?”
You blink. “What? No.”
Yeonjun nods once. “Okay.”
You exhale, relief flickering.
“And I’m the Pope,” Yeonjun adds, deadpan. “Lecture hall. Cafeteria. My smoke breaks. Outside the men’s toilets.”
Your face drains. “Oh my God,” you choke out. “No—no, I wasn’t—I wasn’t—”
Yeonjun lifts a brow. “Finish that sentence.”
You swallow. Your fingers clamp around your bag strap.
Yeonjun doesn’t soften. Not yet. He scans your hands. Your phone. The angle of your body. The way you keep flicking your eyes around the pavement. He says it plainly. “Are you filming me?”
Your head jerks. “What? No!”
“Is this a dare?” Yeonjun asks. “Are your friends watching from a window? Are we doing a prank? Do you want me to say something embarrassing so you can post it?”
Your eyes go glassy. “No. I swear. I’m not trying to do anything to you.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches at that. “Bold sentence to say to a stranger you’ve been stalking.”
You flinch. “I wasn’t stalking. I was—”
“What,” Yeonjun cuts in, voice low, “were you doing?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Yeonjun waits. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t rescue you. He just stands there and lets the silence choke.
Your voice comes out messy. “I have a date.”
Yeonjun blinks once. “Congrats.”
You keep going anyway, words pouring now that the dam’s cracked. “He’s coming back next month. This guy. Choi Soobin? I don’t know if you know him but—but he asked me out and I—I’ve been texting him for months and I said things and now he’s actually going to be here and I’m going to embarrass myself so badly I’m going to have to drop out.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “Soobin—as in Soobin the guy that went to Switzerland on exchange?”
You nod so hard it’s frantic.
Yeonjun keeps his face blank. “And what does any of this have to do with me?”
You inhale sharply and then blurt the proposition in the worst possible words. “I need you to teach me how to suck dick.”
The pavement goes silent in Yeonjun’s head. Not because he’s shocked. He’s heard worse. He’s been offered worse. Because your delivery is so mortified and sincere that it doesn’t even sound seductive. It sounds desperate. It sounds panicked. It sounds… insane.
Yeonjun stares at you. Then he says, very clearly, “Excuse me?”
Your whole face turns red. “Not—not here. Oh my God. Not on the street. I just—I meant—I need help.”
“You think you can just walk up to me and say that?” Yeonjun asks, voice sharper now. “You think I’m a public service? A campus tutorial?”
“No!” you say too loudly. Then quieter, frantic. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I just—I lied to him.”
Yeonjun crosses his arms. “About what.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “About—everything.”
“Give me specifics,” Yeonjun says. “Because everything can mean you lied about being rich or you lied about loving anal.”
You make a strangled noise. “I—I lied about being experienced.”
Yeonjun tilts his head. “Define experienced.”
You look like you want the earth to open up and swallow you. “I told him I’m good at oral,” you whisper, barely audible. “I told him I like it. I told him I’d swallow. I told him I could take him. I told him I—” you choke, then force it out anyway because you’re already dying, “—I told him I’m not shy—and I can take it raw and my body count is eleven—and yeah.”
Yeonjun’s jaw tightens. Not because he’s offended. Because now he understands the real problem. You wrote a sexual resume you can’t back up, and you’re about to get audited in person.
Yeonjun exhales slowly. “So your solution is… me.”
“Yes,” you say, voice cracking. “Because everyone says you—you know what you’re doing.”
Yeonjun lets out a single laugh. It isn’t warm. It’s disbelief. “Everyone says a lot of shit,” he replies.
“I’ll do anything, I’ll—I just need three lessons.”
Yeonjun’s gaze sharpens. “Three.”
You nod. “Three.”
“Tell me what you think a lesson is,” Yeonjun says. “Because right now it sounds like you want to practise on me so you can go impress another guy.”
You go rigid. “That’s not—I mean—yes, technically, but—”
“I don’t mean it like that,” you say quickly, panicking again. “I mean I don’t want to freeze. I don’t want to look stupid. I don’t want to panic when he touches me. I don’t want to be that girl who wrote porn and then shows up in person and can’t even—”
You stop. Swallow.
Yeonjun watches you shake. Not in a cute way. In a she’s actually about to cry way. He looks over his shoulder once. His friends are watching, grinning, clearly expecting entertainment.
Yeonjun turns back. His voice drops. “This is suspicious as hell.”
Your shoulders slump. “I know.”
“It’s also risky,” Yeonjun continues. “For me. For you. For both of us. If someone finds out, it’s not you they’ll call a creep.”
You nod fast. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear on my life.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “Swear better.”
You swallow. “Swear on my mother.”
Yeonjun holds your gaze, checking. You don’t flinch. He asks, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Are you on something?”
“No.”
Yeonjun pauses. He should walk away. He should tell you to go be honest with that Soobin and accept the consequences of your own mouth. He should tell you to stop stalking strangers. He should—instead, he asks, “What exactly are the three lessons?”
You falter.
Yeonjun waits.
You force it out, mortified, barely meeting his eyes. “Kissing. Oral. Sex.”
Yeonjun’s throat tightens. He keeps his face steady. “So you want me to teach you how to fuck.”
You nod, face burning. “Yes.”
“And then you go on a date with another man,” Yeonjun says, dry. “And what, you thank me for my service and disappear?”
You look at him, panicked. “It’s not—I’m not trying to use you. I just—I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Yeonjun studies you. The way you’re trembling. The way you’re not flirting. The way you’re begging with your whole posture. You don’t look manipulative. You look scared.
Yeonjun could tell you the truth.
You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’m a virgin. I’ve never kissed anyone in my life, let alone—
But you’re looking at him like he’s the answer. Like you have so much ridiculous faith in him, it makes his chest ache in a place he doesn’t want to examine. And Yeonjun has spent years learning that correcting people is exhausting. That admitting you don’t fit the story makes them laugh, or pity you, or lose interest entirely.
So he does what he knows best. He lets the story win.
He exhales. “Okay. Here’s the thing.”
Your eyes flick up, hopeful.
Yeonjun doesn’t give in yet. “I don’t do lessons with someone who can’t even say hello without hiding behind a bush,” he says. “If you want this, you’re going to act like an adult.”
You nod quickly. “Okay.”
Yeonjun continues, firm, “No more stalking. If you want to talk to me, you walk up. You use your mouth for words first.”
Your face goes crimson. “Okay.”
Yeonjun watches you struggle to hold it together. He says, “If I say yes, it’s on my terms. No audience. No phones out. No screenshots. No bragging. No hinting. Nothing.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” you whisper.
Yeonjun stares at you for a long beat. Then he says, “And if you catch feelings, we stop.”
Your eyes widen. “I won’t.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Everybody says that.” He takes one last look over his shoulder at his friends. They’re still watching. Still laughing. Still hungry for drama. Yeonjun turns back to you and makes the choice anyway, because there’s something in your panic he recognises too well.
“Fine,” he says, clipped. “Tomorrow. My place. Drop me a text and I’ll send you the address.”
Your whole face changes—relief so huge it’s embarrassing.
“Thank you,” you breathe.
Yeonjun holds up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet.”
You nod quickly, almost trembling.
Yeonjun’s voice drops, sharp with warning. “And if you ever follow me near the men’s toilets again,” Yeonjun adds, deadpan, “I’m calling campus security.”
You make a strangled sound. “I’m sorry.”
Yeonjun steps back, flicking his cigarette away. He walks toward his friends with his shoulders loose and his face bored, because that’s the only way he survives campus. Because if he stops and thinks too hard, he’ll have to admit the truth, he has no idea what he’s doing.
Because three lessons sounded neat when you said it outside. Three is a number you can count. Three is a deadline. Three is a plan.
But now it’s lesson one. Now it’s his flat. Now you’re coming over.
His mate being away should feel convenient. Empty flat. No interruptions. No one walking in and clocking the fact Yeonjun is about to get exposed as a fraud.
Instead, the silence is loud as hell. The walls feel nosy. The sofa looks judgemental.
He checks his phone again.
psycho stalker: omw
psycho stalker: pls don’t laugh at me
psycho stalker: i swear to god if you laugh at me i’ll die
Yeonjun snorts, because of course that’s what you’d text. Full panic. Full honesty. Zero seduction. You’ve been stalking him for a week and still somehow texting him like he’s a dentist.
“Okay,” he says out loud, because there’s nobody else here and if he doesn’t talk he’ll combust. “Okay. Lesson one. Kissing. That’s it. Mouths. Easy.”
He pauses.
Then he adds, quieter, “Not easy.”
He showers once. Normal. He showers again because he imagines you stepping close and clocking sweat and going ew the campus fuckboy smells like sweat. He showers a third time because his brain thinks soap is protection. Soap will save him. Soap will erase the fact he has no idea what he’s doing.
When he steps out, the mirror’s steamed. His hair is damp, falling into his eyes. He drags a towel through it and it still looks the same.
He brushes his teeth. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth time his gums sting. He spits and sees pink. He stares at the sink, personally offended.
“Great,” he mutters. “Perfect. Sexy. Don’t bleed in her mouth, Yeonjun.”
He rinses. Swallows. Leans both hands on the counter and breathes like he’s trying to calm down before a fight.
He walks into his bedroom and immediately starts cleaning as if cleanliness is going to replace experience. Sheets off. Sheets on. Then off again because the first set feels wrong and he hates that his body is having opinions. He smooths the duvet. Fluffs the pillows. Picks up a sock. Picks up another sock. Finds a receipt he doesn’t remember. Wipes his desk. Wipes his bedside table.
He’s not cleaning.
He’s stalling. His phone is open on the bed again because he’s weak.
Reddit. A thread titled, first kiss tips.
He reads out loud in a mocking voice, because sarcasm is the only thing keeping him upright. “Don’t overthink it.” He snorts. “Yeah, brilliant. Thanks.”
“Use your hands.” He stares at his hands like they’ve betrayed him. “Which hands. How. Where. Be specific.”
“Don’t shove your tongue down her throat.” He winces. “Okay. Great. So I’ll just—keep my tongue in my pocket.”
He scrolls.
“Ask if she likes it.” He reads that one twice. Then a third time.
Ask.
He can ask. He’s not an idiot. He’s not going to do anything you don’t want. He’s also terrified you’ll say no and then look at him differently.
He backs out of the thread and types, how to french kiss without being shit He stares at the search bar. Hates himself. Hits enter anyway. A list pops up—angles, lips, tongue, breathing, pace. He throws his phone onto the bed again.
“Okay,” he says, pacing. “Okay. I can do this. People kiss all the time. Teenagers do it behind bins. It’s not rocket science.”
His phone buzzes again. He ignores it. Then it buzzes again. Then it buzzes again.
He grabs it, annoyed, expecting the groupchat.
It’s you.
psycho stalker: i’m actually gonna throw up
psycho stalker: don’t say lol or i’ll never recover
Yeonjun exhales through his nose. His chest does something irritating. Soft.
He types back.
yeonjun: i’m not saying lol
yeonjun: you’re fine. you’re safe. and if you want to bail, you bail. no one’s forcing you
yeonjun: you still coming?
Three dots appear. Disappear.
psycho stalker: yes
psycho stalker: i hate myself
psycho stalker: but yes
Yeonjun stares at that for a second. He should tell you to stop sexting Soobin and just be honest. He should tell you to stop dragging strangers into your panic. He should tell you to stop.
Instead, he changes his outfit.
Plain tee. Too normal. Button-up. Too I’m trying. Hoodie. Too boyish.
He strips again and stands there half-dressed, staring at the mirror like he’s waiting for the confident version of himself to show up and take over.
He puts on a tank. White ribbed. The one that makes people look at him and assume things. He fixes his earrings. Runs a hand through his hair. Checks his jawline like that matters when he’s about to be kissing someone for real.
His phone buzzes.
psycho stalker: i’m outside
Yeonjun’s stomach drops so fast it feels physical. He moves too quickly—nearly trips over a hoodie, mutters fuck, and catches himself on the wall. He looks around the flat one more time. The cleaned surfaces. The made bed. The whole place pretending this is normal.
He checks the mirror. Hair messy enough to pass as effortless. Face calm enough to sell it. Eyes half-lidded enough to look confident instead of terrified. He practises his playboy expression for half a second.
It looks convincing. That’s the problem. He’s good at looking convincing.
The doorbell rings.
He walks to the door with measured steps, because if he runs he’ll feel insane. He opens it.
And there you are.
Shoulders high. Hands clenched around your bag strap. Mouth parted like you’ve rehearsed bravery all day and it still didn’t stick. Your eyes flick over him once and then immediately drop, embarrassed.
Yeonjun smiles first, because that’s what the rumour does. “Hey,” he says, voice smooth.
You swallow. “Hi.”
Yeonjun steps aside. “Come in.”
You hesitate for half a second, then cross the threshold.
The door clicks shut behind you.
You step over the threshold and immediately realise you might be the dumbest person alive.
Not in a cute way. In a I have willingly walked into a man’s flat to learn how to kiss and give blowjobs so I don’t get exposed to a boy named Soobin way.
The place smells clean—laundry, soap, and whatever Yeonjun put on his skin that’s expensive enough to make your brain lag. It hits you as he moves past you, shoulder brushing the air. Your throat tightens.
You force your shoes off with fingers that don’t work properly.
“Just—uh.” Yeonjun glances down at your feet, then back up, as if he’s pretending this is casual. “You can… put them there.”
Your voice comes out too fast. “I’m not tracking mud in, don’t worry. I’m not here to disrespect your—” You stop yourself. Blink. “Why am I talking about mud? Oh my God.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. He looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Breathe,” he says. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not shaking.” You look down at your hands. They’re shaking. You curl them into fists. “I’m vibrating. Different thing.”
Yeonjun huffs a laugh under his breath, then clears his throat as if that was an accident. He shifts his weight and leans his back against the door like he’s done this a hundred times.
He’s in a white ribbed tank that makes him look unfairly real. Not a rumour. Not a story. Not the guy people point at outside parties and say I heard he fucked—but a man in a small flat, broad shoulders, collarbones you have to actively not stare at.
Low-slung jeans sit on his hips. His underwear waistband flashes when he moves. Hoop in one ear. His hair falls into his face in soft, messy curtains—the kind that looks accidental but somehow frames him perfectly. Dark. Thick. A little too long, like he’s grown it out on purpose just to give people something to stare at. It shadows his eyes when he tilts his head down. His mouth—you cut the thought off before it becomes a problem.
Your brain tries to reboot itself into Normal Mode.
It fails.
Your what-ifs line up instantly.
What if you freeze? What if you do something wrong? What if your teeth clack into his? What if he kisses you and you panic-laugh? What if he thinks you’re basically a nervous Victorian child?
And then the one you keep trying to swallow—is this cheating?
You and Soobin aren’t together. You’re not official. You’re not anything except a history and a chat thread full of crimes. But he’s called other girls casual in the same sentence he called you special, and you hated how easy he sounded when he said it.
Still.
You’re here. In someone else’s flat. With the door shut.
Yeonjun watches your face like he can read the panic word-for-word. His voice goes softer without him meaning to. “You can back out,” he says, plain. “Right now. No weirdness.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I’m not backing out.”
Yeonjun raises an eyebrow. “Confident.”
“I’m terrified,” you correct immediately. “I’m just—terrified with commitment.”
He snorts, then catches himself, like he didn’t mean to be human. “Okay. Um. Come in,” he says again.
You nod too hard, cheeks burning, and follow him.
The hallway is narrow. Your footsteps sound loud. Your whole body is aware of him in front of you—tank clinging to his back, shoulders moving under the fabric, the casual way he walks as if he’s not leading a girl to his bedroom to—your brain tries to say it out loud.
To learn how to kiss and suck dick and fuck.
It lands in your head so bluntly you almost trip.
Yeonjun glances back. “You good?”
“Yes.” You nod. “No. I mean—yes. I’m good.”
He stops outside a door and turns slightly. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, and his tone shifts into something more serious. “I’m not here to pressure you.”
Your throat tightens, inconveniently. You nod once.
He opens the door.
And the bedroom is—normal. Painfully normal.
No half-naked posters. No porn shoved under the bed. No gross bikini shrine. No weird anime tits staring into your soul.
Just a made bed. A desk with a laptop and a mess of chargers. A hoodie on a chair. Books stacked neatly. A speaker. Warm light from a lamp. The scent of fabric softener and whatever body wash he uses.
Your chest loosens without permission.
You glance at Yeonjun, then back at the room, then back at Yeonjun as if you’re checking for a hidden camera.
He catches your expression and immediately goes defensive, which is weirdly adorable. “What?” he says. “You disappointed?”
You laugh once, sharp. “No. I just thought your room was going to look like PornHub HQ.”
Yeonjun’s eyes widen a fraction, then he laughs—real, quick, then he bites it back, as if he’s worried laughing makes him look less… whatever he’s supposed to be. “Jesus,” he mutters. “That’s what you think of me?”
“That’s what the campus thinks of you,” you correct, because you can’t help yourself. “Apparently you’ve got a queue system. A waiting list. A loyalty card.”
Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but his ears go a little pink. “Shut up.”
“I’m being serious,” you say, then immediately regret saying serious in a bedroom with a man you’re paying in embarrassment. “I mean—okay, I’m not being serious. But you know what I mean.”
Yeonjun scratches the back of his neck, the movement flexing his arm. You notice. You hate yourself for noticing.
“So,” he says, forcing his voice into something cool. “Do you—wanna get started?”
Your mouth opens. Your voice comes out pathetic. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun takes a step closer.
Then another.
Your pulse starts hammering in your throat. Your palms sweat. You can feel every inch of your own skin. You make yourself stand still and not flinch because you are twenty-one years old and you did not walk into this man’s flat just to fold at the first two steps.
Yeonjun stops close enough that you can smell him properly—mint and soap and that expensive cologne sitting on his throat.
He leans in.
You lean in too because if you don’t, you’ll die.
His breath brushes your mouth.
You’re right there. You’re about to kiss him.
And then you jerk back so fast it’s almost violent. “Wait,” you blurt. “This feels—weird.”
Yeonjun freezes. Then he exhales a laugh that sounds like the relief he tried to hide. “Thank fuck,” he says, automatically. Then he coughs, like he’s remembering he’s meant to be suave. “Yeah. Bit weird.”
You stare at him. “Did you just say thank—”
“No,” he lies instantly. “I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Yeonjun’s lips twitch. “Okay, yeah. I did. Because you scared the shit out of me.”
“Me?” you splutter. “You’re the one who—you’re the Choi Yeonjun.”
Yeonjun lifts a brow. “Oh, so now we’re doing the myth.”
“I—” you stop. Your face heats. “I’m doing the reality. You’re standing in front of me. In a tank top. In a bedroom. You look—” You cut yourself off before you say hot out loud because you will actually evaporate.
Yeonjun watches you struggle, and his voice drops into something more normal. “We don’t have to rush it,” he says. “We can talk first.”
The idea makes you pause. Because talking is where feelings start. Talking is where people become people instead of bodies and rumours. But also—talking is where you can breathe.
“Should we,” you say, then hesitate because your own rules echo in your skull—no feelings, no strings, no emotions—“should we get to know each other first?”
The second it’s out, panic spikes. You’ve basically just asked for intimacy in the most dangerous format—conversation.
Yeonjun blinks at you, then nods like you asked whether the sky is blue. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll order pizza. Because if I’m about to—” he gestures vaguely between you and his bed, “—teach you how to do—all that, you can at least tell me if you hate olives.”
You stare. “You’re hungry?”
“I’m always hungry,” he says. Then he looks at your face and adds, deadpan: “Also I need carbs before I ruin my reputation.”
Your eyes widen. “You’re not going to—”
“I’m joking.” He holds up his hands. “Mostly. Sit.”
You hover, then sit on the edge of his bed with your spine too straight. He sits opposite you, elbows on his knees, phone in hand, scrolling delivery apps as if this isn’t insane.
“What do you like?” he asks, glancing up.
“Pizza,” you answer immediately, because your brain is still stuck on one thought—I almost kissed him and didn’t die.
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Okay. Toppings. And also—you know. Anything.”
You blink. “Anything in life?”
He shrugs, pretending it’s casual. “Yeah. Unless you only exist for sexting and fear.”
You laugh—real, startled—because it lands. Because he said it out loud. Because you feel seen and you hate that you like it.
And the weirdness eases, just a fraction enough to breathe.
And that’s how it starts.
“Pepperoni,” you say. “And—I don’t know. Jalapeños?”
He hums. “Spicy. Brave.”
“I’m not brave.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “You were brave when you stalked me outside the men’s toilets.”
You groan, immediate. “Stop saying it like that.”
“How should I say it?” He taps the screen. “Dedicated. Persistent. Sexually motivated.”
“I wasn’t sexually motivated,” you protest.
Yeonjun glances up slowly, deliberately looking you over in a way that makes your stomach drop. “Sure.”
“Don’t—” You point at him, flustered. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That—thing.”
Yeonjun leans back on one hand, tank pulling tight over his chest. “The thing where I exist?”
You hate him. You also feel your face warming.
Yeonjun hits confirm on the order and tosses his phone onto the duvet. Then he looks at you properly—head tilted, eyes sharp, posture loose. He’s giving calm. He’s giving control. He’s giving I’ve done this before. “You good?” he asks, casual.
You swallow. “Define good.”
“Do you want to leave?” he asks, still casual. “Do you want to stop? Do you want me to stop talking?”
You blink. “No.”
Yeonjun nods. “Okay. Then breathe.”
You glare. “I am breathing.”
“You’re breathing like you’re about to sit an exam,” he replies. “Relax. I’m not going to jump you.”
You snort. “That’s literally why I’m here.”
Yeonjun smiles, fast and cocky. “Yeah. I know.”
It shouldn’t do anything to you. It does. Your body reacts before your pride can catch up.
Yeonjun watches your reaction and looks pleased with himself. Then—because he’s infuriating—he softens it before it tips into too much. “Ground rules,” he says, tapping the mattress once between you. “You say stop, I stop. You say slow, I slow. You say no, it’s no. You don’t owe me finishing a lesson because you asked for help. Understand?”
Your throat tightens. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun’s gaze holds yours, serious now. “Good.”
The door buzzer goes. Pizza. Yeonjun stands and walks out like he didn’t just say something that made you feel safer in a way you weren’t expecting. He comes back with the box and two cans, drops them on the bed between you.
“Romantic,” you say, because sarcasm is your emergency exit.
“This is not a date,” Yeonjun replies, popping a can. “This is a professional consultation.”
“You’re literally charging me in pepperoni.”
“I’m expensive.”
You take a slice so your hands have something to do besides shake. Yeonjun takes one too, biting into it with the confidence of a man who has never once feared crumbs on a white tank.
For a minute it’s just chewing and the quiet hum of the flat.
Then Yeonjun glances at you. “So. Soobin.”
Your stomach flips. “What about him?”
“What exactly did you tell him?” Yeonjun asks, too calm.
You choke. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because you showed up at my door,” he replies, deadpan, “so I’m allowed to collect context. Also I’m nosy.”
You swallow. Your eyes flick away. “I said—stuff.”
“Stuff,” Yeonjun repeats. “You’re making me drag it out of you.”
“Good,” you mutter. “Suffer.”
Yeonjun smirks. “Alright. Let’s play.”
He wipes his hands on a napkin and leans forward a bit, elbows on his knees. It’s all posture. He looks relaxed on purpose. “True or false,” he says. “You told him you like giving blowjobs.”
Your soul tries to leave your body. “Oh my God,” you whisper.
Yeonjun’s eyes brighten. “That’s a yes.”
“I hate you,” you say, but you’re laughing because if you don’t laugh you’ll start crying.
“True or false,” he continues, enjoying himself, “you told him you like it raw.”
You cover your face with your hands. “Can we not do this?”
“We can,” he says easily. “But you also can’t keep turning into a corpse every time someone says the words out loud.”
You drop your hands. “You’re saying the words out loud!”
“Welcome to being an adult,” Yeonjun replies. “Sex involves words.”
You stare at him.
Yeonjun stares back, completely unbothered.
“You’re insane,” you mutter.
He grins. “You already knew that.”
Another beat. The air shifts again—still playful, but with tension under it.
Yeonjun looks away first, reaches for his speaker. “Music.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not sitting in silence with you while you spiral.” He scrolls, then glances at you. “What do you listen to.”
You hesitate. “Uhm—Joji?”
Yeonjun pauses, looks up. “No shit.”
“Some Chase Atlantic,” you add, bracing for judgement.
Instead, Yeonjun lets out a short laugh. “Okay. So you’re into sad horny music.”
You choke. “That’s not what it is.”
“It is,” he says, hitting play. “It’s fine. I respect it.”
The song starts. You recognise it immediately. Your eyes widen a fraction.
Yeonjun notices. “You know it.”
“Yeah,” you say. “I—yeah.”
He nods, satisfied, and steals a jalapeño off your slice without asking.
“Excuse you,” you say.
Yeonjun chews, unbothered. “You’re the one who picked spicy.”
“That was for me!”
“You can fight me for it.”
You squint at him. “I will.”
Yeonjun’s smile goes sharp. “Please do.”
It’s dumb. It’s flirty. It’s too easy. It pulls you out of your head before you can stop it.
You end up talking while the music runs—classes, lecturers, people you can’t stand. He complains about a seminar that makes him want to headbutt a wall. You complain about your group project and he immediately says, “Drop the names. I’ll bully them.”
“You can’t bully my group mates.”
“I can,” he says. “I’m a public service.”
“You’re not a public service,” you shoot back. “You’re more like, I don’t know, campus rumour.”
Yeonjun arches a brow. “And you’ve been stalking a rumour. That’s crazy behaviour.”
“I wasn’t stalking.”
“You were behind a bush.”
“Stop.”
“You were holding a newspaper indoors.”
“Stop.”
“You were—”
“Yeonjun.”
He shuts up, still grinning. “Okay. Sorry. I’m being a dick.”
“Yes.”
He points at you. “You’re smiling.”
You wipe your face, offended at your own body. “No, I’m not.”
Yeonjun doesn’t argue. He just looks at you—steady, amused—and the look makes the room feel smaller.
Your phone buzzes. A notification lights your screen. Yeonjun’s eyes flick down automatically.
You grab your phone too fast. “It’s nothing.”
Yeonjun’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice loses the tease. “Is it him?”
You freeze. “No.”
Yeonjun watches you for a second, then nods once. “Okay.”
That’s it. No interrogation. No claim. No taking the mick. Just okay. It unsettles you more than any teasing. To save yourself, you blurt, “Do you watch anime?”
Yeonjun looks up, instant interest. “Depends. Are you about to judge me?”
“Yes,” you say.
He snorts. “Then no.”
“Liar,” you say. “Answer.”
Yeonjun takes another bite of pizza, chews, then says, “One Piece.”
You stare at him.
Yeonjun stares back, waiting.
“No,” you say finally. “No way.”
Yeonjun’s smile grows. “Yes way.”
“I love One Piece,” you say, suddenly too loud.
Yeonjun points at you like he’s caught you committing a crime. “See. You’re not normal either.”
“What arc are you on?” you demand.
Yeonjun leans back, smug. “Caught up.”
Your jaw drops. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious.”
“Favourite Straw Hat.”
“Luffy.”
“Basic,” you say immediately.
Yeonjun gasps. “That’s insane. Who’s yours?”
“Zoro.”
Yeonjun pauses, then nods once with genuine respect. “Okay. Great taste.”
You blink. “You’re a nerd.”
Yeonjun scoffs. “I’m not a nerd.”
“You are.”
Yeonjun leans in a little, grin returning. “Careful. I’ll start charging you extra for insulting me.”
“You’re already charging me in pepperoni.”
“I’m worth it,” he says, and you hate that your body reacts to his voice.
He watches that reaction again, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second, then back up. He looks exactly like the guy everyone talks about—the one who’s probably kissed a hundred girls, made them beg for more. Your stomach tightens anyway, a weird flutter you don’t quite understand.
Yeonjun pauses the song mid-track. The quiet lands heavy. He sets his slice down, wipes his fingers on a napkin. Then he looks at you, his gaze making your skin heat up. “Do you still want to do lesson one?”
Your mouth goes dry, but something pulses low in your belly, unfamiliar and insistent. “Yes.”
Yeonjun nods with calm confidence. “Okay.” He shifts closer, not rushing, but not hesitating either—giving you time to back out, maybe.
His knee bumps yours, and he doesn’t move it away. The contact feels too warm, too much. “Last chance to bail,” he says, voice low, like he knows exactly how to make it sound sexy.
“I’m not bailing.”
Yeonjun’s smile returns, brief and a little knowing. “Good.” Then he leans in.
It’s slow. It’s deliberate. It’s confident enough that it makes your heart sprint and your body tingle in places you weren’t expecting. He must know what he’s doing—everyone says he does.
His mouth stops a breath away from yours, his warm exhale tickling your lips—making them feel strange, sensitive.
“You good?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through you.
You swallow hard, your chest feeling tight. “Yeah.”
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I will.”
Yeonjun hums, the sound vibrating oddly in your core. “Good girl—” He catches himself, eyes flicking up to yours, testing if he’s gauging if that’s too far.
But it hits you weirdly, making your thighs clench without meaning to. Your breath stutters, heat rushing to your face—and elsewhere. “Yeah.”
Your brain blanks out in a haze of confusion and heat, your body reacting in ways you don’t get—warmth pooling between your legs, making you shift uncomfortably.
His lips press against yours, soft but firm, and you freeze for a second. His hand settles at your waist, fingers gripping awkwardly at first, adjusting his hold.
You grab his tank top on instinct, bunching the fabric because everything feels too floaty, too unreal.
Yeonjun kisses you again, deeper, his tongue poking out hesitantly, brushing your lips before retreating. You part your mouth, bumping teeth lightly, and he makes a soft noise—maybe surprise?—but pushes forward anyway, his tongue slipping in too fast, too wet.
It’s messy, saliva dribbling a bit at the corner of your mouth, and you swipe at it embarrassed, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or care.
You make a sound—a quiet gasp—and your hips twitch without warning, seeking something.
Yeonjun pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “Still okay?” he asks, voice a little rough.
You nod, breathless, your body buzzing. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun’s eyes hold yours for a beat—dark, intense—then he kisses you again, and it’s sloppier this time.
Your noses bump as you tilt your head wrong, but he adjusts smoothly—his hand sliding up your side, fumbling over your ribcage before brushing your breast by accident. You jolt, a spark shooting straight down. His fingers pause, then squeeze tentatively—too light at first, then too hard, pinching without meaning to. You whimper into his mouth, not sure if it’s good or weird, but your nipple hardens anyway, aching.
Your own hands slide down his chest, fingers catching on his tank before dropping lower, grazing his thigh. You feel the hardness there, pressing against his jeans, and you falter.
He shifts closer, his knee wedging between your legs, and when he rocks forward, his bulge grinding against your hip.
You try to meet him, but your core rubs against his thigh too high. It’s frustrating, your body chasing something it doesn’t know how to catch, panties sticking damply as you both fumble, breaths hitching.
He groans softly against your neck, nipping at your skin—too sharp, then too soft—like he’s teasing you on purpose.
His hand drops lower, cupping between your legs over your clothes, fingers rubbing haphazardly in the wrong spot. You buck into it anyway, a needy whine escaping, even as it doesn’t quite hit right.
When you break apart, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you need oxygen, your head spinning, body throbbing with unmet need. You stare at each other, both breathing too hard. His lips are red, messy with spit. Your mouth feels swollen, raw.
You feel wrecked in the most confusing, aching way, your pussy clenching around nothing.
Yeonjun’s gaze drags over your face as if he’s checking you out, composed despite the flush on his cheeks.
You force out, “That was—“
Yeonjun swallows, voice roughened. “Lesson one.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re such a loser.”
Yeonjun’s grin flashes. “You came to my house for sex lessons and I’m the loser?”
“Yes,” you say, still breathless. “You’re unbearable.”
Yeonjun leans back onto his hands, relaxed again. “Good. Because we’ve got two more lessons.”
Your stomach flips at the bluntness of it, that unfamiliar heat flaring again. Yeonjun watches you swallow, watches your throat move, and his eyes drop for half a second before he forces them back up—smooth, unreadable. “Drink,” he says, nodding at the can. “Before you pass out on my bed and I have to explain to campus security why you died during a consultation.”
You snort, grateful for the stupidity. You take a sip with shaking hands anyway.
And you hate that you feel safer now, sitting on his bed, with pizza grease on your fingers and his mouth still tingling on yours.
✧ prev | next | series masterlist | main masterlist
a/n: hiii my loves!! thanks so much for reading. i was meant to post this earlier but my laptop has been lagging all day and its been a pain to even type two words at a time. i've had sm fun writing this fic, i've been wanting to do a yeonjun fic forever now and lately i've been deep into the no labels content so you know where this is coming from lmao. this is my first time writing something this horny so any feedback is much much appreciated. the next chapter will be only escalate in terms of smut lmao as you can tell!! to any new readers, hello and welcome <3 so my existing readers, yes i promise unfortunately yours and ellipsis is coming, i did not forget bout my babies because i was too busy staring at yeonjun's abs
target: since i have the next chapter written out, i thought it'd be fun for us to do a notes target! as soon as we hit 250 notes, i will immediately post the next part, no questions asked! if we don't, i'll still post it next weekend hahaha. but if you want it sooner, spam me in the comments, with reposts and asks! love you <333
taglist: please drop me an ask or comment on the series masterlist
in which texting the wrong number lands you an internet crush and denial.
pairings: idol!yeonjun x gn!reader
genre: one part smau, fluff, humor, s2l
warnings: language, pet names, y/n is in denial and yeonjun is just a lover boy simp i fear
rea’s 💌 — the way this has been in my drafts since november?? guys please yell at me to be more consistent with posting bc i like making these silly little stories 💔 um happy new year and valentine’s day lol hope y’all enjoy this one! reminder that you can always send an ask to be a part of my taglist ⋆˙⟡♡
𓅪 synopsis: do you ever truly forget a person? even those whom you have specifically paid to be removed from your mind? no matter how hard some try, some people can never be forgotten because the love and the hurt can be found in even the smallest things. memories easily triggered by nothing more than running your fingers through the grains of sand on the beach where you met, not once but twice.
⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝
wc: 58.2k (omfg im sorry) ✶ warnings: fem!reader, angst, romance, bit of a science fiction au, memory loss, soulmate trope ish, depression, mentions of pregnancy, miscarriage, postpartum depression, talks about grief and loss, mentions of blood, multiple smut scenes, bulge kink, size kink, breast play, oral (f!rec), no protection, no pull out mention, lots of kissing, marking, scratching, fingering, multiple orgasms, crying during sex, handjob, im so sorry if i forgot some >< pls let me know if i need to add anything <3
ོ ⸝⸝⸝ now playing: back to me- the marías
an: i wrote this to make myself cry and im so sorry about that. this is based off the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, most of the movie is spent going through memories and this is a bit of my interpretation of that, although not as heavily as the movie does it. I don't know if it comes off too well here but I hope you enjoy this fic nonetheless <333 i worked really hard on this and it means a lot to me, kinda like my baby it took nearly as long to get it out from start to finish >< thank you so much to @beomiracles @heesmiles and @hyukascampfire for cheering me on for the last half of this fic it would have taken me a year to get this out if not for her and thank you so so so so much to @heejamas and @dawngyu for reading the first half of this fic when it was still happy and sunshine >< ✶ [m.list] [playlist]
He didn't know why he had come. Hands digging into the sand, the grains slipping between his fingers as he tried to recount the moments leading up to the train ride. His bed had been cold even with him in it, curled under the covers with a pounding in his head mimicking the repetitive slamming of a door somewhere down the corridor. The headache was not one that would lead to him calling out of work, and yet he was sitting on a beach in Montauk.
The surf crashing in its constant lullaby drowned out the line of Soobin's questioning. The chill of the last freeze was working its way throughout his body, enough to make him focus only on how red his nose must look, cold enough to fall off without him even noticing. There was still snow on the beach, pushed into the half melted piles around the worn down, sun bleached steps. The sky a hazy blue, only found in the winter months, grey and hidden behind a smokescreen of clouds blocking out any sun.
At first, he had not seen you standing right at the edge of the water. Scarf wrapped round and round, half shielding your face from the sea breeze. Your coat was a size too big, bunching around your wrists, fingers curled in your pockets, numb without gloves.
There had been an ache in your heart the moment you had woken up, hand curled in your pillow, wishing it was the strands of a lover's hair to run through absentmindedly. The thought had been trapped in your mind for a week, seen somewhere or read in a book you shouldn't have been flipping through during your shift at work. But it was persistent, continuously on a loop, your humming mixed with the gentle touch as if you could lull your imaginary love interest to sleep with nothing more than the brush of your fingerprints along their scalp.
It had never interested you to find someone to serenade, someone to comfort. But it had interested you to find that soft song here on the beach, the wind picking up enough to caress your cheek like the brush of a loving backhand. There had been little to do so far upstate except come here and stare at the shore while trying to find why you felt so hollow.
When you had told your roommate about taking the trip upstate, it had been nothing more than a passing sentence. “Montauk?” The word had sounded bitter coming from Kai, like the little beach town had personally hurt him in some way. “Why do you want to go there?” He had been distracted enough to spill his coffee, the counter covered, so you tried to explain whatever it was you were feeling.
“Yeah, I don't know why I just feel this need to go to the beach today.” You had shaken your head, “Don't wait up, I don't have to be into work till the afternoon tomorrow, and I might get dinner out there.”
“You want to take the last train out of Montauk?...” he had let the question linger in the air as if you were missing the context of something so clearly written out for everyone but you to see. For well over a week, it had been like this: Kai with his careful words punctuated with his scrunched brows as he watched you go about your daily life. It made the days feel like a cup at the edge of a counter, his worried looks only making it seem like you were one wrong move from shattering the glass with a careless brush of your sleeve.
“You make it sound like I suggested we should rob a bank and not look at a lighthouse on my day off,” you tried to laugh past it, shrugging on your coat that felt as if it had gotten a size too big in nothing more than a week. You toed on your shoes, hand bracing yourself on the handle of the door as Kai cursed, looking for a rag to clean up his mess, his eyes jumping back up to you like he was worried he missed your exit. It made you pause, brows scrunching. “Is something wrong?”
The question had been weighing heavily on your tongue since the first sight of Kai and his hollow eyes watching you. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, working on assignments, worrying over calls on his phone like someone was sick and he needed updates on their wellbeing. You had known him for years, longer than you knew any of your other friends. This was him after long nights of studying in his college dorm, only coming out for dinner after begging for him to take a break. This was not the smart, sensible Kai who went about starting his first year at his new job right with a neatly arranged sleep schedule.
“What?” he looked caught, playing dumb enough to make you push away from the subject. You would ask again if he kept it up because with the reaction he had now, it felt as if he was desperately trying to hide whatever it was until he fixed it. You would give him time, you would give him space until he was drowning and reaching out for your hand.
