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⊹ ࣪ ˖ virgin playboy | choi yeonjun | lesson three

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: smut with plot, rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, love triangle-ish

✧ warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, virgin/inexperience themes, anxiety/second-hand embarrassment, handjob, orgasm, fingering, dirty talk/explicit language, spitting, aftercare

✧ word count: 16.1k

✧ status: completed

✧ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist

There are only a couple of weeks left until Switzerland spits Soobin back out.

The countdown sits in your body—not in your head, in your gut. It’s there when you’re brushing your teeth. It’s there when you’re walking to campus. It’s there when your phone vibrates and you don’t even need to look to know whose name is on the screen.

And it’s there now, when your friends decide to take your fragile little nervous system and use it as party décor. They don’t ask you to come out. They drag you like it’s a community service.

“You’ve been missing for, like, a month,” Mina says, tugging your sleeve while you stand in your doorway with your coat half on. “I’ve seen ghosts with better attendance.”

“I’ve been busy,” you argue, which is technically true if you count make-out sessions with Yeonjun as an extracurricular.

Yuna leans against the hall wall, unimpressed. “Busy doing what? Building a shrine? Writing vows? Practising deep throating a banana?”

You choke. “Can you not—”

Beomgyu appears behind her. A demon summoned by your discomfort. “She can’t,” he says cheerfully. “She’s been acting like she’s in a Victorian novel. Always clutching her phone like it’s a locket.”

“It’s just a date,” you mutter.

“That’s what makes it worse,” Beomgyu says. “A date. She’s about to get wined and dined and then her life is going to end in an alley behind a Wetherspoons.”

Mina shrieks laughing. “BEOMGYU!”

Yuna points at you, eyes sharp. “Why are you not happy-happy? You’ve wanted him since, what, Year 11?”

“I am happy,” you lie too fast.

Your stomach gives that same weird roll—not nausea, not hunger, something in between. Your body is trying to warn you and you keep pretending you don’t understand the language.

Beomgyu squints at you. “Say it,” he prompts.

“Say what?”

“Say you’re going to ditch us when Soobin’s back,” he says, delighted. “Because I’m calling it now. You’ll be like—sorry guys, can’t come out, I’m busy getting railed.”

“Oh my God,” Mina wheezes, covering her face.

Yuna doesn’t even flinch. “He’s not wrong.”

“I’m not going to ditch you,” you say, and it comes out defensive in a way you hate.

Beomgyu’s grin widens. “That’s not a denial. That’s guilt.”

You step forward, grabbing your keys, because if you stay here for one more second your friends will start chanting blowjob. “Fine,” you snap. “I’ll come.”

Mina claps. “Yes! Put on lip gloss. We’re reviving you.”

“Don’t revive me,” you mutter. “I liked being dead.”

Beomgyu beams. “That’s the spirit.”

The flat is already sweating by the time you arrive.

You regret it the moment the door opens—bass thumping through the walls, heat blooming in your face, bodies packed into corners because nobody here has ever heard of personal space. The air tastes of vodka and stale energy drinks and strawberry vape, and someone has already spilled something on the floor and decided it’s everybody else’s problem.

Mina disappears into the crowd. Yuna does too, immediately clocking someone across the room, about to ruin her own night on purpose.

Beomgyu stays attached to you for exactly thirty seconds—the exact amount of time it takes him to start narrating your life. “There she is,” he announces, loud enough that a few people turn. “Our local menace. Our community liar. The girl who’s about to become Mrs Switzerland.”

“I hate you,” you hiss.

“You love me,” he replies, because he’s addicted to being correct.

A girl you vaguely recognise from a seminar hands you a cup. You take it because you refuse to admit you feel fragile.

Beomgyu leans in, voice low. “Have you picked your outfit for the date yet?”

“It’s dinner,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “And then what?”

Something rolls low in your belly. You take a sip just to occupy your mouth with something other than panic. It burns. Your throat tightens. You cough.

Beomgyu pats your back with fake sincerity. “Breathe. Don’t die. That would be so inconvenient.”

“Why do I feel sick?” you mutter, half to yourself.

Yuna’s voice cuts in, sharp. “Because you’re anxious. Or because your body is haunted.”

Mina reappears with a grin and a hand on your shoulder. “Okay. We’re doing shots.”

“No,” you say immediately.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to,” you say, and your tone is too thin—the kind of thin that tells the truth without meaning to.

Mina studies you for half a second. Her smile softens, just a fraction. “Okay,” she says gently, then immediately ruins it. “But you can’t come out and act like a nun at a brothel. It’s stressing me out.”

“Stop calling me a nun,” you groan.

Beomgyu gasps. “You’re right. Nuns have commitment. You’re more like—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll kill you,” you warn.

He lifts his hands. “Okay, okay. Violence. Noted. See? She’s alive.”

They keep talking—about the party, about other people, about some drama in the groupchat that you missed because you’ve been mentally—and physically—elsewhere for weeks. You nod at the right times. You smile when someone makes a joke. You laugh when Beomgyu does something stupid on purpose.

But you don’t feel present.

You feel like you’re watching your own night through a pane of glass. And underneath everything—the music, the bodies, the noise—there’s one stupid, annoying thought that won’t leave you alone. I want to talk to Yeonjun.

Not in a horny, lesson-three, I need help way. In a why does my chest unclench when he talks to me? way.

It makes you angry.

Because Soobin is the one you’re supposed to want. Soobin is the plan. Soobin is the whole reason you set fire to your own life in the first place. So why does the thought of him coming back make you feel—pressured? Why does it feel like an exam you crammed for with the wrong textbook?

You take another sip. It does nothing except make your stomach roll harder.

Mina bumps your hip. “You’re doing that thing,” she says.

“What thing?”

“That thing where your eyes go dead,” she replies. “Where are you?”

“Here,” you lie.

Yuna’s gaze sharpens. “No, you’re not.”

Beomgyu leans over Mina’s shoulder, eyes bright with violence. “Is it Switzerland Boy?” he whispers, gleeful. “Are we panicking about dick expectations again?”

“Beomgyu,” Mina groans.

“It’s a valid topic,” he insists. “It’s academic. It’s educational.”

You glare at him. “Drop it.”

He grins. “That’s a yes.”

You flip him off, but you’re smiling despite yourself. And that’s the problem. You’re smiling. You’re laughing. You’re standing in a party with your friends and you’re still—elsewhere. Still restless. Still hollow in a specific way. Because the only person you actually want to talk to right now isn’t in this room. You don’t know why. You don’t let yourself unpack it.

You just stand there, holding your drink, watching everyone pair off.

Mina disappears first—a tall guy slides into her space, says something in her ear.

“Don’t leave me,” you mouth at her.

She mouths back, SORRY, already halfway gone.

Yuna goes next. She doesn’t even pretend. She just points at you and says, “Text me if you die,” like she’s clocking out of friendship for the evening.

Beomgyu lingers because he’s a menace with a heart, unfortunately. “You good?” he asks, and for once it isn’t a joke.

You inhale. Your stomach rolls again. “Yeah,” you say.

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow. “That sounded like a lie.”

“Everything sounds like a lie when I say it,” you mutter.

He snorts, then looks you over, deciding how hard to push. “Do you want to go home?” he asks, softer than usual.

You almost say yes. But then you picture going back to your room—the silence, the phone buzzing, the countdown—and your body resists.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

Beomgyu nods, understanding more than he’s saying. “Okay,” he says. “Well. I’m about to be a terrible person.”

“Shocker.”

He grins. “Don’t wait up.”

“Enjoy being a whore,” you tell him.

He beams. “Always.”

Then he’s gone too—swallowed by the noise and the bodies and the night.

And just like that, you’re alone in the middle of a room full of people. The music feels louder without your friends talking over it. The air feels thicker. You suddenly can’t stand the press of bodies—the way everyone’s laughing with someone, touching someone, leaning into someone.

Your stomach grumbles, low and traitorous. Heat crawls up your neck—part embarrassment, part irritation.

You take a breath. Then another.

You look at the door. You don’t tell anyone you’re leaving because nobody’s paying attention anyway—everyone’s already busy being young and reckless and loved for the night.

You decide you’re done. You push through the hallway, slip your shoes on with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy, and open the door.

Cold air hits your face like a slap. Your lungs finally expand. You step outside—and for a second, all you can hear is your own heartbeat.

And the strange part? You’re not thinking about Soobin.

You’re thinking about Yeonjun.

The door shuts behind you, muffling the bass into a dull, distant thud. Your stomach is still doing that weird rolling thing—not quite nerves, not quite hunger, not quite nausea.

You tug your coat tighter and start walking.

And then you see him.

Yeonjun’s posted up a little away from the doorway under a streetlight that makes the smoke look silver. He’s alone this time—no mates. Just him with a cigarette between his fingers, shoulders loose, body relaxed.

He’s dressed like he didn’t try. A black cap pulled low— the white logo catching the light. Hood up over it, a dusty-blue hoodie framing his face. Oversized black coat thrown over everything. His hair slips out from under the cap in dark pieces, falling across his cheek. Pale skin, soft mouth, lashes too long.

You should keep walking. Instead, something warm swells in your chest and drags your feet toward him.

Yeonjun’s gaze lifts.

His eyes light up when he sees you. You hate how much you love it.

“Leaving already?” he asks, voice rough from smoke.

“Yeah,” you say, like you didn’t just walk out of a party because your body couldn’t handle being in a room full of people who aren’t him. “It was shit.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “It’s always shit.”

You stop in front of him—close enough to smell the cigarette, and the faint trace of whatever he put on his skin that shouldn’t smell this good on a random night.

He flicks ash, glances past you toward the doorway. “Where’s your little entourage?”

“Gone,” you say. “One of them is probably tongue-deep in somebody’s mouth. The other one is pretending she’s not. Beomgyu is—”

“Being a menace,” Yeonjun finishes, because he’s met him once and already knows he’s a hazard.

“Exactly.”

Yeonjun hums, amused, then tilts his head at you. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He looks at you like you’re stupid. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is.”

“It’s a liar’s answer.”

You glare. “You’re literally smoking outside a party at one in the morning. You don’t get to interrogate my emotional health.”

He checks his phone without looking too interested. “One twenty-seven.”

“Disgusting,” you mutter.

Yeonjun smiles, slow. “You’re out late for someone who hates parties.”

“I hate parties,” you say. “I don’t hate—leaving parties.”

His gaze holds yours a beat too long. Something in his face shifts—like he’s about to ask something real. Your stomach chooses violence and answers for you, growling loud enough to count as a confession. It’s not even a cute noise.

You go hot instantly. “Oh my God.”

Yeonjun blinks—then laughs. He tips his head back, shoulders shaking, cigarette hanging between his fingers. The streetlight hits the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth—and you have the idiotic thought that he looks beautiful even when he’s being annoying.

