WHO DOESN'T LOVE LOVE ✶ ── presenting 4 rom-com style fics for ENHYPEN'S hyung line ﹐﹟ starring our very own ⟡﹒ heeseung ⪩ jay ⪩ jake ⪩ sunghoon
for your information ⌗﹐ each fic is an individual fic and they are not set in the same world. not like crossing the line was. Each fic is fun and rom com genre (obviously) but they will contain smut so MDNI. ➜﹒ if you'd like to be tagged, comment here, the tag list is currently closed. posting dates vary based on when i finish the fics.
STRICTLY BUSINESS ⌗﹐ p.sh
STARRING rival coworker ⋆ ⸝⸝ sunghoon & fem reader genre e2l workplace romance rom com grumpy x sunshine rivals 2 lovers
IN WHICH ✿﹒ you hate park sunghoon. he was an arrogant know-it-all with a short fuse and an incredible beautiful face who also happens to be your partner in the biggest presentation of your life. The only problem is, you just can't get along. He hates everything you present and his are boring lacking any personality (just like him). So finding a middle ground is hard, especially when you can't help but find him just a bit charming.
HE STILL CALLS ME ⌗﹐ p.js
STARRING ex boyfriend jay & fem reader genre exes 2 lovers rom com roommates turned exes comedy
IN WHICH ✿﹒amidst a rather cordial breakup with your now ex turned roommate, you can't seem to find yourself out of his bed and into another and vice versa. So the two of you devise a plan; set each other up on dates to get over each other; only they keep going horribly wrong bringing the two of you closer than ever. Somewhere between the terrible dates, the shared toothbrush cup, and the “totally casual” sex, the apartment starts to feel less like a breakup zone and more like… whatever the opposite of breaking up is. And suddenly you’re both realizing the same thing: maybe the problem isn’t that no one else is right for you. Maybe it’s that you were never actually done with each other.
STUPID CUPID ⌗﹐ s.jy
STARRING sim jaeyun & fem reader genre friends 2 lovers fake dating rom com black cat reader golden retriever jake
IN WHICH ✿﹒ As student body president it's your duty to pull off the best annual valentines festival of all time. except well, you don't believe in love. It was a trivial thing, something people made up to not feel so lonely. No one believes you can pull it off much less your rival Kim Chaewon, so you enlist the one person you knew that could help; your hopeless romantic best friend Jake. with him you can prove everyone wrong, while not falling in love in the process. Right?
AN INCOMPLETE GUIDE TO NOT FALLING FOR YOU ⌗﹐ l.hs
STARRING lee heeseung & fem reader genre fake dating based on 'to all the boys i've loved before' rom com popular heeseung
IN WHICH ✿﹒ you’ve always believed in quiet love, the kind of love that fits neatly between lines of a letter, sealed with hope and never sent. But when your little sister takes it upon herself to mail those secret confessions you wrote to every boy you’ve ever liked, your world explodes in the most humiliating way possible. One of those letters ends up in the hands of Lee Heeseung, known as a campus golden boy, who happens to be newly single, and now, your accidental partner in chaos, you make a ploy at fake dating in hopes of making his ex girlfriend jealous and to get your best friend's boyfriend to not think you’re in love with him, only problem is — you totally are.
🔮 preview. “You don’t have to believe me when I say I want to defile you. I’ll prove it to you soon enough,” Wonwoo’s smirk widens. “You might be an angel, but angels aren’t impervious to sin. After all, demons were angels once, until they stopped lying to themselves and gave in to the carnal pleasures. We’ll get there, don’t worry. I might be a demon, but I can be patient.”
tw/cw. Mentions of porn and bdsm, unprotected sex, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, oral/pussy eating, praise, slight degradation, manhandling, fingering, overstimulation, foreplay, etc… I pet names: (hers) angel, baby.
👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.6k
🍭 aus. Non idol au, angel & demon au, enemies to lovers, etc…
☀️ mlist + an. So think of it kind of like the Disney movie about emotions, Inside Out, where the demon and angel view Mingyu’s world through a viewing station and speak to him through his subconscious to guide him one way or the other. Also, please note: I’m not religious, so my interpretation of angel!y/n warring with herself over temptation is simply an interpretation and a fanfic.
Prologue:
You can remember the day you first saw Mingyu as if it were only this morning. He was the sweetest child, visiting church with his family at age four. There was something so adorable about his all-white outfit, the slacks and button-up with a vest. He looked very devoted and very determined as he stood up and sang the church songs with his whole little chest.
That was the day you asked to be his guardian angel, and for a time, nothing had ever been so easy.
Mingyu is pure of heart in a way most humans can never even dream of being. Some kids have a demon on their shoulder from an early age, a pest to be dealt with and chastised by both angel and parent, but not Mingyu. It was just you and him, for many, many years, and you delighted in the fact that you had one of the best boys you’d ever met as your ward.
Many late-blooming children gain a demon when they enter high school, when they first try marijuana or alcohol against their own better judgment - it’s the work of the demon on their shoulder - but again, not Mingyu.
It wasn’t until your good boy was sixteen that things started to shift. His friends were all having their first sexual encounters, and they began to tease your perfect church baby that he was a virgin. Mingyu tried to pretend their words didn’t hurt, but you knew differently. Although you tried to push him in the direction of spending more time with other church children, Mingyu continued to hang out with these raunchy boys, as they were on his high school basketball team.
He held off valiantly from the compulsions of the deadly sins, but one cold December night, your perfect golden boy finally snapped and gave in to temptation.
The demon known as Wonwoo appeared the moment Mingyu first typed the words ‘porn hub’ into his cellphone, and in the darkness of Mingyu’s room, you met the man who would be your antihero for as long as Mingyu would continue to live.
And Wonwoo is a demon with a reputation. Whereas you like to cherry-pick your wards as the kindhearted humans who are pure of soul, Wonwoo is known for his ability to sniff out those who are easily tempted by sin. His last human was a sexual fiend, and he got addicted to OnlyFans. he lost his relationship and all of his money due to Wonwoo’s coaxing of the addiction. The man died prematurely while drunk driving, which is something of a success story for the demon who collected his soul in the end.
So why was this demon in particular here with you and Mingyu?
What had seemed like an easy task had become more difficult than you ever signed up for, and Wonwoo seemed to relish in the knowledge that he was here to contradict your every musing in Mingyu’s ear.
One:
“I hope you have your popcorn ready, angel,” Wonwoo grins, as the two of you hover in your between-worlds guardian posting. It’s kind of like an apartment, with two sides, the good and the evil, with a massive monitor to watch what Mingyu is doing at any given time. There are speakers for you both to try to persuade him into things, and your voices are what Mingyu might classify as opposing sides of his subconscious.
“Frat parties can be positive,” you insist as you settle next to Wonwoo. “Last time, he saved that girl who blacked out.”
“Yeah, the wild goose chase,” Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “He should have been hitting on girls and slamming jello shots, but instead, you convinced him to track down the girl’s dorm room, carry her all the way home, and make sure she was okay when she woke up hours later. He even held her hair back while she puked. Yuck.”
When Wonwoo knows he’s lost to you, he generally fucks off, goes back into his demon side of the apartment, in his demon room, or leaves altogether to complete other tasks.
Demons don’t need sleep, and technically, angels don’t either, but you’re a self-identifying lazy girl, and you prefer to have rest when Mingyu sleeps, rather than be twenty-four seven working like Wonwoo is. You wonder if his packed schedule is what makes him such a dick, but you also have seen the joy he takes in doing bad deeds, and you can only assume that when he’s not here with you in Mingyu’s head, he’s off pillaging and causing mischief elsewhere.
Wonwoo looks through Mingyu’s eyes, and he leans toward the communicator where he can send his words to your ward. “Get a drink,” Wonwoo insists. “Something fun. Something fruity. Something with way too much alcohol that’s masked with sugar.”
You sigh, also leaning forward. “We should start slow with some water.”
You can sense Mingyu’s inner turmoil as he makes his way to the kitchen, and that’s where he bumps into Hoshi and Seungkwan, both of whom are ruled by their inner demon.
“Hey buddy, want a drink?” Hoshi grins, cheeks pink, eyes clouded with booze.
“Reject him,” you say.
“Accept,” Wonwoo pushes.
“Sure, why not?” Mingyu grins, taking the cup of purple liquid. He downs it easily, and you sigh. So tonight will be a more indulgent evening, and you hate the way Wonwoo sits back with a smile.
“Score one for me, angel,” Wonwoo muses.
“The night is still young,” you huff.
Wonwoo leans forward again. “You know what goes good with alcohol? Cocaine. Or ecstasy. Something fun. Maybe molly.”
You’re flabbergasted. “Mingyu has never-”
“Now is the night to start, he’s at a frat party, with friends, and we know Vernon always has a bong on hand. Maybe weed, something chill.”
You hate him, and you spend the next two hours battling Wonwoo for dominance of Mingyu. Wonwoo wins when it comes to alcohol, but your sweet boy isn’t interested in drugs, no matter how much the demon insists it’s the perfect night to dabble.
And that’s when Mingyu first lays eyes on Kimi.
She’s a year younger than him, someone he’s heard about and seen a few times, but never talked to. She looks gorgeous, in a flowy top and jeans that hug her just right. You can sense Mingyu’s heartbeat quickening, and in his drunkenness, he’s even more susceptible to Wonwoo, who leans forward. “You should fuck her tonight, there’s never a time to be a whore like the present.”
“No sex, you like her!” you argue back. “Talk to her, get her name, look for longevity.”
Wonwoo scoffs. “A one-night stand with a girl like that? Who could think of something better?”
“Uh, maybe a relationship?” you snap.
“We don’t know anything about her!” Wonwoo yells. “And we don’t need to know.”
You lean back from where Mingyu can hear your subconscious pushings, glaring at Wonwoo. “What’s with you and rough, anonymous sex?”
“It’s the best way to have it,” Wonwoo tells you, his grin widening. “I think our Mingyu boy would love to try some of the things he’s seen in the porn I’ve pushed him to watch. You know, bondage, tying a girl up, all the good shit.”
“Consentually, of course.”
“With you here, it would always have to be consensual,” Wonwoo scoffs.
“You’re despicable.”
“I’m a demon.”
“Even demons have their limits.”
Wonwoo shrugs. “Not really.”
“Well, my Mingyu is a good person. He’d never stoop to your level.”
“Well, he watches the porn I want to watch.”
You click your tongue. Wonwoo convincing Mingyu to watch porn is always the worst, and it’s when you leave the viewing station. The demon can be particularly convincing when it comes to observing sex acts on Mingyu’s phone, but you know your good boy would never go further than simply watching. He’s not the type to ever act on some of the more raunchy ideas Wonwoo forces into his head.
No matter how hard Wonwoo pushes, you know your Mingyu.
And you’re thankful that by the end of the night at the frat party, Mingyu agrees with you that he’s now too drunk, and he retires to bed.
The viewing station goes dark as Mingyu drifts to sleep, and you stand up with a sigh, glaring at Wonwoo.
“You know, one of these days, you’re going to admit that you kind of like the whole bondage sex thing,” Wonwoo sighs.
“What?” you gasp.
“You always leave the room when he and I watch porn.”
“Because I’m a pure being! Because porn and sex go against what I stand for!”
“Porn and lust might be ‘anti-angel’, but sex is natural; it’s God-created. Humans are like any other animal, and they’re meant to have sex, to procreate,” Wonwoo says simply. “I know you’re loose on your whole ‘celibate until marriage’ ideals. When Mingyu lost his virginity, you were happy because it was soft. You might be an angel, but you don’t follow a strict code, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that you follow the bible to the letter. I’m just curious how loose your morals really are. You might think I’m here to test Mingyu, but I’m really here to test you.”
“And who do you think you are to test me?” you glare.
Wonwoo shrugs. “Just a demon who specializes in lust, a demon who took one look at you on Mingyu’s shoulder and decided, ‘you know what, I’d fuck that angel.’”
“As if that’s a compliment.”
“It is, most angels have sticks up their asses the size of the Empire State Building. And don’t get me wrong, you have a stick up yours too, I’m just curious if you’d want something else up inside of you at the same time.”
“I can’t believe you,” you groan, hating the way your body reacts to his sinister smirk, the slight floodyness of his hair, and the regal way he stares at you.
“You don’t have to believe me when I say I want to defile you. I’ll prove it to you soon enough,” Wonwoo’s smirk widens. “You might be an angel, but angels aren’t impervious to sin. After all, demons were angels once, until they stopped lying to themselves and gave in to the carnal pleasures. We’ll get there, don’t worry. I might be a demon, but I can be patient.”
Two:
“Hold it, you’re not going anywhere,” Wonwoo grins, grabbing your arm as you’re about to leave the room, when Mingyu pulls up pornhub with Kimi on his mind.
“I’m not sitting here with you for this; it’s weird,” you insist, pulling yourself away from him, hating the way the cold of his touch lingers on your skin.
“Boys will be boys, let the man find some release,” Wonwoo tells you, his grin widening.
“Boys may be boys, but you were whispering in Mingyu’s ear all day that he should have a jack off session and think about ‘that chick from the frat party.’”
Wonwoo shrugs. “It wasn’t that hard to convince him.”
You let out a deep breath.
“Watch this,” Wonwoo leans forward so Mingyu can hear him. “Look up ‘rope BDSM.’”
“Oh my gosh!” You cover your eyes with your hands as Mingyu quickly follows through with Wonwoo’s suggestion.
“There’s something so sexy about having complete control of another person,” Wonwoo insists, leaning back and staring at you with dark eyes. “Admit it, you liked controlling Mingyu before I showed up.”
“It’s not remotely the same.”
“It is, sort of.” The demon shrugs. “You like control. I know you do. Because every time you don’t get your way, you have a little fit.”
“I do not!”
“Look at you, angel, you’re practically stomping your cute little foot right now.” Wonwoo lets out a chuckle, and you hate how attractive it is. “If you play your cards right, someday, I might let you have a little control over me.”
“What, like tie you up?” you scoff.
Wonwoo’s grin widens. “Does that excite you?”
“In your dreams,” you snap.
“Angel, we both know I don’t sleep. But I do imagine things, things about you…”
Your breath catches.
“I imagine what you sound like, what you taste like. I imagine the look in your eye when I have you immobilized and at my mercy. I imagine making you crack, making you finally admit that pleasure is exactly what it means in the dictionary; the feelings of delight, something you enjoy with every fiber of your being, something you’d beg for me to give you again and again.”
Your skin is heating with embarrassment, and it’s crazy to you that Wonwoo can say everything he just said with a completely straight face. He has zero shame in admitting the things he’s just admitted, and yet, you feel like the dirty one.
“I’m leaving,” you say again, more firmly this time.
“I won’t stop you; you have full control of yourself, and that’s what makes this interesting.” Wonwoo turns his attention back to the screen, where Mingyu is now in the throes of enjoying porn.
“You’re evil,” you snap.
“I’m a demon, it’s part of the job description,” Wonwoo says absentmindedly.
You fight the urge to stomp your foot, and with one last scoff of displeasure, you go back to your quarters, throwing yourself down onto your bed with a muffled scream.
Three:
It’s been a month of chaos. Wonwoo has become somehow even more dirty, and every time he whispers some sexual idea in Mingyu’s ear, his eyes are fixed on you.
You squirm when he mentions bondage, porn, rough sex, and more dirty things that are not for an angel’s ears.
And to make matters worse, you know that Wonwoo is imagining himself doing all of these dirty things to you. To be the object of sin and desire is new to you, and it brings an uncomfortable feeling to the pit of your stomach.
You grapple with yourself every night, unable to get Wonwoo’s voice out of your head.
The word ‘tantalizing’ has never had much merit for you, but now, you understand. Wonwoo oozes sex and intrigue; he makes your mind go to places it's never before visited; dark, lustful places that make your heart race and your skin tingle.
The little smirk that quirks onto his lips when he knows he’s irritated you has become burned into your mind's eye, and you can’t escape the shiny points of his canines, or the flash of black that overtakes his irises when he’s being demonic.
You can feel your resolve to stay true to your morals is slipping, and in its place is a growing need that’s threatening to overtake you, body and soul.
This is the power of a truly strong demon, and it both scares and excites you while you war with yourself.
Four:
After another long day of Wonwoo being raunchy, Mingyu finally goes to sleep. The viewer goes dark, and you stand up with a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” you muse, “but I’m thankful you didn’t push for more porn.”
“He’s on a streak, you know,” Wonwoo smirks. “But I figured I could let you off the hook for one night.”
“Let my pure boy off the hook, you mean.”
“No, I meant what I said. You’re the one who has a problem with it, not Mingyu. He’s just a hot-blooded man who’s hardly had any good sex in his life. A bit of porn can’t hurt.”
You roll your eyes. “Scientists who study the interaction between porn and erectile dysfunction would beg to differ.”
“Human scientists.” Wonwoo’s smirk widens.
“I’m not having an argument with you, I’m off the clock.”
“Off the clock,” the demon repeats with a chuckle.
“Yes, off the clock, which means I also don’t have to deal with you anymore.”
“You enjoy ‘dealing with me.’” Wonwoo insists.
You scoff loudly. “In what diluted world can you come to that conclusion?”
The demon steps closer to you. “The world where I’m a demon who can read sexual energy, and lately, it’s been wafting off your aura like smoke. And where there’s smoke, well, there’s fire.”
“I think you should get your eyes checked,” you fire at him, your arms crossing over your chest in an effort to keep that ‘sexual energy’ contained.
“You’re such a virgin that it’s almost laughable,” Wonwoo tells you, his voice lowering. “Most angels don’t have the kind of lustful energy you do, virginity and all, but every being that exists is plagued by at least one of the seven deadly sins, angels included. It seems to me that your carnal desire is sex, which isn’t anything to be ashamed of. I’ve worked with angels who are greedy, angels who have a sense of divine wrath, but pride is the main trait I’ve seen. One could argue that all three of those sins are more disgusting on an angel than that of simply wanting to be touched, to experience one’s form to the fullest.”
Your mouth feels dry, and you lick your lips, unsure of what to say.
“Don’t worry, angel, I don’t need a response, not really. But… I would never defile an angel without her wanting it, so when I ask you this next question, I’ll need at least an enthusiastic nod if not a verbal ‘yes.’”
“What do you need to ask me?” you whisper.
Wonwoo is close enough to touch you now, and he reaches for your hand, tracing his thumb against your palm. Your mind is telling you to pull away, but you can’t. His touch is cold, but there’s something so nice about it…
“Can I kiss you?” Wonwoo asks, his words hanging in the air like a heavy smog.
You try to swallow the lump in your throat, but it does little to help, and you stare at the beautiful demon. Your body is screaming yes, but your mind is still plagued with trepidation.
“It’s a sin.”
“A kiss isn’t a sin, and besides, you’re off the clock, remember?” His smirk is just so beautiful, and you have to remind yourself that even though he’s a demon, Wonwoo was crafted by God’s own hands. “I think you can forgive yourself for a small misdemeanor, after all, humans are forgiven for much worse.”
“I…” Your heart is hammering in your rib cage, and never in your long life have you felt a desire like this.
“Or… I could wait,” Wonwoo sighs. “I won’t pressure you. I’m a demon, but I’m not an asshole.”
The idea of waiting even longer makes your skin tingle, and you can feel a frown of dissatisfaction appearing on your face.
“You can kiss me,” you say, and the words feel foreign on your tongue.
“Even though you hate me?” Wonwoo grins, cocking a brow.
“Even though I hate you.”
The demon lets out a laugh, dropping your hand in favour of grabbing your hips. He pulls you toward him, being shockingly gentle for a man who’s so outspoken about his taste for rough sex.
“Nobody has to know about this,” Wonwoo whispers as he leans closer. “Even angels are allowed to have dirty little secrets.”
“Then this will be our little secret,” you breathe, swallowing thickly as your hands instinctively go to his shoulder, tugging the demon even closer.
He meets your gaze as he slowly leans in, giving you all the time in the world to change your mind. But you’re in too deep now, and there’s no going back.
His lips press against yours gently, and your whole body is flooded with what you can only describe as pleasure, like a cool breeze wafting over you on an extremely hot day. You want more, and Wonwoo tugs you closer by your hips, his tongue snaking out to rub your lower lip.
Your mouth opens a little, a whimper escaping you as the kiss deepens. Wonwoo releases a low growl, and butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach from the sound.
Nothing in the world has ever made you feel this way, as if you’re glowing, and all because a dark being is tantalizing you toward sin.
With a gasp, you pull away, breathing heavily.
Wonwoo holds you, not pushing for more; he gives you mental space to analyze what’s just happened, while still keeping you physically close, like a protector.
It’s such an odd notion, the idea that a demon could be any sort of protection for an angel like you.
“I think…” You swallow thickly. “I think I need to have some time alone now.”
“I understand,” Wonwoo nods, his hands slipping away from your hips. “The ball is in your court, angel. Until you decide what you want to do, this is our little secret.”
“Our little secret,” you repeat like a mantra, but the words don’t do anything to help the anxiety building inside of you. It’s as if at any moment you could be struck down for impurity, except, even when you’re alone later, no hand of God comes to smite you.
You think carefully about what Wonwoo’s said, about all living things having their sinful, carnal desires, even angels.
Maybe this is natural, maybe this is okay… maybe.
Five:
You’ve been yearning for Wonwoo in a way you’ve never yearned for anything since your creation. It’s taking every ounce of your self-restraint to keep your distance from him, and Wonwoo’s not making any of it easy.
Every dirty whisper in Mingyu’s ear, every glance at you while he talks about sex, bondage, and porn…
It has your heart racing, your skin heating, and your core throbbing in a way that used to be foreign but is now becoming all too familiar.
“Should I push for more sin tonight?” Wonwoo asks as Mingyu gets ready for bed. “Or have you had enough?”
You groan, knowing that you’re wet from the day you’ve had. “Please.”
“Please, what?” He cocks a brow.
“I’m so tired of all of this.”
“Tired of fighting your own desires, you mean,” Wonwoo corrects, seeing right through you.
You hate that your ‘sexual aura’ is visible to him, hate that no matter how hard you try to fight it, Wonwoo will always know the truth.
And the truth is: you want this demon to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked. You want to get a taste of the sin he has to offer, the sin he claims other angels partake in secretly.
Why are you holding yourself back, holding yourself to a set of standards, if others in your angelic profession don’t?
“What are you thinking about?” Wonwoo asks, watching you carefully.
You release a deep breath. “Everything.”
“Sounds like a lot,” the demon chuckles.
“It is.”
“Too much for a sweet angel like you to carry on her own shoulders.”
You study his face, wondering if he’s being condescending or not.
“Being a demon is much easier. I don’t have to worry about anything,” Wonwoo continues, leaning back in his seat. “No rules, no standards, no fear. Just existence. Freedom.”
“I’m free,” you insist.
“Are you really?” Wonwoo grins. “Could have fooled me.”
“I am free! I’m an angel! I have the most freedom in the world!”
“Freedom to kiss who you want to kiss? To act on the desires that were literally built into you? Why would God have made you with the sin of lust if he did not intend for you to act on it? To torture you for your entire existence?” Wonwoo shakes his head.
“He bestowed temptation so his creations could rise above it and devote themselves to Him,” you insist. “It teaches spiritual strength and perseverance.”
“Whatever you say, little Miss Sunday School.”
You let out a deep sigh. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” Wonwoo grins.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because it makes me want you even more!” you scream. “For a reason I can not comprehend, I want you. I want you for the teasing, for the chastizing, for this disgusting ego that I would never condone on a human ward. I want it. I want all of you. And it’s killing me!”
Wonwoo stands up abruptly, and you mirror him, heart racing in your chest.
You can’t believe you’ve just admitted all of it, all of the deep dark things you’ve been thinking about for weeks.
“An ego can be sexy,” Wonwoo says finally. “Although I’d classify myself as more of a prideful being than an egotistical one.”
“Ugh!” You throw your hands up, hating that his smirk is the most handsome thing you’ve ever seen, hating that he’s right.
“Tell me you want this again,” Wonwoo urges you, stepping closer.
“I want you! You already heard me say it!” Your skin is hot with irritation, both sexual and emotional, and you can hardly think straight.
“No, tell me you want this.” Wonwoo grabs your hand, tugging you to his chest. He looks down at you, his lips almost ghosting over your own.
“I want this,” you whimper, feeling defeated and broken.
You can no longer hold yourself back, and part of you doesn’t want to.
“I’ll be gentle,” the demon promises, bringing his mouth down to your throat, where he presses soft kisses that take your breath away.
“I thought you liked it rough,” you say, releasing a chuckle that brings your anxiety down.
“I also like pleasure. I’m prideful, not a narcissist. Tonight, your pleasure will come first.”
Your skin tingles, and you swallow a lump in your throat. You can feel your fear dissipating. Part of you had imagined he’d want to try bondage with you right away, so it’s a relief that he’s going to meet you at your level, which is… well, nonexistent.
You are a free being. And tonight, you will lose your heavenly virginity of your own volition.
Wonwoo begins to suck on a spot just below your ear, and it makes you moan. You throw your arms around the demon, tugging him closer.
One of Wonwoo’s hands slips down to your bum, squeezing you through your white pants.
God, he feels so good, and you focus on the feeling, pushing aside your racing thoughts.
You draw his lips to yours, and Wonwoo groans with pleasure, tugging you so you’re flush to his body.
Kissing him is like magic, and you get lost in it easily. Your core is wet, and you can feel your panties getting sticky, which is a tantalizing thought.
“Bedroom,” Wonwoo says, breaking the kiss.
Without missing a beat, the demon reaches down and lifts you bridal style. You gasp, clutching onto his shoulders and blinking up at him.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Wonwoo laughs. “As if I was about to take your virginity in a living room.”
He heads toward your side of the apartment, and he pushes the door of your bedroom open.
Your room is all creams and minimalism, a true safe space, and he pauses to look at it for a moment. He’s never been in your room, nor you in his.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Nothing, it’s just… very different from my side of the space.”
“No whips and chains hanging on the walls?” you tease.
“How about no black onyx floors or dark colours.”
“Well, I am an angel,” you point out as he gently sets you on the bed.
“Yes, baby, the best angel I’ve ever met.”
“Really?”
“Without a doubt. The most angelic.” Wonwoo climbs on top of you, and your legs spread instinctively as the demon looks down at you. “I’ve never met an angel who has never sinned. It’s endearing.”
“Will you still find me endearing after tonight?” you ask.
“I’ll find you endearing forever,” Wonwoo promises.
“Who knew such sweet words could come from a demon.”
Wonwoo laughs. “If anyone deserves sweet words from me, it’s you.”
“You’re just saying that to get me in bed.”
“We’re already in bed.”
“Good point.” You grab the nape of his neck, tugging his lips down to yours.
This verbal foreplay has become trite, and you’re ready for more, ready for all Wonwoo is about to give you.
For the first time, you taste desperation on his lips, and it excites you. He grinds gently down against you, and it’s the first time there’s been pressure on your core. Tingles of pleasure run through you as you tighten your legs around his hips, willing him to push harder.
Wonwoo groans, following through with your silent plea. He ruts hard as you kiss each other, stimulating your clit through your clothing.
One of his hands reaches up and grabs your breast through your white sweater, massaging you and making you gasp.
“Such pretty sounds,” Wonwoo whispers, biting your earlobe gently. “Can’t wait to hear you screaming my name.”
“Wonwoo,” you whimper, wiggling beneath him, eager for more.
He sits up, and with one tug, Wonwoo removes your sweater, leaving you in a cream bra.
“All white everything, huh?” he laughs.
“I’m an angel.”
“So you keep reminding me. You always wear such loose, modest clothing, but I imagined you’d be gorgeous under all these layers.” He licks his lips, his thumb teasing the lace of your bra. “Should I go slow?”
“Go medium,” you tell him.
Wonwoo lets out another chuckle. “That wasn’t one of the options.”
“Make it one of the options.”
He shakes his head at you, leaning down to press his lips to yours.
You thread your fingers through his raven black hair, mewling as he massages you through your bra. Your nipples are aching already, and there’s a sense of great relief when he finally takes your bra off.
“So pretty,” Wonwoo muses, kissing down from your throat to your breasts, where he captures one of your nipples in his mouth.
You whimper desperately, your entire body on fire with the pleasure.
“And so sensitive too,” the demon groans, gently dragging his teeth over your sensitive bud.
“Please,” you gasp.
“Please, what?” he looks up at you.
You let out a shuddery breath. “More.”
“Your wish is my command, angel,” Wonwoo teases, his hand gliding down your body. Deft fingers slip under the waistband of your pants, but he stays over your panties as he makes contact with your clit.
You writhe against the bedding, eyes clenched shut as foreign ecstasy washes over you.
He continues to suck on your nipple as he toys with your pussy.
“Soaking through your panties,” Wonwoo tuts. “My dirty girl.”
Your heart lurches in your chest, and you’re shocked that you like the way his words feel. It’s a sinful kind of praise, and it makes you dizzy as you watch him, anticipating what he’ll do next.
Wonwoo takes his time as he licks and sucks your nipples, playing with your pussy through drenched fabric.
It’s a relief when he finally tugs your pants down, leaving you in only panties.
Then, Wonwoo sits up, tugging his shirt off with one motion.
Your jaw drops at the view of his bare torso. He’s lean but muscled, and you wish you could trace the lines on his skin, but Wonwoo made it clear that tonight is about you.
“I’m going to eat you out now,” Wonwoo explains, as he sinks to the floor. “Bet you taste like nectar and sunshine.”
Talking about your ‘taste’ makes you shy, and you close your thighs, only for him to gently pry them open.
“Don’t be bashful, baby,” Wonwoo coos, pressing kisses to your skin.
“What if I don’t taste like nectar and sunshine?” you ask.
“I can already smell it on you,” Wonwoo promises, an attempt to be assuring, but now you’re talking about smell, and it makes you even more anxious. “You know what, let’s leave taste and smell out of this for now, okay?”
“Yes, please,” you nod, biting your bottom lip.
Wonwoo hooks his fingers in your panties, slowly dragging them down your legs.
The cool air of the room on your wet core makes you groan, back arching a little as you writhe against the bed.
Cold hands grab your thighs, confidently spreading you open.
“Just breathe,” Wonwoo reminds you as he leans forward and licks the entirety of your core lewdly.
“Shit!” you gasp, thighs quaking.
The demon chuckles. “That’s the first time you’ve ever swore.”
You slap a hand over your mouth, and he shakes his head at you, returning to his task.
Soon, you’re moaning through your fingers, and your other hand reaches down to grab at his hair, keeping his face buried between your thighs.
He eats you out like a starved man, ravaging your pussy with licks and sucks that have your head spinning in the best possible way.
And then Wonwoo begins to growl, and you’ve never heard anything so erotic.
Your own gasps and whimpers are filling the room, and you can feel something getting tighter and tighter in the pit of your stomach.
“Wonwoo,” you pant. “I think… I think I’m going to cum!”
He releases a groan, and the vibration of it on your clit makes your legs shake. All of your muscles are tense, waiting for that final push-
Then you look down, and your eyes lock with his. His pupils are blown, and he looks absolutely demonic, but there’s something so incredibly sexy about this powerful demon worshiping you with his mouth on your core-
You cum like an electric shock, your entire body jolting, muscles releasing only to clench again as the waves surge through you.
You scream, grabbing at the bed sheets like an anchor as your orgasm overtakes you.
Wonwoo is unrelenting on your core, groaning and eating you messily, and it only makes the whole situation more erotic.
You’ve been to Heaven, but nothing has ever felt like this.
“Wonwoo!” you scream when the pleasure begins to feel like it’s too much, like you can’t contain or sustain this type of ecstasy anymore.
The demon pulls away immediately, looking up at you.
“Angel,” he breathes, “you’re glowing.”
“What?”
“You’re glowing,” he repeats. Wonwoo grabs your hand from the bed, lifting it so you can see that your skin is literally aglow.
“Is this normal?” you gasp in panic.
“I’ve never seen it.”
“And you fuck a lot of angels?” you snap.
“Not really,” he laughs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “I find most of you to be too high-strung.”
“I’m high-strung.”
“But it’s endearing on you.” His thumb gently rubs your glit, and you jolt, releasing a gasp. “Glowing can’t be harmful.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure it’s just pent-up energy,” he muses. “Should I give you more?”
You take all of one second to consider his words before nodding. “More.”
Wonwoo nuzzles against your inner thigh with a laugh, and then he teases a digit between your pussy lips, gently sinking it into you.
You groan, your inner walls having never been touched before.
“So warm,” Wonwoo breathes. “So tight.”
He gently finger fucks you, teasing your hole open, and he brings his mouth to your clit again.
His pace is slow, and you know he’s letting you acclimate to the stimulus.
You can feel yourself dripping on his digit, and the slick is making it all too easy for him to work you open. Soon, he adds another finger, and you groan desperately, loving the slight stretch.
“Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I give you the real thing,” Wonwoo explains.
“Okay,” you whimper.
He returns to sucking on your clit, but he’s not being as gentle as he was before.
You can feel that tension building again, and with each slick sound of his fingers fucking into you, you know you’re getting closer to the edge.
Whimpers escape your lips, and you gasp when he crooks his fingers, hitting a spot that has your whole body coming alight with pleasure.
You’ve heard Wonwoo talk about the ‘g-spot’ before, and you’re pretty sure he just found yours.
Your toes are curling, muscles getting incredibly tight as his pace quickens.
“I’m close!” you cry out, grabbing the bed sheets again, your heart racing in your chest.
Wonwoo groans a sound of affirmation, and again, his noise of pleasure is what sends you over the edge.
Just like the first time, he works you through your orgasm, unrelenting, while the pleasure courses through you. You’re a throbbing, whimpering mess by the time Wonwoo pulls away, and you watch with shy delight as he licks his fingers clean, moaning at your taste.
“How did that one feel, angel?” he asks.
“So good,” you whimper.
Wonwoo stands up, looking down at your nude form.
“Ready for the real deal?”
“I’m scared,” you admit, seeing the outline of his cock through his pants.
“That’s natural,” Wonwoo breathes, undoing his belt. “And if you still want to change your mind…”
“No.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Let’s do this.”
Wonwoo pulls his pants down, and suddenly, his cock is slapping up against his stomach.
Your jaw drops at the sight of him. He’s long… well, you’re pretty sure he’s long, not that you have much to compare it to.
“That’s going to fit inside of me?” you ask.
“Angel, your pussy is wetter than a slip and slide, it won’t be a problem,” Wonwoo laughs.
“Just… go slow.”
“Not medium?” he teases.
“Wonwoo…” you groan.
“I’ll go slow,” he promises, now fully nude as he climbs on top of you. “Don’t worry.”
Wonwoo presses his lips to yours, and you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, pouring all of your attention into the meeting of your mouths.
Wonwoo slowly begins to rut, teasing his cock through your wet pussy lips and bumping your clit. The grinding feels phenomenal, and soon you’re a moaning mess beneath him, your core aching to be filled.
As if he can read you, the demon reaches for the base of his cock, lining the tip up with your wet hole. His mouth moves to your throat, giving you space to speak if you need him to pause or slow down, but as his tip slips inside of you, you realize there will be no need for breaks.
Sure, the stretch is new, but it’s not bad.
In fact, your pussy is trying to swallow him up, and with each inch after inch, you feel more and more complete.
Wonwoo truly is your opposite, the yin to your yang, and it feels phenomenal to finally be connected like this.
“You okay?” Wonwoo asks, and you can see his muscles feathering, as if it’s taking every ounce of self-control for him not to let loose and fuck you stupid.
“Feels good,” you groan, wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him further into you.
Wonwoo moans deeply, and a moment later, he’s fully sheathed in your wet core.
You both release sounds of pleasure together, and your lips meet in a fiery kiss.
You love tangling your fingers in his hair, and it makes him kiss you harder. He’s still fully inside of you, unmoving as your walls adjust, but soon, your own hips are rocking, and he takes the cue to begin to thrust.
The first movement is shallow and slow, and you revel in the drag of his cock against your inner walls.
You cry out, throwing your head back, and Wonwoo latches onto your throat, sucking and nibbling.
Your pebbled nipples press against his chest, and each movement toys with them.
You can feel Wonwoo everywhere. He’s completely commanding every one of your senses, and not a single thought is going through your mind except for one word: more.
His pace is increasing, and you get the sense that he’s reacting to your sounds, figuring you out based on your whimpering and whining.
You pull Wonwoo away from your throat by his hair, and you open your eyes, looking up at him.
God, he truly is the most beautiful being you’ve ever seen.
He’s truly a vision, lust-blown pupils and all, his hair a mess from where you’re tugging on it.
You breathe in each other, lips almost meeting but just separate, and the teasing makes everything more seductive.
Wonwoo pulls out of you suddenly, flipping you onto your side. He moves behind you, a cold big spoon as he enters you again. His breath is hot on your shoulders, and he takes the opportunity to gently bite your neck, making you gasp. You reach behind yourself, grabbing his hair again, which earns you a groan of pleasure.
His hand is on your hip, and he fucks into you desperately, adjusting your body ever so slightly, opening your leg a little so he can hit deeper.
“Wonwoo!” you whimper when his hand slips from your hips to your core, his fingers teasing your clit.
“That’s it, scream my name,” he grins, biting your earlobe and making you shiver.
“Wonwoo!” you say it louder this time, unable to contain yourself as he works you closer and closer to the edge again.
“Gonna cum on my cock, huh, angel?” he chuckles.
“Yes, I’m so close,” you whimper, pussy tightening around him.
“Not yet.” Wonwoo pulls out of you suddenly, and you whine, only for him to adjust you.
Now you’re sitting on top of him, with Wonwoo propped against the headboard.
“Why am I on top?” you ask, confused.
“Oh angel,” he licks your nipple, “just because you’re on top doesn’t mean you’re the one who is in control.”
His hands are on your hips again, and he lifts you slightly, allowing him to plow up into you.
You cry out from how deep his cock is hitting you, from the way he’s using you like a ragdoll.
You throw your head back, and his mouth latches onto your nipple. Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the dark curls as he fucks you stupid.
Each smack down of your core on his cock has pressure on your clit, and you can feel that orgasm bubbling again.
You feel drunk, or, what you think being drunk would feel like. It’s a pleasurable dizziness, a mind numbing euphoria and a tingling that flutters through your entire body.
Wonwoo growls, and you know it’s a sound of affirmation, a sound to push you toward the edge.
A few more rough thrusts have you tumbling into ecstasy, your entire core clamping down on Wonwoo’s cock. Your head falls forward, your lips making contact with the crown of Wonwoo’s head as he also groans. He pulls off of your nipple, panting desperately as he holds you down, his cock burried in your throbbing pussy.
You know he’s cumming too, and feel his muscles twitching, his shoulders tight with tension.
And his sounds… nothing in Heaven or on Earth sounds the way Wonwoo does when he’s wrapped in pleasure.
Your entire body sings with delight as the two of you hold onto each other, jolting with the aftershocks of your extreme highs.
The two of you hold each other, breathing in one another.
Wonwoo leans his face against your breasts, and you cradle him.
You’ve never felt this close to anyone.
For a moment you can forget that he’s a demon and you’re an angel.
None of that matters right now.
Finally, Wonwoo pulls away with a sigh. “This changes things.”
“It does,” you agree.
“We’re bound together for as long as Mingyu lives, so… you better not decide you hate me tomorrow.”
You laugh. “You irritate me, but I don’t hate you.”
“I’m not going to stop telling Mingyu to pursue his sexual desires.”
“I never expected you to,” you admit with a sigh.
“And you’re… okay with it now?”
“As long as it’s consensual, fine, he can be as dirty as he wants to be.”
Wonwoo laughs, cuddling close to your chest again. “See, in this day and age, some sins like premarital sex are outdated.”
“We could debate that,” you laugh, running your hands through his hair.
“I think I would like that.”
“I feel like it would be a case of unstoppable force meets immovable object.”
Wonwoo chuckles, and you love how beautiful he is when he smiles. “Sounds like us.”
“But we can’t let our sexual escapades get in the way of doing our job for Mingyu,” you declare.
“I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from your work,” Wonwoo groans. “You’d probably bite my cock off if I tried.”
“Consider yourself warned.”
“Consider yourself worshipped.”
“Huh?” you blink down at him.
“You’re still glowing, angel.” Wonwoo plays with a piece of your hair. “It’s been a long time since a demon like me has had anything to look up to.”
“You look up to me?”
“In some ways, but don’t make this more of an embarrassment than it already is.” Wonwoo lets out a sigh. “You’ve reformed me… slightly.”
“Don’t tell me it’s the power of good pussy.”
“Great pussy,” Wonwoo corrects. “And no. If I’m being honest, I think you’ve been changing me for the better for a while, bit by bit.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
Wonwoo smiles. “And I’m just happy.”
“I can live with that.”
☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! this one was fun, it was a little late to be posted because my puppy has a tooth infection and it's been a hell of a week. reminder! Patreon charges on the FIRST of every month, so if you're going to get my Patreon, just be aware of that, or wait until June 2nd :)
🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below!
🔮 preview. Your core tingles as you test the bindings on your wrists. There is truly so much he can teach you about the darker side of sex, the pain that turns into pleasure, the freedom of being completely immobilized and at the mercy of someone you trust to take care of you.
cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, bdsm themes, wrist bondage, pleasure dom!Wonwoo, oral/pussy eating, wonwoo has powers in this… including a long demon tongue, overstimulation, finger fucking, body/breast worship, squirting, dacryphilia (arousal from tears/crying), dirty talk, praise, multiple reader orgasms, etc… I petnames. (hers) angel.
👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.6k I teaser wc. 140
🌙 starring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader
bonus
To your shock, Wonwoo isn’t pushy with you the way he’s pushy with Mingyu. He hasn’t said a word about the soft sex the two of you have continued to have for months now, and he hasn’t made you feel lesser than him for being vanilla either.
Wonwoo treats you very differently than he treats Mingyu, but you know that every time Wonwoo brings up rough sex in Mingyu’s ear, it’s because Wonwoo himself has an interest in it.
The demon has talked about being a sexual pleaser, and your need to please him has grown too. Can you really hold Wonwoo and yourself back from reaching another level by dabbling with the BDSM themes he’s so fond of?
Can you… condemn him to vanilla sex for as long as the two of you are connected through Mingyu?
☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.6k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here
👹 or check out what else is on my patreon here
🔮if nothing strikes your fancy, check out my m.list
❥genre/rating: 18 + explicit content, enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers, enemies with benefits
❥description: You and Jungkook have always been at each other's throats, bound by a mutual disdain that runs deep. You both would rather step into traffic than be alone together. But when a chance encounter at a wedding leads to an unexpected and forbidden arrangement, the lines between enemies and something more begin to blur.
As your fiery clashes give way to stolen moments and fragile truces, both of you are forced to confront the pain and secrets that have kept you apart for so long. When the past and present collide, you and Jungkook must decide whether the scars you both hide are worth revealing—and if your fractured bond can ever be whole again.