“Nothing,” you shook your head, “you can come if you want, I know the first train in, last train out, isn't really for you, especially in the winter, but it could be fun. We don't even have to stay all day,” the offer was a calming olive branch but Kai only looked away.
“I have work, why don't we go next weekend? We can take Yeonjun, and maybe it will be a bit warmer.” he was already fiddling with his phone, “I can ask him-”
“No, don't do that, we can still go next weekend, but I really feel like I have to go today, I don't even know how to explain it. I didn't realize living in the city would make me miss the beach so much.” Because your fingers ached to run through sand like they would run through hair, but it was impossible to say that to him, “And don't bother Yeonjun, he's been here all week, I'm sure he needs a bit of time away from seeing our faces.”
Like clockwork, Yeonjun had found time to spend with the two of you since last Saturday. He would be at the door, twisting the lock with the key Kai had gifted him the second you two had moved, so that someone would have the spare. In hand, he had your favorite warm drink from the shop right next to his place, his eyes scanning for Kai as he hung his coat. You wonder if he had sensed the change in him just as easily as you had. Their soft whispers in the living room lingered in the air when you rounded the corner to collect Yeonjun's kind gift.
But he had not come this morning with his to-go cup offering, and maybe that was because Kai was busy just as you needed to be. “I'll be fine. I'll text you when I'm on the train.” You go through the door before he can get the last word, closing it as you tell him. “Both ways!”
It wasn't until you were already on the train that Yeonjun called, phone tucked to your ear, voice low so the one other passenger wouldn't be bothered too much. “I could have called out, you know I love the little lighthouse, and the beach when it's cold,”
“No, you have been stuck at my apartment longer than your own. I'm sure your home office missed you just as much as your work office did.” Your knees were tucked up against the seat in front of you, arm slung across your stomach. “And the beach will be there next week.”
“I know, just call me if it gets too lonely, okay?” But tucked in between the way he said it was the undercurrent of worry, easily passed over if you hadn't known Yeonjun for years. Because as he tried to brush it off as casual, the glass was still right there on the edge of the counter, even if you weren't in the room. “Call me for anything.”
And almost as soon as you had hung up with Yeonjun, your mother called, the singsong tone echoing in the train as it pulled to a stop. You tucked the phone against your ear, hurrying off to the platform. The wind kissed along your cheeks, your lashes fluttering as you turned against the oncoming sea breeze. “Why are you taking solo trips all the way out to Montauk? It's not even the season for it.”
“Mom-” either one of your friends could have told her, your money placed right over Kai's name.
“No, you should have gone with someone, what if-”
“I'm fine, god. Why is everyone worrying over a train ride? It's not like I’ve never been out here alone, and hardly anyone ever comes out here anyway. Hell, only one other person was on the train with me,” the other lone passenger already headed out in the direction of the beach.
“I'm just worried, what if-”
“I'm fine, I'll text you just as well as Kai when I'm headed back, I'll even send you a picture of the lighthouse.” You shoved your free hand into your coat pocket, fingers already tingling from the cold, balling the digits into a fist, trying to keep the warmth tucked into the space for as long as you could. “I'll call you when I get back if that works to clear your mind.” It was the only way to soothe her enough to let you off the line.
The calls played in your head for only as long as it took you to get to the edge of the water. The lapping rhythm of the surf is enough to make your eyelids heavy. It didn't matter how long it had been since you stood on the edge of the sea; its soft song never ceased to intertwine with your circadian rhythm. And whatever longing you had been feeling was slowly washing away with the tide, pulling the ache in your fingers away until it was lost to the only place that could make you feel whole.
Closing your eyes, you let the wind coming off the water rustle your coat, tug at your red scarf. And like an unfurling ribbon, it went blowing behind you, your shocked gasp at the sudden kiss of cold on your lips more surprising than the way the scarf twisted in the air.
Soobin had been halfway to standing, hand at the back of his thigh, brushing away the sand, just about to leave, when he watched you stumble to rush after the windswept fabric. It was hurtling towards him, unravelling a string of events that would last longer than a lifetime.
He caught the scarf before it could slip by him, your shoes kicking up the sand behind you, as you slowed to a stop from your running, awkward laugh mixed in with his nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn't even realize I hadn't tied it right.”
“It's okay,” he passed it back to you, warmth from his gloved hands already seeping into your greedy skin from nothing more than a brush. “I’ve lost a fair bit of scarves to the wind here, umbrellas, and I think a pair of shoes once.”
“You took the train home barefoot?” You only made the assumption he wasn't from around here because of the shared train ride, the only other passenger stuck to hear your conversation with Yeonjun, and maybe even the one with your mom if he cared enough.
“I still had my socks but not my dignity,” he smiled enough to show the round crater dimple punctuating his cheek like a statement of cuteness, his hair caught in the wind on his brow, easily tossed and pushed aside, begging to let your fingers run through to fix. “So, might as well come to the rescue and return this to you.”
It was a moment, fleeting, and yet unmistakable: “Do I know you?” You were trying to place his face, his build, rifling through your memory looking for spaces that would seem to fit him in, and yet you came back with nothing at all. All except that ache in your fingers. “Or do you shop at the bookstore off of 6th Ave?”
Soobin was caught on your face long enough to get stumped on the question, trying and failing to picture you sitting behind the counter at the checkout, trying again for the counter at the shared coffee shop in the same building. “I do, but I d-” but he couldn't quite place his finger on it; he knew he would never be able to forget a face like yours, and it nagged him to no end when he looked at the dip of your nose and knew he had only just dreamt of a shape so similar.
“That must be it, I see so many people from all around New York, or even all the states,” you wound your scarf back around your neck, tucking the end into your coat. “You should come by next Friday, we are having this huge sale on hardbacks, although if you live far, it probably wouldn't be good to carry all of them through the city,”
“Good to know, I'm only a block over, so it's no big deal,” he felt himself flushing, cheeks and ears red over a casual conversation. Because in everything in him, he wanted to keep talking to you, and it made him embarrassed to feel this crush sink in, in nothing more than a second of easy going. He hadn't had a crush in a long time, not one that suddenly made his stomach twist in that all too familiar way; it wasn't a feeling one forgot often.
“Great, if you stop by my checkout kiosk, I'll give you a discount, a ‘save my scarf savings,’” you giggled, smile hidden, and Soobin wanted nothing more than to catch it with his eyes at least once.
He had never felt brave, not enough to step up to girls and ask questions, never brave enough to rush for the door before it shut just so that he could squeeze in on the ride up a crowded elevator. He preferred to take the long way, hoping that one day he would stumble upon a girl while she took that same trip, but it was never in his mind to reach out first. But now, with you standing here, the two of you the only ones on a beach that felt healing, he asked a question he had never predicted coming from his lips, even on the most confident of days. “Do you want to get lunch with me?”
You watched the way the wind ruffled his hair again, blowing back and exposing his forehead, only to sweep along his temples. And for a moment, there was an inkling of jealousy threaded through the sight because you wanted to be the one to do it at least once. “Of course, I know this little sandwich shop right past the last lighthouse, and I also know how to get us up to the top of said lighthouse to eat if you want.”
Soobin didn't feel a hint of discomfort at the idea. Spending a moment alone with a pretty girl over the water would have made his palms sweat, but with you? He hung onto the invitation like a token of some new beginning he wanted to keep in a jar. “Okay,” the words on the edge of some whispered hope, worried if he spoke too much, too loud, you'd slip away as easily as your scarf had.
There was something easy about the way the two of you fit side by side. As if your footsteps were on top of each other instead of behind you, leaving trails of your passing only a few inches away from the other. Your hands shoved down into your coat pockets, chin tucked as you looked at him, both of you caught on features of the other's face as if you were still looking for something. Because never in your life had you believed what was read in books, that people fall in love with nothing more than a glance, catching sight of something in the other person without having ever spoken a word to them, and just knowing.
Standing here sharing names felt like a rerun of a life you didn't know if you had lived before. Everything was so easy that time slipped away, crunched and forgotten like leaves fallen and blown away until it was only just the two of you sitting on that train back to New York.
You hadn't sat right next to each other, one seat in front of him, leaning over the back of it, peering over the edge like a child caught in her crush. You didn't want to waste too much of a good thing, greedy on the best of days, but not when it felt like if you ran out of him, you'd feel nearly as empty as you had just that morning.
The two of you had spent the whole day together, piecing a life together from all the past things until they made one person you hadn't yet discovered. And you stumbled to understand everything about him, hands pushing back the layers of him, reading the book of him cover to cover, starting with his order at the sandwich shop, all the way to his fear of slipping from the salt rusted bars keeping the two of you from falling over the side of the lighthouse into the sand.
“It feels like I've known you forever,” your fingers aching, the sentiment bubbling up slowly until it was overflowing from your lips, once, twice, a third time, sitting right there in front of him on the train home, wishing that the day wouldn't end so fast. “Is that weird?”
You were slightly lifted, looking down on him in his seat, his stare caught between a look of awe and understanding. And maybe that's what it was, that look of his round brown eyes, drawing lines along your body that had never felt so seen before. Because he only blinked back at you with a lazy grin, the kind that was only there because they didn't know it was, the kind people ask why you're smiling, wanting a taste of that carefree tilt to their lips. “No, not weird at all,”
And he wasn't lying, the pounding in his head was gone, replaced by your giggle, a bell versus that constant slamming of a door he found himself waking up to and not for. “I feel the same way,”
Neither of you knew that it had not been the first time you had met. And neither of you knew it wasn’t the first time you had reached out with steady hands and pushed his hair back and behind his ears, threading through the strands like a memory. That ache satisfied and ignited something that would make it impossible to go out because it had already been kindling, waiting to turn roaring. Only neither of you knew how easily it had been close to being snuffed out entirely after a blow strong enough to leave a candle flickering in half smoke and half desperation.
Because it had been on a beach in Montauk that the two of you had met all those years ago, a summer bustling with people, shoeless and down on dignity, Soobin had stumbled into your life. Your laugh caught him as easily as he had your scarf. Your eyes pinned to his wiggling toes, trying to shake the sand from the fibers of his socks with little progress being made. “They sell sandals right on the edge of the beach, right next to the beach houses.”
“I just think my friends are hiding my shoes from me, they will give them back eventually or i hope so at least.” because Beomgyu had taken them right off of him, tugging on his legs until he could free the shoes while ignoring Soobins shouting, Taehyun holding him down from twisting too much as Beomgyu did the dirty work. But it had been a while since he had seen either of them, too busy mingling with the rest of the summer crowd to care about Soobin and his shoes.
“Well, if they don't, just think of my suggestion,” and it would have been the end right there if it hadn't been that Yeonjun and Taehyun went to the same gym, or even if Kai hadn't shared a mandatory study schedule with beomgyu. The pairs of them suggested taking the last train out, to just stay long enough to watch the sunset over the water, to sit along the sand for as long as it took to watch the families make their ways home to the beach houses littering the shore off in the opposite direction of the lighthouses so neatly waiting at the rocky cliffsides.
No one had brought entertainment, the food had long since been eaten, and Soobin's shoes were found to make excellent toys to kick around between the boys like a makeshift ball. And it had been there where he had found the only courage he had needed to talk to you, no long path, no avoidance, just casual as you watched the way the sky went from a blue primary hue, to pink orangesicle, to a dusty salted dreamscape. Because as the boys played, the two of you started a fire, sat around the embers with knees touching and souls twisting. Talking long enough for the two of you to forget you had come with others and not alone, with only one another.
The two of you dragged behind as you walked, Soobin's shoes in hand, wet and dripping from the final kick, sending them all the way into the ocean, enough so that Yeonjun went in the still sun-warmed water to catch them before they could be lost to the tide. But he didn't even care that he was trekking in sand after him on the train, not when the two of you sat knee to knee, thigh to thigh as you listed your favorite novels. All stocked on the shelves back at your apartment, on the shelves at your job, just waiting for Soobin to buy and find one more chapter of you that he had yet to discover.
And when the train pulled into the station, he had been distracted enough to truly lose his sneakers, left under the seat; he wished he could have spent all night so long as it led to him talking more with you about nothing and everything. And when you two were supposed to split, waving goodbye to new friends and old ones, neither of you wanted to let go.
With Beomgyu on one side, teasing him, and Taehyun on the other, telling Soobin he should have given you his number, he looked back at you across the street looking back at him. And it didn't matter if he looked like a madman, he turned back, hand cupping his mouth as he shouted across that nearly empty New York street right at the head of the subway stairs, “Do you work tomorrow?”
The question had pulled everyone to a stop, your face heating up, not caring if Yeonjun and Kai joked over the clear crush you had formed over a single beach trip, “On Monday! You'll visit me, right?”
“I wouldn't miss it!” Not when he had found someone so interesting he forgot himself enough to shout into the busy city just to catch one more line with you. And while both of you left in the opposite direction, you still wore identical, hazy, love-struck, love-sick smiles all the way home.
It had been instant then, and it was instant now. The unfurrowing of your life lines not crossing once, but twice, when the two of you had done everything in your power to forget one another.
The treatment had been offered as a last ditch effort to pull your relationship out of a sinking ship. A lifeline tossed into the water, thrashing with unrelenting emotions, drowning the both of you until the waves were too high and too heavy to fight. But it had not been like that at first; your ship was just sailing, and the masts were heavy and strong with each gust of wind heading your way. No low going self-implosion waiting on your horizon. At least not just yet.
Because at the start of it all, on that Monday morning, Soobin had called in sick, faked a strained voice with the aid of his sleep-ridden one, and made sure to secure the full day without a blink of an eye. He didn't know when you started your shift, if it was in the afternoon or even at night; all he knew was that he would be there waiting to be checked out with your favorite novel tucked in the crook of his elbow.
He hadn't gotten your number, and distance made the heart grow fonder, so the only replay in his mind was the way you made him laugh and the way he wanted to see you laughing right along with him. And when he arrived, you hadn’t been in sight, the checkout counters bare of people, just as the rest of the store. His languid stroll only made him take in the place as you might have seen it. The towering light washed wooden shelves holding far too many books to not make the place feel cramped in the best way possible. Ladders sitting at the edge of each aisle waited, and he wondered how often you must have had to climb up one for a customer scared to reach a height they hadn't been expecting for a paperback.
And as he rounded that last corner, he ran into you with your apron on, the bookstore logo tattooed on the front in delicate green stitching above the neatly done black of your name. “You came,” your voice hooking him in the way it was just so easily said, an exhale that he had been waiting to feel the second he saw you again. Because it had been a bit like holding his breath. His anxious mind worked to ask him the question: Was she really like how he remembered her, or was it just the salt and the sand influencing his mind?
But it hadn't been the beach, not when you stood so vividly alive there, just as you had sitting next to him on the shore and the train. “I told you I wouldn't miss it,” because anything he had been feeling washed away, and he was just a boy in a store flirting with a girl he felt like he had known for a lifetime.
Soobin had followed you around for your shift, watching you stock the shelves, letting you talk through a book you liked, telling him the plot, the setting, the hook, line, and sinker. He didn't need to speak, didn't feel the need to interject about himself when it was so easy and intoxicating to soak up all the knowledge you laid out before him. Your dislikes were wrapped up neatly in the nonfiction section, and your likes were presented right before him in every little microexpression as you read him the opening paragraph of the one book he had come in searching for.
And when customers came over to speak to you, asking questions, checking out, Soobin stumbled around, busying himself with sorting his feelings as if they hadn't just dumped on him like a bucket of ice cold water. He had never liked someone so instantly, so intensely, so much so that he cataloged your favorite drink from the cafe without a second thought, promised himself to try it if he couldn't kiss the flavor from your lips one day.
And when it was the end of your shift, he was your last customer; he slid the book over the counter with a smile permanently tuned onto his face. “Just the one?” your easy act as if you hadn't spent the whole time talking together, working to make him chuckle.
“Yeah, I heard this great review of it,” the scan of the barcode mingled with your giggle.
“Did you? They must have excellent taste,” you were sitting down, looking up at him, the receipt printing before you tugged it free, taking a pen and writing out your number right on the bottom with a little heart written next to that girl from Montauk. You tucked it into the book, sliding it over to him, breaking the spell of your joking with, “Will you wait for me until I clock out? I mean, you don't have to, I know you spent nearly all day with m-”
“I wouldn't want to spend it anywhere else. I know a great cafe near my place, if you want to get a late lunch?” he had blushed, cheeks and ears a kissable pink as you nodded yes. Because neither of you wanted the day to end, holding onto whatever you could so that the time wouldn't pass like it had that first day. So when your late lunch ended, the two of you walked around the park, sat at the benches looking out over the fountain, and talked like you would never run out of things to say before it was growing dark, and you both had to find a way home.
The air had been cold, dropping to a point that even the dense city couldn't keep out the wind, and you linked your arm in his, taking a step closer so that every few feet the two of you nearly stepped on one another. “So you wanted to be a…”
“Singer,” Soobin shook his hair out at the confession, your fingers drumming along his bicep, reminding him how close the two of you stood. “I know it's a bit embarrassing, but if I could do anything at all besides you know being an accountant, I think I'd be a performer,”
“I think we have to go out to karaoke for our next date.” It had been a slip of words, one he caught and held onto without letting go.
“Next date?” he had taken you right up the stairs, standing outside your apartment door with the front light glowing and golden washing down on you, putting you on the spot. You felt hot all over, face pressing into his arm like it would hide your slip up and yet it didn't matter because you wanted all your cards on the table; you wanted him to see every facet of your mind, even for a blinding second.
“Forget I said anything embarrassing, okay?” You dug around in your pocket for your keys, “and call me after your mind has been erased of my misstep.”
But Soobin didn't care, not when the slip up made him feel seen. He had felt blind, looking for any reason that you might like him enough to keep this up, whatever it was, but he knew he didn't want to be just friends. And finding out now that you weren't viewing him in that way fixed his stomach, unraveling all the knots when his mind had been leading him down a path of self-destruction and irrationalization. “Next time we can see a movie, eat, get drinks, and then karaoke.”
You had looked over at him, smiling, trying and failing to keep it away, tipping down at the edges as you nodded, “Okay,” the soft whisper so hopeful it hurt. You had just opened the door, the handle caught in your hand, as the sound of Kai's laughter rang out into the night, the faint sound of the video game filling in all the space in the hall. " And next time, kiss me before you leave.”
Soobin couldn't help but look down at your lips, eyes flickering from your mouth and back up the slope of your nose to make sure he had heard you right. His nod so shy he felt his palms sweat. It was one thing you had loved so much about him, the way he made it feel like you were the only person who had ever or could ever make him feel this way. The awkward cuteness he found himself wearing so often would trail around the two of you, with every brush of your hand, every kiss, and every word. You watched his throat bob, his mind working so fast he didn't have time to question if it was the wrong thing to do before he was leaning in.
It was a short kiss, his lips meeting yours just enough so that his mind could catch up with what he had done, so he tried to pull away. But you had let go of the doorknob, hand sliding up the front of his sweater in a way that left him aching for more, and you gave it to him, pulling him right back to your mouth and clearing his worries. Because you wanted him just as desperately as he wanted you. The small touches, the gentle laughs, and all the words you could fit between the two of you. Kissing only clarified both of your emotions, made it known that whatever was blooming would be diligently taken care of until it was a packed garden buzzing with life and understanding.
And when Soobin left and went home, he replayed the way your fingers had found their home right to the back of his neck, threading through his hair and tugging him closer. He lay in bed with the echoing of that feeling sinking into his bones like a shot of something he should have never taken, for it was the worst kind of thing to find yourself addicted to. It had only been two days of knowing each other, a few more of knowing of each other, and yet he wanted nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and tuck himself as close as he could, to feel the hum of your words on your neck as he pressed his face against your pulse.
It was instantly recognized when you closed your door behind you after that first kiss. Kai looked over at you standing in the entry, caught in that webbing only a crush could tug you into, with your fingers ghosting over your bottom lip, trying and failing to mimic the feeling of his mouth on yours, so you could aid the replay. Your names mixed in with the rhythmic teasing of the words, sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g, your hands covering your face because you couldn't help the smile at the sing-song tilt to Kai's voice.
Soobin had texted that next morning, setting a song for your ringtone, putting a heart next to your name, and deleting it again because he felt silly and like you weren't quite his just yet. But in every sense, the two of you belonged together, even if not visible to the two of you, it was impossible to deny from an outside perspective.
He worked late, woke up earlier, and had little time for himself, but he would make time for you. Before, when he would come home, loosening his tie, he'd kick off his shoes and stretch out on the couch to watch whatever he had been playing to pass the time, or even load a quick game on a weekend that he didn't have to leave the comfort of his home for. Now he was thinking of ways to blend you in without feeling like it was too much too soon. But you didn't mind any of it, taking the opportunities as they came.
So the two of you spent time grocery shopping, Soobin pushing the cart, following you down every aisle, even the ones you didn't need to spend time down, only to spend more time together, just talking and giggling as you went. He carried the bags upstairs, only making you take the bread and eggs even when you complained that you could handle more, while still making time to hold the door open for you when you made it up. Trusting you with the keys and still reaching around you to push it open.
You would sit on his kitchen counter, watching him move around, placing everything away, talking about the way he had empty walls and hardly any furniture. “You live like a college student with your first paycheck,” and when Soobin pulled open his cabinet, he pulled out a single mug and asked you if you wanted tea. “You only have one mug! How are we supposed to enjoy tea together?”
“Well, I didn't think I'd have a pretty girl over who would need her own mug, but I'm more than willing to give her mine,”
He smiled to show his dimples, cute teeth on display when you muttered, “Next date we have to go pick up a picture frame or two, and another mug.”
“I was thinking we could go back out to Montauk for the fireworks show this Friday, but only if you wanted to, or we could do something else, anything you want.” His rambling and pink cheeks only made you nod. Your laugh easing his nerves.
“We can do anything, and I love the beach, there is something about the sea that you can just never forget about, like I think I'll always remember the way the sand feels between my fingers." You held your hand out, spreading each digit in front of you, peeking between them before he reached out, lacing his fingers with yours, the width of his palm eating up your own, the pads of his fingertips soft along the back of your hand.
He had stepped into your space, right between your legs, equal height, sitting up on the counter, looking at each other, remembering your kiss, and wishing you had never stopped kissing him. His free hand rested next to your thigh, his eyes trained on your lips before he leaned in, stopping so close that the two of you brushed noses. So close that it felt easy to confess even something as small as a grain of sand, “You remind me so much of the sea.” Your hand not intertwined with his now threading through his hair, right at the back of his neck, just as he had remembered and prayed for to happen again. Your words whispered so close to his mouth that he could swallow them down and keep them tucked to his heart. “Like you’ll be impossible to forget,”
You had spoken out his exact thoughts, written them out between the two of you just before he kissed you again and again. And it never needed to be more, both of you following the ease with which the relationship was taking you. Breathing so easily, even when you pulled away and knew it was okay, felt that a kiss could be something that wasn't scary and added questions, but something shared because you wanted to, needed to.
That night had been spent on his couch watching movies and playing games, falling asleep and leaning on his shoulder, waking up to his arms around you holding you just as close as you had held him.
Neither of you had asked your friends to come out to Montauk that second time, taking the trip on one of the busiest trains that went out that time of year. With Soobin carrying your picnic basket out and you with the blanket rolled and tucked under your arm, ready to be placed on the sand amongst the families who made it a yearly thing to come out to see the fireworks. It didn't matter that you had only just met, not when you fit so closely that there was no need to stretch out your arms and ask for distance.
Both of you eating and playing a card game, the deck loosely held down by stones collected from the sand so they wouldn't blow away. The world went on around you two. The giggling of the kids being chased by their parents rang out in the salt soaked air, the sun just setting out over the water, as people started their bonfire, getting ready to roast marshmallows, to sit back and enjoy their prepared food and carefully grilled barbecue.
And when the show started, you both sat side by side, thigh to thigh, leaning back on your hands just enough to see the dark night sky bursting with colors. Red and yellow, raining down and casting threads of illumination on the pretty features of Soobin's face. Your eyes traced the shape of his nose, the dip of his dimple, the catch in his smile as he looked up in awe.
Looking at him left no room for questions; if this was a glimpse into a life you could have, you wanted it, reached out with greedy fingers, and begged never to lose. And neither of you felt like letting go just yet, not when the two of you could spend most of your time out on the beach in silence. Picnic left to find the quieter side of the sand.
It was only just up from the crowd that the row of spaced out beach houses rested. Right amongst the long sun lightened blades of grass swaying in the salty breeze. Linking arms, the two of you looked up at the two stories, half lit with families who had turned in early.
“I wonder if people live here year round, if they listen to the sea even in the winter,” you questioned as Soobin's warmth cut through the thin fabric of his jacket, soaking into you and making it easier to speak without thought.
“I don't know if the houses right on the beach are built for much snow. I'm sure they have a hard time keeping all the sand out.”
“It's kinda sad for them to just stay empty,” out over the water, the lighthouse shines, the slow circle of the beam easy to follow from any distance. You're sure that even a lighthouse keeper would find it lonely to spend their days on a cold beach in January compared to nights like this in July. “Imagine all the snow on the beach, that alone feels kinda magical, just to be left empty…”
“You would live in a house like this year round?” The question had set him thinking, picturing a life with you right here on the beach where you met, the sand building in the corner by the front door, watching the water from the porch, sharing a cup of coffee with the mug you had picked out for such occasions so early on in the relationship where it should have been a suggestion to slow down.
But it didn't feel like either of you was moving fast. For a second, it felt as if the blurred edges you had held around relationships had sharpened with a clarity you would have never known, less you met Soobin that day. The suggestion of slowness felt like wading through water instead of swimming through it. If he wanted you to spend time wrapped up in his arms at his place, you wouldn't stop him from asking with a waving yellow flag.
Being with him felt like being in the center of a high school gymnasium dance floor, blue iridescent streamers hanging from the rafters and swaying in a rhythm that mimicked your shy steps on the linoleum. The glowing mirrorball reflecting spots of incandescent light over the two of you, framing you in a world alone where you felt giddy enough to be even asked to share this dance. Soobin was wrapped up in a shyness that did not show inexperience but willingness to learn with a faint hint of worry about messing things up when they felt so fragile. It was that softness that pulled you in, and it was the confidence that you had in him that sent him stumbling right in after you down that rabbit hole of this uncharted relationship.
He didn't care if it felt too soon to just sit and think about you and him sharing a house, dancing in the kitchen, sharing a bed, inviting all your friends over just because you wanted to bask in the giddy glow he was radiating. Being a hopeless romantic felt suffocating on the worst of days, enough so that he had tricked himself into believing he was a skeptic, putting distance between his heart and his sleeve in fear of a stray swing of a backhand that would take years to recover from. He kept his place bare, buried himself in his work, and prayed to stumble on love, and he had gotten what he had wanted.
Everything he had been looking for was standing right at the edge of those sand-covered stairs, your head tilted into his bicep as you hummed in question. “I could see it, and I think I’d love to live right here, quiet in the winter, warm in the summer, seagulls as pets.”
The last line was enough to catch him unexpectedly, giggle genuine and lasting. “Seagulls? They would probably wake us up like roosters do on farms,”
“Built in alarm clocks, maybe we would become morning people? Watching the sunrise as the waves hit the rocks by the lighthouse,”
“As much as I would pray it would be warm, I'm sure the mornings and nights would be a bit chilly. I'd want to spend as much time curled up in bed as I could, snuggling for hours.” Soobin had pulled you in closer, his nose dipping to your ear as he said it, burying his face into your neck at the suggestion. The tickling of his lashes and soft lips made you laugh.
It had been the first night you had spent in his bed, the train coming in late enough for you to worry about him walking all that way back to his place alone. His persistent talk of him sleeping on the couch shut down over and over again. “It's your bed, if anything, I should be the one-”
“I'd never make you sleep on the couch,” he seemed appalled by the suggestion, pushing the door to his room open to reveal the half-made bed, still sleep wrinkled with half the duvet pulled to the side. “Here,” he had pulled out his pajamas from his neatly folded clothes in his dresser, “you can take anything you want to wear to sleep, and the bed is yours.”
It was only after you changed that he finally let you convince him to get between the sheets. The white duvet pulled up to your chin as you rolled your eyes at his suggestion of making you uncomfortable. “I've never felt more comfortable with a person before,” you reached out, taking his hand just to trace the lines of his palm, his fingers twitching from the sensitivity, curling around your own. “I've never been so happy to have met someone,”
The swell of that feeling sat in your chest, not heavy but whole. You slid closer to him, sinking into the dip in the bed his body made, until it would take effort to pull away. His arms were a comforting weight around your body as you lay your head on his chest, tucked under his chin to hear his heartbeat, the erratic rhythm of it making you smile. And you had fallen asleep that first night in his bed, listening to the way his heart slowly started to even out, his body relaxing just as well as yours, melting into one another, tangled legs and syncing breaths.
It had been easy to fit into each other's lives, your friend group getting along enough to spend every other weekend out together at one of your apartments, although your shared place with Kai became a closet as you spent most of your off time over at Soobin's. Within the year of you two being together, you had hung up frames, bought mugs, and shopped for groceries with your things mixed in the cart, Soobin reaching for them without thinking twice.
The six of you crammed into Soobin's tiny living room, the couch only big enough for two and a half. Hence, you wedged yourself into his lap, his arms wrapped around you, the younger three boys sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, while Yeonjun sat focused on the tv next to Soobin and you. Video game controllers taking turns between four of you at a time. It was all you ever needed on a weekend, time slipping past until in that soft, comforting way that made you realize that maybe these little things were all you needed to feel content.
The summer had come in a wave of heat, Soobin, and you were making it out to Montauk for the fireworks just as you had the year before, taking the last train back without the question of where you would spend the night. Pulling open the drawer he had cleared for your things, only to pick one of his shirts to wear time and time again to bed.
There was no loss of that shyness Soobin held seeing you in his bed, no loss of that admiration that you wanted to spend your free time wrapped up in him, with him. He would spend a million mornings watching your eyes open, your first instinct to kiss at his neck, the soft brush of your lips making the corner of his mouth tip up like you had found the button to his happiness right against his adam's apple, his pulse point.
He would shuffle out of bed after you, rubbing sleep from his eyes, watching you in the mirror as you brushed your teeth, his hands over your body begging you to just call out, stay back with him in bed so he wasn't so lonely on his day off. You had tried to fix your work schedule to align with his, taking shifts so that you both worked the same, so that you didn't have to resist his pleas, the temptation so easy when he was this warm.
“Stay with me,” his mouth right at your ear, as you rubbed your moisturizer onto your face, his hands slipping under the shirt you had just put on for work, thumbs running soft circles over the skin of your stomach. “I'd make it worth it,” he'd whisper, his fingers just slipping into the waistband of your jeans, tracing along the thin fabric of your panties.
It was nearly impossible to pull away from him, his promises always fulfilled, his words of encouragement and praise filling his small bedroom with each pass of his skilled fingers. Your work clothes carefully tugged off, forgotten on the floor, and not picked up until the next day because you would inevitably get up again at noon after falling right back asleep in his arms. You didn't care if you walked around his apartment in nearly nothing, his shirt taken off his back and given to you, his grey sweatpants low on his hips as he made you both a mug of tea.
You'd sit on the counter like that first time, blowing the steam from your mug that he had picked out for you that first week of being together, one extra in the cabinet for when his mom came over for a visit. Soobin between your legs looking over his own cup with his dark hair a mess from either sleep or your fingers.
And on days when you needed to resist, he would walk you all the way to your job, kiss you, and leave only to come back half an hour later with a cup of coffee, order memorized since that first day, a muffin picked from the display case because he knew you needed something to eat. He would sit in the coffee shop with his laptop, playing games or reading, following you around as you stocked books to plan weekends with the boys. “It's going to snow next week, we could go out to Montauk and sit at the lighthouse drinking hot chocolate,”
“Your birthday is next weekend, don't you want to spend it with everyone?” You had already planned to pick up his cake, the boys saying they would come over with their gifts and games.
“I kinda wanted to rent a place out there, spend it with my favorite person, in our favorite place,” he blushed as he said it, pursing his lips as if he let too much slip, as if the two of you hadn't made it any more clear that you were obsessed with each other. But he couldn't help himself, every passing day he found more that he didn't know about you, more to discover because knowing each other a year wasn't enough when he wanted a lifetime of birthdays spent in bed with you on a cold beach, kissing warmth back into each other with every passing day of new discovered knowledge. “Too much?”
“No,” you let the word out on a short, breathy laugh, “we can do anything you want, you're never too much,” you couldn't kiss him then, not while the store was half full of regulars as you reach up to put a book on the shelf but you want to, felt it calling to you whenever it was that he let that boyish shyness show. “Just let me know if I should invite everyone, even if it's only for a few hours.”
“Yeah, we can do breakfast at that spot right by the apartment, pancakes with a candle in it, that kinda thing, then we take the train out together, I don't really care, I just want you to be there.”
“Of course I'll be there, you act as if I don't basically live at your place.” You couldn't remember the last time you slept alone there. You had made quick visits to see Kai and pick up loose items you hadn't realized hadn't made it over to Soobin's. You still paid rent, and Kai said he'd never kick you out because he would always give you a place to stay, rent or no rent. The only reason he couldn't keep you from paying was because you had the account information to submit your half when it was due. And when the time came that you did officially move in with Soobin, it was never a big transition. Kai kept your room just as it was, your sheets still on the bed, your boxes still in the closet.
“I know,” he shrugged, shoulder to his ear, cheeky smile showing his dimple you found yourself kissing almost too often. “I just like to hear you say it.”
You booked your weekend stay on the beach even if it was going to snow, and changed the plans with the boys so they could catch him before the train ride out of the city. That Friday morning, the six of you packed yourselves into one booth, ordering a table's worth of food, plates clinking from the amount. You had packed a bag's worth of loose birthday candles, enough for every year you were celebrating him being alive. His stack of pancakes punctured with a rainbow of candles, the lighter you had brought going slowly as you tried to light each one, Yeonjun leaning over the table to help take one fast melting candle around to the others, trying not to get wax all over and failing.
Happy birthday was sung loud enough for people to join in over their morning coffee, clapping as Soobin shyly blew out his candles, hiding his face in your neck when the boys didn't stop singing and started to harmonize. “Make them stop,” his laugh caught right against your collarbone.
And when the two of you left to catch your train, you sat in the same seats you always did, right in the middle with Soobin sacrificing the window seat so that you could get the best view, even on his birthday. Your weekend bag was packed together and tossed over his shoulder as he held your hand while you got off. The snow had not started to fall, but would come in the night just as the forecast had stated. Both of you bundled up in your coats, walking close together until you were almost stepping over each other.
“Look at that,” the rental right at the edge of the sand, overlooking the slice of beach just in sight of the lighthouse. The place is big with five rooms, a house made to host people on the summer weekends like the one you had met on. “The street is empty, all except our place.” The road right at the back of the houses void of any cars, even the trash bins are all pulled in and kept away from any blowing winds.
“It's why I could get us the best price at the best place, the beach is private and blocked off just for us.” Even if no one was there, it felt special and all your own, cut away from the city, from everything but your love.
You had picked up the keys where you had been told they would be, fiddling with the lock, trying to get your fingers to steady with the wind pinching them enough to leave them trembling. Tossing your bag down right next to the entrance, not caring about anything else besides making it out to see the sunset over the water before it was too late. Soobin wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest, to warm both of you up.
With only the sound of the water, you both sat down in the sand, seagulls gone and the lighthouse making its rounds as the night started to dip to a faded grey, sun caught behind the clouds, so there was only the outline of light along the shore. Soobin kissed the top of your head, keeping his cheek right there over the spot as if that would keep it ingrained into the memory you were both creating.
“I love you.” The words were easy the first time, and so now, when you speak them, it's natural enough not to even be felt slipping from your lips. But the impact is felt just the same, a weight that keeps you grounded instead of suffocated, because he never pushed away your feelings and always responded the same way with “I love you more,” a fight he would die on the hill of each time you shook your head and declared you loved him more.
And even there in the open, he laid you down on the sand, the warmth of his body pressed against yours through the layers of fabric separating you, his hand hot against your skin as he slipped it under your sweater, holding your side. Your fingers cold as you twisted them in his hair, your head thrown back while he kissed along the column of your throat, muttering between each peck, “I need to get you a scarf,” his nose bumped right behind your ear, smelling your perfume, the trail his mouth made turning cold when he pulled away to find your lips again.
He'd have you right on the sand if he wasn’t worried about you getting sick from being out in the cold for so long. So he pulled you up, helping to brush the sand away from your coat before you giggled, giving him one last quick kiss to his cheek before taking off towards the house, “race you!”
It was harder to run in the sand, your feet slipping and heavy to pull up with each footfall. Soobin was right on your heels, laughing and calling out your name as you shrugged off your coat even while the snow had started its dusting. The second you had reached the long walkway up back to the house, the sunbleached wood creaking under you, you dropped your jacket, knowing he'd bend down to get it, giving you time to beat him even with his long legs.
And it was exactly what he did, “not fair!” his laugh trailing through the frosting air, salted with the fast falling flakes of snow. You were already tugging off your sweater as soon as you got to the door, pushing it open because neither of you had cared enough to lock it when it was a ghost town. But before you could step foot inside, his hand, now cold, landed against your stomach, pulling you back against him. “Nope, not this time,” his face icy from the wind pressing into your neck until you shrieked from the shock of it.
You had turned in his hold, wrapping your arms around his neck, trying to pull him into your warmth as much as possible. And he let you, cold hands slipping along your bare back, fingers dancing along the clasp of your bra, teasing you with the idea of him unfastening it. Your nose bumped against his, “I win,” your words brushing long his lips, catching in his laugh.
“You cheated.” His tone was dipped in a hazy mix of lust and love-sick desire. His eyelids heavy; body so close to melting into yours.
“I was only making it easier for you, skipping a bit of the undressing.” You pushed your hands into his coat, giving him the hint to take it off, sliding down along the toasty fabric of his sweater until you could slip under the hem.
His stomach flexed under the ghosting of your fingertips, his lips light as they kissed over your jaw, following the line up to your ear as he whispered, “But that's half the fun." His soft inhale of your perfume made him close his eyes, “like unwrapping a present.”
He did want to pull away, not even to undress himself, half rumpled coat caught in the crook of his elbows, sweater pushed half up his stomach, jeans low on his hips, the band of his underwear hugging him just right. You could see it all over him, that desperation kissed along his creased brow, the look of a man who would go to the ends of the earth for one glimpse of you, even if it was through the mist of a heavy mirage.
So when you led him up the stairs, he followed, stumbling all the way after you, stopping at the door to watch the way you fell back on the neatly made bed, sitting up on your elbows. It was a memory that was tattooed into his mind, the way you spilled out on the sheets for him. You took up all the space in his mind, so much so that if anyone walked into the room of his brain you would be the first person they turned to see, that image of you in the sand, in the sheets of this bed, or his own, hung up on the wall like a recall of every good time the two of you shared.