“I hate you,” you say, mortified.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, not sorry at all. “That was—”

“Don’t describe it.”

“You’re starving,” he says, still grinning.

“I’m not starving.”

“You’re literally growling at me,” he replies. “Are you a werewolf?”

You shove him lightly in the chest. His coat barely shifts. Your hand registers his warmth through the layers and your brain tries to reboot into something normal. It fails.

Yeonjun takes one last drag, flicks the cigarette away and grinds it under his shoe. “Come on,” he says, easy. “Let’s get food.”

You blink. “What?”

“Food,” he repeats, like you’re slow. “Eat. Before your stomach starts sending SOS signals to the entire street.”

“It’s late,” you argue.

He shrugs. “So?”

“Most places are closed.”

“Then we find something that’s not,” he says. “I’m not letting you go home hungry and feral. That’s bad for society.”

“You’re acting very—nice,” you say.

Yeonjun shoots you a look. “Don’t start.”

“What? I’m just—”

“Don’t,” he repeats, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Walk.”

You fall into step beside him without thinking.

The night is cold and damp, pavement glossy under streetlights. You pass a kebab shop—shutters down. Chicken place—closed. Even the little late-night café that survives on students and desperation has its lights off.

“Okay,” you say, after the third closed door. “We get it. The world hates me.”

“The world hates everyone,” Yeonjun replies. “It’s equal-opportunity.”

Your stomach rumbles again, quieter but still rude.

Yeonjun smirks. “Your stomach’s got a mouth on it.”

“Stop,” you groan.

He looks at you sideways. “You didn’t drink much, did you?”

“I drank enough to hate myself,” you say.

He hums. “Fair.”

Then you hit salvation. A Tesco Express, lights still on, automatic doors whooshing open.

Yeonjun grabs a basket and holds it out to you with mock formality. “Welcome,” he says, deadpan. “To fine dining.”

You take it. “Thank you, sir.”

His eyes flicker, pleased in a quiet way he tries to hide. It annoys you. You drift toward the sad meal deals fridge. Yeonjun follows and squints.

“No,” he says.

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” he repeats. “That’s depressing.”

“It’s food.”

“That’s not food. That’s punishment,” he says, then gestures ahead. “Ingredients.”

You blink. “You want to cook.”

Yeonjun nods because he’s just decided he’s the main character. “Yeah.”

“You can cook?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He turns slowly. “Why did you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you expect me to poison you.”

You shrug. “Do you want me to be honest?”

He points at you. “Careful. I’m fragile.”

“You’re not fragile. You’re Choi Yeonjun.”

He groans like you’ve ruined his life. “Don’t do the myth. Pick a pasta.”

Your stomach makes a tiny, hopeful noise again.

Yeonjun’s eyes drop to it as if genuinely considering arguing with your digestive system. “Spaghetti,” he decides, tossing a pack into the basket. Then olive oil. Then garlic. He hesitates in front of the garlic. “How much?” he asks.

“As much as you want,” you say.

Yeonjun looks at you like you’ve seduced him with seasoning. “Correct answer.”

You laugh—and it slips out easy, which surprises you. It surprises you how easy it is with him. Yeonjun catches the sound and looks pleased for half a second before he wipes it off his face.

Your eyes snag on the aisle with condoms, lube, and pregnancy tests lined up together.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. He clears his throat. “Do you—need anything?”

You stare at him. “For what?”

His eyes flick to the shelf for half a second.

“Oh my God,” you hiss. “No.”

Yeonjun’s tone stays casual, but his grin turns sharp. “Just asking. Responsible adult behaviour.”

“You’re making it weird.”

“I’m literally trying not to make it weird,” he says, leaning in a little, voice dropping. “You’re the one blushing in Tesco.”

“I’m not blushing.”

He looks at you, unimpressed. “You’re red.”

“It’s the heating.”

“It’s not,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes your stomach do something embarrassing all over again.

Your phone buzzes. Then buzzes again.

minmin: where the fuck did you go??? yunana: if you died say something beomgyu: SWISS BOY KIDNAPPED U??? send location u grimlin

You snort.

Yeonjun tilts his head. “What?”

You angle the screen so he can see.

He reads it, then laughs under his breath. “Your friends are insane.”

“They’re worse when they’re drunk,” you say.

He watches you a beat, then says, “Text them. Before they call the police and I end up as a suspect.”

You type quickly, i’m alive. fuck off.

Beomgyu responds instantly.

beomgyu: ARE U WITH HIM minmin: WHO yunana: send location. NOW.

You lock your phone. “Absolutely not.”

Yeonjun’s brows lift. “You’re not telling them?”

“No,” you say. “They’ll ruin it.”

He pauses. “Ruin what?”

You meet his eyes for half a second and the answer sits there between you. You don’t give it words. You just shrug, because you don’t trust your mouth.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches, softening. “Okay,” he says. “Secret Tesco mission.”

“Exactly.”

At checkout, the cashier barely looks up. Yeonjun taps his card and slides the bag handles over his wrist automatically. Outside, the cold hits again.

Yeonjun nods down the street. “My place,” he says. “I’ll cook.”

You blink. “You’re sure?”

He scoffs. “What, you think I’m going to abandon you on the pavement with raw spaghetti and emotional damage?”

“Maybe,” you say.

Yeonjun grins. “Don’t be thick. Come on.”

And as you follow him—plastic bag rustling, streetlights flickering, your phone buzzing and you ignoring it—it hits you, quietly, in the pit of your stomach. This is the first time you’re just together. No lesson. No rules. No agenda.

Just you and Yeonjun walking home with groceries at 1:30am like that isn’t dangerous in its own way.

Yeonjun’s keys stick in the lock. He swears under his breath, shoulder braced to the door. A strand of dark hair falls across his cheek when he finally gets it open, and he exhales with relief. “Don’t say it,” he warns without looking at you.

You step in, automatically toeing your shoes off where you put them last time—and the fact your body remembers that hits you a second later, sharp and inconvenient. “I wasn’t going to,” you say.

“You were,” he replies, deadpan. “Your face was loading.”

The flat smells the same as it did the first night—clean laundry, soap, and Yeonjun’s cologne—except now you’re actually noticing the flat. The sofa you didn’t even properly clock before. The kitchen that wasn’t part of the plan. The pile of unopened post.

Yeonjun drops the grocery bags on the counter and shrugs his jacket off, hoodie still up. He looks over his shoulder. “Housemate’s at his girlfriend’s,” he says.

Your brows lift. “Why are you telling me that?”

“So you don’t startle when nobody comes out and calls you a freak,” he says simply. Then he adds, “Also so you don’t think I set this up.”

You blink. “Set what up?”

Yeonjun pauses, eyes flicking to you. “Don’t be dense.”

“I’m not being dense,” you say, even though you are, a bit. Your stomach is still doing that weird twisting thing it started doing at the party.

Yeonjun turns away first, grabs a pot from the cupboard. “Sit. I’m cooking.”

“You cooking is not comforting,” you tell him, but you drift toward the sofa anyway because you’ve already done the whole Yeonjun’s bed thing—and somehow sitting on his sofa feels more intimate than getting naked ever did.

“Have faith,” he says. “Aglio olio is literally oil and vibes.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

You sink onto the sofa, watching him move around the kitchen. He looks competent doing everything except the actual cooking—sleeves shoved up, hands quick, mouth set in concentration. He finds the garlic, loses the garlic, swears at the garlic, then starts chopping it with intensity.

“Why are you chopping garlic like it owes you money?” you ask.

“Because it does,” he snaps, then immediately flicks his eyes to you to see if you’re laughing.

You are.

He points the knife at you. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” you lie.

“You’re laughing in your chest,” he says, offended, and it makes you laugh properly.

The water starts boiling. Yeonjun dumps the spaghetti in with the confidence of a man who has never once questioned himself.

You sit up. “You didn’t salt the water.”

Yeonjun freezes so hard you’d think you accused him of murder. Slowly, he turns his head. “...Cheese exists,” he says after a beat, as if that settles it.

“That’s not—”

“Sit down,” he cuts in, wooden spoon in hand. “Before I start seasoning you.”

The words come and both of you pause for half a second because the air does that stupid shift it keeps doing around you lately, where everything turns double-meaning without either of you asking.

Your eyebrows lift.

Yeonjun’s ears go faintly pink. He turns away fast, muttering, “I meant—be quiet.”

You press your lips together to stop smiling. “Sure.”

His phone buzzes on the counter. He ignores it. It buzzes again. Then again.

You don’t mean to look. You still do. It’s a preview from a groupchat, bright on the screen, zero shame.

milo: campus ferrari gone missing kian: u alive or u getting head?? milo: he’s prolly deep in a pussy let him be

Yeonjun sees your gaze flick and immediately grimaces. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” he mutters. “Your eyes are loud.”

You lean back. “Your friends are disgusting.”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun says, low. “They’re also bored.” He flicks the phone face-down with a sharp, irritated movement and goes back to the pan.

You watch him stir oil and garlic and chilli flakes with a seriousness that would be hot if it wasn’t objectively funny. “Do you—cook often?” you ask.

Yeonjun snorts. “Obviously.”

The garlic starts browning too fast. The oil spits. Yeonjun flinches, recovers instantly, and tries to pretend he didn’t.

You stare. “You’re so brave.”

“You’re so annoying,” he retorts.

When he finally plates it, he does it with the pride of a man serving a five-course meal. Two bowls. Two forks. He sets yours down in front of you like he’s daring you to disrespect him.

You take a bite. It’s… bad. Oil-forward. Garlic burnt. Pasta over-cooked. The kind of food that tastes like a handsome person insisted on being independent. You swallow carefully and keep your face neutral out of pure kindness.

Yeonjun watches you with narrowed eyes. “How is it?” He leans closer. “Tell me.”

You take another bite, determined to spare his ego. “It’s—very Yeonjun.”

He blinks. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s loud and slightly stressful,” you say sweetly, and his mouth twitches before he can stop it.

“You’re such a dick.”

“Your cooking made me one.”

Yeonjun huffs a laugh, then exhales, rubbing his face like he’s tired. He eats his own bowl with grim commitment. And then, somewhere between bite three and bite four, his humour drops out of his expression in a way that’s subtle enough you might’ve missed if you weren’t watching him properly.

He stares at his fork for a second. Then he says, flatly, “Do you ever get sick of people deciding who you are for you?”

You still.

Yeonjun doesn’t look at you when he says it. His gaze stays on the table. “I’m always—something,” he continues, voice quieter. “A rumour. A joke. A story people tell because they’re bored. Even when it’s my mates, it’s still—” he gestures with the fork, frustrated, “—the same shit. The same expectations.”

He swallows. His jaw flexes once.

“And it’s easy to play into it,” he admits with a grimace. “Because if I correct it, I’m killing the vibe. If I’m tired, I’m dramatic. If I’m not in the mood, suddenly it’s a thing.”