❥warnings/tags: Lawyer!Jungkook, Nurse!reader, medical trauma/examinations/procedures, family trauma, slooooowwwww burrrrrnnnnnnnnnn, SMUT, these two really do hate each other, long series, swearing, drinking, smoking, angst, hurt/comfort, silly at times, tae is a menace, misunderstandings, miscommunication, unreliable information, eventual fluff, eventual pining, mentions of cheating (not the main pair), minor character death (none of the boys), eventual happy ending (it’s gonna be a minute)
❥disclaimer: Fic is cross posted to ao3, every chapter I will give associated warnings and tags that apply.
in which y/n is the new hire at a psychiatric ward and foolishly volunteers for the one patient everyone else is deadly afraid of. no therapist has ever lasted in his presence, and jungkook doesn't take them seriously to begin with. and since her staff doesn't take her seriously either, nobody expects her to survive. so next week, she gets fifty minutes to prove them all wrong.
genre : psycho!jungkook x therapist!oc
warnings : harsh & foul language, threatening, stereotyping, this plot starts off with misogyny since her job is male dominated ( but oc is a bad bitch wbk so she shuts their asses up ), gore related conversations, ptsd from DMV households, verbal harassment ( not from jk ), heavy obsessive & possessive vibes, unprotected sex, bigdick!jk, she sucks his dick so so good, breeding kink, ALOT of dirty talk bcs by now yall should know he’s a talker, he’s a munch, creampie, nipple play, nipple kink + more to add as I progress while writing this fic & there might be changes to warnings that are already stated above.
my notes : after long consideration, I’ve finally decided that psycho!jk & therapist!oc will be making their appearance on my blog!!!! super fucking excited for this one since this baby has been in my docs for the last 6 MONTHS. I’ve laughed, cried, punched a wall, fainted & kicked my feet while trying to make this fic work, and I’m so so glad it’s finally happening!! this is genuinely my personal favourite fic of mine yet!! & I’m so excited for you guys to read it once it’s out. it’ll take some time, but the wait will be worth it!!
ꫂ᭪݁ taglist is currently OPEN — to be apart of “patient zero’s” taglist, leave a comment below!! see you in the fic. 🖤
your roomate asks you for help to film a video for his OF, and you agree
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SURRENDER IN THE STEAM | @gukcnt
in which jungkook's sleepless night leads to an intimate shower with his girlfriend, where tender washing and lovemaking takes place.
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CURRENT BOYFRIEND | @girlygguk
the one where you're the ultimate little prankster and your boyfriend doesn't find you very funny.
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Handle with care | @dreamersparacosm
in which your landlord sends an electrician to fix your power, and you end up learning firsthand the magic of blue collar dick.
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play thing | @joonjuul
Bf!jungkook x sleepy!reader
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Lipstick & Photography | @borathae
This fic is just fucking crazy to me!!!!! I think abt it at least 3 times a week and come back to it every time. Literally my n1 fic EVER!!!
The amount of intimacy and the tension between these 2 is sooooo fucking delicious .
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: i wanted to add more recs but half of the authors deactivated??😭 im so sad 😞 they were my fav authors too💔But hope y’all enjoy these since yall like pt1 . And pls support the authors on the list .
⤷ being nosy was your and your neighbor, jungkook, favorite hobby, together with teasing each other over the silliest things. however, things take a spicier turn when you decide to get revenge after he doesn’t let you sleep.
— pairing: jungkook x fem. reader
— genre: neighbors au, kind of friends to lovers, a bit of fluff, and smut
— rating: 18+
— words for the teaser: 479
— warnings for the teaser: strong language, swearing, mention of sex, teasing, and implied masturbation
— author’s note: soooo, i'm doing a lot of progress on this and hopefully, i'll be able to post it soon! at first, i wanted it to be short but i'm like 4k into it and haven't even reached the smutty part or some other scenes i want to include 🫣 these two will be absolute teases, but we love them, & just for context, Melissa and Carter are their neighbors who are constantly fighting 🙃 i'm also so proud of the banner and i've been dying to share it with you 😅 let me know if you want to be tagged for this ✨
“Apologies accepted,” you say. “On one condition.”
“I’m all ears,” he replies.
Your lower lip is caught between your teeth. This is the perfect moment to get revenge for the sleep disruption and for the nonsense he just threw in your face. He’ll probably kill you, but you don’t care. You have to try.
“No girls for a month,” you say with a sly smile.
Jungkook instantly shakes his head, “Absolutely no.”
His face is absolutely hilarious. His eyes are incredibly wide, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his cheeks are taking on a pink shade. Is he embarrassed or shocked? Good question, but you hope for both.
“Then, you’ll have to find a new neighbor to bother,” you immediately turn around and walk to your apartment.
“Wait,” he comes after you, his hand grabbing your wrist to prevent you from walking away. “Are you serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” you tilt your head. “Did I look like I was joking?”
You definitely are, but you’re trying to see if he’ll just surrender. This will be the biggest cockblock ever.
“You’re asking me to go a full month without sex…” he runs his fingers through his hair. “You know I barely survive a week.”
“I know,” you say with the biggest teasing smile on your face. “But you compared me to Melissa and basically implied I couldn’t survive without you, which is deeply hurtful.” It isn’t, but you’re not going to say it. “It’s either your questionable chicks or me.”
“You can’t be serious,” he mumbles under his breath.
“You still have your hand to help you out,” you suggest, trying to offer him a solution.
“As if my hand could ever be like a pussy,” he shakes his head, completely defeated. You clearly handed him a dilemma, and it’s funny to watch. Even better than Melissa and Carter’s telenovela.
“Maybe you can find something better at a sex shop,” you offer.
For sure, you’ll be the death of him before the end of the day. How can you just throw things like that as if you weren’t asking him to go without sex for an entire month? There’s no way he’ll survive that much. But he values your friendship way too much. If he has to go a full month without sex to keep hearing your bullshit when he bothers you, so be it.
“Okay,” he agrees with your crazy condition. “I’ll do it.”
To say you’re surprised is an understatement. You were expecting a lot of begging and bargaining, but definitely not him giving up that easily, especially when it comes to his mindblowing sex.
“Really?” A smile stretches on your face. “You’d choose me over your hookups?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he rolls his eyes. “I’d rather use my hand for a month straight than be forever deprived of your stupid comments over our neighbors.”
You came back for summer. You got him instead. Sun, salt, and scandal, Jeju’s elite playground is back in session, and so is your favorite mistake: Lee Heeseung. Your enemy. Your almost. Your what-if. One house apart. One argument away. One drink too many from disaster.
pairing: enemy!heeseung x reader !
warnings: yearning slow burn strong language possessiveness jealousy alcohol banter secrecy angst parties rich people (yes, that's a separate warning) loads of sexual tension porn with plot enemies to lovers childhood rivals friends with benefits mutual pining unresolved tension emotional constipation family friends beach-town drama arguments miscommunication fear of commitment
warnings (smut): Multiple explicit sex scenes Enemies -> friends with benefits → Lovers Rough unprotected sex (no!) Creampie Tit/nipple play Fingering Handjob Grinding Teasing Wall sex Door sex Kitchen counter sex Manhandling Dirty talk Cum play Overstimulation Marking & biting
playlist: Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen [] Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift [] Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter [] Are You Bored Yet? by Wallows []
likes and reblogs for a cookie!
☆ WORD COUNT: 29k!
(Masterlist)
Sam: happy birthday to me, love u dada
HELL HAD A VERY SPECIFIC SMELL.
Not sulfur. Not smoke. Not whatever dramatic nonsense poets liked to compare suffering to, or any of the bullshit propaganda movies liked to spread.
No, hell, in your experience, smelled like salt in the air and expensive sunscreen. Like sun-warmed pavement and blooming jasmine climbing over white-painted fences. Like the ocean sitting just close enough to hear from your bedroom window, taunting you with the promise of peace you were never actually going to get.
Hell smelled like summer in Jeju Island. And unfortunately, you had just arrived.
You stood in the driveway of your family’s beach house with your sunglasses sliding down your nose and your patience already clinically deceased, staring at the towering white house like it had personally offended you. Which, honestly, it had. The place looked like every rich family’s Pinterest board had thrown up on it, ivy curling around stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the blinding afternoon sun, hydrangeas blooming obnoxiously blue along the front walk.
Beautiful. Expensive. Full of memories you preferred not to examine too closely. Your mother stepped out of the car behind you with the kind of energy only women with fresh manicures and vacation plans possessed.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said, already fishing her oversized sunhat from her tote bag. “Help your father with the luggage.”
You adjusted your sunglasses and gave the house one last deeply unimpressed look. “I’m considering simply walking into the ocean instead.”
From somewhere near the trunk, your father sighed. “And every year, you make the same joke.”
“Because every year, the ocean remains an option.”
Your mother clicked her tongue, the universal sound of maternal disappointment, and handed you two bags anyway. “Be dramatic later. We’re already late for dinner at the club tonight.”
Of course you were. Summer in Jeju Island wasn’t really summer. It was a social performance with a beachfront view. Three months of yacht parties, country club dinners, charity galas disguised as drinking events, and the same old-money families pretending they didn’t all know each other’s scandals already. Everyone here had grown up together, gone to the same private schools, kissed the same people, ruined each other’s lives in aesthetically pleasing ways. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.
It was home, in the most unfortunate sense of the word.
You hauled your bag up the front steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. The familiar coolness of the house greeted you immediately, air conditioning and polished wood and lemon-scented cleaning products. Somewhere upstairs, your childhood room waited exactly as you’d left it last August, probably still holding the ghosts of every bad decision you’d made between seventeen and twenty-two. A charming thought.
You dropped your bags by the staircase and wandered toward the kitchen, where your mother was already directing the opening of windows and the placement of flowers like she was staging a home magazine shoot.
She looked over her shoulder at you. “And before I forget,” she said, in the dangerously casual tone mothers used right before ruining your day, “be nice to the Lees this summer.”
You stopped mid-reach for the lemonade pitcher. Slowly, you turned. “Excuse me?”
“The Lees,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just spoken your personal curse into existence. “We’re having them over next weekend, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t start any unnecessary arguments.”
You stared at her. There was a long, silent moment in which your soul quietly left your body and floated somewhere over the Atlantic. Then, “I’d like it officially noted,” you said, setting the pitcher down with great dignity, “that I never start the arguments.”
Your mother gave you a look. You gave her one back. She won. “You absolutely do.”
“I finish them beautifully,” you corrected. “That’s different.”
She sighed, turning back to her flowers. “Just behave. Especially with Heeseung.” And there it was. The name. The final nail in the coffin. Lee Heeseung. Your lifelong enemy. Your annual migraine. The human embodiment of every smug text message left on read.
Next door. Living, unfortunately.
You leaned against the kitchen counter and closed your eyes for one brief moment, like maybe if you didn’t move, the universe would take pity on you and reverse time. It did not. Because of course he was here. He was always here.
Every summer since childhood had come with three guarantees: humidity, your mother’s obsession with hosting dinners, and Lee Heeseung existing entirely too close to your personal space. Your families had been friends forever, which meant your lives had been annoyingly, inescapably intertwined since before either of you had enough common sense to avoid each other.
There were photos somewhere, horrifying evidence, of the two of you as children on the same beach, him with scraped knees and you with a missing front tooth, already looking like you were one wrong comment away from attempted murder.
Some things, apparently, were timeless. As teenagers, it had only gotten worse. He’d grown into his face in the kind of unfair way that should’ve required government intervention, too handsome, too charming, too aware of both. The kind of boy adults loved and girls wrote bad poetry about. Golden boy energy in expensive linen. Meanwhile, you had perfected the art of making eye contact while verbally destroying someone. Naturally, you got along terribly.
Every summer had become its own tradition of verbal warfare, stolen drinks at parties, arguments on docks at midnight, insults dressed up as flirting and flirting disguised as threats. There had been one almost-kiss when you were nineteen, drunk and angry and standing far too close on his parents’ balcony.
Neither of you had ever mentioned it again. Civilization had survived. Barely. Your mother was still talking. “His mother mentioned he got back last week.”
Wonderful. Fantastic. Thrilling.“Did she also mention if he’s developed the ability to shut up?” you asked.
“She mentioned he’s doing very well.” Of course he was. Lee Heeseung was always doing very well. He probably woke up looking expensive and emotionally unavailable. You poured yourself a glass of lemonade with the gravity of someone preparing for battle.
“Great. I can’t wait to not care.”
Your mother pointed a flower stem at you. “I mean it. No fighting.”
You took a sip. “With all due respect, mother, if Lee Heeseung and I stop fighting, one of us has probably died.”
From the front yard came the low sound of a car door shutting. Then another. Your father’s voice drifted in from outside, greeting someone. Your mother brightened instantly. “Oh! Perfect timing.”
No. Absolutely not. You set the glass down very, very slowly. “No,” you said. She smiled the smile of a woman who had already decided your fate.
“Yes. Go say hello.” You looked toward the window like it might offer an emergency exit. Sunlight poured across the garden. Beyond the hydrangeas and white fencing sat the neighboring house, just as grand, just as obnoxiously perfect. And somewhere in that orbit of privilege and poor decision-making was Heeseung. Back for another summer. Meaning your peace, your dignity, and probably your better judgment had all officially expired.
You inhaled once. Exhaled. Straightened your sunglasses like armor. “Well,” you muttered, heading for the door, “welcome back to hell.”
The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor. Because the second you stepped out onto the front porch, armed with sunglasses, a bad attitude, and the vague hope that maybe your father had been greeting the mailman instead of your greatest seasonal inconvenience, you saw him.
Leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been placed there by an overly confident romance novelist. Of course. Of course Lee Heeseung would make an entrance by simply existing in expensive sunlight.
His car was obnoxious. Sleek, black, expensive enough to probably have its own trust fund. It sat in the driveway of the house next door like a personal insult, gleaming under the late afternoon sun while he leaned against it with all the irritating ease of a man who had never once struggled to be liked. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Skin already carrying the kind of summer tan people paid money to fake.
And that smirk. That stupid, smug, entirely too familiar smirk. Your father was by the front gate, already deep in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who were as lovely as ever, warm, elegant, and somehow still producing that man without demanding an apology from the universe.
Mrs. Lee spotted you first. “Oh, there she is!” There was genuine affection in her voice, which made this all worse. You pasted on your best socially acceptable smile and walked down the steps with the slow, resigned grace of someone approaching their own execution.
Mrs. Lee kissed your cheek, your mother appeared from somewhere behind you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, and within seconds both sets of parents were exchanging the usual summer pleasantries.
How was the drive?How long are you staying?You’ve gotten so grown up.We must have dinner together soon.
The rich-people mating dance. You answered where necessary, smiled where required, and tried very hard not to look to your left. Naturally, you failed. Because Heeseung was looking directly at you. Still leaning there. Still smirking. Like he’d been waiting for this. You crossed your arms instinctively. He pushed himself off the car. Slowly. Like a villain with excellent posture. Then, with the audacity of a man untouched by divine punishment, he looked you over once, head to toe, unhurried, deeply annoying, and said, “Missed me?”
You stared at him. There were many possible responses. Most of them involved violence. Your mother, standing three feet away, would probably object to murder in broad daylight, so you settled for a look sharp enough to qualify as attempted manslaughter. “I was actually having a wonderful day,” you said, “but thanks for asking.”
His mouth twitched. Your father laughed because traitors lived everywhere. Heeseung slid his hands into his pockets, infuriatingly calm. “Good. I’d hate to ruin your summer that quickly.”
“Please,” you said sweetly. “You ruin my summer just by continuing to exist.”
Mrs. Lee sighed in the fond, exhausted way of a woman who had witnessed this dance for over a decade. “See? Exactly the same.”
“Worse, actually,” you said.
“At least she admits she thinks about me,” Heeseung replied.
You inhaled. Exhaled. Decided prison orange would not flatter you. Your mother gave you a warning glance over the rim of her sunglasses, the universal signal for ‘do not embarrass me in front of the neighbors’. You smiled tightly. Heeseung smiled back like he was enjoying this far too much. He was. He always did. That was the problem.
From the outside, the two of you probably looked like some kind of old-Hollywood screwball romance, beautiful people exchanging insults in linen by the sea. From the inside, it felt more like mutual destruction with excellent lighting. Mr. Lee was discussing the yacht club renovation with your father now, and the adults had drifted slightly toward the garden, leaving just enough space for danger.
You turned toward him, lowering your voice. “If you’re planning to spend this summer being extra unbearable, I’d appreciate a warning so I can emotionally prepare.”
He leaned slightly closer, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amusement written all over his face. “Emotionally prepare?” he repeated. “You? I thought your whole thing was pretending not to have emotions.”
You scoffed. “My whole thing is surviving despite your presence.”
“Cute.”
“Don’t call me cute.”
“I didn’t. I said your delusion was cute.” There it was. The familiar rhythm. Effortless. Annoying. Dangerous in the way old habits always were.
You hated how easy it was to fall back into it, like no time had passed at all. Like last summer hadn’t ended with the two of you arguing on the marina docks at two in the morning, both too stubborn to say whatever actually needed saying. Like the almost-kiss years ago had never happened. Like your pulse didn’t do something deeply embarrassing every time he stepped too close.
You adjusted your sunglasses and took one deliberate step back. “Try not to get hit by a yacht this summer, Heeseung. It would create paperwork.”
He grinned. “There she is. I was worried college made you soft.” You smiled back, bright and false and weaponized. “And I was hoping maturity had found you. Shame we’re both disappointed.”
Mrs. Lee called his name from the garden before he could answer, and for one brief, shining moment, you experienced peace. He glanced toward his parents, then back at you. That smirk again. Like he knew something you didn’t. Which was unacceptable. “See you around, neighbor.”
You folded your arms tighter. “Threatening me already?”
“Just making promises.” God, you hated him. Truly. Deeply. Artistically. He turned then, walking back toward his parents with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once doubted the world would make room for him. Mrs. Lee adjusted his collar as he passed, and he let her, smiling in that easy, golden-boy way that made adults adore him and should have been scientifically illegal.
Spawn of the devil. Your father was still laughing at something Mr. Lee had said. Betrayal, everywhere. A few more polite goodbyes later, the Lees disappeared back into their perfectly landscaped kingdom next door, and you stood in the driveway watching Heeseung disappear behind the white fence like a storm cloud in designer sunglasses.
Your mother touched your arm. “You could at least pretend to be nicer.”
“I was radiant with charm.”
“You looked like you were planning arson.”
“That was charm.” She sighed, already turning back toward the house. Inside, the air was cool again, but your mood had fully committed to violence. You followed her to the kitchen, where she resumed unpacking with suspicious calm, the calm of someone about to ruin your evening.
You should have known. “By the way,” she said casually, arranging lemons in a bowl like a woman with no regard for her daughter’s suffering, “we’re having dinner with the Lees on Saturday.”
You stopped. “No.”
She didn’t even look up. “Yes.”
“Cancel.”
“No.”
“Fake your death.”
She placed the final lemon down and finally turned to face you. “Be serious.”
“I am serious. I’m willing to help stage it.” Your mother smiled in the dangerous way mothers did when they’d already won. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Try not to start a war before dessert.”
You stared at her. At the lemons. At the kitchen. At the universe. Somewhere next door, Lee Heeseung was probably alive and smug. And now there would be dinner. Shared wine. Forced politeness. His knee probably brushing yours under the table just to ruin your life.
Your villain origin story, apparently, came with a seafood course. You picked up your abandoned lemonade and took a long sip like it contained stronger coping mechanisms. Summer had officially begun.
Tuesday arrived the way summer days in Jeju Island always did, slowly, lazily, like the sun itself had nowhere better to be.
By ten in the morning, the entire town had already settled into its usual rhythm. Tennis whites at the country club. Mothers with iced coffees and expensive sunglasses pretending not to gossip. Men in linen shirts discussing boats like they were discussing national policy. Teenagers and college kids spilling toward the beach in swimsuits and bad intentions. Everything here moved with the polished ease of old money and old habits. You hated how easy it was to slip back into it. There was something dangerous about returning to a place that remembered every version of you.
The boardwalk still creaked in the same places. The little café near the marina still sold iced vanilla lattes overpriced enough to count as emotional damage. The beach still stretched golden and endless, all warm sand and glittering water and sun-drunk afternoons that made bad decisions feel like destiny instead of stupidity.
Summer here had a way of convincing people they were invincible. It was probably responsible for at least seventy percent of your mistakes. By afternoon, you’d decided your mother’s constant rearranging of flowers and reminders about Saturday dinner were enough to qualify as psychological warfare, so you escaped. You packed a beach tote with the seriousness of a military operation, sunscreen, sunglasses, a bottle of water, your newest hardcover, lip gloss, and the kind of bikini your mother would call unnecessary and your best friend would call revenge.
Then you walked the familiar path down to the shore. The beach behind the summer houses was quieter than the public side near the clubs and restaurants. Less crowded. More private. A stretch of pale sand bordered by dunes and sea grass, where the houses sat like silent judges overlooking the ocean. This part belonged to families like yours and the Lees, generational wealth and carefully curated summer traditions.
It also meant escape was limited. Still, the ocean was worth it. The salt-heavy breeze hit first, warm and familiar against your skin. Then the sound, the endless hush and crash of waves folding into shore, gulls overhead, distant laughter carried by the wind. You slipped your sandals off and let the sand burn briefly against your feet before finding your usual spot. Far enough from the water to keep your book safe. Close enough to hear the tide.
Perfect.
You spread your towel out, dropped your bag beside it, and stretched out on your back like a woman personally committed to becoming one with summer. Sunlight soaked into your skin almost instantly, warm and golden and heavy in that way only coastal afternoons could be. Your bikini was barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing, but that was the point. Tiny black straps against sun-kissed skin, sunglasses shielding your eyes, a paperback novel open against your stomach.
Peace. Actual peace. No dinner invitations. No passive-aggressive mothers. No Lee Heeseung. Just heat and salt and the kind of silence that felt earned. You read for a while, though read was a generous term for occasionally turning a page while mostly listening to the ocean and contemplating whether adulthood could be legally postponed forever. The book was good. The sun was better.
A few familiar faces passed along the shore, neighbors, old classmates, people you’d known your whole life in the vague, privileged way beach towns operated. There were waves, smiles, the occasional “welcome back,” but no one lingered. Exactly how you liked it. At some point, you must have drifted halfway to sleep, caught in that hazy summer state where time stopped mattering. The sun had shifted warmer against your shoulders. The edges of your book blurred. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.
Then a shadow fell across you. Immediately, your soul knew. Without even opening your eyes, you sighed. Deeply. Spiritually. Like a woman who had seen the face of God and found it disappointing. “No.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, “That’s not very neighborly.” Of course. You opened one eye. And there he was. Lee Heeseung, standing over your towel like some sort of beautifully dressed natural disaster. Shirtless, because apparently humility was not part of his summer wardrobe. Swim trunks slung low on his hips, sunglasses on, skin bronzed by the sun like he’d been handcrafted by someone with a personal vendetta against your patience.
Water still clung to his shoulders, droplets sliding slowly down his chest like the universe itself was trying to make your life harder. Annoying. Extremely annoying. You closed your eye again. “If I ignore you long enough,” you said, “will you evaporate?”
“I think that only works on your personality.” You considered throwing your book at him. It was hardcover. Tempting. Instead, you shifted onto one elbow and looked up at him over your sunglasses. “Don’t you have a yacht to crash or someone else to emotionally inconvenience?”
He grinned, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and sat down uninvited at the edge of your towel like personal boundaries were a concept he’d heard of once and rejected on principle. “I was swimming.”
“I can see that. Congratulations on your ability to enter water.”
“Thank you. I worked very hard.”
You stared at him. He stared back. There was something uniquely exhausting about Heeseung’s presence, like he moved through the world assuming everything, and everyone, would make room for him. And worse, they usually did. He looked out toward the ocean, arms resting loosely over his knees. For a second, with the sunlight catching against his skin and the sea stretching endlessly behind him, he looked less like your lifelong enemy and more like one of those postcard summers people spent the rest of their lives trying to recreate.
Which was dangerous. You hated when he looked cinematic. It made being annoyed significantly less efficient. “You’re ruining my peaceful beach solitude,” you informed him.
“I noticed. You seemed too happy.”
“I wasn’t happy. I was tolerating existence.”
“Even worse.”
You let your book fall shut against your lap. “This is exactly why people warn me about you.” He tilted his head.
“No, they warn people about you. I’m universally beloved.”
You scoffed. “By mothers and women with no standards.”
“And yet here you are, talking to me in a bikini.”
You sat up fully. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first.”
“Mm. Territorial.”
“Get off my towel.”
He laughed then, low and easy, carried by the wind and the waves, and it did something profoundly irritating to your bloodstream. That laugh had been the soundtrack to half your summers. Bonfires at sixteen. Pool parties at eighteen. Drunken arguments on docks at twenty. Memory was a cruel thing. You stood abruptly.
Enough. Absolutely enough. If you stayed any longer, you’d either drown him or make eye contact for too long, and both options felt equally dangerous. With the sharp efficiency of someone preserving her dignity by force, you started packing your things. Your book went into your tote. Sunscreen. Water bottle. Sunglasses pushed into your hair.
Heeseung leaned back on his hands, watching the whole performance with zero remorse. “Leaving already?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
A pause. Then, truthfully: “Yes.” His smile widened. You hated how much he enjoyed winning tiny wars. You shoved your sandals on and slung your bag over your shoulder, glaring down at him with all the righteous fury of a woman denied a peaceful tanning session. “You are genuinely the most irritating person I have ever met.”
He looked up at you, sunlight in his hair, smirk already waiting. “And yet you keep coming back every summer.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because unfortunately, he had a point, and you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing that aloud. Instead, you gave him one last glare sharp enough to qualify as a formal threat and turned toward home.
The walk back felt warmer somehow, the sun heavier against your skin, sand clinging to your ankles. Behind you, his laughter followed, soft at first, then clearer as the wind carried it over the shoreline. Infuriating. Familiar. Summer itself, if summer had a god complex and perfect teeth. You didn’t look back. But you could still hear him. And somehow, that felt worse.
Saturday arrived wrapped in sunlight and bad intentions. By six in the evening, the entire house smelled like citrus candles, your mother’s perfume, and the kind of expensive stress that came with hosting, or in this case, being hosted by, the Lees. The sun was beginning its slow descent over the water, pouring honey-colored light through the bedroom windows and turning everything soft and golden in a way that made even impending social torture look romantic.
Outside, Jeju Island was in full performance mode. The streets near the coast glowed with polished summer wealth, convertibles pulling into curved driveways, tennis bracelets catching the light, champagne already being chilled somewhere on a yacht that absolutely did not need to exist. The ocean breeze drifted in through the cracked windows carrying salt, jasmine, and the faint sounds of someone laughing too loudly three houses down.
Everything looked beautiful. Which was unfortunate, because beauty made suffering feel theatrical. You stood in the middle of your bedroom surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small fashion war. Dresses across the bed. Shoes abandoned like casualties. A hairbrush on the floor. Three rejected outfit options hanging from your closet door like public executions.
And in your hands, your salvation. An oversized gray hoodie. Soft. Reliable. Emotionally supportive. The kind of hoodie that said I do not wish to be perceived. Perfect. You pulled it over your head with the solemnity of a woman entering battle. It swallowed you immediately, sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs, the entire look somewhere between off-duty model and suspicious raccoon. You stared at yourself in the mirror.
Excellent. If all went according to plan, the Lees would assume you were a drifter who had wandered in from the beach and politely ask you to leave before appetizers. Peace at last. Your mother entered without knocking, because privacy was apparently a concept reserved for only the elites. She stopped in the doorway.
Looked at you. Looked at the hoodie. Looked back at you. Silence. Long enough to be considered legally threatening. “No,” she said.
You folded your arms. “Counterpoint: yes.”
“No.”
“This is fashion.”
“This is a cry for help.”
You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the hood with dramatic precision. “I’m cultivating mystery. They’ll be intrigued.”
“They’ll think I forgot to raise you.”
“Honestly, that might buy me sympathy.”
Your mother crossed the room with the terrifying calm of a woman who had already made her decision three minutes ago. From behind her back, like a magician revealing the final trick, she produced a dress. Yellow. Of course it was yellow, why? Because, summer, darling. Not soft yellow. Not subtle yellow. The kind of rich, golden, sunlight yellow that looked like it belonged in a movie where everyone had unresolved feelings and excellent cheekbones.
A sleek sundress. Fitted enough to be dangerous, effortless enough to pretend it wasn’t. You narrowed your eyes. “No.”
“Yes.”
“It looks like optimism.”
“It looks like summer.”
“It looks like a setup.”
She held it up against you with complete disregard for your emotional well-being. “It looks like you clean up beautifully.” There it was. The betrayal. Because that was exactly the problem. You knew the dress looked good. That made it worse. Wearing the dress meant effort. Effort meant possibility. Possibility meant Lee Heeseung seeing you in a dress that suggested maybe, potentially, under the right atmospheric conditions, you had once been nice to someone.
Unacceptable. You stepped back. “I would rather be hit by a jet ski.”
“Wonderful. You can wear this to the hospital afterward.”
“Mother.”
She sighed, setting the dress on the bed like a final verdict. “You are not wearing that hoodie to dinner with the Lees. Mrs. Lee adores you, your father is already pretending this evening will be civilized, and I refuse to let my daughter look like she escaped from a beach bonfire.” You looked at the hoodie. The hoodie looked back. A fallen soldier. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out over the ocean like it, too, understood your suffering.
You flopped backward onto the bed with all the grace of a dying Victorian heroine. “This is oppression.”
“This is dinner.”
“There’s seafood involved. That makes it worse.”
Your mother sat beside you, smoothing a wrinkle from the yellow dress. For a moment, the teasing slipped into something softer. “You’ve been doing this with him for years,” she said.
You stared at the ceiling. “Doing what?” She gave you a look, not sharp, not smug, just the tired wisdom of a woman who had watched two stubborn people circle each other for too long.
“This one. The fighting. The pretending.” You groaned dramatically and threw an arm over your face. “If this conversation ends with you calling him charming, I’m moving to another country.”
She laughed then, quiet and warm. “I’m just saying… maybe try not to make tonight a battlefield.” Too late. The battlefield had excellent landscaping and probably a wine pairing. Still, after she left, the room felt quieter. The golden light had shifted lower now, stretching long shadows across the floorboards. From your window, you could see the neighboring house through the trees, white walls glowing in the sunset, lights beginning to flicker on, elegant and smug and entirely too close.
Somewhere over there was Heeseung. Probably looking expensive. Probably being annoying. Probably existing with that stupid face. You hated that your first instinct was to wonder what he’d be wearing. Probably linen. Men like him were always in linen, like they were personally sponsored by summer. With a sigh heavy enough to qualify as literature, you sat up and stared at the yellow dress again. It stared back, victorious.
Fine. Fine. You changed. And, because the universe enjoyed humiliation as a hobby, your mother was right. The dress fit like it had been designed specifically to ruin your peace. Thin straps, bare shoulders, the kind of silhouette that looked effortless and absolutely was not. Against sun-kissed skin, the yellow made you look like you belonged in this town, like expensive mistakes and beautiful bad decisions.
You hated it immediately. Mostly because you looked good. You stood in front of the mirror, turning once, suspicious. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you’d find a flaw large enough to justify changing back into the hoodie. There wasn’t one. Traitorous fabric. You added gold hoops, minimal makeup, lip gloss sharp enough to count as a weapon, and tried very hard not to think about why any of this mattered.
It didn’t. Obviously. You were dressing for yourself. And if Lee Heeseung happened to see you and suffer emotionally, that was simply community service. Downstairs, your father was already waiting by the door with car keys and the resigned expression of a man who knew he was escorting two women into battle and had chosen survival over commentary. He looked up when you descended the stairs. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” he said, “you look expensive.”
You picked up your clutch. “I plan to act accordingly.” Your mother beamed like she’d personally invented beauty. You refused to acknowledge this. Outside, the evening had turned warm and velvet-soft, the sky streaked pink and gold over the ocean. The walk next door was barely two minutes, just enough time for dread to fully settle in.
The Lee house stood glowing at the end of the path, every window lit, laughter already drifting from inside. Dinner. Wine. Politeness. Heeseung. You inhaled slowly as your father reached for the front gate. Summer, apparently, had decided subtle suffering wasn’t enough. It wanted dinner and a show. The Lee house always looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled People With Better Lives Than You.
White stone, warm lights spilling from enormous windows, ivy climbing tastefully up the walls like even the plants here had trust funds. The front garden smelled like jasmine and sea air and whatever expensive candle Mrs. Lee probably had burning somewhere inside. Everything about it radiated polished wealth and the kind of family dinners where people said things like summering abroad.
You hated how nice it was. You hated even more that you’d spent half your childhood here. Birthday dinners. Pool parties. Christmases once, before everyone got too busy and too grown up for normal traditions. There were memories tucked into every corner of this place, most of them involving some version of you losing an argument to Lee Heeseung and plotting revenge by dessert.
Tonight, unfortunately, promised tradition. Mrs. Lee opened the door before you could even knock, all elegance and warmth in a silk dress the color of champagne. “There you are!” She kissed your cheek before you had time to prepare emotionally. “Look at you,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “Absolutely gorgeous.” From behind you, your mother made the smug little sound of victory.
You chose to ignore it. “You say that now,” you said, stepping inside, “but let’s revisit after I inevitably insult someone over seafood.”
Mrs. Lee laughed like she always did, like your bad attitude was somehow charming instead of hereditary. “Nonsense. We’re all family here.” That was the problem. The foyer opened into soft golden light and polished wood floors, the low hum of conversation drifting in from the dining room. Somewhere, glasses clinked. Somewhere else, your father and Mr. Lee were already discussing something expensive and unnecessary, probably boats.
You slipped off your sandals and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you. And then, of course, there he was. Lee Heeseung, leaning against the archway to the living room like he’d been strategically placed there for maximum irritation.
Black button-down this time, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone just enough to be a public health concern. Dark slacks. Watch glinting at his wrist. Hair slightly messy in that suspiciously intentional way attractive men got away with. He looked like summer trouble dressed in designer clothing. Annoying. Extremely annoying.
His gaze found you immediately. Paused. And for one dangerous second, he said nothing. Just looked. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Like the room had gone quiet around it. It started at your feet, moved upward, and landed finally on your face with something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Not smug. Worse. Appreciative. You wanted to throw yourself directly into the ocean. Instead, you smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that had ruined lesser men.
“Try not to look too shocked. I know basic hygiene is a surprise.”
His mouth twitched. “There she is,” he said, voice low and easy. “I was worried the dress had made you nice.”
Your mother, traitor that she was, immediately linked arms with Mrs. Lee. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You two can catch up while we finish setting the table.”
No. Absolutely not. You opened your mouth. “No—” Too late. The parents had already vanished with the terrifying efficiency of adults who believed proximity solved everything. Your father gave you a look on the way out, the kind that said ‘behave’, and disappeared toward the kitchen like a man abandoning a sinking ship.
And suddenly, it was just the two of you. Silence. Not awkward. Worse. Familiar. The kind of silence built over years of unfinished conversations and too much history. You crossed your arms. He mirrored nothing, which somehow made it more annoying. In your deeply correct and entirely unbiased opinion, “catching up” with Lee Heeseung translated loosely to trying to have a normal conversation without committing a felony.
A challenge, certainly. You managed three words. “Well. You’re alive.” He nodded thoughtfully.
“Still devastatingly handsome too, thanks for noticing.”
You sighed. “This is why people drink before family dinners.”
“And yet you came sober. Brave.”
You were preparing a truly excellent insult, something elegant, devastating, probably Pulitzer-worthy, when Mrs. Lee’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Dinner!” Saved by seafood. You gave him one final look. “Don’t make me regret this.”
He stepped aside, one hand gesturing toward the dining room like some smug Regency villain. “No promises.”
The dining room looked exactly like every old-money summer dinner should. Long table, linen napkins, candles despite it still being warm outside. Too many wine glasses for any morally responsible evening. French doors stood open to the back patio where the ocean breeze drifted in soft and salted, carrying the sound of waves somewhere beyond the dunes. Sunset had bled fully into evening now, the sky darkening violet over the water.
Everything felt cinematic. Which was rude, considering your mood. Seats were assigned by parental conspiracy, obviously. You discovered yours and stopped. Heeseung. Right next to you. Naturally. Mrs. Lee smiled far too innocently. “I thought it would be nice.” It would not. It absolutely would not. But protesting would only make it worse, so you sat with the grace of a woman choosing violence internally. Heeseung took the seat beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the universe.
Across the table, your mother was already discussing someone’s daughter getting engaged. Your father had wine. Mr. Lee had opinions about coastal property values. Everyone settled into conversation with the practiced ease of people who had done this for decades. And somehow, despite all of it, your entire awareness kept narrowing to the person sitting six inches to your right.
His knee brushed yours under the table. Lightly. Accidental. Probably. You froze for exactly half a second. Then refused to acknowledge it because dignity still mattered. You reached for your water. His hand reached for the bread basket. Fingers brushed. Again. This time, definitely not accidental. You turned your head. He was already looking at you. Calm. Composed. Infuriating.
Like he hadn’t just weaponized table manners. You smiled without showing teeth. “If you’re trying to start something over dinner rolls, I’d like you to know that’s a deeply embarrassing way to die.”
His expression remained perfectly neutral as he handed you the basket. “I’m just being polite.”
“Suspicious already.”
Across from you, Mrs. Lee sighed fondly. “You two are exactly the same.”
You and Heeseung answered at the same time. “Absolutely not.” Everyone laughed. You considered faking your death. Dinner continued in that dangerous, glittering way summer dinners did, wine poured generously, stories repeated beautifully, everyone glowing a little softer in candlelight. Your parents kept bringing up old memories.
That camping trip when you were thirteen. The sailing lessons disaster. The time Heeseung pushed you into the pool and you threw his phone into the ocean. Mrs. Lee was still mad about that one. You maintained it had been justified. Everyone treated the two of you like old friends. Like there had always been affection under the arguments.
Like this was charming instead of mutually assured destruction. It was infuriating. Because they weren’t wrong. That was the worse part. Every now and then, while someone else talked, you’d catch him looking at you. Not casually. Not the usual teasing glance. Longer. Quieter. Like he was trying to remember something. Or decide something. Too much. Entirely too much.
You focused on your wine. On your fork. Your plate. Literally anything else. But awareness sat there anyway, warm and sharp and impossible to ignore. The yellow dress suddenly felt like a mistake. The ocean breeze moved through the open doors. Candles flickered. Someone laughed at the far end of the table. And beside you, Lee Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking unfairly good in soft light and expensive black clothing, like every bad decision summer had ever offered.
You hated him. Probably. Mostly. Which was becoming, very inconveniently, less convincing by the second.
By the time dinner ended, the sky had softened into that strange in-between hour where everything looked prettier than it had any right to. The table was abandoned in stages, wine glasses left half-full, dessert plates forgotten, your father and Mr. Lee still arguing about boats like it was a blood sport. Mrs. Lee and your mother disappeared into the kitchen with the kind of determined energy that suggested they were about to wash dishes neither of them had touched all evening.
Which left the younger generation exactly where summer always did. Outside. Near water. With alcohol. And poor judgment. Someone, probably Jay, because it always felt like a Jay decision, had suggested a beach fire, and within twenty minutes everyone had drifted down toward the private stretch of shoreline behind the houses like it was instinct.
It kind of was. This was what summers here were made of. Bonfires and old friends. Salt in your hair. Music from someone’s phone speaker. Drinks passed around without anyone asking whose they were. The beach at night felt different than it did during the day. Softer somehow. Less polished. The tide rolled in slow and silver under the moonlight, waves folding quietly against the shore while the bonfire crackled warm against the cooling night air. Sand clung to bare ankles, the fire throwing gold over familiar faces.
It made everyone look younger. Closer to the versions of yourselves that had first started all this. Sunoo arrived first, carrying drinks and looking like downtown Cove had personally appointed him its stylish representative. Sharp grin, prettier than most women, and already prepared to be everyone’s problem. “Look who survived dinner,” he said dramatically when he spotted you. “I was taking bets.”
“You should’ve bet against me,” you said, taking the drink he offered. “I nearly drowned in polite conversation.”
“Tragic. And in that dress too. What a loss.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Jay called from where he and Sunghoon were attempting to set up folding chairs in the sand with all the competence of men raised by money.
Jay looked exactly the same as always: clean-cut, expensive taste, and permanently carrying himself like he was five minutes away from judging someone’s life choices. Which, to be fair, he usually was. Sunghoon stood beside him, all cool quiet and expensive silence, somehow managing to look elegant while losing a fight against a beach chair.
Some people were simply born unfair. From farther down the shore came the sound of laughter, bright and familiar, and then Eunchae appeared with Yunjin and Yoonchae trailing behind her, all of them carrying the kind of chaotic energy that guaranteed tonight would end with at least one regrettable decision. Eunchae saw you first and immediately pointed.
“There she is! The woman of the hour.” You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is,” Yunjin said cheerfully, pulling you into a quick hug. “We’ve heard about dinner. We’re here for details.”
“There are no details.”
“There are always details,” Yoonchae said.
And then, because the universe had apparently decided your suffering needed an audience, Lee Heeseung arrived. Late, naturally. Walking down the path from the houses with his sleeves rolled and his hands in his pockets like he was entering a film scene instead of a beach fire. The ocean breeze moved through his hair, and for one deeply annoying second, every girl within a ten-foot radius visibly remembered he was attractive.
Including you. Unfortunately. Sunoo, traitor that he was, smirked immediately. “And there’s the other half of our favorite summer divorce.”
“Please,” you said. “I’d need to marry him first, and I do have standards.” Heeseung dropped into the sand beside the fire like he belonged there, which, annoyingly, he did, and looked at you over the rim of the beer Jay handed him. “She says that now. Give it ten years.”
“In ten years, I’ll still be filing restraining orders.”
“Romantic,” Yunjin sighed. Everyone laughed. That was the problem with old friends, they remembered too much. This group had grown up together in fragments. Family dinners, yacht parties, beach bonfires at sixteen, too many summers collapsing into one long memory of sunburns and terrible choices. They’d all witnessed the evolution of whatever it was between you and Heeseung. Which meant they were insufferable about it. Sunoo stretched out dramatically in the sand.
“I still think you two should just get married and save us all time.”
Sunghoon, staring into the fire like a philosopher trapped in a luxury campaign, added, “At this point, it would actually be less dramatic.”
Jay nodded once. “Financially, it makes sense.”
You looked around the circle. “I need better friends.”
“No,” Eunchae said, grinning, “you need to admit you’ve been flirting through mutual destruction for like eight years.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is an incredibly rude accusation.”
Heeseung took a sip of his drink, far too calm. “She’s right.”
You turned toward him so fast it nearly counted as whiplash. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged. “You’re meaner when you like someone.”
Sunoo made the loudest, most disrespectful sound of delight known to man. “Oh my god, we’re finally saying it.”
“We are saying nothing,” you snapped.
Yunjin leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Should we bring up the balcony incident?”
Absolutely not. You pointed at her. “If you value our friendship, you’ll choose silence.” Too late.
Eunchae gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, the almost-kiss.” And there it was. Like a match dropped into gasoline. The balcony incident. Nineteen years old. One of Jay’s stupid summer parties. Too much champagne. Too much moonlight. Too much unresolved tension and a stupidly beautiful balcony overlooking the ocean. You and Heeseung had been alone for exactly seven minutes before an argument turned into standing too close, then silence, then that terrible suspended second where both people know exactly what’s about to happen.
You’d almost kissed. Almost. Then someone had opened the balcony door, reality had returned, and both of you had spent the next three years pretending it never happened. Civilization had survived. Barely. Around the fire, everyone looked delighted. You wanted the ocean to take you.
“It was not an almost-kiss,” you said with dignity.
“It absolutely was,” Sunoo replied.
“There was tension,” Yoonchae added.
“There was eye contact,” Eunchae said.
“There was champagne,” Yunjin said solemnly.
Jay, like a judge delivering sentence, finished: “That counts.”