Soobin dropped his coat, grabbing the back collar of his sweater to tug it over his head, not caring where any of it landed when the straps of your bra were slipping from your shoulders, just barely keeping the thin material in place over your chest. “God, I love you so fucking much,” the words bubbling up out of his lips like a confession he hadn't felt slip, his voice dropping into a needy groan as you rolled your hips.
“Prove it,” your chin lifted, smile biting into him as he sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands sliding up your thighs, fingers curling around the waistband of your jeans, already unzipped and unbuttoned, showing the fine lace of your panties. He would be right at the foot of the bed till the end of time, proving his love, his desperation, his devotion, to you if you had asked.
He was slow to drag the fabric down your legs, your hips lifting to help him get it off of you. Placing one of your ankles on his shoulder, he kissed your calf, trailing up your skin as you leaned forward to brush his hair back from his brow. He wanted to take his time on you, spend all night pulling every little sound he could from the depths of your soul, make you just as flushed and flustered as he always felt when wrapped up in you. And you would let him, your thighs widening slightly just for him to nip at the soft plushness of them.
Your quiet whimpering encouraged him, his cheek pressed to your leg, he reached out to press his thumb over your clit, circling just enough to make your head roll back. “How could someone be this perfect?” and it was the raw honest curiosity in the question that made your heart flutter. The look he casts on you leaves no room for you to be shy. He would not take any head shakes of contention, not when you were already trying to push your hips closer to his fingers, wanting him as thoroughly as he wanted you.
He did not stop his teasing, the slow circles building you up at just the pace he wanted before he pulled away. Your whine was short-lived when he slipped his fingers right into you, smiling at the way your lashes fluttered for him. You tried to close your knees at the feeling, but he had wedged himself perfectly to keep you spread, one arm wrapped around the underside of your leg propped up on his shoulder.
Your eyes screw shut when his mouth falls down to your clit, kissing so softly like a thank you. His hum of approval at your gasp runs along your spine. He leisurely keeps his fingers pumping into you, kisses soft and barely there, content with making you messier, taking his time. There is no room for embarrassment with how wet you are, your hips trying to chase his mouth, needing more pressure, needing more attention.
The desperation is written out in the way you pull him forward, hand cupping the back of his head until you can feel his grin teasing you. He does not make you wait long, your orgasm so close to the surface with his lips greedy to please you, sucking and toys with your clit, fingers building up their speed before he curls them. The pressure makes your thighs tremble around him, your body too weak to keep up, you fall back, arching off the bed with a low whine cumming as he hums against your clit.
Your chest rises and falls with each breath you try to grasp, your hand leaving his head to place over your heart, feeling the way it beats erratically behind your ribs. He kisses back up your leg, leaning his cheek on your knee, watching the way you are nearly spilling out of your bra, face flushed, with your cunt still fluttering around his fingers, he keeps in place to draw out your high. “You're so pretty like this, just a mess over me.”
Soobin's lips are kissably reddened now as he leans down, blowing cool air along your pussy glistening with aerosol, your body jolts at the stimulation barely provided and proving your sensitivity. You're whining at the pout of his face, at the feeling of simultaneously being filled but not enough. His name is drawn out on a whisper as your hips pick back up their grinding, chasing another orgasm as if you had even recovered from the first. “More, please, I need more,” the words just above a whisper.
“More?” It's the tilt to his head that does it, his examination of your body laid out, not cynical but teasing, “Do you think I'll even fit?” he reaches out with his free hand, sliding up your side, pressing down on your pelvis, “Could you take all of me?”
You don't even care if you've had sex before, that he's asked these same questions and got the same answer. Your body was made for him, and yet the words always made you weak in the knees, mind going fuzzy, body aching to have him as deep as he could go. “Please.”
Your whispered plea was a direct line to his cock, already leaking beads of pre-cum and straining in his jeans. He had tried hard to last, to keep his mind, his hips grinding against the edge of the mattress, looking for some form of relief and finding little. He pulled his hands from you, loved the way you sounded as you pulled your knees in together while he stood.
He groaned deep in his throat at the taste of you, cleaning off your wetness from his fingers before undoing his belt, the clinking of the metal making you sit up. You watched the way he slowly undid his button, the outline of him devastatingly mouth-watering as he pushed his jeans down his waist. You reached behind you to unhook your bra, tossing the fabric as he freed himself.
You had never gotten over the size of him, not when the sight provoked your body to clench around nothing, your mind wondering exactly how he did manage to fit. The length of him twitching in his hand as he loosely tugs, your eyes following the movement until you're squirming, watching the way his thumb swirls along his tip. You instinctively widen your legs at the sight, free hand not twisted in the sheets, reaching up to pinch at your nipple, drawing his eyes right where you wanted him.
He can't help himself from climbing on top of you, pushing your hands away to cup your breasts, and peppering kisses along the thin skin. He drags his teeth down to your pebbled nipples, biting and tugging on them until you're whining under him, hips working against his because he's so close to slipping right into you with his cock pressed flush against your cunt. But he doesn't care, not when he's leaving marks along your skin, kissing up your chest until he's back to your lips.
Leaning up, he has his cock laid against your stomach, the length of him high enough to reach your belly button, “look at how deep I'll be in you,” his words a mix of awe and lust as you reach up to twist your fingers in his hair. And when he finally presses into you, he catches your gasp right in his mouth, swallowing it down as he resists pushing in too fast. He can only go as far as the tip before he has to pull back out to try again, taking his time when you're whining at the sheer stretch you feel when he inches in so slowly.
You're clenching around him, trembling and needing him closer. His groan pressed right to your ear when he finally bottoms out, free hand falling to your hip to try and get you to stay still so your body can adjust. “Fucking perfect,” he's muttering, kissing behind your ear as you say his name, lost in a dreamy haze as you melt for him. But your impatience is building the longer he just stays still, his hair held tight in your hands as you attempt to move your hips, but he had you pinned against the mattress under his weight, until you’re desperate enough to beg with tears building at the corners of your eyes.
It's when he finally moves that has you clawing at him, nails scratching down his back enough to leave red marks along his skin. He goes so slow at first, dragging his hips back so that you feel the veins of him, feel the way he just leaves his tip in before he's pushing right back in, building up a pace that leaves you right on the edge of insanity.
Your gasp is twisted into a shocked moan when he moves his hand from your hip and presses down on your pelvis, your body seizing around him while he applies pressure to the bulge of his cock inside you, “you feel that?” but you can't answer, mind a mess, words spilling from you incoherently while you tighten around him, “made just for me,” his voice throaty as he says it against your neck, kissing along the mark he'd made.
He's intoxicated by the way you react, hips dragging just right so that he can feel the way he's bumping just the right spot to make you tremble. Because you're shaking under him, legs widening before he reaches down further to circle at your clit. “Wait,” you're gasping because you can feel the knot in your stomach tightening to the point of breakage, so close to coming undone that you want him closer to keep you together because you know the second you cum, you’ll be falling apart, melting into the mattress without hope.
But Soobin is lost, drowning in the ocean of his desire, finding it harder to keep his moans at bay, lips greedy as they taste the vibrations of your whimpers along your throat. Addicted to the way your body feels against his, the way you draw out the rawest form of himself. And the words bubble up without him realizing what he's saying, the question, demand, plea falling out as he keeps up his pace, hips lulling you to your cresting orgasm, bodies chasing their highs without shame.
“Marry me,” he gasps, breath fanning over your ear.
You almost don't catch it, the words washing over you but not sticking until he says it again, “marry me,” the desperation laced between each syllable. You pull him closer, his hand once holding him up now falling to your leg, dragging up the back of it before hooking behind your knee to stretch you wider, allowing his hips to sink deeper.
The slight change of angle sends a ripple of pressure through your body, cunt fluttering around him before you're cumming, nails digging into his back, body trembling as he lays his weight on you. The rumbling of his moans pressed right against you as he buries his face into your neck, following right along with you as he cums. His stuttering hips stop as he presses in deep, so much farther now like this, spilling his warm cum into you in hot spurts.
He doesn't pull out as he kisses along your skin, a fine layer of sweat coating both of your bodies. And it's between the heavy breathing that he slowly pumps into you again, your soft whine at the slight overstimulation making him chuckle. He pulls back, hand dropping your leg as he finally pulls out, dipping his nose to yours, kissing away your whimper when you feel the warm gush of your combined release spill out after his absence.
You push your fingers into his hair, tucking the strands behind his ear. His cheeks flushed when he put his forehead to yours, kissing the tip of your nose. Soobin was clingy in the best of ways, trying to catch the pattern of your breathing to line up with his. His lips to your pulse, counting each flutter of your heartbeat as if it were a prayer he would have to recite later by memory. And as much as he would love to lie in your arms, melting into one on top of the duvet, he never missed cleaning you up.
And it was only when he pulled away that you started to think about what he had said. The words came back the second that he had flicked on the glowing white lights of the bathroom, like it had only taken that one bulb to turn on for you to finally realize what he had said in the heat of the moment. Marry me. Whispered like a confession instead of a plea, as if he had already known your answer, because you knew exactly how the two of you felt about each other. There was no doubt in your mind, at least not until he wasn't in the room.
He had kissed you, held you, and walked off, leaving you on the sheets with those words hanging in the air, in the light now shining directly onto your relationship. You were caught in your own thinking when he came back with a warm rag, his hand soft on your legs to pull you out of your mind. “You okay?” His question was soft, just for the two of you, a welcome reprieve from the way you turned those words over again and again; marry me, marry me, marry me.
It was not the idea of marrying him that had thrown you off, but how he had not instantly brought it back up. Soobin was a shy mess of emotions most of the time, questioning himself and if he was ‘too much’ in the relationship, unless he was grasping out at avoidance, hoping and praying you hadn't heard him. And it was that which had caught you in the webbing of worry. That maybe, just maybe, he hadn't meant to say it at all, or maybe he had and was worried about how you would take it.
You didn't know how to say it, bring it up only for him to get flustered, enough so that he confessed your deepest worry. The one where he hadn't meant it, the one where he said it was in a moment of weakness, that he didn't want to marry you, and the words had just slipped out.
“I'm okay,” you tried to blink away your thoughts, shake your head ‘yes,’ but all you seemed to be able to do was shake your head ‘no.’
But Soobin could see the lie for what it was. The cover-up was a half done job of deception as he cleaned you up and kissed your skin again like an apology. “Are you sure? Was I too much?”
He stood there, brows pulled together, looking at you with his puppy dog worry, his trip to the bathroom giving him the time to pull on his underwear, leaving you feeling exposed only because you felt like confessing your line of thinking was going to have you set out before the two of you, raw. “No, never,” and it was the truth because it was in that moment that you realized even if it would break your heart to know he didn't want to marry you, you would still swallow it down to be with him.
You looked past him to the pile of clothes on the floor, his eyes following until he picked up his sweater, the discarded lace panties still tucked in with your jeans. He picked them up, tugged his sweater over your head, and gave you the space to pull yourself together a bit. It felt so much more intimate letting him watch you pull on your underwear than letting him take them off.
His sweater was still warm from his skin, bringing you comfort to drop the question down between the two of you before you could take it back. “Did you mean it?” The four words tossed out on the bed like a spilled glass of wine, soaking into the air until it was thick with your worry and his confusion. You bit your inner lip, absentmindedly picking at your nails avoiding looking at him like it would be written on his face before he had a moment to hide what he really meant.
“What?” he was caught, not in the way you had been worried about, but in genuine puzzlement over the question itself, and that way you looked on the verge of tears, ready to shatter with his next words like stones on a carefully cleaned glasshouse.
“When you…” The words stuck in your throat, lost in your lungs, dying on what felt to be your last breath, “When you said marry me, did you mean it?”
You looked up, facing your fear with a shovel in hand to bury his rejection deep, the moment you saw the truth written out, even if it didn't match his soft words, to try and cover it up. But he did not look panicked or pitiful, like you had already painted your mind to believe he would be. No, he looked caught, a boy, a mess of innocence who had been asked to explain why in his dreams he reached out for desires unimaginable.
Because he had not realized he had said the thoughts on his mind, tucked a confession in between passion and pleasure like it was a bookmark between pages of a moment, and not a moment he should have written an entirely different story of. And now you were looking at him like it tore you apart to ask, the words a steel blade to his careful plans. He had planned it all out, thought about it the whole train ride over, a whole week, a month, even the moments you had spent right there out on the beach that day you two had met, because he had been sure then, and he was so sure now.
And he had ruined it with loose lips and a mind made of mush because he couldn't help himself when it came to you, and he didn't know how to apologize for ruining his grand proposal without even having realized he had let the words slip in the first place. “Of course I meant it, i-i-” he was hot all over, from his ears down to his neck, hand jumping to his hair to calm himself because this wasn't the way it was supposed to be, not here but on the beach where you two had met, in the snow, together on the lonely sand made less lonely when you had each other.
“Soobin-” because now, watching the way he was panicking, stumbling to find the words to fix the moment, you felt silly for worrying, silly for bringing it up because you should have known, and you did, it was only your fear blurring your sanity.
“No baby, I'm so sorry, I didn't even realize I said it, of course you would freak out, and I just walked off like it was nothing-” he was pacing, thinking over only the few passing minutes after the two of you were done, and analyzing them, “fuck and I said it twice,”
And you couldn't help but laugh, the sound a bubble holding all your pent up fear until it popped, dissipating as he looked at you and chuckled all the same because it was silly and something only he seemingly could have done. “It's okay,” you giggled, nerves settling down, now ready to shake yourself for negative thoughts when he had never done anything to make you doubt him. “Truly, Soobin, it's okay.”
But he pouts no less, sinking to his knees at the edge of the bed as if he hadn't just been there, pressing his face into your bare thighs to try and quell his embarrassment. His arms wrap around your waist as he mutters against your skin, “I wanted it to be a surprise.” You're caught in your place, looking down at him, your hand in his hair, scratching along his scalp in the same way you used to lull him to sleep on late nights.
As much as you had thought about him not wanting to marry you, it hadn't crossed your mind that he had wanted to do it then, that if he had meant to say it, it had only been in practice but not a question for you to answer any time soon. “What?”
He turned his cheek, looking up at you with his chin on your knee, before sitting back on his heels at the look on your face. Because you were searching again for something he couldn't quite decipher, eyes flickering over the bridge of his nose like you were full of disbelief.
The plan had been the beach, nothing fancier than the waves and sand, the lighthouse right on the hilltop, with the snow all around. Him on his knee, awkwardly stumbling through a speech while sinking under his weight, blinking to keep the hair from his eyes. He could see it like it had always been meant to happen, like a memory he had uncovered and needed to replay. But it didn't matter where he did it when all he wanted was to spend it confessing the truth of his love to you, because he couldn’t keep it in, and here was perfect all the same.
“I even got you a ring,” he leaned over, reaching out on the floor for his coat, fumbling in the pockets for the little velvet box he had been carrying around for far longer than he cared to admit, trying to build up the courage.
He was trembling, your gasp making him nervous in ways he had never expected. He knew how scary it would have been to ask you, but the words had already slipped out, and even in knowing you would more than likely say yes, he still had a devil on his shoulder saying otherwise. But it was laying himself bare before you that made his stomach twist in knots, not because he didn't trust you but because he was worried that he loved you too much, that you would look at him and see someone clingy in the worst ways, over emotional and searching for your love in a crowded room of passing affections.
“I was thinking a lot about what I would say and realized I'm not very good with words,” he said with a short chuckle, trying to laugh off the tremor in his voice. It took a moment for him to look up at you, your fingers curled in the hem of his sweater, the one he had pulled onto you to try and find some way to bring you comfort.
Now, you have tears in your eyes. Vision blurry as you looked down on him, dressed in nothing but his underwear, hair a mess of tousled strands, with shaking hands and stammering words. “I wanted to ask you in the place that I first realized I wanted to marry you, the place I knew you were the one. It's kinda silly to be scared now because even if I knew that first day that you would be the only one I could see myself buying a ring for, it's impossible not to be. Because I love you with everything in me. I love my friends, my family, my bed, and still, I never realized love, real love, felt like this. And I feel it in a new way when I'm with you, I read books, I watched movies, I saw how my parents were with each other, and I wanted affection, but I didn't think much of it past just being an emotion people shared,”
“But when I met you, I felt so seen. I didn't have a crush; those words feel so childish because my love for you, my feelings for you, are bigger than anything I can pinpoint in the world. When I say you're made for me, I don't mean it in a possessive way, I mean it in a, I was put on this earth to love you, kinda way. Because when I'm with you, when I'm not, I ache. I think about how lucky I am to have you when you're here, and burn when you're not, and it feels bigger than the both of us, and that is scary, but also very comforting because it only tells me that you are the one,”
“My life didn't feel like it had started until I met you, and I can't think of any other person whom I would rather spend the rest of my life with because you are mine, someone i would never be able to forget, someone i want to spend hours with on this beach, sipping tea, and reading books, sleeping in with, and loving forever, doing exactly what i know i was put here for. So I'll ask again, properly this time, will you marry me?”
He opened the little box, the ring perfect and hardly seen through your tears as you nodded, not caring how you looked and just needing to be closer to him. There was no space at the foot of the bed, but you found a way to wedge yourself into it when you threw your arms around him, face pressed into his neck, the words still on your lips as you said them again and again, “yes, a million times yes,”
The grin he had plastered on his face hurt his cheeks, dimpled, and stuck with the swell of his happiness. Neither of you cared that you were on the floor, your hand shaking just as badly as his had been, and it only made him bite back a giddy laugh. Because he was slipping the ring he had picked so long ago onto your finger, twisting the silver band until it rested just right to place the diamond on display. He kissed your still trembling fingers right along your knuckles before pulling you back in to hold.
It felt a bit surreal the next morning when the sun was filtering in through the gauzy curtains. The diamond caught the light as you held your hand up in front of you, the smile heavy on your lips, Soobin’s body curved into yours, still sleeping soundlessly. You wanted to tell everyone, call up Kai just to gush about the moment, and spill the details of the love confession you had been waiting a lifetime for. Nothing felt half full, not now, not when it was so fresh in your mind.
“Do you like it?” Soobin’s sleep ridden voice caught you, his nose still tucked into your neck, his soft yawn pressed to your collarbone.
“I love it.” It didn't matter what the ring had looked like, not when you hadn't expected to ever be given one in the first place. You couldn't turn away from it, your eyes catching it with every passing moment after he had slipped it onto your finger. While you poured coffee, brushed your teeth, and pushed Soobin’s hair back behind his ears, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking back to him, his words.
It made the house feel all your own, the two of you fitting in like testing the future life you would both share. And even when you made it back into the city, cut from the sea and salt stained air, your happiness followed after the two of you, bled into the monotonous parts of your day. His voice echoed in your mind while you stocked books at work, ‘you are the one,’ replaying over and over, your heart aching to get back home to him, even if it had only been a few passing hours since you had last seen him.
There had been love before, but there was something keenly different about coming back with a ring. Your friends who had known you two at the very start even looked on with softer eyes, truly happy smiles, while you shared over late night takeout, still wedged onto Soobin’s couch, holding your hand out to Yeonjun, giggling like you had shared your crush had slipped a note into your locker and not slipped a ring onto your finger.
“You two are disgustingly perfect for each other,” Beomgyu had joked, his teasing smile turning into something sappy, “I'm really happy for you two.”
It had been so good to bask in the light of your love, to think about what it would look like to see Soobin at the end of a long aisle. It had been easy to ask questions lying in bed late at night, your fingers grazing his cheek as the two of you whispered about wedding plans, flowers, tables, chairs, dresses, and friends. But each night that hazy state of readiness slipped from just a feeling into a blurry question of when.
It had been slow, a passing of time that felt natural to share while engaged, the planning light, dates set and passed without much worry when you were both busy and didn't make things set in stone. It didn't scare you, and neither of you pushed to plan past the late night dreams and pillow talk. And even when the ring had been sitting on your finger for longer than a year with no plans made, you didn't let it bother you.
Or you tried not to.
Soobin did not love you any less, neither of you felt any different, but the weight of the ring began to feel heavy when every new question was swept under a rug you hadn't seen being placed right at the front door of your relationship. You could shrug it off just as easily as it was to brush anything away from your mind, waving your hand at the light teasing remarks made by your friends, coworkers. But each passing word was a stone hitting against your ribs until it was hard not to see the bruising starting to bloom.
“Do you guys just not have a date in mind?” Kai had asked when it was just the two of you out.
“Not really,” you didn't want to look up from the rack of clothes you were distracting yourself with, mindlessly pushing each hanger aside without looking at the shirts.
“Are you…nervous about marrying him?” The question traveled along your skin like a bug you were trying fast to swat away.
“No-it's not- we just never really talk about it,” you felt weird to say it aloud, to confess something you were holding in when you felt it to be small. Because it would be a lie to say you hadn't been thinking about the passing time, that each month that went by, where you talked less about a wedding and slipped back into boyfriend and girlfriend and not fiancés, pained you.
But it felt small because Soobin was seemingly happy with the wait, happy to sit in a still frame instead of moving color. And nothing was wrong, you had not fought, you had not felt him pull away, it was just stagnant, a ring but with no follow through. You didn't want to seem greedy, you had a man, a devastatingly devoted man who kissed you every morning on the cheek after making you a cup of coffee, who followed you around like a love sick puppy, made time and space for you in his day not because you had asked but because he had confessed to not being able to live without you.
But it brought you right back to that feeling in the bed, the one where you sat and told yourself it was okay to swallow down his not wanting more, just so that you had enough of him. You had felt in some way that he had slipped up with his question, caught him too soon, and now, with plans half made, you could not help but think again about him not being ready. And that was okay, you knew it was, you loved him more than a marriage, but it didn't stop you from aching.
“You don't talk about it? Like ever?” You didn't have to look up to know his brows were scrunched, his slight frown working on his lips to pull you to backtrack.
“Well, kinda, I bring it up occasionally, and he always says, ‘we don't have to be married just yet to be in love, we just are,’ and it's very sweet, and he kisses me, and you know I get distracted, and it's just a cycle.” but even that feels like running, the truth heavy on your heels as you lie, “and it's not that big of a deal, he's right, we love each other, we’re just playing by ear,”
“So married…five years after the engagement is likely? Asking so I can possibly get a week off of work and not just a sneaky sick day,” but Kai's joke misses its landing, the words a piano on a string, hanging over your head with no room for you to move away.
Five years was a long time, and you were already struggling with the one year long engagement as it was, and each day, Soobin made it less clear on his direction with the casual wave of his relaxed words. While he was stretching out in the room of your relationship, you felt the walls moving in, not all at once, not enough for you to see, but it was as if the ring had moved every piece of furniture one inch over and you kept almost missing the your seat each time you tried to sit down next to him. You could get used to the room again, you're sure of it, but in five years with no wedding, you're sure the walls would be tight.
The conversation followed you all the way home, like the words had been stones you were forced to swallow, and now they turned in your stomach. Each passing second you sat alone on the couch waiting for Soobin to get back. You had tried to busy yourself, showering until the water ran cold, brushing your teeth once, twice, tugging on Soobin's sweater, trying and failing to calm your racing mind because he wasn't there to quell it.
There had been cracks already spider webbing along the windows of the little glass house you kept neatly placed around your relationship. Each one starting from your own worries, easy to ignore when no one else talked about it, but the conversation with Kai had only turned you to look at the glass, run your finger along the seam, and question if you were really okay.
And you weren't. The more you pressed that bruise, you thought you would get used to the pain, but you couldn't, and you knew well enough that it was wrong to sit in silence and leave Soobin in the dark. He had done nothing wrong, and you knew, telling him, asking him the questions directly on why the two of you were waiting would only help and not hurt.
But keeping it in would hurt. Every time he made those small comments, as if you were already married felt like a reminder that you weren’t. So you talked yourself into it, paced the living room, sat down on the couch, and stood right back up to pace again. It was how Soobin had found you biting at the skin around your nails halfway to standing when he kicked off his shoes. “You okay, baby?” He dropped his bag, suit still neatly pressed even after spending all day at the office, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
“I-” it had hit you then, the twisting nausea once mistaken for worry over a conversation long coming, now sinking into something swift and unforgiving. Your mouth filled with saliva, your feet carried you to the bathroom before you fell to your knees to throw up.
It was fast and upsetting enough to bring tears to the corners of your eyes. The back of your hand wiped at your mouth, Soobin's hand soft and warm on your back as he rubbed soothing circles, your first instinct to whine, “No, you can't watch me be sick.”
“It's okay, in sickness and in health, right? You can’t scare me off that easily,” and although the words are supposed to make you feel better, they only serve as a reminder of why you were pacing in the first place. Because it felt a bit like unintentional teasing, like you were right on the cusp of knowing the joke but not being able to fully digest it. But it was only in your mind, because Soobin cared enough to buy you a ring, to profess his love, over and over again.
You shouldn't worry, the statement repeated in your mind until it was nearly a reality. It shouldn’t matter if you got married within the year or the next five; it only matters if he loves you. And he does, enough so that he kisses your sweaty temple, and helps you stand on wobbly legs to lean against the sink while he preps your toothbrush so you can feel clean again. How could you wallow in your insecurity when he's done everything to show you he loves you, married or not? Wasn’t it greedy to beg him for a wedding when he had done everything he could to love you right?
And while you rinsed out your mouth, he kept his hand on your lower back, keeping you steady, watching you in the mirror as you brushed away the tears you had been building. “Were you feeling bad all day?”
“No,” at least not enough to get sick over, “it just hit me all of a sudden, I don’t know, I've never felt like that before, at least not without having something bad to eat first,” you sat at the lip of the tub, fingers pressed lightly into your eyes, mind working over the last things you had eaten.
“Maybe you're just getting sick, you've been sleeping in a lot lately, like when you got the flu.” Soobin got down on his knees in front of you, hands sliding up your thighs, rubbing in warmth with the pads of his thumbs, “I could go and get you some medicine, something to settle your stomach if it's still feeling upset,”
You let out a weak whine, pained over your line of thinking for hours, twisting you into knots when Soobin hadn't even brought a ribbon into the equation. You wanted to kick yourself. “No, you just got home, I don't want you to have to go back out.” You dropped your hands down to his, the bathroom light catching the diamond on your finger, “It's probably just my period coming, I'll be fine.”
He was looking up at you, brows knit in his gentle concern, ready to go out even after a long day, just to make sure you were okay, and you were worrying about him setting a date. You felt sick, but only because he was too sweet for you and your worrying mind. “I don't mind the trip, it's right on the cor-”
“No, not tonight, I'm feeling a bit better, it was just a wave of nausea, no need to worry,” you threaded your fingers into his hair, messing up the neat style he tried to keep for work. “Thank you,”
He rolled his eyes, playful and annoying, “Don’t thank me,” he sat up straighter, leaning in, “just give me my welcome home kiss, you missed it earlier,” but you turned your cheek, his lips falling to your jaw.
“No, I’ll get you sick-” but it didn't stop him, his lips falling again and again onto your cheek, down the bridge of your nose, right on the edge of your mouth.
“You just told me you felt better,” he said between each peck, his smile felt along your skin while you wrapped your arms around him, letting him pull you into the circle of his arms. “And a little sickness isn't going to gross me out when I love my girlfriend,”
Girlfriend. The word hit you as bittersweetly as honey flavored cough syrup, but you swallowed it down anyway because he cared to share it with you. And when he kissed you, you kissed him back, pushing past his work blazer and helping to unbutton and untuck his shirt. Not caring that you had already showered when he pulled you in after him, letting him scrub away your worries, kiss them away from your water drop speckled shoulders.
And when both of you were done, dried and laid out on the couch, waiting for the takeout order you had sent in, you couldn’t even remember why you had been worried in the first place. But it wasn't until you opened the takeaway box filled with rice that your nausea came back, the wave of it making your head feel light on your shoulders, with a chill down your spine.
Soobin had been next to you on the couch, chopsticks holding his next bite of food up, his cheeks already stuffed as he watched you run back to the bathroom.
You hardly had anything left to throw up in your system, but it didn't stop your body from tying. And when Soobin's hand was back to rubbing comfort between your shoulder blades, you wanted to cry again. “No, go back to eat, don't worry-”
“No, it doesn't bother me, let me take care of you.” Each word pulled the tears right from you, your emotions overwhelmed with having thrown up, feeling like a little kid at the edge of their bed, needing someone, but not knowing how to call out for them. “It's okay, baby.” he kissed the tear on your cheekbone, “I'll go get you something, okay? I'll be quick,”
It was only after you were done brushing your teeth again for the fourth time that you realized there was another possibility, Soobin pressing a swift goodbye kiss to your temple, already having his coat shrugged on to head out, when you reached out for him. “Could you pick up a pregnancy test?” You’d have gone with him if the word hadn’t made your limbs feel numb all over again, “just to make sure.”
“Okay,” he breathed the word out, let it hang on his lips like he was still trying to understand what you had asked him, but he could see the slight twinge of panic on you and didn't want to freak you out. “And I'll get crackers cause you still need to eat something,” he kissed you again, right at the crease of your worrying brow, “it's okay, I'll be right back, and we'll be fine.”
You watched the door close behind him, your hands shaking as you twisted them together, tugging on your fingers as if that could pull your anxiety fright from them. You could picture the way the two of you had been curled in the sheets, his whispered kisses pressed to the shell of your ear as he hummed, “I don't want anything to change.” you don't know why you picked that memory of all of them to think of while sitting at the edge of your shared bed waiting for him to come back.
Soobin's panic was not felt until he stood right in front of the rows of pregnancy tests, the pink, blue, and white boxes all lined up, warping his emotions into something masquerading as confusion, as if his body knew that's what he needed to lean into instead of worry. He had been here before with you, in well over two years of being together, you had experienced a pregnancy scare twice over, but never had you been sick before making the call to just pick one up just because. Never had you looked up at him like you almost knew the answer.
So he grabbed an array of boxes, all the colors, all the types, single packs and triple, carrying them to check out, watching them get scanned, and coming to terms with what he was feeling. Thought about how it would be to see any of the tests read negative, how it would be to find that it read positive. And it was only when he reached the door of your shared place and knew that in some way he would find himself sad to have you read out that it was negative, and when he pushed open the door to see you worrying, he wondered if you would feel the opposite. Because now while you turned the tests upside down on the bathroom counter, he couldn't help thinking about a baby with your smile, a small, dimpled cheek so easy to kiss when they giggled a laugh made from your love.
Both of you sat with your backs against the bathtub, your body half spilled onto his as he rested his chin atop your head, his cheek falling to your hair as you laid your hand against his stomach, counting his breaths instead of the seconds passing. “We will be okay,” he muttered, his hopeful smile trying to curve on his lips, but he didn't want to give too much away without knowing how you felt.
You were biting at the skin on your inner lip, thinking over all the outcomes, wanting more but fearing it was too much, because it was less about how you were currently feeling and how you would feel. That same game of chicken was playing out just like it had been in that bed in Montauk when he had asked you to marry him. And when you started to think about a baby, a real one with his kind eyes behind dark lashes, you couldn't stop yourself from seeing them in his arms.
But your stomach still hurt, the unknown origin muddling up your thoughts until the alarm you had set went off like someone had pulled a cord on your back to set your hands back to trembling, cupped in Soobins as he kissed along your knuckles, right against the ring he had put there with a promise to love you like he was made to.
He stood behind you, hand heavy on your hip as you lifted the first test, watching you in the mirror as you turned it over, your hand jumping to your mouth as you looked at the little pink plus sign, you reached back out, turning over each test you had decided to take, each one coming back with the same reading. You looked up at him, feeling flushed all over, both of you with tears in your eyes, and for only a second, you were worried, but that was washed away the moment he smiled, his laugh like a child's, pure and uncontrollable.
You two didn't need words, his kisses coming fast, his arms wrapped around your waist, spinning you around as you both giggled, your toes touching the ground only making you breathe out a sigh of shocked disbelief, that test still in your hands as Soobin guided it closer to his eyes. All teeth and dimples when he looked back at you, “God, I fucking love you,” and he was back to kissing you, his soft lips feeling like a thank you, like a confession, his cheeks wet as he started to cry, leaning his forehead on yours when he needed a breath, his palm falling right down to your stomach, his smile watery with his tears.
And you were crying too, crying more so when he got down before you, pushing up the sweater you wore, kissing right under your belly button, your fingers threading through his hair as he whispered right against your skin, “and I'm going to love you so, so, much,”
It didn't feel real for only as long as it took you two to make it to your appointment. The three days of waiting since the test felt as if they went by too slowly, the bubble of your joy encasing the two of you as you vibrated with your happiness. You didn't imagine it to be so hard to keep the positive test a secret, both of you deciding to wait at least until after you had seen the scans. But that first call with Kai felt like walking on a tight rope.
You had rushed to put the phone down, too worried that it would just jump from you in between casual conversation about the next time the boys would come over for dinner. Your hand fell to your stomach instinctively, even if you hadn't been showing since you were hardly far along. There wasn't even bloating, just the occasional nausea and heavy sleeping, missing alarms, and whining every time Soobin reminded you that you had to wake up with the sun.
But you had kept the secret just as well as he had, sealing your lips until you walked into the doctor's office. Soobin had called in to come in a bit later to work, your appointment made for your day off. Both of you sat in your seats in the waiting room, his knee bumping yours as he leaned closer to watch you fill out the forms needed. Your pen hesitates over the emergency contact information, wondering if you should check the little box for husband/spouse, or check the one for boyfriend/partner, under Soobin's name.
When you turned in the papers, it had been only a few minutes before they called the two of you back, the ultrasound room half dark with the soft lights from the machines and monitors. There had been little nerves until you were lying down in the bed, the paper crinkling under each movement you made, Soobin sitting on the stool next to you, holding your hand and bringing it up to kiss your knuckles.
In the half-lit room, it felt easier to confess, “I'm nervous,” when it was the two of you, your fingers toying with his, looking for anything to focus on besides your racing pulse.
“We’re okay and we are going to be okay.” his smile was a balm, his gaze falling over you in a way he had never once looked at you before. Your relationship was a ball of clay slowly being worked into new shapes as each day passed with this new information, as your body worked to grow a little physical form of your love. “I'm actually really excited right now, I feel like I just drank a tub's worth of coffee,” it would explain the way his leg bounced erratically, the thrum of it bumping against the bed like the hum of a car.
“You did have two cups this morning,” you chuckled, soaking in his excitement to try and mask your nerves.
“And I'm really excited to tell my mom,” he whispered like it was a secret, his smile eating at your heart, kissing your soul. “The boys too, I'm really excited to tell them. I've been fighting to keep it in, ignoring everyone.”
“I guess I am a little excited about that,” he kissed your hand again, keeping it in his grasp when the doctor came in, her soft smile and cheerful voice reflected in her words of congratulations.
It wasn't until she had placed the cold gel over your pelvis that she asked the question, “Married?” She had tilted her head as she said it, pulling out the wand for the scan, free hand working to click the keys on her keyboard to get started.
“Nearly,” Soobin had smiled, lifting your intertwined fingers to show off your ring. The word pressed like a weight on your chest, heart skipping a single beat, but there was little time for you to wallow in your insecurity when the doctor placed the wand to your skin, and the echo of waves filled the room around you.
Because that's what it had sounded like, the surf crashing in, pulling you into reality. The doctor's voice was a hum of sound, washed out and faded in the back of your mind as you listened in on the rhythmic swell of the ocean, “Congratulations, your baby has a very strong heartbeat,” she turned the monitor to face the two of you, finger extended out to point at the fuzzy black and white screen, “and here they are, about the size of a little sugar pea,”
It was your gentle sob that broke from you that made you realize the two of you were sitting silent, listening in on the sound of your love like someone had bottled that very moment on the beach, Soobin's toes wiggling and your laugh catching him enough to make him blush right there on the edge of the water where he had confessed his love and you found happiness.
And now both of you were crying, Soobin's laugh pressed to your knuckles, his eyes caught on the screen just as yours were, wet with joy you hadn't known would feel so sunsoaked in the bed of a hospital you'd never been to before. Nothing felt more important than that moment; nothing had felt more real. You wanted to reach down to lay the flat of your palm over the spot you knew them to be, to confess how scared you were, but never scared enough not to tell them how much you love them and would love them.
“They're so perfect,” Soobin sniffled, laughing at himself but not caring because he never knew exactly how happy he could be; how proud he could be for something as little as a heartbeat, but it wasn't little, it was a blanket wrapping around him, and instead of smothering, it was healing.
His fingers trembled as he held the printouts of the scans, the echo of their heartbeat tattooed along his skull. He had thought his life had changed seeing the test, holding you in his arms, telling you everything would work out, but he had been wrong. He had not known what it would be like to have his life truly changed.
Meeting you had felt as if everything was falling into place, like the two of you had always been a picture, and the years together had been the frame around you. But hearing the heartbeat of your baby, seeing them even as small as a little pea, had painted your picture in vivid color.
He loved you because it was the most natural part of himself; if he knew nothing, he at least knew that. Loving your baby was fixing parts of him he hadn't even known needed tending, not because they needed fixing, but just because they could. He cried on the phone with his mom, kissed you like he never wanted to stop, and texted the boys to meet you guys for dinner in the city.
And there in the circular booth of a restaurant that the six of you frequented too often, you shared the news. Held the little sonogram photos up, the golden lights reflecting off the glossy paper, but not enough to obscure the image.
Kai nearly choked on his drink, setting it back down on the table as he tried to clear his throat. Taehyun reached out for the pictures with wide eyes, needing a closer look, shocked into silence. Beomgyu gasped, mouth open in a soft O, leaning in to look at the pictures now in Taehyun's hands. And Yeonjun, sitting right next to you, pulled you into a hug. His warmth triggers your eyes to water, his kind words making the tears spill, “Congratulations,” and says for you to hear and no one else, “you're going to be the best mom.”
You sit back, cleaning at your eyes, laughing like he hadn't plucked his fingers along your heart strings to hum out the single line you wanted desperately to hear. It felt so hard to brush off all the emotions you were feeling as some kind of hormones when all you could picture in your head was spending the rest of your life friends with these very people, good men who would love your child like they were their own, singing songs, playing games.
It didn't matter how you changed because they would be there, giggling on the floor of your living room, spending nights together as a family none of you knew you had been searching for. And now it was only expanding, a seat opening up for a baby you all already loved more than you could form words for. It didn't matter about rings, promises, or distance, when all you needed was late nights like this where you sat at a table laughing over Yeonjun's cheeks being stuffed, and Beomgyus' tearful jokes. Nights where both Soobin and Kai bumped their heads on low doorways and tried to play it off. And nights where Taehyun and you watched laughing from the sidelines.
And tonight, when everyone went their separate ways at the base of the stairs at the subway station, they each held you a little longer when they hugged you goodbye, as if they were letting their comfort seep into your bloodstream just for the little added heartbeat that sounded like the ocean.