He finally glances up at you—just a flicker—and his eyes sharpen, expecting you to joke, or flinch, or do the usual comforting performance people do when they don’t know what to say.

You don’t. You just hold the silence so he doesn’t have to rush himself out of it.

Yeonjun’s throat moves. He looks away again, irritated, softer in the same breath. “It’s weird,” he mutters. “Sitting here and not—performing.”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

That’s all you give him. Not reassurance. Not aw, you’re not like that. Not a speech. Just—I heard you.

Yeonjun’s shoulders drop a fraction.

Your phone lights up on the table.

soobin: call?

The name sits there. Normally you’d feel the rush. The validation. The finally. Instead, your stomach twists again—the same strange, sour pull you’ve been trying to blame on party alcohol or dodgy dinner.

Yeonjun doesn’t look at the screen. He doesn’t angle for it. He doesn’t make it his problem. He just keeps eating his tragic pasta, giving you a clean exit if you want one.

Your thumb moves before your brain can argue. You flip your phone over, swipe, and turn Do Not Disturb on.

Yeonjun’s eyes flick up—quick surprise—then away again, refusing to make it a thing.

The quiet that follows feels different.

Yeonjun stands and takes both bowls to the sink, rinsing them. Then he comes back, wiping his palms on his hoodie, and points the remote.

“Wanna watch One Piece?” he asks.

Your mouth twitches. “Yeah, lets.”

The theme song blasts. Bright and stupid and loud. Yeonjun drops onto the cushion beside you, shoulder brushing yours for half a second. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you.

And for the first time in days, your stomach unclenches—not because everything is solved, but because, right now, you’re just here. In his living room. With bad pasta in your bloodstream and your favourite anime on the TV, listening to Yeonjun laugh at something on-screen.

By the time the episode counter starts feeling rude—Next Episode flashing with a personal vendetta—it’s 5am. Your body is the first to tap out.

You push yourself up from the sofa and stretch, spine cracking in a way that makes you wince. Your stomach rolls again—that same odd twist from earlier—and you frown. Right. Cool. Amazing. Either you’re having a medical crisis over a boy, or Yeonjun’s pasta is about to give you diarrhoea.

You glance down. Yeonjun’s asleep.

His head is tipped slightly toward the armrest, mouth parted, one hand loose on his stomach. The hoodie’s bunched up at his waist from shifting, soft fabric pulled tight across his shoulder.

And he looks—beautiful.

Lashes resting on his cheeks. Hair fallen forward, darker in the low light. That hoop in his ear catching a weak flicker from the TV screen. The kind of face someone could paint and ruin their own life over. The kind of face you could cry to.

Your insides lurch again and you scowl. “Stop,” you whisper, to your digestive system, to your brain, to whatever part of you is trying to turn One Piece and a terrible dinner into a personality shift.

You move quietly, grabbing your coat from where you dumped it over the chair. You find your shoes by the door, crouch, and start to slide them on as gently as you can.

You reach for the handle.

Behind you, a voice, thick with sleep. “Where’re you going?”

You pause.

Yeonjun’s sitting up, rubbing his face with the heel of his palm, hair a mess now. He blinks at you, reloading the room.

“Home,” you say, trying to keep it casual. “Before the sun comes out and I have to explain why I’m leaving your flat in last night’s clothes.”

Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “You’re not leaving.”

“I am leaving.”

“You’re not leaving alone,” he corrects, as if that’s the only part he’s objecting to.

You stare. “Yeonjun, you’re half dead.”

“I’m awake.”

“You’re literally speaking in subtitles.”

He drags himself to his feet anyway, taller in motion. He grabs his keys, shoves his feet into trainers without socks.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you insist, pulling your coat on. “Go back to sleep.”

Yeonjun looks at you for a beat, expression flat. “No,” he says, opening the door. “Come on.”

You follow him out, annoyed at how easily he gets his way. The hallway is quiet. The building asleep. Outside, the air is sharp enough to make your eyes water. The sky is still dark but thinning—the edge of morning starting to bleed in.

Yeonjun walks beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He looks younger like this. Less performance. More person. You try not to think about it.

“You okay?” he asks after a minute.

“Yes,” you say too quickly.

He glances at you. “That means no.”

You exhale. “My stomach feels weird.”

“Told you,” he says, smug even while sleepy. “My pasta has consequences.”

“It’s not your pasta,” you argue.

“It is my pasta,” he insists. “And my trauma, but that doesn’t count.”

You choke out a laugh, then immediately feel it in your stomach again, a flutter that is absolutely not diarrhoea and you want to scream.

The streets are empty. No students, no taxis, no idiots yelling outside kebab shops. Just your footsteps and the occasional distant car, the city still half-dreaming.

Yeonjun slows a little, matching your pace like he’s not thinking about it. Then he clears his throat. It’s a small sound. But it changes the air. “You know—” he starts.

You look at him. He’s staring ahead, jaw tight. His hands stay in his pockets.

“What?” you ask.

He exhales, annoyed. “Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

Yeonjun clicks his tongue. “There are—things I haven’t told you.”

“Okay,” you say, simple.

He frowns. “You’re not even going to ask what.”

“If you want to tell me,” you say, “you’ll tell me.”

Yeonjun stares at you. For a second you think he’s going to push. Insist. Force the words out because he’s halfway there and pride hates retreat. Instead, he looks away, eyes fixed on the pavement, and his shoulders drop a fraction. “—Right,” he mutters.

You keep walking.

Yeonjun follows. A beat later, he says, quieter, “You’re weird.”

You huff. “You’re the one who committed an act of culinary terrorism and then walked me home like a Victorian chaperone.”

He snorts. “Don’t make it sound wholesome.”

“It is wholesome,” you shoot back. “It’s five in the morning and you’re escorting me home because your flatmate’s at his girlfriend’s.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Stop.”

You tilt your head. “Why? Embarrassed?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. Then adds, like it’s an insult, “You make things feel—normal.”

The sentence lands in your chest in a way you don’t know what to do with. So you do what you’ve been doing all night. You don’t make it weird. You don’t turn it into a moment. You just nod once and keep walking.

Your building comes into view too fast. You stop at the entrance, hand on the door handle. Yeonjun stops beside you, posture slightly too close.

“Thanks,” you say.

Yeonjun shrugs. “Whatever.”

You raise a brow. “Whatever?”

“I’m not going to say you’re welcome like I’m someone’s dad,” he mutters.

You smile despite yourself. “Okay. Thanks anyway.”

Yeonjun looks at you for a long second, eyes scanning your face. Then he says, low, “Text me when you’re inside.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because if you collapse from my pasta and I wake up to a missing person alert, I’ll be annoyed,” he says, deadpan.

You stare at him. “You’ll be annoyed?”

“I’ll be very upset,” he corrects quickly, then grimaces like he hates himself for it. “Just—text me.”

You nod, lips pressed together so you don’t smile too hard. “Okay.”

You go inside. Two minutes later, you’re in bed—duvet pulled up, room dark, stomach still making suspicious movements. You reach for your phone, ready to flick Do Not Disturb off, and you see a missed call from Soobin. Your thumb hovers. You don’t do anything.

You open your messages instead.

you: inside now

You toss the phone onto the pillow and stare at the ceiling. Your stomach twists again.

“Please be diarrhoea,” you whisper to your body. “Please.”

Your phone rings ten minutes later. Yeonjun.

You answer on the second ring, voice low. “You’re home?”

“Yeah,” he says. He sounds awake now, which is insane, because he was asleep twenty minutes ago. He clears his throat. “You’re in bed?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” A pause. Then, “You’re still alive?”

“Barely.”

He huffs a laugh, quiet. “Good.”

You wait. Yeonjun doesn’t hang up. The silence stretches—not awkward, just—held. Like neither of you want to be the one to cut it.

Then he says, out of nowhere, “Do you have a date in mind?”

You blink. “For what?”

“For your last lesson,” he says, voice steady. “You said you wanted—three. You said you wanted the final one to be—” He stops, annoyed. “Just. Do you have a day.”

Your stomach does that weird flip again. It’s something that sits under your ribs and makes you feel too aware of your own heartbeat. “Tomorrow,” you hear yourself say.

Yeonjun goes quiet for half a second. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you say, breath catching slightly. “At your place.”

Another pause. Longer. Then Yeonjun exhales, slow. “Okay.”

You wait for him to add a joke. A crude comment. A smug line. He doesn’t. He just says, quieter, “I’ll be ready.”

Your mouth goes dry in a way you don’t like. You keep your voice even. “Me too.”

Yeonjun breathes out again. “Sleep.”

“You too,” you say.

A beat. Then, softer than his usual voice, “Night.”

“Night,” you reply.

He hangs up.

You stare at your ceiling, phone warm in your hand. Your stomach knots and unknots again. And you think, for the hundredth time tonight, please be the pasta.

Yeonjun’s flat is too clean for what’s about to happen.

His flatmate is still at his girlfriend’s. The absence hangs in the air—no stupid commentary from the kitchen, no footsteps in the hallway, no TV noise to pretend this is casual.

It’s just Yeonjun and his own thoughts, bouncing off walls. He’s been tidying for thirty minutes. Not because the place is messy. Because his hands won’t stop moving.

The buzzer goes. He opens the door and you’re there—coat zipped, hair done without looking done, eyes sharp and steady. You’re not smiling, not nervous. You’re—focused. It hits him low in the stomach.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he answers, and it comes out rougher than he wants.

You step in and Yeonjun shuts the door. You take your shoes off, slow. He watches your hands, the way you move like you’re trying not to hesitate.

You look up. “Your housemate still—gone?”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun says. “He’s not coming back tonight.”

Your eyes flicker at that, quick. Then you step closer. No warm-up. No banter. No so what arc are you on? safety net. You tilt your chin up and lean in for him.

Yeonjun meets you halfway—then pulls back at the last second. Not far. An inch. Enough that your breath hits his mouth and stays there.

Your brows draw together. “What?”

His ring turns under his thumb. His throat feels tight in a way that pisses him off. He’s not having trouble doing this—not the physical part. The confession part is the one that’s making him feel fifteen. “I can’t,” he says.

Your eyes widen, then sharpen. “Can’t what? Kiss me?”

“I can,” he mutters, frustrated, and you see it—the flicker in him, the heat he’s trying to cage. “That’s the problem. I can do that and you’ll think it means one thing, and it means another, and then you’ll hate me when you realise.”

You don’t move. You just watch him.

Yeonjun forces himself to meet your eyes. He hates how much he wants to drop them. “I’ve been living inside a story other people wrote about me.”

The words come out clean. No performance. No smirk. You blink once. “What story?”

He lets out a breath through his nose. “The one where I’m—that guy.”