You looked to Heeseung for support. A mistake. Because he’d gone strangely quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Quiet. His gaze stayed on the fire, beer loose in his hand, jaw set just enough for you to notice because unfortunately, after years of knowing someone, you learned the small things. Interesting. Very interesting. You tilted your head slightly. He wasn’t embarrassed.
If anything, he looked… annoyed. Or thoughtful. Like the memory had landed somewhere deeper than expected. That was new. Usually, Heeseung met chaos with amusement. He was good at pretending nothing mattered. But now, under the firelight, with everyone laughing around him and the ocean dark behind you, he looked still. You watched him for a second too long. Then he glanced up. Caught you.
And just like that, the moment snapped. His expression shifted back into something easier. Familiar. Dangerous. He smirked. You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve caused medical concern and took another drink. The conversation moved on, someone brought up an old yacht party disaster involving Sunghoon and a very expensive pair of loafers, Sunoo started a dramatic retelling of his brief and toxic relationship with a bartender from last summer, Eunchae laughed so hard she nearly fell backward into the sand.
The night folded around you, warm and nostalgic and too easy. This was the trap of summer. It made everything feel survivable. Even him. By the time the fire burned lower and people started drifting home, the moon sat high over the water and the beach had gone quiet again. You walked back alone, sandals in one hand, the other curled around your phone.
The sand was cool now under your feet. Waves whispered against the shore. Somewhere behind you, someone was still laughing. Your dress smelled like smoke. Your hair smelled like salt. And despite yourself, your mind kept circling back to one thing. That silence. The balcony. The firelight. The way Heeseung had gone quiet.
Interesting. You were still thinking about it when your phone buzzed in your hand. A text. You stopped walking. Looked down. Of course.
Heeseung
A single message.
Heeseung: still thinking about that balcony, or are you finally admitting i almost won?
You stared at the screen. There it was. The beginning of every bad idea. You should ignore it. You absolutely should. Instead, standing barefoot under the moonlight with the ocean at your back and your better judgment somewhere drowning offshore, you smiled. And typed back.
You: won what? you almost passed out from cheap champagne. history remembers the truth.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Danger, apparently, texted first.
The following week was suspicious. Not in any dramatic, life-altering way. No scandals. No yacht crashes. No accidental engagements announced over brunch. Just… suspicious. Because you were happy. Unreasonably, offensively happy. The kind of happy that made people around you uncomfortable, like spotting a shark in shallow water and realizing it was smiling.
It started subtly. You slept better. You stopped glaring at sunlight like it had personally betrayed you. You let your mother drag you to the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning and only complained twice, which she later described to your father in the same tone people used for religious miracles. By Thursday, you had laughed, genuinely laughed, at something Mrs. Lee said over iced coffee, and your mother had nearly dropped a peach. “Are you ill?” she asked immediately.
You looked up from your sunglasses. “Deeply, but unrelated.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No, seriously. You’ve been… cheerful.” The accusation hung between you. Cheerful. As if she’d caught you committing tax fraud. You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee with all the dignity of a woman being unfairly persecuted.
“I’m always cheerful.”
She gave you a look so flat it could’ve ironed shirts. “Last week you called a seagull a personal enemy.”
“It knew what it did.”
Your father, reading the paper at the table, lowered it just enough to contribute, “You also threatened the blender.”
“It started first.” He nodded thoughtfully and returned to the business section. Traitor. The truth was harder to explain. There was no grand reason for it. No cinematic revelation. No dramatic confession under moonlight. Just summer. The beach. The sun. Late-night fires. Salt in your hair. And texts. That was the real problem. Because after the bonfire, Heeseung had texted again. And then again. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous enough to name. Just stupid things.
A picture of the terrible coffee from the marina café with the caption: thought of you and your bad taste
A midnight text that only said: are you still pretending you didn’t almost kiss me first
A blurry photo of Sunoo asleep on a yacht chair: proof he can be quiet
And every single time, against your better judgment and your carefully cultivated reputation for emotional self-preservation, you replied. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes after twenty strategic minutes. Because dignity mattered. Still, the effect had been catastrophic. You were smiling at your phone now. In public. Like a woman with no survival instincts.
On Friday afternoon, your mother found you standing in the garden staring at the hydrangeas like you were in a coming-of-age film. You were holding one bloom gently between your fingers, sunlight warm on your shoulders, genuinely appreciating how ridiculous and beautiful summer looked here.
She stopped on the patio, and squinted, then called into the house, “Honey, come outside. I think our daughter has been replaced.”
You rolled your eyes. “Please. If I were replaced, the imposter would be nicer.”
“Exactly my concern.” Unfortunately, your brief and scandalous flirtation with floral appreciation ended there. The hydrangea wilted two days later. Probably out of sheer terror. Even worse, people noticed. Everyone noticed. Sunoo, after seeing you smile at your phone during lunch, gasped like a Victorian widow and clutched his chest. “Oh my god. She’s in love.”
You nearly threw your drink at him. “I’m blocking you.”
“Denial. Classic.”
“It’s called boundaries.”
“It’s called a crush.” Across the table, Heeseung said absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, was worse, because lately, he’d been watching you. Not constantly, not obviously, just enough, across dinner tables, from the beach, leaning against his car while pretending not to. Curious. Like he’d noticed the shift and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet, like he was waiting.
On Sunday, you passed him outside while coming back from the beach, still warm from the sun, tote bag over your shoulder, skin glowing with the kind of happiness you were trying very hard not to examine too closely. And for reasons still unknown to science, you smiled at him. Not your usual sharp smile, not sarcastic, not weaponized. Bright, easy, and real.
It happened before you could stop it. For one glorious second, Lee Heeseung looked genuinely startled. Actually startled. He stopped mid-step, eyebrows lifting like his brain had temporarily lost signal. He didn’t smile back, just looked at you with that unreadable expression and one slightly raised brow, like he was trying to solve a puzzle and deeply suspicious of the answer.
You kept walking, because stopping would imply weakness. But halfway up your front steps, you could still feel it, that look, and somewhere behind you, you just knew he was still standing there, watching. Interesting. Very, very dangerous.
By Friday night, the entire town had collectively decided to be beautiful. You could feel it in the air. Summer in Jeju Island had a rhythm to it, and bonfire nights sat somewhere near the top of the food chain, just beneath yacht parties and just above making terrible decisions in someone else’s kitchen at two in the morning. The beach changed on nights like this.
During the day, it belonged to families and sunscreen and children building sandcastles with inherited wealth. But at night, especially on Fridays, it belonged to people your age. To music drifting over the dunes. To bottles hidden badly in tote bags. To girls in tiny dresses and boys pretending they weren’t trying too hard. Bonfire nights were for performance. And if there was one thing you respected, it was committing to a bit. You stood in your bedroom with your closet doors thrown open and the kind of focus usually reserved for military strategy.
Your bed was covered in options. Black satin. White linen. Something red Yoonchae once described as “emotionally irresponsible.” You were considering that one. Because tonight wasn’t just any bonfire. Tonight, everyone would be there. Which meant he would be there. And while you were a mature, evolved woman who absolutely did not make outfit decisions based on Lee Heeseung’s potential suffering, you were also not a liar. You pulled the red dress off its hanger. Short, silk, and worst of all, backless. The kind of dress that looked like bad decisions and expensive apologies. Perfect.
You slipped it on slowly, watching yourself in the mirror as the fabric settled against your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. It clung where it should, skimmed where it mattered, and left just enough to imagination to make imagination work overtime. Dangerous. Excellent. You added gold jewelry because subtlety was for people with less interesting lives. Glossed lips. Soft waves in your hair. Perfume that smelled like jasmine and poor choices.
Then heels. Not practical for the beach. That was beside the point. When you walked downstairs, your father was on the couch pretending to read and your mother was rearranging flowers for sport. Both looked up. Your father blinked once. Then lowered his book. “Should I be concerned?”
“Always,” you said.
Your mother smiled like she was watching an expensive revenge plot unfold in real time. “Where exactly are you going dressed like that?”
You picked up your clutch. “To remind people to mind their business.”
Your father muttered something about raising a supervillain. Your mother kissed your cheek on the way out and whispered, “Be safe.” Which, translated from mother-language, meant: Don’t get arrested. Don’t set anything on fire. Try not to ruin anyone’s son permanently. No promises.
The walk to the beach felt cinematic. Warm night air against bare skin. The sound of waves pulling at the shore. Music already carrying from farther down the sand, bass soft and distant beneath the ocean. The moon hung low and bright over the water, silver against black waves. Firelight flickered somewhere ahead. And by the time you stepped over the dunes and onto the shore, every head turned. Good. Let them. There was power in being seen and knowing exactly what they were seeing. Sunoo, standing near the cooler with a drink in one hand and judgment in the other, spotted you first.
He froze dramatically. Then placed a hand over his heart. “Oh,” he said. “She came to kill.” “Someone has to keep standards alive.”
He looked you up and down with the solemn respect of a man appreciating art. “That dress should come with legal paperwork.”
“Excellent. I’m hoping for emotional damages.” Eunchae appeared next, immediately grabbing your arm. “No, seriously, turn around. I need to hate you properly.” You did, because generosity mattered. She groaned. “I’m ending our friendship.”
“Understandable.” Yunjin, from beside the fire, raised her drink toward you. “Whatever crime you commit tonight, I support you.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.” The bonfire itself was already in full swing. Someone had dragged out chairs no one was using. Music played low from a speaker half-buried in someone’s beach bag. Jay and Sunghoon were debating something useless near the waterline with the seriousness of men discussing world peace instead of tequila brands. People moved in loose circles, laughing, drinking, pretending not to stare at each other. Summer. Beautiful and a little stupid.
And then, like a sixth sense specifically designed to inconvenience you, you felt it. That look, across the fire, Heeseung. He stood with Jay near the cooler, beer in hand, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking like he’d walked straight out of an ad for poor decisions. The firelight caught against the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of his watch, the expression on his face, which, for one deeply satisfying second, was surprise. Real surprise.
His eyes landed on you and stayed there. Paused. Moved once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying very hard not to react and failing in private. He noticed, immediately, of course he did. You smiled, not at him, but in his direction, which was somehow worse, and turned your attention elsewhere. Because if you were going to weaponize beauty tonight, subtlety would only dilute the effect.
His name was Minjae, which you remembered mostly because he’d tried to kiss Yunjin two summers ago and gotten publicly roasted for it. Harmless. Pretty enough. From one of the families near the marina. More importantly, available. He approached with exactly the kind of confidence men borrowed from expensive watches. “Well,” he said, smiling as he stepped closer, “you’re either trying to ruin someone’s life tonight or start a small war.”
You took the drink he offered. “Can’t it be both?” He laughed, leaning in just enough to suggest intention. And from the corner of your eye, there, heeseung watching, not openly, but enough. His posture had changed, slightly stiffer, beer untouched, expression neutral in the way men got when they were trying very hard not to look like they wanted to commit a felony. Interesting. Very interesting.
You smiled brighter. Poor Minjae. A perfectly nice civilian about to become collateral damage. “You clean up well,” he said. “I usually do.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Have you?” The conversation was easy, almost too easy. Light touches. Leaning closer. The practiced dance of summer flirting where no one meant too much and everyone pretended otherwise, and the entire time, you could feel it.
That awareness from across the fire. Sharp, and steady. Heeseung. You laughed a little louder than necessary. Touched Minjae’s arm. Tilted your head just enough. Purely for scientific purposes. Across the beach, Sunoo noticed first, because gossip was basically his cardio.
He looked from you to Heeseung and nearly ascended. “Oh,” he whispered to no one and everyone. “Oh, this is delicious.”
Jay followed his line of sight and physically winced. “Someone should probably stop this.”
Sunghoon, wise as ever, took a sip of his drink and said, “No.” Correct. Absolutely no one should stop this. Because now Heeseung was walking over. Slowly. Calmly. Which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d looked angry. He moved like someone with a purpose. Like the ocean itself had personally requested violence. Minjae was still talking. Something about boats. You had no idea. Because Heeseung stopped beside you, close enough for the smell of expensive cologne and sea air to ruin your peace.
And said, casually, too casually, “Didn’t know you liked boring men.” Silence. Beautiful. Terrible. Immediate. Minjae blinked. You took a slow sip of your drink. Turned your head. Looked directly at him. And smiled.
Oh. This was going to be fun. Minjae, to his credit, had enough self-preservation instincts to realize when he’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s war. He looked between you and Heeseung, your too-sweet smile, Heeseung’s dangerously calm expression, and gave the kind of laugh people used when backing away from wild animals.
“Well,” he said, lifting his drink slightly, “I’m suddenly remembering I promised Sunoo I’d help him with… something.” Sunoo, across the fire, yelled, “I did not—” Too late. Minjae was already retreating into the night, leaving you alone with the problem. Which was standing far too close and looking far too pleased with himself. You turned slowly, crossing your arms.
“Did you just scare off my entertainment?”
Heeseung took a sip of his beer like he hadn’t committed a social crime. “If your entertainment starts explaining boat engines, I’m doing you a favor.”
“I was having a lovely time.”
“No, you were being annoying on purpose.” You placed a hand dramatically over your heart. “And here I thought I was subtle.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and the amusement thinned just enough to let something sharper through. “That’s the problem.” The fire crackled behind you. Somewhere farther down the beach, someone shouted over the music. Laughter carried on the wind.
But here, in the small space between you and him, everything had gone quieter. You tilted your head. “What exactly is the problem, Lee?” His jaw shifted. That tiny thing he did when he was trying not to say too much. Dangerous.
“You always do this.” You blinked once, deliberately. “Do what?” He stepped closer. Not enough for touching. Enough for trouble. “Act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” There it was. Not a joke. Not banter. Something real enough to make your pulse trip over itself. You should’ve backed up. You didn’t. Instead, you smiled, that slow, sharp smile you used when you were either about to win or about to ruin your own life.
“And what exactly am I doing?” He let out one quiet laugh, humorless. “Seriously?”
“Very.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Mistake. Terrible, catastrophic mistake. Because suddenly the entire night rearranged itself around that single glance. The firelight. The ocean. The red dress. His voice lower now, rougher around the edges.
“You flirt with people you don’t care about,” he said. “You get that look on your face when you’re trying to prove something. And then you wait to see who notices.” Your heartbeat was officially embarrassing. You folded your arms tighter, mostly so he wouldn’t notice.
“And you noticed.” He didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. The moonlight silvered the edges of everything, the shoreline, the glass in his hand, the expression he was trying and failing to keep neutral. You swallowed. Slowly. “Sounds like a you problem.” His mouth twitched.
“Probably.” There it was again, that unbearable thing between you, stretched tight as wire. Years of almosts. Arguments that had never really been about arguments. Every summer version of yourselves layered on top of each other until neither of you knew where the joke ended and the truth began. You could still remember the balcony. Nineteen. Champagne. His hand on the railing beside yours. That second where everything had almost changed.
You wondered if he was thinking about it too. You suspected he was. Because now he was closer. And now you could smell the ocean on his skin, something expensive underneath it, and the very specific danger of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. You should absolutely leave. Instead, because self-destruction was apparently hereditary, you said softly, “You’re jealous.”
His expression sharpened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Too late.” “You think this is funny.”
“No,” you said. “I think you’re jealous, and I think you hate that I noticed.” He stepped in once more. Enough that your breath caught. Enough that the entire world narrowed. “Careful.”
“Or what?” Your voice came out quieter than intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, and when he spoke, it was barely above the sound of the waves. “Or you’ll say something you can’t take back.” Silence. The dangerous kind. You could hear your own breathing. The ocean behind him. Someone laughing far away, in another universe where people made good choices. Here, there was only this. His hand brushing your bare arm as he shifted. Your pulse in your throat. The ridiculous certainty that if either of you moved half an inch, the entire summer would split open.
You thought, this is it. Finally. At last. And then, “OH MY GOD, THERE YOU TWO ARE.” Eunchae. Of course. She appeared like divine punishment in platform sandals, carrying two drinks and absolutely no sense of timing. You jumped back so fast it should’ve counted as cardio. Heeseung looked like he might walk directly into the ocean. Eunchae stopped. Looked between you. The space. The tension. The crime scene. And grinned like the devil herself.
“Wow,” she said. “I almost feel bad interrupting whatever deeply repressed thing was happening here.” “Don’t,” you said immediately.
“Never,” Heeseung muttered at the exact same time. She handed you a drink with the smugness of a woman collecting evidence. “Cute. Anyway, Sunoo is taking bets on whether you two make out before August.”
You took the drink because murder was illegal. “Tell Sunoo I hope he loses money.”
“Oh, he definitely won’t.” She skipped away before either of you could respond, leaving behind chaos and the lingering smell of coconut perfume. Silence again. But ruined now. Worse, somehow. Because now both of you knew. Not the joke. Not the performance. The actual thing underneath it. And once you knew that, pretending got harder. You stared out at the water. He stared at the fire. Neither of you said anything. Eventually, as the night thinned and people started leaving in groups of laughter and half-finished conversations, it became painfully obvious that your usual ride home had abandoned you in favor of some post-party food run.
Which left, “Get in.” You stood beside Heeseung’s car, clutching your shoes in one hand and your pride in the other. “No.” He unlocked the passenger door without looking at you. “Yes.” “I’d rather walk.”
“It’s two miles.”
“I’m resilient.”
“You’re dramatic.”
You narrowed your eyes. He opened the door wider. “Get in.” And because the universe hated you, you did. The drive home was quiet. Not awkward. Worse. The kind of silence that knew too much. The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the car, carrying salt and smoke and the last traces of summer bonfire on your skin. Your heels sat abandoned on the floor. Your red dress still smelled like fire.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. You looked out the window because looking at him felt like volunteering for emotional damage. Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss. Neither of you mentioned anything. When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark, your parents already asleep.
For one second, neither of you moved. Then you reached for the door. At the same time, his hand shifted. Your fingers brushed. Just barely. Warm. Accidental. Or maybe not. You froze. So did he. And for one stupid, suspended second, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath again. Then you pulled your hand back. Too fast. “Goodnight,” you said. Too quiet. He nodded once.
“Night.” You got out. Walked to the front door. Did not look back. But you could feel him there, still sitting in the driveway, engine running, watching until you got inside. And later, long after the house had gone still and the ocean whispered somewhere beyond your window, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Wide awake. Heart traitorous. Mind worse. Because now you knew. And so did he. Nobody slept.
The next few days were a masterclass in mutual psychological damage. Not dramatic damage. Worse. Polite damage. The kind where nothing happened and somehow everything did. You didn’t fight. That was the first sign something had gone horribly wrong. No sarcastic remarks over morning coffee. No pointed comments when passing each other near the beach path. No weaponized flirting in front of your parents. No smug little “morning, neighbor” from across the driveway.
Nothing. Just awkward, terrible silence. You’d see him and immediately become fascinated by literally anything else. The mailbox. A cloud. The concept of sand. Anything but eye contact. Because eye contact implied remembering. And remembering implied the bonfire. The almost-kiss. The car ride. His hand brushing yours like the universe personally wanted you to suffer. No, thank you. You were suddenly the busiest woman alive. If he was at the beach, you were tragically needed elsewhere.
If he was by the marina, you had urgent business in the opposite direction. If he was leaning against his stupid car looking like a rich-boy problem in linen, you turned around. Dignity first. Unfortunately, subtlety had never survived around your families. By Wednesday morning, Mrs. Lee noticed. Of course she did. That woman could detect emotional tension like a bloodhound. You were outside watering your mother’s increasingly judgmental hydrangeas, a task you’d been assigned after the tragic and suspicious death of the previous one, when it happened.
The sun was already warm, the kind of bright coastal morning that made everything look too innocent. Birds chirping. Ocean breeze drifting through the hedges. A peaceful suburban scene. Lies. Across the white fence separating your houses, Mrs. Lee stood on her patio with a basket of laundry and the sharp, narrowed gaze of a woman putting pieces together. You should’ve run. Instead, you smiled weakly.
Mistake. Because at that exact moment, Heeseung stepped outside. Coffee in one hand. Sunglasses. Half-awake and offensively attractive. He looked toward you automatically. You looked anywhere else so fast it nearly caused whiplash. Silence. A beat. Then, Mrs. Lee gasped.
Not a small gasp. A full-body gasp. The kind that meant family history was about to be rewritten. She turned toward her son so fast the laundry basket nearly died for it. “Lee Heeseung!” He stopped mid-sip. Already tired. “Mom, what.”
Her hand flew dramatically toward your side of the fence like she was presenting evidence in court. “What did you do to Y/N?” From your yard, you froze. The watering can continued pouring directly onto your foot. Fantastic. Heeseung blinked. “Mom, what do you mean?” “She isn’t looking you in the eyes!”
Across two properties and approximately three decades of neighborhood gossip, your soul left your body. “Mrs. Lee—” you tried weakly. She was unstoppable. “Do not Mrs. Lee me. I raised you both. I know things.”
Heeseung rubbed a hand down his face. “Mom—” Her eyes widened. Her voice rose. “Did you finally have sex?” Silence. Birds stopped singing. The ocean itself paused. From somewhere inside your house, your father definitely dropped something. And then, Mrs. Lee, with the volume of a woman chosen by God for this exact purpose: “DON’T TELL ME SHE CAN’T LOOK AT YOU BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT YOUR DICK LOOKS LIKE—”
“MOM!”
“Mrs. Lee!” You. Heeseung. Probably the entire coastline. At that point, survival instincts kicked in. You dropped the watering can. Actually dropped it. Water everywhere. Dignity nowhere. And then you ran. Not walked. Not gracefully retreated. Ran. Straight through the back door, up the kitchen steps, past your mother, who was holding coffee and looked far too entertained, and directly into the sanctuary of your bedroom like a Victorian woman fleeing scandal.
Your heart was trying to leave your chest. Your cheeks were on fire. You pressed both hands to your face and groaned into the universe. This was it. This was how you died. Not dramatically. Not beautifully. Killed by secondhand embarrassment and one very loud mother. Worse, far, far worse, you were blushing. Blushing. For a man currently being publicly lectured about sex on a Wednesday morning.
Humiliating. Absolutely unforgivable. Your mother knocked once on your door and entered anyway, because privacy remained a myth. She took one look at you face-down on the bed and smiled like a woman watching reality television. “Well,” she said, setting her coffee down, “that clears some things up.”
“Please leave me here to decompose.”
“I’d love to, but dinner is in two hours.”
Cruelty. Pure cruelty. Later that afternoon, once the heat of your humiliation had cooled from catastrophic to survivable, you made the dangerous mistake of leaving the house. Just a quick walk, you told yourself. Fresh air. Emotional recovery. Absolutely no Heeseung. The universe laughed. Because halfway down the lane near the beach path, there he was. Of course. Standing beneath the shade of the jacaranda trees like some handsome curse. You stopped. He stopped.
For one horrible second, neither of you moved. Then you made the deeply strategic decision to simply walk faster. Ignore. Evade. Survive. Unfortunately, Lee Heeseung had longer legs and audacity. “Y/N.” His voice behind you made your spine straighten. You kept walking. Badly. “Y/N.” Closer now. You stopped because running twice in one day felt like poor character development. Slowly, with all the grace of someone approaching public execution, you turned.
He stood there looking… weirdly nervous. Interesting. Suspicious. Your cheeks immediately remembered this morning and attempted betrayal. No. Absolutely not. You stared at a point somewhere near his left shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you blurted. Fast. Too fast. Like the words had tripped over each other trying to escape.
“For the thing. Earlier. Your mom. I mean—not your mom, obviously she’s lovely, but the yelling and the—” you gestured vaguely at existence “—everything. Sorry.” Excellent. Elegant. A true masterclass in social recovery. You were already preparing to evaporate when he stepped forward and stopped you. Not dramatically. Just enough. A hand lightly catching your wrist. Warm. Immediate regret. “Y/N.” You looked up instinctively. And there it was. Eye contact. Actual, dangerous eye contact. For one second, all the confidence he usually wore like expensive cologne just… vanished. Gone. He blinked once. Twice. And then— “I—uh.”
You stared. Heeseung Lee. Golden boy. Professional menace. Smooth-talking devil of Jeju Island. Stuttering. You would treasure this forever. He cleared his throat. “Sunoo wanted me to give you this.” He shoved a folded paper into your hand like it had personally offended him. “An invite. For Friday. He’s doing some thing—well, not some thing, it’s a party, obviously, and he said if I forgot, he’d kill me, so—” He kept talking. Rambling, actually.
Words continuing in increasingly unnecessary detail while you stood there holding the paper, blinking. Because now he was nervous. Actually nervous. And somehow that was worse. Far worse. You grabbed the invitation. Nodded once. And, choosing self-preservation above all else, turned and walked away at a speed just barely pretending not to be fleeing. Fast. Very fast.
Behind you, his voice stopped. Silence. Then, a soft scoff. Followed by a quiet chuckle, carried lightly by the ocean breeze. You didn’t turn around. Absolutely not. But you could feel it anyway. Him standing there. Watching you speed-walk your dignity down the lane. And annoyingly, your heart was still beating too fast. Friday night arrived heavy with heat.
The kind of heat that sat low against your skin and made the entire town feel slower, softer, dangerous in ways daylight never was. By nine, the sky over Jeju Island had gone ink-dark, the moon hanging pale over the water, and the beach had transformed again into its usual summer ritual, music spilling over the dunes, bonfires burning low and golden, laughter rising and dissolving into the sound of the tide. Sunoo’s parties were never really parties. They were events. Carefully chaotic, full of beautiful people pretending they were not looking at one another too closely. Someone always brought expensive liquor. Someone always made a bad decision. Someone always kissed the wrong person under the excuse of summer.
Tonight, the air felt like it had already decided who that would be. You had tried not to think about it while getting ready. Failed, of course. Because the truth was, the last few days had left something unsettled between you and Heeseung. No more easy arguments. No more familiar rhythm to hide behind. Just glances held too long and silences that felt louder than fights ever had. And the memory of his hand on your wrist.
The way he had looked at you. The way he had lost words. It had followed you all week. So when you dressed tonight, it wasn’t for attention. It was armor. A black dress this time, simpler than the red one, but worse somehow. Thin straps, soft fabric, bare skin at your back, the kind of dress that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already knew it would be. Your hair loose, your mouth glossed, gold at your throat catching the light. You looked like someone about to make a mistake.
And maybe that was the point. By the time you arrived, the party had already spilled toward the shoreline. Music low, drinks in warm hands, familiar faces blurred by firelight and moonlight and too much history. You let yourself be folded into it. Yoonchae pressed a drink into your hand. Yunjin laughed at something dramatic Sunoo was saying near the fire. Jay stood half in the water, arguing with Sunghoon over something neither of them would remember tomorrow. Everything looked normal.
It almost felt normal. Until you saw him. Heeseung stood near the edge of the beach, farther from the fire than everyone else, a drink untouched in his hand, dark shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t talking much. Just watching. And when his eyes found yours, the rest of the beach seemed to pull backward.
There it was again. That terrible, quiet thing. You looked away first. Coward. The night stretched. Another drink. Then another. Enough to soften the edges but not enough to blur them. Enough to make your body warm and your thoughts reckless. Enough to make him impossible to ignore. You felt him before he reached you. That shift in the air.
That awareness. You turned, and there he was. Close. Too close.
“Having fun?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear. You tilted your glass against your lips. “Immensely. I’ve only considered fleeing twice.” His mouth almost smiled. “Only twice?” “I’m pacing myself.” Silence settled between you, but not the easy kind. The kind that waited. The kind that knew.
The ocean stretched black behind him, waves breaking silver under moonlight. Firelight moved over his face in pieces, catching the sharpness of him, the tension in his jaw. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. Not accusing. Worse. Certain. You looked at him then.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you’re just easier to avoid lately.”
His expression shifted. Something quieter. Sharper. “That morning embarrassed you.” Mrs. Lee’s voice echoed in your memory and heat climbed your neck instantly. You looked away toward the water. “Your mother nearly announced your sex life to the entire coastline.”
“She likes you.”
“I nearly died.”
A brief silence. Then, softer, “You ran.” You let out a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”
“No.”
“No,” you agreed. “You’d stand there and make it worse.”
“That does sound like me.” For a second, it almost eased. Almost. Then he said, quieter this time, “That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me.” The wind moved between you, carrying salt and the faint smoke of the fire. No. It wasn’t. Because the truth sat uglier than that. You had been avoiding him because once something shifted, you couldn’t shift it back. Because pretending was harder now. Because every look felt like standing too close to the edge of something.
Because if you let yourself think too hard about him, you would ruin everything. And maybe you already had. You set your drink down in the sand. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do this.” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Do what?” You laughed once, breathless and frustrated. “This. This thing where you look at me like I’m supposed to know what you’re thinking.”
He stepped closer. Moonlight and firelight and trouble. “Maybe you do.” Your pulse stumbled. “You’re impossible.” His voice dropped. “So are you.”
And there it was. Years of it. Every argument. Every summer. Every almost. The balcony. The beach. The car ride. Every second spent pretending there wasn’t something here because admitting it would mean letting it matter. You could hear your own breathing. His too. Close enough now that it blurred. You should walk away.
You should say something cruel, something sharp enough to put distance back between you. Instead, you stayed. Because the truth was simpler than pride. You wanted him. Maybe you always had. And he looked at you like he knew it. Like he had been waiting for you to stop lying. His hand brushed your bare arm, slow enough to feel like a question. You should have answered no. Instead, your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Tell me to stop.” He didn’t. For one suspended second, neither of you moved.
Then he kissed you. It felt like anger, like relief, like something starved, messy and immediate and years too late. Your hands found him without permission, his shirt, the line of his jaw, the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and rough against yours, like he’d thought about this too many times and was done pretending otherwise. There was nothing careful about it. No softness. No hesitation.
Just all the tension finally breaking open. He kissed you like he was trying to win something, and you kissed him like losing had never sounded better. The sound that left him was low, wrecked, against your mouth. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend inside. When he finally pulled back, it was barely, forehead against yours, breath uneven, your lips still brushing when he spoke.
“Fuck.” The word sounded like confession. Then his mouth found yours again, harder this time, and the world narrowed to heat and salt and the way his hands made thinking impossible. He kissed down the corner of your mouth, breath warm against your skin, voice rough and half-lost. “Mm. Fuck, inside. Now.” You should have laughed. Should have reminded him he was arrogant, impossible, and absolutely not carrying you anywhere. Instead, when he lifted you, your legs finding his instinctively, your mouth was still on his.
Still kissing him as he walked. Across the sand. Up the path. Toward his house lit quiet against the night. The world beyond it disappeared. There was only this. His hands. Your heartbeat. The sound of the ocean somewhere behind you like witness. The back door. The hallway. Darkness and breath and mouths and hands and years of wanting collapsing all at once.
He barely got his bedroom door shut before you were against it, the sound of it closing sharp in the dark. Heeseung didn’t waste a second. His mouth was back on yours before the echo faded, hotter, deeper, more desperate than on the beach. One large hand cupped the back of your head, the other already sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping the soft fabric of your black dress like he’d waited years to tear it off.
You gasped into the kiss as your back hit the door again, the wood cool against your bare shoulders. His body pressed flush against yours, hard and burning, the evidence of how much he wanted you unmistakable against your stomach. “Fuck, this dress,” he muttered against your lips, voice gravel-rough. His fingers found the thin straps first, tugging them down your shoulders with impatient hands. The fabric whispered as it slid down your body, pooling at your waist before he pushed it lower, letting it fall completely to the floor in a dark heap around your ankles.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, bare except for the delicate black bra and panties, skin flushed, chest rising fast. His eyes darkened, jaw tight. “Beautiful,” he breathed, almost angry about it. “So fucking beautiful it pisses me off.”
Then his head dipped. His lips found the swell of your breast above the bra, hot and open-mouthed, tongue dragging over the lace. You arched into him with a shaky moan as he mouthed at your nipple through the thin fabric, sucking lightly, then harder, the wet heat of his mouth making your knees weak. His teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.
Your hands trembled as you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in the dark. The metallic clink sounded loud in the quiet room. You shoved his shirt up and off his shoulders, desperate to feel skin, and he helped you, ripping it the rest of the way off and tossing it somewhere behind him.
The moment his belt came undone, your hand slipped inside, palming him over his boxers. He groaned low against your chest, hips twitching forward into your touch. But Heeseung wasn’t letting you set the pace. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pushing them aside without ceremony. Two long fingers dragged through your folds, finding you already slick and aching for him.
“Shit,” he hissed against your nipple, voice vibrating through your skin. “You’re soaked.” You couldn’t even answer properly, only a broken sound escaped as his fingers circled your clit once, twice, before sliding lower and pushing inside you without warning. The stretch was sudden, perfect, and your head fell back against the door with a soft thud.
Heeseung’s mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder now, tongue flicking over the hardened peak while his fingers curled inside you, slow and deep, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. His thumb pressed firm circles against your clit in time with every thrust of his fingers.
Your hand tightened around his cock, stroking him through the fabric as best you could while your other hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in. “Heeseung—” His name came out wrecked, half-moan, half-plea. He lifted his head from your chest, lips shiny, eyes nearly black with want. His fingers didn’t stop moving inside you, steady and relentless.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough. “My name. Like that.” You did, moaning it louder this time as he added a third finger, stretching you open, preparing you for what was coming next. His mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing every sound you made while his fingers fucked you against the door, wet sounds mixing with your ragged breathing.
Your dress was long forgotten on the floor. His pants hung low on his hips. The only thing that mattered now was the burning friction between you, the years of tension finally snapping apart in the dark of his bedroom. And neither of you was nearly done yet. Heeseung’s fingers were still buried deep inside you when he suddenly pulled them out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You barely had time to protest before his hands gripped the back of your thighs.
In one smooth motion, he lifted you, wrapping your legs high around his waist. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you away from the door. The movement pressed his body flush against yours, and the second your weight settled, his pants, already tugged low on his hips, slid further down.
His cock, hot and heavy, shoved straight against your soaked folds. Your panties had been dragged aside earlier and stayed that way. There was nothing between you now except bare, slick skin. The thick length of him slid right between your folds, the head nudging insistently against your entrance with every step he took. You gasped sharply at the sudden, intimate contact.
Heeseung groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck—feel that?” he rasped, hips twitching involuntarily as he walked you across the room. Every movement made his cock drag slowly through your wetness, the head rubbing right over your swollen clit.
The friction was maddening. Skin to skin. Hot. Wet. Overwhelming. You moaned into his neck, legs tightening around him as another wave of arousal slicked between you. Heeseung’s grip on your thighs turned bruising, his breathing ragged against your ear. By the time he reached the bed, both of you were trembling. He laid you down carefully, never fully breaking contact. The moment your back hit the mattress, he followed, settling between your spread thighs. His pants were shoved just low enough. His shirt was long gone. And his cock, thick, flushed, and glistening with your arousal, rested heavy against your pussy.
Heeseung braced himself on one forearm, the other hand guiding his length. He rubbed the head slowly up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass. His eyes found yours in the dim light filtering through the window. Dark, hungry, and strangely vulnerable. You could feel him throbbing against you. Could see the tension in his jaw as he held himself back, waiting. You nodded, barely a breath. “Yes.”
That was all he needed. Heeseung didn’t hesitate. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. The stretch was intense, perfect, overwhelming. A broken moan tore from your throat as your walls clenched tight around his cock. Heeseung let out a low, guttural sound, forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.
“Shit— so tight,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel… fuck.”
For a few heartbeats, he stayed still, letting you adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter around him. Then he started moving. Slow at first, long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust pushed a soft cry from your lips. Heeseung’s rhythm quickly grew harder, more desperate, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the dark room. His mouth found yours again in a messy kiss as he fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with increasing force. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could hit even deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.
You were lost in it, lost in him. The way he filled you. The way he moaned your name against your mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time. The way years of tension finally shattered between you with every brutal, perfect stroke. Heeseung’s pace turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make up for every summer you’d spent pretending this didn’t exist.
And you took every single thrust, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails raking down his back as the pleasure built sharp and fast inside you. Heeseung’s thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his hips slamming against yours with a desperation that bordered on violent. You were so close it hurt, every stroke pushing you right to the edge.
“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned against your mouth, voice strained and raw. “Come with me. Now.” You could only nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching violently around his cock as you came with a broken cry of his name. The intensity made your vision blur, thighs shaking around his waist.
Heeseung followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with one final, deep thrust. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came inside you, hips stuttering, pulsing hot and deep while he rode it out, filling you with every twitch of his cock. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. He collapsed on top of you, chest heaving, sweat-slick skin pressed against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your throat. You could feel his heart hammering wildly against your chest.
Silence. No soft kisses. No gentle words. No confessions whispered in the dark. Just heavy breathing and the slow realization of what you’d just done. After what felt like forever, Heeseung finally pulled out of you with a quiet hiss. He rolled off to the side, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead. You both lay there, naked and still catching your breath. Then, quietly, “This was a mistake.”
Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Yeah,” he answered, just as flat. Liars. Neither of you believed it. Not even for a second. But neither of you said anything more.
Morning came like regret. Too bright. Too warm. Too aware. Sunlight spilled through the curtains in long golden strips, cruel in the way only summer mornings could be, soft and beautiful and entirely uninterested in your emotional devastation. Somewhere outside, the ocean moved lazily against the shore. A gull screamed like it had a personal vendetta. Your head hurt. Not from alcohol. Worse. Memory.
Every second of last night returned in fragments the moment you opened your eyes, his mouth on yours, your back against his door, the way he had said your name like it meant trouble, the heat of it, the impossibility of pretending it hadn’t happened. You stared at the ceiling for a full minute. Then another. Then sat up with the slow dread of a woman remembering she had, in fact, made every bad decision available to her.
Excellent. Fantastic. Character development. Heeseung’s room looked unfairly like him, clean without trying, expensive without showing off, sunlight falling over dark wood and linen sheets and the kind of quiet luxury that made you want to rob him on principle. He was standing by the window, already dressed. Of course he was. Dark T-shirt. Messy hair. Coffee in hand. Looking like the human embodiment of consequences. He turned when he heard you move. And for a second, neither of you said anything.
No teasing. No smugness. Just that strange stillness people had after crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself for dignity. It did nothing. He leaned against the window frame, studying you with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said finally, voice rough from sleep and something else, “this feels healthy.”
You let out one dry laugh. “Absolutely thriving.” His mouth twitched. Dangerous. Because if he smiled right now, if either of you made this softer than it was, the whole thing would collapse into something harder to survive. You got out of bed, collecting your clothes from the floor like evidence. “This was a mistake.” The words landed between you. Again. Too quick. Too sharp. You regretted them immediately. Something in his expression shifted, not hurt, exactly, but enough to make your chest tighten.
He set his coffee down. “Was it?” You pulled your dress on with more focus than necessary. “That depends. Are we pretending this was a one-time lapse in judgment, or are we being honest?” He watched you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Pretending clearly hasn’t worked for us so far.”
No. It hadn’t. Not for years. You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by the weight of it. The almosts. The history. The fact that wanting him had somehow become the least surprising part of all this. Outside, the day kept moving. Waves. Sunlight. People living normal lives. Inside, it felt like standing at the edge of something. You looked at him.
“So what now?” He crossed his arms, considering. And because the universe had a sense of humor, the answer came with the terrifying logic of two people who were entirely too good at making bad ideas sound reasonable. “We don’t do relationships.”
You snorted. “Understatement of the century.” “You said it yourself. No settling down this summer. No complications.” “No emotional disasters.”
“Preferably.” Silence. Then, you said it first. “Friends with benefits.” The words hung there. Ridiculous. Obvious. Inevitable. Heeseung looked at you like he hated how much sense it made. “Very mature.”
“Extremely.”
“Probably a terrible idea.”
“The worst one we’ve had so far.”
Another silence. Then both of you, at the same time, “Okay.” You stared at each other. And somehow, that was the funniest part. Because of course this was how it happened. Not with romance. Not with confessions. With negotiations. You stood, stepping closer now, the air between you still carrying the remains of last night. “Fine,” you said. “But if we’re doing this, there are rules.”
His brow lifted. “Of course there are.”
“Obviously. I’m not running an emotional free-for-all.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, watching you like he already knew this would be entertaining. “Go on, then.”
You started counting on your fingers. “No dates.” “Agreed.”
“No jealousy.” A pause. Small. Noticeable. Then: “Agreed.”
You narrowed your eyes but kept going. “No emotional attachment.” “That sounds healthy.” “It sounds necessary.” He nodded once. “Fine.”
“No sleepovers.” His expression shifted slightly. You ignored it. “No public affection. I’m not becoming beach gossip.”
“Sunoo will be devastated.” “He survives on disappointment.”
A ghost of a smile. You continued. “No calling unless it’s late.”
“That sounds suspiciously specific.”
“It sounds like boundaries.”
“And?”
You took a breath. The final one. The one that mattered. “This ends with summer.” That one stayed in the room longer. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about tonight or last night or whatever this was becoming. It was a deadline. An expiration date. A promise to keep it temporary. Necessary. Smart. A lie, probably. But necessary. Heeseung looked at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ends with summer.”
You hated how that felt. Still, you extended your hand like a business deal, because if you were going to ruin your life, professionalism mattered. “Deal?” He looked down at your hand. Then back at you. Slowly, he took it. Warm. Steady. His fingers closed around yours and something about it felt far less casual than either of you intended. “Deal.”
Too intimate. Too dangerous. You pulled your hand back first. Because someone had to be responsible here, and apparently it was going to be you. You grabbed your bag from the chair and moved toward the door before common sense could return and save either of you. At the threshold, you paused. Didn’t turn around. “Just so we’re clear,” you said, hand on the door, “if this ruins my life, I’m blaming you.”
Behind you, his voice came low and familiar again. “If this ruins your life, it’ll be because you let it.” You smiled despite yourself. Didn’t let him see it. Then opened the door. And walked out into the sunlight like a woman with a plan. Very mature. Very stupid. Exactly the kind of thing summer was made for. It started quietly, almost politely. As if whatever existed between you and Heeseung had agreed to disguise itself as something manageable.
A bad decision with boundaries. A summer arrangement. A temporary indulgence. Nothing more. That was the lie you told yourself the first time he texted you after midnight and you slipped out of your house barefoot, cardigan thrown over bare shoulders, the path between your homes lit only by moonlight and terrible judgment.
That was the lie you told yourself when he opened the back door before you even knocked, like he had been waiting there, like he knew the exact second your resolve would break. That was the lie you told yourself when his hands found your waist before either of you said hello. This is fine. It was not fine. At first, it felt almost easy.
There was a thrill to it, sharp and bright and addictive in the way summer secrets always were. The private satisfaction of sitting through family dinners knowing exactly how his mouth had looked against your skin the night before. The way his knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you reacted, though both of you remembered. It lived in stolen things. In late-night visits when the whole neighborhood had gone quiet, and the only sound was the ocean somewhere beyond the trees and your own heartbeat betraying you on the walk next door.
In the pool house one humid Thursday afternoon, when everyone else had gone sailing and the house sat warm and empty under the sun. Chlorine in the air, sunlight breaking over the water in fractured gold, your bikini still damp against your skin while Heeseung stood too close and said your name like it meant trouble. His hand sliding underneath the strap to touch you then quietly adjusting it back into place as if he hadn’t branded your entire neck in marks.
In parties where you crossed crowded rooms without touching, where his hand at the small of your back lasted only a second but ruined the rest of your night. Where you’d disappear separately and meet somewhere quieter, on balconies, behind the marina, near the dunes where the music couldn’t quite reach and the summer air felt heavier.
Every moment carried that same dangerous illusion: that because no one knew, it somehow meant nothing. You learned each other in fragments. The sound of his laugh when it was real, not performed for a room full of people. The way he got quieter when he was tired. How he always reached for your wrist first, like stopping you there somehow felt more honest than pretending he wasn’t pulling you closer.