You hung the sonogram pictures up on the fridge, next to film strips of you and Soobin kissing cheeks at the aquarium, of Soobin and the boys all trying to mash themselves into one photobooth. And when the two of you had an off day, you stood in the kitchen, your favorite mug pressed to your lips as you looked at the little black and white photos. Soobin coming up behind you, hands warm and slipping under his shirt that you wore, palms heavy against your stomach like a hug. “Spend the day with me?”
“Did you imagine I had other plans on the schedule?” You melted into him, your head leaning right onto his shoulder.
“I just like to hear that you want to spend the day with me,” he kissed right along your temple, letting his lips ghost over the spot as he muttered, “preferably at the beach.”
Both of you knew it was always an option for the two of you, the train ride never one you felt like took too much time when you had the sand and sea waiting at the other end. So you packed a bag just for the day, sat knee to knee on the train, holding hands, watching the city disappear as you both made up fake baby names to see who could get the other to laugh first.
“I like the name rutabaga,” your lips fighting to break into a smile, Soobin's dimples fighting against the soft swell of his cheeks.
“Ruta-” he couldn’t help but laugh, losing as his teeth tried to sink into his bottom lip, “what even- how do you even spell that-”
“It's a vegetable,” you're giggling, the two of you trying to keep it down, your happiness sounding louder in the silent train car. “You seem to like to call them food names.”
“Only because the baby book we got says that right now they are the size of a blueberry, that's a cute name, baby blueberry.” It had been one of the first things he had picked up after walking you to work, slipping the small stack of baby books he had found on the counter. Every morning with his tea, he would sit down and flip through them, content with reading you quotes as you curled up next to him.
“That is cute,” you leaned back in your seat, hand over the button of your jeans, “little baby blueberry,”
And when the train pulled into the station, you walked hand in hand all the way down to the surf, following the same path you took time and time again. It was early enough for the sky to be washed in a grey blue haze, tipped in golden yellow where the sun tried to peek through the cover of the clouds. The lighthouse came closer and closer into view as you walked past the front of the beach houses, half empty and half full, as people started to come down for the early season.
Sitting right at the end of the row of houses was a single house with a sign in the yard, half tucked into its own space, being so far off from the others. Soobin tugged you to a stop, his hands clammy with nerves that you passed off as the warming weather.
He found it a bit embarrassing to still stumble into shyness around you, like he was still who he was before he met you, looking to impress you because he wanted all your attention. He would follow you till the end of the world with his puppy dog stare, circling around your head like a halo he had placed there. For a long time, he had planned this all out, longer than his plan to marry you; it felt like a package deal, like the house and the wedding were wrapped up together with a bow that would only be placed with your answering yes to his coming questions.
When he had proposed, it had been easy to see what he wanted next, to focus on the plans he had seen that second time on the beach when you had watched the fireworks and talked about the snow. Everything was working out, the listing for the house going up only days after the two of you had gone home from the proposal. He had debated it a lot, thought about your work and his, what it would be like truly to live out by the sea.
He wondered if it had only been a dream, something you joked about but never truly wanted, or worse, if you never truly wanted it with him, but you had said yes to his ring, said yes to life with him. So he had put in a bid on the house, looked into his savings, and wondered if it was a mistake or something you would both look back on with happiness.
And then he heard the baby's heartbeat, like a wave on the shore, the final sign telling him that dreams came true every day if you reached out for them and caught them like falling stars. Sometimes they slipped through fingers, and others they landed right in the palm of your hand, and all you had to do was hold on through the ride. So he held on, took the opportunity to look into buying the house, and now here he was with you.
It was on the same strip of beach as the one you had rented on his birthday. The long wooden walkway leading down to the sand, sun-bleached and surrounded by wispy, uncut grass. A wrap around porch already with a built-in swinging bench. The windows bare of curtains, the empty rooms waiting for all of the things you had packed away in your old room at Kais' apartment, all the things you both had picked up for Soobin's place. The two stories would hold the three of you, the baby's room already picked out, overlooking the lighthouse sitting on the cliff, just far enough to not wash the room in light all night long.
He had walked the place only once before putting in his bid, and saw his life playing out right between those walls, the hardwood creaking on the stairs enough to give the house character he was ready to remember.
His hand fell to the back of his neck, fingers trying to calm him in the way you did as he blushed, sharing what he had done. “I wanted to wait to tell you until it was all official. I wanted it to be a wedding gift, and now it's more of a…I don't know,” he tried to laugh, his lips pursing for a second as he looked at your face for confirmation that he wasn't overstepping, as if you hadn’t been dreaming of moments like this with him. “I want you to like it, and if you don't, we can always find a new place, you know, or stay in the apartment, find a bigger one in the city if you want.”
He took your shocked silence as denial, his rambling mouth working to find some way to redeem himself when he didn't need it at all, “my job said they could transfer me out here and i looked into schools and they all seem really good, they even have a after school program that takes them out for swim lessons in the warmer months. And I know that's a long time off, but I thought it would be good to look into and I know it's hectic in the summertime with tourists, but the house has enough rooms to invite the guys or family over and-”
You laughed, watery and unmistakably happy.
“Do you hate it?” because you were tearing up, looking up at him with eyes unreadable to him.
“You bought me a house on the beach where we met,” you whispered, trying to hold in as much as you could without spilling out in front of him like a bag of gems on a table. “How could I ever hate it when I love you so, so, so much?”
“Was it too much?” he reached out for you, thumb on your cheek, brushing along your skin, fingers pressed right under your ear.
“No, you're never too much,” because you didn't feel like you deserved a love like this, not when he made it so easy to love him, so easy to let yourself be loved in return. In a past life, you must have paid all your dues, worked day and night to finally make peace for this version of yourself, and you felt like your luck was running out. That one step to reach for more would break you in two instead of bending you. But if you had spent all your hard work to have someone like Soobin next to you, loving you, you had no reason to ask for more.
To live right there with the sea, with your little heartbeat, and the love of your life, you'd spend a million more lifetimes working to pay off whatever debt you must have been building. He took you to the front door, watching you as you looked around with wide eyes, hand squeezing his as you looked at all the empty space. A fireplace unlit, a wall of windows, a kitchen fit for holidays, and bedrooms made for life.
He had waited to sign the papers until you had seen the house, sharing the place in both of your names, keys hanging next to keychains you had bought at a gift shop down the street years ago. And only a week later you began packing, late nights spent deciding what to keep and what to throw away. Your names were written on boxes carried down the steps by the boys who had helped you guys. A truck rented that was large enough to fit your whole life in without you ever realizing how you had far too little and seemingly too much stuff.
The air is a mix of curse words and laughter, none of them letting you lift a thing, leaving you to tell them where to place boxes. The struggle of getting the mattress up the stairs was worse than when they had gotten it down the apartment's stairs. Taehyun and Yeonjun on either end, one always trying to go faster than the other, and neither of them listening to beomgyu, who insisted over and over again that Yeonjun was one misstep away from tripping and falling backward.
But Beomgyu was already lying out on the couch they had brought in earlier, leaning up on his elbows to shout from the living room as you and Kai unboxed the dinnerware in the kitchen. Soobin was laughing, the echo of the sound heard from all the way upstairs as he told them where to place the mattress. It was one of the last things that needed to be done; the sun only just started to set when you all decided to stay out on the beach.
Taehyun and you stayed back in the kitchen while the rest of them found something to kick around for a game. Earlier, you had paused in the day to pick up things for lunch and dinner just for the day, now you cut up the fruits they had picked, Taehyun happy to take up cooking the rest of the food. He hummed softly under his breath, the echo of the sizzling and chopping the soundtrack of your evening, before he asked without even looking up, “Are you happy?”
The question was not one that was full of concern but genuine curiosity, like he was only asking because he could see it on you. “I'm very happy,” because it was the truth, like you had been captured in a snow globe, only nothing could have shaken you to disrupt the image.
“I'm glad, I'm happy for you, I'm happy for him.” he left no room for anything else but his honesty, like he knew what it meant to you.
“Thank you for everything, the move, and bringing him to Montauk randomly one summer day.”
“Oh, don't thank me for that, any of it, I'm sure in some way you would have met and I would still be moving you two in here, maybe a little bit off from this timeline, but eventually. You two were made for each other,” he transferred his food onto plates as he said it, like it was something he didn't have to think twice about. “Should we call them in or just take it out there?”
“Let's take it out.” So you did, you carried the sides and fruits, setting them down on the beach towel you had put out with a few water bottles for them.
All of you sat down in the sand, knee to knee, listening to the waves like your little heartbeat was right there with you, the boys flushed from running around, eating like they hadn't had a feast for lunch. They all decided to stay until the morning, the lot of them driving the truck back to the city to drop it off. They asked about your new job at the little shop in town, and you told them about how you were going to miss the bookstore in the city, how your coworkers teared up and promised you always had your spot back if you changed your mind, but they knew it was falling on deaf ears.
Kai joked about being sad that his roommate was moving out, even though you hadn't spent a night at your old apartment in years. The six of you leaned back in the sand until the wind off the water started to feel a bit too chilly, your shiver felt in Soobin's arms as he held you. “Okay, let's go in; the boys have something to show you.”
“Me?” You press your hand to your chest, shocked that the night wasn't ending. And even when they took you upstairs to your little heartbeat's room, you didn't realize what you were seeing. You had believed it to be empty, your shopping not having been done just yet. But there, right under the little window looking out to the lighthouse, was a white wooden crib, a mobile of stars hanging down over the center of it like they had known your whole world needed the view of what they would look like in your eyes.
They all turned to you, holding their breath for your reaction, smiling when you pouted, “You guys just like to see me cry, huh?”
“Do you like it?” Kai looked at you so hopefully, his boyish smile breaking out as you nodded, “I love it so much.”
“We researched to find the best one,” Taehyun clarified, “even the mattress and sheets.”
“It was a bitch to build, I pinched three of my fingers,” Yeonjun said, holding up his hand, the tips of three slightly pinker than the others.
“It was only so hard to build because he couldn't follow directions,” Beomgyu interjects. He throws his arm around your shoulder, tugging you into the safe space of his side, like he knew you needed someone there to hold you even for a second, “But don't cry, we even checked to make sure it was eventually done right, Taehyun tested it out.”
“You put Taehyun in the crib?” You giggled at the thought, wiping at your cheeks even when you felt as if you had a million more tears to shed.
“He is baby sized,” Beomgyu shrugs, only feeling brave enough to say it with you blocking him from Taehyun's swift hit.
“We are only a few centimeters off from each other; you act like I'm on the floor in comparison.” he rolls his eyes.
“Thank you guys, truly this is perfect,” but it doesn't feel like enough, like no thank you will even make up for all the good things they have put into your life. And when they go home the next morning, you ache to watch them go, to see them waving goodbye from the driveway of your new life. You had told Soobin to make it a point to invite them often, to tell them never to think they are not welcome over, because you would miss not having easy access to weeknight laughs over video games and takeout.
If you had known what was coming, you wonder if you would have told him you wanted to stay in the city. But there was no way of knowing, not when your last days of happiness were spent wrapped up in Soobin, the two of you lying out on the beach, falling asleep under the sun, half hidden by the umbrella you had set out.
You listened to the sound of the waves like you were back in that ultrasound room listening to your little heartbeat. Your love for both your baby and Soobin was so sun-warmed that it soaked into you as you rested on the beach towels you had spent so long rolling into the perfect position to sit up, slightly elevated. Soobin lying sprawled between your legs, arms circling your waist, his ear pressed to your barely there bump as if the sea was their lifeline, your fingertips tracing hearts and stars on his sun-kissed back, warm and lulling him to sleep when you moved on to threading your fingers into his hair.
This was to be your life, happy and quiet on the beach, humming as the sun set over the horizon. Days spent with Soobin's lips on your skin, reminiscing about the time you went skinny dipping, the time when he had kissed you under the sprinkling snow, and yelled across the streets of New York to ask you when you worked next.
You had spent those first three months of your pregnancy happy. With Soobin's lips pressed to just under your belly button, whispering to your baby like they would talk back, pressing his ear to that barely there swell and humming in response like he already knew their answers. The two of you unpacking slowly because you will have enough time later since you planned on spending a lifetime raising your family between those walls.
Every kiss to your ring finger felt more like a promise and not a placeholder. You couldn't find it in yourself to stress over a wedding when everything was already falling into place. Because he had done what you wanted, he was committed to you, wedding or no wedding. Your baby would grow up loved, and that's all you truly needed.
But that morning, you had felt the first faint undercurrent of pain.
You wonder if you should have known what was coming. That hazy calm before the storm wrapped around you, blinding you enough so that you ignored that first unsteady sway of the boat you sailed on. Only a day away from four months, the first morning you had woken up with the sun and not after it, Soobin still curled around you in bed instead of being the first one awake, trying to sneak away to get ready for work without waking you. The window had been left open just a bit to let in the fresh air, the gauzy white curtains you had picked out blowing in the soft breeze coming off the water. You watched the way the sun filtered in, catching the specks of dust in the air, and listened to the way the surf hit the shore and how the seagulls chirped.
Soobin nuzzled in close to you, pressed his nose right to your pulse point, humming low and content with the warmth of the bed, your body. You didn't need to be up until midday when you and Soobin had plans to grab lunch with Beomgyu and his family. The lot of them renting a house down the road from your own, spending the weekend capturing what had captured you after your first train ride out to the beach.
It was just warm enough for tourists to start pouring in; the tables of every restaurant and café were packed full. But you all had grabbed your food to-go and found a spot near the docks to watch the boats take off.
All of it felt normal, easy, happy, no twinge of foreshadowing staining the edges of your picture. Not even when you waved goodbye to Beomgyu and his family as they walked in the opposite direction from your home and towards the lighthouse. Soobin kissed your head, your hands interlocked, swinging between you two while you held your shoes in your free hands, feet digging into the sand with each step, making you go slower as you watched the water.
“It feels like I'm exactly where I want to be, like I could die right now, I'm just…happy,” Soobin mutters when you're back in bed that night, looking at you in the moonlight with eyes shining, tracing the planes of your face like he was feeling them under his fingertips, following the slop of your nose, the curve of your bottom lip. “I love you so much,” like a prayer said in a confessional, whispered as if it were caught in candlelight and hope. “Nothing could ever change that.”
You had fallen asleep happy, a vase filled with water, a tapestry yet to unravel. And there, the moment you had let hide behind your ignorance, danced to life with one careless glass-shattering swoop, unweaving your endearing dreams.
It had been the sound of the faucet that woke him, the deafening rush of it like an omen whispered off the wind. His stomach had fallen, sinking down in a sea of worry over nothing more than faintly warm sheets, like everything had been fine only a few fleeting minutes ago. His arm was still under your pillow, body curved around the shape of you, except there was nothing but a few spots of blood where you should have been.
The yellowing light from under the bathroom door washed over the carpet, mingling with the moonlight. And even now, Soobin can't help but question that if he would have known what was waiting for him, would he have been able to respond differently. Mold the part of himself that fell into unwavering silence and devotion into something that could have made you stay, that could have brought you back to him.
But he could not undo the past, only erase it, and if there was anything he had wanted to erase, it was that pain; the agony of his loss, yours. And yet down deep inside of himself, he must have remembered that moment, almost as clearly as he had remembered the first time you had met, with his feet sinking into the sand, his heart on his sleeve, and the sea sounding like a lifeline, like a memory, like hope.
He would have fallen to his knees for you then, just as he did there on the bathroom floor, speckled with red and tears, your hands trembling like a caught moth between his, your ring cutting into his palm as you mixed your water-stained words, the cocktail like a shot to his nervous system. “It hurts.”
“It's okay, it's going to be okay-” but he hadn't known if that was true, the words feeling like a lie as they sank to the floor, his arms pulling you in as if that would stop the bleeding, stop the hurt. He would have done anything to take it away, shell-shocked into action, your phone turned downward on the tile as if it had slipped from your hands the moment you had noticed all the blood. He reached out for it, keeping you against him as you cried, tears pressed into his chest as he dialed the only number he could think of when you see that much blood.
He had held you until the paramedics came, his hands trembling while they told him the same things that he had just said to you, as if he were the one breaking apart. He's sure he must have been, that everything was sinking under his skin, but he didn't feel the effects, not just yet, because of the shock of it all. Because there were strangers in his house, dressed up in navy blue, soothing voices slipping right past him when he watched them carry you out, and he was there following after, trying to keep up, his shoes not even half on.
It wasn't until they pulled into the hospital's drop-off lane that he realized he hadn't even closed the door, hadn't even grabbed his keys. All he could see was your hand, so small in his, loosening your grip, the gradual release like an unraveling he wasn't ready to face. “Most of her bleeding has stopped,” the paramedic had said, the line supposed to bring some relief, but all he could feel was that ache, his mouth dry.
And he watched the way your eyes kept shut, squeezed instead of softened by some kind of merciful sleep, tears slipping down your cheeks from the corners as you bite your bottom lip to keep in the sound.
For years, the two of you had kept your relationship like a ball of clay, every new thing learned like a thumb pressed into the piece, molding the two of you into shape, unfired and easily worked. But that night had been a fire, burning and solidifying the two of you into place. If it had been a careless hand, smushing the relationship into a new shape, he's sure the two of you could have made it out.
But when they pulled you into your own private room, the lights a blinding contrast to the rest of the night, half hidden in shadow, they wheeled in an ultrasound monitor and even without the sound turned on, you both knew your ocean wave heartbeat was gone.
Left alone in your room to decide on next steps, the silence weighed heavier than the rush of your sobbing that soon broke. Awful chest-wracking sobs that tried to fill up the emptiness, tried to cover the sound of the roaring fire hardening the two of you into something that could only shatter instead of dent and take new shape.
He held you through the blaze, tried to stay a rock that would not break down, would not cry, not when you needed strength, not when you needed him.
“I'm so sorry.” Your words, drowning around a sadness he could not masterfully describe, were a bat to the glass house of his dreams, swung with no intent to hurt anyone, not even him. And yet they were a gut punch, a soul-leveling whispered statement.
The soft voice of the nurse explained over and over about how there was nothing that could have prevented what happened, nothing that could have been undone. There, they had looked at you, hands clasped in front of them, voice as soft as the look they gave, as if their gaze would add more weight to the crumbling structure above you.
Your hand rested in his, your fingers cleaned by a sweet nurse while his stayed red, your blood drying under his nails. And the only thing that came to his mind was the way the door to the house had stayed open, leaving room for more strangers to come in without knowing the scene they would step into. The undoing of your world before their feet in a way he wasn't ready to revisit so soon.
While the nurse prepped you for overnight monitoring, hooking you up and taking your vitals, he stepped just outside the door, thumbs working fast to solve any problem he could reach for, anything easily obtainable, your phone the only one he had taken in the rush of it all.
The screen had cracked during the drop, the fracture cutting across the background you had picked out of the two of you on the beach, a clumsy phone taken by Kai. Soobin's eyes had been squeezed shut, all teeth and dimples as he laughed, your lips pressed to his cheek.
He couldn't look at himself happy, not then, not when before it had felt like a mirror, and now it only felt like a lie. So he scrolled through your contacts, Beomgyu's name flashed across the screen, his silly face a welcome reprieve, and for the first time that night, Soobin felt his chin wobble. Looking at his friend even in a picture was a constant he needed then, and as the numbers on the call started to tick by, he lifted the shaking phone to his ear.
“Are you okay?” Beomgyu’s voice was a deep rumbling of worry and sleep, and in his mind, Soobin could see the way his brows must have been pulled together, his hand pushing his hair back as he looked at the time, too late in the night or too early in the morning. And then it was Soobin's voice instead of your own.
“I'm-” he hadn't said it in the room with you; instead, he had let it hold his tongue down until it felt solid in place. And now it choked out of him, the force of it moving him forward, “im so sorry,” he tried to hold the tears back, wanted to stay the stoic partner who didn't crumble but the second he had heard Beomgyu’s panic it washed over him almost as if someone had pushed him off the pier after tying a boulder around his waist, he couldn't swim to the surface of his sanity, not now when he was being dragged down by his sadness, his mouth opening but filling with water, with tears.
“Soobin? What happened- what's wrong- where's-” and somewhere in a house on the beach, Beomgyu sat up in his bed and listened to his best friend sob over the phone as if he had his heart ripped out of his chest.
He was trying to wipe his tears, but his crying felt like bleeding, uncontrollable, and he couldn't find the strength in himself to stop it, not when it was this bad, when it hurt this much all at once. “She lost- we lost the baby,” his lips moved on their own, the corners turning down, quivering as he tried to catch his breath, his free hand covering his eyes, pressing into them as if that could stop the spilling.
The words were a blade, cutting across his back, his chest, into his heart, burning and leaving him choking on the ash. He was trying so hard to calm the shaking, to stop the feeling of thrashing happening inside of him. But it was inevitable, the pain, the heartache.
Dreams had not felt real to him as a child, you, had been the person to show him they could become a reality, your laugh was the soundtrack to dreams he never knew he had, your touch making them bloom alive under his skin, and before they had never felt so tangible but now, now he knew the consequences of being so deeply in love with something, someone, some idea, hope. Because this ripped him apart, split him down the middle, and burned.
He sobbed, cried out like he was ready to spill his guts, the sounds feeling so deep within him they might as well have, the tears coming from some reserve he never knew was buried so deep. And beomgyu let him, he listened, he muttered into the hollow of Soobin's chest over and over again that, “it's going to be okay,” the nurses had said it, but he couldn't believe it, it went in one ear and out the other. But here with his best friend at his ear, his brother, he could swallow it down; he had to, for you.
“I'm getting dressed, I can be there in five minutes-” he could hear beomgyu on the other end, shuffling around, climbing out of bed, tugging on his hair as he did when he looked for something.
“No, no, I um- I called because I-i left the front door open, i-” he didn't know how to put into words that he didn't want to lose anymore, not tonight, not today. He sniffled, reigning himself in, his hand sliding along a deck as he tried to pull himself from the ocean, or at least hold on until the tide started to pull back out. “I just need you to lock up, and clothes, I-i don't have any clothes and I'm-” but his chin wobbled again, the tears that had been slowing now trying to wash back up his throat as he looked down at his stained shirt.
“I'll be there, I promise.” he didn't need to say anything else, not when he could hear the war between each breath that soobin was taking, feel it in the way his fingertips had gone numb at the sound of his sorrow. He knew his friend, knew he was trying to pull himself back together even if he had to be on strings to do so. “I love you guys.”
Soobin's teeth bit hard into his lip, the pressure heavy as his throat constricted, his breath held as if that would keep his sob back. He waited until he could handle opening his mouth without it reading the sound of a wound he didn't think would be closed for a long time, “thank you,”
And when the call was over, soobin returned to your room, face flushed a deep red, the corners of his nose, the tips of his ears, the edges of his lips, the rimming of his lashes, and you couldn't hold yourself together. He came to your bed, your hand, tapped over with the IV they had set up, curled into his, clinging with little strength. He didn't care that he probably shouldn't climb into the bed with you, but he did anyway.
He held you, your face flush against his neck, damp with your tears as you spilled out a fraction of your mourning. You didn't speak; there was no need, not even when he got up to collect the overnight bag from Beomgyu.
Soobin could find no other words besides thank you, but it did not feel like enough, not when this was no light thing, but he knew beomgyu would have brushed it off. He would have gone to the ends of the earth for the two of you without question; this was no different, no thanks needed. But soobin knew he could not stay, not when he knew having beomgyu see you like this was not anything you would have wanted. So he left, understanding and with a hug that did nothing but fracture the glass further.
Making quick work of changing, soobin made it back just as the doctors were coming in for another check-up, clipboards in their hands. soobin sat down in the chair that he was expected to spend the rest of the night in, pulling your fingers back to his, he held tight.
“We so very sorry for your loss,” the words hardened something within him, the weight of them tightening his understanding of how his future would look, it didn't matter if it took months, or years for him to grow around the pain, these words would still linger in the backs of so many peoples minds, his friends minds, his own. There would be before this moment, and there would be after. He had seen it faintly in beomgyu when he had hugged him, and now he saw it written across the doctor's faces as they explained how they could make the transition easier.
“Over the last few years, a new type of recovery treatment has been offered here at the hospital. It's minimally invasive and painless, only offered to those who have gone through tragedies such as your own. We know the pain is fresh, and the decision does not have to be made today. Because of the magnitude of your loss and grief, we offer both partners the opportunity to undergo the procedure. But I'll let Dr. Howard explain exactly what it is,”
With that, the second doctor stepped closer to the bed you lay on, the machines beeping into the silence left between the spaces of melancholy. “Hello, this is quite a horrible time to meet, and I am very sorry for your loss.”
Your fingers twitched in Soobin’s at the words, as if you too could feel the weight of the albatross being placed around your neck. “I specialize in the neurological field that targets memory. Through my many years of working with retrieving memory, we have found the very root of how they have been erased in the first place. This led to the memory erasure procedure we are offering the both of you now. It is entirely painless and leaves almost no trace at all that it has been completed; it happens right at home after a single visit to the office.”
“No,” it was instant, almost as raw and true as your tears had been, immediate, and the strongest thing you had said in hours. “I don't want- just no.” because they were offering it to erase the sound of the very thing you had held inside you, not just the sound of the waves but the outline of a dream you never wanted to live without, even when it felt as if it had slipped from your fingers in nothing more than a few hours.
It was too fresh, too painful, but you knew you needed to feel the pain, needed to know that the agony you were going through physically and mentally was because they were real, your baby had been real, they had been an amalgamation of your years spent in Soobin’s arms, an amalgamation of your love for each other. You would not wave it away as if it were nothing more than what it actually was. You would sit, you would wallow, and you would feel their loss, because it was the only thing you had left of them.
“You do not have to decide now, we only come to offer some reprieve in this trying time-” and in a flash, you felt it, red hot anger, it cut through your sorrow sharper than any scalpel they could ever wield.
“Get out- go-” you shook your head, hand shaking in Soobin’s as he tried to clear the air, his face still red but tearless as you silently shed your own at the thought of these people taking anything from your mind.
“We are very sorry-”
“Get out!” it tore through you as if you were as fragile as a piece of paper, ripped from somewhere deep between your ribs, your lips trembling as you tried to hold onto the tears, because as soon as the fire was raging, it was just as quickly snuffed out. As if it had been the last cry for help you could give before it was all over, the last breath.
Neither of the doctors stayed; they apologized once, twice, and left as quickly as they had come. Soobin did not stop them, did not speak up, and there your relationship began to mummify.
It did not happen all at once, but slowly, achingly wrapped up in the emotions you were feeling all the way home, sitting in the back of a cab with your head leaning on Soobin’s shoulder. Your hand resting over your stomach as it had before, the paperwork scattered in the seat next to you, a pamphlet for the memory erasure procedure ripped in two.
The two of you returned to an empty house, made emptier now that you were ghosts of the people you were before leaving that night. Beomgyu had made sure to pack a set of your keys into the bag of clothes he had brought for the two of you. Soobin, carrying the papers, the bag, the keys, unlocked the door for you, letting you step in first.
But you could make it in no more than the doorway, not when you knew what was waiting upstairs, the unmade bed, the bloodied floor, the nursery. You felt your head shake, your eyes squeezing shut as you swallowed down the new wave of tears as they crashed down on the shore of your resolve. “I can't-” it was too much, too soon. Because something in your heart was dried up, wrung tight in a fist that was too strong to be anyone's but your own anguish’s. Here, back in the house you had built and filled with dreams was like walking into a coffin, and going upstairs would only shut the lid.
Soobin's hand was heavy as it pressed to your lower back, warm and flat against you, trying to guide you forward through the mist clogging up the interior. “Here,” he didn't care as he dropped everything down at the doorway, he let it spill, and pulled you to the couch.
Neither of you would know until later that beomgyu had taken the time to change your sheets, stripped the bed you would not want to lie in for days after your return. The bathroom was scrubbed clean when he had not needed to do so. He had come back and cleaned because he knew what it would mean to walk back into this house and see the mess.
So you lay on the couch, soobin flush on his back, holding you against his chest, your hands making fists in his shirt, fingertips just brushing your pulse to remind you that you were alive. Because lying there had never felt more surreal, your body swaying in your mind, the couch a boat on a sea you could not hear anymore.
And maybe that's why you couldn't hear it, because there was no sea at all, just a mountain of sand, so fine it did not brush your cheeks. The wind, his lungs pressed to your ear, the only sound you heard as your world hollowed and echoed the hum of your emptiness back at you, and that one line you had heard soobin speak.
“She lost- we lost the baby,” whimpered from lips trying too hard to keep in sobs.
You wished to reach out at the anger you had felt at the thought of erasing the memory of your happiness. Hold onto it as strongly as a balloon string in the gusting wind, pull it into you so that for one moment it would not be this ache but a fire. Something that cleaned and crackled, spit sparks instead of feeling like a pit that had opened up at the bottom of your feet.
There was no curiosity as you fell down into the darkness, no light looking down on you. It was just nothingness. An empty black void that had no floor. Because as the time passed, as you lay out on the couch, with or without soobin, you looked up at the ceiling and wondered what it would be like to stand and bark instead of cry.
But as you curled into the cushion, the emptiness pressed down like a blanket, comforted you like the hand soobin had pressed on your back when you had walked in. There was no warmth to it, but it was constant, weighty, and easy.
There was no struggle to get up when you did not try; you could stay right there on the couch with no one's company but your own, and shed your incessant tears. That first week, you had learned crying was as easy as breathing, as forgettable if you did not think too hard about it. It happened, and there was no stopping it, not unless you paid attention.
Not until soobin came and wiped at your cheek, his sweater sleeve wet as he sat next to where you had found yourself stuck, melted into the threading. He did not speak, not into the silence that had taken over; he simply helped you to sit up and wrapped his arms around you, held the back of your head as you pressed your face into the soft spot where his throat met his shoulder. You could not find it in yourself to hug him back, arms limp around his waist.
You had been prepared to feel sadness, swallowing that thought down like a mouthful of salt water when you were asked if you wanted your memory erased. The pain would be better than forgetting, but you had not prepared for the way the pain had turned into emptiness. Into nothing at all.
“You should change,” he whispered, the suggestion written down on a list of things you should have done, knew you would have to do eventually, but felt too daunting to do just yet.
The sound of his voice, patient and soft, made your fingers curl into his sweater, as if the words had been the key to getting a small reaction out of you. The thought of getting up, of pushing your limbs farther than the bathroom, made you shake your head. “I don't want to go upstairs,” it was muffled but true, “not right now.”
He did not press, not when you were all bruise, purple, and far from yellowing. He stood, let you fall back to the only safe space in the house, and rest. In the night, he tucked himself behind you as he would in bed and slept, his lips at the back of your neck, his breath like a kiss that helped lull you to sleep that you would not find yourself out of until well into the next day.
Every morning you woke on the couch, your eyes opened to the dust dancing in the pale light, the sky grey, the sea churning. You would follow the trail of it, looking for something to bring you back into the beam, something that made you feel anything like yourself before. But even with the heat of the sun on your skin, there was nothing that could have made you want to climb up the stairs.
You were a knot, braided of twine, fraying around the tension, unkept and struggling to make tea in a mug you had picked out when you thought love would always be enough to make it through anything. You let the ceramic burn your fingers as you cupped your hands through the handle, did not jump when the heat scorched your tongue, or the roof of your mouth.
Tea was all you could keep down, chewing too difficult when your jaw felt locked from your grief, stilled too because soobin had gone silent, in the wake of your depression. He would hum in wordless greeting, kiss your cheek, and change the bedding on the make-shift safe space he held you in.
The couch was the only space in your house that looked any different, a divot made from the hours of rest, a collection of empty mugs scattering the coffee table, a sweater thrown over the armrest where you kept your pillow. Everything else had stayed perfectly the same, frozen and as cold as you felt when you looked upon it.
And that was the cruelest part. That everything moved on as if your world had not fallen apart right there in the bathroom upstairs. That every dream had not been misshapen, that every star you wished on had not blinked out as quickly as flicking off a light switch, when your whole life you had been reminded that the stars shone for you and your happiness. And now this house was a time capsule of your dream now lost, your ring a reminder, and your bed upstairs a collection of memories far too sharp around the edges to touch with your still healing flesh on display.
But you tried, picked yourself up at the small suggestions that soobin made, even when it felt as if it took everything in you. Because how are you supposed to tell the one person who had seemingly stitched you back to life when you hadn't felt like needing fixing that you were nothing more than an open wound that was hemorrhaging the moment you walked past the threshold of your doorway? That there wasn't enough needle and thread to cover the damage that had been inflicted by no one other than yourself. He could try to blot away the blood, pack the site, and place his tourniquet, but it was no use when you felt this far gone.
He had called out of work for you, his gentle voice rough around the edges as he talked to your new boss. The call ending was a vacuum seal to the room, sucking all the air out until you felt the film tightening around your skin. He called his job next, muttered dates and apologies like either of you had anything to be sorry for.
The sweater he had helped you put on, a day ago? Two days? Softened with wear, the laundry detergent scent of your bed, worn away each time the cuff of your wrist brushed clean your tears. The mugs, a mix-matched collection of the years you had spent together, sat, molding at the hollow of them where you couldn't swallow down the last dregs of your pretending.
You could tell him you just needed a bit more time; it was true, but after every utterance of it, where you felt worse instead of better, it felt more like a lie. And as the time went on, days blurred into something like condensation on the outside of a cold glass, you wondered how long he would be able to handle you like this.
A shell of the person you once were for him, someone who was trying to claw their way out of the darkness, but found that, as thick as it might have felt around them, it was made out of nothing tangible, nothing that could have let you sink your hooks in as deeply as it had sunk its claws into you.
He did not show it, did not say it; he kissed your temple, held his lips there, and muttered an ‘I love you’ like a prayer. Like his faith in you would pull you both from the wreckage in time, the ocean thrashing, your nails digging into the hull, refusing to leave because the building of it had been special, your initials carved into the mast. For him, you surfaced, face just out of the water, enough to try and trick yourself into normality.
So you answered the calls on your phone, even when they hurt, and accepted Kai's invitation to lunch. Soobin's careful stare followed you as you changed in the laundry room, still too much for you to make it up to your bedroom, his reminder of how he could come with, call out again from work, hold your hand on the train ride into the city.
Your refusal had been soft and insistent, he had taken care of you like he was piecing together a puzzle someone had carelessly swept off the table. Taking his time and letting the two of you breathe through your grief in their own separate, silent ways, but he was yet to find that you were missing pieces that once had been the center of your picture.
And instead of letting him know, instead of telling him, you took the train, and the second you saw Huening waiting right at the end of the station, you fell apart.
As soon as the doors had opened and you saw your best friend's downward smile, you knew you wouldn't be able to handle it anymore. Shoulders heavy, sagging under the pressure you had felt keeping them up on the ride, your meek smile dipping down as your chin wobbled, you couldn't hold in the tears again.
Limbs weak, he pulled you into his hug, warm and all enveloping, he didn't complain as people split around the two of you right at the doors, like you were standing stones in a stream that roared too loud, too fast. He didn't tell you to stop soiling his shirt while you sobbed into him; he carried the weight of your body as you melted into your sadness.
“You're so strong,” he muttered, like it wasn't a lie you threw at yourself to convince you to make it out here in the first place. He said it like he believed it, and you couldn't take it anymore. You pulled away from him, fingers rough against your cheeks, pushing at your skin to clean away the mess you were leaving.
“I'm sorry.” It had been the only words that surfaced when you looked at anyone but yourself. You bit your lip hard enough to stop it shaking, holding your breath to keep your lungs from struggling. The pain scratched at your throat, rang in your ears like the sound of nails on a door, paint flaking, and wood chipping.
“Don't.” Kai would never demand anything from you, but he drew the line here at you pretending, apologizing. “I wanted to see you, not a lie, you have nothing to be sorry about,” he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, tucking you into his armpit, and taking off some of the weight of walking.
It wasn't far to the spot you two liked to go, a place that felt safe when it had been there well before your dreams started to change into something that looked a lot like the house out on the beach in Montauk. Here, on the street where the rain soaked into the scuffed, cracked pavement, underfoot, you realized how little you had thought about the senses you couldn't feel. Before, in the house, you had thought it was just the sea, but as the train took off, the tracks sounded faint, the rain did not have its same smell, the horns honking as you crossed the street you used to live on took far too long to reach your ears.
If you had surfaced as well as you wanted everyone to believe, it would not have felt like this. This was you gasping for breath from lips pursed so the water covering your ears still wouldn't slip into your mouth like it desperately tried to. And for a moment, with Kai, you didn't have to keep your arms moving, thrashing under the waves to keep your body up, because he understood you without sitting in the same room.
He was not in the water like soobin was. Kai could reach out without also trying to keep himself afloat.
He would let you cry until your ribs hurt, shake until your bones had gone loose under your skin, and you didn't feel the pressure of having to stop so soon, to realign yourself so that your spine was strong enough to carry the weight of Soobin’s grief too. And it made you feel guilty. Devastatingly so, because you wanted to be strong, to hold him as he held you, and yet all you could do was crumble in front of him.
Here at the cafe of your past, sitting across from Kai, who pressed his knee to yours under the table to remind you of his presence. You could ignore how the scent of coffee did not make you giddy with morning anticipation, how the grinding of the beans, the chatter of the patrons, giggling of the students studying in the corner all sounded dull, traveling under water to meet your ears too late for you to care if someone called your name for your order.
Kai brings your tea over, places it in the circle of your hands resting on the table, and sits in the silence with you, unbroken as you watch the steam rise from your cup. “You're allowed to not be okay.”
And you wonder if he can see the guilt that's clawing up your throat like smoke from a house still burning even after it's sunk to the bottom of the ocean. If, after every attempt at speaking, the evidence is tattooed all the way down to the pit of you.
Blinking, you shake your head, looking anywhere but at his kindness, “No, no, it's not that, it's just-” you circle your fingers around the paper cup, missing the cardboard cupholder that's supposed to keep the heat away. You let the burn numb your hands, distract you from the stuttering, let it ground you enough to spit out the one thing you couldn't find the strength to say when out on the sand. “How can I move on when everything has changed? How do I make it better when I was the one who broke it in the first place? How do you just get back up after this?” and you're not looking for answers, just an outlet that isn't the inside of your own skull, you bite back the tears, “how do I go on when I did this to us?”
“You didn't do anything wrong, it was nothing you did-”
“I know- I know that, but the aftermath, it feels like I'm the one who's holding on, like I can't let go. And he's never asked me to. God, we don't even talk, and I think that's always what it is, my mouth feels too heavy to say anything when I see him, and he’s looking at me like he still loves me, and I don't- I don’t love me. Because I don't know who I am right now, I don't know anything, I just know I'm not who I was, who he loved before, and I'm worried,”
“Worried he won't love you anymore?” he said it like it was hard to swallow, as if he, too, could see that first time the two of you sat on the train together, blushing and giggling like you had known each other a lifetime.