Your gaze flicks over his face, like you’re checking if he’s joking. He isn’t.

“I let people think I was someone else,” he says. His jaw flexes. “I didn’t correct it. I didn’t stop it. I fed it when it suited me.”

You’re quiet.

Yeonjun swallows. His fingers tighten around the ring. “And I liked being wanted for it—until you.” His voice turns rough on the last word. “With you, I want to be real even if it ruins it.”

Silence presses in.

You shift—a small movement—and Yeonjun’s body reacts instantly. The heat doesn’t disappear because he’s confessing. If anything, it gets worse. His palms feel too empty. His mouth feels too aware of itself.

You speak carefully. “So—you’ve been lying.”

“Yes,” he says, blunt. “Not to you, directly. But—yeah.”

Your eyes narrow. “What’s true, then?”

Yeonjun’s chest tightens. This is the part he keeps trying to step around. He can’t. Not now. He drags in a breath. He hates the next sentence before he even says it. He says it anyway. “I’ve never had sex with anyone. I’m—a virgin,” he says.

Your face changes—surprise, immediate. You don’t cover it.

Yeonjun’s eyes flick away. “And before you—” He stops, jaw tight, then forces it out. “I hadn’t even kissed anyone. Not properly. Not at all.”

The air goes sharper. He expects a laugh. He expects disbelief. He expects you to say no way and make it sound like a joke he can hide behind.

You don’t. You stare at him for a beat, then you say, very quietly, “So this whole time—”

Yeonjun’s mouth twists. “Yeah.” He twists his ring again, hard. His knuckles whiten. “I’m scared you’ll look at me differently,” he admits, and the confession is almost a whisper. “I’m scared this will make you—not want me.”

He tries to joke, because he’s him, because he can’t stand how exposed he feels.

“Which is stupid,” he mutters. “Because I’m literally standing here telling you I’m a fraud. Great strategy, Choi Yeonjun.”

The joke dies in the air. Even he knows it. He goes quiet. His gaze drops to the floor. He can’t hold eye contact.

Then, very carefully, he gives you an out and means it. “If you want to leave,” he says, voice low, “you can. Right now. I won’t be weird. I won’t chase you. I won’t—” He stops himself, swallows. “I won’t make you carry my shit.”

You don’t move.

Yeonjun’s stomach turns. He waits for the sound of your shoes. The polite excuse.

Instead, you lift your hand. Your fingers brush his cheek.

Yeonjun freezes. The touch is gentle.

You say, quietly, “I want you as you are. Not as who I thought you were.”

For a second, Yeonjun can’t speak. His throat tightens, sharp and stupid. He finally looks at you. Your gaze doesn’t drop. You’re not treating him like glass. You’re not trying to fix him. You’re just—there.

And that does something far more dangerous than the rumours ever did. His mouth opens. Closes.

You breathe out, almost amused despite the tension. “Also, this means—”

Yeonjun’s brow lifts a fraction. “Means what?”

You tilt your head. “It means I wasn’t the only one behind.”

The words hit him in the ribs. He exhales, unsteady. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Guess not.”

Your thumb lingers at his jaw for half a second longer, then drops. The loss of it makes him want to grab your wrist and pull you back. He doesn’t.

You step closer again, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Are you going to kiss me now,” you ask, “or are we going to stand here having a crisis in your hallway?”

That pulls a laugh out of him—real, broken, relieved. “Fuck,” he mutters.

You arch a brow. “Consent is sexy,” you say, deadpan.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Don’t.”

“You said it,” you reply.

He lets out a slow breath, then leans in—slow and careful. His hand comes up to your waist. He waits half a beat, eyes on yours.

You don’t back away. So he kisses you.

You make a small sound into his mouth and Yeonjun’s grip tightens without thinking. Your coat shifts between you. The zipper catches on his ring and snags for a second.

You both pause.

You whisper, “Are you serious?”

Yeonjun huffs a laugh against your mouth, breath hot. “Don’t start.”

You tug the coat free, annoyed—and Yeonjun tries to help.

He thinks, distantly, that this is the first time he’s ever wanted to slow down for reasons that aren’t about technique. The kiss deepens as the coat hits the floor—his tongue brushing yours, bolder when you press closer, your body molding against his.

His heart is pounding. He’s not hiding anymore—and fuck, it makes every touch feel electric, every sigh from you pulling at something deeper than lust. Your hands slide under his shirt, fingers cold against his skin, and he shivers.

He breaks the kiss to gasp against your neck. “God, I’ve wanted this—you—since you showed up at my door the very first time,” he murmurs, voice cracking with honesty.

He nips at your skin before soothing with his tongue. You tilt your head back, breathing hard, and he feels your pulse racing under his lips. It’s like his confession unlocked something, making the want feel heavier—terrifying and thrilling all at once.

“Me too,” you whisper back, pulling him in again.

The kiss turns needier—your teeth grazing his bottom lip by accident, tugging enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.

He groans, low and ragged. His hands slide up your back under your coat, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer.

He breaks away barely an inch, breath hot against your lips. “I want you so fucking bad,” he murmurs, voice cracking on the words, “and I don’t know if I can stop once we start.” He swallows thickly, eyes searching yours in the dim hallway light. “So tell me now—if you want to leave, do it. Please.”

You hold his gaze, heart pounding. “I want you, Yeonjun. All of you.”

The words hang there, and his pulse jumps—you can feel it under your fingers on his neck. He nods once, jaw clenching tight like he’s holding back a flood. He kisses you again—harder, backing you up against the wall with a thud that knocks a picture frame askew.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, laughing breathlessly, but he doesn’t stop.

His hands fumble with your coat zipper, yanking it down—the metal catching on fabric. You shrug it off together, arms tangling for a second, before dropping to the floor in a heap.

His mouth finds your neck, sucking at the skin. You gasp, hips grinding forward without thinking, feeling him hard against your thigh.

“Yeonjun—here?” you whisper, half-laughing, half-desperate. Your fingers clutch his shirt as he presses you harder into the wall.

“Not yet,” he rasps, but his hands are everywhere—sliding under your top.

His palms are hot on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He kisses you deeper, tongue tangling wet and eager, saliva mixing. Yoi both stumble down the hallway, bumping into a side table that rattles loudly.

“Shit—sorry,” he chuckles, pulling you along, not breaking the kiss.

His ring catches in your hair for a painful tug that makes you yelp into his mouth. “Ow—watch it,” you tease, but it’s breathy, needy, and you yank him closer by his belt loops.

By the time you reach his bedroom door, you’re both panting. Your clothes are rumpled, his hair a mess from your fingers. He fumbles for the handle—hand slipping once, twice—muttering “Come on” under his breath.

When it finally opens, he pulls you inside, kicking it shut behind you. The quiet of Yeonjun’s room wraps around you—dim light from the bedside lamp, the faint smell of his aftershave mixed with his cologne.

Your heart’s racing—not just from the nerves twisting in your gut, but from the weight of everything he spilled in the hallway. It makes you desperate to make this good—to explore it together without the pretence.

Yeonjun turns to you, eyes dark but soft around the edges. “Come here,” he says, voice low and a tad shaky, reaching out to pull you gently toward the bed by your hand.

You sit on the edge side by side, thighs pressing together, the heat from his skin seeping through your clothes. He leans in to kiss you again—slower now, like he’s trying to savour every second. His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. You melt into it.

Your hands find his waist, bunching his shirt. “Can you take this off?” you whisper against his lips.

“Yeah—okay,” he breathes, pulling back to drag his shirt over his head in one go.

His chest is bare now—skin warm and flushed, muscles shifting under it as he tosses the shirt aside. You run your fingers over him tentatively, feeling the rapid thump of his heart, the slight tremble in his abs.

“Yours?” he asks, eyes flicking to your top, hands hovering like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

You nod, arms lifting, and he helps tug it off—the fabric bunching up around your arms before it pops free.

When it’s gone, he stares at your chest. “Fuck, you’re—gorgeous,” he murmurs, the words half-muffled as he leans in to kiss your collarbone.

“Thanks?” you say softly, cheeks burning. “You too—obviously.”

He smiles against your skin, and it loosens something in your chest. His hands slide round to your bra clasp—fingers slipping off the hook twice, swearing under his breath.

“Why’s this so tricky?” he mutters, laughing nervously, and you giggle too, twisting to help. “There,” he says, sheepish, as it falls away. His eyes widen, pupils blowing out as he takes you in—even though this is the second time he has seen you like this.

He swallows hard. “Can I… touch them—I mean—you?”

“Please,” you breathe, and he cups your breast gently at first—then squeezes firmer when you arch into his palm. His thumb brushes your nipple, sending a spark straight to your core, and you gasp. “That—do it again.”

“Like this?” he asks, circling, eyes locked on your face like he’s cataloguing every reaction.

“Yeah—it feels so good Yeonjun,” you pant, pulling him down for another kiss. The heat builds low in your belly. Your hands wander lower, tugging at his belt. “Please can you—these off too?”

He nods, standing up to unbuckle—belt clinking loudly, nearly tripping as he shoves his jeans down one leg at a time. “Smooth as ever,” he quips, grinning.

Your eyes drop to his boxers—the tent in them obvious and straining. When he pushes those down, his cock springs out. It’s thick, girthy—enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench—veined along the length, the tip flushed and leaking a bead of pre-cum. The thought of his cock inside of you is intimidating when you were barely able to hold it all in your mouth—but the heat between your legs overrides any nerves.

“You’re—big,” you murmur, voice small, reaching out to wrap your hand around him tentatively.

He hisses, hips jerking forward into your grip. “Careful,” he warns, voice strained, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “I don’t want to cum—yet and I haven’t—done this before… so yeah.”

“Neither have I,” you remind him, stroking slow—you spit into your palm like you did last time, slicking him up.

He groans, head tipping back.

“This okay?”

“Fuck—yeah, but go easy or I’ll finish too quick,” he pants, hands clenching at his sides. “Your hand feels amazing.”

You slow down, and he kneels back on the bed, eyes raking over you hungrily. “I want to make you feel good too,” he says, voice husky.

His fingers hook into your waistband. You lift your hips, and he pulls your jeans and panties down in one tug—fabric catching on your ankle, making you kick it free with a laugh.

“Jesus, you’re soaked,” he murmurs, staring between your legs, fingers tracing up your thigh hesitantly.

“For you,” you say, blushing hard. “Can you touch—me? Please, Yeonjun?”

He nods, sliding a finger through your folds—teasing without meaning to, then pressing firmer when you whimper and buck up. “Does it feel good here?” he asks, circling your clit, thumb slipping off once.

“Lower—a bit—yes, right there,” you guide, grabbing his wrist. He slips a finger inside, and you clench around the intrusion. “Can you add—another finger?”

He does, stretching you with two now—curling them too shallow, then deeper when you shift your hips. “Like that?” he whispers, pumping slow, thumb bumping your clit and making you moan.