How you started recognizing the sound of his car before it even turned into the driveway. You hated that one. Because it meant anticipation. And anticipation implied care. Care was not part of the agreement. So you became very good at pretending. You rolled your eyes when Sunoo accused you of being suspiciously unavailable lately. You blamed “family obligations” when Eunchae asked why you kept vanishing halfway through parties.
You told your mother you were staying in because the heat was unbearable, and then spent the entire afternoon in Heeseung’s room with the windows open, listening to the sea and trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of daylight. That was the dangerous part. Not the sneaking around. Not the kissing. Not even the wanting. Daylight. Because night made everything easier to dismiss. Midnight had always been built for mistakes. But sunlight was honest. It stripped things down. Left no shadows to hide inside.
And lately, you were both finding reasons to stay. A cancelled beach day because it was “too hot.” Skipping a yacht party because neither of you were “in the mood.” Sunday brunch abandoned halfway through because one look across the table had made patience impossible. Your parents thought you were finally becoming mature. Choosing rest. Prioritizing peace. If only they knew. On Tuesday, your mother found you in the kitchen at noon, wearing one of Heeseung’s old shirts thrown hastily over your swimsuit because you had forgotten your own cover-up and panic had terrible fashion sense.
She looked at you. Looked at the shirt. Looked back at you. And simply said, “Interesting.” You nearly died on the spot. “Laundry accident,” you replied immediately.
She sipped her iced tea. “Of course.” You fled before she could smile. It was becoming ridiculous. The kind of ridiculous that should have frightened you more than it did. Because somewhere between the late-night texts and the locked doors and the way he said your name when no one else was around, the rules had started feeling less like boundaries and more like decorations.
No sleepovers, and yet you had woken up in his bed twice this week. No emotional attachment, and yet you knew when he was in a bad mood before he said a word. No jealousy, and yet when a girl from the marina laughed too long at something he said, your entire evening soured without permission. This is fine. It was not fine. And the worst part was how natural it all felt. Like maybe this had been waiting for years. Like every summer before this had only been rehearsal.
One evening, stretched beside him on the pool house couch while golden light slipped slowly across the floorboards, you listened to the distant sounds of your families having dinner on separate patios, laughter drifting across the hedges, glasses clinking, the whole world carrying on politely while the two of you existed here in the quiet center of your own disaster. His hand rested lazily over your waist. Your head against his shoulder. Too comfortable.
Far too comfortable. You should have left an hour ago. Instead, you stayed. Because leaving meant acknowledging it. Because staying meant pretending this was still simple. You traced absent patterns against his arm and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. Summer had always felt like this, beautiful enough to make bad ideas look romantic. Temporary enough to make them feel safe. You told yourself that was all this was.
A season. A secret. Something that would end when the weather changed. But even then, with the evening light soft around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, some quieter part of you already knew the truth. This was never going to end cleanly. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came when you felt his hand sliding between your legs. Later, neither of you said much.
The room was quiet in that intimate, ruined way it only became after too much honesty, sheets tangled at your legs, the windows cracked open to let in the salt-heavy night air, the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead like time had slowed just for this. Outside, summer kept moving. Waves somewhere beyond the trees. A car passing faintly down the road. Someone laughing in the distance, far enough away to belong to another world entirely.
Here, everything felt still. You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, your body heavy with exhaustion, skin still warm, his sheets twisted around your legs like evidence. Your hair was a mess. Your thoughts were worse. This had become dangerous. Not because of the sex. That part had been inevitable the second either of you admitted wanting it. No, the dangerous part was afterward. This. The silence that didn’t feel awkward. The way neither of you rushed to leave. The softness that slipped in when no one was paying attention.
You hated softness. Softness made people stupid. Beside you, Heeseung was quieter than usual, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, his breathing finally even after the storm of the last hour. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Less polished. Less like the version of him the rest of the world got.
Just him. That was somehow worse. You turned your head slightly, watching him. His eyes were closed. For once, he wasn’t performing anything. No teasing, no arrogance, no carefully placed smirk like armor. Just tired. Real. You wondered if he knew how dangerous that was too. As if sensing it, he spoke without opening his eyes. “If you’re staring because you’ve finally admitted I’m right about everything, I’d like it formally documented.”
Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I was actually wondering how someone can be this annoying while unconscious.” He opened one eye. “Talent.”
“Curse.”
“Chemistry.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the ceiling, but the smile betrayed you anyway. Silence returned. Softer this time. The kind that settled around people who had stopped trying so hard to fill it. You should leave. That thought came and went three separate times. You should absolutely get up, find your dress, reclaim your dignity, and walk back to your own house like a woman with standards and emotional boundaries.
Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Because moving felt like too much effort. Because his room was warm and the ocean breeze through the window made everything drowsy. Because your body had given up on principles sometime around midnight. Because leaving would make this feel real. And staying let you pretend it was still just summer.
Your eyes grew heavier. The last thing you really registered was the lamp on his bedside table casting soft amber light across the room, and the faint smell of salt and clean linen and him. Then sleep came quietly. No dramatic realization. No final declaration. Just exhaustion winning where common sense had failed. Sometime later, minutes, maybe an hour, you felt movement.
Half-asleep, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, you registered the mattress shifting, the lamp clicking off, the room falling deeper into darkness. Then warmth. A blanket pulled over you. Careful. Quiet. His hand brushing lightly against your shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.
You should have opened your eyes. Should have made a joke. Broken the moment before it could become one. You didn’t. You stayed still, breathing slow, pretending sleep because somehow that felt safer than acknowledging tenderness. In the dark, his voice came low and almost amused. “Rule number four,” he murmured.
No sleepovers. You felt him settle beside you. The mattress dipped. The silence deepened. And then, after a beat, “Terrible at following instructions.” You smiled into the pillow where he couldn’t see it. Outside, the ocean moved patiently against the shore, summer stretching endlessly into the night. And there, in Lee Heeseung’s bed, beneath his sheets and your own very bad decisions, you fell asleep. Oops.
Something shifted after the sleepover. Not dramatically. No confessions, no declarations, no grand cinematic moment where either of you admitted the obvious and ruined everything properly. Worse. It changed quietly. In the spaces between things. And somehow, that made it far more dangerous. Because sex was easy to dismiss. Sex could be blamed on summer, on heat, on proximity, on years of unresolved tension finally finding somewhere to go. Sex was physical. Temporary. Conveniently stupid.
But softness, softness was treason. It started with coffee. You were standing in his kitchen one morning, barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies because your own clothes were somewhere upstairs and dignity had long since packed its bags. The house was still half-asleep, sunlight slipping pale and warm through the windows, the kind of slow summer morning that made everything feel deceptively gentle.
You were reaching for the coffee tin when he slid a mug across the counter toward you without looking. Iced. Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly right. You stared at it. Then at him. He was leaning against the opposite counter, scrolling through something on his phone with the dangerous calm of a man who had no idea he’d just committed emotional violence. “You remembered.”
He looked up. At the mug. At you. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You complain about bad coffee like it’s a moral issue.” You narrowed your eyes. “It is a moral issue.” He smiled into his own cup. That was the problem. Not remembering. How natural it felt. As if of course he knew. As if of course you noticed. As if this was normal. It wasn’t. Nothing about this was normal. And yet the days kept folding around it anyway.
He started bringing you food without asking. Not in some dramatic, romantic gesture way. Nothing obvious enough to name. Just showing up at the beach with the exact sandwich you liked because he “happened to be near the deli.” Leaving fries on the passenger seat when he picked you up because you’d skipped lunch and he could always tell when you did. A bottle of water handed to you silently after too much sun and too much pretending at some yacht party, his hand brushing yours for only a second before he walked away.
Little things. The kind people noticed. The kind people definitely noticed. By the second week of July, your friends had reached collective suspicion. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon at the beach club, where everyone had collapsed under umbrellas with overpriced drinks and varying levels of sunburn. Sunoo was the first to say it, because of course he was. He lowered his sunglasses dramatically and pointed between you and Heeseung like a detective solving a murder. “You two are weird.”
You didn’t even look up from your book. “That is the least shocking thing anyone has ever said.”
“No,” Yunjin cut in, leaning forward, “like weird weird. You’re not fighting.”
That got your attention. You looked up. Across from you, Heeseung was stretched lazily in a chair, sunglasses on, looking entirely too comfortable for someone under investigation.
Yoonchae nodded. “It’s unsettling. I miss the hostility. It was romantic.” Jay, who treated gossip like a legal proceeding, added, “The last thing you said to him that even resembled an insult was, and I quote—” He lifted a hand, reciting with criminal accuracy: ‘Don’t stay in the ocean too long, your wig might fall off.’ Silence. You blinked.
Sunghoon, traitor, added quietly, “That wasn’t even an insult. That was concern wrapped in a taunt.” You hated all of them.
“It was a warning,” you said.
“Because you care,” Sunoo sang.
“Because baldness is a public issue.” Across the table, Heeseung laughed. Actually laughed. Low and easy and far too pleased with himself. And you, idiot that you were, smiled back before you could stop it. The entire group gasped like Victorian women witnessing an exposed ankle. Eunchae clutched her chest. “Oh my god. They’re smiling at each other. We’ve lost them.”
You buried your face in your drink. This was unbearable. But the truth sat heavier than embarrassment. Because they were right. You weren’t fighting anymore. Not really. The sharpness had softened at the edges, and in its place had come something quieter. More dangerous.
You knew when he was lying. It was always in his shoulders first, too relaxed, too deliberate. Like if he made himself look calm enough, no one would notice. And he knew when you were upset before you said a word. Sometimes before you did. Like the night you came back from dinner with your parents, frustrated and restless and not wanting to explain why, only to find him sitting on the hood of his car outside your house.
He took one look at you and said, simply, “What happened?” No performance. No jokes. Just knowing. You sat beside him without answering, and he handed you fries in silence. That was worse than comfort. That was intimacy. And intimacy was not part of the agreement. Neither was the fact that you kept ending up in his clothes.
His hoodie mostly. Dark gray, too big, sleeves falling over your hands, smelling faintly like him and expensive detergent and whatever impossible thing made you feel too warm when you wore it home at sunrise. The first time, you’d told yourself it was practical. The second time, convenient. By the fifth, even you had stopped pretending. One evening, walking back from his house with that hoodie wrapped around you and the sun barely rising over the water, you caught your reflection in a neighbor’s window and had the deeply humiliating realization that you looked happy.
Not smug. Not victorious. Happy. You nearly turned around and walked directly into the sea. And then there was jealousy. The rule neither of you talked about because talking about it would make it real. No jealousy. Very simple. A lie, obviously. It surfaced one night at another party on Jay’s yacht. Some guy, tall, forgettable, rich in the boring way, spent too long talking to you by the bar. Leaning in too close. Laughing too easily.
You were polite. Mostly. But from across the room, you felt it before you saw it. Heeseung, watching. Still. Cold. Not dramatic, that would’ve been easier, just quiet. His expression shuttered in that way he did when he was trying very hard not to let something show, and suddenly the rest of the night tasted wrong. Later, when you found him outside near the dock, the air heavy with salt and dark water below, you said it before you could stop yourself.
“You’re being weird.” He leaned against the railing, gaze on the ocean. “I’m always weird.”
“Not like this.”
A long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, “Nothing’s wrong.” You laughed softly. There it was, the lie. You stepped closer, “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”
Finally, he looked at you. Moonlight catching the edges of him. That familiar unreadable expression. “No,” he said. “You just like thinking you can.” You folded your arms. “And you like pretending I’m wrong.”
His jaw shifted. A tell. You noticed. Of course you noticed. For a second, it almost cracked. Whatever this was. Whatever sat under all the rules and pretending and carefully chosen silence. But then he straightened. Looked away. And the wall went back up. “It means nothing,” he said. The words landed heavier than they should have. Because both of you knew he wasn’t talking about the guy. He was talking about all of it. This. You. Him.
The arrangement. The softness. The way neither of you were following your own rules anymore. Nothing. You stared at him for a long moment, the ocean loud in the silence between you. Then you nodded once. “Right.” A lie, both his and yours, both of you standing there in the warm dark of summer, pretending not to bleed where it hurt.
It means nothing, and somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said everything, the silence between you lingered for a second too long. Warm night air moved around you, carrying the salt of the ocean and the distant hum of music from the party still going on behind the marina. The dock swayed faintly beneath your feet, water dark and endless below, moonlight breaking silver across the surface.
You stood there with his words still sitting heavy in your chest. It means nothing. Such a simple sentence. Such a stupid, transparent lie, but you hated that it hurt. More than that, you hated that he knew it hurt. That somewhere beneath all the arrogance and all the careful pretending, he knew exactly where to place the knife. And still, somehow, neither of you left. Because leaving would mean ending the conversation. Because staying meant there was still something unfinished here.
You folded your arms tighter, more for protection than attitude. “Right,” you said again, quieter this time. Heeseung looked at you like he wanted to say something else, something better, or worse. You could see it in the hesitation. In the way his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. In the tension sitting sharp in his shoulders, like even he was tired of performing indifference.
But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. Instead, after a long moment, he stepped closer. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to be familiar. And maybe that was the problem. The familiarity of it. The way your body recognized him before your mind had time to argue. His hand brushed your arm lightly. A thoughtless gesture. Comforting. Soft. Dangerous. You should have stepped back. Instead, you stayed still.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his body had made the decision before his brain could stop it, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Careless. Tender. The kind of kiss that belonged to something entirely different than whatever this was supposed to be. And the second it happened, you both froze. Completely, the world stopped, the ocean, the music, your heartbeat, everything. Because that, that was not in the rules. Not even close. No public affection. No emotional attachment. No softness.
And forehead kisses? Forehead kisses were practically emotional terrorism. You stared at him. He stared at you. His hand was still lightly on your arm. Your lips parted, but no sound came out because honestly, what exactly was the appropriate response to being emotionally assassinated on a dock? Apparently, the answer was, a dramatic choking noise.
You both turned. Too late. Because standing ten feet away, carrying drinks and what looked like the absolute time of their lives, were your friends. All of them. Sunoo. Sunghoon. Jay. Eunchae. Yunjin. Yoonchae. Witnesses. To your death. For one beat, nobody moved. Then Yunjin made a sound like a Victorian woman seeing a man’s ankle and clutched her chest.
“No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No. No, I refuse.”
And with all the theatrical commitment of a woman born for performance, she dramatically dropped backward onto Eunchae. “I’ve fainted,” she announced to the night. “I’m dead. Tell my family I died right.” Eunchae, instead of helping, was already doubled over laughing. Actually laughing. Tears in her eyes. Full-body betrayal. Jay turned away entirely, hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to remain dignified. Sunghoon stood there in complete silence, which for him was basically screaming.
Sunoo looked like he had ascended to another spiritual plane. And Yoonchae, traitor, elegant, terrifying, just slowly raised one eyebrow and said, “Well.” You wanted the dock to collapse. Immediately. Preferably with you on it. Beside you, Heeseung cleared his throat with the deeply haunted expression of a man realizing public humiliation was hereditary.
“It was nothing.” Silence. Then six people spoke at once. “Nothing?” Sunoo repeated, scandalized. “You kissed her forehead!” Eunchae shouted.
“That’s husband behavior,” Yunjin yelled from her fake death position. Jay pointed accusingly. “That is not casual. Casual men do not forehead kiss.”
Sunghoon, finally contributing, said simply, “That was intimate.” Which, somehow, was worse. You covered your face with both hands. This was how legends ended. Not with dignity. Not with grace. But with your friends conducting a public trial over a forehead kiss. Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, visibly regretting every life choice that had led him here. “It was automatic.”
“A Freudian slip,” Sunoo said immediately.
“A cry for help,” Yunjin added.
“A confession,” Eunchae gasped.
“A legal declaration,” Jay said.
“A marriage proposal,” Yoonchae finished.
You made a strangled noise. “Please stop talking.”
“No,” everyone replied. Across the chaos, you finally looked at Heeseung. Really looked. And annoyingly, he looked just as wrecked as you felt. His composure cracked at the edges. His usual confidence gone. His ears, very slightly, red. Interesting. Very interesting. For one brief second, despite the humiliation, despite the six idiots currently planning your wedding in real time, you almost smiled. Because he was embarrassed. Actually embarrassed. And somehow, that made the whole thing worse. Or better. Definitely worse.
He looked back at you. Something unspoken passing there. Something quiet and dangerous. Then, because the universe refused to let either of you have peace, Sunoo threw an arm dramatically into the air and declared to the ocean, “THEY’RE IN LOVE AND THEY’RE MAKING IT EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.” You and Heeseung, at the exact same time: “Shut up, Sunoo.” Which only made everyone laugh harder.
—
The yacht looked like something built for people who had never been told no. White and gleaming and impossibly large, anchored just far enough from shore to feel exclusive, close enough for everyone to pretend it was casual. Music spilled across the water in low, expensive waves. Champagne sweated in silver buckets. Someone was laughing too loudly near the upper deck, and somewhere below, the ocean moved dark and patient against the hull, like it had seen this all before. Summer in Jeju Island had always been performative, but yacht parties were theater. Everyone arrived looking like they had something to prove. Girls in silk and gold, boys in linen and old money and inherited arrogance. Sunglasses even after sunset. Bare shoulders catching the last of the light. Beautiful people pretending they weren’t waiting for someone specific to notice them.
You hated how much you fit into it. Tonight, the dress was white. Soft and dangerous. The kind of dress that looked innocent until someone stood too close. Thin straps, bare back, fabric skimming your skin like seawater. Your hair loose from the salt air, gold at your throat, your mouth glossed and unhelpful. You looked like a mistake dressed as a good idea. Maybe that was the point. By the time you stepped onto the deck, the sun was already beginning to sink, everything dipped in amber, the ocean turning molten and gold around you. The air smelled like sunscreen, champagne, and money.
Sunoo spotted you first, of course. He stood near the bar, already three drinks deep into being everyone’s problem, and his eyes widened slowly as you approached. “Oh,” he said softly, like someone witnessing divine intervention. “Someone is about to ruin a life.” You took the champagne he handed you. “Only one? I’m aiming higher.”
He smiled, but it faded quickly when his gaze shifted past your shoulder. There. At the far end of the deck. Heeseung. Talking to Jay, drink in hand, sleeves rolled, dark shirt open at the throat in that infuriating way he never seemed aware of. The wind moved through his hair. The sunset caught against the sharp line of his profile. And then he looked up. Found you. Paused. There was always that moment. That small, suspended second where everything else fell away and it was just this, the recognition, the tension, the memory of every version of yourselves that had led here. His gaze moved slowly.
Not rushed. Not subtle. Like being touched without contact. And even from across the deck, you felt it. Something in your chest pulling too tight. It would have been easier if he looked away first. He didn’t. Neither did you. Until Yunjin bumped your shoulder lightly and saved you from your own poor decisions. “Don’t do that,” she murmured. You blinked. “Do what?” She took a sip of her drink, watching the sunset like she wasn’t dismantling your life. “Look at him like that. It makes the rest of us feel like unwilling participants.”
You laughed, but it sounded thinner than you meant it to. Because tonight, something already felt wrong. Not wrong. Fragile. Like standing barefoot on glass and pretending it was only sand. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of it. The weeks of pretending. The rules bent past recognition. The softness neither of you spoke about. The forehead kiss that still sat in your chest like a bruise. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe you were tired. Tired of pretending this was casual. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of him saying it meant nothing when it had started to feel like everything.
So tonight, you decided to be reckless. Not because you wanted someone else. Because you wanted him to react. Which, in hindsight, was the kind of decision people wrote warnings about. Minjae found you first. Again. Pretty enough. Easy enough. Familiar enough to be useful. He leaned against the rail beside you while the yacht drifted slow under the dying sun, talking about some party in Seoul, some mutual friend, something forgettable. His hand brushed your arm when he laughed.
You let it. You smiled. You leaned closer. You let the dress do half the work and the silence do the rest. And all the while, you could feel it. Heeseung. Across the deck. Watching. It wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t storming across the yacht like some jealous cliché. Worse. He was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that meant all the dangerous things were happening underneath. You knew him well enough now to recognize it.
The way his shoulders went too rigid. The way his mouth flattened when he was holding something back. The way he stopped pretending to enjoy the party. You kept flirting. Because cruelty, apparently, was a love language. By the time the sky had gone violet and the city lights glittered faintly across the water, the tension had become its own living thing. Heavy.
Everyone noticed. Sunoo kept looking between you and Heeseung like he was watching a live sports event. Eunchae physically winced every time Minjae touched your arm. Jay had the expression of a man reviewing poor investment choices. And Heeseung, he stopped speaking entirely. You should have stopped. You didn’t. Because part of you wanted him angry. Wanted proof. Wanted something undeniable.
You found it when you excused yourself to the lower deck for air. The music faded there, softer beneath the sound of the water. The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet. Moonlight stretched silver over the sea, and the world felt quieter, suspended between one decision and the next. You barely had time to breathe before he was there.
“Seriously?” His voice behind you was low. Controlled. Too controlled. You turned slowly. He stood in the narrow corridor of moonlight and shadow, jaw tight, eyes dark enough to make the night feel thinner around you. There it was. Finally. You leaned back against the railing, crossing your arms like your pulse wasn’t trying to leave your body. “Are we opening with accusations? Very romantic.” His laugh was short. Humorless. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re late. I thought jealousy would get you here faster.” That landed. You saw it. The flicker in his expression. The anger sharpened by something much worse. He stepped closer. “You think this is funny?”
“No,” you said quietly. “I think you don’t get to care.” The ocean moved below you. Dark and endless. He stopped. For one second, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. “And why not?” The question came softer than you expected. Not angry, not sharp, honest, and that was worse, because there was an answer. A real one. Because caring meant naming this. Because naming this meant breaking it. Because if he said it first, if either of you said it first, there would be no way back to pretending.
You looked at him and saw all of it at once, the boy you had spent every summer fighting, the man standing in front of you now, the terrible inevitability of wanting someone you were never supposed to want this much. Your throat felt tight. “Because,” you said, and even your own voice sounded unfamiliar, “you were the one who said it meant nothing.” Something in him shifted. Like regret. Like anger turned inward. He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t step back. There was nowhere to go.
Moonlight on the water. Champagne still bitter on your tongue. His hand braced against the railing beside you, trapping you there without touching. His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “And you believed me?” Your heart stuttered. Because no. No, you hadn’t. That had been the problem. You had heard the lie and let him keep it because the truth was too dangerous.
You looked up at him, and the space between you felt like standing in the ocean during a storm, like drowning and floating and drowning and floating, never knowing which one would win. “Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered.
He stared at you like he was trying to decide whether honesty would ruin him. Maybe it would. Maybe it already had. His hand lifted, slow enough to stop, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt far too intimate for a yacht full of people and all the lies between you. His mouth was only inches from yours. And when he spoke, it was barely sound at all. “I think,” he said, “I stopped being careful with you a long time ago.”
Not quite a confession. Worse. Because it was true. And truth, between the two of you, had always been the most dangerous thing of all. He stood there for one suspended second after saying it, like even he was startled by the sound of his own honesty. The yacht rocked gently beneath you, the ocean below black and endless, moonlight breaking itself into silver shards across the water. Somewhere above, the music still played, muffled now, distant, belonging to another life entirely. Laughter drifted from the upper deck like something from far away, from people who had not just stepped to the edge of something irreversible.
You could still feel the words between you. I stopped being careful with you a long time ago. It settled into your chest like saltwater, slow, stinging, impossible to separate from your own blood. For weeks, maybe years, the two of you had been circling this. Pretending desire was just annoyance sharpened into habit. Pretending every almost was accidental. Pretending the way he looked at you meant less than it did. And now here it was. Not clean. Not graceful. Just true. You should have said something. Something intelligent. Something devastating. Something that would let you keep whatever remained of your pride. Instead, your body betrayed you first.
Your hand found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like instinct, like gravity. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until he looked down at your hand and something dark and quiet moved across his face. His restraint snapped so softly you almost missed it. Then he took your wrist. And before you could think, before either of you could retreat back into irony and self-preservation, he pulled you with him. Up the narrow staircase. Past the low spill of music and careless laughter. Through the blur of warm bodies and champagne and summer pretending to be harmless.
You barely registered the startled glance Sunoo gave you as Heeseung walked past him without a word, your hand still in his like a confession neither of you were ready to speak aloud. The hallway inside the yacht was cooler, quieter. White walls. Dim lights. The hum of the engine beneath your feet. Somewhere, a door shut. Somewhere else, the sea kept breathing against the hull.
He kept walking. You followed because there was no version of this where you didn’t. Because at some point, resisting him had become another kind of surrender. At the end of the corridor, he stopped. A private deck. Smaller. Hidden from the party. Open to the night. Only the ocean. Only the moon. Only the two of you and everything you were pretending not to destroy.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. Silence. He turned. For a moment, neither of you moved. The wind came off the water cool against your overheated skin, lifting your hair, carrying salt into the space between you. You could hear your own breathing. His too. He looked at you like a man standing too close to fire and knowing he was about to step in anyway.
And suddenly, it felt like standing at the edge of land. Like the last piece of solid ground beneath your feet. Like one more step would mean surrendering to something larger than either of you, something tidal and reckless and impossible to survive unchanged. You crossed that distance first. Or maybe he did. Later, you wouldn’t know. Only that one second there was space, and the next there was none. His mouth found yours like gravity.
Not gentle. Not hesitant. Like being pulled under. The kiss hit you like cold water and summer lightning, sharp, immediate, consuming. Every part of you lit at once, every defense dissolving so quickly it felt humiliating. His hands were at your waist, your neck, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, only that he needed to. You kissed him back like drowning. Like if you let go, you’d wash out to sea. His mouth tasted like champagne and salt and every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make. It was anger and relief and hunger all tangled together, all the years between you collapsing into something hot and breathless and overdue.
The world tilted. Or maybe it was just the boat. Or maybe it was him. You had the absurd thought that this was what slipping away from land felt like, that moment your feet stopped touching the ocean floor and suddenly there was nothing holding you up but instinct and want. Floating. Falling. The same thing, sometimes. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, and the sound that left him against your mouth was low, wrecked, like even he was surprised by the force of this.
You understood. Because kissing Heeseung felt like melting. Like sun-warmed skin slipping beneath water. Like losing the shape of yourself. Like becoming something softer, stranger, more dangerous. He kissed you like he was angry at how much he wanted to. You kissed him like you were tired of pretending you didn’t. And somewhere in the middle of it, all your carefully built walls, your rules, your boundaries, your clever little exits, went under like they had never been there at all.
His forehead rested against yours for one brief second, both of you breathing like you’d been running, like maybe you had. His thumb brushed your cheek. A tenderness so small it almost hurt more than the kiss. When he spoke, his voice was rough enough to sound like truth. “You make this impossible.” You smiled, breathless, your lips still close enough to steal.
“So do you.” Then his mouth was on yours again, and whatever was left of reason disappeared with the tide.
—
The rain started sometime after midnight. By morning, Jeju Island had turned silver. The sky hung low and heavy over the coastline, clouds blurring the horizon until the ocean and the storm became one endless sheet of grey-blue. Rain slid steadily down the windows in soft crooked lines, tapping against rooftops and palm leaves and the quiet little streets of the neighborhood with the kind of patience only summer storms possessed.
Everything felt slower in the rain. Softer. The beach emptied. Yacht plans were cancelled. The marina sat abandoned except for boats rocking gently against their docks like sleeping animals. For the first time all summer, the town stopped performing. And somehow, that felt dangerous too. You woke late to the sound of thunder somewhere far away, curled beneath your sheets with damp air drifting through the cracked window. Your phone rested beside your pillow, screen lighting softly against the grey room.
A text.
power’s out at our house.
Then, a second later:
mom says yours still has electricity
And finally:
tragic. devastating. i’ll survive somehow.
You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then sighed. Because despite everything, despite all your promises to yourself about boundaries and self-preservation and not becoming the kind of girl who let boys ruin her summer, you were already smiling. An hour later, Heeseung arrived at your front door soaked from the rain.
Not drenched dramatically. Just enough that dark strands of hair clung messily to his forehead, rainwater catching along the line of his jaw and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. The storm had turned the whole world softer around the edges, and standing there beneath the muted grey sky, he looked less like the polished golden boy everyone knew and more like something real. Your mother let him in with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Oh good,” she said brightly, already walking back toward the kitchen. “Now you can both stop pretending you don’t miss each other.”
“Mom,” you warned. Heeseung coughed into his sleeve to hide a smile. Rain followed him inside in traces, the smell of wet pavement and ocean wind clinging faintly to him as he stepped into the warmth of the house. For a moment, neither of you moved. No parties. No music. No late-night tension sharp enough to cut through.
Just quiet. The kind that made you suddenly aware of ordinary things. The soft ticking of rain against the windows. The oversized sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders. The fact that he looked at home here. That realization unsettled you more than it should have. The day unfolded slowly after that. Not exciting. Not dramatic. And maybe that was why it mattered.
You spent most of the afternoon in the living room while the storm darkened outside, half-watching terrible movies neither of you cared about. Your legs stretched across the couch beneath a blanket, his shoulder brushing yours every so often in that absent, thoughtless way intimacy sometimes arrived. At some point, your mother disappeared upstairs with a suspicious smile and the kind of timing that deserved investigation.
The rain deepened. Hours passed unnoticed. You learned strange things about each other in the quiet. Not the big things. Not the carefully curated versions people offered at parties. Small things. Real things. Heeseung hated peaches because he got sick eating too many as a kid one summer. You used to fake injuries during tennis lessons because you hated losing more than you liked sports.
He still remembered the time you punched a boy at thirteen for making Eunchae cry near the marina. “You broke his nose,” he recalled from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.
“He deserved worse.” “You were terrifying.” “I still am.” A smile touched his mouth then. Soft. Unthinking. Rainlight filled the room pale and blue around him, and suddenly the years between childhood and now felt strangely thin. Like maybe you had always been circling each other. Like maybe every version of yourselves had led here eventually. Later, thunder rolled low across the coastline while you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, flipping through an old photo album your mother had abandoned on the shelf years ago.
Bad idea. There were photographs everywhere. Sunburnt summers. Beach days. Bonfires. All of you impossibly young. You paused on one picture, eight years old, missing front teeth, shoving Heeseung into the sand while he laughed hard enough to blur in the frame. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “We look awful.”
“We look happy,” he corrected quietly. The room fell still after that. Outside, rainwater slid endlessly down the glass. Inside, something shifted. Not loudly, just enough to feel it. He sat down beside you on the floor, close enough that warmth gathered between you naturally. The photo album rested forgotten between your knees. And for the first time since this began, it didn’t feel like war. No tension sharpened into cruelty. No sarcasm waiting like a weapon.
Just this strange, aching softness neither of you knew how to hold. You turned another page slowly. Another photograph. Older this time. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A summer party. You standing near the water laughing at something outside the frame while Heeseung looked at you instead. Not the camera. You. Your breath caught slightly. “You kept this?” He glanced down at the picture. Then away. Your pulse stumbled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His jaw shifted faintly. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Turn it into a joke. Deflect the way he always did whenever things came too close to honesty. Instead, his voice came quieter than you expected. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve spent a long time trying not to.”
The rain outside seemed to hush around the words. You looked at him carefully. Something vulnerable flickered there beneath all the practiced ease. Something raw enough to make your own chest ache in response. And suddenly you understood something terrifying, this was no longer just desire. Desire was simpler.
This, whatever this was becoming, had roots. Deep ones. You looked back down at the photograph because meeting his eyes felt too dangerous. “I used to hate summers here,” you admitted softly. The confession surprised even you. He looked at you then. “Why?” You traced your thumb along the edge of the page.
“Because everything always ended.” The words settled heavily between you, summer romances, bonfires, fireworks, warm nights, every beautiful thing in Jeju Island came with an expiration date stitched into it from the beginning, and suddenly, without meaning to, you had said something true. Something too true. You felt him shift closer beside you. Not touching. Almost worse.
For one suspended moment, it felt like standing at the edge of another confession, like both of you could ruin yourselves completely if you kept talking, so neither of you did. Cowards.
By evening, the storm had softened into a quiet drizzle. The whole house glowed warm against the rain-dark world outside, lamps casting amber light across the living room while distant thunder faded somewhere beyond the ocean. You’d lost track of time entirely. Dinner had happened somewhere in between conversation and silence and accidental touches that lasted too long. And now he stood near the front door pulling his sweatshirt back on while you lingered barefoot by the hallway, neither of you acknowledging how reluctant this felt. The rain tapped softly against the windows.
He looked tired. You probably did too. For one dangerous second, you almost asked him to stay. You could feel the question there, hovering at the back of your throat. Stay, not because of sex, not because of loneliness. Just, stay, and somehow that made it infinitely more frightening, across from you, he hesitated too, his hand resting on the doorknob, eyes on yours. Like he almost wanted to ask, but neither of you moved.
Because asking would mean admitting this had already crossed into something neither of you knew how to survive. So instead, he opened the door. Cool rain air slipped inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. Not later. Tomorrow. Something about that felt dangerously permanent. You nodded once.
“Yeah.” He left. And somehow the house felt emptier after. You stood there for a long moment listening to the rain before your mother appeared behind you carrying two mugs of tea. She looked toward the door knowingly, then back at you. “You know,” she said lightly, “summer’s ending soon.”
The words hit like cold water. Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too warm. Your heartbeat stumbled somewhere beneath your ribs. Because for the first time all summer, the ending no longer felt theoretical. It felt real. And terrifyingly close.
Summer began leaving in pieces. Not all at once. That would have been kinder. Instead, Jeju Island unraveled slowly, quietly, like a tide pulling back from shore before anyone realized the water was disappearing. The marina grew emptier first. Boats vanished from their slips one by one, carried back toward cities and obligations and real lives waiting elsewhere. Beach houses that had glowed warm every night for months slowly darkened at the windows. Suitcases appeared in entryways. Goodbyes drifted through the neighborhood in soft, temporary promises.
See you next summer.
As if next summer was guaranteed. As if people stayed the same long enough for promises like that to survive. The air changed too, still warm, but thinner somehow, the evenings arriving earlier, sunsets softer, touched already by the melancholy of something ending, even the ocean looked different, darker blue, quieter, less forgiving. You hated noticing it, because noticing meant acknowledging the clock, and the clock meant him, everything suddenly seemed measured in remaining time, three more Friday nights, two more yacht parties, a handful of mornings left before the entire town dissolved back into memory.
Your arrangement had always come with an expiration date stitched into it. Ends with summer. At the beginning, the rule had felt safe, now it felt like standing beneath a blade waiting to fall. You started sleeping badly after that, not because of him, because of the way he had started looking at you. More carefully, more openly, like somewhere along the way, he had grown tired of pretending.
It happened in small moments at first, his hand lingering too long at your waist before letting go, the way his gaze searched for you automatically in crowded rooms now, no hesitation, no embarrassment about it, how he no longer acted surprised by tenderness, as though caring had become instinctive, dangerous, dangerous things. And worst of all, he had stopped treating this like it was temporary.
You noticed it one evening at the beach. The sky had gone pale gold with approaching sunset, the shoreline nearly empty except for scattered locals and gulls drifting low over the water. You sat wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled loosely to your chest while the tide crept closer across the sand. Heeseung sat beside you quietly, one arm draped over his bent knee, watching the horizon.
Comfortable silence stretched between you. The kind that should have felt peaceful. Instead, it terrified you, because this wasn’t supposed to become comfortable. Comfort implied permanence. Permanence implied loss. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured eventually.
You glanced at him. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you get this look on your face when you’re spiraling.” You looked away too quickly. The ocean breathed in and out before you answered. “I’m not spiraling.”
“You started reorganizing the snacks in my kitchen alphabetically yesterday.”
“That was stress cleaning.”
“That was psychotic.” A faint smile touched your mouth despite yourself. His gaze softened when he saw it. There it was again, that look, something gentler, something infinitely more frightening. Your chest tightened.
You stood abruptly before the feeling could settle properly. “I should go.” The shift was immediate. You saw him notice it in real time, the distance, the retreat, his expression changed carefully, like someone stepping onto unstable ground. “You just got here.”
“I know.” Rain clouds gathered faintly over the horizon, turning the water darker beneath the evening light. You avoided his eyes while brushing sand from your legs, because lately every time you looked at him too long, something inside you started giving way, and you couldn’t afford that, not now, not with endings everywhere. The drive home was quiet. not tense, worse, careful, as though both of you could feel something fraying between your hands and neither knew how to stop pulling. After that, it became impossible not to notice. How often he reached for you now. How naturally your lives had begun folding together. How every goodbye felt heavier than the last.
And the more real he became, the more frightened you grew. So you started pulling away, subtly at first, taking longer to answer texts, leaving earlier, skipping late-night visits with excuses thin enough that even you didn’t believe them, too tired, family dinner, headache, lies, all of them, because the truth sounded too ugly to admit aloud: You were beginning to love him, and loving someone with an end date felt like volunteering for heartbreak in advance. He noticed immediately, of course he did, he had always known you too well.
One night at Sunoo’s house, while music drifted softly through crowded rooms and everyone else played cards half-drunk around the kitchen island, you felt his eyes on you from across the room almost constantly, not possessive, not angry, trying to understand, which somehow hurt worse. You laughed too brightly at things that weren’t funny. Let conversations distract you. Pretended not to see the way his jaw tightened every time you slipped further away from him. By midnight, the tension between you had become unbearable.
You found him eventually outside on the balcony overlooking the ocean, moonlight silvering the sharp edges of his profile. The wind moved softly through the dark. Neither of you spoke immediately. There was too much sitting between you now. Finally, he turned. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Not accusatory. Just tired. You crossed your arms tightly against yourself. “I’ve been busy.”
A pause. Then quietly, “That’s not true.” Something sharp moved through your chest. Because no matter how carefully you built distance, Heeseung always walked straight through it. You looked out toward the water instead, far easier than looking at him. The ocean below looked endless tonight, cold, restless. “I just think maybe we forgot what this was supposed to be.” The silence after that felt dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice had gone lower. “And what exactly was it supposed to be?” You swallowed, temporary, easy, nothing, but none of those words fit anymore. Not after rainy afternoons and forehead kisses and sleeping beside each other until sunrise, not after the way he looked at you now.
You could feel him watching you carefully, waiting, and suddenly the pressure of it became unbearable, the ending hanging over everything, the fear curling tighter around your ribs every day this became more real, because if you admitted what this was becoming, then losing it would destroy you. So instead, you stepped backward emotionally the way frightened people always do. “You said it yourself,” you murmured. “This ends with summer.”
His expression shifted, hurt, this time, barely hidden, “And that’s all you want?” You opened your mouth, nothing came out, because the answer existed, because it terrified you. The wind moved cold against your skin, below you, waves crashed endlessly against the shore, over and over, like something trying desperately to return to land. He stared at you for a long moment. Then finally asked, softly enough to hurt, “What are we doing?”
The question hung there between you, not angry, not dramatic, honest, and honesty had become the most dangerous thing between the two of you. You looked at him, really looked, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he was trying not to show, the terrifying possibility of being loved back. Your throat tightened painfully. But fear arrived faster, fear always did.
So instead of answering, you stayed silent, and in that silence, something began to break.
—
The storm rolled in after midnight, it didn't rain at first, just pressure, heavy clouds swallowing the sky whole, the air turning electric and difficult to breathe. Wind moved through Jeju Island in restless waves, rattling windows and palm trees and the fragile remains of your composure. You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.
His question kept replaying in your head like something unfinished. What are we doing? You had no answer that didn’t terrify you. So instead, you spent hours pacing your room while lightning flickered faintly beyond the ocean horizon, illuminating the walls in brief silver flashes. Coward.
The word followed you everywhere now, by one in the morning, your thoughts had become unbearable, by one-thirty, you were walking toward his house through the storm, barefoot, sweatshirt pulled tight around yourself, heart beating too hard.
The neighborhood lay silent beneath the dark sky, every house asleep except his. Light still glowed beneath his bedroom door upstairs. Something inside your chest twisted painfully at that. Like some foolish part of you had hoped he’d be sleeping peacefully. Unaffected. But of course he wasn’t.
You knocked once before opening the door. He looked up immediately from the couch. And the moment your eyes met, you understood this was going to hurt. The room was dim except for one lamp near the window. Thunder murmured low outside, rain finally beginning against the glass in soft scattered drops. Heeseung stood slowly. Neither of you spoke at first.
The distance between you felt enormous. You hated it. You hated that you were the one who created it. “You came,” he said eventually. His voice sounded exhausted. You wrapped your arms around yourself tighter. “I couldn’t sleep.” Something unreadable moved across his face. For one dangerous second, it almost softened. Then he remembered. “What do you want me to say?”
There it was. No avoiding it now. Your pulse stumbled painfully. “I don’t know.” “That’s the problem.” The words landed harder than they should have. Thunder rolled somewhere closer now. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the calm he’d been holding together for days. “I feel like I’m standing outside a locked door with you lately.”
You looked away immediately. Because if you looked at him too long, you would fold. “You’re making this more serious than it is.” Even saying it felt wrong. You could hear the lie rotting underneath the sentence. So could he, his laugh this time sounded hollow.
“Seriously?” You swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be simple.” “Simple?” His voice sharpened suddenly. “You think any of this has felt simple?” Rain hit harder against the windows. The room felt smaller now. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you knew how to survive. You took a step backward instinctively, he noticed, of course he noticed, and something inside him finally snapped.
“I’m tired,” he said quietly, “of pretending I don’t care.” Silence, the words settled into the room like lightning striking water, there it was, the thing both of you had spent all summer running from, not hidden anymore, not softened into implication, real. You stared at him, your heart hurt so badly it almost felt physical, because part of you had wanted this, wanted him to say it, and another part, the larger, more frightened part, wanted to run until your lungs gave out.
Loving someone meant they could leave. Summer always left. You knew that better than anyone. So fear reached for cruelty the way drowning people reached for air. You laughed softly. Wrong move. His expression changed immediately. You felt your own panic rising now, wild and sharp and impossible to control. “This was never supposed to mean anything.”
The second the words left your mouth, you wanted them back. Too late. Silence. Not dramatic. Worse. Stillness. You watched the hurt move across his face slowly, like something extinguishing. His eyes lost warmth first, then softness, then hope, and suddenly the room felt freezing. He nodded once, a small movement.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Got it.” You opened your mouth instantly. Nothing came out. Because the truth was trapped somewhere beneath all your fear, clawing at your ribs too late. He grabbed his keys from the counter. Didn’t look at you again. Thunder cracked outside just as he reached the door. “Heeseung—”
He stopped. For one second, hope flared painfully inside you again. Then he spoke without turning around. “I think,” he said softly, “I deserved better than that.” And left. The door shut behind him with terrifying finality. You stood there frozen while rain hammered against the windows and the storm swallowed the coastline whole. For the first time all summer, he didn’t come back, and afterward came silence.
No texts. No late-night knocks at your window. No headlights outside your house. Nothing. Just absence. Cold and endless as the sea. After Heeseung left, summer collapsed in on itself. Not dramatically. No thunder. No shattered glasses. No cinematic unraveling loud enough for the world to notice. Just absence. Quiet and creeping and everywhere.
It settled over Jeju Island like fog rolling in from the ocean, slipping beneath doors and into lungs and through the spaces between ordinary things until everything familiar felt wrong. The beach became unbearable first. You still went sometimes out of habit, carrying books you never opened, towels that stayed folded beside you untouched. The shoreline stretched wide and glittering beneath the August sun, beautiful in the same indifferent way it had always been, but now it felt hollow somehow.