“Worried that I made the wrong decision,” your voice cracks at the confession, split down the middle like a broken heart drawn on blue-lined paper. “Back at the hospital, they told me about this memory thing, that they could take away the loss, and I just- I couldn't. They wanted me to just give it all up, like it would be easy, they made it seem easy, like the loss wasn't something that needed to be remembered, as if it wasn't the only thing I had left of us before I-” your voice gave out, flatlined as you imagined all that blood.
Kai reached out for your hands, twisted his fingers between yours, and pulled you back up for air. “Nothing about this is easy, for either of you, and it's okay to go back and want to redo things-”
“But that's just the thing, I still don't want to forget them, even when it hurts, but it feels like…” like it might as well be the only path you have left to take, like the tunnel you're falling down is already taking you there, because there is no pinprick of light, just darkness. “I don't know,” you look to the glass window next to you, your face reflected, distant and only faintly familiar.
Kai doesn't try to force it out of you, and it's exactly why you knew you needed to do this, have this conversation, sit here in a space that didn't feel like the kitchen at a wake for a funeral you should have never attended. “And soobin? Did he say he wanted to forget?”
“No, we didn’t talk about it,” he had picked up the papers from the floor after that first day, put them away somewhere you couldn't see, and didn't say anything but I love you. “And that's just it, if I forgot, maybe I could be the person I can see him waiting for. Because that's what he's doing, he's waiting for me to be okay when instead I'm just rotting from the inside out, and he doesn’t deserve that, it makes me hate myself.”
Your tears patter down on the hardwood table like the rain on the asphalt road outside. You feel the drip of them from your chin, but you don't clear them, don't care about hiding as kai looks in on the mess you've made. “I love him, but I can't love him, not in the way he deserves, not right now, and it feels like I'm just empty. And I know soon, when I can't even make it up the stairs after months of this, that he will know and he will be too nice to leave me.”
Because all your dreams had turned to nightmares, the only thing that came to mind was the way it would look as he walked out the door. You wanted it to hurt, wondered if then you would feel it as sharp as a knife twisting in your stomach, or if you would have been too far gone. You let everything hang between the two of you now, let it hurt you and be just as unforgivable and inconceivable as you knew it should have been.
“You lost your baby, you're grieving,” and you know he's right, but it doesn't sink in; you won't let it.
“We, we lost our baby, but I'm the one who is making us lose everything else. I can't think about the house, the ring,” you lift your hand from his, your ring feels looser now, turning around your knuckle until it bit into your palm when you curled your fist to feel your nails dig into your flesh. “I was happy, this all made me so happy, and now all I can think about is how he got us that house to fill with life, and I've done nothing but lie on that couch dead.”
“And what would forgetting get you?” The line was a coin you turned over in your head night after night since making it back from the hospital. Soobin's lips just brushing the hair at the back of your neck, enough to remind you he was there, so close you wondered when it would hit you that the cavern you felt between you two was internal.
“It would be easier for him,” but you couldn't stop thinking about how it would be no easy thing to walk in, remembering the dreams you had of holding your baby, a baby you had not yet picked a name for, but knew you loved more than life itself, and leave with nothing, not even a scar. Your lips trembled, “it wouldn't feel like this,”
Because if it hurt, so much so that it felt like you were a black hole, it meant that you had loved them, and it was the love you didn't want to forget. Didn't want to clear out the nursery beomgyu had painted, giggling as he put paint in soobins hair; didn't want to hide the crib the boys had built and gifted to you that first night. You didn't want to forget the way their heartbeat had sounded like the ocean, how soobin had cried and held you, kissed your skin like a promise.
But the sea had stopped making a sound in your empty house, and maybe it was far easier to forget that love than drown yourself in the pit of the sadness it left behind.
You knew Kai could see it, like an outfit you wore, no matter how well you tried to dress yourself up, clean around the edges, comb your hair, brush your teeth, that sadness was still written over you like a red pen to a paper you had spent far too long on to get such low marks. He did not turn away from the sight; he drank it in, having you in front of him, he memorized the divots under your eyes, dark and shadowed by a pain he knew he had little understanding of. All he knew was that your grief was clinging to you like a second skin, bleeding into your soul, and all he could do was be there.
“I think that if you choose to forget, it won't be because you don't love them but because you loved them so much,” his voice was low, solid, and present, “and you have every right to want to hold onto that love, and every right to want to go back to the way things were. But please, please, know that no matter what path you decide, I'll be here for you,”
Your shoulders slumped, your chin turned to the ceiling as you tried to blink away the glass in your eyes, “I know,” you whispered it because it never would have been able to come out any louder than that. “And I want to try, I'm trying to get back on track so that I don't have to decide, so that I don't- I don't want,” and there before you, you dropped your one fear, the one thing that you were fighting with yourself over and over again, "I don't want to lose him like i lost our baby, its killing me, and losing him, it would be too much, i dont think i would ever recover,”
Kai nodded, his frown of understanding enough for you to stop the conversation dead in its tracks. “Small steps, I want to get better, I'll try,”
And when you were headed home, Kai walked you to the train station instead of down the block where your old bed was still made, kept neat behind the door Kai always left open just for you. He held you, and this time, you kept the tears down, clinging to him as if that was the equivalent of a thank you. “Here,” he took your hand, wrapping your fingers around the gift, not letting you give it back. “You will always have a place with me, no matter what happens, forgetting or not, I will never turn you away,”
He kissed the top of your head and sent you off. Your body slumped in your seat when you unfurled your hand to reveal a silver key, your old apartment number stamped into the side, half rubbed smooth from the years it had spent in your purse, pocket, hand. You had given it back to him when he was on the ride home from unloading your life in Montauk, months ago, and now you wished the gesture didn't feel like a step backward instead of forward. But a lifeline was a lifeline at the end of the day, no matter what turmoil it stirred inside of you.
And when you got home, soobin still gone at work, you climbed the stairs. Your hand gripping the banister hard enough to crack your knuckles, you stood looking at the half open door to your bedroom, building the courage to cross the threshold you had been struggling with since you had returned home that night.
It was small, but it was enough, and you were so, so tired.
So you peeled off your clothes and fell into bed, under the duvet, between the sheets that had been unused since Beomgyu had changed them those months ago. You looked up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the day start to settle over you. The conversation had been enough to get you to this point, to the bed you had feared, but it was a bandage, not a scab, over the wound you had been carrying.
Without thinking, just as you had the second you had known you were sharing your body, you placed your hand right below your belly button and let yourself cry. No need to hide or to feel ashamed, as you thought about how far along you would have been, how you would have known if you were going to be having a boy or a girl. You would have stayed up late at night with soobin, genuine names slipping from your lips, whispered with question marks between the ones you giggled just to poke fun at each other.
It hurt to think, but you forced it onto yourself, broke the bone again so that it would be able to heal straight. “I miss you,” you whisper out into the empty room, and you don't know who it's for, yourself, soobin, your baby. All you know is that it's true and all-encompassing.
You sob, horribly, painfully, until you're curling in around yourself, face pressed into pillows that don't smell like him, like you, holding yourself with limbs too phantom to keep you from spilling between the cracks.
It's Soobin’s soft hand on your back that wakes you. He drags his palm across your shoulder blades, fingers brushing the soft skin on the back of your neck. “I didn't mean to wake you.” The room was washed in moonlight, his shadow thrown across your body like a blanket. He was dressed down, out of his work uniform, and cleanly washed, his hair still dripping as he climbed in next to you.
He did not ask about the room change, just pulled you in as he had on the couch, and held you until you fell back asleep.
It was your first attempt at pulling yourself back up; the rest was found in going back to work, in stepping on the tiles of your bathroom as you got ready without picturing the way the speckles of blood had looked like ink underfoot. Instead, you avoided the ground, watched yourself as you smoothed your moisturizer over your cheeks, applied cream on the dark circles under your eyes to try and lessen the contrast of the bruises your insomnia was blooming against the soft skin.
Soobin sat at the edge of the bed, his gaze following each of your movements, watching you in the way one watched a storm roll in over the sea, helpless and accepting. But he did not follow you in as he once had, no soft pleads of you to call out when all he wanted you to do was find some form of normality again.
Neither of you acknowledged the way it once had been, how he would hang off your shoulder, trying to peel off your clothes when you were trying to tug them on. His soft kisses peppering down your neck like a promise of more to come if you just stayed. His lips tasted like honey from tea he had brewed freshly for you, like love you didn't know would grow stagnant.
If you thought too much about it, felt it all at once, you'd have stayed, not because of him, not because he had asked, but because he hadn’t. You would finally wrap him in your arms instead of letting them lie limp around him each night.
You wanted that, to kiss him and not think about how it felt like a reminder of times when it made your stomach light up with anticipation, joy, like little fireflies flickering in tandem with each peck. And maybe that's what you're missing when you leave for work. A kiss from him that feels less like something he does because he's worried, but because he wants to kiss you from nothing more than desire.
“Call me if it's…” too much, you can see it in the way he waves at it, scared to say it out loud. Like if he utters the words, they will become real.
“It's okay, I think it's what I've been missing,” but it's not; it's a lie. What was missing was so much larger than work, and falling into it like he had was not something you thought would fill the space, but was well worth the try.
“I still want to know about your day,” you were standing in the kitchen, looking up at him as he brushed your cheek, holding your gaze as if he could catch what you were feeling in his hands and help you mold it into something else, something that would be easier to carry if you shared the weight of it.
But you smiled, as best as you could make it, like pretending would let it bleed into you and help. You did it for him, for what you were worried about losing, and he smiled back. Something small and fractured, nothing big enough to show his soft dimples that hadn't been seen in months. It made you waver, sway in your step when he leaned down and kissed you just soft enough to make you see how you weren't yet whole again, both of you still two ghosts in an empty house.
You were determined as you walked out to use the time away to recharge, to soak up your pretending of normality and calmness so that when you got home, it would almost feel real. The little bookstore with its sunbleached wooden bookshelves and creaking floorboards was a welcome space to try and heal in.
But it had only just passed an hour in when you felt the filter you tried to hold up over yourself begin to wane. It had not been what you believed would have broken you down. The mothers with their children sitting around the little toy lighthouse under the strings of fairylights, reading and giggling over books you had set up.
No, it had been your coworker, sitting at the checkout desk, her whisper picked up over the small shop as she tried to hold back the sounds of her happiness. She was talking to a boy, who leaned over the edge of the counter as he listened to her every last word. His dark hair was shaggy in his eyes as she leaned in, bumping her nose to his.
It was easier to ignore something you had never felt but dreamed of than it was to watch something you had before slip away. You had not planned to cry, you had found that in this last week, you had gone dry, that the nothingness had taken the well and drained it out as it had your emotions. It was what had made the decision easy to call your boss and tell them you could handle a day shift. No worry that if you thought too long and hard about everything that you would burst like a water balloon thrown right at the pavement.
But seeing some excerpt of your life before had your throat tightening, your swallow thick and hard to choke down as you busied yourself with stocking books you had no intention of reading or looking into, as you once would have. Now it was just a monotonous routine, a performance you went through while you counted down the hours until you could leave.
You did not cry on the walk home, not even when you curled yourself up on the couch as you had that first day you had gotten back, the throw pillow tucked against your chest as if it could replace soobin and his gentle breathing. But you were rocking on the boat alone this time.
If going into work had been to rebuild yourself in some kind of peace, it had done the opposite; it had only been a reminder of how much you had changed, how much your relationship had changed. Maybe in time, it would have been something that would have thinned, worn down into a shape that was completely different than the way you had started.
But it would have been after years, not months, not a single night. You would have lived out your dreams, married, in your house, wrapped up in him, in your bed, kissing like love instead of routine. It's what you dreamt of before he finally got home, his hand on your back as it always was. “Let's go upstairs,” as if he could see the backsliding you were doing down the hill you had been playing at climbing and he was coming in to help you back up the small progress you had made.
So you followed him, and as if he knew your dreams, remembered just as well as you had the morning spent with him, his hands all over, slipping into the waistband of your pants, along your sides as he pushed your shirt free from your body, undressing you. He mimicked the movements, helped you not into bed but into the shower, the warmth of the water fogging up the glass of the mirror until it was easier to play that this was the past and not a reenactment of it.
This was easier, lying against him as he washed you, scrubbed you new because you were not strong enough to do it. His lips on your shoulder, speckled with droplets of water, his fingers scrawled across your stomach as he let you curve into his chest, held you as if he had always been made to, but you just happened to find yourself in separate drawers until now.
And you cried, let the water beat down on you, let it cover your cheeks like the tears spilling because it had been a drought, and today it rained, memories and dreams like falling stars that did not bring wishes but mourning anew. Soobin could see it, worried over it the second he saw you curled back up on the sofa, the indent mimicking the shape of you, worn away and not made for you like he was.
He cleaned you, and didn't bother about cleaning himself when you needed it more. He dressed you in nothing but his old shirt and your underwear, the same as he had seen you waking up in for years, and laid you down in the bed as he had in the sand, holding you to him, twining your legs with his like a loose braid.
Your fingers holding his shirt, smelling like him, your nose running up the slope of his neck as you pulled yourself impossibly closer, wedging yourself against him until all you could think about was the way he felt so strong, so comforting.
It had been so long since you had kissed over his pulse, lips just grazing his skin. It happened, once, twice, where you let yourself lean into wanting him just as you had before it all. You held him, body once stiff, melting into the shape of someone you once were, who you wanted to be again.
And you kissed him, trailing up his throat, to his jaw, the edge of his mouth, where he gasped, not questioning the sudden surge of need, as you tangled your legs in his, rolled your hips closer to him, fingers curling in his hair like a memory.
His body reacted instantly, hot and alive, unfurled as he met you halfway, pushing as you pulled. And when he kissed you, he did not jump back from the way you went from soft pecks, finding your footing, to a full on devouring. Something had been sparked, like an ember tossed from a car wreck, catching in a grassy field, lighting and raging.
You pulled on his hair, moaning into his mouth when his leg brushed against a spot of you that had long since been forgotten. He swallowed your whimpers, matched them when you rolled on top of him, straddling his waist. It was new and yet all so familiar to find the spots of your waist he had held before, his fingers digging into your thighs, pulling you down flush against him.
Your hands rested on his chest, pushing yourself up to catch your breath, to reel in your mind at what exactly you were doing. There, the two of you froze, looking at one another, washed in the moonlight, the sound of your restless breathing the only thing filling the room besides the rushing of blood in your ears.
Soobin lay under you, lips kiss-reddened, hair a mess of inky strands on the pillow, spilling along the threads, his thumbs working circles into your hips, not coaxing but remembering. It was with a painfully fragile look in his eyes that he ran down your body. And for a moment, you almost pulled away, snuffed out the fire like one blows out a candle, but you leaned back down, ghosting your lips over his until he tilted his chin and pulled you in for the kiss you wanted desperately.
He pulled himself up, meeting you as he leaned back against the headboard, his open mouthed kisses finding the landmarks they had missed for so long: the soft spot where your jaw met the edge of your ear, the thump of your heart pressed to his lips, your collar bone, and the hollow it left at the base of your neck.
You were greedy with your touch, limbs now revitalized for this one mission of exploring him the same as you had before, flipping through the pages of a book you had thought was lost as you pulled off your shirt, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers dragging through the fine strands of hair at the back of his head. Your body arched into his as he dragged his nose down your chest, between your cleavage, and kissed at your sternum as you rolled your hips against his, still clothed at the waist and yet never feeling more exposed.
His hands reached around you, holding you close, his fingers outspread along the expanse of your back, the warmth of them all encompassing, dragging down your spine until you were trembling for him. And you hadn’t even noticed that you were crying, silent tears that caught in the pale, glowing light. Didn't notice until soobin pulled away, cupping your cheek. “Baby,”
And it broke you, your lips finding a pout until you couldn’t hold in the sob anymore, you fell forward, burying your face into his neck, clinging to him as he held you. “I'm sorry,” you tried, when you pulled away, shaking your head as you cleared your tears, “I'm fine,” but the words were watery, mixed in with your sniffle as you threaded your fingers back into his hair.
“We don't have to,” he whispered, his hands holding you still on his lap, running up and down your sides, warming you, telling you it was all okay when it was the last thing you felt.
“I want to,” you bit at your lip, trying to stop the way your chin was wobbling. You didn't know if it was a lie or not; you wanted him, you wanted normality, you wanted this moment, you wanted to remember who you were before, but you couldn't have it without tears, without some kind of ache.
“I want you,” you whispered it, looking into his eyes so he knew that, at the very least, was what you felt in your heart.
“I just want to lay here with you, okay?” and you couldn't tell if it was pity or guilt he was feeling, couldn't read this look smoothed between his brows because you could hardly understand your own emotions. All you knew was that it made you cry. The tears followed a trail down your skin, dotting along his shirt, before he cleared them away. “I just want you to come back to me, nothing more, nothing less.”
But you were here, right in front of him, hollow but not in a way that you thought would ever be filled. But you nodded nonetheless, letting him pull you back into his chest, rolling the two of you into your place in bed, the blankets pulled up into place as he kissed the top of your head.
“I love you,” as soft as a first breath, a first kiss, a heartbeat.
And you were broken, ground down to dust, sprinkled like sand, like ashes.
The next day, you called out of work, watched soobin as he got ready, while you stayed in bed, your face pressed into the pillow on his side, looking out the window, half open, watching the surf crash down on the sand. He leaned over the bed and kissed your shoulder as a goodbye, and when he came back, he found you had not moved, and you didn't even realize the sky had gone just as dark as you felt.
He washed himself, slid into the space you had kept for him, and did it all over again in the morning. Only this time, he pulled you to sit, handing you a cup of tea he had made, and cringed when you grabbed the mug around its base and not the handle. He sat until you finished it, and left without a kiss.
There on the nightstand, your collection grew, a new mug for every year you two had spent together, piled up, haphazardly stacked, spoons still glazed with honey, stuck to the hardwood. The bottle of your prenatal vitamins was wedged between the wall and the back of the drawers when you had knocked it over that second night in bed.
The window stayed open to circulate the air into the room, the curtains catching in the breeze, as you watched over and over again how the sea rose and fell without a sound. The silence of it was as loud as your relationship had become.
It hurt, somewhere distantly inside of you, the shape of it circling around the center of you like razor wire. But it wasn't enough to pull you up. All you could think about was how much you wanted to do things, but the energy that would be needed was wasted there.
As you lay, as you let yourself be, you could see the way the only energy you had left was resting like a fine layer of water where your joints met the bed, like you were a glass on its side, still clinging to something but not enough for a mouthful if picked up and swallowed down. You wouldn't have even noticed if the ocean had swallowed you whole.
It's how Yeonjun found you, the spare key you had gifted him so long ago, finally in use after not hearing from you for well over a month. You hadn't even heard the front door open, didn't hear him climbing the stairs, but even if you had, it would have been brushed off as Soobin coming home from work, your perception of time lost.
“Hey,” he said it just from the doorway, your back still turned from him, but you knew his voice, could recognize it anywhere. He had come around when you had been stuck on the couch, but you had turned him away, not wanting him to see you like that. And even if this was much worse, you didn't really care anymore.
You rolled to your side, looking at him with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, his face giving nothing away as he looked at the mess your room had become, even when you hardly got up to dirty it. The laundry was piled in the closet, spilling from the hamper so that the door didn't shut, the nightstands with their graves, the sheets just as mussed as your hair, and the sweater you had not changed out of in a week.
The house had become a tomb, stuck in place everywhere except the kitchen and your bedroom. Not one made out of stone, but one of molding mugs, dried tea bags, and silence that sank to the bottom of the floor like deadweight, suffocated and consuming. The dishes piled up, the rack of shoes next to the door empty, the contents spilled out, the mail stacked up next to the bowl of keys collecting dust.
And you, Ophelia in her river, just at the surface of yourself, drowning in clothes now too heavy around your bones. Eyes bruised, pale, and sunken around every soft curve you had possessed nearly a year ago. “I didn't know you were coming.” You didn't even move to sit up.
“I know, you didn't answer my calls.” he pulled out his phone, holding it to give him something to do besides worry, even if it was all his body was doing.
“Sorry,” and he knew you meant it, even when it was said so weakly.
“Don't be, I get to see the beach now, it's been a while,” he stepped in, crossing the threshold into the stale air even with the window open, sitting at the edge of the bed, reaching out for your hand, laying as limp as a flower cut too soon from its stem, fingers curled as if you were just starting to unfurl them. “You're cold,” he whispered, mostly to himself, thumb gently rubbing curled on the back of your hand. “It's colder in here than outside.”
“It's going to snow soon,” you sniffled, pushing yourself up, pulling your hand from his because it felt all too revealing. You pressed your fingers into your eyes, yawning as you stretched your legs out in front of you.
You knew the grey skies and seagulls' departure for what it was, the seasons changing, the crowds leaving.
“Do you remember the summer we spent two days here and I got that horrible sunburn?” he laughed at the memory, and you couldn't help but give the smallest chuckle because you did remember that summer. The one right before you had met soobin, yeonjun had been pink and red all over, sitting up from a nap on the beach and groaning as he realized his grave mistake.
“You laid yourself on the tile floor in the airbnb's kitchen and curled up like a shrimp someone dropped, even your ears were burned.” You pulled your knees up, hugging them closer to your body as yeonjun nodded, smiling at himself, at the fun you had somewhere not far from his house now.
“Kai had to cover me in that slimy off-brand aloe gel we found, and it only took two days for my skin to look like a lizard's,” he had gone back to your shared lecture with sunglasses on just to try and draw attention away from the way his nose had started to peel. You and Kai had picked on him for months after, hanging the picture of him on the floor on the fridge. “You told me that the next year we should come when it snows, that you prefer the less crowded beach in the colder months.”
“Yeah,” the two of you had made it out to the beach, too late in the day to spend much time just watching the water. You had sat in the sand, bundled in your coats, watching them string lights on the long walkway leading up to the lighthouse. The sea had been loud, crashing into every sentence you shared, the wind strong enough to turn Yeonjun's ears just as pink as they had been with his burn.
You can't even remember the last time you set foot on the sand, or the last time was that you made it past the doorway of your room. Yeonjun doesn't ask you to go, not out loud, but somehow you both end up there, right at the end of your winding pathway leading down to the sand, grey instead of its lemon-rine color it holds in the summer.
Yeonjun had helped you put on your coat, now somehow too big for you, bunching around your wrists as you curled your hands into fists in your pockets. Your scarf was still loosely hanging around the collar, the same one soobin had gotten you after proposing, bright and red like the string he had whispered was wrapped around your pinky and his.
And there the sea sat, calm, lulling back and forth, slow enough to drag its sound out until it was stretched thin enough for you to talk. “Stop looking at me like that,” because his stare was heavy when he believed you wouldn't notice, weighty on your shoulders as you kept your eyes locked somewhere in the distance, where the waves broke the grey horizon with its white rolling foam.
“Like what?” but he said it like he knew, because it was obvious, he had carried your mugs down to the kitchen sink even though you had protested, embarrassed all that once seeing them in his arms, even if he wasn't judging you.
“Like you're worried about me,” the wind cut in across your face, your lips pursed as you looked down at your shoes, dark against the sun-withered wood speckled with sand, and yet you still didn't take the final step out onto the beach just yet.
“I am,” he doesn't even try to deny it, as he steps in front of you, sinking in the sand, bending to catch your eyes, following them even when you try to look away. “How could I not be? Look at you,” it's not accusatory, it's laced with concern, pulled tight around ribs that were finding it hard to take a deep breath. “You don't-, you’re not-, I am worried.”
He let it hang between you two, looked right into your eyes as he said it, so you knew, so he could watch you swallow the bitter pill of it down. And still, even when you knew, felt it as deeply as the chill kissing the tip of your nose, you wanted to lie. “I just need time,”
Yeonjun huffed, a sound that was more sarcastic than humorous, “time,” he nodded, biting back anything else he wanted to say, before he just let it go. You could see the battle, watched as he gave up, shoulders sagging, pursing his lips as he turned away from you. “I miss you,”
It sounds so close to the way soobin had said it, I just want you to come back to me, as if you weren't standing right there before them. “I'm right here,” you had wanted to say it there in the dark, shout it out at the sea, at him, at the mirror.
“Yeah.” yeonjun sniffled, his knuckle coming up to rub at his cheek, “I know, just buried.”
“I'm trying,” but you hadn't been, not after the one day of work, a week ago? Two? They had been calling more than you had to ask for time off. You could feel that panic, somewhere flickering in the back of your mind, when you saw their number appear on the screen of your phone, but talking felt too much like teaching a lecture on something you only had an hour to learn beforehand.
Nothing around the house was done, soobin went to work for longer and longer, and the days stretched like an elastic band that had lost its shape. “It's just a lot. I'm working on it. What do you want from me? To take up meditation? Hot yoga? Join a book club for depressed housewives? If you can even call me that.” It had been the most you had spoken in one go, the deflection like a hiss from a cat backed into a corner, too scared to realize this might be someone who wouldn't hurt but heal.
“I just want you to be honest, not with me, fine, whatever, but with yourself.” Your jaw hurt, teeth grinding as you shook your head, your heel dug into the wood, and slid on the sand as you looked back up at the house.
The window of the nursery was shut, the mobile stuck frozen in place as if it had been painted against the glass. Your bedroom window open, the gauzy curtain pulled by the call of the wind rippling like a white flag in the air. “You want honesty?” Your throat was tight, pulled in on itself as you squeezed out the words you needed to say, “i hate who ive become, i hate that i cant feel like i use to, that im numb, and it makes me feel so guilty because he- he still loves me, or i hope so, and that hope makes me feel worse, because he shouldn’t,”
Yeonjun stays quiet, lets you sit with your confession between you two because he's not judging, he's grieving. “This isn't the end all.”
You look back out at the water, to the dark, wet sand where the tide meets the shore. “Like I said, I'm trying,”
The two of you stood out there for far longer than you had expected, shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, but enough for you to feel the warmth of him. And when you both made it back to the house, yeonjun picked through your fridge, the eclectic array of foods had been bought by soobin on short trips to the store on the way home from work. But it was enough for yeonjun to piece together a meal for the two of you to sit and share.
He cleaned after himself even after your protesting, washing every dish in the sink, stacking the ceramic plates and cutlery like Jenga blocks, playing at his own private game he was positive he would win after convincing you to shower.
And when you were clean, your hair still wet, Yeonjun kissed your head, scuffing over the spot with his coat sleeve as if he were cleaning a window, a joke he found funny every single time he did it. Your smile was slow but genuine; his was melancholy-tinted at the edges. “Don't stay a stranger,”
“I won't,” although neither of you knew if it was true or not, but it was enough. He left to catch a late train back into the city, looking over his shoulder at you when the door was closed.
It was only the next morning that you found yourself up early, far earlier than soobin, who slept soundlessly on his back, one arm tucked under your head like a pillow, when you opened your eyes. His chest rose and fell, and you mourned to feel so far away from him.
Without waking him, you made your way downstairs, following the same monotonous routine that felt easiest on days like this. Filling the tea kettle, you set it on the stove, clicking once, twice, on the burner until it caught with its flame.
The mugs all sat in the dish rack, half emptied in your attempt to keep up with the boost Yeonjun’s visit had brought you. And when the phone rang, you answered, knowing it was your boss, knowing you didn't feel up to going to work, and yet still you felt dejected when she muttered a soft, “We're really sorry, but it's just not working out, if we need an extra set of hands in the busy season we will give you a call, but for now it's just not the right fit anymore. I'm sorry.”
“No, it's okay, I understand,” because you did, wholeheartedly, you had called out more times than you had been in the building itself. Most times, you hadn't even called, and you were new, not like how you had kept the same job in the city for years, the seniority and friendships giving more grace.
You should have seen it coming, smelled it out when the calls kept coming and you didn't pick up, the denial written off as anything else but what it actually was.
The first mug to fall had been an accident. The brush of your sleeve as you placed your phone down had sent it toppling. The tea bag pressed under the broken ceramic. The watercolor painting of the lighthouse cracked in two, severed in a diagonal, like a sword had been wielded right through the memory.
The little Montauk slogan found on hats, shirts, and coffee mugs is kept in perfect view. The catchy little joke because the beach was right at the very tip of New York's east end, just dipping into the Atlantic Ocean.
at the end. Montauk, NY.
You had picked it up on your first solo trip out together, where you kissed his cheek over and over again as if you could spare the touches like grains of sand, giggling as you held the mug up for soobin, “so at the end of the day, you always have a mug to share,” he had smiled, dimples and teeth, nose scrunching when he pulled a hat onto your head with the same saying. Singing softly, “With youuu.” as if you had left off the last bit of your sentence and he needed to fill it in, just clarifying that he only wanted to share coffee with you, and only you.
Time still stood, like an oncoming car had flashed its brights in your eyes as you crossed a road you shouldn't have been traveling down. You read the line over and over again, at the end, as if someone had carved it into the bathroom tile upstairs the second the first drops of blood had appeared.
You didn't move to clean it, but instead reached out for the drying rack, picking up the next souvenir from a past too muddy for you to dig through. The logo of the bookstore you had worked at in the city was tattooed on the base, a chip already at the foot of the mug. You had picked it up the first time his mom had come to visit, the first time she had held your hand and told you how happy she could see he was.
And this time, you let it fall to the floor deliberately, relishing in the shattering, the sound like an exhale. Because as you picked up the next one, throwing it down, hard enough for the ceramic shards to spray along the tile like spilling beads from a bracelet ripped from a wrist, you could finally breathe, force out all the air in your lungs until you picked up the next mug.
The creamy white porcelain, one half to a whole set, a gift from Taehyun, silly his & hers mugs he had found soon after your engagement announcement. They had been sweet, painted with hearts, and the final ones to be thrown, cracking and splitting like bone, brittle and built on a promise you felt had been for a girl you didn't know anymore.
Left in the rack, a navy blue mug, bare of any inscription at all, the same mug that had been in the cabinet of Soobin’s apartment when you first met. The lone survivor of the massacre you had never seen coming until it was too late. And there, scattered on the floor, a mosaic of memories lost too soon, swept off the counter in a fit that tried to mask itself as rage but wasn’t close to it at all.
This had been a lapse, not in judgment but in your play at healing. And you had never been a good actor, because as much as you tried to hold it back, suck down gulps of air to avoid the shake in your resolve, you couldn't hide from the tears. “No, no, no,” the single syllable repeated like a prayer, a plea, a spell, as you fell to knees far too weak to rest on an altar made of fragmented dreams and vows.
You swept the mess with the side of your hand, trying to collect the fragments, not feeling them cut along your palm, into your pinky finger. But the burn traveled up to your elbow, your whine mixing in with the whistle of the tea kettle, screaming and screaming, continuously ringing in ears that had blocked out anything but the echo of their own sorrow.
Soobin rushed down the stairs, disheveled, hair an inky mess, as he slid to a stop at the sight of you, bent, bloody fingers curled around a fractured half of your Montauk mug, pulled to your stomach, as if it would pull you back together while you swept the shards of glass up with your free bare hand.
For a second, he froze, stuck, still half asleep as he had been that night, the whistling kettle mimicking the ring in his ears before he hurried to push at the pot from the burner, his hiss at the heat from the metal quick before he kneeled down with you. “Stop-”
He swept up your hand, thin shards of the ceramic digging into his skin as he cupped yours, your head shaking, as he moved to catch the large piece you had been reaching for. “Soobin-” but it was too late, his hand brushed at just the right angle, the burn of it as instant as the kettles had been. And there along his lifeline, blood bloomed.
“Fuck-” he sucked in the word, his fist closing instinctively over the wound.
“I-” but you didn't know what to say, how to apologize for so much destruction. There was no word for how sorry you were, not just over the mugs, or spilled blood that now dotted the floor like a cruel retelling of your mutual ruination, but for everything.
He didn't let you continue; he pulled you away from the kitchen and the shattered relationship you both had bled on the tile. Standing behind you, he cupped your hands over the running sink in the downstairs restroom. Peeled your fingers back away from the single piece you clung to like he would an orange, letting the shard of your past clink to the base of the blood-spotted bowl like a lost baby tooth that you would never get back.
With care, he held your hands under the warm stream, brushed his thumbs over the length of your fingers, letting the pink water wash over the saying you had never associated with pain until now, at the end. Montauk, NY.
There he waited until the water had gone cold, gone clear, and pulled away.
You could hear him sweeping up the mess, the glass clinking against the dustpan loud like the grinding of cars sliding against the on-ramp rail. And in the mirror, your reflection only showed you in grey, speckles of blood over your sweater. It's how you found yourself in the closet. The door pushed open just enough so that you could step into the mess of the laundry.
Your foot sank into it, and the light flicked on as you looked at the half-empty hangers. The mess of the drawers was half pulled open, as if you and soobin had been in a rush to collect the necessities and leave as fast as possible. It didn't matter what sweater you pulled out to replace the one you wore so long as it did its job. You added to the pile on the floor, kicking at it as if that would help.
Half hidden, a pale white box was tucked into Soobin’s dresser, the emptying of his shirts from his collection revealing it just enough to catch your eye. Nearly the size of a shoe box, only flatter, was the hidden archive of that very day.
It was almost as if it had been calling you, laid out just right in your line of sight when you were thinking about it the most. Because when you push back the lid, the ripped pamphlet is waiting at the top of your discharge papers. The Memory Erasure Procedure, as done by Dr. Howard M.
The tear had almost underlined the name, all while cutting the grassy background of a sunny field in two. A picture of how your days could be if you just went and cleared away all the bad memories, or so they wanted it to appear.
You picked up the second half of it, the slogan making your jaw ache, restoring peace & renewing clarity. It had hurt you, hand still trembling in the back of the cab, but steady enough to know you hadn't wanted it. It had been your instinct to deny it, to go against the way your body, your mind, wanted to grieve, felt too unnatural to dig around in someone's head for memories that didn’t hurt.
But they did hurt; they broke something inside you to look back on, if you lay in bed and thought too long about the sand, Soobin’s ear pressed to your belly, your laugh, his. It was all enough to have you crushed far longer than you had intended the memory to leave you.
You had been holding onto them still, waiting for the moment when they would clear up, when the haze around them was not poisonous to breathe in, waiting for the part in the play when you knew it would end happily. Only it was months later, nearly a year later, and you weren't better, no incline on your health but a downward spiral that was never ending, as if you had been sucked down the drain and hadn't yet fallen into the lake just yet.
And that's the bit you were holding on to, the just yet, you were waiting for the moment of clarity to come on its own, the internal peace that would work its way into the spaces that had collected dust and echoed your silence back at you. But whatever hill you had been climbing was steep, steep enough to burn your calves and lock them in place, freezing you in time so that when the landslide came, it swept you back to the bottom and buried you under the rubble, and now you were too tired to dig yourself out from the mess.
There had been hope that someone would come and help, but it was given up when they had attempted, and you found that there was a certain comfort in the darkness, one that was familiar because it was coming from deep within your bones, as if somewhere inside you, that instinct of an animal knowing its time was near had taken over. You had circled your spot like a vulture did its prey, and laid down and sank deeper into the reprieve.
You could see the end, felt it with every absence of a kiss on your cheek when soobin left for work, where he had called for extra hours outside of the house he had built on the very dreams and memories they had offered to erase.
Your thumb ran over the list of benefits they provided: Reduced symptoms of grief, trauma, or anxiety, Improved mood and emotional stability, Enhanced ability to form new, healthy attachments.
It shouldn't have felt so gutting. The list was like a sharp knife that completed the evisceration. And you knew it was everything you should have wanted, for yourself, for him. How easy they made it seem, painless, no scars, just spots in your mind that you couldn't fill in. days and moments that would be replaced like most insignificant moments in life were, you would know you had lived that day but it would be written off as having done what you always did, not anything life altering enough to be forgotten.
At the first mention, it had made you angry, your snap as loud as a whip, as fractured as the mugs you had just thrown down, and yet now even that memory had been eaten by the emptiness. And now all you sat with was guilt.
If there had been time to think, talk it through, maybe the two of you could have been saved. Mourned and let it shred you to ribbons, and then find yourself awake in bed braided anew. But you had let yourself, your relationship, your dreams, rot at the bottom of a sea that never stopped churning. And soobin had fought the waves, carried you as best as he could, but you could see how tired it was making him to love you.
And how could he not be tried? As much as Kai and Yeonjun could tell you otherwise, they did not live in your skin, did not sleep in the same bed as him and wonder how life for him would be so much easier without you in it. It kept you up, not just the lost dreams but the torment of knowing you were the problem. He could get up, brush his teeth, comb his hair, get dressed, work, and what could you do? What had you done?
The seedlings of the separation had been set early, maybe even before the loss, maybe in the thin stretch of the years between the engagement and the wedding that never came. Maybe your rose colored glasses had been too thick, too pink, too red, for you to see the signs. You had picked over that scab so often that the wound would never heal, and this, who you had become, had only stitched the skin in the opposite direction, flayed instead of healed.
He waits, patient, and as hopeful as the boy who had waited until Monday rolled around so he could see you again at your job. And as of right now, it feels like he will be waiting a lifetime because you don't have a breadcrumb trail leading back to the girl you used to be.
If time could heal all wounds, how could it not also create them? He would wait, he would stay, he would watch you, love you until it was only because he remembered that he once had, not because he did. You would suck the life out of him, you already had, even if you were the only person who could see it, admit it. And you couldn't let him do that.
Couldn't let him sit and love you, couldn’t let him sit and wait for someone who knew they were too far gone, who had stitched their shared loss into their skin and wore it like a tattoo, and let it scream out into the silence. Couldn't let him pour himself empty into your glass that was riddled with fractures.
If you love him, really, truly, deeply loved him, you would give him the only thing you had left inside you, worth anything at all; your ability to let go. The opportunity to move on without having you there to hold him back.
There was no fight left in you when you made the decision; your mind was set, and even that didn't evoke anything else besides sadness.
You dropped the pamphlet, placing the lid back onto the box, and neatly closed the drawer. Soobin was still in the kitchen when you made it down the stairs. He didn't question when you pulled on your coat, your shoes forgotten as you walked out in nothing but socks onto the deck.
The tide was pulled back, showing the rippled, dark, wet sand. The line was distinct and cut across the expanse of your eyeline like someone had taken scissors to the sea and the shore. The air was just cold enough so that every exhale was like a puff of smoke, fanning out in front of you like a lost soul, curling around the edges of your lips like a goodbye kiss.
“It's going to snow.” You didn't move at the sound of his voice, low and falling down your back like rain. Gingerly, he wrapped your dropped scarf around your shoulders, the brightest thing against the cloudy backdrop and your dark coats.
You tilt your chin towards the sky, frosted pale blue, just bright enough to let you know somewhere the sun is hidden under all the layers of white sheet clouds. Icy and bitter, the wind burns your cheeks until soobin blocks the gust, stepping next to you.
It's enough to bring the tears forward, the building of them catching on the edges of your lashes, not quite falling as he hums,” I don't even remember the last time I came out here to see the beach.”