“Better—keep going, yeah,” you pant.

You kiss him, desperate for relief, tongues clashing as you grind into his hand. “Feels good—don’t stop.”

“Won’t,” he promises, voice wrecked, free hand groping your breast.

After a few minutes, you’re aching, sopping wet, the emptiness too much. “I think I’m ready,” you gasp. “You?”

“Fuck yes,” he says, but pauses. “Let me grab a condom?”

You nod—glad he thought of it—and he fumbles in his bedside drawer, wrapper crinkling as he tears it with his teeth.

He rolls it on with shaky hands, nearly fumbling it onto the floor. “Right—how d’you want to…?”

“Can you be on top first?” you suggest, scooting back on the bed, pulling him over you.

He settles between your thighs, cock nudging your entrance—sliding up through your folds and bumping your clit, making you both gasp.

“Close—try again.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, grinning while lining up properly. “I’ll be slow, okay? Tell me if it hurts.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

He pushes in inch by inch—the girth stretching you wide, a sharp burn that makes you wince and dig your nails into his shoulders.

“Wait—ow, hold up a sec.”

He stops immediately, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “Too much? We can stop—no pressure.”

“No, just—give me a minute,” you whisper, kissing him softly to distract from the stretch.

He holds still, peppering kisses along your jaw, and slowly the burn eases into fullness, pleasure sparking.

“Okay—you can try to move now? But slow, please.”

He pulls back—too far, slipping out halfway with a wet pop—and thrusts back in unevenly. “Shit—sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say, half-laughing and half-moaning as he finds his way back in. “Just—keep trying.”

He does, hips stuttering—too deep once making you yelp, then shallower—but it builds, that thick drag against your walls lighting you up.

“Does it feel good like this?” he asks, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Faster—a little,” you guide, legs wrapping round him, heels digging into his ass.

He speeds up, but loses the beat. “I think I’m close—do you want to switch?” he pants, slowing down. “I might last longer if you’re on top.”

You nod, and he rolls you over—knees knocking. You straddle him, sinking down slow. The angle is deeper now, his girth filling you to the brim, hitting spots that make your eyes flutter.

“Oh—fuck,” you gasp, hands on his chest for leverage.

“Shit—fuck—you feel so good. Ride me,” he begs, hands gripping your hips, thumbs digging in too hard then loosening. “You feel incredible—you’re so tight around me.”

You rock tentatively—grinding your clit against his base by accident and moaning loud. “It feels so good, Yeonjun. How does it—for you?”

“Amazing—don’t stop,” he groans, thrusting up, making you bounce off-rhythm.

You slip forward eager to feel him deeper. “Is this too fast?”

“No, fuck, keep going—” he bucks too wild and nearly unseats you.

You both pause a second to catch your breath, foreheads pressed against each other. Then readjust—the eye contact burning, the shared grins turning to gasps.

“I’m close—” you warn, rhythm faltering, thighs burning.

“Me too—please—come with me,” he moans.

Yeonjun’s hand slips between you to rub your clit—too rough at first, then perfect—and it shoves you over, clenching hard around him as waves crash through you. He follows with a guttural groan, hips jerking, spilling into the condom.

You collapse onto his chest, both panting, sticky with sweat.

Yeonjun doesn’t move for a while.

Not because he’s playing it cool. His body is still catching up with what just happened.

The room is dim, the air slightly stale in that way it only gets when the window’s been closed too long. The bed’s a mess. The sheet is tangled around your legs. His shirt is somewhere on the floor. There’s a condom wrapper crumpled near the edge of the bedside table.

You’re tucked against him, forehead near his shoulder, breathing unsteady. Yeonjun’s hand is on your back. It stays there. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with his hand when he isn’t acting. So he does the simplest thing—he holds you there and lets your breathing settle against his ribs.

It gets too quiet. The quiet starts asking questions. He hates the quiet.

He clears his throat, and says the first stupid honest thing his brain finds. “I think,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling, “I might be traumatised by your laundry detergent.”

You laugh into his shoulder. It’s the kind of laugh that comes out when your body doesn’t have another safe exit. It shakes once, turns sharp, then softens into a weird little sound he feels against his skin.

Yeonjun freezes for half a second, then his fingers press more firmly into your back. Grounding. “Hey,” he says, lower. “You good?”

You lift your head a fraction, eyes bright and unfocused, mouth swollen. It makes him look away and then look back anyway because his impulse control is a joke.

You nod. Then you nod again. “Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m just—overwhelmed.”

Yeonjun swallows. His ring catches on the sheet when he shifts. He immediately stills and fixes it with his thumb. His hands want something to do. “Okay,” he says. It comes out steady, but he hears the strain under it. “Okay. We can be overwhelmed. That’s allowed.”

You stare at him for a beat, then your face crumples into another laugh and you bury it back into his shoulder.

Yeonjun lets out a breath that sounds half relief, half panic. “Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “This is not what I thought would happen.”

“What did you think would happen?” you ask, muffled.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “I thought you’d—” He stops. Recalibrates. “I thought you’d go home.”

You lift your head now. “Why?”

Because he doesn’t know what to do with you staying. Because you staying means he can’t pretend it was just a lesson. Because he can’t hide behind a reputation when you’re in his bed and you’re quiet and you’re looking at him like he’s a person.

He shrugs, aiming for casual. It fails. “Because that’s the normal outcome.”

“Are you normal?” you ask.

Yeonjun huffs. “No.”

You watch his face, like you’re reading it. He breaks eye contact first.

A beat passes.

Then he says, quietly, “The best part wasn’t—that—the sex.”

You don’t interrupt.

Yeonjun’s jaw shifts. He rubs at his ring again until it almost hurts. “Everyone thinks,” he says, “I care about winning. About getting someone. About being—the guy.”

Your expression stays soft, alert.

He lets out a slow breath. “I thought I cared too. For a while. It was easy.” He swallows. “It was easier than being myself.”

You don’t say why. You don’t say how. You don’t ask in a way that corners him. You just say, “What’s yourself, then?”

Yeonjun’s throat closes around the words. He tries to laugh it off and it comes out wrong—thin, short, pointless. “Fuck,” he mutters. “See? This is why I don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

He gestures vaguely between your faces, the bed, the quiet. “Talk.”

You don’t smile. You don’t tease. You just look at him and wait. It’s infuriating. It’s also… safe.

Yeonjun stares at the ceiling again because the ceiling doesn’t have eyes. “The rumour started first year,” he says. “Freshers. Everyone’s bored, horny, desperate to attach a label to someone so they can stop feeling anonymous.”

You shift slightly, pulling the sheet higher over your chest. Yeonjun notices and his hand moves automatically, tucking the edge around you without thinking. He hates how natural it feels.

He continues, voice low. “There was this girl. Older. Second year. She liked me.” He pauses, then corrects, honest. “She liked the idea of me. I didn’t even know what to do with that at the time.”

Your brows lift. “At the time?”

Yeonjun glances at you, then away again, cheeks warming with something he refuses to name. “Yeah. At the time.” He takes a breath. “She invited me to a party. I went because my mates dragged me and because I didn’t want to be the boring guy who never shows up.”

You nod once, silent encouragement.

“I didn’t hook up with her,” Yeonjun says, sharper, like he needs you to understand that immediately. Then he grimaces. “Not because I’m noble. Because I didn’t know how.”

Your gaze doesn’t change.

Yeonjun’s shoulders loosen a fraction. “I walked her to her room because she was drunk,” he says. “She kissed my cheek. That was it. That was the whole thing.” He scoffs quietly. “But her flatmates saw me leaving, and suddenly it was Yeonjun fucked her. People love a headline.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he says, a little bitter. “And I did the worst possible thing.” He pauses. The admission costs him. “I didn’t correct them.”

“Why?”

Yeonjun’s fingers tighten on the sheet. “Because I liked that it made people stop asking questions.” His voice drops. “People don’t poke at you when they think they already know you.”

You’re quiet.

He keeps going because he’s already stepped off the ledge. “And then it snowballed. Someone made a joke. Someone else repeated it. Someone added details. Suddenly I had a type. Suddenly people had stories about me that I’d never lived. And I—” He swallows. “I let it happen.”

You shift closer, your knee brushing his thigh under the sheet. Yeonjun’s breath catches, then steadies. He doesn’t move away.

“I thought it made me safer,” he says. “It meant no one looked too closely. No one expected anything from me except that I’d be arrogant and easy.”

Your voice is soft when you ask, “Did you ever try to stop it?”

Yeonjun lets out a humourless laugh. “Once.” He glances at you. “Someone asked me outright if it was true. I said no.” He pauses. “They laughed in my face.”

Your eyes narrow, not at him—at the world. “That’s disgusting.”

Yeonjun’s throat works. “So I thought—fine. If they’re going to laugh anyway, I might as well give them what they want. A version of me they can point at. A story that keeps them entertained.”

He looks down at his hands. His ring. The stupid little circle he’s been twisting like it’s a lifeline.

“I liked being wanted for it,” he admits. “Until you.”

You don’t say anything right away. You’re still thinking.

Yeonjun can’t hold the silence. It makes him itchy. It makes him want to bolt. He opens his mouth to backtrack, to joke, to make himself smaller.

And then you speak first. “Okay,” you say, and the word is steady. “That makes sense.”

Yeonjun blinks. “It does?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Because I’ve been doing the same thing.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

You shift onto your side so you’re facing him properly. Yeonjun’s eyes flick to your mouth and then away because his brain is still stupidly physical even when he’s trying to have a serious conversation.

“You know Soobin,” you say.

Yeonjun’s chest tightens at the name. He nods.

“I liked him first because he was safe,” you admit. “Not safe as in boring. Safe as in—predictable.”

Yeonjun watches your face. Watches the way your gaze drifts, searching for the right words.

“He was the kind of boy everyone agreed was good,” you continue. “Good grades. Good manners. Good family. The kind of boy you can tell yourself you’ll end up with and no one laughs at you.”

Yeonjun stays silent. The room holds its breath.

“And because he was away,” you add, voice going a little quieter, “it was easy to keep liking him. I could build it into a whole thing. A whole—story.” Your mouth twitches, humour without joy. “And the story didn’t require me to actually do anything. It didn’t require me to be brave.”

Yeonjun’s throat clamps. He doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going, eyes on his collarbone instead of his face now, as if it’s less dangerous that way.

“He started talking to me properly a few months ago,” you say. “Out of nowhere. Switzerland made him bored or sentimental or both. He started being—consistent. Sweet. Asking about my day. Remembering things.” You pause. “And I liked that. I liked him noticing me.”

Yeonjun’s fingers flex against the sheet. He doesn’t like the tight feeling in his chest, but he doesn’t know if he has the right to.