Like a photograph of somewhere you used to belong. Everywhere you looked, there were ghosts of him. Near the dunes where he had first kissed you like he was starving. At the marina docks where moonlight had turned his honesty into something dangerous. On the stretch of sand where he’d once laughed at you for trying to fight the tide after too much tequila and too little dignity. You kept expecting to see him.
Leaning against the lifeguard tower. Walking toward you through the surf. Looking at you the way he always did lately, like he had already memorized every version of your face. But the spaces stayed empty, and somehow emptiness had weight.
The parties weren’t any better. Without him, they felt exposed somehow. Too loud. Too artificial. Music thumping against hollow spaces where your heartbeat used to live. Champagne too sweet. Laughter arriving half a second too late to feel real. You drifted through them like someone haunting her own life.
People noticed, of course they did. Sunoo stopped cornering you with gossip and instead watched you carefully whenever you thought nobody was looking. Eunchae started hugging you too tightly before leaving parties. Even Yunjin, who usually treated emotional devastation like a spectator sport, went strangely quiet around you. One evening near the bonfire, while everyone else sat tangled in conversation and salt air and late-summer exhaustion, Sunghoon settled beside you silently with two drinks. You accepted one without looking at him.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly before him. The ocean breathed dark beyond the shoreline. Then finally, “You look miserable.” No judgment. Just fact. You let out a quiet laugh that sounded closer to breaking. “I’m fine.”
“Right.” The word carried enough disbelief to hurt. You stared down at the bottle in your hands. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re the first thing he’s ever taken seriously.” Your chest tightened immediately. You looked at him then. Sunghoon kept his gaze fixed on the fire. “He acts like nothing matters most of the time,” he continued quietly. “But you did.”
Past tense. The word sliced through you before you could stop it. You swallowed hard. The fire blurred faintly. “He won’t even come out with us anymore,” Sunghoon admitted. “Jay says he’s been packing.” Packing. Something cold moved through your ribs.
You looked away quickly toward the ocean because suddenly breathing felt difficult. Summer had always ended. You knew that. You had built your entire heart around that truth years ago. Nothing beautiful stayed. Not beach towns. Not warm nights. Not people. Especially not people.
But somehow, somewhere between the rainstorm and the yacht and the way he remembered your coffee order, you had forgotten. Or maybe you had simply hoped he would become the exception. That realization arrived slowly over the following days. Not all at once. In fragments. You missed him in stupid ways first. Reaching automatically for your phone after something funny happened.
Turning toward the empty seat beside you at dinner before remembering. Still wearing one of his hoodies to sleep because taking it off felt too much like admitting he was gone. You found traces of him everywhere. In your routines. In your silences. In yourself.
And the worst part was understanding that this grief did not feel temporary. It rooted itself deeper every day. One afternoon, rain threatened faintly over the coastline while you wandered through town half-distracted, passing storefronts already packing away summer displays. Towels disappearing from racks, souvenir stands closing early, seasonal flowers wilting slowly in the heat. August ending in real time. You paused outside the small café near the marina where you and Heeseung had once hidden from the heat for nearly two hours, sharing iced coffees and childhood stories neither of you had meant to tell.
You remembered the way he’d looked at you across the table that day, soft, unarmed. Like loving you had happened quietly when he wasn’t paying attention. The realization hit then, simple, terrible. Oh. This is love. Not infatuation, not summer lust, not convenience sharpened into attachment. Love.
Real enough to hollow you out. Real enough to ruin everything else afterward. You leaned against the storefront window, eyes burning suddenly. Horrible, absolutely horrible, because now you understood why everything felt wrong without him. He had become stitched into the shape of your summer so completely that removing him tore pieces out alongside it.
And worse, you had done this. Fear had done this. You replayed the fight endlessly afterward, every cruel sentence tasting more poisonous each time you remembered it. This was never supposed to mean anything. You had watched those words break him in real time, and still you’d said them. Coward.
By the final week of August, panic settled fully into your bloodstream. You started looking for him without meaning to. Driving past the Lee house too slowly. Watching the beach at sunset. Checking your phone at two in the morning like your body still expected him to return eventually. He never did. The silence between you became its own kind of violence. Finally, the worst part.
It happened accidentally. Your mother stood in the kitchen arranging flowers while late afternoon sunlight spilled gold across the countertops. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the heat, summer sounding exhausted now. You barely listened until she said, “I saw Mrs. Lee earlier.” Something inside you immediately sharpened.
“Oh?” “She said Heeseung’s leaving tomorrow morning.” The world stopped. Your hand froze halfway around your coffee mug. “What?” Your mother glanced up, surprised by the sudden rawness in your voice. “He’s heading back early. Something about work starting sooner in Seoul this year.” Tomorrow. The word crashed through you like cold seawater. Tomorrow meant this was real. Tomorrow meant endings.
Tomorrow meant there was suddenly almost no time left to fix the thing you had destroyed with your own hands. Your pulse turned violent beneath your skin. Outside the window, the ocean stretched blue and endless beyond the cliffs, glittering beneath the fading August light. Beautiful. Temporary. Already slipping away.
—
The next morning arrived too bright. Cruel sunlight flooded Jeju Island in sheets of gold, the ocean glittering innocently beneath the sky like yesterday had not split your heart open. Everything looked painfully beautiful in the way endings often did.
You barely slept. Every hour had passed tangled in panic and memory and the unbearable realization that if you let him leave now, this would become one of those tragedies people carried forever. The kind stitched permanently beneath your ribs. By nine in the morning, your hands were shaking. By nine-fifteen, you were in your car.
You drove too fast down the coastline road, sunlight flashing violently through the trees, your heartbeat louder than the music still playing faintly through the speakers. Wind rushed through the open windows carrying salt and heat and the last dying breath of summer. Your mind replayed him endlessly. The rainstorm. The yacht. The forehead kiss. The way he had looked at you like you were something worth staying soft for.
The moment his face went cold after your cruelty. You gripped the steering wheel harder. Not this. Please not this. The marina came into view suddenly beyond the cliffs, boats swaying gently beneath the sunlight. People moved lazily along the docks carrying luggage and coffees and ordinary lives. Heeseung. Standing near the end of the dock beside one of the ferries heading toward the mainland.
White T-shirt. Dark sunglasses. One duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Leaving. The sight hit you so hard you nearly forgot to breathe. For one terrible second, fear almost won again. Turn around. Protect yourself. Pretend this never mattered. Then he glanced up. Saw you. And everything stopped. You barely remembered getting out of the car. Only the sound of your footsteps against the dock, the ocean below, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown the gulls overhead.
He straightened slowly as you approached, no smile, no anger either, just exhaustion, like he had finally become tired of hoping, that hurt most. You stopped a few feet away from him, sunlight breaking across the water between you both. Neither of you spoke at first.
Words suddenly felt impossibly small compared to everything sitting between your ribs. Finally, he exhaled quietly, “You came.” The simplicity of it nearly broke you, no accusation, no bitterness, just surprise, your throat tightened painfully. “I had to.” The wind moved softly around you, carrying warmth off the ocean.
He looked at you carefully then, like he was trying not to expect too much, and suddenly you realized something devastating, if you stayed silent now, you would lose him forever, no more pride, no more running, just truth, your eyes burned. “I was scared,” you admitted first. The words came rough, fragile around the edges. Heeseung stayed perfectly still. So you kept going before courage disappeared again.
“I think…” You swallowed hard. “I think I knew what this was becoming before you did. And it terrified me because everything here ends eventually and I didn’t know how to love someone without already grieving them.” His expression shifted slightly. You stepped closer. “I said those things because I thought if I ruined this first, it would hurt less when summer ended.”
Your voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. The ocean blurred faintly behind him. “But it already hurts,” you whispered. “It hurts all the time.” Silence. Not empty. Listening. You looked at him fully then, no defenses left anywhere inside you. “I was stupid.” A breath. “And cruel.” Another. “And completely in love with you.”
Just love. Messy and terrifying and real enough to destroy you if he rejected it. Your chest ached violently waiting for him to say something. Anything. Heeseung stared at you for a long moment that felt endless beneath the August sun. Then finally, he laughed softly, not mockingly, disbelieving, like he had spent the entire summer waiting for a miracle and couldn’t quite believe it had arrived, you frowned immediately through the tears threatening your eyes. “That’s your reaction?”
He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the relief slowly undoing it. “I’ve been waiting all summer for you to admit that,” he said quietly. Idiot. You made a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him, hard, desperate enough to make up for every moment you wasted being afraid. His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you against him with something almost painful in its urgency, and suddenly the entire world dissolved into sunlight and saltwater and relief.
The kiss felt different now, not drowning, not war, like finally reaching shore after spending months lost at sea, his forehead rested against yours when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly beneath the burning light. “You are unbelievably difficult,” he murmured.
You laughed wetly. “You stayed anyway.” “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I did.” Around you, the marina continued moving, boats departing, gulls crying overhead, summer ending one irreversible second at a time. But for the first time since this began, nothing about this felt temporary anymore.
—
The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Heeseung’s bedroom, casting a golden haze over tangled sheets and bare skin. Months had passed since that messy night, since the angry kisses and the “this was a mistake” lies. What started as stolen moments and stubborn denial had slowly, stubbornly, become something real.
Now, you were exactly where you belonged, underneath him, legs locked around his waist as he moved inside you with deep, unhurried strokes. Every thrust pulled a fresh sound from your throat. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, back arching as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “Heeseung— mmph!” Your cry was muffled as he leaned down and kissed you, slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips kept that devastating rhythm. Heeseung chuckled warmly against your mouth, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He kissed you once more, softer this time, then pressed his lips gently to your forehead, lingering there as he stayed buried deep inside you.
Still teasing. Still chaos. Still both completely insufferable. But now it was real. He pulled back just enough to look at you, sweat-damp hair falling over his eyes, that signature smirk playing on his lips even while he was still pulsing inside you. “Thought I told you not to fall in love with me,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection.
You smiled up at him, glowing and utterly wrecked, your hand coming up to brush his hair back.
“Thought I told you not to call.” Heeseung let out a genuine laugh, the kind that made your chest feel too full. He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, drawing a soft gasp from you before stilling again. “Yeah, well… I never was good at listening,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “That night after the party, when I texted you to come over… I told myself it was just one more mistake. One more time and we’d get it out of our systems.”
You raised an eyebrow, tracing your fingers down his spine. “And how’s that working out for you?” “Terribly,” he admitted, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Because every time you walked away, I kept thinking about you. Every summer. Every fight. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”
He shifted slightly, still deep inside you, and rested his forehead against yours. “I kept telling myself not to fall. And then you showed up at my door the next morning anyway. Stubborn as hell. Beautiful as ever.” You laughed softly, tightening your legs around him. “You’re the one who kept calling. Kept texting. Kept pulling me back in.”
Heeseung’s eyes softened, that rare vulnerable look breaking through the cocky exterior. “Because I couldn’t stop. Even when I tried.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “Guess I’m the idiot who fell first.” The room felt smaller, warmer, wrapped in golden light and years of history finally settling into place. All the almosts, the what-ifs, the angry almost-kisses on balconies and beaches, they had led here. To this. You pulled him down into another kiss, slow and sweet this time, savoring the way he melted against you.
When you broke apart, Heeseung froze for half a second, then broke into the brightest, most boyish grin you’d ever seen on him.“That’s what this whole thing has been, hasn’t it? One long, messy ‘maybe’ that turned into forever.” You nodded, eyes shining. “No more mistakes. No more running. Just us.”
“Just us,” he echoed. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and started moving inside you once more, slow and intentional, like he was sealing the words into your skin. The laughter faded into soft moans and whispered names, the two of you losing yourselves in each other one more time.
Later, as the sun dipped lower and you lay tangled together under the sheets, Heeseung’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, he pressed one last kiss to your shoulder.
“So… Call Me Maybe?” he asked, smirking.
You grinned. “Only if you promise to always pick up.”
Summary: Anton is on a diet, and he desperately needs something in his mouth. You offer him your pussy.
Genre: smut, step brother Anton, big dick!Anton, squirting, enemies to lovers ish
Word count: 2k
Anton was sprawled out on a poolside lounger beside you. He was shirtless, his muscled chest slick with sun cream, wearing nothing but a pair of blue swim shorts.
Tinny rock music was blasting from his wired earphones.
You were lying on a lounger beside him, in your bikini, working on your tan.
It was the summer, and you were spending time at your family beach house, a recent purchase by your mother and her new husband, Anton’s dad.
You were happy to be here, with the sunshine sparkling on the dazzling blue pool. But with your new family came with one big, annoying problem.
Your stepbrother Anton.
Anton was a few years younger than you, but being a boy, he got the bigger bedroom. What was worse was your rooms were right next to each other, which meant that you could hear his tacky porn and violent video games all night long. You got used to the sound of skin slapping when he jerked his cock.
Annoyingly, he was hot in a 90s romcom way, and all your friends salivated over him. They would make excuses to come over, just to try and catch a glimpse of him walking back from the shower, sculpted muscles dripping wet, with only a towel wrapped around his hips.
Sometimes he’d walk back without the towel entirely, his cock swinging between his legs. Your friends loved that, and they’d practically forgotten about you.
Anton had this soft voice and shy boy act that melted even your mother. Every dinner you’d be forced to hear never ending praise about him. It drove you mad.
“Anton, can you turn that down?”
Anton pulled one earphone out and turned his head to you.
“I’m using these, dude,” he said, waggling one of the wires. “Blame your freaky hearing.”
“I’m trying to read.” You pointed at the hardback novel resting on your thighs.
Anton’s gaze followed your finger to your legs.
“You’ve been on the same page for the last twenty minutes. I wouldn’t call that reading, sis.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Why do you need to play the music so loud anyway? Didn’t think you even had thoughts to drown out.”
“If you must know,” he said, eyes shifting. “I’m trying to distract myself. I’m fucking hungry, but I have abs to maintain, so I can’t eat until tomorrow.”
You scoffed. “So you’re on a diet. What are you, a teenage girl?”
“Hey!” You watched his biceps squeeze as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Dieting is for everyone. You should try it sometime.” He smirked, looking you up and down. “Actually, don’t. You know I like my girls thick.”
You shook your head, secretly hoping your sunglasses hid your blushing cheeks.
Ever since you broke up with Wonbin, you hadn’t gotten laid. That was over six months ago. You were pretty sure your virginity had grown back at this point. It was getting into the danger zone - even your step-brother was turning you on.
Anton clutched his stomach and groaned.
“Fucking. Starving. I just need something in my mouth to distract me. Anything!”
“How about my pussy?” You muttered under your breath.
“What?”
You gasped. He wasn’t meant to hear that.
You looked over to Anton. He had taken off his sunglasses and was staring at you with wide eyes. His mouth was open in a smile.
“Are you serious? Damn, sis, didn’t know you were a freak.”
“I- wait, n-no- that’s not what I-“
“S- s- stutter much?” Anton threw his head back and laughed, abs shaking with the effort.
You felt a burst of annoyance. You grabbed a bottle of sun cream and chucked it at Anton. It bounced off the globe of his shoulder and burst onto the floor, splattering cream everywhere.
“It was a joke, Anton, jeez!”
You opened your book and tried to focus on the page. But all the words swirled into curvy lines.
“Guess you’re a coward,” Anton said. “Or just a liar then.”
You groaned. The truth was, as soon as you’d started to think about Anton’s mouth on your pussy, you had already started to get wet.
You squeezed your thighs together, desperate for some friction. What was the worst that could happen?
“Okay, but this is just a one-time thing, got it?”
Anton’s mouth opened in what looked like genuine surprise. “Oh shit, you’re serious.”
The air was suddenly stifling.
You looked over to the house, squinting through the window and praying that no one else was around.
“Quick, get over here before I change my mind.”
Anton hopped off his lounger and perched on the end of yours. You took a moment to admire his toned body, which had browned deliciously in the Californian sun.
You held Anton’s gaze as you shimmied out of your bikini bottoms. You tossed the green stringy thing off to the side.
Slowly, you parted your thighs. You felt a light breeze caress the inner curves of your pussy.
Anton took a long look between your legs. His lips twitched, as if he was trying not to react.
He shuffled closer, so that he was lying on his front between your legs. His broad shoulders rested against the swell of your thighs.
He licked his lips, staring silently at your pussy. He was so close that you could feel his breath tickling your clit.
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. You could feel yourself growing wetter with each second.
“Well, are you just going to look at it?”
Anton tutted. “Let me do my thing, woman.”
Anton reached his hand out. He skated his fingers up your inner thigh, making you squirm at the ticklish feeling.
Then, he brushed his fingers through the soft curls of hair around your pussy.
“Don’t girls usually shave this?” he said, his voice catching in his throat.
Anton tugged sharply on one curl, making you jolt with pain.
“Have you ever seen a real pussy, Anton? Anime girls don’t count.”
Annoyance flashed across Anton’s face. He squinted his eyes.
And then he dove in.
Anton’s mouth on your pussy came as a surprise, and your whole body jerked at the feeling. He kissed your clit with his open mouth, his lips making a lewd ‘mwah’ sound.
“That feels so- wow,” you gasped.
Anton smirked as he licked up and down your pussy, focussing mainly on your clit, but dipping inside you now and then as well.
You were surprised that Anton was so good at this. You’d almost forgotten what great oral felt like, especially because your ex Wonbin used to just jab his tongue around for ten seconds and then complain that his jaw ached too much to go on.
His large fingers pushed into the softness of your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide apart.
Anton’s tongue was soft and warm, and almost ticklish on your core. You were so turned on, you were afraid of dripping onto him and the sun lounger below.
Anton brought his hand to your pussy, and then pushed two fingers inside you. His fingers met no resistance as they glided into your soaking wet hole.
Two fingers quickly became three. You’d forgotten the delicious ache of being stretched out. Anton continued to lick your clit as he fingered you.
You clamped one hand over your mouth, desperate to hide your moans. You didn’t want to alert the neighbours.
Anton curled his fingers inside you, making you squirm.
“Who taught you that?” you gasped.
Your hips bucked off the bed, your back arching as you chased your pleasure. Anton threw one large arm over your stomach, pinning you in place.
“Stay still.” Anton looked up at you, mouth shining. “Can you imagine if my dad walked outside right now? Or your mom? They would have a fucking stroke.”
You groaned. “Can you not talk about your dad whilst your fingers are inside me?”
Anton just chuckled. The vibrations sent delightful sparks through your clit.
Anton pushed a fourth finger inside you. The dull ache roared into a burn. The feeling was right on the border of pain and pleasure, and it was mazing you dizzy.
You felt a gush of wetness down below, and you saw it wetting Anton’s palm.
You felt his thumb slide over the slick around your hole, which was already full with his fingers, and you could tell he was wondering if he could fit his whole hand inside you.
That thought, coupled with how hard he sucked on your clit, sent you tumbling over the edge.
“Anton, don’t stop, I’m going to-”
You felt an intense pressure in your core. Your orgasm splashed over you, so intense that your thighs started to shake. You dug your fingers into your palm, trying not to scream.
“Fuck!” Anton yelped.
When you looked down between your legs, you were surprised to see that Anton’s face was completely soaked with your juices.
Your mouth dropped open.
“Did you just squirt?” Anton said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… uh… never happened before.”
“Gross,” Anton said, scrunching up his face and laughing. He sat up, shaking out his dripping hair.
You pouted. “If it’s so gross, why are you hard right now?”
You both looked down at the sizeable bulge in his swim shorts. You swear you saw his dick twitch through the fabric.
“Are you gonna help me out?” Anton grabbed his dick through his shorts, fondling himself as he eyed your still dripping pussy.
You smirked. “I don’t think I have to. Looks like you’re gonna get there all by yourself.”
You watched as Anton slipped a hand under the waistband of his shorts. Almost as soon as he wrapped his hand around his cock, he came.
A dark patch bloomed on the fabric. He removed his sticky hand from inside his shorts, grimacing.
“I didn’t even have to touch you,” you said, giggling.
It was Anton’s turn to blush.
“I’m gonna get you back for that,” he said, wiping his hand on your calf and making you yelp.
You leapt off the sun lounger. Reaching around to your back, you pulled off your bikini top and flung it at Anton.
“Come and get me!”
You ran towards the crystal blue pool, basking in the warmth of the sun on your naked body.
Anton grinned, bracing himself for the chase. His hunger from earlier was forgotten, replaced by an entirely new hunger instead.
“Best. Summer. Ever.”
-
Riize Masterlist ⭐
MAIN MASTERLIST
Let me know what you thought in the comments or on anon! 💋
SUMMARY: once the college’s golden girl, you had it all: endless parties, a popular boyfriend, and flawless grades. but behind the spotlight, your mind was slowly unraveling. pretending everything was fine became exhausting, and for the first time, you didn’t recognize the person staring back at you anymore. then came Sim Jake, the awkward, quiet nerd you never thought twice about, who somehow saw through every carefully built wall around you. and the more your world fell apart, the more he became the only place that still felt safe.
WARNINGS: mutual cheating? (y/n on her bf and her bf on y/n), toxic relationship (not with jake), SMUT, virginity loss, subby!jake, switch!reader, riding, car sex, oral sex (f & m receiving), unprotected sex, missionary, jake is so sensitive ma babe, mentions of anxiety attacks, panic attacks (slight description), pills consumption, jake is silly (we love him), y/n’s anxiety is mentioned A LOT, alcohol consumption, arguing, fightin (no punches actually), slow burn but they had sex, poor decision making (welp), y/n is in denial, mentions of bullying, this is low-key trash (but don’t we all love a little trash sometimes?), mentions of period, jake is VERY desperate, abandonment issues (🙁), i SWEAR it gets better as y/n breaks up with jacob. lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.
NOW PLAYING: Skin by Sabrina Carpenter - I THINK I’M LOST AGAIN by Chase Atlantic - Fame is a Gun by Addison Rae - Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae
a/n: as someone who struggles with anxiety i wanted to bring awareness to how much it can shape your life 💔 i’m sorry i had to divide it in two parts but tumblr is a bitch with a word limit!! hopefully you’ll like it anyways 🩷 STAY TUNED for PART 2!
The dorm room buzzed with the quiet hum of preparation as you stood before the full-length mirror, turning slowly to examine every angle of your reflection.
The deep blue dress hugged your curves in all the right places, the glittery lace on the skirt catching the warm light and scattering it like tiny stars across the walls.
You ran your palms down the fabric, smoothing it over your hips, satisfied with how the halter neckline framed your shoulders.
“You look incredible,” Sophia said from behind you, her voice carrying that familiar note of admiration she always had when you got dressed up.
She was already in her light blue dress, a simple but elegant number that made her skin glow.
She was fixing a loose strand of hair in her own mirror, her lips pursed as she applied a final layer of gloss.
“So do you,” you replied, meeting her eyes in the reflection. “That color suits you.”
She grinned, about to say something when a loud, impatient honk cut through the evening air from outside. Three short blasts, then a longer one, the sound jarring against the quiet campus night.
Sophia moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside just a fraction, peeking out. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise “Holy shit. He really rented a limousine?”
You sighed, already feeling the familiar knot of irritation tighten in your chest.
Of course he did.
Jacob (your boyfriend, unfortunately) never did anything quietly. Everything had to be a spectacle, a performance, a way to show off how much money he could throw around.
It had been charming once, in the beginning, when you were both drunk on the novelty of each other.
Now it just felt... exhausting.
“Do you want a ride?” you asked, grabbing your small clutch purse from the bed and checking that your phone and lipstick were inside.
Sophia laughed, shaking her head. “Absolutely not. I love you, but I really don’t want to witness you two making out the whole way there. My girlfriend is coming to pick me up anyway.”
You blew her a kiss, the gesture light and affectionate. “Fair enough. Text me when you get there.”
“Will do. Have fun and try not to strangle him.” She sang-song.
“No promises.” You stepped out of the dorm room and made your way down the stairs, the click of your heels echoing in the stairwell.
The night air hit you as you pushed open the front door, slightly cool for early autumn.
And there it was, stretched along the curb like a white whale, the limousine.
It was absurdly long, the kind of vehicle that screamed look at me from every polished inch.
The driver of the limousine opened the car door for you, helping you step inside with a kind hand.
“There she is.” Jacob said, his voice already carrying that slight slur that meant he’d started drinking before picking you up.
His tie was loose around his neck and his jacket discarded somewhere on the seat beside him. His eyes were glassy, his smile too wide. “My beautiful girl. Took you long enough.”
“I wasn’t aware I was on a schedule.” you said, smoothing your dress back down and settling into the seat across from him, putting distance between you.
The limousine was spacious, with plush cream leather seats that wrapped around the interior, a mini bar stocked with bottles, and a strip of colored lights along the ceiling that cast everything in a soft, muted glow.
The driver pulled away from the curb without a word, and the limousine glided smoothly through the campus streets.
Jacob reached for you, his fingers grazing your knee. “Come here, dont sit all the way over there.”
“I’m fine here.” You replied with pursed lips.
His jaw tightened, but he let his hand fall back. “Suit yourself.”
The ride to the gala was spent in strained silence punctuated by Jacob’s attempts to make conversation that quickly devolved into complaints.
“Want a drink?” He questioned, holding a glass of what seemed to be whiskey. “You know I can’t.” You replied with a stern look
“Party pooper,” he sneered, "Whatever, more for me.”
You stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, counting the minutes until you could be surrounded by other people and not have to be alone with him.
When the limousine finally pulled up to the venue, you felt a wave of relief.
The building was an modern building that had been converted into an event space, its stone facade draped in white lights and a red carpet was leading up to the grand entrance.
People were milling about in blue suits and gown as the air filled with the murmur of conversation.
Jacob was out of the car first, offering you his hand with the practiced charm of someone who knew people were watching.
You took it, because appearances mattered, and let him lead you inside.
The ballroom was stunning. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting prisms of light across the marble floors. the tables were draped in white linen, they lined the edges of the room and centerpieces of white roses and candles flickering softly.
A bar stretched along one wall, already busy, and a small orchestra played near the far end, their music floating through the air like silk.
You spotted Sophia almost immediately, standing with her girlfriend near one of the tall windows with a glass of champagne in her hand.
She gave you a small wave, and you smiled back.
For the first hour, things were fine. You mingled, you laughed at the right moments, you nodded along to conversations about internships and family businesses and who was dating whom.
Jacob stayed close, his hand on the small of your back, his presence a constant pressure that you tried to ignore. But as the night wore on and the drinks flowed, his grip grew heavier and his touches more insistent.
He started rubbing your hip while you were talking to a professor, his fingers dipping dangerously low to your backside.
You shifted away, giving him a pointed look, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
“Jacob,” you murmured, leaning close to his ear. “Stop.”
“What?” His voice was too loud, his breath hot and sour against your cheek. “I’m just showing you off.”
“You’re being inappropriate.”
His expression darkened. “I’m being your boyfriend. When did you become such a prude?”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “I’m not doing this here.”
“You never want to do anything anymore,” he said, his voice rising. A few nearby heads turned. “You’re always tired, always stressed, always on your fucking pills—”
“Jacob.” Your voice was sharp, a blade. “Don’t.”
But he was already beyond listening. He downed the rest of his drink, set the glass down on a passing tray with more force than necessary, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m done.”
“Don’t make a scene.” You begged.
“Too late.” he said, and stormed off toward the exit, weaving slightly as he pushed through the crowd.
You stood there for a moment, with your hands trembling and your face burning.
Sophia caught your eye, her expression worried, and you could see her starting to move toward you. You shook your head, mouthing “I’m okay.” and followed Jacob out into the night.
The cool air hit you like a slap. The street was quieter there, away from the main entrance as the sounds of the gala muffled behind the thick walls.
Jacob was pacing near the sidewalk with his phone in his hand. “Jacob.” You called.
He spun around with wild eyes. “What?”
“What the hell was that?” You asked. “What the hell was what? Me wanting my girlfriend to actually pay attention to me?” He scoffed.
“I was paying attention to you, I was standing right next to you all night.” you frowned.
“You were ignoring me. Flirting with everyone else.” Jacob accused.
“I wasn’t flirting, I was making conversation. That’s what people do at these things.”
He laughed bitterly, his expression as cold as ice, “You’ve changed, you know that? You used to be fun. Now you’re just... detached. You never want to have sex anymore, you never want to party, you just want to stand around and talk about boring shit.”
You felt something snap inside you. “I’m taking anti-anxiety pills, Jacob. Do you remember that? Do you remember the panic attacks I’ve been having? Do you remember me telling you that the medication makes me feel different? Or do you just not care?”
He stared at you, his mouth open, but no words came out.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, and your voice was steadier than you expected. “I’m not going back inside with you. I’m not getting back in that limousine with you. Go home, Jacob. Sleep it off.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.” He looked at you as if you had grown two heads, or as if he had never heard the world ‘no’ in his life.
“I’m not.” You stood your ground.
He looked at you for a long moment, something shifting in his eyes. Then he turned, pulled out his phone, and started walking down the street, his steps unsteady. “Fine. Whatever. Fucking fine.”
You watched him go until he disappeared around a corner, and then you stood there alone, the night silent around you. You took a deep breath, then another, willing your heartbeat to slow.
You didn’t want to go back inside. You didn’t want to face Sophia’s pitying looks or the whispered speculation of the other guests.
You just wanted to go home.
You started walking, your heels clicking against the pavement, heading toward the main road where you could call a ride.
But you honestly didn’t even want to move, so you sat on a bench near the river and let your tears silently fall.
It all hurt, why couldn’t Jacob try to understand you? Why did he have to make everything about him?
“That was very rude, if you ask me.” You gasped as a voice spoke from your left.
You hadn’t noticed someone was sitting on the other side of the bench
You recognized him vaguely. You had seen the guy around at campus, but his face had never stuck in your memory until that moment. He had thick glasses and styled hair, with a gummy smile.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. My mom always tells me I tend to speak at the wrong moment.” He apologised, glancing away.
You sighed and scooted closer, “No, I think you’re very right.” You tuned toward him. “By the way, you go to Saint Cross’s college too, no?”
He nodded with a quick motion that messed his hair. “Yeah…. I’m Jake.”
“I’m Y/N.” You stepped closer, and he seemed to shrink back, his shoulders hunching. “What are you doing out here?”
“I— uh…” he gulped, “I hadn’t read that the dress code was blue, so I wore this suit.” He pointed at his very white suit. “The waiters are wearing white…”
You let the information sink in before letting out a quiet snort at the weirdness of it all. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
He finally glanced at you, his eyes meeting yours for just a fraction of a second before darting away.
In the dim light, you could see the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Do you… uhm, want some of this?” he questioned, raising the bottle he was drinking.
It was a bright orange liquid that looked like a spiked punch. “Sorry, I’m cutting down on the alcohol.”
“Oh, this is not alcohol.” He replied, shaking the bottle. “This is Gatorade, it’s way past my bed time, i needed the energy.”
As you threw your head back and laughed, you caught sight of the white limousine with the back of your eyes.
An idea formed in your mind, reckless and impulsive, the kind of idea you would have talked yourself out of a year ago.
But tonight, sitting there in your glittery dress with your boyfriend’s abandonment still fresh in your chest, you didn’t feel like talking yourself out of anything.
“Do you want to be my buddy for the night?” you asked.
He blinked. “What?”
“The limousine there? My boyfriend forgot it. Let’s take it for a spin.” You shrugged.
He looked at the car, then at you, then back at the car. “I don’t think that’s—”
“The driver’s paid for the whole night. He’ll drive wherever we want.” You walked over to the driver, who had stubbed out his cigarette and was watching you with mild curiosity. “We’re taking the car out. My boyfriend left, but the night’s still young.”
The driver shrugged, his expression indifferent from when he had opened the door for you just a couple of hours earlier. “You’re the boss.”
You turned back to Jake, who hadn’t moved. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, his hands wrapped around the Gatorade bottle like it was a lifeline. “Come on,” you said, holding out your hand. “I promise I don’t bite.” you sang song.
He hesitated for a long moment, and you thought he might say no, might turn and walk away and go back to whatever quiet corner of the gala he had emerged from.
But then he stepped forward, his fingers brushing against yours, and let you lead him into the limousine.
The interior felt even more opulent now, in the quiet intimacy of just the two of you. The colored lights were still on, casting soft greens and purples across the leather seats.
Jake sat down carefully, as if afraid he might break something.
You sat across from him, watching him. “Have you ever been in a limousine before?” You tried as an ice breaker.
He shook his head. “What about the gala? Do you usually go to those?”
“Not really, but I thought I could try.” He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I think I regretted it as soon as someone asked me to refill their champagne flute.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” you said. “Socializing is overrated.”
He looked at you then, a real look, his eyes searching your face as if trying to figure out if you were being genuine or mocking him.
You held his gaze, and something in his expression softened.
The driver’s voice came through the intercom. “Where to?”
You looked at Jake. “Anywhere you want.” He thought about it, biting his lower lip. “I don’t know. Just... around?”
“Around it is.” you said to the driver, and the limousine pulled away from the curb, gliding into the night.
The first few minutes were awkward, filled with the kind of silence that felt heavy with unspoken things.
Jake stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, while you studied him from across the car.
He had nice hands, you noticed. Long fingers, neatly trimmed nails. He was nervous, you could tell, from the way he kept fidgeting with the bottle cap, the way his leg bounced slightly.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence. “Let’s see what this thing can do.”
He turned to you, curious. “What do you mean?”
You reached over and pressed a button on the console. The ceiling lights shifted, changing from soft green to a warm blue.
You pressed another button, and a small television screen descended from the roof. Another, and a panel slid open to reveal a karaoke machine, complete with microphones.
Jake’s eyes went wide. “That’s insane.”
“Right?” You pressed another button, and the mini bar lit up, revealing rows of tiny bottles. “Do you want a drink?”
“I, uh, I don’t really—”
You nodded, “It’s okay, you’re not a drinker.”
He shook his head, looking almost embarrassed. “I’ve never had any alcohol.”
“What?” You sat up straighter, genuinely shocked. “Never? Not even a sip of beer?”
“My parents don’t drink,” he said, shrugging. “And I never really saw the appeal.”
“Well, tonight you’re trying tequila.” You pulled out two small shot glasses and a bottle of Tequila, setting them on the counter. “Consider it a rite of passage… I’ll even have a shot with you, come on.”
He looked nervous, but there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “Okay.”
You poured the shots, sliding one toward him. He picked it up, examining the clear liquid like it might bite him. “Do I just... drink it?”
“Lick the salt, take the shot, suck the lime,” you said, demonstrating with practiced ease. You set up a small line of salt on the back of your hand, licked it, downed the shot, and bit into a lime wedge, the sourness cutting through the burn.
He watched you, then attempted to copy your movements. His hand shook slightly as he lifted the shot glass, and he winced as the tequila hit his throat, coughing and sputtering. “That’s— that’s strong!”
You laughed, genuinely. “It gets easier. Trust me.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and when he looked at you, there was a smile on his face. It transformed his features and made him look younger. “I feel warm.”
“That’s the alcohol. Give it a few minutes.” You poured another round, then another. The third shot went down smoother, and by the fourth, Jake was laughing at something you said, with his head thrown back and his shoulders relaxed.
The awkwardness had melted away, replaced by an easy, electric energy that filled the limousine like the colored lights.
“Show me the karaoke.” he said, his voice looser now, the words slightly slurred.
You grabbed one of the microphones and handed him the other. “What are we singing?”
He scrolled through the options, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t know any of these.”
“Pick the first one you recognize.”
He stopped on a song, and when the opening chords started playing, you recognized it immediately. Lana del Rey’s National Anthem notes filled the car. He started singing, his voice tentative at first, then growing bolder as you joined in, your voices blending together in a harmony that was probably terrible but felt incredible. It was crazy how much he knew the lyrics, singing his heart out.
At some point, you slid closer to him on the seat, your shoulders brushing, and he didn’t pull away.
When the song ended, the silence that followed was different. The air between you felt thick, heavy with possibility. He was looking at you, his eyes dark in the dim light, his lips slightly parted.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “For tonight. I was... I was really nervous about coming here. I almost didn’t.”
“Thank you for being my knight in shining armor for the night.” you said, and you meant it.
He smiled again, that soft, transforming smile, and something in your chest fluttered. Without really thinking, you leaned closer and pressed a small kiss on his cheek.
A broken sound left his throat and he turned around, shielding himself from you.
“Jake?” You asked, your brows furrowing in worry, “I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?”
“No, no, it’s okay…” He said, his voice strained.
You took a better glance at him and… Oh.
His hands were shielding his crotch from your sight and you chuckled, “Are you hard?”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “It’s just that… I’ve never been kissed by a pretty girl.”
“I could eat you alive,” you laughed softly, turning him towards you again, “You are so cute.”
“Thank you.” He blushed, actually blushed, and looked away from you. You suddenly felt a strange sensation, a warmth inside of you. After two years of being treated like an afterthought from your own boyfriend, Jake’s gentle nature was a stark contrast.
“Do you want me to kiss you? On your lips?” You asked quietly, and his eyes widened comically. “I mean, I would like it… But only if you want to? I should probably have a mint first, though.”
“Oh my God.” You laughed, fisted his shirt and pulled him towards you.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, your lips brushing against his like a question.
He responded slowly and unsure, his hand coming up to rest on your arm as if he needed something to steady himself.
You deepened the kiss, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips, and he opened for you with a soft, surprised sound.
He tasted like tequila and lime, and you kissed him until you were both breathless, until his hands moved from your arm to your waist, pulling you closer.
Your hand drifted from his knee to his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath your fingers.
He was wearing dress pants, the fabric smooth and warm. You traced circles on his thigh, watching his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed and the way his breath hitched.
“Is this okay?” you asked.
“Yes,” he breathed. “God, yes.”
You moved slowly, wanting to savor every moment. Your hand slid higher, until you could feel the heat of him through the fabric, the growing hardness that made your own body respond in kind.
He gasped when you palmed him, his hips bucking slightly into your touch.
“You’re so beautiful,” you murmured against his neck, pressing kisses along his jaw. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
He shook his head, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress. “No one’s ever... told me that.”
You pulled back, meeting his eyes. “Then they were blind.”
He kissed you again, hungrier this time, his hands exploring your body with a clumsy, earnest desperation that made your heart ache.
He traced the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the lace of your dress. When his fingers brushed against your breast, he pulled back as if burned.
“Sorry,” he said, his cheeks flushing. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” You took his hand and guided it back to your chest, letting him feel the weight of you through the fabric. “You can touch me. I want you to.” With one hand, you reached for the ‘Do Not Disturb’ button near the window, so the driver would know not to intrude.
He looked at you, his eyes wide and vulnerable, and then his hand moved again, cupping your breast with a reverence that made your breath catch. He was gentle, almost afraid, but there was a curiosity in his touch that was intoxicating.
You reached behind your neck and untied the halter strap, letting the front of your dress fall forward. His eyes went widen as his gaze fixed on your breasts, the peaks that tightened under his stare.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
You laughed softly. “Have you never seen a pair of boobs before?”
He shook his head, his cheeks burning. “I mean, I’ve seen them in movies and stuff, but not... not like this. Not in real life.”
You widened your eyes… fuck! He was a virgin.
“Oh my God,” you said, your body stopping. “We can stop if you want, if you don’t want your first time to be here. I understand.”
“No, no, no.” He begged, nodding his head so much you thought it would fall down, “I want you— want it… please? I’ll be a good boy.”
You searched for his eyes, and when you found sincerity, you guided his hand to your bare skin, and he let out a shaky breath.
His touch was tentative, his warm fingers brushing against your nipple with a featherlight pressure that sent a shiver down your spine.
He looked at you, checking, making sure he wasn’t hurting you. “You’re doing great,” you encouraged. “Just keep going.”
He grew bolder, his hand cupping your breast as his thumb rubbed circles around your nipple until it peaked against his palm.
You leaned into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips, and the sound seemed to spur him on. “Can I...” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to your mouth.
“Yes.”
He kissed you again, his hand still on your breast, and you felt the last of his reservations melt away. He was kissing you like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment, like he was afraid it might disappear if he stopped. And in a way, you realized, he probably had been.
Your hand found his belt, working the buckle open with practiced ease. You smiled, soft and genuine, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “let me take care of you.”
You sank to your knees on the plush carpet of the limousine floor, your dress pooling around you like spilled ink.
He watched you, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as his hands gripped the edge of the seat.
You unfastened his pants, pulling them down along with his boxers, and then you saw him.
You sucked in a breath. He was huge. Thick and long, veined and flushed, standing proud against his stomach.
For a virgin, he was packing more than most experienced men you’d been with. You looked up at him, and he was staring down at you with wide, terrified eyes.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” you said, your voice husky. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re just... wow.”
He didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, so you didn’t give him time to. You leaned forward and took him in your mouth.
He cried out, a high, desperate sound, his hips bucking instinctively. You held him steady, your hand wrapped around the base of his shaft and your tongue swirled around the head.
He was already slick with precum, and you moaned at the taste of him.
“Oh god,” he gasped, his fingers threading through your hair. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
You took him deeper, your throat relaxing to accommodate his size. He was so thick that it was a stretch, but you loved the feeling, the fullness of him filling your mouth.
You bobbed your head, setting a rhythm as your hand worked what you couldn’t reach.
He was vocal, more vocal than you expected. Little whimpers and moans escaped him with every movement of your head with his hips twitching and his grip on your hair tightening. He was a mess, and you loved every second of it.
“I’m— I’m close,” he warned, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”
You doubled your efforts, taking him as deep as you could, and he came with a shuddering cry, his release hot and thick in your throat.
You swallowed it all, every drop, and when you pulled back, he was panting, his eyes glassy, his body trembling. “Fuck,” he whispered, the word falling from his lips like a prayer.
You wiped your mouth and climbed back onto the seat beside him, your body humming with arousal. He looked at you, and there was something new in his eyes. Wonder, maybe. Or worship.
“That was...” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “It gets better,” you said, reaching for the zipper of your dress. “Trust me.”
You stood, shimmying the dress completely down your body until it pooled at your feet, leaving you in nothing but a scrap of lace that barely covered you. He stared, his mouth open, his spent cock already beginning to stir again.
“Can I touch you?” he asked, his voice reverent.
“I was hoping you’d ask.” You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your thighs bracketing his hips. He was hard again, pressing against your stomach, and you reached down to guide him to your entrance. You were wet, so wet, your body ready for him.
“Look at me,” you said, and he did. “I’m going to go slow. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He nodded, his hands finding your waist, his grip gentle but firm.
You sank down onto him, inch by agonizing inch. He stretched you, filled you, and you cried out at the sensation, your head falling back.
He was so big, hitting places inside you that you had forgotten existed. He groaned, his fingers digging into your hips as his eyes squeezed shut.
“You feel so good,” he gasped. “So fucking good.”
You began to move in a slow, steady rhythm, your hips rocking against his. He met your movements, his own hips rising to meet you, and soon you found a groove, the two of you moving together like you had been doing this for years.
He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss, sloppy and desperate, his tongue tangling with yours.
“Is there something that might make you feel good?” He asked, pulling away and watching you with his big, dark eyes.
You smiled, gripped his hair and gently guided his lips to your breast. As if in command, he parted his lips and took your nipple in his mouth, tongue swirling around the tip.
You moaned softly, the sensation combined with his cock inside you almost too much.
He gently bit the swollen skin, making you arch your back and whelp.
“Did I hurt you?” He asked, looking up at you again. You shook your head and gripped his shoulders, “You’re doing so good.” You quickened your pace.
“I’m not going to last.” he admitted, his forehead pressed against yours.