Neither of you had to say why, not with the rise and fall of the waves, the cawing of the seagulls gone for the season, the boats pulled in with the water this choppy. It was just the sound of the sea, even the lighthouse stood abandoned, the row of houses a graveyard of wood and glass. For all you knew, it could have been just the two of you out this far off the end of the Long Island peninsula.
“Soobin, I’m-” he can hear the weaver in your voice, in the way it gets caught in the cold and freezes in the wind.
“Don't,” no matter what it was that you were going to say, he knew he didn't want to hear it, couldn't swallow it down when being out on the beach felt as close as he had been to you in months. Your hands, pushed into your pockets, left just enough room for soobin to link his arm with yours. “Walk with me?”
Neither of you had your shoes on, and neither of you cared. The walk down was slow, and you leaned into him, his warmth. And this time, you didn't stop right where the wood dipped into the sand, but stepped out, let the grains slip around your feet, and watched how soobin wiggled his socked toes.
You wanted to tell him, explain how you couldn't do this anymore, but when you opened your mouth, all that came out was a short, breathy laugh. Because he was here, still, pulling your scarf around you, blocking the cold, striking memories like you would a match, and despite the wind, you were willing to cup your hand around the flame so it wouldn't go out, not just yet.
Dropping your head to his arm, you let yourself go and whispered, “I love you,” because it was true; despite all else, you knew that.
“I love you more,” said like it was the start of a song you hadn't heard in forever but knew all the words, felt it in your fingertips, and sang along to every bittersweet nostalgic note. It hurt that you had almost forgotten it, almost as badly as you knew it would be to forget the color of his eyes. “So, so, much more,”
You turned your nose into his coat sleeve, breathed in the scent of him deep enough to let it catch in your lungs, and held the air until you were sure you wouldn't burst into tears. “No, I love you more,” and even with your voice weak, it was a declaration, a vow, an oath. A vocal snapshot collected from all the flickering facets of your past together, where you had said the words between kisses, moans, and casual goodbyes.
The two of you let the silence settle, the sea pushing back at it with its rise and fall, the waves sounding like the turning page of a book caught at its edge, the kind you had to check to make sure it wasn't ripped by the end. And you wondered if he, too, was thinking of your shared heartbeat, if it was at the shell of his ear like a whisper of a past you only thought of when the ghosts hummed late at night.
“I lost my job.” You didn't need to say anything else, not when you both knew it was coming eventually. But you had needed to fill the space with something other than the creeping memory of the silent ultrasound.
He lifted his free hand, letting it cup your cheek, not turning your head away from his arm but resting. “There are hundreds of jobs out there for when you're ready.”
Your lashes were soft against your cheeks, forehead heavy against his arm, before you reached up to take his hand, as you pulled away just enough to look up at his already expectant face.
He was so pretty, even in sadness, the cupid's bow of his lip, still slightly parted, ready to tell you no, because he knew what was coming, it was written all over you. You were looking up at him like you were tracing over every last feature of him, trailing the pen across his eyebrows, following his lash line, painting the exact shade of brown his eyes were. “Stop,” he shook his head, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, holding himself back from saying it any louder.
“I think it would be better if I went back to the city,” his fingers curled around yours as he twisted his lips into a pout carved out of denial.
“No-,” because he knew you meant alone, without him.
“Just for-,” he didn't let you lie, he pressed his lips to yours, drinking down your words, pulling them away from you as if it would make it any better.
The kiss was soft, testing as the first one had been, and when he pulled away, his nose bumped yours, and he was flushed. Cheeks a shade of pink you had imagined was lost with the version of yourself that had been pulled from under your ribs. He looked as if he were worried he had startled you, as if he had accidentally caught an animal in hands that had only meant to feed it. As if you had just told him they sold shoes right at the end of the street.
The wind rustled his hair, brushed it along his temples, and pushed the strands back to expose his forehead. And for a small moment, you mourned that you would never be back here with your fingers in his hair, your jealousy of the wind making your hand twitch. If it was going to be the last time, one last memory, you might as well just sink into it until you drowned.
You lifted just enough to crash your lips against his, unlinking your arms with his so that you could thread your fingers into his hair, leaning into the familiar give of his mouth and the curve of his body. He wrapped you up in him, tugging you closer as your scarf brushed your cheeks as it fluttered from the breeze you couldn't feel when he was so warm.
He kisses you like there was no time lost, as if you never stopped pulling that soft shyness from deep within him, as if you were cracking him open, splitting him right down the middle so that he could make room for you to share his space. He wanted all of you, in any way you gave it to him, in this love disguised as lust, and even in sadness.
Neither of you knew how you had found yourselves in the sand, your cold fingers at the base of his neck, his lips on the edge of your mouth, sliding down your jaw, his nose cold as he dragged it down your throat. He whimpered into your skin when you dragged a hand down the front of his chest, gasping when you slipped your hand into the hem of his shirt.
You felt each breath under your fingertips, his stomach flexing as he rolled you onto your back. You matched him with every kiss, every push, as you widened your legs, memorizing him with every sense you could. Because he smelled like the day you had shared a bed for the first time, where he laid next to you as stiff as a board, blinking up at the ceiling as you linked your hand in his. And his breath caught just as it had the first time the two of you had made out on his couch. His body shuddered above you when you kissed under his ear.
Neither of you had to speak, not when you could read every I love you, between touches and heartbeats, like a eulogy, so focused on holding onto the moment, tattooing it along your skin as he dragged his hand down your side and pushed up your sweater just enough to feel your skin against his. Your breaths mingling in the cold air, puffing out like mist, like lost promises, lost time.
He didn't let the chill reach out for you, letting his open coat block most of the wind, his body doing the rest as he rolled his hips against yours. And he didn't stop you when you reached down to the button on his jeans, unzipping them just enough for you to slip into the waistband of his underwear. He moaned into your mouth when you wrapped your hand around him softly. You swallowed the sound down, held it in your lungs.
It had been so long since either of you had been so close in this way, past the shower and the attempt in the bed that felt empty even with you in it. He hummed against your pulse, his open-mouthed kiss caught against your skin when you let yourself get lost in the familiar motion of drawing out his desire. You had been here before, just like this, with his hand sliding down your side until his fingers pushed past your panties and could circle sweetly over your clit.
He’d kissed salt and sun from your skin, blushed just the same as he did now, not from the cold but from your touch, greedy to feel more as he rolled his hips into your hand. Mimicking your slow movements, he soaked in every soft sound you made, pushing his fingers into you, pressing the heel of his palm in place for you to grind.
It didn't matter how long it had been, not when you had spent years learning every little thing about each other, enough so that you knew that this last attempt at memorization was futile. Still, it wasn't because you wanted a last goodbye but because you needed it, and he deserved it. So you whispered the word into his mouth, “please,” as if begging him to ask you to stay instead of begging for more.
It didn't matter that you were on the beach, the very one you had met, or that it was winter, just as you dreamt of spending with him. You let him push your pants down, let him melt into you, keep you pressed against your coat, the sand. You gasped at the heat of him, the stretch, the familiarity.
Your hands, still sore from your cuts, made from memories too sharp, burned as you tangled your fingers into his hair, his face pressed firmly to your neck as he let himself be surrounded by you. The two of you in a world alone, wrapped up in your affection, your lust, the nostalgia.
There was no rush; every movement, careful and deep, threaded with memory, so close as if neither of you could stand to be apart. He held you, kissed the salt on your skin from his tears away, as he had the salt from the sea. Not caring about crying when you were so close to slipping away from him. He knew it, felt it between every breathy whimper the two of you shared. This was different than the last time you two had tried; he had felt you grasping at him desperately, trying to hold on, find purchase on him as if it would have been able to pull you from the water.
This time, here now, he knew you were letting yourself go, breathing him in as if he was the last bit of air you would ever swallow down before your lungs stopped trying behind ribs too bruised from chest-wracking sobs. And he was greedy, he wanted you, even like this, in any way he could, because he loved you, loves you, had never stopped, and he never thought he would, and he was just as willing to give everything up for one more moment.
His tears caught on the hollow of your throat, sliding down your skin like an undone necklace, his lips finding your jaw, catching your moans when he finally pulled his mouth back to yours. He held you as you trembled, coming undone for him one last time, his weight keeping you in place as he reached a high too bittersweet and yet blisteringly vehement.
And he didn't ask you to stay, not when he clung to you as if he was moments away from waving you off to a plane he was too late to grab a ticket on. You were as close as you could get, legs wrapped around him, arms locked around his neck, his nose pressed to your cheek, his browbone slotted into the hollow of your eye as he whispered against your skin like a ghost would into an unsuspecting ear, “Do you remember when I called out for you in the street?”
His hands slid under you, between the sand and your coat, fingers tucked against the warm spots where the two of you met chest to chest. And you can see him back at the beginning, shoeless, one hand shoved deep into his pocket, the free one cupped around his mouth as he yelled into the night, the streetlights shining down like golden sunrays, his hair a mess, his expectant smile, his dimples.
And just as the snow began to fall, in small, fragile puffs that melted on your cheeks and clung to his hair, you whispered, “I remember everything.”
“That was the day I knew you were the love of my life,” and he held you as he had on the couch, as he had the moment he could finally wrap his arms around you for the first time. kissed you just as he dreamed he would while taking sips of coffee from paper cups he picked up from your job, just to get a taste of your lips. And the two of you lay in the sand like a swaying boat on a sea gone dry.
His letting go and your running was a mutual mercy.
This is what you repeated when you stood at the train station, your ticket the only one printed for the empty ride. The scarf tied around your neck felt heavy on your shoulders, your nose tucked into the fabric as if that would convince you in some way he would still be with you. Because his hands had been so soft as they wrapped you up as if you were a gift he had been all too excited for, peeling back the paper the day before he was supposed to open it, careful to make sure no one would know he had sneaked a peek. As if he were hopeful you would still be there in the morning, still his, even if you were in the city, even if you weren’t in your shared bed.
The scarf felt like a name tag, one you wouldn't throw away, but tuck into the back of the closet like you would a receipt between pages of a book for safekeeping. The color is like a burning reminder of him, and as you try to keep the wind from your cheeks, you're flooded with memories of how he smells, what it was like to press your face into the fabric of his sweater, his pillow.
The heel of your palms are numb, nails pinched against your skin, jaw aching as your teeth rattle, grind, the pressure holding in each trembling breath that wants to turn into a weak whine. You focused on the feeling of your closed eyes, how your lashes felt heavy with unshed tears you refused to let go of, not willing to look up at the way the snow fell on the beach with increasing speed since leaving the sand.
It fell like rain, sheets and sheets of the flanks swirling in the air under the streetlamps lined up on the edge of the platform you stood on alone. Your world felt like a salt shaker, taken in a careless fist over a boiling pot, too casual with the flicking of a wrist that never intended the harm it was causing with one simple movement. Every inhale with closed eyes and aching hands made you sway, like you were the tide and he was your moon, beckoning you with slowness and promises you had to push against like waves at the edge of the rocky cliffs the lighthouses sat on.
There was no Shakespearean end, no half-written tragedy uncovered with your closing of the door behind you, only silence. And when the train pulled in, tugging on the red end of your scarf with its arrival, you couldn't help but follow the line of its direction. He would be sitting on the back porch watching the snow exactly where you left him, the sea loud enough to cover the sound of your leaving, because to him it swallowed even the silence.
You looked back because somewhere deep down you wanted him to be running back up the side of the hill, flushed red, socks slipping in the sand and snow, begging you to come home even if it was a house that hadn't been a home for far too long. There was no reason to be disappointed not to see him there; you had done nothing but ruin, nothing but lie stagnant like water at the bottom of a covered well, no stone he could throw at windows or like pennies mimicking wishes could change that.
He did not come, he did not beg, and you did not stay, no matter how much either of you wanted to do the opposite. You climbed the short steps into the belly of the empty rain, let the seat right by the door swallow you down, and waited for the memories to chew you, to spit you out on the streets of New York. because behind you, the ghosts of the past sat giggling, sharing book recommendations to blushing boys who lost their shoes, who whispered funny baby names just to see you smile, who kissed you under every bridge you passed.
You let the ghosts leech off your sadness, a final gift as if that would make them stay longer than you would ever know. Feeding their memory so that even when you forgot, they would sit here, haunting the very train you took to fall in love.
There was no reason to push any of the thoughts away, not when you had so little time to dwell on them. You had only one thing in your pocket besides your phone and key ring, the half-ripped pamphlet with the number to Dr. Howard's office.
As much as it said it would not hurt, you wondered if you would know, somewhere deep down, that something was missing in you. You had not known exactly how vast and empty you could feel, not until this wave of depression, and if that could be hidden, would the memory of him be tucked away somewhere? Folded down over and over like a piece of paper or burned to ashes?
Loving soobin would leave a scar, even if they said it would be unnoticeable. There was no amount of perfected surgery or magic that could pull him away from your being unmarked. In the fine wedding of your heartstrings, his fingerprint was etched; you had not known it, not until he looked up at you with his boyish smile and eyes warm enough to feel like nostalgia. It was not something they could erase, not entirely, because it was a part of you far longer than you had known him.
It would not be easy to erase him when he was woven too deeply into the threads of your tapestry. You knew it as soon as you stepped off the train and looked out at the road, packed with cars leading to places you never envisioned going, with people you never cared to meet. His question hangs in the air like a knife on a string. Do you remember when I called out for you in the street? Here you had been just a girl, and you learned that heartbeats had wings, ones that were made of wax and beat for boys who felt like the summer sun on bare shoulders.
You ran, not caring about the stares, face scrunched to keep back the tears because it felt all too real now, three hours away from him. Your coat was too heavy, too warm, suffocating when it wasn't snowing in the city just yet. Every step down your old street, up the stairs to your apartment shared with a life before him felt heavy, weighted with iron tied around your ankles.
You had not called Kai, not when you had only thought about soobin and his hands, his last breaths puffed into your lungs as if it would reanimate you. It had slipped your mind to ask if it was okay to run to him when you were looking for someone to tell you it was okay, that it would all work out no matter what you chose to do.
Instead, you had picked up the key that Kai had turned into your palm, and fell into the familiarity of coming back to your shared apartment as if it was another day after class, or work, only now your hands were shaking, trembling enough to miss each attempt to fit the key into the lock.
Everything was overstimulating: the flickering overhead light down the hall, the sweat now making its way down the back of your neck from so many layers of clothes, the tears that blurred everything around you and made your throat tighten enough to feel like a hand had replaced your scarf. “Fuck,” you blurted the word, moments before the door pulled open.
Kai stood bathed in the golden light from the lamp in the far corner, still dressed down in his pajamas, hair a frizzy mess, eyebrows pulled in concern at the very sight of you being at his doorstep. “Kai,” his name was a sob, like the bubbling sound from a stopper being pulled from a tub's drain.
He pulled you into him, tucked your face into his chest, and held you while you fell apart, the gentle swaying of his body allowing you to spill out. It didn't matter how or why you showed up, he would take you in just as he said he would. You let him pull you in past the door, and as soon as he let you go to shut it, you ripped off your scarf, shedding your coat, your shoes. Your hands wiped at your cheeks, knuckles digging into your eye sockets to force yourself to stop the incessant tears.
You wanted to sound clear, to make it known that this was a decision made from reason and not one made from wallowing, even if it was all that was written over you.
Holding your breath, you looked around at the space you once shared, now tinted with the years of Kai having been alone. The small touches you had placed over it were still there, only added to. He kept the hooks by the front door, still half filled haphazardly with his winter coats, your jacket placed right where he always kept the spot open for guests. Your scarf slipped to the floor, even after he had taken the time to make sure it would stay in place, the red fabric like a pool of blood at the entryway.
He still used the blanket you kept on the back of the sofa; the pillows never switched out, even as they started to flatten over the years. The coffee table was picked out for its color and price when the two of you had scraped by for cash to spend on to have somewhere to eat besides standing in the kitchen. He had added to the collection of photos on the fridge, replacing the magnets you had taken with you to the house in Montauk with his own memories.
Your old bedroom door was closed, right across the living room from Kais, the door half open to show where he must have climbed out of bed on his off day to let you in.
Life had gone on, yours, his, even if it felt familiar, it felt distant. As if you were stepping back into your childhood bedroom after the first year of college, no ghosts but dusty reminders of what you had grown into. The bittersweet nostalgia felt cold around its middle like a reheated meal you hadn't let do a full turn in the microwave. And there on the side table, a picture frame of your friend group, Kai’s sisters, all sitting around the living room on his birthday, crammed onto the small two-seater couch, smiling for the camera. Soobin's face was pressed into your cheek, his eyes scrunched in a laugh because you were fighting hard to get away from the way his lashes had been tickling you.
You had only been able to call Kai for his birthday this year, promising him that in a week you would make it up to him when you felt less under the weather, even when both of you knew you weren't fighting a cold.
It was the picture that pushed you to say why you had come to, “I can't do it anymore,” and even if all you felt was shame to come out with the confession, you were shocked to find relief in between every syllable. “I thought when I saw you in the city that I would be okay, that eventually I would get better, that somewhere there would be a light at the end of the tunnel, and I just hadn't found it yet, but it’s taking so fucking long,”
And he knows what you mean, the realization not something that he thought was shocking when he could hear it in your voice after every call, knew it when yeonjun had gone and came back with red-rimmed eyes after the train ride home. “It's so much, and I lost my job, and I don't even really care about it, and I think that's the thing. I know how I would have reacted before, and now not even feeling a hint of that? Every emotion is so far away, and I can't do it anymore. I can't sit there and make him suffer through it with me when I don't think there will be any end to it, not unless I forget what happened.”
“Did you talk to him about it? Have you told him-”
“What is there to tell? I know exactly how he will react. I love him so so much, I can't hide that, because that's all there is, that's what's left, but it's so hard to act on, to be who I was for him before when I first started to love him, who i was when we first moved into the house because now im just empty, and he still would love me and when he couldn't anymore, because one day he will see what I've done to us, he will still stay and let himself be brought down by me because that's who he is thats that he does,” you fall to the couch, elbows heavy on your knees as you lean your face into your hands.
“You didn't do anything wrong, none of this is your fault-”
“I know that, somewhere deep down, I'm sure I know it, but we are losing everything. I lost my job, I lost my feelings, we lost…we lost our baby,” you whisper the end of the sentence, and you're sure it's the first time you've said it allowed. Soobin had been the one to make the calls to your family, to your friends, you had replayed the sound of his voice, growing cold with each pass of condolences and weak thank yous, over and over again in your head until it was all you could hear.
You should have been there with him, at his side, leaning on him as he leaned on you, carrying the weight of the truth so that it was spread between you two instead of sinking you both. But you had been just as silent as he had grown. Let him sit with the heavy words from people who didn't really know you two, their comfort like bullets to glass, far too cracked to do anything but shatter. Everything happens for a reason. You can have another one, move on by bringing in happiness, showing that the spark is still there, and you can still be happy…
It was all bullshit. You had heard it in the distance, and you hadn't given him any outlet to talk it through, both of you shell-shocked, knowing it was meant well, and yet it did anything but soothe your hearts. And maybe that's also why you were running, some selfish part of you was embarrassed about who you had become for him, a partner who did not know how to help with his grief, had not tried. Your mother had told you that it was natural and not something you should beat yourself up about. But it was so hard not to throw fists at a mirror that now only showed the parts of yourself that you hated.
You had tried, but it felt so lackluster in comparison to what he had done for you, how he had made attempts and had been met with a brick wall, and still did not give up, even if it was silent. He was waiting for you so that you could build new dreams together, build yourselves back up, and work through your feelings in healthy ways that would help process your grief.
But it was so easy to get stuck, so easy to think about what was gone, what had gone wrong, and still he waited loving you even when you didn't anymore.
“I'm drowning, fully, and I don't know how to help it, but I know this,” you pull out the pamphlet, place it down on the table before you, letting kai take the half ripped sheet, “every time I think about picking myself back up to live out the dreams we had set out for us im right back down in my bed. Because once I think about it, all I can see is how easy it was for it to be taken away from us, how easy it was for the wave to come and knock me on my ass. There was no fighting it. I'm trying, but I can't do it anymore, not when I see him and what I did to him. I'm not the girl he proposed to, not the one he fell in love with anymore. We hadn't gotten married in all the time it took before I got pregnant, years, it took the thought of having a baby for him to talk about it again, for us to move out of the city, and now that's all gone.”
“And I don't know why I'm so caught up in that dream being lost, why I can't get out of bed, why I can't let him love me. That's why I can't let him suffer anymore, because at the end of the day, I wouldn't want to marry me either, I wouldn't want to be saddled with someone who crumbles instead of snaps, he deserves so much better than whatever I have to offer, and I can't do this anymore. I try, Kai, that's that part, this is me giving it 100% and I want to give so much less, I feel it, weighing me down, it keeps me in bed, it keeps me from forgiving myself for what I did-” you’re bleeding tears, they coat every words and shaking breath as you lay out every thing that had been plaguing you.
Your last moment on the beach had pulled a thread from you, anchored it to the sand and sea, and as you ran, you unraveled. That fine red sting pulling taut as you spoke without fear because you needed Kai to know why you were doing this, you needed someone to know it was out of love, just as well as it was selfishness.
The couch dipped next to you, his weight drawing you closer to him before he wrapped you in his arms. And without knowing it, your shoulders sank involuntarily at the realization that it was not soobin pulling you into his sweater, but Kai. “You didn't do anything wrong,”
“But I did! It was me, it was my body, it was my baby, it was my life, and I ruined it. I can't do this anymore, I can’t sit here and feel this anymore, and I love him so much, so much it hurts, it rips at me, it kills me and I cant lose him not like I lost our baby, and I’d rather forget it all then wait for him to realize im the cause, that im everything I know I am, I can't do that to him, I can't hurt him anymore than I already have and I don't want to forget him but I have to, I need to, for him,”
“You don't have to, you could go to therapy, stay here for a bit, give it a week, a month, time.” His hand, warm and heavy, soothes circles over your back, grasps at ways to calm you. But your mind is made up.
You were always back in that hospital bed, screaming to be left alone, avoiding the one thing that maybe could have kept all this pain away in the first place. So quick, so simple, like knocking off all the dinnerware from a table, but you had been worried about the mess, concerned about collecting the pieces of broken glass like scattered bones grown from wombs of memories, that you had rejected everything besides grief. And now everything was laced with regret, and all you wanted was the first option.
All you wanted was painlessness. It was the only dream rattling around in a heart made up and dressed like a tomb.
Kai knew it, you both did. His attempts at convincing you otherwise were lost, and when he called yeonjun and left the two of you alone in the apartment, he knew it too. Saw it in the way you had begged to sleep on the couch, scared to find yourself in a bed that you had shared with soobin only a few times, the mattress far too short and his legs too long, having to curl up into you like the perfect excuse to hold you tighter.
Instead, you lie on the couch as you would in your own home. Yeonjun didn't even speak up. He sat with you, your feet resting on his lap, his coffee cup, too cold for winter, dripped onto his numbing hand as the ice slowly melted enough for him to ask, “Are you sure?”
You had already made the appointment for that day, making Kai promise that he wouldn't tell Soobin, that he wouldn't tell anyone besides Yeonjun.
The office had asked for memorabilia from your relationship, one item that had significant enough meaning to keep soobin right at the forefront of your mind. You had nothing more than the clothes you had come with and your engagement ring. Your fingers curled, but you did not take it off, not yet, not until they asked you for it, not until the last moment.
Yeonjun had promised to pick up the rest of your things in time from soobin, swearing to keep the secret even when you could see it on him that he didn't want to. You could only tack it to the list of reasons why you felt so guilty, your one choice of not erasing your memory sooner rippled the waters enough to affect everyone around you. If you could go back, you would. You had been closest to the shore then, closest to soobin, to your baby, to the life you had dreamed of.
“I'm sure.” Even if it was heavy like a lie on your tongue, weighing the statement down with some resonance of truth, you carried it all the way to your appointment.
Yeonjun held the door open to the sterile office space, the walls grey and peeling, tacked up with inspirational posters every few feet like a color bandaid on a scraped knee, too small to cover all the damage, but pretty enough for its job.
It was nothing like the hospitals you had been to before, more like a dentist's office, the few seats already filled with people holding boxes and photo albums like driftwood on a thrashing sea, they prayed would calm soon. It was a small building with no more than three rooms in the back, faint elevator music covering the soft, muffled voices behind the thin walls.
“Good morning,” the receptionist smiled, the brightest person in the room, the sunny disposition shining down on the wilted flowers we all found ourselves being once we had decided this was the only option. “Appointment?”
For a second, your throat had tightened up, as if tears would come instead of words; spill with a desperation that read more like a plea than a declaration. You swallowed, hands tightening on the hold you had on your coat, tugged off from your shoulders to use as a blanket between you and the realization of what this all meant.
It was Yeonjun who spoke up for you, nodding and taking the clipboard, papers, and pen with his pursed smile, the one he used for work and bad days. He led you to the only two free seats together, waiting for you to sit so that he could make sure you weren't running. He wouldn't stop you if you did. You're sure it would make him happy to leave here with you, intact but not whole, but the rawest form of you that there would be before bits of you were picked out like fruit from a cake.
He passed the clipboard over, set the pen in your hand, and watched as you filled out your name. It was the only thing you could do to distract yourself, list out the basic information about you that had nothing to do with soobin, no, that wouldn't happen until later, until at least the second page of forms, where you would have to list out your explanation of why you were here in the first place.
The stinging in your eyes was like someone was blowing air right along your lash line, your blinking only working for so long before you were finding it hard to read the checkmark boxes asking who you had brought along with you to take you home. It was only a little reminder of Soobin, of a time when you had been happy enough that the anxiety was eaten away at the edges like ends of books you had stacked on your shelf; spouse/partner.
It had been so simple then, when your problems had been nothing more than cold feet worries and not soul-crushing silence, but even now you can't help but want him right here with you, pressing his knee into yours, his legs too long for the chair so he needed to spill closer to yours, when really all he wanted was to be closer to you, touching you. His laugh lit up the silent room, echoing as he joked about the posters, eyes going wide when your name was called, like he had been caught by a teacher for passing notes.
The pen slipped from your fingers, falling before you had even realized you had been crying so openly. Yeonjun bent and picked it back up without much thought, held it out for you on the flat of his palm like an invitation, one to take or one to leave. He'd walk out with you if you asked, you kept reminding yourself over and over about it, and still you couldn't stop now, not here.
But it didn't feel real until they pulled you back without him, your lifeline slipping between your fingers with lightning speed at a rate you couldn't catch, but you could feel the burn of. The chair, much like that of a dentist’s, was cold and squeaky, the pleather not worn down or softened by any number of people who had come and shared this very seat. The lights dimmed like the ultrasound room you had shared with soobin by your side, a screen pulled up right in front of you just the same.
Your knuckles ached, the grip you held on your coat too tight as you bit back the wave of fresh tears threatening, the questions rising from somewhere deep you didn't want to look down into. If you went back, pulled away now, and ran all the way to the waiting bed you made for the two of you, neither of you would survive.
You could go, let him tuck you in close to him, whisper that everything would be alright when you both knew it wouldn't. You could convince yourself that he was telling the truth long enough to make it feel real, even for a night.
But what were you running back to? An empty house, gutted clean with the cracked porcelain made from memories you found so easy now to throw away, or so it seems. The ocean singing its mocking tune that you couldn't quite hear unless you were thrown into the deep end, haunted by the sounds of heartbeats and I love yous.
There he would be sitting, waiting for you to drag him under the tide that had spit you out like weathered driftwood that hadn't touched the sand long enough to remember just what it had been grounded to before it snapped and drifted out into a sea it had never seen coming. He would wake next to you, in the house you had turned into a crypt, and place the last mug of tea down on your nightstand like he would flowers right at the edge of your grave. Whisper so soft like he would blow you out like a candle if he spoke too loud, kiss your temple like the cold headset they now laid against your skin.
The dry acidic tang of the rubbing alcohol they used to clean at the edge of your brows burned your nose. Gentle fingers making sure the headset, icy and awakening, was set right into place, the drone of the doctor's voice coming in waves, painless, simple, all you have to do is remember for one last time.
Your ring, the one he kissed at your knuckles while in bed, in the sand, slipped from your finger, placed, clinking like the tines of a fork on a glass of champagne for a wedding the ring never saw, on a silver tray just a foot away from you to look at and picture him as if he wasn't always on the forefront of your mind. Hands now empty, lay so neatly against your coat in your lap, as if forcing yourself not to curl them into fists would help distract you from what you were doing. And when they told you to close your eyes, you let your lids fall heavy, let yourself get lost in the memories, in poison you had slipped in the well to tell yourself that this was the right way, the only way.
The machine hummed low next to you, the buzz of it like the beating of a moth's wings, like the littered kisses he'd pepper along your hairline.
“Baby?” his nose nuzzled against your ear, so close it almost felt real, his voice a memory of a time you had been just on the verge of waking, tucked under the sheets in his apartment, his hands a heavy weight against skin worn into sleep-ridden bliss. “Stay with me?”
You had lived this moment, heard him whisper over and over again the one thing you had been waiting for him to ask when you were laid out in the sand, when the snow began to fall. You had turned in his arms, legs tangling with his, pressing your face into the warm spot at the base of his neck, nose dipping into the hollow of his throat as you pulled him in closer. “Ask me again,”
“Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me…” the words faded out, slowly until you couldn't even hear what was being said, only the rumbling from your own throat as you rolled out of an empty bed for work. The heater had been turned off late into the night, Kai and his plans to save money on the electricity, leaving both of you to sleep bundled up under layers of blankets, wrapped around you like arms.
You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, cringing at the overhead light from the bulb right over the checkout counter, a stack of books waiting for stickers at your side, as your jaw ached from the stretch of your yawn. He laughed, the kind that you knew his dimples would show through, teeth just caught at the bottom of his lip, “sleeping on the job?”
He placed a mug, steaming with tea, on the smooth wood, as if it were on your kitchen counter, not the register. Distantly, you can remember that you had lost a job, cried over it until you had broken something that had hurt instead of healed. But here right now, soobin was leaning over the checkout, bending to kiss the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes, “you kept me up all night.” he had been humming in the kitchen, clinking plates, mugs, making something late at night because you had craved it.
“They kept you up all night.” You couldn't help but smile, hand falling to the waistband of your jeans, only fitting snug enough to make it seem like you hadn't changed overnight. “How are my girls doing now besides being tired?”
“Girls? Our baby is the size of a pea, and you're just picking a girl just because?” You tilted your head, looking up at him like some lovesick, love-struck fool, mid shift. But he was blushing, flushed pink, his smile turned downward as if he was trying too hard not to act caught detailing dreams you hadn't yet shared while tucked in bed at night.
“I'm happy with whoever they end up being, so long as they are healthy, but when I think about you holding our baby, I see you and her, and she smiles like you.” he was just pulling in to kiss you, taste the edge of your happiness caught on your lips, when someone cleared their throat.
You were caught frozen, distracted enough to spill the paper cup of tea you had grabbed at the beginning of your shift right over the edge to splash on your shoes. The customer waiting in the spot you had just been looking at, lost in some daydream you can't remember, passing you a book about whales, the familiar lighthouse out in the distance, just at the edge of your periphery as you ground your reality, listening to the echo of the waves on the shore. The water just reached the tips of your shoes, threatening to soak your socks if you didn't take a step back. “Do you remember our first time out here? Together when we walked on the beach?”
“Like the back of my hand,” you had held it out for him, showing him the smooth expanse of skin, fingers spreading before he caught them in his, intertwining them like yarn woven to make a blanket, a sweater, before he pulled your knuckles up to kiss. You had no ring then, not until the next time you went out to Montauk together for his birthday. But for now, it was you and him, caught in the snowglobe left unshaken, just a picture of a memory now being cleaned of dust bunnies dressed in the shape of him.
“Can we stay here?” Your heart was picking up speed, beating to the rhythm of your steps as you ran, feet dragged down from the sand slipping into your boots, clinging to your socks. Laughing as he chased you, bent to pick up your coat, your dropped sweater as you pushed open the door of your home.
Not a house, but your home, with its creaking floorboards and open windows, the fridge covered in magnets, the sonogram picture hung right next to the filmstrips, every mug stacked in the dish rack. And soobin is standing in the kitchen with your baby on his hip.
This was something close to a memory, the dream you had caught in your hands that first night in your bed after taking a million pregnancy tests. sick and yet too happy to care as he kissed your skin, explored your body in ways he never had before, fingers drawing shapes of hearts and whispered names like first laughs made in cribs that birthed fairies like stars blinking alight in the sky.
He called out your name, a question on the edge of his lips as he looked over his shoulder at you, one hand holding a spoon as he stirred the pot he had boiling, bouncing the baby with their dark hair, giggling as the bubbles rose and popped, the floor a sticky mess as you stepped into the kitchen. The sweet powdery smell of baby lotion mixed with the salted air from the sea breeze. “Listen to how happy she is,”
Your breath stilled, frozen in the moment, the weight of your dream so close to the feeling of holding her in your arms, not quite able to see her face but seeing the swell of her dimpled cheek as soobin bent to press his face into her neck, blowing a raspberry just to hear her squeal.
In your dream, you had met them in the middle, brushed your fingers into your daughter's hair, and listened to the happy babbling. But now the image blurred out of focus, as if you had drawn them with ink and not the starlight the dream had been made of. Dipping the parchment into the water now swirling around your feet, the colors running, the ink bleeding, dripping like blood on tile, in the sink, until the water ran clean.
Your throat was tightening, mouth opening, gasping as you watched your empty house fill with the sea, water rising, the hollow halls purged clean of anything but salt, and you. The rush was loud, like a dumping waterfall off a cliff, the hum heard even under the water as the riptide pulled you in. Spit out into reality as you surfaced, the offices dimmed lights a stark reminder of what exactly was happening, what was being lost.
It was only at the dripping of your tears off your chin that you realized why you felt as if you had broken through the surf. “No-no- not that one-” the words sounded so loud, so desperate like closing fists and prayers. The memory of your proposal crashing into you at the sight of your ring sitting on the metal tray.
“I even got you a ring.” his trembling hands cupped the little velvet box, his laugh so shy, the tremor in his voice carrying over your bones, sinking into your joints and building you up at the realization that this was exactly where you had wanted to be. Happy and lovesick, right at the end, on a bed in Montauk. Eyes burning, hazy with tears that welled up just at your lashline like they did now.
His voice was echoing around you, the words left when the sight of him, the feel of him, was slowly slipping away behind your tears. “I was put on this earth to love you, kinda way. Because when I'm with you, when I'm not, I ache. I think about how lucky I am to have you when you're here, and burn when you're not, and it feels bigger than the both of us, and that is scary, but also very comforting because it only tells me that you are the one,” like a church choir sitting in the rafters, he went on, your body remembering the motions, how he pulled you in, how he kissed you.
You reached out fingers digging into your coat, tight enough to bruise knuckles, crack skin, as you cried, because now everything felt wrong, you didn't know how, didn't know why, but it felt so wrong to erase wanting this boy who was blushing before you as you leaned against your apartment door. “And next time, kiss me before you leave,” you were saying it, but somewhere distantly your mouth could only form the words, “no- not this one, let me keep just this one-”
Soobin was looking down at your lips, his throat bobbing with his forced swallow, his mind working so fast he didn't have time to question if it was the wrong thing to do before he was leaning in, reaching for something you couldn't remember if you had ever had before. It was all too short, so shy like sitting under a playground slide, the woodchips digging into your palms the way your nails did as you clawed to hold onto this one thing.
Because your hand was sliding up his sweater, drawing him in closer like you were nothing more than the only person in the world who could bring him to his knees. His lashes fluttered, hazy and drunk off the feeling of you curling your fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, wanting him just as desperately as he wanted you; every small touch, gentle laugh, so you pulled him in for one last kiss.
Your eyes were heavy and raw, blinking open in the golden, dimmed office, lips buzzing as if you had only just been kissed, the salt of your tears bittersweet on your tongue. Your knuckles creaked, stiff and aching like you had them curled around a steering wheel for hours on a road trip. Nothing was pointing out why the crescent-shaped indents from your nails were burned in like a gruesome engraving into your palms.
But somewhere right on the edge of your vision, you could tell something was off. Inside, there was a space so vast and full of seawater that there must have been something lurking underneath. You were a corked ship in a bottle, snuffed, and filled with echoes, but hollow while seemingly being told you were complete.
“All done!” the doctor clapped behind you as the nurse lifted the headpiece from your temples. “Your scans are all clear, and it looks like you are free to go.”
But it must not have been right, there was something you wanted to ask, found it right at the tip of your tongue, and yet you couldn't imagine what it was that you were forgetting. Your thumb swept over the indents your nails had left, counting: one, two, three, four, over and over as the nurse wheeled away an empty metal tray that had been sitting in front of you.
There was nothing you could ask, nothing you knew how to pin down, when all you felt was empty.
ོ ⸝⸝⸝
It was easier to imagine you were still in the house, somewhere in another room, late to bed as if you had a long shift and an early morning. He would sleep because you had sent up to the room to warm the sheets, promised you'd make it up before he closed his eyes, and yet you never did.
He left the bed wrinkled, the covers just pulled back on your side, just as you had left it that morning that he woke to find you a mess on the floor of the kitchen. Your sweater still thrown over the foot, dotted with blood gone dry, left out from his meticulous tasks he had set out to do while you were gone.
The list had been long, and there was dust collecting around every corner of the house. He started with the ceiling fans, pulling a ladder from the garage left by the previous owners, climbing up with no worry of falling off with no one spotting him. You would have laughed at how he climbed far too high, bending back at an awkward angle once he realized he could hardly do anything with his head pressed flush against the rooftop.
But he didn't find it funny, his jaw ticked, tight as he imagined it, angry at the way his reality was working up. The dust falling like the snow had over the sand; like ashes over the grave the couch had become the first time you had come home from the hospital.
He vacuumed, the house silent instead of full of the music you would play loud enough to sing over the violent hum of the hover. The windows were open, the cold puffing in through the curtains pulled back, his coat and sweater on as if this was all he could get, the heater turned off when it was just him, and since he wasn't keeping you warm.
He washed every dish in the sink, the single mug, carried down load after load of laundry, separated them by color, by delicacy, and made the laundry room his oasis. You had always dumped the warm clothes on him while he sat on the couch playing games. The fabric softener's scent flooded his senses before you jumped on him, pulling him as close as you could get him, not caring if he lost his game when he felt so cozy like this.
You would sit watching him play over a voice call with Beomgyu and Kai, folding everything into piles that he would carry with him upstairs to put away after you had fallen asleep, curled up. It was how you had done it at the apartment and the start of your lives right at the edge of the sea.
He didn't want to sit back on the sofa and think about how you had tucked your feet under his thigh on the colder nights, holding up socks to see which pair went together when they were seemingly all the same. So instead, he stood folding clothes straight from the dryer, precise with his technique, taking his time until the light in the dryer went off and all the clothes had grown cold.