“So when he told me he’s coming back and asked me on a date,” you say, “it felt like—finally. Like I was getting the ending I’d been rehearsing for years.”

You look at Yeonjun then, eyes clear.

“But it also made me feel sick,” you admit. “Because I realised I didn’t know how to be the girl in the story. I didn’t know how to kiss him. I didn’t know how to—” You cut yourself off, cheeks heating. “And I couldn’t stand the idea of being exposed as—inexperienced.”

Yeonjun’s eyes flicker. Understanding lands, solid and sharp. “So you came to me,” he says quietly.

You nod.

Yeonjun huffs, something that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt.

“So we’re both idiots,” he mutters.

You blink. “Excuse you.”

He looks at you, serious now. “We were both performing.”

You don’t deny it.

The quiet that follows is different. Yeonjun’s hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes your cheek with his knuckles. It’s careful. He’s testing whether he’s allowed.

You don’t flinch. You lean into it, just slightly.

Yeonjun’s breath catches. He almost says it. The words sit on his tongue—I like you—plain and terrifying. If he says them, he can’t pretend this is still under control. If he says them, he risks watching your face change.

So he panics and does what he always does—he swerves. “You know,” he says, voice low, trying for casual, “this is really going to destroy my campus reputation.”

You stare at him. Then you laugh again into his shoulder, the same overwhelmed laugh, and Yeonjun feels his chest unclench so hard it’s almost painful.

“Are you serious?” you whisper.

“No,” he admits immediately. “I mean—yes. But also no. Shut it.”

You shift closer, your hand sliding up to his jaw, thumb resting there. Yeonjun stills. His pulse does something stupid. Yeonjun’s hand slides to your waist under the sheet and pauses there, giving you the chance to move away.

You don’t.

He leans in, slow. His forehead almost touches yours.

“Are you okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun’s mouth hovers near yours. He can feel your breath. “Then,” he murmurs, voice rough, “say stop if you want me to.”

Your lips part. You don’t say stop. Yeonjun kisses you—slower than earlier, less frantic, more deliberate. The kind of kiss that isn’t trying to prove anything. The kind of kiss that says I’m here.

When you pull back, he breathes out against your mouth and almost—almost says it. Instead he whispers, “You’re really bad for me.”

You smile. “Good.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes for half a second, then opens them again, and this time he doesn’t look away.

A week later, you almost bail the date.

The kind of bail that starts as a thought and becomes a plan. If I turn my phone off, he can’t reach me. If I pretend I’m sick, he’ll be annoyed but he’ll forgive me. If I die, technically I don’t have to go.

You’re standing in front of your wardrobe with your arms crossed, staring at a row of outfits that suddenly look like costumes. Clothes you used to think would make you feel pretty now just look—loud. False. Too eager.

Because how do you crack yourself open for someone—let them see the soft parts, the unpolished parts, the parts you protect with jokes—and then go and sit across someone else over cocktails and candlelight?

You press your fingers to your mouth, hard enough to quiet the impulse to text Yeonjun something stupid. Something that would make him reply instantly. Something that would restore the familiar hum between you.

But you haven’t responded to him since lesson three—since last week.

You tell yourself it was strategic. That it was you being disciplined. That you’re not going to be the girl who catches feelings and then spirals into humiliation.

Except you didn’t do it to be disciplined. You did it because you didn’t know what to say. Because I can’t stop thinking about you is too much. Because I miss you is worse. Because I feel guilty would make it real in a way you can’t undo.

And somewhere along the line, Yeonjun stopped texting you too. Silence. A clean withdrawal that feels like someone taking a chair from behind your knees.

You stare at your phone on your bed.

There are old notifications from him that still sit there if you scroll far enough. A you alive? from Tuesday. A saw this and thought of you with a One Piece meme. A don’t ignore me, psycho that should’ve been funny and is now a punch to the ribs.

You haven’t opened them. You’ve been living on stubbornness and denial.

And tonight, you’re going on a date with Soobin.

Soobin, who is—on paper—everything.

The boy you’ve liked since you were sixteen. The boy every girl wanted in school, the one who looked kind even when he wasn’t trying, the one teachers praised too openly. The one your friends used to treat as a mythical creature—Soobin smiled at you? He asked about you? He’s single now?

And now he’s back. He’s here. He wants you too.

This is what you wanted. So why does it feel like you’re doing something wrong?

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself, because you’re still going.

You’re still going because you don’t get to throw away years of wanting just because you made a mess in one month. You’re still going because if you don’t, it means something has shifted and you don’t know how to hold that truth yet. You’re still going because you’re not ready to become a different version of yourself when the old one hasn’t even been properly buried.

Your doorbell goes at 11:26am.

Then again at 11:27am.

You open it and your flat floods with noise.

“GOOD MORNING, SLUT,” Yuna announces, marching in like she pays rent. She has two coffees in one hand and a tote bag bulging with makeup in the other. “We’re here to make you hot and emotionally unavailable.”

“Don’t call me a slut,” you say automatically, voice flat.

“Don’t be a coward,” she replies, kicking her shoes off and beelining for your living room. “This is a sacred day. This is history.”

Behind her, Mina appears with a bag of pastries and the energy of someone who believes in soulmates and plotlines. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” she says, already tearing the bag open. “Years. Literal years. This is your happy ending.”

“Can you not say happy ending,” you mutter, because your brain is a traitor and immediately supplies images you do not have time for.

“OH MY GOD,” Yuna shrieks, delighted. “She’s horny.”

“I’m not horny,” you snap.

“You’re defensive,” Mina says, accusing.

“I’m tired,” you say, because it’s the only excuse that doesn’t require further explanation.

They’re both talking over each other now—dates, restaurants, what he’s probably wearing, what you should wear, how you should do your hair, whether you should do eyeliner that says sweet or eyeliner that says I could ruin your life.

Beomgyu arrives last. He doesn’t knock. He never knocks. He opens your door with the spare keys he stole and walks in with the confidence of a man who thinks boundaries are a myth.

He pauses mid-step when he sees your living room full of pastries and bags and cosmetics spread out. He scans the scene. Then he looks at you. Not at your outfit. Not at your hair. At your face.

His eyes narrow. “Why do you look,” he says slowly, “like you’re about to attend your own execution?”

“Shut it,” you reply.

“No, genuinely,” Beomgyu continues, ignoring you as he always does when he’s right. “This is supposed to be your dream date. You’ve been talking about Soobin since we were in school. Since before we even had frontal lobes.”

Mina tosses a cushion at him. “Let her breathe!”

“I am letting her breathe,” Beomgyu says, catching it. “I’m just asking why she looks haunted.”

You glare at him.

He holds your gaze without blinking, which is deeply irritating.

“Okay,” you say finally. “Everyone out of my bedroom.”

“EXCUSE ME?” Yuna says, scandalised.

“Not like that,” you snap. “I mean—I need to change without an audience.”

“You literally have tits,” Mina says, offended. “We all have tits.”

“OUT,” you repeat, pointing.

They groan, dramatic, but they obey—mostly—filtering out while still shouting advice through the door.

“NOT THE BLACK DRESS, YOU’LL LOOK TOO SERIOUS!”

“WEAR THE GREEN ONE! GREEN IS FLIRTY!”

“DO YOU WANT FLIRTY OR DO YOU WANT I HAVE OPTIONS?!”

“I WANT SILENCE,” you shout back.

Beomgyu doesn’t leave. He leans on your doorframe instead, arms crossed, watching you pull dresses off hangers with the dispassionate expression of someone judging your life choices in real time.

“You’re not my dad,” you tell him, because his face looks too much like a teacher’s disappointment.

“Thank fuck,” he says.

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“I can’t,” he replies. “You’re giving me… interesting energy.”

You pause with a dress halfway off the hanger. “Interesting how.”

Beomgyu tilts his head. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you insist you want something,” he says, “and then you look like you want to run as soon as you get it.”

Your stomach tightens. You scoff, because this is your favourite defence mechanism. “You’re making it deep for no reason.”

Beomgyu’s mouth twitches. “No reason. Right.” He steps into your room, quietly, and sits on the edge of your bed like he lives here too.

You hate that he looks calm. You hate that he’s always calm when you’re not.

“So,” he says, casual. “Are you excited?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Beomgyu’s brows lift a fraction. “Oh.”

“Don’t oh me,” you say instantly.

“I didn’t even say anything,” he replies, delighted. “Your face did.”

You turn away, pretending to rummage through your drawer so you don’t have to look at him. Your phone is on your bed. You don’t touch it.

Beomgyu’s voice softens, just a little. “Talk to me.”

You exhale through your nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Okay,” he says. “Then answer one question.”

You don’t respond.

He continues anyway. “If Soobin texted you right now and said, I can’t make it tonight, I’m sorry, would you be devastated… or relieved?”

Your throat closes. You hate him. You also hate that the answer arrives immediately.

Beomgyu watches you falter. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t grin. He just nods, like he’s confirming something he already knew.

You set the dress down carefully, hands suddenly clumsy. “Don’t do that,” you say, voice sharper than you mean.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like you’ve solved me.”

Beomgyu leans back on his hands. “I haven’t solved you. I just know you.”

You turn on him. “I’m going on the date.”

“I know,” he says.

“And I want to go.”

“Okay.”

“And I want Soobin.”

Beomgyu’s eyes flicker. “Do you?”

Your mouth opens again. You close it.

Beomgyu waits. Patient. Annoying.

You swallow. “I’ve wanted him for years,” you say finally. “It’s—Soobin. He’s… him.”

“That’s not an answer,” Beomgyu says gently.

You laugh, humourless. “I’m not doing this.”

“You are doing this,” he corrects. “You’re just doing it while pretending you’re not.”

You look away, jaw tight.

Beomgyu sighs, then says, softer, “Did something happen?”

Your pulse kicks. You keep your voice flat. “No.”

Beomgyu doesn’t believe you. He’s never believed you when you lie. You’re bad at lying to people who love you.

He glances at your phone on the bed, then back at you. “Did you… meet someone?”

You feel heat crawl up your neck.

Beomgyu sits up slightly, attentive now. “Oh my God. You did.”

“Stop,” you say, immediately.

“Wait,” he says, eyes widening with genuine joy because he’s a menace. “Are you serious? Who? Tell me. Was it a random? Was it—”

“No,” you cut in.

Beomgyu’s grin fades just enough to show curiosity. “Not a random.”

You don’t answer.

Beomgyu’s gaze drifts over your face again, then sharpens. He speaks slowly, like he’s testing the edges of the truth. “Is this about… that Choi Yeonjun?”

Your stomach drops. The room goes too quiet in a way that makes your skin prickle.

Beomgyu sees it. His expression shifts. “Okay,” he says, voice careful now. “So it’s that.”

You stare at the floor, the words in your throat refusing to become real. Beomgyu doesn’t push for details. He doesn’t say what did you do. He doesn’t ask for gossip. He just nods again, like he’s rearranging a puzzle inside his head.