“That’s okay,” you breathed. “Come for me, Jake. Let go.”
He did, with a broken cry, his hips stuttered as he spilled inside you.
The feeling of him pulsing, of his warmth filling you, sent you over the edge as well, your own orgasm crashing through you in waves, your body clenching around him.
You collapsed against him, your skin slick with sweat. He held you, his arms wrapped around you and his lips pressed gently to your hair.
The energy drained from you quickly, from the exertion of sex, the alcohol in your body and the drowsiness from the pills.
Your eyelids dropped slowly, until your eyes were fully closed.
In your sleepy state, you murmured, “Thank you, Jacob.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
“I fucked up,” you said, the confession spilling out before you could stop it.
The words tasted like ash on your tongue as you slumped into the chair across from Sophia.
The west library was nearly empty at this hour, the pale morning light filtering through the tall arched windows, casting long shadows across the wooden tables.
Sophia looked up from her laptop, her eyebrows furrowing.
She had been away at her girlfriend’s place for the weekend, and you had deliberately avoided texting her, not wanting to drag her into the mess you had created.
But now, sitting across from her, the weight of the weekend pressed down on your chest like a physical force.
“What happened?” she asked, closing her laptop and giving you her full attention.
You took a shaky breath, your fingers curling around the edge of the table. “I… I deflowered a guy.”
Her eyes widened, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Wait, you finally broke up with Jacob? Good for you—”
“No,” you cut in, your voice sharp. “I didn’t break up with him.”
The smile froze on her face. “What do you mean you didn’t break up with him? You had that huge fight at the gala. I thought that was it.”
“We didn’t officially break up,” you said, your throat tightening. “We just… fought. And then I went and had sex with someone else while we are still together.”
Sophia leaned back in her chair, processing the information. Her fingers tapped against the table, a nervous habit you recognized. “Okay. Okay, I’m not judging you. But… who?”
You shook your head, your gaze dropping to your hands. “I can’t tell you. I’m not sure he wants people to know.”
“Y/N, you have to tell me—”
“I can’t, Sophia. Please.” You cut her off.
She sighed, her expression softening. “Alright. I trust you. But how did it happen? Wait, was it the limo driver?”
“No, no.” You let out a hollow laugh. “It was someone from college. I was angry and hurt, and I just… I invited him into the limousine. One thing led to another.”
You remembered the warmth of his body, the way he had held you afterward, the tenderness in his touch that had felt so different from Jacob’s demanding hands. “I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was in my room, wearing my dress. I think he put it back on me. He carried me upstairs and he even bought me Plan B.”
“Aw, he was a gentleman,” Sophia teased, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
You bristled, your jaw tightening. “This isn’t funny, Sophia. I cheated on my boyfriend.”
“Y/N, listen to me.” She reached across the table, her hand covering yours. “Jacob has been a dismissive asshole for months. You two were going to fall apart anyway. This was just the last drop.”
The words stung, hitting a nerve you hadn’t expected. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what we have.”
“I know you’ve been miserable,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I know you’ve been crying in the bathroom after your phone calls with him, I know he makes you feel small about your anxiety. That’s not love, Y/N.”
You pulled your hand away, anger flaring in your chest. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m just being honest.” She shrugged.
“Well, I didn’t ask for your honesty.” You stood up, grabbing your bag from the floor. “I told you because I needed to get it off my chest, not because I wanted you to trash my relationship.”
Sophia’s face fell. “Y/N, I didn’t mean—”
“I have to go.” You stalked toward the exit as your vision blurred with unshed tears.
The library’s heavy oak doors loomed ahead, promising escape, but before you could reach them, you collided with something solid.
The impact sent you stumbling backward, your bag slipping from your shoulder. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry—” you started, bending down to gather your things.
“It’s okay.” The voice was soft, familiar. You looked up, and your heart stopped.
Jake.
He was standing there, dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans, his dark brown hair falling across his forehead.
He looked as startled as you felt, his hands frozen mid-motion, as if he had been about to help you but had stopped himself.
“Jake,” you breathed, straightening up. “I… hi.”
“Hi.” He glanced around, as if looking for an escape route, but that library wing was empty except for the two of you.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “About Friday. I shouldn’t have… I mean, I was drunk, and I took advantage of you, and I—”
“You didn’t take advantage of me,” he said, cutting you off. His voice was quiet but steady. “I wanted to. I said yes.”
“But I am in a relationship.” You pressed a hand to your forehead, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “That was wrong. It doesn’t mean you did anything bad— you were actually… very good. Really good. But it was still wrong of me.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I understand.” He paused, then added, “Can I go now?”
“Wait.” You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve.
He flinched but didn’t pull away. “Did you… were you the one who took care of me? After we… you know.”
He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked away. “Yeah, I did.”
“Why?” You frowned.
He was silent for a long moment, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. “Because you murmured Jacob's name. You said it in your sleep, and I… I felt guilty. Like I had done something wrong. So I got you dressed, as best as I could. The driver knew your address from the gala pickup. I carried you up to your room and left you on your bed.”
Your heart ached at the image. Him, struggling to zip up your dress, lifting you in his arms and climbing the stairs to your dorm. “You also bought me Plan B.”
He shrugged, a small, self-conscious motion. “I didn’t know if you were on anything. I wanted to be safe.”
“I’m on birth control,” you said. “So you don’t have to worry about that.”
He nodded again, his eyes still avoiding yours. “Okay, good.”
“Can you keep this a secret?” you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Please… I don’t want anyone to know. Especially not Jacob.”
He met your gaze then, and something in his expression softened. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty library, and you watched him go, a knot of guilt and confusion tightening in your stomach.
“Jake?” You called out, and he stopped in his tracks. He turned around, just slightly, letting you know that he was listening. “You didn’t deserve that… me saying his name.”
He gave you a forced smile, “It’s okay.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The afternoon sun was harsh, slanting through the windows of the college cafe and casting everything in a golden, unforgiving light.
You spotted Jacob immediately, standing in line with his friends Juyeon and Justin. He was laughing at something Justin said, his head thrown back with an easy smile.
You walked over, your heart pounding in your chest. “Jacob.”
The laughter stopped immediately. He looked up at you, and the warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, distant expression. “What do you want?”
“Can we talk? Please. Just for a minute.” You begged.
He took a sip of his coffee, deliberately slow. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Jacob, please.” You could feel Juyeon and Justin watching, their eyes boring into you. “I know we fought. I know I said some things, but I don’t want to leave it like this. Can we just… talk it out?”
He set the cup down on the counter with a sharp clink. “You made yourself pretty clear at the gala. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ Those were your words.”
“I was upset and angry. You were drinking, and you were being inappropriate.”
“So it’s my fault?” His voice rose, and a few heads turned. “Everything is always my fault.”
“That’s not what I’m saying—” He cut you off. “You know what? I don’t want to hear it.” He turned back to his friends, effectively dismissing you.
Humiliation burned through you, hot and sharp. You could feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.
Not here. Not in front of him.
“Fine,” you said, your voice cold. “Go fuck yourself, Jacob.”
You turned and stormed out of the cafe, the door swinging shut behind you with a bang.
The cool air hit your face, and you took a deep, shuddering breath, your hands clenching into fists at your sides.
You heard footsteps behind you. “Y/N— Y/N, wait.”
Jacob had followed you outside, with his hands in his pockets and his expression no longer cold.
“What?” you snapped, turning to face him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words seemed to cost him something. “I shouldn’t have… I’ve been an asshole.”
“You think?” You raised an eyebrow.
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of agitation. “Justin and Juyeon, they told me to come after you. They said I was being an idiot.”
“Yeah? And now that your friends told you what I’ve been telling you for a while, what so you think?”
He was quiet for a moment, the traffic noise filling the silence until he broke it. “I think I miss you… I miss us. But I don’t know how to fix this.”
You stared at him, and for the first time in a long time, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes. Not the cocky, dismissive Jacob who made jokes about your issues. Just a guy who was scared of losing someone.
“You make me feel insecure,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You make me feel embarrassed about my own issues. I hate when you act like taking my anxiety pills is a bad thing. Yes, they lower my libido. Yes, they make me feel numb sometimes. But at least I’m not waking up in the middle of the night thinking I’m going to choke on my own breath.”
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch your arm. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
You pulled away. “Because you never asked.”
He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I just… I miss the fun we used to have. The spontaneous sex, the parties, the laughing. I don’t know how to handle the change.”
“It’s not a change I wanted,” you said, your voice breaking. “It’s just my life now.”
He pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly.
You hesitated for a moment, then melted into his embrace, your face pressed against his chest. His scent was familiar, comforting, and for a moment, you let yourself believe that everything could go back to the way it was.
But in the back of your mind, you couldn’t stop replaying the feeling of Jake’s arms around you that Friday night.
The way he had held you, tender and careful, as if you were something precious. The way he had looked at you, with wonder and awe, as if you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
You pushed the thought away, burying it deep.
“I’ll try to be more considerate,” Jacob murmured into your hair. “I promise.”
“Thank you.” you whispered, and you held him tighter.
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The living room was buzzing with conversation, voices mixed with the occasional burst of laughter.
Streamers hung from the ceiling, and a banner reading “CONGRATULATIONS MINA!” was taped across the wall above the couch.
Pizza boxes were scattered across the coffee table, alongside bottles of beer and soda.
Mina was glowing, her arm wrapped around Juyeon’s waist with a radiant smile. “I still can’t believe I got it, they really gave me a prize for getting straight As.” she said for the fifth time, and everyone cheered again.
You smiled, raising your can of coke in a toast, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes.
Your mind was elsewhere, fixated on the economic principles test you had tomorrow.
The formulas, the graphs, the theories— they swirled in your head like a storm, and no matter how hard you tried to focus on the celebration, the anxiety crept in, cold and insistent.
Your hands started to tremble.
You set the can down, not trusting yourself to hold it.
Your heart was pounding too hard, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The room suddenly felt too loud, too bright, the laughter grating against your ears.
You needed air. You needed space.
You excused yourself, your voice barely audible, and walked to the bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind you, and you leaned against it, your chest heaving.
The mirror reflected a pale, frightened version of yourself with wide eyes, flushed cheeks and hands shaking so badly you could barely unzip your purse.
The pills bottle rattled as you fumbled with the cap. Your fingers felt like clumsy sausages, and you nearly dropped them twice before finally managing to twist open the lid.
You tapped out two small tablets, brought them to your mouth and cupped your hand under the faucet to drink the water directly.
The pills went down with a struggle, and you gripped the edge of the sink, waiting for them to take effect.
But the panic was still there, clawing at the edges of your consciousness.
The bathroom door creaked open.
Sophia stood in the doorway, her expression soft with concern. She had always known when something was wrong, had always been able to read you like a book. “Oh… my poor baby.”
She crossed the small space and wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace.
You broke down, the tears spilling over, your body shaking against hers. You cried for the guilt you carried, for the confusion, for the way you felt torn between two worlds and undeserving of either.
Even if you had been mad at her, even if you had stormed off a couple of days before, she still held you.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered, stroking your hair. “I’ve got you.”
It took a long time for the sobs to subside. When they did, you pulled back, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “I’m sorry. I ruined the party.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. Are you okay now?” She asked, worried.
You nodded, though the lie was obvious. “I think so.”
“Do you want to go home? Mina won’t mind.” Sophia offered.
You glanced toward the door, thinking of Jacob out there, laughing with his friends. “If I leave, Jacob will get mad. He’ll say I’m ruining his night.”
“He can fuck himself,” Sophia said firmly. “I’ll drive you home, mh?.”
You hesitated, but the thought of staying in that noisy room, surrounded by people who didn’t understand, was unbearable. “Okay.”
You washed your face, the cold water soothing your flushed skin.
Sophia handed you a towel, and you patted your face dry, trying to look more presentable. Together, you walked back into the living room.
“Hey, guys,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’m not feeling great, so I’m going to head out. Congratulations again, Mina.”
Mina’s face softened with sympathy. “Oh, Y/N, I hope you feel better. Get some rest.”
Jacob looked up from his conversation with Justin. He didn’t ask if you were okay and neithr did he reach out to touch you. He just leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to your lips, and turned back to his friend.
Something inside you cracked.
You walked out of the house without looking back.
The car ride was silent, the streetlights casting shifting shadows across the dashboard.
Sophia didn’t push you to talk, and you were grateful for that. When you reached your dorm, she waited while you changed into your pajamas, then hovered by the door.
“Do you want me to sleep beside you?” she asked, her voice gentle. “We can have a pajama party, just like in junior year.”
You shook your head. “I just need to be alone.”
She nodded, her eyes filled with worry. “Call me if you need anything, okay? I’m right next door.”
“I will.” You promised.
She left, and you climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin.
The room was dark, the only sound being the faint hum of the heater.
You closed your eyes and tried to sleep, but the guilt followed you into the darkness, a shadow you couldn’t escape.
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The library was quiet, as you were hunched over your laptop at one of the corner tables, the glow of the screen illuminating your tired face.
A cup of cold coffee sat beside you, untouched for the last hour. Your eyes burned from staring at the same paragraph about macroeconomic indicators, the words blurring together until they lost all meaning.
You had barely slept in three days.
Every time you closed your eyes, the weight of upcoming exams pressed down on your chest, and your mind would start racing about formulas, deadlines and expectations.
You would toss and turn, check the clock, calculate how many hours of sleep you could still get, and then panic because it was never enough.
By the time dawn crept through your curtains, you gave up, dragging yourself to the library before the sun was fully up.
Now it was mid-afternoon, and exhaustion clung to you like a second skin.
Your phone buzzed, the notification sharp in the quiet room. You glanced at the screen, expecting a text from Sophia or maybe Jacob.
Instead, you saw the college email app, a new message marked with a red exclamation.
You tapped it open and your heart plummeted.
It was from your professor, he had scheduled another test. A quiz for your economic theory class. The date was in four days, right in the middle of the week you had already dedicated to three other finals.
You stared at the screen, your breath catching in your throat.
A full week of tests.
You had been cramming for the ones you already knew about, and now this.
How were you supposed to cover everything? How were you supposed to keep your grades up? It was barely November, and you were already drowning.
Your hands began to tremble.
The spiral came fast, vicious, and merciless. Your mind raced through worst-case scenarios: failing the class, disappointing your parents, watching their proud faces fall into confusion and shame. They bragged about your straight As to their friends, to your relatives back home.
If you failed, what would they say? What would they think?
Your chest constricted, the air turning thick and unbreathable. You tried to take a deep breath, but it caught somewhere in your throat with a strangled gasp.
Your vision started to tunnel, the edges of the library fading into a dark blur.
You needed your pills.
You grabbed your backpack with clumsy fingers and unzipped the main compartment. You fumbled inside, your hand searching desperately for the familiar plastic bottle.
But all you found were notebooks, a pen case and a half-eaten granola bar. No pills.
You had left them in the kitchen cupboard. You remembered now— you had taken your morning dose, and then you had been in such a hurry to get to the library that you had forgotten to put the bottle back in your bag.
Panic surged through you, hot and suffocating. You slammed the backpack shut, tears already pricking at your eyes.
You couldn't stay here. You couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in, the silence too loud, and the fluorescent lights too bright.
You abandoned everything and stumbled out of the library. Packing up would take too long. Every second felt like an eternity, and you needed air, space, somewhere quiet where you could fall apart without an audience.
The hallway stretched before you, long and empty, the floor tiles a dizzying pattern of white and gray. Your footsteps echoed, uneven as your vision blurred at the edges.
You walked, then stumbled and then fell to your knees, your hands pressing against the cold floor.
Your lungs were being crushed. Each breath was a battle, your chest heaving abs a high-pitched wheezes escaping your lips.
The world tilted, the walls swirling around you. You couldn't hear anything over the roaring in your ears.
Then, through the chaos you heard a voice. Distant at first, like someone calling from the other end of a long tunnel. “Y/N? Y/N!”
It was warm and familiar, but you couldn't place it, you couldn't focus. Your body was shaking too hard and your mind too tangled in panic.
Strong arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the floor. You felt yourself being guided, your feet dragging and your weight leaning against a solid chest. The voice kept talking, soft and steady, but the words were muffled, lost in the static of your panic.
You were sitting now, your back against something hard and your knees pulled up to your chest.
The voice was clearer now, right in front of you. “Y/N, look at me. Follow my breathing.”
You blinked as your vision slowly cleared.
A face emerged from the blur: dark hair falling across a worried forehead, glasses slightly askew, and brown eyes full of concern.
Jake.
He was crouched in front of you, his hands gentle on your shoulders. He took a slow, deliberate breath in, then let it out, long and even. “Breathe with me. In… out. In… out.”
You tried, but your breath hitched, stuttered. He didn't rush you. He just kept breathing, slow and patient, his eyes locked on yours. He reached for your hand and placed it on his chest, over his heart. You could feel it beating, steady and strong, a rhythm to anchor yourself to.
“Feel that? Just follow it. You're safe.” You focused on the warmth of his chest under your palm, the rise and fall of his breathing. You matched it, in and out, each breath a little deeper, a little slower.
Your vision cleared completely, now you could make out that you were in a storage room, surrounded by shelves stacked with boxes and old filing cabinets. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dim light over you both.
Jake was still crouched in front of you, his face very close to yours. He was watching you carefully, with brows furrowed with concern. “You’re back?” he asked softly.
You nodded, then shook your head, frustrated. Tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable. “I'm such a mess,” you choked out, your voice cracking.
You brought your hands to your hair, pulling at the strands, as if you could punish yourself for your own weakness.
“Hey, hey, don't,” Jake said, gently prying your hands away from your head. He held them in his, his long fingers warm and steady, unlike your cold and trembling ones. “It's okay. You're okay.”
But you weren't okay. You were shaking again, this time from the release of tension, from the shame of falling apart in front of him. The tears came harder, sobs wracking your body that you couldn't stop.
Without a word, Jake pulled you into his arms. He hugged you, one hand cradling the back of your head as the other rubbed slow circles on your back.
You buried your face in his shoulder, breathing in his scent. You melted into him, letting yourself be held, letting the tears soak into his hoodie.
He didn't say anything. He just held you, his heartbeat steady against your cheek, his arms a safe harbor in the storm.
Minutes passed and slowly, the sobs quieted, your breathing evening out.
You pulled back, wiping your face with the back of your hand. Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled tissue, handing it to you with a small, shy smile.
“Thanks.” you whispered, blowing your nose.
He waited until you had composed yourself, then asked, “What do you need?”
You took a shaky breath. “I want to go home. I can't… I can't be here right now.”
He nodded, already standing up. “I'll drive you. I don’t have any more classes.
Your heart squeezed, once again he was saving you. “I left my backpack and laptop on the table… can you get them for me? The backpack is pink and the laptop has a landscape wallpaper.”
“Got it. Stay here, I'll be right back.” He slipped out of the storage room, leaving you alone in the quiet.
A few minutes later, Jake returned, your pink backpack slung over one shoulder and your laptop case in his other hand. “Found them,” he said, a little breathless. “No one took anything.”
“Thank you,” you said, your voice small.
He offered you a hand, and you took it. His grip was firm, as he helped you to your feet. He stayed close, one hand hovering near your elbow, ready to catch you if you stumbled.
His car was parked in the student lot, an old BMW with a few dents and a faded paint job.
It wasn't fancy, but it was clean inside, the seats worn but comfortable. He opened the passenger door for you, waited until you were seated, then closed it gently.
The drive to your apartment was quiet. He turned on the radio, low, some soft indie station filling the space with gentle guitar strums. You leaned your head against the window, watching the streets pass by, the familiar landmarks blurring together.
When he parked outside your building, he grabbed your bags and followed you up the stairs. You unlocked the door, stepped inside, and he set your things down by the entrance.
“You can stay,” you said, your voice hesitant. “If you want.”
He hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Are you sure? I don't want to intrude.”
“You're not intruding. I… I think I need company. And you just drove here.” You shrugged.
He nodded slowly, then stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
You led him to the living room, a small space with a comfortable sofa and a coffee table cluttered with textbooks and empty mugs you and Sophia were too lay to clean up. You sat down, and he sat beside you, leaving a respectable distance.
You let out a bitter laugh, rubbing your face with your hands. “God, I'm such a mess.”
“You're not a mess,” he said quietly. “You're dealing with a lot.”
“Do you want to take a shower?” he asked after a pause. “Maybe you’ll feel better. I usually do.”
A real smile tugged at your lips. “A shower sounds nice, actually, thank you.”
“Do you need help?” He asked, then cringed, “Sorry, too much?”
“Thank you for the thought,” you called behind your shoulder. “But I can manage.”
You went to your room, grabbed a pair of soft sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, and stepped into the bathroom.
The hot water was a blessing, washing away the tension and the lingering panic. You stood under the stream for a long time, letting it beat against your shoulders, your mind slowly quieting.
When you came out, wrapped in a towel, you changed into the comfortable clothes. you walked back to the living room, and the smell hit you— chicken noodle soup.
Jake was in your kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove. He turned when he heard you, his eyes softening. “You look better.”
“I feel better.” You sat on the sofa, and he brought you a bowl, a spoon and a napkin. He had even set out a glass of water.
You took the bowl, the warmth seeping into your cold hands. “Thank you, Jake… really.”
“It's no problem.” After a few spoonfuls, he asked, “Does this happen often?”
You sighed, setting the bowl on your lap. “In periods of high stress, yes. It got better over the summer. But now I'm a senior, and the pressure is… a lot.”
He nodded, not pushing for more. You finished the soup, feeling the warmth spread through your body. You set the bowl aside and stood up, walking to the kitchen cabinet where you kept your pill bottles. You popped two into your mouth and washed them down with water.
When you turned back, Jake was watching you, his expression unreadable. “I'm sorry,” you said, sinking back onto the sofa. “You had to take care of me again.”
He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “I'm glad I was able to help you. Again. I'd do it again if you needed me to.”
Your heart ached at his words. “You're too kind.” He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “Do the pills have side effects?”
You blinked at the question. It was so practical, so Jake. Nobody had really paid attention to that part of you, except for Sophia and Mina. “They make me drowsy and numb sometimes. The doctor said they can lower also my sex drive.”
He let out a small chuckle, the sound surprising you. “Well, it didn't seem that low in the limousine.”
Your cheeks burned. He caught himself, his eyes widening, and he quickly added, “Sorry, I didn't mean to bring that up. I promised you not to.”
“It's okay,” you said, your voice soft. “You're right, maybe being treated with care was a turn-on.”
The air in the room shifted. He looked at you, his gaze lingering on your lips, then meeting your eyes. “I could take care of you…” Jake said, his voice low. “If you wanted.”
Your breath caught and he took it as an invitation to move closer and cup your jaw. Tentatively, he kissed your lips.
You answered by deepening it, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you closer.
As realization dawned, you parted, breathless, and said, “We should stop. I'm still with Jacob.”
He pressed his forehead against yours. “Shush,” he whispered, and kissed you again.
You let yourself be pulled under. He laid you down on the sofa, his body covering yours, careful and gentle. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, then he pulled back, his cheeks flushed and his glasses slightly fogged.
“I watched some tutorials,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “On… eating someone out. Do you want that?”
You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. “You watched tutorials?”
“I wanted to be good at it,” he said, his ears reddening. “For you.”
“Yes,” Your heart melted. “I want that.”
He smiled, a shy, sweet smile, and then he moved down your body. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants and tugged them down. he kissed your thighs, down to your hips, and then the sensitive skin of your inner legs, each kiss sending shivers through you.
Then he gently pulled your panties aside, lowered his head, and his tongue touched you.
Your back arched, it had been a long while since someone touched you like that. He was hesitant at first, then more confident, finding a rhythm that had you seeing stars.
His tongue traced circles, dipped inside, then moved up to your clit. He sucked gently, his nose pressing against you, and you cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair.
He moaned against you, the vibration sending a jolt through your core. You bucked up, grinding against his mouth, and he groaned, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Is this okay?” He questioned.
“Don’t talk,” you breathed out, “Just lick.”
“Yes ma’am.” And he delved in again. His movements were clumsy, as if he was following a certain pattern in his mind. It felt good nonetheless, uour while body on fire.
The pleasure built, coiling low in your belly, and when you came, it crashed over you like a wave, your body convulsing, a broken cry escaping your lips.
He didn't stop until you had ridden it out, then he lifted his head, his lips glossy and his eyes dark.
You noticed the wet patch on his pants, dark and obvious. “Did you cum already?” you asked, your voice hoarse.
He looked down, then back at you as his cheeks painted of a crimson. “Eating you out was really hot.”
You laughed softly, pulling him up to kiss him again. You tasted yourself on his lips and your hand moved to his waistband, but he caught your wrist.
“Today is about you.” he said, his voice firm but gentle. He kissed you again, slow and deep.
He caressed your body, his hands tracing your curves, your breasts, your waist. He kissed you for what felt like hours, worshipping every inch of you. You guided his face to your neck, and when his lips pressed against the sensitive skin, goosebumps erupted across your body.
He kissed, licked, nipped, and you moaned, the sensation reigniting the heat between your legs.
Time lost meaning. You made out on the sofa, tangled together, his hands exploring you as your fingers threaded through his hair.
But the drowsiness from the pills began to seep in and your eyelids grew heavy.
He noticed, so he pulled back with a soft smile on his face. He fixed his glasses, which had gone askew, and gently pulled your sweatpants back up, tucking your panties into place.
Then he scooped you up, carrying you to your bedroom. He probably remembered it from the night of the gala.
He laid you on the bed and pulled the covers over you. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he tucked you in. “Rest well, Y/N.”
He lingered for a moment, his hand brushing against your forehead, pushing a wild strand of hair away.
Then he turned and left, his footsteps fading down the hall. You were alone, but this time you didn't feel lonely.
The warmth of his touch lingered on your skin, a promise that maybe you weren't as broken as you thought.
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
“I did it again.” That was how you greeted Sophia the following morning, your voice still rough from sleep, your hair unbrushed and your eyes carrying the heavy weight of a restless night.
She stood at the stove with a spatula in one hand and a slice of bread dipped in egg mixture waiting in the pan.
The smell of cinnamon and butter filled the small kitchen, which was a stark contrast to the mess of thoughts tangled in your head.
She turned to look at you, her eyebrows knitting together in that familiar expression of concern. “Did what again?”
You dropped onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, reaching for a box of cereal she had left out. You poured yourself a bowl, the sound of flakes hitting ceramic too loud in the quiet morning. “Fuck up? I had a panic attack yesterday.”
Her spatula paused mid-air. She turned the stove off and faced you fully, crossing her arms. “What? Are you okay? Why didn’t you call me?”
You waved a dismissive hand, even as a small, guilty pang hit your chest. “I’m fine now. I’m fine, but I stumbled in the hallway, and guess who found me?”
She tilted her head, waiting, so you didn’t let her wait. “Limousine Guy.”
Sophia’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Yup, yhe guy I deflowered.” You said it with a wry smile, but the memory of Jake’s hands steadying you and his voice soft in your ear, came flooding back. You looked down at your cereal, stirring it absently. “He helped me, drove me home… and well… it wasn’t with penetration this time, at least?”
Sophia let out a long, low whistle. She turned back to the stove, sliding the French toast onto a plate, and brought it to the island, sitting across from you.
She took a bite, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving your face. “Wow, okay. You really need to break up with Jacob.”
The words hit you like a cold splash of water. You shook your head, even as your stomach twisted. “It’s complicated, Soph. You know that.”
“I know why it’s complicated,” she said, setting her fork down. “Your parents think he’s the golden ticket. He’s wealthy, he’s got connections, he has ‘high chances in life,’ or whatever your mom likes to repeat every time you call her. But when was the last time he looked for you— not because you’re a trophy on his arm, not because he wanted sex, but because he actually wanted you?”
The question landed hard. You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. You thought about Jacob… about the dinners where he talked about his internships and his networking events.
The way he introduced you to his friends as “my girlfriend, Y/N” but never actually looked at you when he said it. The way he kissed you like it was just lust, never love. The way he reached for you only when he wanted something.
“I used to be happy with him,” you said quietly, your voice barely a whisper. “Maybe… after I get better, we’ll all go back to how it was. And maybe me and Limousine Guy can be friends. Just friends.”
Sophia stared at you for a long moment. Then she sighed, stood up, and grabbed her bag from the counter. “Figure it out, Y/N.”
She slung it over her shoulder and walked toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I really want to meet this Limousine Guy by the way. He sounds like he actually gives a damn.”
She left before you could respond.
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
College felt louder than usual that day. You walked with purpose, your shoes squeaked against the polished floors as your eyes scanned every face that passed.
You were looking for Jake and it turned out to be harder than you expected.
You asked a few people, described him, but nobody seemed to know him.
He didn’t have many friends, apparently. He was something of a ghost on campus, someone you passed in the halls without ever really noticing.
The thought made your chest ache.
You ended up in the engineering wing, a group of students huddled around a table covered in blueprints, but your attention landed on a familiar face near the vending machine.
Lee Heeseung.
You’d seen him at parties before, always with a friendly smile and a drink in hand. He was tall, with sharp eyes and an easy way about him.
You approached him, your heart beating a little faster. “Hey, Heeseung, right?”
He turned, recognition flickering in his eyes. “Y/N, yeah. What’s up?”
“I’m looking for someone. Do you happen to know a Jake?” You asked.
Heeseung tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Jake Sim?”
You paused… well, you didn’t even know his surname. “Uh… I’m not sure. He has glasses, dark hair, a cute smile? Kind of quiet?”
Heeseung’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah, that’s Jake. He’s in my dorm building. What do you need him for?”
You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “We’re… friends, I just need to ask him something.”
Heeseung studied you for a moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze.
Then he nodded slowly. “He’s probably in the mathematics building, since he’s a statistics major. You’ll probably find him in one of the classrooms on the second floor, he’s always there, working on something.”
You thanked him and started to turn, but he called your name.
As you looked back, his expression had hardened, a hint of seriousness in his eyes. “You’re not pulling a prank on him or something, right?
“What? No.” You frowned.
“Just… don’t hurt him, okay?” he said quietly. “Jake has a kind soul”
The words struck you deep, echoing Sophia’s earlier sentiment. You nodded when a lump formed in your throat. “I know.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The mathematics building was quieter than the rest of campus.
The halls were lined with old photographs of scholars and the air carried a faint scent of chalk dust and old paper. You climbed the stairs to the second floor and peered through the small glass window of each door until you found him.
He was in the last classroom, standing at the chalkboard with his back to the door.
A flannel shirt hung loose over his frame and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with chalk.
His hair was messy, sticking up in places as if he’d been running his hands through it. He was deep in concentration, his tongue poking out slightly as he scribbled equations in white chalk— a dense forest of numbers and symbols that looked like a foreign language to you.
You pushed the door open gently, he didn’t t notice you at first. You stepped inside and stood behind him.
“What are you doing?” you asked softly.
He jumped, the chalk in his hand skittering across the board and leaving a crooked line. He turned, his eyes wide behind his glasses, and when he saw you, his face flushed a deep pink. “Y/N! I— uh— I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Clearly.” You smiled, leaning against the edge of a desk. “So?”
He cleared his throat, gesturing awkwardly at the board. “I’m trying to solve a problem my professor gave me. But it’s not turning out. The deadline is in two days, and I’ve been at it for hours.”
You looked at the board again. It might as well have been ancient Greek. “I can’t help you with that, I’m sorry. I don’t know the first thing about statistics.”
He let out a nervous laugh. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”
You hopped onto the desk, your legs dangling lazily. “I’ll just sit here, then, to keep you company.”
He hesitated, then turned back to the board, picking up another piece of chalk. But his movements were slower now, less fluid. You could feel his awareness of you, the way his shoulders tensed every time you shifted.
After a few minutes of silence, you spoke up. “Hey, Jake?” He turned, chalk pausing mid-stroke. “Yeah?”
“Can I have your number?” You tilted your head.
The chalk snapped in half. He stared at the broken pieces in his hand, then at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Uh… why do you want my phone number?”
You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “To text, duh. So we can hang out sometimes. If you want.”
Guilt flashed in your faced, “Well, minus the eating out part. I’m so sorry to remind you that I am in a relationship.”
His blush deepened, spreading down his neck. He set the broken chalk on the tray and fidgeted with the hem of his flannel. “I— right. Yeah, of course. I’m sorry if I took advantage of you.”
“Jake.” You said his name softly, and he stopped. “It wasn’t your fault. My head is all over the place in this period… But I don’t want to ruin whatever is growing between us. I really like it, and you are so kind to me.”
His expression softened, and he stepped closer, his eyes meeting yours with an earnestness that made your heart skip. “I like it too…”
He pulled his phone from his pocket, an older model with a cracked screen and handed it to you.
You typed your number in, saved it under your name and handed it back. He looked at the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“There,” you said. “Now we’re official. Sort of.”
He pocketed the phone, still smiling. You slid off the desk and stretched, your joints popping. “How about you get out of this classroom and rest your very big brain for a while?”
He blinked. “What did you have in mind?”
“Come with me and you’ll find out.” You wiggled your brows.
He debated for a moment, glancing at th chalkboard, at the mess of unsolved equations. Then he grabbed his backpack from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. “Okay.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
You led him to the college pool, a sprawling building with glass walls and the faint chlorine smell of the pool.
You signed in at the front desk and rented two swimsuits: a pair of trunks for him and a modest one-piece for you.
You changed in separate locker rooms, and when you met by the pool entrance, you had to stop for a second.
He was already in the trunks, and without his glasses, his face looked different, more open. His chest had abs you hadn’t noticed under his hoodies, and a happy trail disappeared from his belly into his swimming shorts. You fought very hard not to stare.
His hair was still messy, but wet now from a quick shower. He clutched the towel awkwardly, his eyes squinting slightly, shifting his weight from one feet to the other.
“You look good,” you said, and his face went red again.
“I— thanks. I can’t see very well without my glasses, so I’m kind of blind right now.” He chuckled awkwardly. “ You look good too. I mean—“ he waved his hands in front of him, “You always do! I’m not just saying that because you are wearing a swimming suit.”
You smiled, finding his rambling cute, “Thanks, Jake.” You took his hand, feeling the callouses from hours spent writing numbers and led him to the pool area.
The water was a clear turquoise, rippling gently under the bright overhead lights. The space was mostly empty at that time of the day , just a few people doing laps in the far lanes.
You stopped at the edge of the shallow end. “I always come here to swim when I need to clear my head. It helps.”
He looked at the water, a nervous expression crossing his face. “I’m not really good at swimming.”
“Then I’ll help you.” He smiled at you, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes. It was the most beautiful thing you’d seen in a long time.
Awww, he had dimples!
The trust in his eyes was so wholesome. So, you pushed him in.
He let out a yelp as he hit the water, splashing and sputtering, and you laughed— a real, full laugh that echoed off the tiled walls. You jumped in after him, the cool water enveloping you, and surfaced right in front of him.
He was wiping water from his eyes with a shocked look on his face. “You pushed me!”
“I did.” You grinned. “Now swim.”
He tried, paddling awkwardly, his strokes uneven and his legs sinking. You swam beside him, guiding his arms and showing him how to kick properly. “Relax your shoulders, you’re so stiff.”
He followed your instructions, improving little by little. Every now and then he would stop, treading water, and watch you swim laps with a quiet admiration.
You caught him staring once, and he looked away quickly, pretending to be fascinated by the tile pattern.
After a while, you both got tired. You swam to the edge of the pool and hoisted yourself up, sitting on the cool concrete with your feet dangling in the water. He joined you, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths, the water streaming down his back and drops falling from his hair down his nose.
The silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the soft lapping of water and the distant echo of someone doing laps.
You turned to him. “Tell me something about yourself.” He looked at you, confused. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “I always talk about myself when we’re together. I want to know something about you.”
He was quiet for a moment, his fingers trailing through the water. “Well… I have a dog at my parents’ house. Her name is Layla and she’s my best friend.”
You smiled. “She sounds adorable.”
“She is.” He paused. “I’m an only child. It’s just me and my parents and Layla.” His voice trailed off, and he stared at the water. “I’m sorry, I’m not interesting.”
“That’s not true.” You placed a hand on his thigh, feeling the warmth of his skin through the wet fabric of his trunks. He tensed, his breath catching, but didn’t pull away. “What are your hobbies?”
He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I like photography, I have a really cool camera at home and…”
It seemed hard for him to find something to say, “I like… Marvel. I’ve seen all the movies. I even own some of the gadgets..
You blinked. “Really? I’ve never watched any of them.”
He turned to you, his expression shifting into one of utter, comical offense. “Never? Not a single one?”
You shook your head, “Not one.”
He shook his own head now, a new determination settling in his eyes. “We have to remedy that. Immediately.” He hesitated, then added, his voice softer, more tentative, “If you want… you could come over to my place. I have all the DVDs, I even have popcorn!”
The offer hung in the air, fragile and sincere. You felt a warmth spread through your stomach, knowing how much courage it had taken for him to ask.
You squeezed his thigh gently. “I’d love that.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The drive from the college pool to Jake’s place was short, just a few miles through quiet residential streets.
You were still damp from the quick shower you had taken in the locker room, your hair still clung to your neck. Jake had waited for you outside the women’s locker room, his own hair still wet with a small towel draped over his shoulder.
He lived in a modest apartment complex, the kind with beige walls and identical doors. He unlocked the door and held it open for you, gesturing for you to enter first.
The apartment was small, but immaculate. Everything had its place. The couch was a simple gray fabric and the coffee table bare except for a laptop and a remote.
“Make yourself at home.” he said, his voice a little hesitant. He disappeared into the kitchen, and you heard the rustle of a microwave bag, then the hum of the microwave itself.
You took the opportunity to explore. Your feet carried you across the hardwood floor, past the small dining table with two chairs, past a bookshelf filled with textbooks and a few sci-fi novels.
Then you noticed the photographs.
They lined the walls in mismatched frames, a timeline of his life. The first one you saw was a teenage Jake, all limbs and braces, holding a puppy. The dog was licking his face, and he was laughing with his eyes crinkled shut.
You smiled at that. You assumed the dog was Layla, the one he mentioned before.
Next to it was a framed certificate and a photograph of him holding a trophy. He was standing on a stage with a medal around his neck and he was wearing a crisp white shirt.
It was a math contest, by the look of the banner behind him. His face was serious, focused, but there was a hint of pride in his posture.
Another photograph showed him in a cap and gown, a diploma in his hands. You guessed it was his graduation.
He stood next to a woman who must have been his mother, she had the same soft eyes, the same gentle smile. She was hugging him, her hand on his cheek. His father stood on the other side with n arm around his shoulders.
You moved further down the hall, and then you stopped.
This photograph was different, this one was larger, framed in black wood.
Jake was wearing a white taekwondo uniform and a blue belt held in his hands, with a wide smile.
He looked younger here, maybe early high school, but there was a confidence in his stance that you hadn't seen in the other pictures. His fists were clenched, and his chest puffed out, like he had conquered something.
You heard footsteps behind you, soft and hesitant.
“That was when I got my blue belt,” Jake said, his voice quiet. He stood beside you, with his hands shoved into his pockets. He was looking at the photograph, but his expression was distant, lost in memory.
“That’s amazing,” you said, turning to him. “How long did you do taekwondo?”
He shrugged, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “From elementary school until sophomore year of high school. My mom signed me up because…” He paused, licking his lips.
He seemed to wrestle with himself, then he let out a slow breath. “When I was in elementary school, my classmates didn’t really like me. Kids can be mean, you know? They made fun of my glasses and my clothes, of the way I talked. I was an easy target.”
Your heart clenched. You watched his profile as he spoke, the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the photograph.
“So my mom signed me up for taekwondo. For self-defense.” A small, wry smile touched his lips. “I never actually used it on anyone. But it made me feel powerful, like I could protect myself if I ever needed to.” He shrugged. “And I made friends there, kids who didn’t care that I was weird.”
He glanced at you, his eyes vulnerable behind his glasses. It was the first time he had opened up to you like this, truly opened up about something painful from his past.
You reached out and rubbed his arm, your fingers gentle against the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m sorry they treated you that way, Jake. You didn’t deserve that.”
He looked away, blinking rapidly. “It was a long time ago.”
But you could see the memory still stung. You could see how it haunted his eyes. However, you didn’t push. Instead, you let your hand fall, and you gave him a soft smile.
He seemed to shake off the moment, his expression brightening. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He turned and walked to the couch, where two plushies sat on the armrest.
One was Iron Man, the other was the Hulk. He picked up the Iron Man and held it out to you. “Here. For you.”
You took it, surprised. The plush was soft, well-loved with the stitching on the arc reactor slightly frayed. “Are you sure? This seems special.”
“I have the Hulk,” he said, picking up the green plush and hugging it to his chest. “We can watch the movie with them.”
A warmth spread through you, at his innocence. You followed him to the couch, settling down side by side.
The popcorn was ready, he had made it perfectly, buttered and salted, and he set the bowl between you.
He grabbed the remote and navigated to Netflix, pulling up the first Marvel movie.
The opening credits rolled. You took a handful of popcorn, the buttery taste melting on your tongue. Jake was quiet, his eyes glued to the screen, but you could feel his tension, the way he sat stiffly, his hands clasped in his lap.
“It’s okay if you fall asleep during the movie,” he said suddenly with a soft voice. “I know the pills can make you drowsy. I won’t be mad.”
“I only took my daily dose.” You shook your head “It might be fine, but thank you.”
He nodded, but he still seemed uncertain. You were hyper aware of everything around you: you felt the warmth of the apartment, the softness of the couch and the gentle hum of the television. And when your eyelids grew heavy, you fought it.
You wanted to be close to him. So you shifted, leaning into him, resting your head on his shoulder.
The fabric of his hoodie was soft, and you could smell the faint scent of detergent and his caramel-like cologne.
He went rigid. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice a little high-pitched.
“I’m snuggling?” you said, puzzled. “I snuggle with Sophia all the time when we watch movies.”
He blinked, his glasses reflecting the light from the screen. “Oh, right. Snuggling.” He sounded like the word was foreign to him, like he had never experienced it before.
There was a long pause, then, awkwardly, he shifted his position. He lifted his arm with hesitation, and then draped it over your shoulder. It was stiff, his hand hovering in the air, not quite touching you. He looked like he was trying to solve a complex equation in his head.
You suppressed a smile and settled deeper into his side.
After a moment, his arm relaxed with his hand coming to rest on your arm.
He was warm and his heartbeat steady against your cheek.
The movie continued. Jake began to relax, his thumb tracing absentminded circles on your arm. You let yourself sink into the comfort, the simple pleasure of being held.
As the second movie rolled in, Jake found his voice. “Did you know that the actor who plays Iron Man is also in the Oppenheimer movie?”
You hummed, your eyes closed. “No, I didn’t.”
“And in the first movie, there was a scene where he talks with Jarvis, but it was improvised. They kept the scene anwyas.” You opened your eyes, looking up at him. He was staring at the screen, his face animated, a small smile playing on his lips.
“You really know your stuff.” you said.
“I’ve watched these movies a lot,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing. “They’re comforting. The good guy always wins, you know?”
You nodded, resting your head back on his shoulder. The movie played on, and he continued to share little facts, about the bloopers, the references to the comic and the behind-the-scenes stories.
His voice was soft, almost like a whisper, but it filled the room, wrapping around you like a blanket.
By the time the credits rolled on the second film, the apartment was dark except for the glow of the TV.
You stretched, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was past ten pm. Your stomach dropped.
A full day lost. You hadn’t studied, hadn’t prepared for the tests that awaited you next week.
The panic was a slow burn, kindling in your chest, threatening to catch fire.