He mopped baseboards, fixed squeaky doors, and repainted the porch swing blue. Anything to keep his mind off the fact that it had been two weeks and you had not called him, had not texted him, had not breathed a single thought in his direction.
Maybe it was better. Something that you truly did need, you had spent so many years together, nearly every day and every night had been in the same bed, the same house, with words shared over the phone, or between shared air.
Like a bone snapped in half, his life had fallen into two distinct pieces: you on one end and him on the other. And maybe to you this was a rebreak so that you could heal properly, and it was taking a lot longer than the first time the injury had occurred. Hastily plastered over in hopes that it would all be alright, but the splint had done nothing but make the two of you heal in a shape he had never seen before, close to the real thing but not quite right.
He told himself over and over that you just needed time, more than he could give you when he was right there; he would wait in the same bed, on the same beach, far away, or close by, but he would wait. If it were the last thing he would do, it would be done, and he would clean the house, go over every little thing that had been set askew, and place it right so it made it easy.
But with each thing he cleaned, each thing he fixed, you were still gone, and the house was cold and just as empty as it had been before you left.
It pushed him to the beach, to sit out in the snow, not feeling the wind on his face, but feeling the way it threaded through his hair like your fingers would. The boats would be out, rare now that there was hardly anything to catch, but to watch the whales as they came by chasing warmer waters. The lighthouse would shine its light in its constant circle, going round and round as he told Taehyun not to worry about coming over, that he was busy enough.
“Just for the weekend,” he wasn't trying to push; Taehyun was only giving him the option, showing that he was on his side as if there were sides at all. But it felt wrong to have someone else come into his space when you weren't there.
Any other time, he would have been okay to have him over, but Soobin had left the door open for you and no one else. He was waiting for you to walk in next. Even if he wanted to see his friend, even if he knew it was okay to show you were grieving someone alive or dead, he still wanted to do it alone, and now that the house was clean, he wanted to do it alone on the beach.
It was the closest place he felt to you when you weren't here, the last place he had held you, kissed you, told you he loves you. He could lie in the bed all day, smell you on the sheets he had neglected in his cleaning, see the spots of your blood on the sweater, and still it would not be as close as he felt with you right in the sand.
It was the first place he knew you would go if you came back, right to the edge of the shore, looking out over the water with him, reaching out and sticking your hand in his pocket to grasp his, twisting your cold fingers into his warm ones, leaning your head against his shoulder without saying a word because there was no need to. He wanted that back, needed that back, and this was where he could imagine it best.
Looking up at the house felt like looking at a closed book, as if someone had written the ending as soon as you had left, and now he was here with the only copy. He couldn't stand it.
He wanted to run to the city, scratch at the door of Kai’s apartment, and beg you to let him stay, to make a home right there like you had before, when everything felt easy, when everything was better. He’d sell the house, put all the money back into a studio with windows looking out at the park, or a townhouse, a brownstone, anything you wanted, so long as you let him stay.
Because all he wanted to do was have you back, whole or not, and maybe that was selfish, maybe he was greedy, but it's all he ever felt after one taste of your love. Living three hours away now felt like torture; a few blocks like it had been at the start would be enough for him, enough to relearn each other. Trace fingers over all the new scars and grooves that had been carved into skin far too weak to realize the damage that would come with playing at happiness.
He wanted you back, in any amount he could get, and he'd change just about everything to get it. Because he had never stopped loving you, he had not come to any grand conclusion that he wanted to stay separated once you had pulled away. If anything, it had made it so clear that he could not do it alone, and he could not spend any more time waiting when it was eating him alive.
He was angry, far too angry at himself, at the situation, at the damn house and its mocking bedrooms painted to hold cribs and wedding photos. Now it was a dusty shelf, cleared of dust he supposed, but still a mausoleum of all the dreams that he had let slip right past him.
Letting the sea drown out his thoughts helped, but only so much; he was raging on the inside, thrashing around searching for meaning in the middle of an ocean that had been searched thoroughly enough to have nothing left for him. He let the cold burn, slip past his coat, gnaw on the parts of him that had been left out to dry after the sea had gone stagnant with your leaving.
It was never anger at you, always at himself, for his silence, but every time he had opened his mouth, nothing had come out. The words were stacking up inside him, shifting around with every movement, every dusting, every fake smile he walked in with when going to work. He was not okay, not entirely when you were here, but now it felt so much worse. With you, he could hold onto something that he knew was right, and without you, all he could think was a list of things that needed to be done, what he should have done differently.
It had only been a few days after you had left that he came out to the beach on a grey day like this, his navy blue mug in hand, spilling as he stepped out onto the sand. Standing in the kitchen, smelling chemically cleaned, he had made it out and stood where he does now. Picturing himself in his mind standing behind you as you slept on the couch.
He had wanted to say something, anything, to make it better, if there was a way that he could make it better. But he had stayed silent, shedding his work shirt, and climbing in behind you, holding you because it's all he could think to do. What was there to say to someone you had let down?
Without thinking, he had thrown his mug into the sea, tossed it like he would a stone, and it had flown, heavy and smooth, tea a ripple in the air before hitting the dark water and sinking without a sound. It had only taken him a second before he had rushed in after it.
The water had been cold, soaking into his clothes, his coat suddenly heavy enough to keep him down, his eyes burning from the salt, his mouth flooded as he gasped at the icy shock of the needle pricks digging into his neck and hands. It had not been hard to find the mug, to turn it upside down, feet dragging in the sand as he walked out of the ocean on a day far too cold to be this wet.
Pressing his thumb into the ceramic hard enough to hurt, he sank to the sand, not caring anymore if he was too close to the water's edge. He let the tide come in, watched the way the sand darkened, and poured away from him, sinking him lower and lower.
You would have laughed at him, a blush creeping on his cheeks at the sound, instead of how they only turned red now because of the cold. He pushed his free hand into his eyes until the world went white and then red, into black. He laid back, snow still pushed back on the shore where the tide couldn't melt it. It didn't even affect him when it slipped down the back of his collar. All he did was laugh, sharp and cutting, splitting him in two at how ridiculous he was being.
He had thought of selling the house then; it's the same thought he had now, dry and more of a sound mind than he had been so soon after you had left. Now he just watched the lighthouse, the beam spinning, guiding ghost ships that would never find their way past the rough waves; relentless in their search.
Maybe that's what he had become, someone who sat still and waited, silent, or maybe it hurt him to admit that's all he's ever been. Burning as the lighthouse did, stuck circling for someone that had already seemed to vanish from view without him seeing it. But he had seen it, felt the way you had slipped away from him, and he had been holding onto the remnants, the house, when he should have followed, run after you, and helped patch up the relationship that had been wrecked, and he had been too stunned to help before.
It's why he found himself back in the city. Getting off a train that led to you, standing in front of your old apartment, counting each of his breaths as if it would finally give him the courage to step up and knock on the door he remembered so well.
He had whispered his speech to himself on the train ride, pacing back and forth at the station before it pulled in. A love confession tied up in promises and pleas, apologies and vows. What felt like a lifetime ago, he had spilled out before you, speaking without thinking truths he had not found fully formed until they left his lips.
It had been the most honest telling of his emotions that he had shared, and even when he felt as if he was going to be sick, he had said what he knew to the deepest part of himself. You were made for him, the one person whom he had been put on this earth to love, to ache for. And it ruined him, pulled him apart at the seams to be so far from you, to sit there amongst your things and know you weren't coming back.
He had sensed it when you had kissed him in the sand, one final time before you ran, and he hadn't run after you, even when everything in him was telling him to go after you.
But that would have been selfish, he knew; you needed time and space. He knew it when you came back from visiting Kai and seemed revitalized, or as much as you could be at the time. It had made him jealous, the snake of it twisting around his insides for only as long as it took him to realize how anything to make you better was worth it.
This was like that, this was as if he was standing, watching his friends talk about memories he wasn't privy to, happy they had a good time, and yet trying to find his own space to fit into. He wanted nothing more than for you to be happy, to find a routine that helped you get out of bed, even if it looked different without him. But it didn't stop the feeling of guilt, as if he wasn't enough to help, hadn't been the one who could, even after promising everything he was and had to you.
He wanted to see you happy when you opened the door, even if it was a different kind of happiness that he had not been able to provide, but it wouldn't burn any less, and it was something he would never confess to anyone, not even you. It was something he would have to learn to get over, and for now, he avoided that pain with more distractions.
The city was so much louder than he remembered it: the car horns, the lovers yelling in the street, the shuffling of his own feet against the concrete as he walked down the familiar road to your old job. He hated to admit that it made him feel so small, hated the echoing mock of it all, asking him what exactly he thought he was doing here.
But he needed time, something to give him a warm up to seeing you again, in whatever state you would be in when he intruded on your well deserved seclusion. So he picked the one spot he remembered you best, the neutral middle ground outside of your place or his.
The bookstore had not changed much since the last time he had picked you up here. The shelves were stacked high, with books littering the tables and carts yet to be put away, the coffee shop's buttery desserts and bittersweet coffee filling the air with warmth and fresh baked memories. You had talked about wanting to bottle the scent: books, coffee, and cinnamon, something to light when at home, tucked together on the couch with no plans.
He stood in line, this time not looking back at the checkout counter you would have been waiting for him at. His smile plastered on his face as you made silly faces at him or blew him kisses. He would pretend to catch them, unashamed of the people around him watching his display of obsession. He had walked into your orbit, and he would stay as long as he could, circling you like a moon, round and round, never dizzy.
But now your ghost was waiting at the edge of his periphery, the memory like a haunting, your air kisses jaw breaking sucker punches if he looked too long at something he had let burn too bright. So instead, he focuses on the chalkboard menu even when he knows he's ordering the same thing he always orders. The same cup of coffee taste that he had kissed off your lips so many times before.
He practiced how exactly he would pass it to you in his mind. Where he would place it, whether you were in the living room, your bedroom, or the one opening the door for him. He stood in line, blushing as if you were looking up to him then, and not just a figment of his imagination, a mix of who you were at the house in Montauk and who you had been living in your apartment when everything had been fresh and new.
You'd lean against the door, not quite letting him in. This sad, resigned look falling away to the faintest smile, the kind that warmed his cheeks and twisted a hand around his heart. He would let you pull it free from his ribs, let you yell at him to leave, go back to the beach, wait. He would let you pull him in, hand twisting in the fabric of his sweater as he pressed his forehead to yours, shyly breathing out that he couldn't stay away any longer, couldn't keep himself from seeing you.
He was a tornado of emotions, ribbons tied tight over his insides, guts made into knots at the idea of you pushing him away. He would sell the house, move back to the city, start over, fresh like scar tissue, anything, even if it hurt.
The barista called out his name, messily written on the side of two takeaway cups when he heard it.
Your laugh, bubbly and alive.
If there had been a moment to haunt him, it should not have been now, not when he was so close to seeing you. Not when you had not run through the halls of his dreams, or down the sand dunes covered in sand after him as he jumped into the winter water. You should have been there, even if you were just a laugh he had imagined hearing. This felt cruel but not artificial. Because deep down he knew he could never forget the way your laugh had sounded, anywhere, caught in the wind, at his neck, pressed into his skin, his lips, and most certainly here between the stacks of books where you had spent so much time trying to keep it down when he told you jokes that weren't even fun.
It shocked him still, limbs prickling over as they had when he went in after the most trivial mug you guys shared. He feared turning around to find a stranger who had the same laugh, although he didn't think it was possible, and that's what made it so much worse. He knew exactly how you had sounded, had captured the sound in his mouth and swallowed it down, answered to it over the phone with his own laugh, played the soundtrack in his dreams because he knew.
And when it came again, it echoed in his ears, over the coffee grinder, over the honking cars in the stress, and even over the sound of his own racing heart. Because it was beating wildly in his chest, both hands fisting coffees, the sea of people parting around him as he stood looking down at his feet, as if he looked back, he would know there would be an angel waiting, frozen in stone just as him, but there.
“I'll call you after my shift ends,” it was small, something he had heard too many times when he had been late at work and you had early off. He remembered the way you would tease him about lying in his bed with him gone, rolled up in the blankets half dressed, waiting for him. He’d groan, beg the universe for more time off, or at least schedules that lined up, and still he would wait for your call on your walk to his place, standing outside his work building on a break just to stay on the phone after your shift had ended so he knew you made it home safe.
“Stop worrying, you act like I haven't had this job and the exact same walk back to the apartment before.” and again you chuckle, “Okay, I'm hanging up now, Kai, byeee, stop worrying about me pleaseee,” and he turned around, fully to see across the short path it was to the checkout where he had found you so many times before just like this. Two coffees in hand and a prayer that no one else would walk up to disturb the two of you for the whole shift, so he could stay perched right there talking your ear off as if he had nothing better to do because he didn't.
He didn't know exactly what to expect when seeing you again, at least not here, not when he had been planning everything in his head about seeing you in the apartment, laughing or not, but here it felt as if he had walked into a spider web, caught like the fly on the way he saw himself as now.
You turned off your phone, placing it face down next to the register as you pulled a stack of books over for you to place stickers on. It had been one of your favorite things to do, meticulous in your work as you lined up barcodes and numbers with the spine.
And he couldn't help himself but admit you did look better, fuller, as if you were finally taking meals at the right times, eyes less sleepless but still slightly hollow from the months of late nights and long days.
It scared him to think he had not grown at all in his time apart, that you would see someone stuck in a past you had run from and did not care to turn back to. He had done nothing but clean, and even that had been in silence, no pondering besides the questions of what he could have done differently, and the anger. He felt nothing now but panic that he would not live up to whatever it was that had helped you.
Worried that you were growing separately and not intertwined as you had been before. And it was okay, maybe the two of you had been too codependent, maybe it was good to find yourselves away from one another. But he still felt as if he hadn't found anything at all. He had done nothing but keep everything the same, silently waiting to orbit his moon again.
He squashed his fears, takeaway cups burning into his hands because he forgot the paper sleeves at the sound of your happiness, and he walked up to the counter.
You did not look up at first, and he took the time to follow the shape of your nose, how it dipped and led to your lips, pulled between your teeth as you lined your sticker, concentrated on the task to not notice him. Not until he whispered a weak, “hey,”
It had taken almost everything in him to say, his heart bleeding on his sleeve as you looked up, your eyes, the ones he knew so well, passing over him, and this time without a spark of realization for who was standing in front of you. “Hi, how can I help you, sir?”
Soobin gave a humorless chuckle, dry and brittle enough to crack a bit of the ice inside him. Maybe it would have been different if you had looked as he remembered, or if you had said it with the light in your eyes that you got from joking with him, or even if it didn't gut him to truly realize that he really had done nothing but wallow while you grew.
But as the time stretched where he did nothing but look at you without speaking, he realized there was no recognition in your eyes. This was a look you gave to customers who truly did come to the counter to ask for help, your questioning, “Sir?” echoing around him before he opened his mouth like a fish out of water.
He wasn't even angry, shocked that he must have looked so different, just as you did as time passed, but it had been two weeks, nothing long enough to forget, and yet you didn't even get the glint he saw at the edge of your eyes when you turned your attention to him. He had seen it even at your lowest, memorized the look as if he had been a light you couldn't turn away from and chose to look at head-on.
Now there was nothing. Not a single glint, no teasing, no anything. Just a girl who had gone off and left him bleeding because it was better than bleeding out right next to him. Maybe he had been pulling you down, and he hadn't even noticed. Every talk he had with himself over these past two weeks had been right; you had been right to leave because he truly hadn't been enough for you. And he knew it must have been the truth seeing you here like this.
“I forgot what I was going to say.” And as his world was falling apart, you smiled the same as you did on the beach in Montauk, when he didn't know you, and you didn't know him, and your laugh grabbed him in its hold just the same. Saying, “They sell sandals right on the edge of the beach, right next to the beach houses,” instead of, “If you remember it, just let me know, I'll be here all day.”
He felt himself nod, chin making the motion as he turned on a foot too numb to know where it was going, and he left. Pushed past the door with his back so that he could catch on glance at you, not even turning to watch him leave, your head dipped to place the next sticker on the spine of a book he would never read.
His hands were trembling, following the pattern of the earthquake he was experiencing as his hands clammed too tight over the cups he had picked up, one for you, one for him, now crushed, coffee spilling over the backs of his hands like a caress’ he’d brush over your cheeks. The scalding hot liquid bleeding into the cuffs of his coat before he let the cups fall to the concrete floor, splattering like paint onto his shoes, the street.
Eyes burning, he knew how he must look, fighting back tears, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot as he gasped silently for air. His chest tightened with every step he took, air scratching down his throat as he reached into his pocket for his phone, for something to ground him as he was running away. Fingers numb and far too slippery, he dialed the only person who would give him a straight answer.
Kai had been avoiding his calls, texting back hours later with the same line, She's doing okay, I'll let you know if anything changes. But it seems he had lied, you had changed right before his eyes, and he hadn't found it important enough to mention. ‘Okay’ seemed to mean something internally different to him than it did to Soobin. This was better than okay; seeing you like this was when you was so much better was devastatingly bittersweet. You did not look as you did coming home from your job in Montauk; this was a new look, refined and aged as if your healing had taken no time, and his had stayed still open, frozen.
He was happy and yet torn apart. Yeonjun could hear it over the phone, the shocked gasping mixed with the swift humiliation that he knew would come, “I just saw- I um-” he was breaking down, walking so fast, weaving between the walkers on the street, avoiding bicyclists, and honking cars. He didn't know where he was going, paying no attention to street signs but needing to bring back the distance as if that would help fix him too, give him the sight you had gained living back out here.
“Soobin-” he didn't know what to say, didn’t know how to even when he had known it would come eventually.
“She acted like she didn’t even know me,” he was crying now, tears hot on his cheeks, his hand pressing too hard into his skin to push them away.
There was no need to be angry, not now, not at you. He knew this is what was best, this is what was needed for you, the relationship but it didnt hurt any less to see you happy without him, sitting at your old job like the world had moved on and he had been there on the beach waiting for you to dock your boat at the edge of the clif you had planned to build your life together.
He was cracking open again, as if seeing you had snapped him, and now everything was spilling out, raw and unfiltered as he went, “she just- God, she just looked right past me, she didn’t see me like she does, she just smiled,” he laughed something broken and ugly, wet with his tears, voice slick with the sound, “was i that bad? Had I been that bad? Did I not see it? Did I not have it in me enough for her to stick around to not act like she doesn't know me anymore? Or have I changed that much not having her with me? Have I been that different?”
Soobin walked right into someone, tilting and running into the wall from the collision, “Watch it!” he didn't even register the stinging of his shoulder, moving forward without any plans.
“Where are you?” Yeonjun stood on the other end of the line, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his keys. He had witnessed you falling apart and didn't enjoy hearing your other half melting away.
“I don’t know,” he was crossing street after street, not caring if the light was green to walk or not, he didn't even know the direction, just away from what felt close to shame. You hadn’t even been wearing his ring.
“Meet me at the diner near your old place, the one we had your birthday at before you moved,” he was nodding like Yeonjun could see, looking up at the street signs now having something to do, someone to explain, a direction to go besides home to a house he had cleaned till he saw bleached bone and faded memories. “Stay on the line, I'll be there in ten.”
Neither of them talked as they made their way, the clash of sound from Yeonjun’s side of the phone mixing with Soobin’s as he made it into the only empty booth in the otherwise full diner.
It was the one in the far back, the same one he had sat at for his birthday, only now it was him, clutching the plastic casing of his phone with white knuckles, and fighting back tears as the fresh sleet started to rain down against the window behind him. The low hushed mumbling of the other patrons felt like bees in a hive, buzzing over his skin, tingling behind his ears at the spot you loved to kiss when tucked into bed against him.
There was no hiding from yeonjun when he came, hair wet and sticking to his temples before he pushed it back, shaking from the cold after getting caught in the frozen rain. Soobin was hot all over, but he knew his body must have felt it somewhere that he was dripping, his breaths had come out in puffs of smoke, the city blurring around him as he made it in, the neon sign fuzzing out around the edges telling him he had arrived.
He had not tried to wipe his eyes, not anymore as he sat back, replaying your words coated in professionalism, “how can i help you, sir?” it felt like a knife he couldn't quite pull out, one he didn't know if he had placed there himself or if you did.
“She looked right at me and pretended to not even know me,”
Yeonjun had nothing to say, his jaw tight, cracking under the pressure of his teeth as he tried to hold in the confession he knew soobin deserved. Kai had promised not to tell but yeonjun never did, he had promised to look out for him, not keep secrets. And now soobin was a crumbling house, the roof ripped off in the storm, folding in on itself with splintering wood and curses.
“Shes better now, or looks it… she looks happy, she's laughing,” he sniffled, lips turned down as he tried to hold in the sob waiting to break through, "happier than she was with me,” it had been all he wanted, for you to find some way back to him, to be okay.
You had not broken up with him, you had taken the ring, left all your things, made it seem as if you would be right back, the bed still unmade, your sweater thrown over the edge, his heart still in your palms. He wanted you to find yourself, to know that it was okay to grieve in any way you needed but he hadn't seen you pushing him away, hadn't seen this cruel ending coming, and maybe that's what had been the final stab. Knowing that whatever you had found, he could not find with you, had not been a part of some plan that was out there in your healing, instead, he was this: a boy sitting in a diner where he once wished for a life with you on candles weak enough to snap under careless fingers.
“I wanted her to be happy, to smile again, to laugh,” and he felt evil for wishing anything different, not if he was the one who had been bringing you down. “I just didn't think she would act as if she didn't know me. I should have run after her, but that's stupid because she wasn't doing well; she needed this, she didn't need me. But it hurts so fucking much to realize that,”
“Wanting her to be okay doesn't change the fact that it would hurt like hell to be without her.” Yeonjun took a breath, using the clinking of the plates from the bar seats to push in further. You were his friend first, but it would kill you to be in his place; it would kill you to know that just as Kai and Yeonjun tried to convince you of his love that he did feel the loss of you just as deeply as you would have felt his. “Soobin, she's not acting.”
His face felt tight, the confusion settling in for as long as it took for yeonjun to continue, to mutter the name of the procedure as if it hadn't been on his mind. It had been the one thing that had brought back so much emotion into you in the last few months, your anger sharp and instant, so vivid in comparison to the way you had hollowed out for him. He knew exactly why you had done it, what had pushed you over the edge to get to this point.
“I thought I was…I don't know why I thought I was ever going to be enough.” The words caught on his trembling lips, his sob soft like a last breath, the confession taking everything in him, his last little hope that he had over everything. Because he understood exactly what it all meant, “I should have known, I should have seen it coming,”
Yeonjun opened his mouth, but soobin did not stop; he kept going, spilling out as if the knife had finally been pulled and it was taking all the blood from his body, every word that was left of him. “I would have changed. I didn't know how, but I could have learned. I cleaned the house. I would have sold the damn thing; it doesn't mean anything without her. I would have done anything. Instead, I just stood around and watched her bleed out in front of me without saying a damn thing and thought it was love, and I deserve it- I promised so much and I wasted it all- Even through my grief, I tried,”
“Stop it- she didn't do it because you weren't enough-”
“You can't tell me it wasn't one of the reasons- I was content, pushing through the day and letting us try and heal around each other, and I didn't even see, I mean I saw- but I hoped I would be enough, even if we were apart, even if it took us time, I hoped she would come back to me.”
“She loved you, down to the last second, I know she did, and she didn't do it because she didn't, she did it because she loved so much. I know she wanted to be more for you, to do more, and she felt this was the only way, and I'm so sorry,” Yeonjun looked down at the table, his eyes following the soft circles decorating the wood, sanded down to be something useful. He had kept to himself for a long while after you had come back to Kai's apartment from Montauk, sobbing, hollowed out with the only sign of life being that aching sound he would never get out of his head. He knows Soobin had tried; you had told him enough for him to see it, but that wasn't the poison that had been put in the well. “But love is not just about showing up, it's about showing yourself, and I don't think she's been herself for a long, long time,”
And soobin didn't think he had either. Not since he lost you and you hadn't slipped through his fingers two weeks ago, it had been the moment he had woken up alone in a bed dotted with blood in the space you should have filled.
He took the train back to the house out in Montauk, no more home than a museum, walked past the front door and around to the back, the moon hanging heavy in the sky, the stars hidden behind clouds painted over their canvas. He walked down the creaking wooden sun-bleached path to the sand, his jaw just as set as his mind was when he pulled his phone out to call Beomgyu.
Answering on the first ring, he cautioned his name, “Soobin?”
“I need you to tell me what I'm doing is right, even if it's wrong,” he could hear Beomgyu’s shuffling on the other end, sitting up in bed, on his sofa. “Just lie to me,” and maybe he called Beomgyu because he knew he wouldn’t.
“Today I went to see her, and I heard her laugh. Like a genuine one, the kind that makes you want to laugh with her, the kind that I love so much and haven’t heard in forever,” he bit on his inner lip, hard enough until it bled, before he continued, “and the second I heard it, I knew I'd ruin it, just by being there,” he whispered it, said it aloud because he didn't have you who would have known what he was feeling with a single look.
“And then Yeonjun told me that she…she erased everything, and I feel so selfish,” he had thought it over on the train, just as you must have when you left and he didn't run after you. And he would have, he wanted to, but had beaten himself down into the sand just hoping that you would ask him to come with, that you would turn back around and chase him with the realization that you needed him just as badly as he needed you.
Only now he felt as if he was holding onto the corpse of your relationship, clutching you to his chest, every memory a compression on a chest long since done rising and falling, every plea was a breath past lips that did not wish to breathe any longer. Keeping his memories now after knowing what you had done to survive felt like desecration, and he knows himself.
If he kept on to everything, he would die; it would poison him to know that he couldn't run to the city to find you, to confess his love over and over, even if you didn't know him. He was selfish when it came to you, and he hated it about himself, and he didn't want to ruin your happiness to find a taste of what had been. He saw what the memories had done to you, what they had done to him, and it was not anything he ever wanted to you to feel ever again. Forgetting would be a mutual mercy for you both. I final goodbye that did not tease him with the possibility of messing up the one thing you had wanted. Peace.
“If I did the same, it would be like meeting her halfway, carrying the rest of the burden to bury, because I don't think I can live knowing I had everything I ever wanted and all I needed to do was go to New York to try and get it back. I’d ruin everything again, and I hate how badly I want to do it anyways, even when I know it's wrong. If i dont erase her, ill still be imagining her laughing as I dust the house I got for us, I’d dream she was just in the living room and I fell asleep too early for her to see her climb in the bed after me, I’d jump into the water and search for her until I drowned. I'd never give her up, not when I needed to, not when I knew the result of letting her walk away the first time. I would have never let her leave, Beomgyu, I’d take it back, I’d run after her, I’d do it all over again because I love her, I love her, I love-”
And for the first time Beomgyu spoke, soft and unwilling to hide the pain he felt for his friends, “do you really think that's love?” anything was better than nothing at all, years of your relationship would be gone in an instant, and maybe it was better than pain, maybe anything was better than that, but he’d like to hope somewhere out there you two would find each other, work it out without having to erase the love.
His throat closed, but he forced the words out anyway, “I think it’s the only thing I have left to give her,”
Soobin sat with the phone in his hand until he watched the sun start to rise, long after the call had ended with Beomgyu, who promised to take care of the house, sell it with all its furniture that you had picked out, help him move back into the city, and take him to the inevitable appointment.
He was ashamed to say he felt closest to you sitting in the office chair, his one item to bring forth your memory tucked against the healing scar across the lifeline on his palm. A single folded receipt that he had saved under a fridge magnet, your handwriting tattooed along his veins, your number, the one he almost called every night, right on the bottom with a little heart written next to that girl from Montauk.
You had been that girl, and so, so much more to him. And when they pushed back his hair with their gloved fingers, it made him cringe to know he would not remember the feel of your hands twisting the fine strands of his hair until he fell asleep.
He wondered if you had been scared or relieved to sit back against the unforgiving pleather of the chair. If the stink of the alcohol pad and the buzzing of the headpiece made you just as sick as he felt. Queasy enough to close your eyes and fall back into a memory you had not visited in so long it felt like coming home.
“We will be okay,” he had been optimistic, leaning against the bathtub, your body spilling onto his as he silently hoped for the pregnancy tests to read positive because all he could see was a baby with your smile, echoing your laugh. Walking into a bedroom on the beach, with you leaning back against the headboard, your baby laying on your chest, and him climbing in after you.
Every warm sheet wrapped around you, only for his eyes to open to find he was asleep on a bed swaying in the middle of the ocean, cold and empty, your ring, the one he kissed at your knuckles waiting on the pillow, the one he leaned down to press his face into until he couldn't breathe.
“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” your fingers in his hair, scratching down his bare back, lips kissing his shoulders, right at the nape of his neck, he turned over, pulling you into him, pressing his face into your collar, into your warmth. “I should be able to sleep in on my birthday.” your laugh alive, and for him and not a room full of people you didn't know, even ones you had chosen to forget.
“But if you sleep in, I won't be able to give you my gift,” and he rolled onto you, followed the same trail of kisses he repeated until he knew in another life, every spot would turn into a freckle, a vivid mark of his love left for him to find time and time again throughout every lifetime. He caught your words on his lips, your moans in his mouth, your laugh right against his ribs. His hands digging into the sheets, the sand, his nose drawing along your chin until you pushed him, rolled him onto his back, sitting above him like the sun.
He closed his eyes for only a second, and you were gone, and he was alone again, sitting up as he gasped, half naked in the snow, his boxers cold, his socks wet. “Oh god, you fell.” Your laugh doubled you over, shivering and pale as you wrapped your arms around your middle. He did not remember whose idea it was to go nearly skinny dipping mid January in the ocean, the snow thick on every guardrail, the wind cutting against his wet skin. “Hard.”
You had run up to him, let him pull you down with him, screeching at the cold waves lapping at the shore, his lips turning blue as the two of you grabbed all your clothes, running back to the rental beach house to climb into the tub, the hot water raining down as he peeled off your bra, soaked your hair with the steaming showerhead. The rush of the sound was loud like the passing train outside his childhood bedroom window.
The same window that faced out to the tracks, his bed, still made with his old high school navy blue sheets, nestled against the wall where you examined every photo he had pinned up. He had never had a girl in his bed before, not that one, not anyone he loved as much as you. “You have stars on the ceiling,” the sticky faded green stars, still holding on to the white popcorn of the roof. He had flipped off the switch, let them glow for themselves as you lay back against his only pillow, making room for him to climb in next to you, close enough so both of you were slightly hanging off either edge.
“My mom put them up for me, said I have stars on my baby mobile, and they helped me go to sleep.” Your knuckle had brushed the back of his hand until he stiffened, blushing in the dark of his room as if you two hadn’t kissed, as if you hadn’t just met his mom, and said I love you.
You had slipped your hand into his, looking up at the green stars as if you were lying in the grass on a warm summer's day, sharing first love confessions, and he couldn't help himself but say into the night, “I wish we had met when we were kids, but I still don't think that's enough time to love you the way I was made to,”
And somewhere down the hall, he had heard the phone ring, his mother's voice interrupting the moment as she yelled out for him to pick up the landline for her. But before he could roll away, you had tightened your hand in his, pressing a whisper to his ear like a kiss, “There's never enough time, so make sure you stay with me.”
“Wait-” he wanted to a redo of this one, to not let the words morph into a lie so far down the line, his hands, sweaty against the armrests of the chairs, slipped as he tried to get a better grip to sit up with, a nurse pressing him down softly muttered behind her mask, “we are almost done,”
And as he leaned back into you, the phone still ringing, like the warning bell of a disaster waiting to happen he whispered back, “I promise I'll stay, I’d run after you, I don't think I'd ever just be able to watch you leave,”
He shook his head, hard enough for the head piece to jostle, the nurse rushing to place it back as he reached for the phone in his memories, answering with a lovesick smile warped onto his lips when he saw your name appear on the caller ID, a white heart at the end as if he could mimic the one you had drawn for him on the receipt he kept pinned to his fridge.
“We made it to the end,” he could hear the smile in your voice, right over the sound of Yeonjun and Kai bickering in the back. On the yearly trip the three of you took out to Montauk, the first weekend you would be spending without an excuse to see Soobin, even if it had only been a month since you had met.
“You say it so hauntingly,” he sat on his couch, leaning back, trying to imagine you curled up right next to him, looking up with that specific shine you got in your eyes that made him feel like the only person in the world.
“Hauntingly beautiful, I hope, since it just so happens to be the spot we will be telling our friends we met at,” he had wondered if this was what the honeymoon phase was, or if this would be the rest of his life, giddy to pick up the phone when you called, aching to have you right next to him. He knew you had meant your families. Your friends, and his had been teasing the two of you for the entirety of the month when you came back to your separate apartments with grins wide enough to make anyone wonder what had gotten into you.
“Right at the end?”
“Right at the end.” You echoed back, “We should get a mug for your place that has that on it, something for me to drink out of.”
“You drink out of my mug just fine,” he could see you sitting on his kitchen counter, blowing the steam of your tea into his face, your bottom lip flush against the navy porcelain as you tried to convince yourself the too hot mug was ready to be sipped from. He’d take it from you so you wouldn't burn the roof of your mouth, again, and kiss you just because he couldn't help himself, your lips so warm he couldn't help but pull you in again and again.
“But I want to share tea, not watch you sip on a glass of cold water, while I get hot water,” you had brought it up every time you came over, and he wanted to hold out longer, listen to you beg to spend time with him even if it was just to share tea and fold the laundry you had brought over to his place and his in unit washer and dryer.
“Fine, next time we go out there together, we can pick up a mug, maybe make it a tradition,” you cheered over the phone, happy, and he even ventured to guess, in love, even if it was new, it had felt like he had known you a lifetime.
“I miss you.” It had only been four hours then, or maybe even in his memories, he knew that he would be sitting in that chair, missing you for a lot longer than he ever wanted to.
“You dooo?” You had stepped outside, so close to the surf he could hear the sound of the waves like a heartbeat.
“I do.”
You gasped, hand over your heart, or maybe wrapped around his, “You know that basically makes us married now?”
“Does it?” and he was a blushing mess, smiling in his empty apartment, dimples hurting his cheeks, teeth digging into his bottom lip.
“Uh-huh, so now you have to make plans to join me and see the place where we are going to spend the rest of our lives,” the waves crashed, and he could almost see the lighthouse, golden like the light he knew your love bled.
“In the place we met?”
“The very same,” he could see it written out on the mug, knew it was the place he'd propose to you, even if in that moment he felt as if the two of you were already married, your pinkies tied together with an invisible red string, winding round and round the two of you, pulling you in together until the end of time.
“I do miss you… a lot,” and he couldn't tell if he had said it allowed, like he was repeating the lines of his favorite movie, or if it was an echo of a past he was now desperately regretting letting go of. He imagined your face looking up at him, his eyes tracing the slope of your nose, catching on your lips right before he pulled you in for a kiss, your eyes recognizing him in every shade of your life, even past this.
“I guess you’ll just have to come over and meet me in Montauk.”
an: this fic is heavy and i found it very cathartic for me to write it. ive never lost a child but its been something thats haunted my nightmares for years. i channeled a lot of my own fears into this fic as well as making it an outlet to talk about the toll depression can take on a person. ive been there and i would never wish that upon anyone. i know its not much but either way just know im always open to talking <333 thank you so much for taking the time to read this fic. and shoutout to anyone who read this on mobile, if you scrolled out and still read it i love you so bad and im so sorry- ⸝⸝⸝
ོ taglist 🏷: want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join! want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask! @taegyutomorrow @izzyy-stuff , @felixleftchickennugget @filmsbyun @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @dawngyu @heesmiles @hyukascampfire @bamgyuuuri @xylatox @lickingan0rchid @no1likemybbgcharlie @demidelulu @boba-beom @bloomri @tyunningism @candigyu @soobabby @hueningkaidiehard @beestvng @nodoubtily @fancypeacepersona @soobinieswife @whoisgami @prettypeachprincesz @diameuwu @1009high @cen116
⤷ word count — 8.6k
⤷ kinktober 2025 taglist — open !
⤷ permanent taglist — open !
⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), rough sex, mean dom!beomgyu, bratty!reader, possessive!beomgyu, red flag!beomgyu (he’s a dick), markings (biting and hickies), idol!au, idol!beomgyu, non-idol!reader, established relationship, power imbalance, dirty talk, manhandling, fluff
.‧₊࿐ summary — choi beomgyu was the best boyfriend you could ever ask for—patient, affectionate, attentive in all the ways that mattered. to everyone else, you were the perfect couple. but perfection cracks. until one night—raised voices echoing through the kitchen, tension burning between you—beomgyu reminds you exactly why you fell in love with him in the first place.
When people imagined dating Choi Beomgyu, they always painted it in sunshine and soft laughter—rainbows strung between inside jokes, a boy who smiled too easily and laughed even easier.
And they weren’t wrong. Not really.
Beomgyu was warmth in human form. A walking spark of chaos who somehow managed to charm everyone he crossed paths with—members, staff, camera operators, even other idols unlucky enough to share a hallway with him during music show promotions.
He had a habit of popping into frames he didn’t belong in, pointing fingers dramatically, talking absolute nonsense until someone snapped and chased him away.
He lived for it. The reactions, the eye rolls, the screaming of his name echoing behind him as he sprinted off laughing like he’d just won something.
That no-nonsense, ‘I’ll-do-what-I-want’ attitude was what made him so endearing.
And as a boyfriend—he was sweet in ways that felt unfair.
Remembering the little things. Leaving notes where you’d find them hours later. Pulling you into hugs when he thought no one was looking—then doing it anyway even when they were.
Choi Beomgyu loved loudly. Easily. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And that was exactly why people imagined him as all sunshine and rainbows. They imagined laughter-filled apartments, soft kisses in passing, warmth that never dimmed.
Until it wasn’t.
Until the clock crept past midnight and the apartment felt too quiet for a place meant to be lived in by two people.
You sat on one end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, arms crossed tightly over your chest—not because you were cold, but because you were annoyed. Irritated. Stewing.
The couch stretched wide between you and the empty space beside you, almost mockingly so. Something you and Beomgyu had splurged on years ago when you first moved in together, laughing about how dramatic it looked, how it would be perfect for lazy days and movie nights.
The TV in front of you played your shared favorite show, characters animated and expressive, mouths moving in silent laughter. You vaguely remembered muting it hours ago—at some point between checking your phone for the fifth time and realizing you were too irritated to care what was happening on screen.
Your gaze flicked upward.
12:26 AM.
You clicked your tongue, jaw tightening as your head tipped back against the couch.
“Seriously?” you muttered under your breath.
Another car passed by outside, headlights briefly flooding the living room with white light before disappearing down the street. You rolled your eyes, sinking deeper into the cushions, arms hugging yourself tighter.
Every sound had your attention snapping up. Every engine. Every shift of light through the window.
And every time, it wasn’t him.
You stared at the clock like it had personally betrayed you, counting each passing minute as if it owed you an explanation. Your phone lay face-down on the coffee table—untouched, because checking it again would only make things worse.