“Is he an asshole?” Beomgyu asks.

You blink. “No.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Did you hurt him?”

You flinch, just a little.

Beomgyu exhales. “Right.”

Your voice comes out small despite your effort. “It wasn’t supposed to be—anything.”

Beomgyu’s mouth quirks, but there’s no humour in it. “Nothing never behaves.”

You hate that he’s right. You sit on the edge of your bed without meaning to. The mattress dips.

Beomgyu watches your hands twist together. “Soobin,” he says quietly, “is the boy you wanted when you were younger.”

Your chest tightens at the way he says it.

Beomgyu’s eyes hold yours. “Yeonjun is the boy you met now.”

You swallow.

Outside your door, Yuna and Mina are still arguing about outfits.

“THE GREEN ONE MAKES HER LOOK RICH!”

“THE BLACK ONE MAKES HER LOOK DANGEROUS!”

“WHY CAN’T SHE LOOK RICH AND DANGEROUS?!”

Beomgyu glances toward the noise, then back at you. “You don’t have to decide everything today,” he says.

“I do,” you whisper. “The date is today.”

“You don’t have to decide your whole life,” he corrects. “You just have to decide what you’re going to do for the next few hours.”

You stare at your phone again. A week of silence sits between you and Yeonjun. Your pride built it brick by brick. Now it feels too tall to climb down from without bleeding.

Beomgyu stands, stretches, then reaches out and flicks your forehead with the strength of Hulk.

“Ow,” you snap.

“Welcome back,” he says. “I was worried you were going to float away into your own head permanently.”

You glare at him, but a knot lifts behind your ribs.

Beomgyu points at your wardrobe. “Pick the dress you feel least fake in.”

“None of them,” you mutter.

“Then pick the one you can breathe in,” he says simply.

You nod once, because it’s the only thing you can manage.

Beomgyu turns to leave, then pauses at the door. He glances back over his shoulder. “And hey,” he adds, voice softer, “if you spend the whole date thinking about someone else—that’s information. Don’t ignore it just because it’s inconvenient.”

Your stomach drops again. “Beomgyu,” you warn.

He raises his hands. “Okay. Okay. I’m gone.”

He walks out.

The noise rushes back in immediately—your friends storming your room, holding up dresses, shouting, laughing, calling you dramatic and iconic and insufferable.

You let them.

You let them do your eyeliner and your hair and your perfume and your whole transformation into the girl they think you are tonight.

Soobin pulls up outside your building in a car that looks too clean to belong to a uni student.

It’s not some battered little thing held together by hope and a dodgy MOT. It’s a proper car. Black. BMW. The kind that makes the streetlights slide across it neatly. You stand on the pavement with your bag on your shoulder and your coat half-buttoned and you genuinely have to pause.

Since when does Soobin drive? Since when does he have a car?

It makes your stomach do that weird thing again, not butterflies—something more clinical. A tightening. A question.

You walk down anyway.

Soobin steps out before you can reach the passenger door. He’s wearing a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open enough to look effortless. Hair still damp at the ends, as if he showered recently. Under the streetlight his face looks… soft. Pretty in that careful way that used to destroy you in highschool. The kind of boy everyone wanted and nobody touched without permission from the universe.

“Hey,” he says, smiling properly now.

“Hey,” you say back, and your voice behaves.

You hate that. You hate how good you are at behaving.

He looks you up and down—quick, respectful. Then his eyes meet yours and he grins. “You look really nice.”

“Thanks.” You adjust your bag strap. “I didn’t know you—drive.”

Soobin laughs, a surprised little sound. “Yeah. I do. I just never had a reason to bring a car to campus.”

You hear it—never had a reason. The sentence should make you feel special. It should spark. Instead, it sits on the surface of you, neat and weightless.

He opens the door for you.

You slide into the passenger seat and the inside smells expensive. Subtle cologne, leather, something sharp that suggests a grown-up life you never attached to him when you were sixteen and he was only a crush and a myth and a face in a corridor.

Soobin gets in, starts the engine, checks his mirrors. His hands on the wheel look familiar—long fingers, careful grip. Everything about him feels… correct.

And it’s so different from walking.

So different from being outside at stupid hours with Yeonjun, both of you under-lit by corner shop fluorescents, arguing about crisps and anime arcs and whether you’re allowed to be this feral in public spaces. No seatbelts. No air freshener. Just cold air and his hoodie sleeve brushing your wrist.

Soobin glances at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say instantly. “Just didn’t expect you to pull up like a CEO.”

He laughs again. “It’s not that deep.”

That’s the thing. With him, nothing ever is.

You drive to the cinema and it’s smooth—traffic lights, gentle turns, music low. Soobin asks about your week. He listens. He doesn’t interrupt. He’s good at the basics in a way that would’ve made you melt a month ago. He says your name the way he always did back then, like it’s something familiar he’s allowed to hold.

You respond. You make jokes. You keep it easy.

And somewhere behind your ribs, something stays shut.

At the cinema, he buys the tickets before you can offer. Popcorn, too. He even gets the drink you mention without making you repeat yourself. He’s attentive in a soft, socially-approved way—green flag behaviour. The kind people write threads about.

You stand beside him while he pays and you watch the cashier smile a little too brightly at him, and you feel nothing. Not jealous. Not threatened. Not even flattered.

Soobin nudges you gently with his elbow. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say. “It’s just weird seeing you in the wild.”

“In the wild?” he repeats, amused.

“Yeah,” you say. “You’ve been in Switzerland for months and now you’re here being a functioning person with a vehicle and a bank card.”

He snorts. “I’ve always had a bank card.”

“Sure,” you say, deadpan. “But did you always have… this?”

You gesture at the popcorn like it’s proof of adulthood.

Soobin smiles. “Switzerland did make me a bit—domesticated.”

Your brain, traitor that it is, offers you Yeonjun’s voice immediately—dry, rude, warm in the worst way. Domesticated? You’re a Labrador.

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself smiling.

Inside the screen, it’s a cheesy rom-com. The kind where the lighting is too golden and the misunderstandings are manufactured and everyone is somehow glowing even when they’re meant to be devastated.

Soobin laughs at the right moments. He leans closer at the sweet parts. His knee brushes yours once, cautiously, like he’s checking the temperature of you.

You let it happen. You don’t pull away. You don’t lean in either.

You try to be present. You really do. But the cinema is a trap. The dark does what it always does—turns your brain into a projector. Not of the movie. Of a different night, a different screen, a different kind of stupid.

Not the details. Your mind doesn’t give you details so much as the feeling—heat under your skin, the rush of doing something you shouldn’t, the way you had been fearless for once. The way Yeonjun’s voice had turned rough right by your ear.

Your fingers tighten on the popcorn bucket.

On-screen, the male lead delivers a line about fate or love or whatever, and Soobin chuckles, shaking his head fondly.

You laugh too—except your laugh isn’t for the movie. It’s for Yeonjun, in your head, going, If I ever say something like that, shoot me.

Soobin reaches for your hand on the armrest and threads his fingers through yours. His hand is warm. His touch is gentle.

It should do something to you. It doesn’t.

Not because he’s doing it wrong. Because there’s no risk. No edge. No consequence. He’s not asking anything of you except to be here and smile and let him hold you.

And a week ago, you learned what it feels like when something is at stake. When someone isn’t trying to be impressive. When someone is trying to be honest and failing, and you can see the effort anyway.

Soobin squeezes your hand once, reassuring. You squeeze back because you’re not cruel.

The movie ends. Everyone claps because people are weird. Soobin stands, stretches, asks if you liked it.

“It was cute,” you say.

“It was,” he agrees. “Kind of predictable.”

You almost say, so are you, but you don’t. Because he doesn’t deserve that. Because he hasn’t done anything wrong except arrive too late to a version of you that used to want him uncomplicated.

Outside, the night is crisp. Soobin walks you to the car. He opens your door again. The date keeps insisting on being textbook.

“So,” he says once you’re both in. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Dinner.”

He drives to a fancy restaurant you’ve only ever walked past, the kind with warm lighting and quiet music and menus that don’t have prices printed in obvious places. The valet takes the keys. Soobin thanks him. You follow Soobin inside and your heels click on polished floors and everything feels staged.

They seat you at a small table. Candles. Linen. Water poured without asking.

Soobin looks across at you and smiles like he can’t believe this is real. Like he’s been looking forward to it.

And that’s what makes your throat clamp.

Because you know he has.

Soobin starts talking about Switzerland as soon as the waiter leaves. It spills out of him in tidy paragraphs—the mountains, the trains that actually arrive on time, the air that feels sharp and clean, the way the snow looked unreal the first time he saw it up close.

“I used to walk to my lectures and it felt—” he searches for the word, then laughs at himself. “It felt like a movie.”

You nod, attentive. “Did you miss home?”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “More than I expected. I missed my friends. I missed my mum’s food. I missed—” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “I missed you.”

There it is. The line you’ve replayed in your head for years, the one you used to beg the universe for in different forms.

It lands gently. It doesn’t crack you open.

You smile anyway, because you’re not made of stone. “I missed you too.”

It’s true. In a way. In a past-tense way. In a I missed who I was when I thought you were the only outcome that mattered way.

Soobin talks about a girl on his course who couldn’t pronounce his name properly. He mimics her accent, a little dramatic, and you laugh because it’s actually funny. Then he says, “I tried fondue. Proper fondue. It’s insane.”

“Cheese,” you echo.

“Cheese,” he confirms. “And bread. That’s it. But it works.”

Your stomach gives a small, violent reminder of 2am spaghetti and a boy who looked offended by garlic. Yeonjun at a hob, squinting at olive oil. Yeonjun muttering why is it smoking? as if the pan is the problem. Yeonjun putting too much chilli in because he refuses to measure anything in his life.

You snort.

Soobin stops mid-sentence. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, but your smile is crooked now. “Just thinking about—food.”

Soobin looks relieved. “Good. Because I was worried you were laughing at me.”

“I wouldn’t,” you say automatically.

He leans back a little, comfortable. “You can. I don’t mind.”

That should feel intimate. Instead, it makes you think of Yeonjun going, Laugh at me and I’ll block you in real life, while still smiling, while still handing you a fork.

The waiter comes back. Soobin orders smoothly, pronounces everything right. You order too, choosing something you’ve never tried.

Soobin reaches across the table and takes your hand again. “Can I say something?” he asks.

Your stomach tightens. “Yeah.”

“I’m glad you said yes,” he says. Simple. Honest. “I didn’t know if you would.”

You hold his gaze. His eyes are warm. Open. He’s not playing games. He never was.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you ask, forcing lightness.

Soobin shrugs, sheepish. “Because it’s been a while. Because I left. Because you’re—you.”

You blink. “I’m… me?”