You took a breath, in and out. You could feel the anxiety trying to take hold, the familiar spiral beginning.
Jake noticed, he always seemed to do that. He shifted, turning to face you, his eyes searching yours. “Do you want to go home?”
You hesitated, then nodded. “I should, it’s late.”
He didn’t argue. He just stood up, offered you a hand, and helped you to your feet.
You gathered your things while he turned off the TV and grabbed his keys.
“I can drive you.” he said, but you shook your head.
“They’ve thankfully invited Ubers. My dorm is not to far.” You smiled, “I’ll be fine.”
He looked like he wanted to insist, but he held back. “Okay, If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” You paused at the door, turning to him. “Thank you, Jake, for tonight. I really had fun.”
His eyes widened, a soft, shy smile spreading across his face. “Me too, I’m glad you came.”
You stepped forward, rose on your tiptoes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm, just a little stubbly.
He went completely still, his breath hitching. “Goodnight, Jake.”
You opened the door and stepped out, the cool night air hitting your face.
“Wait!” Jake exclaimed.
He ran outside his door, barefoot and gripping the small Iron Man plushie in his hands. He reached you with a flushed face and that crooked smile, “Here, take this.”
You frowned, “What? Jake, no, it’s yours.”
He shook his head, handing the small gift to you, “Consider it a token of gratitude, for bearing with my constant talking during the movie.”
You smiled, taking it and caressing its furred head, “Alright, I will take good care of it. Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
The Uber dropped you off in front of your dorm building. You unlocked the door to your dorm, stepping inside. Sophia’s door was closed, so you guessed she was already asleep.
You changed into your pajamas, brushed your teeth, and climbed into bed.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Your mind was restless, turning over the events of the evening.
Your phone was on the nightstand, you had placed it there without even checking on it since you went to the pool with Jake. You reached for it, and your heart froze.
Nineteen missed calls from Jacob and dozen of texts from your friends, all the notifications flooding your screen.
You sat up, your stomach twisting.
You had forgotten.
Oh, God. You had completely forgotten. Today was Juyeon’s birthday party. The one Jacob had been talking about for weeks, and also the one you had promised to attend.
You quickly called him back. It rang three times before he answered. “Where the hell have you been?” His voice was sharp and angry.
You could hear music in the background, the noise of a party. “Jacob, I’m so sorry. I completely lost track of time, it totally flew over my head.”
“Everything flies over your head nowadays, Y/N.” His words were like a slap. “I told you this was important. Juyeon asked about you— everyone asked about you! I had to make excuses.”
You swallowed, the guilt pressing down on your chest. “I know, I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well… Juyeon will understand, I’ll give him the gift at college.”
“Stop playing the victim,” he said, his voice cold. “It’s always about you and your feelings. What about me? What about what I need?”
Your throat tightened. “Jacob, I—”
The line went dead. You stared at the screen, the call ended notification blinking back at you. Tears welled up in your eyes, hot and unstoppable. You curled into yourself, hugging your knees, and let the tears fall.
You cried until your head ached, until your pillow was wet. And then, exhausted, you fell into a restless sleep.
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The days blurred into a routine of classes, study sessions, and anxiety attacks that came and went as a week passed. But through it all, Jake was there.
You grew closer. He became a constant presence in your life. You had coffee together between classes, sitting in the campus café, with him nursing a black coffee while you sipped a caramel latte.
He would listen to you complain about professors, about the weight of assignments, and he never judged you, never made you feel like a burden.
When you felt the first signs of anxiety creeping in, the racing heart, the shallow breath and the tunnel vision, he would notice before you could even articulate it.
He would make funny faces, crossing his eyes and puffing out his cheeks, until a reluctant laugh escaped you. Or he would take your hand, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your palm, grounding you, bringing you back.
You felt lighter around him. Freer. And Sophia, ever the bestest friend, noticed. She had been bugging you for weeks, cornering you in your dorm room, her arms crossed.
“You’ve been hanging out with Limousine Guy a lot,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “And since then, you’ve looked better. Even though Jacob has been sulking like a child.”
“His name is Jake,” you said for the first time, your cheeks warming. “And we’re just friends.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t believe you. “Just friends who can’t stop smiling when they talk about each other. And who had sex.”
“Sophia, please. When you meet him, don’t mention that you know about the limousine.” You held out your pinky finger “Promise me.”.
She rolled her eyes, but she relented. “Fine, but only because I love you.”
The day of the hangout arrived. You had arranged to meet at the college bowling alley, a small, slightly run-down place with a few lanes and a snack bar.
Sophia and you waited near the entrance. She was tapping her foot while scanning the parking lot. “So, where is this mysterious nerd of yours?”
“He’s not mysterious. He’s just… himself?" Then you saw him. He was walking across the parking lot, and he looked like he had changed his outfit multiple times.
He was wearing a button-up shirt that was slightly too tight, paired with jeans that were slightly too baggy.
His hair was a mess, like he had been running his hands through it, and his glasses were slightly crooked.
Sophia’s eyes widened. She leaned into you, whispering, “Oh my God… hreally is a nerd.”
“Sophia, be nice.” You nagged and she raised her arms in mock defence. “I am nice..”
Jake reached you. “Hi, Y/N… uhm, hi, Sophia.” He gave a small, awkward wave.
“Hey, Jake,” you said, smiling. “Ready to get destroyed at bowling?”
He let out a nervous laugh. “I’ll try my best.”
You rented the shoes, picked out a ball, and found an empty lane.
Sophia went first, scoring a respectable seven pins.
Then it was your turn. You picked up the ball, lifted it, and threw it down the lane. It veered sharply to the left and landed in the gutter.
You groaned. “I’m terrible at this.”
Jake stepped up beside you. “Here, let me show you.” He hesitated, then gently placed his hands on your shoulders, adjusting your stance. “Spread your feet a little wider, bend your knees… yes, like that. And when you swing, keep your arm straight.”
He guided your arm, his hand over yours, showing you the proper form. His touch was light, careful, and you could feel the warmth of his body behind you.
“Okay, now try.” he said, stepping back.
You took a breath, swung, and released. The ball rolled down the lane, wobbling slightly, and knocked down four pins.
Not great, but better.
“There you go,” he said, a smile in his voice.
Sophia watched the exchange with a knowing smirk.
Then it was Jake’s turn. He picked up his ball, took a deep breath, and started his approach.
But his foot caught on something and he slipped. His legs flew out from under him, and he landed flat on his back with a loud thud. The ball rolled harmlessly into the gutter.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Sophia burst out laughing, a loud, unladylike cackle. You followed, giggling with your hand over your mouth.
Jake lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. After a second, he started laughing too, a genuine, warm sound. He didn’t seem embarrassed, just amused at himself.
“I meant to do that.” he said, still laughing.
Sophia and you helped him up, and the rest of the game was filled with laughter, bad scores, and a few more spills.
After bowling, you walked back to your dorm room. Sophia and you went to the small kitchenette, and Jake offered to help cook.
He was surprisingly skilled in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with precision and seasoning the chicken perfectly.
Sophia and you mostly watched, handing him utensils and stealing bites of the ingredients.
Dinner was served on the small coffee table. Sophia, ever the interrogator, started asking questions. “So, Jake, tell me about your family. Any siblings?”
He swallowed a bite of food. “No, I’m an only child. It’s just me and my parents.”
“And your dating history? Any crazy ex-girlfriends we should know about?” She wiggled her browse.
You kicked Sophia under the table, but obviously, she ignored you.
Jake’s ears turned red. “Uh, no. I’ve never really… dated before. I’m not good with people.”
Sophia’s expression softened. “But you’re good with Y/N.”
He glanced at you, then looked down at his plate. “She makes it easy.”
The conversation continued, and Jake answered every question, even the uncomfortable ones.
He talked about his childhood and his love for science fiction. He was open, vulnerable, and completely genuine.
When he left, Sophia stood beside you at the door, watching his car pull away.
“He’s the one,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I believe he’s the one for you, babes. He has my approval.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
Jacob’s texts came in like a relentless tide, each notification a small, sharp sting against the quiet peace you had built.
Cobie: Baby let’s make peace
Cobie: Come over, i’ll make u feel better
Cobie: Y/N? Don’t be like that
You glanced at your phone, saw his name flash across the screen, and turned it face down on Jake’s coffee table.
Instead, you focused on the soft scratch of Jake’s pencil against paper and the way the afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds and painted golden stripes across the hardwood floor.
This was where you wanted to be.
There, in his neat little apartment, with his textbooks stacked in perfect alignment and his calculator placed precisely beside his notebook.
You were sprawled across his dining table, your own chaos spread around you like a hurricane: loose papers, highlighters, a half-empty water bottle and a crumpled granola bar wrapper.
Jake didn’t complain. He simply worked around your mess, occasionally sliding a stray pen back into your reach or pushing a glass of water closer to your elbow.
It was nice studying together a.
He was quiet and focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through some calculus problem.
You had your own assignment, but being there made it bearable. The anxiety that usually coiled in your chest, waiting to strike, was absent.
Your mind was at peace. For the first time in what felt like months, the noise in your head had quieted.
You smiled to yourself. It really seemed as if fate had reserved something nice for you, after all the chaos and heartbreak.
Your meeting with him had been so sudden but you were glad he had stuck with you, even though you were a mess.
He had seen you at your worst, crumbling under the weight of panic attacks, crying in his car and confessing your sins.
And he had stayed.
But then, as if sensing the calmness of the day, a sudden warmth bloomed between your legs, a familiar sensation that made you freeze.
You shifted in your seat, feeling a dull ache in your lower abdomen.
Oh, no.
You knew that feeling all too well. It was your body’s way of announcing the inevitable.
You excused yourself, your voice coming out a little strained. “I’ll be right back, uhm— can I use the bathroom.”
“Of course” Jake looked up, his eyes scanning your face with that quiet concern he always wore. “Are you okay?”
“Just… I need a minute.” You hurried to the bathroom, closed the door, and checked.
Yup, it was uour period.
Great timing, as always.
You sighed, pressed your forehead against the cool mirror, and tried to think.
You had left your backpack on the dining table, and you were certain you had a pad in there… somewhere.
But you didn’t want to walk out and dig through it in front of Jake.
You cracked the door open, just a sliver, and called out. “Jake? Could you check my backpack? There should be a pad in the front pocket. If you don’t mind.”
You heard his chair scrape against the floor, there was a long pause before his footsteps approached the door.
“Uh,” he said, his voice awkward, hesitant. “You can check in the left cabinet under the sink.”
Confused, you opened the cabinet he mentioned. And there, neatly arranged on the shelf, were pads. Multiple packs of them, of different brands and different sizes. A whole arsenal of menstrual products, lined up like soldiers.
You stared at them for a long moment, your mind struggling to process. You picked one, opened it, and took care of the situation.
When you came out, Jake was standing near the table, his hands shoved into his pockets and his ears bright red.
“Jake,” you said, your voice soft. “What are you doing with all those pads?”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “I, um… I bought them… for you.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “You mentioned once that your cycle was irregular, and that sometimes you got caught off guard. I thought… maybe if you ever needed one, you’d have it here. I didn’t know which kind you used, so I got a few different ones. I’m sorry if they’re not the right ones.”
Your heart swelled to the point of pain. He had bought you pads on the off chance you might need them.
He had thought about you, about your comfort, about something so mundane and yet so deeply personal.
“And they are so expensive!” he added, his voice pitching higher. “I didn’t realize they cost that much. I’m sorry, I should have—”
You crossed the distance between you and wrapped your arms around him.
He went rigid, then slowly and hesitantly, his arms came up to hug you back.
“You’re perfect,” you murmured against his shoulder. “You’re so kind. The girl who ends up dating you will be so lucky.”
You felt him tense. For a moment, he didn’t move, and then he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours.
There was a vulnerability there, a rawness that made your breath catch. “Why can’t it be you, that girl?”
The question hung in the air between you, heavy and honest. “What?”
He had never been this straightforward before. Usually, he danced around his feelings, hiding behind awkward jokes and shy smiles. But now, he was looking at you with a clear, unwavering gaze.
You stepped back, your arms falling to your sides. “Jake… I’m with Jacob, I’m happy.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re not happy, Y/N. Everyone can tell, Jacob treats you like garbage.”
The words stung, not because they were untrue, but because they pierced through the carefully constructed walls you had built.
You shook your head, defensive. “We’re just going through a rough patch, that’s all. That’s why things have been tense.”
“A rough patch?” His voice rose, incredulous. “He ignores you when you have panic attacks and he calls you a victim when you struggle.”
“He just doesn’t know how to handle the situation.” You shrugged “We will be fine. I’m the one who treated him like garbage, Jake. we slept together while i was still with him.”
Jake scoffed, a strange and scary shadow crossing over his features, “So he can cheat but you can’t?”
Your blood ran cold. “What?”
Jake’s face paled as he realized he had said too much.
He started pacing, his hands running through his hair and his breathing rapid. “I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have said anything, it wasn’t my place.”
“Told me what?” You grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. “Jake, what are you talking about?”
He looked at you with eyes full of regret.
Then he sighed, a long, defeated sound, and walked to a shelf.
He picked up a camera woth a large lens, and brought it to the table. He sat down, and you followed, your legs feeling weak.
He scrolled through the camera’s gallery with fingers trembling slightly. “Remember when I said I was paired with a girl for a project? Minjee?”
You nodded slowly. You remembered him mentioning the name, but you hadn’t thought much of it.
“She brought her boyfriend to the meeting,” he continued, his voice low. “I didn’t mind, because I am used to working alone… but they made out the whole time. It was uncomfortable.”
He paused, his throat working. “Then, at the beginning of the school year, the football association asked me to take pictures at their celebration party. Jacob is the captain of the team across town, I didn’t know that until that night.” He explained, “I was just there to take photos, I didn’t talk to anyone.”
He turned the camera toward you, and you saw the image on the screen…. and your heart stopped.
It was a photograph taken at a party, there sitting on a couch, was Jacob. And on his lap, draped over him like she belonged there, was who you thought was Minjee.
She was laughing, with her hand on his chest, her legs crossed over his thighs. He was smiling down at her, his own arm around her waist and his fingers curled possessively over her hip.
You remembered that night, because you had refused to come all the times he insisted.
It was the night you had been stuck in your bed, caught in the throes of a panic attack that had left you breathless and shaking.
You stared at the photograph, your vision blurring. The room spun around you, and you felt the familiar claw of nausea rising in your throat.
“I didn’t know it was him until I saw you two arguing at the gala,” Jake said, his voice barely a whisper. “I connected the dots, I realized who he was. And I knew… I knew you didn’t deserve that. You never deserved a jerk like him, Y/N. You are so much better than he ever gave you credit for.”
You set the camera down, your hands shaking. “I need…” you said, your voice hollow. You gathered your things, shoving papers into your bag with jerky movements. “I need to go.”
“Y/N, please—” Jake’s voice cracked. He reached for you, but you stepped back. “Don’t. I need… I need to think.”
You grabbed your bag and walked toward the door. His voice stopped you, broken and desperate. “Please don’t hate me.”
You turned and saw him standing there with red-dimmed eyes. He looked shattered, like he was afraid he had lost you.
“We’ll talk later,” you promised, and you left.
You walked across the streets, your feet carrying you on autopilot.
The world was a blur of colors and sounds, but none of it registered. All you could see was that photograph.
You sat on a bench near the park, pulled out your phone, and saw Jacob’s texts still flooding your screen.
You: come to the campus park if you want to talk.
He arrived within fifteen minutes, walking toward you with a cautious expression.
He was wearing his usual confident swagger, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Y/N,” he said, sitting down beside you. “I’m glad you agreed to see me. I think we should talk.”
You smiled at him, a sweet, almost pitying smile. And then you said the words that had been forming in your chest for weeks. “We should break up.”
He blinked, taken aback. “What the hell?”
“I did something very horrible,” you said, your voice steady. “When we fought, I was with someone else, I cheated on you.”
His eyes widened, his face flushing with anger. But you continued before he could speak.
“But I found out you cheated on me too, with Minjee. At that party you said you couldn’t miss. While I was at home, having a panic attack, alone.”
His mouth opened, then closed. His hands clenched into fists.
“I’m not excusing what I did,” you said. “I’m telling you that we both betrayed each other. And that shows just how toxic we are. We aren’t happy, Jacob, we are holding each other back.”
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the pavement. “You’re one to talk. I cheated because you were always stuck in your room, always making everything about yourself! You never gave me what I needed, it was inevitable.”
“And yet you stayed,” you said quietly. “Why didn’t you just leave?”
He glared at you, his eyes cold. “Because you’re mentally ill, you know that?” He scoffed. “You need help, you’re a fucking mess. And you cheated on me, you fucking slut.”
The words hit like a slap, but you didn’t flinch. You had expected worse. “We’re done, Jacob. I’m breaking up with you.”
“No,” he snapped. “I’m the one breaking up with you. Don’t you forget that.”
And with that, he turned and stormed away, his footsteps heavy and angry.
You watched him go, and for a moment, you felt nothing. Just a vast, empty numbness.
Then, slowly, a small wave of relief washed over you.
It was over.
You weren’t sure how you got home, just that one moment you were standing in the park and the next you were in front of your door.
The door clicked shut behind you, and you heard Sophia’s voice from the kitchen. “Hey! I was thinking we could order takeout tonight. Maybe some Chinese? Or pizza? I’m craving—”
She stopped mid-sentence as she turned and saw you. Her eyes widened, her face shifting from cheerful to concerned in an instant. “Y/N? What happened?”
And you broke. The dam inside you burst, and you crumbled, sobs tearing through your chest. Sophia rushed to you, wrapping her arms around you, holding you tight as you cried into her shoulder.
“I broke up with him,” you choked out. “I did it.”
“Oh, honey…” She stroked your hair, her voice soft and soothing. “You did the right thing… You did the right thing.”
She held you for a long time, letting you cry until your throat was raw and your body was limp. Then she guided you to your bedroom, helped you into your pajamas, and tucked you into bed.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me.” she whispered.
You curled up, reaching for the Iron Man plushie Jake had given you. You pressed it to your chest, burying your face in its soft fabric.
You fell asleep to the scent of him.
A hand on your shoulder gently shook you awake. The room was dim as the light from the hallway spilled in through the crack in the door.
Sophia was leaning over you with a soft face, “There’s someone at the door for you.”
You blinked, groggy and disoriented. “Who?”
“Go see for yourself.” She urged.
You stumbled out of bed with messy hair, your face probably smudged with old mascara. You looked terrible, but you didn’t care.
You shuffled to the front door, opened it, and found Jake standing there.
He looked awful. His eyes were dull and red-rimmed, as if he had been crying. His clothes were rumpled, his hair was a disaster. He looked like he hadn’t slept and as if he had aged years in a single night.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He ran a hand in his already messy hair. “I don’t want to ruin what is happening between us, because I really like it. I really, really like it.”
His voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath. “Even if you don’t like me the way I like you. Even if you only had sex with me because Jacob wouldn’t take care of you, I don’t care. I cherished every moment. Every second with you was special to me.”
He gulped, anxious, “And if you only want to be friends, I can accept that. I just… I can’t lose you. I’ve never had a real friend before, Y/N. You’re the first person who made me feel like I am not invisible… Please don’t cut me off.”
He stood there, with trembling eyes. He looked so broken, so vulnerable, and your heart ached for him.
You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.
He let out a shuddering breath and buried his face in your hair, his hands clutching your back like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry for hurting you. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”
“You didn’t hurt me,” he said, his voice muffled. “I hurt myself by hoping.”
You pulled back, cupping his face in your hands. “Jake, I don’t want to lose what we have either. But I’m not ready for a relationship again… at least not yet.
You gave him a small smile, “I need to fix myself before I can give you my whole heart.”
He shook his head, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. “You don’t need fixing, Y/N. You’re not broken. You’re just… a little lost, and that’s okay. I will wait however long you need, I promise. Just… please don’t cut me off. Please.”
“I promise I won’t.” you said, your voice soft.
You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek and he closed his eyes like he was savoring the moment. “Go home, Jake. We’ll talk better tomorrow.”
He opened his eyes, and for the first time that night, a small, fragile smile touched his lips. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
You came back for summer. You got him instead. Sun, salt, and scandal, Jeju’s elite playground is back in session, and so is your favorite mistake: Lee Heeseung. Your enemy. Your almost. Your what-if. One house apart. One argument away. One drink too many from disaster.
pairing: enemy!heeseung x reader !
warnings: yearning slow burn strong language possessiveness jealousy alcohol banter secrecy angst parties rich people (yes, that's a separate warning) loads of sexual tension porn with plot enemies to lovers childhood rivals friends with benefits mutual pining unresolved tension emotional constipation family friends beach-town drama arguments miscommunication fear of commitment
warnings (smut): Multiple explicit sex scenes Enemies -> friends with benefits → Lovers Rough unprotected sex (no!) Creampie Tit/nipple play Fingering Handjob Grinding Teasing Wall sex Door sex Kitchen counter sex Manhandling Dirty talk Cum play Overstimulation Marking & biting
playlist: Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen [] Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift [] Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter [] Are You Bored Yet? by Wallows []
likes and reblogs for a cookie!
☆ WORD COUNT: 29k!
(Masterlist)
HELL HAD A VERY SPECIFIC SMELL.
Not sulfur. Not smoke. Not whatever dramatic nonsense poets liked to compare suffering to, or any of the bullshit propaganda movies liked to spread.
No, hell, in your experience, smelled like salt in the air and expensive sunscreen. Like sun-warmed pavement and blooming jasmine climbing over white-painted fences. Like the ocean sitting just close enough to hear from your bedroom window, taunting you with the promise of peace you were never actually going to get.
Hell smelled like summer in Jeju Island. And unfortunately, you had just arrived.
You stood in the driveway of your family’s beach house with your sunglasses sliding down your nose and your patience already clinically deceased, staring at the towering white house like it had personally offended you. Which, honestly, it had. The place looked like every rich family’s Pinterest board had thrown up on it, ivy curling around stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the blinding afternoon sun, hydrangeas blooming obnoxiously blue along the front walk.
Beautiful. Expensive. Full of memories you preferred not to examine too closely. Your mother stepped out of the car behind you with the kind of energy only women with fresh manicures and vacation plans possessed.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said, already fishing her oversized sunhat from her tote bag. “Help your father with the luggage.”
You adjusted your sunglasses and gave the house one last deeply unimpressed look. “I’m considering simply walking into the ocean instead.”
From somewhere near the trunk, your father sighed. “And every year, you make the same joke.”
“Because every year, the ocean remains an option.”
Your mother clicked her tongue, the universal sound of maternal disappointment, and handed you two bags anyway. “Be dramatic later. We’re already late for dinner at the club tonight.”
Of course you were. Summer in Jeju Island wasn’t really summer. It was a social performance with a beachfront view. Three months of yacht parties, country club dinners, charity galas disguised as drinking events, and the same old-money families pretending they didn’t all know each other’s scandals already. Everyone here had grown up together, gone to the same private schools, kissed the same people, ruined each other’s lives in aesthetically pleasing ways. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.
It was home, in the most unfortunate sense of the word.
You hauled your bag up the front steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. The familiar coolness of the house greeted you immediately, air conditioning and polished wood and lemon-scented cleaning products. Somewhere upstairs, your childhood room waited exactly as you’d left it last August, probably still holding the ghosts of every bad decision you’d made between seventeen and twenty-two. A charming thought.
You dropped your bags by the staircase and wandered toward the kitchen, where your mother was already directing the opening of windows and the placement of flowers like she was staging a home magazine shoot.
She looked over her shoulder at you. “And before I forget,” she said, in the dangerously casual tone mothers used right before ruining your day, “be nice to the Lees this summer.”
You stopped mid-reach for the lemonade pitcher. Slowly, you turned. “Excuse me?”
“The Lees,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just spoken your personal curse into existence. “We’re having them over next weekend, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t start any unnecessary arguments.”
You stared at her. There was a long, silent moment in which your soul quietly left your body and floated somewhere over the Atlantic. Then, “I’d like it officially noted,” you said, setting the pitcher down with great dignity, “that I never start the arguments.”
Your mother gave you a look. You gave her one back. She won. “You absolutely do.”
“I finish them beautifully,” you corrected. “That’s different.”
She sighed, turning back to her flowers. “Just behave. Especially with Heeseung.” And there it was. The name. The final nail in the coffin. Lee Heeseung. Your lifelong enemy. Your annual migraine. The human embodiment of every smug text message left on read.
Next door. Living, unfortunately.
You leaned against the kitchen counter and closed your eyes for one brief moment, like maybe if you didn’t move, the universe would take pity on you and reverse time. It did not. Because of course he was here. He was always here.
Every summer since childhood had come with three guarantees: humidity, your mother’s obsession with hosting dinners, and Lee Heeseung existing entirely too close to your personal space. Your families had been friends forever, which meant your lives had been annoyingly, inescapably intertwined since before either of you had enough common sense to avoid each other.
There were photos somewhere, horrifying evidence, of the two of you as children on the same beach, him with scraped knees and you with a missing front tooth, already looking like you were one wrong comment away from attempted murder.
Some things, apparently, were timeless. As teenagers, it had only gotten worse. He’d grown into his face in the kind of unfair way that should’ve required government intervention, too handsome, too charming, too aware of both. The kind of boy adults loved and girls wrote bad poetry about. Golden boy energy in expensive linen. Meanwhile, you had perfected the art of making eye contact while verbally destroying someone. Naturally, you got along terribly.
Every summer had become its own tradition of verbal warfare, stolen drinks at parties, arguments on docks at midnight, insults dressed up as flirting and flirting disguised as threats. There had been one almost-kiss when you were nineteen, drunk and angry and standing far too close on his parents’ balcony.
Neither of you had ever mentioned it again. Civilization had survived. Barely. Your mother was still talking. “His mother mentioned he got back last week.”
Wonderful. Fantastic. Thrilling.“Did she also mention if he’s developed the ability to shut up?” you asked.
“She mentioned he’s doing very well.” Of course he was. Lee Heeseung was always doing very well. He probably woke up looking expensive and emotionally unavailable. You poured yourself a glass of lemonade with the gravity of someone preparing for battle.
“Great. I can’t wait to not care.”
Your mother pointed a flower stem at you. “I mean it. No fighting.”
You took a sip. “With all due respect, mother, if Lee Heeseung and I stop fighting, one of us has probably died.”
From the front yard came the low sound of a car door shutting. Then another. Your father’s voice drifted in from outside, greeting someone. Your mother brightened instantly. “Oh! Perfect timing.”
No. Absolutely not. You set the glass down very, very slowly. “No,” you said. She smiled the smile of a woman who had already decided your fate.
“Yes. Go say hello.” You looked toward the window like it might offer an emergency exit. Sunlight poured across the garden. Beyond the hydrangeas and white fencing sat the neighboring house, just as grand, just as obnoxiously perfect. And somewhere in that orbit of privilege and poor decision-making was Heeseung. Back for another summer. Meaning your peace, your dignity, and probably your better judgment had all officially expired.
You inhaled once. Exhaled. Straightened your sunglasses like armor. “Well,” you muttered, heading for the door, “welcome back to hell.”
The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor. Because the second you stepped out onto the front porch, armed with sunglasses, a bad attitude, and the vague hope that maybe your father had been greeting the mailman instead of your greatest seasonal inconvenience, you saw him.
Leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been placed there by an overly confident romance novelist. Of course. Of course Lee Heeseung would make an entrance by simply existing in expensive sunlight.
His car was obnoxious. Sleek, black, expensive enough to probably have its own trust fund. It sat in the driveway of the house next door like a personal insult, gleaming under the late afternoon sun while he leaned against it with all the irritating ease of a man who had never once struggled to be liked. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Skin already carrying the kind of summer tan people paid money to fake.
And that smirk. That stupid, smug, entirely too familiar smirk. Your father was by the front gate, already deep in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who were as lovely as ever, warm, elegant, and somehow still producing that man without demanding an apology from the universe.
Mrs. Lee spotted you first. “Oh, there she is!” There was genuine affection in her voice, which made this all worse. You pasted on your best socially acceptable smile and walked down the steps with the slow, resigned grace of someone approaching their own execution.
Mrs. Lee kissed your cheek, your mother appeared from somewhere behind you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, and within seconds both sets of parents were exchanging the usual summer pleasantries.
How was the drive?How long are you staying?You’ve gotten so grown up.We must have dinner together soon.
The rich-people mating dance. You answered where necessary, smiled where required, and tried very hard not to look to your left. Naturally, you failed. Because Heeseung was looking directly at you. Still leaning there. Still smirking. Like he’d been waiting for this. You crossed your arms instinctively. He pushed himself off the car. Slowly. Like a villain with excellent posture. Then, with the audacity of a man untouched by divine punishment, he looked you over once, head to toe, unhurried, deeply annoying, and said, “Missed me?”
You stared at him. There were many possible responses. Most of them involved violence. Your mother, standing three feet away, would probably object to murder in broad daylight, so you settled for a look sharp enough to qualify as attempted manslaughter. “I was actually having a wonderful day,” you said, “but thanks for asking.”
His mouth twitched. Your father laughed because traitors lived everywhere. Heeseung slid his hands into his pockets, infuriatingly calm. “Good. I’d hate to ruin your summer that quickly.”
“Please,” you said sweetly. “You ruin my summer just by continuing to exist.”
Mrs. Lee sighed in the fond, exhausted way of a woman who had witnessed this dance for over a decade. “See? Exactly the same.”
“Worse, actually,” you said.
“At least she admits she thinks about me,” Heeseung replied.
You inhaled. Exhaled. Decided prison orange would not flatter you. Your mother gave you a warning glance over the rim of her sunglasses, the universal signal for ‘do not embarrass me in front of the neighbors’. You smiled tightly. Heeseung smiled back like he was enjoying this far too much. He was. He always did. That was the problem.
From the outside, the two of you probably looked like some kind of old-Hollywood screwball romance, beautiful people exchanging insults in linen by the sea. From the inside, it felt more like mutual destruction with excellent lighting. Mr. Lee was discussing the yacht club renovation with your father now, and the adults had drifted slightly toward the garden, leaving just enough space for danger.
You turned toward him, lowering your voice. “If you’re planning to spend this summer being extra unbearable, I’d appreciate a warning so I can emotionally prepare.”
He leaned slightly closer, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amusement written all over his face. “Emotionally prepare?” he repeated. “You? I thought your whole thing was pretending not to have emotions.”
You scoffed. “My whole thing is surviving despite your presence.”
“Cute.”
“Don’t call me cute.”
“I didn’t. I said your delusion was cute.” There it was. The familiar rhythm. Effortless. Annoying. Dangerous in the way old habits always were.
You hated how easy it was to fall back into it, like no time had passed at all. Like last summer hadn’t ended with the two of you arguing on the marina docks at two in the morning, both too stubborn to say whatever actually needed saying. Like the almost-kiss years ago had never happened. Like your pulse didn’t do something deeply embarrassing every time he stepped too close.
You adjusted your sunglasses and took one deliberate step back. “Try not to get hit by a yacht this summer, Heeseung. It would create paperwork.”
He grinned. “There she is. I was worried college made you soft.” You smiled back, bright and false and weaponized. “And I was hoping maturity had found you. Shame we’re both disappointed.”
Mrs. Lee called his name from the garden before he could answer, and for one brief, shining moment, you experienced peace. He glanced toward his parents, then back at you. That smirk again. Like he knew something you didn’t. Which was unacceptable. “See you around, neighbor.”
You folded your arms tighter. “Threatening me already?”
“Just making promises.” God, you hated him. Truly. Deeply. Artistically. He turned then, walking back toward his parents with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once doubted the world would make room for him. Mrs. Lee adjusted his collar as he passed, and he let her, smiling in that easy, golden-boy way that made adults adore him and should have been scientifically illegal.
Spawn of the devil. Your father was still laughing at something Mr. Lee had said. Betrayal, everywhere. A few more polite goodbyes later, the Lees disappeared back into their perfectly landscaped kingdom next door, and you stood in the driveway watching Heeseung disappear behind the white fence like a storm cloud in designer sunglasses.
Your mother touched your arm. “You could at least pretend to be nicer.”
“I was radiant with charm.”
“You looked like you were planning arson.”
“That was charm.” She sighed, already turning back toward the house. Inside, the air was cool again, but your mood had fully committed to violence. You followed her to the kitchen, where she resumed unpacking with suspicious calm, the calm of someone about to ruin your evening.
You should have known. “By the way,” she said casually, arranging lemons in a bowl like a woman with no regard for her daughter’s suffering, “we’re having dinner with the Lees on Saturday.”
You stopped. “No.”
She didn’t even look up. “Yes.”
“Cancel.”
“No.”
“Fake your death.”
She placed the final lemon down and finally turned to face you. “Be serious.”
“I am serious. I’m willing to help stage it.” Your mother smiled in the dangerous way mothers did when they’d already won. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Try not to start a war before dessert.”
You stared at her. At the lemons. At the kitchen. At the universe. Somewhere next door, Lee Heeseung was probably alive and smug. And now there would be dinner. Shared wine. Forced politeness. His knee probably brushing yours under the table just to ruin your life.
Your villain origin story, apparently, came with a seafood course. You picked up your abandoned lemonade and took a long sip like it contained stronger coping mechanisms. Summer had officially begun.
Tuesday arrived the way summer days in Jeju Island always did, slowly, lazily, like the sun itself had nowhere better to be.
By ten in the morning, the entire town had already settled into its usual rhythm. Tennis whites at the country club. Mothers with iced coffees and expensive sunglasses pretending not to gossip. Men in linen shirts discussing boats like they were discussing national policy. Teenagers and college kids spilling toward the beach in swimsuits and bad intentions. Everything here moved with the polished ease of old money and old habits. You hated how easy it was to slip back into it. There was something dangerous about returning to a place that remembered every version of you.
The boardwalk still creaked in the same places. The little café near the marina still sold iced vanilla lattes overpriced enough to count as emotional damage. The beach still stretched golden and endless, all warm sand and glittering water and sun-drunk afternoons that made bad decisions feel like destiny instead of stupidity.
Summer here had a way of convincing people they were invincible. It was probably responsible for at least seventy percent of your mistakes. By afternoon, you’d decided your mother’s constant rearranging of flowers and reminders about Saturday dinner were enough to qualify as psychological warfare, so you escaped. You packed a beach tote with the seriousness of a military operation, sunscreen, sunglasses, a bottle of water, your newest hardcover, lip gloss, and the kind of bikini your mother would call unnecessary and your best friend would call revenge.
Then you walked the familiar path down to the shore. The beach behind the summer houses was quieter than the public side near the clubs and restaurants. Less crowded. More private. A stretch of pale sand bordered by dunes and sea grass, where the houses sat like silent judges overlooking the ocean. This part belonged to families like yours and the Lees, generational wealth and carefully curated summer traditions.
It also meant escape was limited. Still, the ocean was worth it. The salt-heavy breeze hit first, warm and familiar against your skin. Then the sound, the endless hush and crash of waves folding into shore, gulls overhead, distant laughter carried by the wind. You slipped your sandals off and let the sand burn briefly against your feet before finding your usual spot. Far enough from the water to keep your book safe. Close enough to hear the tide.
Perfect.
You spread your towel out, dropped your bag beside it, and stretched out on your back like a woman personally committed to becoming one with summer. Sunlight soaked into your skin almost instantly, warm and golden and heavy in that way only coastal afternoons could be. Your bikini was barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing, but that was the point. Tiny black straps against sun-kissed skin, sunglasses shielding your eyes, a paperback novel open against your stomach.
Peace. Actual peace. No dinner invitations. No passive-aggressive mothers. No Lee Heeseung. Just heat and salt and the kind of silence that felt earned. You read for a while, though read was a generous term for occasionally turning a page while mostly listening to the ocean and contemplating whether adulthood could be legally postponed forever. The book was good. The sun was better.
A few familiar faces passed along the shore, neighbors, old classmates, people you’d known your whole life in the vague, privileged way beach towns operated. There were waves, smiles, the occasional “welcome back,” but no one lingered. Exactly how you liked it. At some point, you must have drifted halfway to sleep, caught in that hazy summer state where time stopped mattering. The sun had shifted warmer against your shoulders. The edges of your book blurred. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.
Then a shadow fell across you. Immediately, your soul knew. Without even opening your eyes, you sighed. Deeply. Spiritually. Like a woman who had seen the face of God and found it disappointing. “No.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, “That’s not very neighborly.” Of course. You opened one eye. And there he was. Lee Heeseung, standing over your towel like some sort of beautifully dressed natural disaster. Shirtless, because apparently humility was not part of his summer wardrobe. Swim trunks slung low on his hips, sunglasses on, skin bronzed by the sun like he’d been handcrafted by someone with a personal vendetta against your patience.
Water still clung to his shoulders, droplets sliding slowly down his chest like the universe itself was trying to make your life harder. Annoying. Extremely annoying. You closed your eye again. “If I ignore you long enough,” you said, “will you evaporate?”
“I think that only works on your personality.” You considered throwing your book at him. It was hardcover. Tempting. Instead, you shifted onto one elbow and looked up at him over your sunglasses. “Don’t you have a yacht to crash or someone else to emotionally inconvenience?”
He grinned, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and sat down uninvited at the edge of your towel like personal boundaries were a concept he’d heard of once and rejected on principle. “I was swimming.”
“I can see that. Congratulations on your ability to enter water.”
“Thank you. I worked very hard.”
You stared at him. He stared back. There was something uniquely exhausting about Heeseung’s presence, like he moved through the world assuming everything, and everyone, would make room for him. And worse, they usually did. He looked out toward the ocean, arms resting loosely over his knees. For a second, with the sunlight catching against his skin and the sea stretching endlessly behind him, he looked less like your lifelong enemy and more like one of those postcard summers people spent the rest of their lives trying to recreate.
Which was dangerous. You hated when he looked cinematic. It made being annoyed significantly less efficient. “You’re ruining my peaceful beach solitude,” you informed him.
“I noticed. You seemed too happy.”
“I wasn’t happy. I was tolerating existence.”
“Even worse.”
You let your book fall shut against your lap. “This is exactly why people warn me about you.” He tilted his head.
“No, they warn people about you. I’m universally beloved.”
You scoffed. “By mothers and women with no standards.”
“And yet here you are, talking to me in a bikini.”
You sat up fully. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first.”
“Mm. Territorial.”
“Get off my towel.”
He laughed then, low and easy, carried by the wind and the waves, and it did something profoundly irritating to your bloodstream. That laugh had been the soundtrack to half your summers. Bonfires at sixteen. Pool parties at eighteen. Drunken arguments on docks at twenty. Memory was a cruel thing. You stood abruptly.
Enough. Absolutely enough. If you stayed any longer, you’d either drown him or make eye contact for too long, and both options felt equally dangerous. With the sharp efficiency of someone preserving her dignity by force, you started packing your things. Your book went into your tote. Sunscreen. Water bottle. Sunglasses pushed into your hair.
Heeseung leaned back on his hands, watching the whole performance with zero remorse. “Leaving already?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
A pause. Then, truthfully: “Yes.” His smile widened. You hated how much he enjoyed winning tiny wars. You shoved your sandals on and slung your bag over your shoulder, glaring down at him with all the righteous fury of a woman denied a peaceful tanning session. “You are genuinely the most irritating person I have ever met.”
He looked up at you, sunlight in his hair, smirk already waiting. “And yet you keep coming back every summer.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because unfortunately, he had a point, and you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing that aloud. Instead, you gave him one last glare sharp enough to qualify as a formal threat and turned toward home.
The walk back felt warmer somehow, the sun heavier against your skin, sand clinging to your ankles. Behind you, his laughter followed, soft at first, then clearer as the wind carried it over the shoreline. Infuriating. Familiar. Summer itself, if summer had a god complex and perfect teeth. You didn’t look back. But you could still hear him. And somehow, that felt worse.
Saturday arrived wrapped in sunlight and bad intentions. By six in the evening, the entire house smelled like citrus candles, your mother’s perfume, and the kind of expensive stress that came with hosting, or in this case, being hosted by, the Lees. The sun was beginning its slow descent over the water, pouring honey-colored light through the bedroom windows and turning everything soft and golden in a way that made even impending social torture look romantic.
Outside, Jeju Island was in full performance mode. The streets near the coast glowed with polished summer wealth, convertibles pulling into curved driveways, tennis bracelets catching the light, champagne already being chilled somewhere on a yacht that absolutely did not need to exist. The ocean breeze drifted in through the cracked windows carrying salt, jasmine, and the faint sounds of someone laughing too loudly three houses down.
Everything looked beautiful. Which was unfortunate, because beauty made suffering feel theatrical. You stood in the middle of your bedroom surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small fashion war. Dresses across the bed. Shoes abandoned like casualties. A hairbrush on the floor. Three rejected outfit options hanging from your closet door like public executions.
And in your hands, your salvation. An oversized gray hoodie. Soft. Reliable. Emotionally supportive. The kind of hoodie that said I do not wish to be perceived. Perfect. You pulled it over your head with the solemnity of a woman entering battle. It swallowed you immediately, sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs, the entire look somewhere between off-duty model and suspicious raccoon. You stared at yourself in the mirror.
Excellent. If all went according to plan, the Lees would assume you were a drifter who had wandered in from the beach and politely ask you to leave before appetizers. Peace at last. Your mother entered without knocking, because privacy was apparently a concept reserved for only the elites. She stopped in the doorway.
Looked at you. Looked at the hoodie. Looked back at you. Silence. Long enough to be considered legally threatening. “No,” she said.
You folded your arms. “Counterpoint: yes.”
“No.”
“This is fashion.”
“This is a cry for help.”
You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the hood with dramatic precision. “I’m cultivating mystery. They’ll be intrigued.”
“They’ll think I forgot to raise you.”
“Honestly, that might buy me sympathy.”
Your mother crossed the room with the terrifying calm of a woman who had already made her decision three minutes ago. From behind her back, like a magician revealing the final trick, she produced a dress. Yellow. Of course it was yellow, why? Because, summer, darling. Not soft yellow. Not subtle yellow. The kind of rich, golden, sunlight yellow that looked like it belonged in a movie where everyone had unresolved feelings and excellent cheekbones.
A sleek sundress. Fitted enough to be dangerous, effortless enough to pretend it wasn’t. You narrowed your eyes. “No.”
“Yes.”
“It looks like optimism.”
“It looks like summer.”
“It looks like a setup.”
She held it up against you with complete disregard for your emotional well-being. “It looks like you clean up beautifully.” There it was. The betrayal. Because that was exactly the problem. You knew the dress looked good. That made it worse. Wearing the dress meant effort. Effort meant possibility. Possibility meant Lee Heeseung seeing you in a dress that suggested maybe, potentially, under the right atmospheric conditions, you had once been nice to someone.
Unacceptable. You stepped back. “I would rather be hit by a jet ski.”
“Wonderful. You can wear this to the hospital afterward.”
“Mother.”
She sighed, setting the dress on the bed like a final verdict. “You are not wearing that hoodie to dinner with the Lees. Mrs. Lee adores you, your father is already pretending this evening will be civilized, and I refuse to let my daughter look like she escaped from a beach bonfire.” You looked at the hoodie. The hoodie looked back. A fallen soldier. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out over the ocean like it, too, understood your suffering.
You flopped backward onto the bed with all the grace of a dying Victorian heroine. “This is oppression.”
“This is dinner.”
“There’s seafood involved. That makes it worse.”
Your mother sat beside you, smoothing a wrinkle from the yellow dress. For a moment, the teasing slipped into something softer. “You’ve been doing this with him for years,” she said.