You exhaled slowly, eyes squeezing shut.
“You said you wouldn’t be late,” you whispered to the empty room, voice barely louder than the hum of the apartment.
The looming hour of the night only made the pressure behind your eyes worse. It had started as a dull throb sometime around eleven, but now it sat heavy at your temples, tightening with every passing minute.
The silence didn’t help either—too loud in its own way—broken only by the steady ticking of the oven timer you’d nearly forgotten about.
Your eyes snapped open.
“Oh—shit,” you muttered, pushing yourself off the couch.
You’d left the test batch in there.
The thought hit you all at once—the half-scrolled recipe pulled up on your phone, Beomgyu’s excited voice earlier that evening saying We should try this, it looks easy, the way he’d promised to help. Meaning he’d hover around the kitchen, steal pieces when he thought you weren’t looking, and proudly declare himself the taste tester.
The memory made your frown deepen.
You padded down the hallway connecting the living room to the kitchen, bare feet brushing softly against the wooden floor. The lights were dim, only the warm glow from the kitchen spilling into the space as you rounded the corner.
You grabbed the oven mitts off the counter—carelessly tossed over the still-warm stovetop earlier—and tugged one on hastily, shoving it down your wrist without much care.
The oven door creaked as you pulled it open.
Heat rushed out, blooming against your face. “Oh, thank God,” you sighed, shoulders sagging in relief.
They weren’t burnt. Slightly cracked on top, maybe, but still intact—rows of small, colorful macarons sitting neatly on the tray. You carefully pulled them out, setting the tray down on the counter with a soft clink. For a brief moment, a small smile tugged at your lips.
They were perfectly baked. Soft-looking. The kind Beomgyu would absolutely brag about to anyone who’d listen, even though he hadn’t been here for a second of it.
Your smile faded just as quickly as it came. Because right then—right on cue—you heard the engine of a familiar car slowing outside. Then dying down completely.
You let out a huff, tugging the oven mitt off and tossing it onto the counter. “Of course,” you muttered. “Of course you’d come home now.”
You dragged a hand through your hair, fingers catching on strands you didn’t bother fixing. You didn’t even straighten the hem of your shirt as you stepped away from the counter, the faint warmth of the kitchen following you back into the hallway.
Your sleep shorts hung loosely on your hips, fabric soft and worn-in, but you barely registered it. You didn’t care how you looked. Not tonight.
Beomgyu needed a scolding.
And he needed it bad—if he wanted to stay in your good graces.
Your footsteps were quiet as you crossed the living room again, heart already thudding a little harder than before. The front door unlocked moments later, followed by the familiar clatter of keys and the sound of shoes being kicked off without much thought.
Then you heard laughter. Faint, muffled through the thick wood of the door. A laugh you’d memorized by heart by now.
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as the sound carried through the hallway. “Deep breaths,” you muttered under your breath. “Deep breaths, (Y/N).”
You loved him. He loved you.
You forced a smile onto your face, even though it felt tight, unnatural. Reaching over the back of the loveseat, you grabbed the silk robe that had been discarded there earlier—probably yours, forgotten in the middle of the day—and slipped it on loosely as you made your way down the short hallway toward the door.
You didn’t bother peeking through the opaque glass panel beside it.
Instead, you opened the drawer by the entryway, fingers brushing past spare keys until you found the keycard. You pressed it against the sensor, the mechanical beep humming softly before you pushed down on the handle.
The door swung open—and the smell of alcohol hit you almost immediately.
Your nose scrunched instinctively, eyes narrowing at the sight in front of you.
Soobin stood there, looking far too sober for the situation, Beomgyu’s arm slung loosely around his shoulders as he struggled to keep your boyfriend upright. Beomgyu himself was swaying just slightly, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, a lazy grin plastered across his face like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Behind them, Yeonjun leaned against the van, waving sheepishly.
“Sorry, (Y/N)!” Yeonjun called out.
You smiled—but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze shifted back to Soobin, one brow lifting slowly.
“…Uh,” Soobin chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “What happened was—”
“What happened now?” you corrected calmly.
Soobin swallowed, then laughed again—smaller this time, nerves creeping into the sound. “Well… we won the music show.”
You just stood there, arms loosely crossed, gaze fixed on him with an expression that was unreadable at best. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, settling heavily on Soobin’s shoulders.
He winced.
“…Surprise?” he added, hopeful, voice lifting like he was testing thin ice.
Your eyebrow lifted higher.
“…No?” Soobin tried, already backpedaling. “Okay—yeah, we won, and your boyfriend here—” he shifted his grip as Beomgyu sagged further against him, “—might’ve had a little too much to drink.”
“Hey, baby,” Beomgyu chimed in warmly, voice soft and loose, a grin tugging at his lips like this was all one big joke.
You felt it then—the irritation curling tighter in your chest.
You didn’t look at him. Not even a glance. Your jaw set, fingers tightening slightly against your arm as you kept your eyes on Soobin instead, refusing to acknowledge Beomgyu’s presence until you were ready.
“What else?” you asked flatly.
Soobin straightened immediately. “Well—uh—we drove here. Not us. Obviously. Our manager,” he rushed out. “Because we both know drunk driving is illegal, right? I mean—”
“Yes, Soobin,” you cut in calmly, already stepping forward. “I get it. Thank you. I’ll take him from here.”
Soobin blinked, caught off guard by how composed you sounded. “Are you sure? I mean, I can help you escort him inside—”
You stepped back just enough to make space, expression tight but controlled. “Beomgyu’s just exaggerating.”
“I am,” Beomgyu snickered, trying to straighten. “I can walk. Let go of me.”
Soobin rolled his eyes and pushed Beomgyu’s arm off his shoulder. “Sure you can.”
You hummed softly, the sound more tired than amused. “Thank you for bringing him home alive. At least.”
Beomgyu opened his mouth, clearly about to protest—but one look from you had him snapping it shut. Your gaze cut to him briefly then—sharp, warning, unimpressed.
You turned back to Soobin, your expression easing just enough to be polite. “Thank you, Soobin. Please give Yeonjun my thanks too.”
Soobin nodded, already looking apologetic. “Good luck,” he muttered under his breath before stepping away.
You didn’t wait for goodbyes.
The moment Beomgyu stumbled inside, you stepped aside, hand already gripping the handle. You shut the door behind him with a firm click, locking it without hesitation.
Beomgyu turned toward you, still smiling like he hadn’t just walked straight into trouble.
You rolled your eyes, exhaling slowly through your nose. “Oh,” you muttered quietly, “this is going to be fun.”
You turned to face Beomgyu just as he started walking toward you. And honestly—you were almost impressed.
He was steady on his feet, posture loose but not stumbling, eyes bright in that tipsy, annoyingly charming way he got when he thought he was getting away with something.
Almost.
You didn’t acknowledge him. Not even a glance.
Instead, you turned on your heel and headed straight for the kitchen, bare feet padding against the wooden floor. “Stupid Choi Beomgyu,” you muttered under your breath. “And your stupid empty promises.”
He trailed after you immediately, pout already clear in his tone. “Hey—hey, why are you walking away?”
You moved behind the counter, grabbing the flat spatula from where you’d left it earlier—the one you used to gently pop the macarons off the baking sheet. You slid it under the first shell, careful, precise, like he hadn’t just walked in smelling like soju and bad decisions.
“Baby,” Beomgyu whined, leaning his elbows onto the counter across from you. “I missed you.”
You stayed silent, refusing to look up.
You continued working, sliding the spatula under each colorful macaron, lifting them one by one and setting them neatly aside. Like he wasn’t there. Like his presence wasn’t filling the kitchen, crowding the air, making it harder to breathe.
The smell of alcohol hit you again—stronger now. Soju clinging to him, sharp and unmistakable. His jacket from earlier was gone, probably abandoned somewhere by the door.
Beomgyu tilted his head, studying you. “(Y/N),” he said softly, dragging your name out. “Your boyfriend is home. You know that, right?”
You raised a brow, eyes still fixed on the macarons.
“The last time I checked,” you said sharply, finally looking at him, “I didn’t have a boyfriend who forgot he had a girlfriend waiting at home.”
Beomgyu blinked—once, twice. “…What?”
“No?” you continued, voice tight, controlled. “Does that not ring a bell? Or did the alcohol wipe that out too?”
He straightened slightly, caught off guard. The lazy smile faded, confusion flashing across his face as he processed your tone. His posture shifted—suddenly more aware, more present. The kitchen lights flickered for a brief second, casting his shadow taller against the wall.
You ignored it.
You tugged the robe tighter around yourself with one hand, muttering, “Such a fucking bother,” before carelessly tossing it aside onto the empty counter. You transferred the already-set macarons onto a clean tray laid out in front of you, movements a little sharper now, less patient.
Beomgyu hummed, trying to sound casual. “I did tell you I was going to be late.”
Your grip tightened around the spatula. You physically had to stop yourself from throwing it at him as you inhaled deeply.
“You said late,” you said slowly, every word clipped. “Not drunk, Choi Beomgyu. There’s a difference, you fucking idiot.”
You felt his eyes on you—felt them tracking every movement as you kept your head down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face just yet. The kitchen felt too small, the air thick, heavy with the tension you were barely containing.
You muttered under your breath as you worked, but you didn’t bother lowering your voice. You wanted him to hear.
You sorted through the macarons with rougher movements now, separating the cracked, uneven ones from the perfect shells. The soft clack of them against the tray sounded louder than it should’ve.
“You said we were going to make these together,” you said, voice trembling just slightly. “You said you actually wanted to try.”
You turned, grabbing a plate from the rack, the ceramic clinking sharply as you set it down.
“And instead,” you continued, harsh and bitter, “I look like some lovesick idiot waiting up for her apparently drunk boyfriend to come home from work.”
Your chest tightened.
“Me,” you scoffed. “I’m the stupid idiot.”
“Did I want this life?” you whispered bitterly. “No. I didn’t.”
You moved toward the fridge, stopping just short of the handle. Your hand hovered there, fingers trembling slightly as you stared at it, thoughts racing—about fillings, about ruining them, about whether you even had the energy to finish what you started.
About whether you had the energy for him.
With a sharp exhale, you decided against it.
You yanked the fridge open instead, the cold air hitting your face as you grabbed a can of soda. The chill bit into your palm as you hissed softly, slamming the door shut behind you.
Only then did you turn around.
Beomgyu stood there, expression no longer playful, no longer smug. Just quiet. Watching. His posture had straightened, shoulders tense as he followed you with his eyes while you paced the kitchen, movements sharp, restless.
You gestured vaguely with the can. “You could’ve called me, Beomgyu.”
He shifted then—finally moving—rounding the counter slowly, until he stopped right in front of you. He leaned back against the marble countertop, arms braced behind him like he was settling in, not cornered. Like he wasn’t standing on thin ice.
You squinted at him.
He tilted his head slightly, gaze steady, almost expectant. Like he was urging you to keep going.
That alone made your irritation spike.
You rolled your eyes, setting the soda can down on the counter behind you with a sharp clink. “I’m waiting,” you said flatly. “For you to defend yourself. Do something. Literally anything to protect the remaining good image I have of you in my head.”
Your laugh was short, humorless. “Or are you just going to stand there and stare at me?”
Beomgyu sighed, head tipping back for a second. “What do you want me to say?”
He raised a brow, posture still relaxed—but he still towered over you, presence heavy, unavoidable.
“I’m sorry, okay?” he said, softer now. “Baby, I truly am. I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m here apologizing.”
You stared at him. Then you stepped closer—just one step—closing the space between you as you pointed a finger at his chest.
“Why do you sound like you have no idea what you just did?”
That made him huff, irritation flickering across his face. He pushed off the counter, standing fully upright now, removing any trace of casualness.
“Look, (Y/N),” he said, voice tightening, “I’m trying to apologize. And if you don’t want my apology—”
You ground your teeth together, hands curling into fists at your sides as you cut him off, voice low but shaking with restraint.
“Oh my fucking God, Beomgyu,” you hissed. “I don’t need you to apologize. I need you to own up to your fucking mistakes.”
You took another breath, chest rising sharply.
“Who comes home drunk and acts like he doesn’t have someone waiting for him at home?” you demanded. “Who does that?”
The frown came quick, deepening between Beomgyu’s brows. “That wasn’t my intention,” he said, running a hand down his face. “I was already tired. I was snappy.”
He exhaled, frustration bleeding into his tone. “I just worked twelve hours straight. I had to rerecord half my lines because I kept messing up, and the staff insisted we unwind. I couldn’t exactly say no to that.”
All you heard were excuses.
You rolled your eyes again, the motion sharp enough that Beomgyu noticed.
“You couldn’t have told me?” you shot back.
He scoffed under his breath. “We’re going around in circles.”
You bit back the tears burning at the corners of your eyes, refusing to let them fall. “I don’t even ask for much, Beomgyu,” you said, voice cracking despite yourself. “I just want you to know that you have me to call when you’re going through shit.”
You pressed a hand to your chest, breath unsteady. “I’m here for a damn reason.”
Beomgyu stepped forward abruptly, closing the distance completely. “Maybe I didn’t call you,” he snapped, “because I didn’t want to burden you even more.”
His voice was louder now, sharper. “Is that so hard to understand?”
You took a step back.
The heel of your foot caught against the tile, breath stuttering as your brows furrowed. Your chest felt too tight, like every inhale scraped your lungs raw. You didn’t even lower your voice. Didn’t care if the neighbors heard, if someone knocked tomorrow with a complaint—you were already past the point of embarrassment.
“Yes,” you hissed, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “Because right now, you’re nothing but a jerk.”
The word left your mouth sharp and ugly, and once it was out, everything else followed.
“For the past weeks,” you continued, hands curling into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms, “all you’ve been saying is that you want to make it up to me.”
Your laugh was humorless, brittle.
“And yet all you’ve been doing is coming home late—”
Your voice faltered. You turned your head just slightly, swallowing hard as a lump rose in your throat, burning. You hated that your body betrayed you like this.
When you looked back at him, Beomgyu was staring down at you—eyes dark and intense.
It only made the anger surge harder.
“Stop acting like nobody cares about you, goddammit,” you snapped, stepping forward this time, finger twitching like you wanted to point it straight into his chest. “You’re already a hard worker. You don’t need to keep killing yourself to prove your worth to anyone—”
Your chest rose and fell rapidly now, breaths shallow and uneven. The words were tumbling out faster, anger bleeding into hurt you’d been holding back for far too long.
“I feel like I’m being used,” you said, quieter—but it landed heavier than anything you’d shouted.
Beomgyu’s shoulders stiffened. His jaw tightened.
“You come home drunk,” you went on, voice shaking, eyes stinging, “to a clean house and a cold dinner because you never bother showing up anymore.”
Your hands clenched again, knuckles white. “I wait,” you snapped. “I wait, and I wait, and I tell myself you’re just busy—”
Your voice cracked, and that was what finally pushed you over the edge.
“All you do is come home to get fucked,” you spat, the words ugly and raw as they tore out of you. “And it’s fucking pissing me off.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
It slammed into the room, thick and suffocating. The hum of the fridge suddenly sounded too loud. Your ears rang.
Beomgyu’s eyes widened—just for a split second—before his expression hardened completely. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he straightened to his full height, towering over you without even trying.
“I come home to get fucked?” he repeated slowly, disbelief dripping from every syllable.
He scoffed, running a hand through his hair, fingers curling at the roots like he was holding himself back.
“Do you even hear yourself right now?” he shot back, voice tight, offended—hurt in a way that made your stomach twist painfully.
He stepped closer again, closing the already minimal space between you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension thick enough to choke on.
“You think that’s all this is?” he demanded, eyes flashing. “You think I come home just to—what—use you?”
He laughed, short and bitter, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s what you think of me?” he said, quieter now—but somehow sharper. “After everything?”
You sneer up at him, anger coming off you in waves as you tilt your head in mockery. “Yes,” you spit, the word sharp and jagged. “Because you’ve been treating your own girlfriend like shit for the past months, and I’m fucking tired of it, Choi Beomgyu.”
His name hangs in the air, a final, damning blow. For a split second, his face is a mask of pure shock, the flashing anger in his eyes extinguished by a sudden, cold dawning.
Then, a sound rips from his throat—a laugh, but it’s completely devoid of humor. It’s bitter, dry, and utterly chilling. He leans down, not close enough to make you stumble back, but just enough to invade your space, to make you feel trapped.
A slow, predatory smile engulfs his face, twisting his handsome features into something menacing. “Or,” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, “is that what you need, you fucking brat?”
You blink, the sudden shift in the atmosphere catching you completely off guard. “What the fuck are you talking about?” you demand, your voice losing some of its fire in your confusion.
He sneers down at you, the expression a perfect, cruel mirror of your own from moments before. He tried to be understanding, he really did. The thought is a bitter pill in his own mind, a justification he’s been chewing on for weeks.
Because despite him coming home late and drunk, he surprised you the next day with your favorite flowers. His gaze flicks towards the living room, and he watches your eyes follow his, seeing the bouquet on the coffee table as if for the first time.
And he was pretty sure the ones he got you three days ago were sitting snugly in one of the glass vases inside your shared bedroom. He watches the shame creep up your neck, the faint blush that betrays your anger, and a cold satisfaction settles in his gut.
Just last week, he got you that bag you were eyeing when he and Taehyun stopped by Dior. And he was pretty sure that was on top of your vanity mirror a few days ago.
He takes another step, crowding you against the wall, and he feels the faint tremor that runs through your body. You weren’t mad at him for being late and drunk. Well, a little, maybe, he concedes internally, a dark part of him reveling in your conflict. But you needed somebody to put you back in your place.
He’s so close now he can see the flecks of brown in your dark eyes, can smell the faint, sharp scent of whiskey mixed with the sweet vanilla of your perfume.
And a little fucking discipline is what Beomgyu’s good at. A cruel smirk plays on his lips. Or really, memorizing your body more than you do.
He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a ghost of a touch that’s more of a threat than a kiss. He mockingly smiles, his mouth hovering just over yours.
“What?” he purrs, the vibration of his voice sending a jolt straight through you. “Now you’re shutting up? Weren’t you berating me just now?” He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression one of smug, triumphant amusement. “Cat got your tongue?”
You could feel your ears ringing as the heat on your face beat at you, a traitorous blush that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with his suffocating presence.
You stutter out a response, the words catching in your throat. “Th-this is what I mean when you act all high and mighty—”
But Beomgyu was quick to shut you up. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around your jaw, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh of your cheek.
His other arm snaked around your waist, yanking you flush against him until there was no space left, not even for air. A shit-eating grin spread across his face as he leaned in, pressing a singular, infuriatingly soft kiss to the tip of your nose.
“Let fucking go of me,” you muttered, your voice muffled by his hold. “You’re drunk, Beomgyu.”
He pouts, the mocking expression never leaving his face as he says, “What happened to calling me ‘baby,’ huh?” He leans closer, and you flinch at the strong smell of soju in every breath he takes, the sharp, alcoholic fumes mixing with the faint sweetness of the yogurt they probably mixed it with.
He whispers, his voice a low, conspiratorial taunt, “I may be drunk, but I’m never too drunk to know if my girl misses me being inside her.”
You open your mouth to protest, a fresh wave of indignation rising, only for him to press his mouth against yours. The taste of soju, sharp and acidic, mixed with the faint, creamy tang of yogurt, overtook your senses as Beomgyu kissed you, deeply.
It wasn’t a kiss of passion but of punishment, his lips moving against yours with a bruising force. You tried to push him away, your hands flattening against his firm chest, but he was an immovable wall.
Just as you were about to give in, he let go, pulling back with a wet sound. He pressed a chaste, almost gentle kiss to your forehead, a stark contrast to the assault on your lips.
He smiles down at you, his eyes dark and glinting. “There, all better now?”
You sneer at him, the furious flush on your cheeks betraying the venom in your expression. “I’m not kissing and fucking you when you’re drunk, Beomgyu. Get your hands off of me.”
He hums, a low, thoughtful sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. “I don’t think so.” His grip on your waist tightens. “You’ve been nothing but a whiny brat the moment I got home.”
You try to step back, but he only pulls you closer, making your frown deepen into a look of pure, unadulterated anger. “For the hundredth fucking time,” you seethe, “this is what I mean! All you do is come home and expect me to be ready and have my legs spread for you—”
Only for him to pull you closer by your face, your cheeks squishing in his hold. He looks down at you with a single, unimpressed raised brow.
“Excuse me?” he says, his voice dripping with condescending sweetness. “Did I say you could stop kissing me and start talking? Because I don’t recall giving you that option.”
He was quick to spin you around, so your front was pressed against the cold marble of the counter. The sudden shock of the chilled surface against your bare skin made you yelp, a sharp, indignant sound that was swallowed by the cavernous kitchen.
Beomgyu’s hands clamped down on your waist, his grip like iron, keeping you pinned in place as you squirmed.
“Choi Beomgyu, let me go this instant!” you huffed, trying to push yourself up, but his body weight was an unmovable force behind you.
He simply chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest and into your back. In one fluid motion, he gathered both of your wrists and held them firmly behind you with one of his large hands, rendering you helpless.
He leaned forward, the heat of his breath fanning over the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold counter. “I don’t think you deserve to be listened to right now, baby,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat.
Beomgyu hummed, his lips brushing against your earlobe. “Because you wouldn’t let me apologize, no?”
You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him exactly where he could shove his half-assed apology, but he chose that exact moment to tug at the waistband, letting the elastic snap back against your skin with a sharp sting. You squeaked, the sound pathetic and utterly betraying your defiant posture.
A smirk was evident in his voice as he said, “I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already acting like a bitch in heat.”
You groaned in pure, unadulterated annoyance, your cheek pressed against the unforgiving marble. “I didn’t even ask for this, you asshole!”
Beomgyu raised a brow, a gesture you couldn’t see but could feel in the shift of his weight. His hand abandoned your waistband, traveling with agonizing slowness to cup your clothed pussy.
You instinctively tried to keep his hand away by shutting your legs together, clamping your thighs tight, but that only fueled him.
The pressure of his palm was a constant, maddening presence as his fingers began to trace the seam of your shorts, following the lines of your folds through the fabric with a precision that made your breath hitch.
He clicked his tongue, a sound of condescending disappointment. “Oh really?” he drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm.
“Your body seems to be telling a very different story. It’s practically begging for it, isn’t it? All this resistance… it’s just for show, isn’t it, baby? You love this.”
You tried to push yourself away, but the movement was clumsy and desperate. It only served to arch your back, pressing your ass more firmly against the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans.
Beomgyu released a sound that was a mix of intrigue and approval, a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through you.
“See what I mean?” he murmured, his lips ghosting over the nape of your neck. “For being such a whore for me?”
The crude word made you gasp, a sharp intake of air that was cut short as he suddenly hooked his thumbs into your shorts and yanked them down. They didn’t fall to the floor, instead bunching up around your mid-thighs, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. The cool air of the kitchen kissed your heated skin.
“This is what I mean!” you cried out, your voice trembling with a mixture of rage and unwanted arousal. “You only see me as some sort of fucktoy and not as your girlf—”
Before you could even finish the word, Beomgyu’s hands were on you, cupping the soft flesh of your ass. His fingers were cold, a stark contrast to the heat blooming under your skin, and the sensation made you flinch. He traced the curve of your ass, his touch possessive.
“And I need you to stop talking,” he commanded, his voice losing its playful edge and hardening with authority.
He leaned closer, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the skin of your exposed shoulder. He wasn’t gentle; he sucked and nipped, leaving a trail of dark, possessive hickies in his wake.
You tried to hold back the moans that were threatening to spill from your lips, pressing them into a thin, defiant line, but the pleasure was a potent drug.
Beomgyu hummed against your skin, the sound a deep rumble. “Still not gonna say anything?” he teased. As if to answer his own question, his fingers found your slick folds, caressing the heated, sensitive skin with an expertise that made your knees weak.
He chuckled, the sound dark and triumphant. “Bold of you to push me away while you’re this wet for me.”
You hissed out a strangled, “F-fuck you.”
A teasingly cruel smile spread across his face. “That’s what I’m trying to do here, baby,” he whispered, and slowly, he let one finger sink into you. You moaned aloud at the intrusion, the sound raw and unrestrained.
“Now shut up and let me talk,” he said, his voice deceptively calm as he suddenly pushed a second finger in, stretching you. You instinctively leaned forward, your elbows hitting the cold marble of the counter for support as your body trembled.
“You’re accusing me of being a bad boyfriend,” he stated, curling his fingers just right, stroking that sensitive spot inside you that made you see stars. You moaned out a broken, “Ngh—you are!”
Beomgyu clicked his tongue, a sound of sharp disapproval. He removed his hold on your wrists, letting you support yourself, but your freedom was short-lived.
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back and pulling you flush against his chest. You whined at the sharp, pleasurable pain of the pull.
He snarled against your ear, “I’m such a bad boyfriend that I’m fingering you right now, huh?” He began to pump his fingers in and out of you in a relentless, punishing rhythm that made you shudder and clench around him.
“I’m such a bad boyfriend for letting you wait up on me while I’m stuck in the studio, making money to keep a roof over our heads,” he continued, his voice dripping with venom. “And a pretty damn big one at that.”
He scissored his fingers inside you, stretching you wider, making you moan out in pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Ah, fuck,” you cried out, the fight completely draining out of you, replaced by the overwhelming need for release.
The sound of your surrender seemed to be the only thing he’d been waiting for.
Beomgyu’s grip on your hair loosened, but only so his hand could slide down to grip your jaw, turning your head just enough to capture your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss. It was all teeth and tongue—claiming you, swallowing your moans as his fingers continued their relentless assault between your legs.
“Look at you,” he rasped against your lips, his voice thick with lust and a dark satisfaction. “All that fight… and it all melts away the second I touch you. You’re so easy, baby. So fucking easy for me.”
His words were meant to humiliate, but they only stoked the fire building in your core. He was right. You hated that he was right. With a final, deliberate curl of his fingers against that sensitive spot, the coil in your stomach snapped.
“That’s it,” he growled, his voice a low, triumphant rumble against your ear. “I can practically feel you squeezing my fingers. Lie to me again, baby. Tell me you don’t want this when you’re cumming all over my fingers.”
Your orgasm crashed over you with the force of a tidal wave, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down around his fingers.
Your vision went white, and for a moment, the only things that existed were the cold marble beneath your hands and the overwhelming pleasure pulsing through you.
He didn’t stop, drawing out your climax until you were a trembling, whimpering mess, completely boneless against the counter.
Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers, leaving you feeling achingly empty. He brought them to his lips, his eyes locked on yours as he cleaned your arousal from them with a slow swipe of his tongue.
“See?” he murmured, his voice a low, triumphant purr. “I’m not such a bad boyfriend after all, am I? I always give you what you need.”
Beomgyu’s grip on your hair tightened suddenly, yanking harder until your scalp burned with the sharp pull, forcing your back to arch sharply against his chest.
The cool air hit your exposed skin, contrasting the heat radiating from his body as he molded himself to you, his free hand sliding possessively over your hip. You gasped, the lingering waves of your orgasm making every sensation feel amplified, your body still quivering uncontrollably.
“Now,” he drawled, his voice twisting back into that sickeningly sweet condescension, like honey laced with venom, “are you ready to listen to my apology?”
He held you there, waiting, his breath hot against your ear.
But all that escaped your lips were small, ragged pants as you struggled to catch your breath, your chest heaving, mind foggy from the intensity. The words wouldn’t form—couldn’t form—your throat tight and raw from the cries you’d already let out.
Beomgyu cooed mockingly, the sound dripping with false sympathy. “Aww, what’s the matter, sweetheart? Did I just fuck the fight right out of you?”
His free hand moved with slowness, fingers deftly popping the button of his jeans. The zipper rasped down, and he shoved the fabric along with his boxers past his hips in one fluid motion, freeing his throbbing cock. It sprang heavy and hot against your ass, the length of it pressing insistently as he moved closer.
He leaned in, lips brushing feather-light kisses along the side of your neck, trailing up to your jaw. Each press of his mouth sent shivers racing down your spine, a mix of tenderness and control that made your knees weaken further.
“I can take any insult you throw at me, (Y/N),” he whispered, his tone laced with that condescending edge, deliberately omitting the sweet nicknames he usually peppered in—like ‘baby’ or ‘darling’—the absence hitting you like a chill, making your body shiver involuntarily against him.
“But calling me a bad boyfriend? Accusing me of just using you for this tight little body?” He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “That’s just absurd.”
The leaking tip of his aching cock nudged against your dripping folds, slick with your release, rubbing teasingly along the sensitive slit. You whimpered at the contact, hips twitching forward instinctively, but he held you firm with that iron grip in your hair.
A hiss escaped his lips as he coated himself in your wetness, the heat of him making your core clench around nothing. “Don’t fucking say words you don’t mean,” he growled, voice roughening with restrained hunger.
“Might I remind you who was there for me when I was still worth nothing?”
Your response dissolved into a deep, throaty moan the instant the swollen head of his cock breached your entrance, stretching your aching walls as it pushed past your folds and sank into your cunt.
The burn of the intrusion mixed with the fullness you craved, your body yielding to him despite the emotional storm raging inside.
“Who takes care of me when I’m sick and can’t even talk shit, huh?” He pushed in another inch, deliberate and slow, savoring the way your inner muscles fluttered around him.
The added pressure drew a sharp moan from you—“Beomgyu—!”—your voice breaking on his name, hands scrabbling against the marble for purchase.
He hummed in response, a smug vibration rumbling from his throat as he nuzzled into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “Hmm? Or who talked to my mom for hours on end, just because you wanted to keep me well-fed and happy on my birthdays?”
Without warning, he surged forward, slamming the rest of his length deep inside you in one brutal thrust. Every thick vein and rigid ridge dragged against your sensitive walls, seating him perfectly, filling you to the hilt until you felt him in your gut.
A broken “Hah—fuck!” tore from your throat, followed by a choked moan as tears pricked at your eyes from the overwhelming stretch.
Your body arched further under his hold, pussy clenching greedily around his cock, milking him as if begging for more despite the ache.
Beomgyu tugged your hair just the slightest bit more, tilting your head back so he could whisper directly into your ear, his hips grinding in a slow circle to emphasize his point.
“Not gonna fight back?” He smirked to himself when all he heard in return were your small moans and whimpers, no trace of the earlier defiance.
“Mhmm, because you know I’m right,” he purred, voice smug as he began to move—shallow thrusts at first, each one pulling a fresh gasp from your lips.
His hand on your hip dug in, bruising fingers guiding your body to meet him, while the one in your hair kept you arched and exposed, utterly at his mercy.
A low chuckle rumbled from Beomgyu’s chest, vibrating against your ear as his lips ghosted over the sensitive shell. His fingers twisted tighter in your strands, the pull sending fresh sparks of pain-laced pleasure shooting down your spine, keeping you locked in that vulnerable bow.
He peppered open-mouthed kisses along the expanse of your neck, teeth nipping at the tender skin just enough to mark without breaking, his breath hot and ragged as he maintained his relentless rhythm.
Each thrust into your soaked pussy was powerful—like he hadn’t downed at least twenty shots of soju alone earlier that night—his hips snapping forward with a force that jolted your entire body against the counter’s edge, the marble biting into your palms.
“You really are such a funny girl, baby,” he hissed through clenched teeth, the words laced with that mocking affection as his cock dragged deep inside you, stretching your walls with every plunge.
The slick sounds of skin slapping skin filled the kitchen, mingling with your shared gasps, the air thick with the musky scent of sex and spilled alcohol from the nearby bottles.
“Makes me want to knock you up—fill this greedy cunt until you’re leaking me for days.”
The crude promise twisted something deep in your core, heat flooding your veins as his tip battered against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Gyu—fuck, right there!” you moaned, the plea spilling out unbidden, your voice hoarse and desperate, body betraying any lingering resistance as you pushed back to meet him.
He obliged without mercy, his pace quickening into a brutal one, hips pistoning faster as sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto your shoulder. The friction built an inferno inside you, his thick shaft splitting you open with each drive, veins pulsing against your clenching heat.
Beomgyu hummed approvingly, the sound vibrating through his teeth as he latched onto your neck again, sucking a fresh bruise into the flesh. “Or maybe you are right, you know,” he murmured against your skin, voice dropping to a taunting drawl between grunts.
“All talk until you get dicked down. Maybe deep inside, you do know you’re just a little slut for me, aren’t you?”
Your response came as a breathless moan, hand flying to his arm where his fingers clamped like a vice around your waist, nails digging into his skin in a futile bid for leverage. The pressure coiled tighter in your belly, a familiar ache blooming hot and insistent as his words sank in, stoking the fire.
“Fuck—yes—” you cried out, the admission fracturing into a whine, your thighs trembling as you teetered on the edge, every nerve alight with the building ecstasy.
Beomgyu hummed again, a satisfied rumble as he bit down on your neck, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to make you arch further, the sharp sting blending seamlessly with the pleasure radiating from your core.
His grip on your hair eased just a fraction, loosening enough to let you crane your head to the side even more, offering him better access to your throat without the burn crossing into true pain.
The shift allowed a sliver of relief, your neck muscles sighing in gratitude even as he continued to pound into you, his balls slapping rhythmically against your clit with each forceful entry.
“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he muttered, voice strained and wrecked, his forehead dropping to rest heavily against your shoulder.
The warmth of his skin seeped into yours, his breaths coming in sharp bursts as he felt your walls flutter erratically around his length. “Are you close?”
You tried to nod, the tug on your hair limiting the motion to a jerky tilt, but the affirmation dissolved into another moan, high and keening, as his cock hit that devastating angle again.
The coil in your stomach wound unbearably tight, threatening to snap at any second, your vision blurring at the edges with the intensity.
Beomgyu hissed through his teeth, his thrusts growing erratic, hips stuttering as he chased his own release.
“Cum with me,” he commanded, the words a rough growl against your skin, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple sharply, twisting just enough to shove you over.
As if on command, your body obeyed, spasming wildly around his cock in a vice-like grip. Waves of pleasure crashed through you, your pussy gushing hot juices that flowed down his length, soaking his thighs and dripping onto the floor below.
The orgasm ripped a scream from your throat, muffled only by the way your face pressed into your arm, every muscle seizing as ecstasy pulsed through your veins. Beomgyu followed seconds later, a guttural groan tearing from him as he buried himself to the hilt one final time.
Thick ropes of cum painted the inside of your walls white and hot, flooding your depths until you felt deliciously full, the warmth spreading like liquid fire. He shuddered against you, cock twitching with aftershocks as he emptied himself completely, marking you from the inside out.
With a gentle push, he guided your head forward, releasing the last of his hold on your hair so you could support yourself fully on your arms against the cool marble.
Your elbows buckled slightly under the weight, but you managed, pants escaping in heavy waves as your chest heaved, lungs burning from the exertion. The counter’s chill seeped into your flushed skin, grounding you as the high ebbed, leaving you boneless and spent.
Beomgyu’s hand finally loosened completely from your hair, both palms now gripping your hips in a softer hold, thumbs stroking soothing circles over the bruises he’d left.
He panted against your back, his own breaths ragged and uneven, sweat-slicked chest rising and falling in time with yours. “Fuck, baby, you did so well,” he rasped, voice thick with lingering lust and a hint of genuine awe, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade.
Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled out, the wet slide of his softening cock leaving you achingly empty once more.
He watched, transfixed, as your mixed juices spilled out from your abused pussy with ease—creamy white strands of his cum mingling with your clear arousal, trickling down your inner thighs in obscene rivulets.
The sight drew a low hum of approval from him, his fingers tracing lightly over the mess, smearing it further before he caught himself.
He leaned over you then, his body draping warmly as one arm wrapped around your waist to steady you, lips brushing your temple. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, the words tumbling out in a soft, exhausted whisper, guilt flickering through the post-orgasm haze as reality crept back in.
Beomgyu grinned from ear to ear, the expression quickly masking the soft contentment in his eyes with his usual shit-eating smirk, all cocky charm and zero remorse.
“I know,” he said simply, the two words dripping with smug satisfaction as he nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your scent like it was his favorite drug.
You rolled your eyes in annoyance, a weak huff escaping despite the way your body still hummed from him, too drained to muster real irritation. The audacity of him—turning your apology into his victory lap—made your lips twitch, even as affection warmed your chest.
Shifting slightly, Beomgyu reached past you to the drawer beside the sink, pulling out a clean towel with efficient movements. He unfolded it gently, kneeling a bit to carefully wipe over the wetness dripping down your thighs, the soft fabric absorbing the evidence of your union with tender strokes.
You hissed at the initial contact, oversensitive nerves firing in protest, your legs twitching involuntarily.
“Sorry, baby,” he murmured sheepishly, his smile turning boyish and apologetic as he lightened his touch, focusing on cleaning you up without causing more discomfort.
His free hand rubbed slow, soothing patterns on your lower back, easing the lingering tremors in your muscles. He stood up, his movements fluid as he pulled his own boxers up to hide his softening cock.
Then, with surprising gentleness, he tugged your shorts back up over your hips, the fabric feeling soft and familiar against your sensitive skin. He pressed a trail of soft kisses along your shoulder, a stark contrast to the possessive marks he’d left there just moments before.
“I’m gonna clean you up properly once we get to bed, okay?” he whispered, his voice warm and sincere.
You only grumbled in response, a small pout forming on your lips as you buried your face in your arms. “Gyu… the macarons…”
Beomgyu blinked at you, his expression shifting from apologetic to one of pure, incredulous disbelief. He slowly turned you around to face him, his hands resting on your hips as he stared down at you.
“I literally just fucked you stupid against the kitchen counter,” he said, his voice flat with astonishment. “And you’re worrying about some stupid macarons?”
You huffed, pushing his chest lightly. “You’re the one who wanted them!”
The sheer absurdity of it all broke the tension, and he laughed, a soft, genuine sound that made your heart flutter despite your annoyance. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll clean that up, and then we can finish them up tomorrow, okay?”
You tilted your head slightly, still pouting as you mumbled, “But you have a shoot tomorrow…”
Beomgyu just shrugged, placing a hand on your lower back as he urged you softly to get out of the kitchen, guiding you along with him. “I took the week off.”
You blinked up at him, truly surprised this time. “What—”
He pinched your nose lightly, making you squint your eyes at him in scrutiny. “That’s what I was about to say, until you closed the door on me and started nagging at me the second I walked in.”
You rolled your eyes, letting him guide you towards the stairs. “Who comes home drunk and uttering absolute nonsense—”
He placed a finger over your lips, effectively silencing your rant. “We’re already past this, baby. Now come on and let me pamper you.”
You grumbled in reluctant agreement, making him smile as he guided you up the stairs, his arm a warm presence around your waist.
It was a really good idea, he thought, that he’d gone ring shopping before getting wasted with the rest of the members.
Otherwise, you’d probably kill him for proposing with a Ring Pop instead of the four-carat diamond he had tucked away in the pocket of his jacket, which was currently thrown haphazardly on the kitchen floor.