He smiles. “Yeah. You always seemed like you had your own world going on. Even back then.”

Your own world. A week ago, Yeonjun said something similar, except he said it meaner, and you’d felt seen so hard it pissed you off.

Soobin squeezes your fingers. “I just—I don’t want to mess it up.”

There’s the stake, offered politely. And you realise, with a strange clarity, that you want him to mess it up a little. You want him to say something wrong. You want him to hesitate. You want him to admit something ugly and real instead of being the perfect outcome to a teenage crush.

Soobin watches your face. “You okay?”

You blink, startled, and realise you’ve gone quiet again. “Yeah,” you lie. Then, because you can’t help it, you add, “Sorry. I’m just—processing.”

“Processing what?”

Everything. You shrug. “Switzerland.”

He laughs, relieved. “Yeah. It was a lot.”

Dinner arrives. It’s plated beautifully. It tastes good in a way that almost annoys you. Soobin tries a bite, closes his eyes for a second, and makes a pleased noise.

“This is amazing,” he says. “I picked well.”

You nod, chewing slowly.

Soobin reaches across and brushes his thumb over your knuckles, absent-minded.

“After this,” he says, voice softer, “we can go back to my place? If you want. Just… talk or have a drink or whatever.”

His place.

You picture it immediately. Yeonjun’s place. Yeonjun’s room. Yeonjun’s bed.

You laugh. A small, broken thing. You hate yourself for reasons you can’t name.

Soobin’s brows pull together. “Did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. Sorry. No, you didn’t.”

He watches you. He doesn’t push. He goes back to his food, but slower now, as if he’s trying to recalibrate.

You take a sip of water. Your phone stays face-down in your bag. You don’t check it. You already know there’s nothing there.

And that’s the other truth you won’t say out loud. It’s been a week since lesson three, and Yeonjun stopped texting, and you pretended it didn’t matter—until you sat across from the boy you thought you wanted and realised you can’t unlearn the taste of real.

The bill comes in a black folder. Soobin reaches for it before you can even pretend you’re about to argue.

“Let me,” he says, already sliding his card out.

“Okay,” you hear yourself reply, soft and automatic.

That’s the problem. You’ve been automatic all night.

Outside, the city has cooled. Streetlights rinse the pavement. The restaurant door closes behind you.

Soobin turns to you on the sidewalk, smiling—bright, pleased. “You were quiet during dessert,” he says gently. “Are you tired?”

You could say yes. You could say you’ve got an early lecture. You could do the polite ending—hug, promise, second date. You feel your body reject it before your mouth catches up. “No,” you say. “I’m not tired.”

Soobin’s smile falters into concern. “Okay. What is it?”

You look at him properly. The rolled sleeves. The neat hair that falls into his eyes when the wind nudges it. The boy you’ve wanted in every season of your life. The boy you built a whole version of yourself for.

You swallow hard. Not with nerves. With truth. “I need to tell you something,” you say.

Soobin straightens a little, attentive. “Yeah. Tell me.”

You swallow. Your hands are cold. You tuck them into your coat pockets so he doesn’t see them shaking. “I’ve liked you since I can remember,” you say. “Since it was embarrassing to like anyone. Since it felt illegal.”

His face softens instantly. He actually looks—happy. Flattered. A little disbelieving.

“You were always the only boy I looked at and wanted,” you continue, and your voice doesn’t wobble, which is new. “You made me feel things and want things before I even knew what any of it meant.”

Soobin smiles wider, almost shy. “I—wow.”

You nod once, quick. “And I thought there wasn’t anyone I could ever want apart from you.”

His eyes warm. He steps half a pace closer, and his hand lifts, hovering near yours. He doesn’t touch yet. He’s asking without asking.

“And then,” you say, and the word cuts the air cleanly, “I met someone.”

Soobin freezes.

You keep going because if you stop, you’ll turn into a coward again. “He seemed like one person at first,” you say. “And when I actually got to know him, he was someone else completely.”

Soobin’s smile is gone now. He’s trying to stay polite. You can see it in the set of his mouth. In how carefully he breathes.

“Are you saying—” he starts.

“I’m saying I’ve been performing,” you cut in, and the bluntness surprises you both. “All night. I’ve been performing for months. Our calls. Our texts. All of it.”

Soobin’s brows knit. “Performing?”

You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “You know when people want a version of you, so you become it because it’s easier than being—whatever you actually are.”

He blinks, slow. “I thought you were having a good time.”

“I’m good at looking correct,” you say. “That’s basically my only skill.”

“So what changed?” Soobin asks, and he means it. There’s hurt underneath, but he’s still trying to understand. “Why tell me this now?”

You stare down the street for a second because the answer is too exposed if you say it while looking at him. “Because I’ve been truly seen,” you say quietly. “And once someone sees you—properly—you can’t go back to the polished version without hating yourself.”

Soobin’s voice drops. “Who is he?”

You hesitate for half a beat. Then you say it. “Choi Yeonjun.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. Not anger, exactly. More a stunned recalculation. He huffs. “Choi Yeonjun,” he repeats. “The—”

“Yeah,” you cut in, tired. “That one.”

Soobin looks at you for a long second. “So you—you’re with him?”

“No,” you say fast. Then slower, because you refuse to lie again. “I don’t know what I am. I just know I can’t sit through another date pretending I’m the same girl who built you into an ending.”

Soobin swallows. “Is this because the date wasn’t—exciting enough?”

You shake your head, immediate. “No. God, no. This isn’t you lacking anything.”

He studies you, careful. “Then what is it?”

You take a breath. Your stomach twists—old embarrassment, old fear—then settles into something steadier. “It’s me,” you admit. “I lack something. Or I did. I was so scared of being an idiot in front of you.”

Soobin’s expression shifts. “An idiot?”

You nod, eyes stinging with the effort of saying it clean. “I lied to you for months.”

His face goes blank for a second. “About what?”

You force the words out. “My body count.”

Soobin’s eyes widen a fraction. “What?”

“I said it was eleven,” you say, and you can’t even look away now. You make yourself hold it. “It wasn’t. It was zero. Back then, I hadn’t even kissed anyone.”

Soobin goes very quiet.

You keep talking, because you refuse to let the silence swallow you whole. “I overcompensated,” you say. “I tried to become the kind of girl I thought you’d want. The kind of girl who wouldn’t embarrass you. Who wouldn’t be—behind.”

Soobin’s throat moves. “Why would that embarrass me?”

“Because I decided it would,” you snap, and then soften immediately because this isn’t his fault. “Because I didn’t trust you with the truth. And I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

He looks shaken now. “So tonight,” he says slowly, “you were—what—trying to prove something?”

You nod. “I was trying to be impressive. I was trying to be safe.” You swallow. “Soobin,” you say, and your voice cracks on his name because it still matters, in its own way. “I don’t want safe. I want real. I don’t want to pretend. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

He stares at you. His hands flex at his sides, helpless. “But I’m real.”

“You are,” you say, instantly. “You’re the most real person in this whole thing. That’s why I can’t keep doing it to you.”

Soobin’s eyes flick over your face as if he’s searching for the punchline. “So what now?”

You swallow. The answer lands in your chest with frightening clarity. “I have to go,” you say.

His breath catches. “Go where?”

You don’t answer. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes final in a way that terrifies you. And it’s already final. You can feel it in your bones.

Soobin reaches for you then, reflexive. Fingers brushing your wrist. Not rough. Not entitled. Just desperate. “Wait,” he says, voice low. “Can we talk about this properly? You can’t just—”

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

His hand tightens for half a second, then loosens, like he realises he can’t hold you in place without becoming someone he doesn’t want to be.

You step back.

Soobin looks at you with a kind of stunned grief that makes your stomach turn, makes you want to rewind the last five minutes and lie again just to spare him.

But you can’t.

You turn and you walk away—fast at first, then faster, until you’re not walking at all. You’re running.

You don’t even remember ordering the Uber. You just remember the cold air in your lungs, the shake in your hands, the way your phone screen blurs as you type the address you know too well. You sit in the backseat with your knees bouncing, jaw clenched, heart punching at your ribs.

The driver asks, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you lie out of habit, then correct yourself under your breath. “No.”

When you get out, you don’t check your reflection. You don’t fix your hair. You don’t rehearse a sentence.

You climb the stairs and knock.

Once. Twice.

The door opens.

Yeonjun is there, bare forearms, dark hair slightly messed, the ring in his ear catching the hallway light when his head shifts on the doorframe.

His face is careful—too controlled, as if he’s about to say the safe line, the measured line, the one that keeps him from hoping. “Hey,” he starts.

You don’t let him finish. You grab his shirt with both hands and kiss him.

Your mouth fits against his in a way that makes your whole body stop fighting itself. His breath stutters once, surprised, and then he’s kissing you back—harder, closer, hands finding your waist like he’s been holding them there in his head all week.

You pull back just enough to breathe.

Yeonjun’s eyes are dark. Wide. Then his mouth curves—small, relieved, undone. Like he’s grateful you didn’t make him be clever. “Come in,” he says, voice rough.

And you do.

The door closes behind you.

(the end)

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a/n: OMGGGGGG guys!! this has been such a fun rollercoaster. let's unpack the chapter because i have sm to say. okay the smut scene?? what do you think think, ik its kinda ugh BUT i wrote it like 5 times and this was the version when i threw my hands up and was like im done now i cba anymore. also i love beomgyu sm, i need a friend like him. im gonna miss him the most i can't lie. and my bby soobin :( initially i did think of making him shitty but it just didn't make sense so instead so we have the pain of perfect guy, wrong timing.

i also have a mini announcement to make... since so many of you LOVED reading vpb and I LOVED writing vpb, i have decided to make a sequel!! not for our beloved idiot couple but for soobin!! and before yal boo, listen, soobin also deserves a happy ending no?

i don't know when i will actually get to the sequel, but you know your notes fuel me. so can we do 1k notes and i will get to typing? no? if thats too ambitious, you guys will just have to be patient until im able to squeeze some time for it!! in the meantime, below is the sequel's summary :0 (you can find it and my upcoming txt works in my wips list!). okay enough yapping from me and i will see you all on the next! much love <333 (ps. comment, reblog and send me your asks!! spam me, i love it!!)

misguided | choi soobin

⤷ college students au, pining soobin x fake shaman, love triangle, idiots in love

✎ summary the girl soobin has wanted since forever is dating the resident campus playboy. desperate, hopeless, and out of ideas, he comes to you—a shaman who supposedly specialises in love rituals and spiritual compatibility. only problem? you’re a total fraud. you planned to scam him, send him away, and never think about it again… until he starts opening up. until you realise you’re both in love with people who will never choose you back. until helping him stops being business—and starts becoming something dangerously close to affection. you were supposed to fix his love life. you weren’t supposed to fall for him.

#virgin playboy

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