You stared at the ceiling. “Doing what?” She gave you a look, not sharp, not smug, just the tired wisdom of a woman who had watched two stubborn people circle each other for too long.
“This one. The fighting. The pretending.” You groaned dramatically and threw an arm over your face. “If this conversation ends with you calling him charming, I’m moving to another country.”
She laughed then, quiet and warm. “I’m just saying… maybe try not to make tonight a battlefield.” Too late. The battlefield had excellent landscaping and probably a wine pairing. Still, after she left, the room felt quieter. The golden light had shifted lower now, stretching long shadows across the floorboards. From your window, you could see the neighboring house through the trees, white walls glowing in the sunset, lights beginning to flicker on, elegant and smug and entirely too close.
Somewhere over there was Heeseung. Probably looking expensive. Probably being annoying. Probably existing with that stupid face. You hated that your first instinct was to wonder what he’d be wearing. Probably linen. Men like him were always in linen, like they were personally sponsored by summer. With a sigh heavy enough to qualify as literature, you sat up and stared at the yellow dress again. It stared back, victorious.
Fine. Fine. You changed. And, because the universe enjoyed humiliation as a hobby, your mother was right. The dress fit like it had been designed specifically to ruin your peace. Thin straps, bare shoulders, the kind of silhouette that looked effortless and absolutely was not. Against sun-kissed skin, the yellow made you look like you belonged in this town, like expensive mistakes and beautiful bad decisions.
You hated it immediately. Mostly because you looked good. You stood in front of the mirror, turning once, suspicious. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you’d find a flaw large enough to justify changing back into the hoodie. There wasn’t one. Traitorous fabric. You added gold hoops, minimal makeup, lip gloss sharp enough to count as a weapon, and tried very hard not to think about why any of this mattered.
It didn’t. Obviously. You were dressing for yourself. And if Lee Heeseung happened to see you and suffer emotionally, that was simply community service. Downstairs, your father was already waiting by the door with car keys and the resigned expression of a man who knew he was escorting two women into battle and had chosen survival over commentary. He looked up when you descended the stairs. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” he said, “you look expensive.”
You picked up your clutch. “I plan to act accordingly.” Your mother beamed like she’d personally invented beauty. You refused to acknowledge this. Outside, the evening had turned warm and velvet-soft, the sky streaked pink and gold over the ocean. The walk next door was barely two minutes, just enough time for dread to fully settle in.
The Lee house stood glowing at the end of the path, every window lit, laughter already drifting from inside. Dinner. Wine. Politeness. Heeseung. You inhaled slowly as your father reached for the front gate. Summer, apparently, had decided subtle suffering wasn’t enough. It wanted dinner and a show. The Lee house always looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled People With Better Lives Than You.
White stone, warm lights spilling from enormous windows, ivy climbing tastefully up the walls like even the plants here had trust funds. The front garden smelled like jasmine and sea air and whatever expensive candle Mrs. Lee probably had burning somewhere inside. Everything about it radiated polished wealth and the kind of family dinners where people said things like summering abroad.
You hated how nice it was. You hated even more that you’d spent half your childhood here. Birthday dinners. Pool parties. Christmases once, before everyone got too busy and too grown up for normal traditions. There were memories tucked into every corner of this place, most of them involving some version of you losing an argument to Lee Heeseung and plotting revenge by dessert.
Tonight, unfortunately, promised tradition. Mrs. Lee opened the door before you could even knock, all elegance and warmth in a silk dress the color of champagne. “There you are!” She kissed your cheek before you had time to prepare emotionally. “Look at you,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “Absolutely gorgeous.” From behind you, your mother made the smug little sound of victory.
You chose to ignore it. “You say that now,” you said, stepping inside, “but let’s revisit after I inevitably insult someone over seafood.”
Mrs. Lee laughed like she always did, like your bad attitude was somehow charming instead of hereditary. “Nonsense. We’re all family here.” That was the problem. The foyer opened into soft golden light and polished wood floors, the low hum of conversation drifting in from the dining room. Somewhere, glasses clinked. Somewhere else, your father and Mr. Lee were already discussing something expensive and unnecessary, probably boats.
You slipped off your sandals and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you. And then, of course, there he was. Lee Heeseung, leaning against the archway to the living room like he’d been strategically placed there for maximum irritation.
Black button-down this time, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone just enough to be a public health concern. Dark slacks. Watch glinting at his wrist. Hair slightly messy in that suspiciously intentional way attractive men got away with. He looked like summer trouble dressed in designer clothing. Annoying. Extremely annoying.
His gaze found you immediately. Paused. And for one dangerous second, he said nothing. Just looked. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Like the room had gone quiet around it. It started at your feet, moved upward, and landed finally on your face with something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Not smug. Worse. Appreciative. You wanted to throw yourself directly into the ocean. Instead, you smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that had ruined lesser men.
“Try not to look too shocked. I know basic hygiene is a surprise.”
His mouth twitched. “There she is,” he said, voice low and easy. “I was worried the dress had made you nice.”
Your mother, traitor that she was, immediately linked arms with Mrs. Lee. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You two can catch up while we finish setting the table.”
No. Absolutely not. You opened your mouth. “No—” Too late. The parents had already vanished with the terrifying efficiency of adults who believed proximity solved everything. Your father gave you a look on the way out, the kind that said ‘behave’, and disappeared toward the kitchen like a man abandoning a sinking ship.
And suddenly, it was just the two of you. Silence. Not awkward. Worse. Familiar. The kind of silence built over years of unfinished conversations and too much history. You crossed your arms. He mirrored nothing, which somehow made it more annoying. In your deeply correct and entirely unbiased opinion, “catching up” with Lee Heeseung translated loosely to trying to have a normal conversation without committing a felony.
A challenge, certainly. You managed three words. “Well. You’re alive.” He nodded thoughtfully.
“Still devastatingly handsome too, thanks for noticing.”
You sighed. “This is why people drink before family dinners.”
“And yet you came sober. Brave.”
You were preparing a truly excellent insult, something elegant, devastating, probably Pulitzer-worthy, when Mrs. Lee’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Dinner!” Saved by seafood. You gave him one final look. “Don’t make me regret this.”
He stepped aside, one hand gesturing toward the dining room like some smug Regency villain. “No promises.”
The dining room looked exactly like every old-money summer dinner should. Long table, linen napkins, candles despite it still being warm outside. Too many wine glasses for any morally responsible evening. French doors stood open to the back patio where the ocean breeze drifted in soft and salted, carrying the sound of waves somewhere beyond the dunes. Sunset had bled fully into evening now, the sky darkening violet over the water.
Everything felt cinematic. Which was rude, considering your mood. Seats were assigned by parental conspiracy, obviously. You discovered yours and stopped. Heeseung. Right next to you. Naturally. Mrs. Lee smiled far too innocently. “I thought it would be nice.” It would not. It absolutely would not. But protesting would only make it worse, so you sat with the grace of a woman choosing violence internally. Heeseung took the seat beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the universe.
Across the table, your mother was already discussing someone’s daughter getting engaged. Your father had wine. Mr. Lee had opinions about coastal property values. Everyone settled into conversation with the practiced ease of people who had done this for decades. And somehow, despite all of it, your entire awareness kept narrowing to the person sitting six inches to your right.
His knee brushed yours under the table. Lightly. Accidental. Probably. You froze for exactly half a second. Then refused to acknowledge it because dignity still mattered. You reached for your water. His hand reached for the bread basket. Fingers brushed. Again. This time, definitely not accidental. You turned your head. He was already looking at you. Calm. Composed. Infuriating.
Like he hadn’t just weaponized table manners. You smiled without showing teeth. “If you’re trying to start something over dinner rolls, I’d like you to know that’s a deeply embarrassing way to die.”
His expression remained perfectly neutral as he handed you the basket. “I’m just being polite.”
“Suspicious already.”
Across from you, Mrs. Lee sighed fondly. “You two are exactly the same.”
You and Heeseung answered at the same time. “Absolutely not.” Everyone laughed. You considered faking your death. Dinner continued in that dangerous, glittering way summer dinners did, wine poured generously, stories repeated beautifully, everyone glowing a little softer in candlelight. Your parents kept bringing up old memories.
That camping trip when you were thirteen. The sailing lessons disaster. The time Heeseung pushed you into the pool and you threw his phone into the ocean. Mrs. Lee was still mad about that one. You maintained it had been justified. Everyone treated the two of you like old friends. Like there had always been affection under the arguments.
Like this was charming instead of mutually assured destruction. It was infuriating. Because they weren’t wrong. That was the worse part. Every now and then, while someone else talked, you’d catch him looking at you. Not casually. Not the usual teasing glance. Longer. Quieter. Like he was trying to remember something. Or decide something. Too much. Entirely too much.
You focused on your wine. On your fork. Your plate. Literally anything else. But awareness sat there anyway, warm and sharp and impossible to ignore. The yellow dress suddenly felt like a mistake. The ocean breeze moved through the open doors. Candles flickered. Someone laughed at the far end of the table. And beside you, Lee Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking unfairly good in soft light and expensive black clothing, like every bad decision summer had ever offered.
You hated him. Probably. Mostly. Which was becoming, very inconveniently, less convincing by the second.
By the time dinner ended, the sky had softened into that strange in-between hour where everything looked prettier than it had any right to. The table was abandoned in stages, wine glasses left half-full, dessert plates forgotten, your father and Mr. Lee still arguing about boats like it was a blood sport. Mrs. Lee and your mother disappeared into the kitchen with the kind of determined energy that suggested they were about to wash dishes neither of them had touched all evening.
Which left the younger generation exactly where summer always did. Outside. Near water. With alcohol. And poor judgment. Someone, probably Jay, because it always felt like a Jay decision, had suggested a beach fire, and within twenty minutes everyone had drifted down toward the private stretch of shoreline behind the houses like it was instinct.
It kind of was. This was what summers here were made of. Bonfires and old friends. Salt in your hair. Music from someone’s phone speaker. Drinks passed around without anyone asking whose they were. The beach at night felt different than it did during the day. Softer somehow. Less polished. The tide rolled in slow and silver under the moonlight, waves folding quietly against the shore while the bonfire crackled warm against the cooling night air. Sand clung to bare ankles, the fire throwing gold over familiar faces.
It made everyone look younger. Closer to the versions of yourselves that had first started all this. Sunoo arrived first, carrying drinks and looking like downtown Cove had personally appointed him its stylish representative. Sharp grin, prettier than most women, and already prepared to be everyone’s problem. “Look who survived dinner,” he said dramatically when he spotted you. “I was taking bets.”
“You should’ve bet against me,” you said, taking the drink he offered. “I nearly drowned in polite conversation.”
“Tragic. And in that dress too. What a loss.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Jay called from where he and Sunghoon were attempting to set up folding chairs in the sand with all the competence of men raised by money.
Jay looked exactly the same as always: clean-cut, expensive taste, and permanently carrying himself like he was five minutes away from judging someone’s life choices. Which, to be fair, he usually was. Sunghoon stood beside him, all cool quiet and expensive silence, somehow managing to look elegant while losing a fight against a beach chair.
Some people were simply born unfair. From farther down the shore came the sound of laughter, bright and familiar, and then Eunchae appeared with Yunjin and Yoonchae trailing behind her, all of them carrying the kind of chaotic energy that guaranteed tonight would end with at least one regrettable decision. Eunchae saw you first and immediately pointed.
“There she is! The woman of the hour.” You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is,” Yunjin said cheerfully, pulling you into a quick hug. “We’ve heard about dinner. We’re here for details.”
“There are no details.”
“There are always details,” Yoonchae said.
And then, because the universe had apparently decided your suffering needed an audience, Lee Heeseung arrived. Late, naturally. Walking down the path from the houses with his sleeves rolled and his hands in his pockets like he was entering a film scene instead of a beach fire. The ocean breeze moved through his hair, and for one deeply annoying second, every girl within a ten-foot radius visibly remembered he was attractive.
Including you. Unfortunately. Sunoo, traitor that he was, smirked immediately. “And there’s the other half of our favorite summer divorce.”
“Please,” you said. “I’d need to marry him first, and I do have standards.” Heeseung dropped into the sand beside the fire like he belonged there, which, annoyingly, he did, and looked at you over the rim of the beer Jay handed him. “She says that now. Give it ten years.”
“In ten years, I’ll still be filing restraining orders.”
“Romantic,” Yunjin sighed. Everyone laughed. That was the problem with old friends, they remembered too much. This group had grown up together in fragments. Family dinners, yacht parties, beach bonfires at sixteen, too many summers collapsing into one long memory of sunburns and terrible choices. They’d all witnessed the evolution of whatever it was between you and Heeseung. Which meant they were insufferable about it. Sunoo stretched out dramatically in the sand.
“I still think you two should just get married and save us all time.”
Sunghoon, staring into the fire like a philosopher trapped in a luxury campaign, added, “At this point, it would actually be less dramatic.”
Jay nodded once. “Financially, it makes sense.”
You looked around the circle. “I need better friends.”
“No,” Eunchae said, grinning, “you need to admit you’ve been flirting through mutual destruction for like eight years.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is an incredibly rude accusation.”
Heeseung took a sip of his drink, far too calm. “She’s right.”
You turned toward him so fast it nearly counted as whiplash. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged. “You’re meaner when you like someone.”
Sunoo made the loudest, most disrespectful sound of delight known to man. “Oh my god, we’re finally saying it.”
“We are saying nothing,” you snapped.
Yunjin leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Should we bring up the balcony incident?”
Absolutely not. You pointed at her. “If you value our friendship, you’ll choose silence.” Too late.
Eunchae gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, the almost-kiss.” And there it was. Like a match dropped into gasoline. The balcony incident. Nineteen years old. One of Jay’s stupid summer parties. Too much champagne. Too much moonlight. Too much unresolved tension and a stupidly beautiful balcony overlooking the ocean. You and Heeseung had been alone for exactly seven minutes before an argument turned into standing too close, then silence, then that terrible suspended second where both people know exactly what’s about to happen.
You’d almost kissed. Almost. Then someone had opened the balcony door, reality had returned, and both of you had spent the next three years pretending it never happened. Civilization had survived. Barely. Around the fire, everyone looked delighted. You wanted the ocean to take you.
“It was not an almost-kiss,” you said with dignity.
“It absolutely was,” Sunoo replied.
“There was tension,” Yoonchae added.
“There was eye contact,” Eunchae said.
“There was champagne,” Yunjin said solemnly.
Jay, like a judge delivering sentence, finished: “That counts.”
You looked to Heeseung for support. A mistake. Because he’d gone strangely quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Quiet. His gaze stayed on the fire, beer loose in his hand, jaw set just enough for you to notice because unfortunately, after years of knowing someone, you learned the small things. Interesting. Very interesting. You tilted your head slightly. He wasn’t embarrassed.
If anything, he looked… annoyed. Or thoughtful. Like the memory had landed somewhere deeper than expected. That was new. Usually, Heeseung met chaos with amusement. He was good at pretending nothing mattered. But now, under the firelight, with everyone laughing around him and the ocean dark behind you, he looked still. You watched him for a second too long. Then he glanced up. Caught you.
And just like that, the moment snapped. His expression shifted back into something easier. Familiar. Dangerous. He smirked. You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve caused medical concern and took another drink. The conversation moved on, someone brought up an old yacht party disaster involving Sunghoon and a very expensive pair of loafers, Sunoo started a dramatic retelling of his brief and toxic relationship with a bartender from last summer, Eunchae laughed so hard she nearly fell backward into the sand.
The night folded around you, warm and nostalgic and too easy. This was the trap of summer. It made everything feel survivable. Even him. By the time the fire burned lower and people started drifting home, the moon sat high over the water and the beach had gone quiet again. You walked back alone, sandals in one hand, the other curled around your phone.
The sand was cool now under your feet. Waves whispered against the shore. Somewhere behind you, someone was still laughing. Your dress smelled like smoke. Your hair smelled like salt. And despite yourself, your mind kept circling back to one thing. That silence. The balcony. The firelight. The way Heeseung had gone quiet.
Interesting. You were still thinking about it when your phone buzzed in your hand. A text. You stopped walking. Looked down. Of course.
Heeseung
A single message.
Heeseung: still thinking about that balcony, or are you finally admitting i almost won?
You stared at the screen. There it was. The beginning of every bad idea. You should ignore it. You absolutely should. Instead, standing barefoot under the moonlight with the ocean at your back and your better judgment somewhere drowning offshore, you smiled. And typed back.
You: won what? you almost passed out from cheap champagne. history remembers the truth.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Danger, apparently, texted first.
The following week was suspicious. Not in any dramatic, life-altering way. No scandals. No yacht crashes. No accidental engagements announced over brunch. Just… suspicious. Because you were happy. Unreasonably, offensively happy. The kind of happy that made people around you uncomfortable, like spotting a shark in shallow water and realizing it was smiling.
It started subtly. You slept better. You stopped glaring at sunlight like it had personally betrayed you. You let your mother drag you to the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning and only complained twice, which she later described to your father in the same tone people used for religious miracles. By Thursday, you had laughed, genuinely laughed, at something Mrs. Lee said over iced coffee, and your mother had nearly dropped a peach. “Are you ill?” she asked immediately.
You looked up from your sunglasses. “Deeply, but unrelated.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No, seriously. You’ve been… cheerful.” The accusation hung between you. Cheerful. As if she’d caught you committing tax fraud. You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee with all the dignity of a woman being unfairly persecuted.
“I’m always cheerful.”
She gave you a look so flat it could’ve ironed shirts. “Last week you called a seagull a personal enemy.”
“It knew what it did.”
Your father, reading the paper at the table, lowered it just enough to contribute, “You also threatened the blender.”
“It started first.” He nodded thoughtfully and returned to the business section. Traitor. The truth was harder to explain. There was no grand reason for it. No cinematic revelation. No dramatic confession under moonlight. Just summer. The beach. The sun. Late-night fires. Salt in your hair. And texts. That was the real problem. Because after the bonfire, Heeseung had texted again. And then again. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous enough to name. Just stupid things.
A picture of the terrible coffee from the marina café with the caption: thought of you and your bad taste
A midnight text that only said: are you still pretending you didn’t almost kiss me first
A blurry photo of Sunoo asleep on a yacht chair: proof he can be quiet
And every single time, against your better judgment and your carefully cultivated reputation for emotional self-preservation, you replied. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes after twenty strategic minutes. Because dignity mattered. Still, the effect had been catastrophic. You were smiling at your phone now. In public. Like a woman with no survival instincts.
On Friday afternoon, your mother found you standing in the garden staring at the hydrangeas like you were in a coming-of-age film. You were holding one bloom gently between your fingers, sunlight warm on your shoulders, genuinely appreciating how ridiculous and beautiful summer looked here.
She stopped on the patio, and squinted, then called into the house, “Honey, come outside. I think our daughter has been replaced.”
You rolled your eyes. “Please. If I were replaced, the imposter would be nicer.”
“Exactly my concern.” Unfortunately, your brief and scandalous flirtation with floral appreciation ended there. The hydrangea wilted two days later. Probably out of sheer terror. Even worse, people noticed. Everyone noticed. Sunoo, after seeing you smile at your phone during lunch, gasped like a Victorian widow and clutched his chest. “Oh my god. She’s in love.”
You nearly threw your drink at him. “I’m blocking you.”
“Denial. Classic.”
“It’s called boundaries.”
“It’s called a crush.” Across the table, Heeseung said absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, was worse, because lately, he’d been watching you. Not constantly, not obviously, just enough, across dinner tables, from the beach, leaning against his car while pretending not to. Curious. Like he’d noticed the shift and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet, like he was waiting.
On Sunday, you passed him outside while coming back from the beach, still warm from the sun, tote bag over your shoulder, skin glowing with the kind of happiness you were trying very hard not to examine too closely. And for reasons still unknown to science, you smiled at him. Not your usual sharp smile, not sarcastic, not weaponized. Bright, easy, and real.
It happened before you could stop it. For one glorious second, Lee Heeseung looked genuinely startled. Actually startled. He stopped mid-step, eyebrows lifting like his brain had temporarily lost signal. He didn’t smile back, just looked at you with that unreadable expression and one slightly raised brow, like he was trying to solve a puzzle and deeply suspicious of the answer.
You kept walking, because stopping would imply weakness. But halfway up your front steps, you could still feel it, that look, and somewhere behind you, you just knew he was still standing there, watching. Interesting. Very, very dangerous.
By Friday night, the entire town had collectively decided to be beautiful. You could feel it in the air. Summer in Jeju Island had a rhythm to it, and bonfire nights sat somewhere near the top of the food chain, just beneath yacht parties and just above making terrible decisions in someone else’s kitchen at two in the morning. The beach changed on nights like this.
During the day, it belonged to families and sunscreen and children building sandcastles with inherited wealth. But at night, especially on Fridays, it belonged to people your age. To music drifting over the dunes. To bottles hidden badly in tote bags. To girls in tiny dresses and boys pretending they weren’t trying too hard. Bonfire nights were for performance. And if there was one thing you respected, it was committing to a bit. You stood in your bedroom with your closet doors thrown open and the kind of focus usually reserved for military strategy.
Your bed was covered in options. Black satin. White linen. Something red Yoonchae once described as “emotionally irresponsible.” You were considering that one. Because tonight wasn’t just any bonfire. Tonight, everyone would be there. Which meant he would be there. And while you were a mature, evolved woman who absolutely did not make outfit decisions based on Lee Heeseung’s potential suffering, you were also not a liar. You pulled the red dress off its hanger. Short, silk, and worst of all, backless. The kind of dress that looked like bad decisions and expensive apologies. Perfect.
You slipped it on slowly, watching yourself in the mirror as the fabric settled against your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. It clung where it should, skimmed where it mattered, and left just enough to imagination to make imagination work overtime. Dangerous. Excellent. You added gold jewelry because subtlety was for people with less interesting lives. Glossed lips. Soft waves in your hair. Perfume that smelled like jasmine and poor choices.
Then heels. Not practical for the beach. That was beside the point. When you walked downstairs, your father was on the couch pretending to read and your mother was rearranging flowers for sport. Both looked up. Your father blinked once. Then lowered his book. “Should I be concerned?”
“Always,” you said.
Your mother smiled like she was watching an expensive revenge plot unfold in real time. “Where exactly are you going dressed like that?”
You picked up your clutch. “To remind people to mind their business.”
Your father muttered something about raising a supervillain. Your mother kissed your cheek on the way out and whispered, “Be safe.” Which, translated from mother-language, meant: Don’t get arrested. Don’t set anything on fire. Try not to ruin anyone’s son permanently. No promises.
The walk to the beach felt cinematic. Warm night air against bare skin. The sound of waves pulling at the shore. Music already carrying from farther down the sand, bass soft and distant beneath the ocean. The moon hung low and bright over the water, silver against black waves. Firelight flickered somewhere ahead. And by the time you stepped over the dunes and onto the shore, every head turned. Good. Let them. There was power in being seen and knowing exactly what they were seeing. Sunoo, standing near the cooler with a drink in one hand and judgment in the other, spotted you first.
He froze dramatically. Then placed a hand over his heart. “Oh,” he said. “She came to kill.” “Someone has to keep standards alive.”
He looked you up and down with the solemn respect of a man appreciating art. “That dress should come with legal paperwork.”
“Excellent. I’m hoping for emotional damages.” Eunchae appeared next, immediately grabbing your arm. “No, seriously, turn around. I need to hate you properly.” You did, because generosity mattered. She groaned. “I’m ending our friendship.”
“Understandable.” Yunjin, from beside the fire, raised her drink toward you. “Whatever crime you commit tonight, I support you.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.” The bonfire itself was already in full swing. Someone had dragged out chairs no one was using. Music played low from a speaker half-buried in someone’s beach bag. Jay and Sunghoon were debating something useless near the waterline with the seriousness of men discussing world peace instead of tequila brands. People moved in loose circles, laughing, drinking, pretending not to stare at each other. Summer. Beautiful and a little stupid.
And then, like a sixth sense specifically designed to inconvenience you, you felt it. That look, across the fire, Heeseung. He stood with Jay near the cooler, beer in hand, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking like he’d walked straight out of an ad for poor decisions. The firelight caught against the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of his watch, the expression on his face, which, for one deeply satisfying second, was surprise. Real surprise.
His eyes landed on you and stayed there. Paused. Moved once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying very hard not to react and failing in private. He noticed, immediately, of course he did. You smiled, not at him, but in his direction, which was somehow worse, and turned your attention elsewhere. Because if you were going to weaponize beauty tonight, subtlety would only dilute the effect.
His name was Minjae, which you remembered mostly because he’d tried to kiss Yunjin two summers ago and gotten publicly roasted for it. Harmless. Pretty enough. From one of the families near the marina. More importantly, available. He approached with exactly the kind of confidence men borrowed from expensive watches. “Well,” he said, smiling as he stepped closer, “you’re either trying to ruin someone’s life tonight or start a small war.”
You took the drink he offered. “Can’t it be both?” He laughed, leaning in just enough to suggest intention. And from the corner of your eye, there, heeseung watching, not openly, but enough. His posture had changed, slightly stiffer, beer untouched, expression neutral in the way men got when they were trying very hard not to look like they wanted to commit a felony. Interesting. Very interesting.
You smiled brighter. Poor Minjae. A perfectly nice civilian about to become collateral damage. “You clean up well,” he said. “I usually do.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Have you?” The conversation was easy, almost too easy. Light touches. Leaning closer. The practiced dance of summer flirting where no one meant too much and everyone pretended otherwise, and the entire time, you could feel it.
That awareness from across the fire. Sharp, and steady. Heeseung. You laughed a little louder than necessary. Touched Minjae’s arm. Tilted your head just enough. Purely for scientific purposes. Across the beach, Sunoo noticed first, because gossip was basically his cardio.
He looked from you to Heeseung and nearly ascended. “Oh,” he whispered to no one and everyone. “Oh, this is delicious.”
Jay followed his line of sight and physically winced. “Someone should probably stop this.”
Sunghoon, wise as ever, took a sip of his drink and said, “No.” Correct. Absolutely no one should stop this. Because now Heeseung was walking over. Slowly. Calmly. Which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d looked angry. He moved like someone with a purpose. Like the ocean itself had personally requested violence. Minjae was still talking. Something about boats. You had no idea. Because Heeseung stopped beside you, close enough for the smell of expensive cologne and sea air to ruin your peace.
And said, casually, too casually, “Didn’t know you liked boring men.” Silence. Beautiful. Terrible. Immediate. Minjae blinked. You took a slow sip of your drink. Turned your head. Looked directly at him. And smiled.
Oh. This was going to be fun. Minjae, to his credit, had enough self-preservation instincts to realize when he’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s war. He looked between you and Heeseung, your too-sweet smile, Heeseung’s dangerously calm expression, and gave the kind of laugh people used when backing away from wild animals.
“Well,” he said, lifting his drink slightly, “I’m suddenly remembering I promised Sunoo I’d help him with… something.” Sunoo, across the fire, yelled, “I did not—” Too late. Minjae was already retreating into the night, leaving you alone with the problem. Which was standing far too close and looking far too pleased with himself. You turned slowly, crossing your arms.
“Did you just scare off my entertainment?”
Heeseung took a sip of his beer like he hadn’t committed a social crime. “If your entertainment starts explaining boat engines, I’m doing you a favor.”
“I was having a lovely time.”
“No, you were being annoying on purpose.” You placed a hand dramatically over your heart. “And here I thought I was subtle.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and the amusement thinned just enough to let something sharper through. “That’s the problem.” The fire crackled behind you. Somewhere farther down the beach, someone shouted over the music. Laughter carried on the wind.
But here, in the small space between you and him, everything had gone quieter. You tilted your head. “What exactly is the problem, Lee?” His jaw shifted. That tiny thing he did when he was trying not to say too much. Dangerous.
“You always do this.” You blinked once, deliberately. “Do what?” He stepped closer. Not enough for touching. Enough for trouble. “Act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” There it was. Not a joke. Not banter. Something real enough to make your pulse trip over itself. You should’ve backed up. You didn’t. Instead, you smiled, that slow, sharp smile you used when you were either about to win or about to ruin your own life.
“And what exactly am I doing?” He let out one quiet laugh, humorless. “Seriously?”
“Very.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Mistake. Terrible, catastrophic mistake. Because suddenly the entire night rearranged itself around that single glance. The firelight. The ocean. The red dress. His voice lower now, rougher around the edges.
“You flirt with people you don’t care about,” he said. “You get that look on your face when you’re trying to prove something. And then you wait to see who notices.” Your heartbeat was officially embarrassing. You folded your arms tighter, mostly so he wouldn’t notice.
“And you noticed.” He didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. The moonlight silvered the edges of everything, the shoreline, the glass in his hand, the expression he was trying and failing to keep neutral. You swallowed. Slowly. “Sounds like a you problem.” His mouth twitched.
“Probably.” There it was again, that unbearable thing between you, stretched tight as wire. Years of almosts. Arguments that had never really been about arguments. Every summer version of yourselves layered on top of each other until neither of you knew where the joke ended and the truth began. You could still remember the balcony. Nineteen. Champagne. His hand on the railing beside yours. That second where everything had almost changed.
You wondered if he was thinking about it too. You suspected he was. Because now he was closer. And now you could smell the ocean on his skin, something expensive underneath it, and the very specific danger of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. You should absolutely leave. Instead, because self-destruction was apparently hereditary, you said softly, “You’re jealous.”
His expression sharpened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Too late.” “You think this is funny.”
“No,” you said. “I think you’re jealous, and I think you hate that I noticed.” He stepped in once more. Enough that your breath caught. Enough that the entire world narrowed. “Careful.”
“Or what?” Your voice came out quieter than intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, and when he spoke, it was barely above the sound of the waves. “Or you’ll say something you can’t take back.” Silence. The dangerous kind. You could hear your own breathing. The ocean behind him. Someone laughing far away, in another universe where people made good choices. Here, there was only this. His hand brushing your bare arm as he shifted. Your pulse in your throat. The ridiculous certainty that if either of you moved half an inch, the entire summer would split open.
You thought, this is it. Finally. At last. And then, “OH MY GOD, THERE YOU TWO ARE.” Eunchae. Of course. She appeared like divine punishment in platform sandals, carrying two drinks and absolutely no sense of timing. You jumped back so fast it should’ve counted as cardio. Heeseung looked like he might walk directly into the ocean. Eunchae stopped. Looked between you. The space. The tension. The crime scene. And grinned like the devil herself.
“Wow,” she said. “I almost feel bad interrupting whatever deeply repressed thing was happening here.” “Don’t,” you said immediately.
“Never,” Heeseung muttered at the exact same time. She handed you a drink with the smugness of a woman collecting evidence. “Cute. Anyway, Sunoo is taking bets on whether you two make out before August.”
You took the drink because murder was illegal. “Tell Sunoo I hope he loses money.”
“Oh, he definitely won’t.” She skipped away before either of you could respond, leaving behind chaos and the lingering smell of coconut perfume. Silence again. But ruined now. Worse, somehow. Because now both of you knew. Not the joke. Not the performance. The actual thing underneath it. And once you knew that, pretending got harder. You stared out at the water. He stared at the fire. Neither of you said anything. Eventually, as the night thinned and people started leaving in groups of laughter and half-finished conversations, it became painfully obvious that your usual ride home had abandoned you in favor of some post-party food run.
Which left, “Get in.” You stood beside Heeseung’s car, clutching your shoes in one hand and your pride in the other. “No.” He unlocked the passenger door without looking at you. “Yes.” “I’d rather walk.”
“It’s two miles.”
“I’m resilient.”
“You’re dramatic.”
You narrowed your eyes. He opened the door wider. “Get in.” And because the universe hated you, you did. The drive home was quiet. Not awkward. Worse. The kind of silence that knew too much. The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the car, carrying salt and smoke and the last traces of summer bonfire on your skin. Your heels sat abandoned on the floor. Your red dress still smelled like fire.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. You looked out the window because looking at him felt like volunteering for emotional damage. Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss. Neither of you mentioned anything. When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark, your parents already asleep.
For one second, neither of you moved. Then you reached for the door. At the same time, his hand shifted. Your fingers brushed. Just barely. Warm. Accidental. Or maybe not. You froze. So did he. And for one stupid, suspended second, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath again. Then you pulled your hand back. Too fast. “Goodnight,” you said. Too quiet. He nodded once.
“Night.” You got out. Walked to the front door. Did not look back. But you could feel him there, still sitting in the driveway, engine running, watching until you got inside. And later, long after the house had gone still and the ocean whispered somewhere beyond your window, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Wide awake. Heart traitorous. Mind worse. Because now you knew. And so did he. Nobody slept.
The next few days were a masterclass in mutual psychological damage. Not dramatic damage. Worse. Polite damage. The kind where nothing happened and somehow everything did. You didn’t fight. That was the first sign something had gone horribly wrong. No sarcastic remarks over morning coffee. No pointed comments when passing each other near the beach path. No weaponized flirting in front of your parents. No smug little “morning, neighbor” from across the driveway.
Nothing. Just awkward, terrible silence. You’d see him and immediately become fascinated by literally anything else. The mailbox. A cloud. The concept of sand. Anything but eye contact. Because eye contact implied remembering. And remembering implied the bonfire. The almost-kiss. The car ride. His hand brushing yours like the universe personally wanted you to suffer. No, thank you. You were suddenly the busiest woman alive. If he was at the beach, you were tragically needed elsewhere.
If he was by the marina, you had urgent business in the opposite direction. If he was leaning against his stupid car looking like a rich-boy problem in linen, you turned around. Dignity first. Unfortunately, subtlety had never survived around your families. By Wednesday morning, Mrs. Lee noticed. Of course she did. That woman could detect emotional tension like a bloodhound. You were outside watering your mother’s increasingly judgmental hydrangeas, a task you’d been assigned after the tragic and suspicious death of the previous one, when it happened.
The sun was already warm, the kind of bright coastal morning that made everything look too innocent. Birds chirping. Ocean breeze drifting through the hedges. A peaceful suburban scene. Lies. Across the white fence separating your houses, Mrs. Lee stood on her patio with a basket of laundry and the sharp, narrowed gaze of a woman putting pieces together. You should’ve run. Instead, you smiled weakly.
Mistake. Because at that exact moment, Heeseung stepped outside. Coffee in one hand. Sunglasses. Half-awake and offensively attractive. He looked toward you automatically. You looked anywhere else so fast it nearly caused whiplash. Silence. A beat. Then, Mrs. Lee gasped.
Not a small gasp. A full-body gasp. The kind that meant family history was about to be rewritten. She turned toward her son so fast the laundry basket nearly died for it. “Lee Heeseung!” He stopped mid-sip. Already tired. “Mom, what.”
Her hand flew dramatically toward your side of the fence like she was presenting evidence in court. “What did you do to Y/N?” From your yard, you froze. The watering can continued pouring directly onto your foot. Fantastic. Heeseung blinked. “Mom, what do you mean?” “She isn’t looking you in the eyes!”
Across two properties and approximately three decades of neighborhood gossip, your soul left your body. “Mrs. Lee—” you tried weakly. She was unstoppable. “Do not Mrs. Lee me. I raised you both. I know things.”
Heeseung rubbed a hand down his face. “Mom—” Her eyes widened. Her voice rose. “Did you finally have sex?” Silence. Birds stopped singing. The ocean itself paused. From somewhere inside your house, your father definitely dropped something. And then, Mrs. Lee, with the volume of a woman chosen by God for this exact purpose: “DON’T TELL ME SHE CAN’T LOOK AT YOU BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT YOUR DICK LOOKS LIKE—”
“MOM!”
“Mrs. Lee!” You. Heeseung. Probably the entire coastline. At that point, survival instincts kicked in. You dropped the watering can. Actually dropped it. Water everywhere. Dignity nowhere. And then you ran. Not walked. Not gracefully retreated. Ran. Straight through the back door, up the kitchen steps, past your mother, who was holding coffee and looked far too entertained, and directly into the sanctuary of your bedroom like a Victorian woman fleeing scandal.
Your heart was trying to leave your chest. Your cheeks were on fire. You pressed both hands to your face and groaned into the universe. This was it. This was how you died. Not dramatically. Not beautifully. Killed by secondhand embarrassment and one very loud mother. Worse, far, far worse, you were blushing. Blushing. For a man currently being publicly lectured about sex on a Wednesday morning.
Humiliating. Absolutely unforgivable. Your mother knocked once on your door and entered anyway, because privacy remained a myth. She took one look at you face-down on the bed and smiled like a woman watching reality television. “Well,” she said, setting her coffee down, “that clears some things up.”
“Please leave me here to decompose.”
“I’d love to, but dinner is in two hours.”
Cruelty. Pure cruelty. Later that afternoon, once the heat of your humiliation had cooled from catastrophic to survivable, you made the dangerous mistake of leaving the house. Just a quick walk, you told yourself. Fresh air. Emotional recovery. Absolutely no Heeseung. The universe laughed. Because halfway down the lane near the beach path, there he was. Of course. Standing beneath the shade of the jacaranda trees like some handsome curse. You stopped. He stopped.
For one horrible second, neither of you moved. Then you made the deeply strategic decision to simply walk faster. Ignore. Evade. Survive. Unfortunately, Lee Heeseung had longer legs and audacity. “Y/N.” His voice behind you made your spine straighten. You kept walking. Badly. “Y/N.” Closer now. You stopped because running twice in one day felt like poor character development. Slowly, with all the grace of someone approaching public execution, you turned.
He stood there looking… weirdly nervous. Interesting. Suspicious. Your cheeks immediately remembered this morning and attempted betrayal. No. Absolutely not. You stared at a point somewhere near his left shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you blurted. Fast. Too fast. Like the words had tripped over each other trying to escape.
“For the thing. Earlier. Your mom. I mean—not your mom, obviously she’s lovely, but the yelling and the—” you gestured vaguely at existence “—everything. Sorry.” Excellent. Elegant. A true masterclass in social recovery. You were already preparing to evaporate when he stepped forward and stopped you. Not dramatically. Just enough. A hand lightly catching your wrist. Warm. Immediate regret. “Y/N.” You looked up instinctively. And there it was. Eye contact. Actual, dangerous eye contact. For one second, all the confidence he usually wore like expensive cologne just… vanished. Gone. He blinked once. Twice. And then— “I—uh.”
You stared. Heeseung Lee. Golden boy. Professional menace. Smooth-talking devil of Jeju Island. Stuttering. You would treasure this forever. He cleared his throat. “Sunoo wanted me to give you this.” He shoved a folded paper into your hand like it had personally offended him. “An invite. For Friday. He’s doing some thing—well, not some thing, it’s a party, obviously, and he said if I forgot, he’d kill me, so—” He kept talking. Rambling, actually.
Words continuing in increasingly unnecessary detail while you stood there holding the paper, blinking. Because now he was nervous. Actually nervous. And somehow that was worse. Far worse. You grabbed the invitation. Nodded once. And, choosing self-preservation above all else, turned and walked away at a speed just barely pretending not to be fleeing. Fast. Very fast.
Behind you, his voice stopped. Silence. Then, a soft scoff. Followed by a quiet chuckle, carried lightly by the ocean breeze. You didn’t turn around. Absolutely not. But you could feel it anyway. Him standing there. Watching you speed-walk your dignity down the lane. And annoyingly, your heart was still beating too fast. Friday night arrived heavy with heat.
The kind of heat that sat low against your skin and made the entire town feel slower, softer, dangerous in ways daylight never was. By nine, the sky over Jeju Island had gone ink-dark, the moon hanging pale over the water, and the beach had transformed again into its usual summer ritual, music spilling over the dunes, bonfires burning low and golden, laughter rising and dissolving into the sound of the tide. Sunoo’s parties were never really parties. They were events. Carefully chaotic, full of beautiful people pretending they were not looking at one another too closely. Someone always brought expensive liquor. Someone always made a bad decision. Someone always kissed the wrong person under the excuse of summer.
Tonight, the air felt like it had already decided who that would be. You had tried not to think about it while getting ready. Failed, of course. Because the truth was, the last few days had left something unsettled between you and Heeseung. No more easy arguments. No more familiar rhythm to hide behind. Just glances held too long and silences that felt louder than fights ever had. And the memory of his hand on your wrist.
The way he had looked at you. The way he had lost words. It had followed you all week. So when you dressed tonight, it wasn’t for attention. It was armor. A black dress this time, simpler than the red one, but worse somehow. Thin straps, soft fabric, bare skin at your back, the kind of dress that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already knew it would be. Your hair loose, your mouth glossed, gold at your throat catching the light. You looked like someone about to make a mistake.
And maybe that was the point. By the time you arrived, the party had already spilled toward the shoreline. Music low, drinks in warm hands, familiar faces blurred by firelight and moonlight and too much history. You let yourself be folded into it. Yoonchae pressed a drink into your hand. Yunjin laughed at something dramatic Sunoo was saying near the fire. Jay stood half in the water, arguing with Sunghoon over something neither of them would remember tomorrow. Everything looked normal.
It almost felt normal. Until you saw him. Heeseung stood near the edge of the beach, farther from the fire than everyone else, a drink untouched in his hand, dark shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t talking much. Just watching. And when his eyes found yours, the rest of the beach seemed to pull backward.
There it was again. That terrible, quiet thing. You looked away first. Coward. The night stretched. Another drink. Then another. Enough to soften the edges but not enough to blur them. Enough to make your body warm and your thoughts reckless. Enough to make him impossible to ignore. You felt him before he reached you. That shift in the air.
That awareness. You turned, and there he was. Close. Too close.
“Having fun?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear. You tilted your glass against your lips. “Immensely. I’ve only considered fleeing twice.” His mouth almost smiled. “Only twice?” “I’m pacing myself.” Silence settled between you, but not the easy kind. The kind that waited. The kind that knew.
The ocean stretched black behind him, waves breaking silver under moonlight. Firelight moved over his face in pieces, catching the sharpness of him, the tension in his jaw. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. Not accusing. Worse. Certain. You looked at him then.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you’re just easier to avoid lately.”
His expression shifted. Something quieter. Sharper. “That morning embarrassed you.” Mrs. Lee’s voice echoed in your memory and heat climbed your neck instantly. You looked away toward the water. “Your mother nearly announced your sex life to the entire coastline.”
“She likes you.”
“I nearly died.”
A brief silence. Then, softer, “You ran.” You let out a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”
“No.”
“No,” you agreed. “You’d stand there and make it worse.”
“That does sound like me.” For a second, it almost eased. Almost. Then he said, quieter this time, “That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me.” The wind moved between you, carrying salt and the faint smoke of the fire. No. It wasn’t. Because the truth sat uglier than that. You had been avoiding him because once something shifted, you couldn’t shift it back. Because pretending was harder now. Because every look felt like standing too close to the edge of something.
Because if you let yourself think too hard about him, you would ruin everything. And maybe you already had. You set your drink down in the sand. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do this.” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Do what?” You laughed once, breathless and frustrated. “This. This thing where you look at me like I’m supposed to know what you’re thinking.”
He stepped closer. Moonlight and firelight and trouble. “Maybe you do.” Your pulse stumbled. “You’re impossible.” His voice dropped. “So are you.”
And there it was. Years of it. Every argument. Every summer. Every almost. The balcony. The beach. The car ride. Every second spent pretending there wasn’t something here because admitting it would mean letting it matter. You could hear your own breathing. His too. Close enough now that it blurred. You should walk away.
You should say something cruel, something sharp enough to put distance back between you. Instead, you stayed. Because the truth was simpler than pride. You wanted him. Maybe you always had. And he looked at you like he knew it. Like he had been waiting for you to stop lying. His hand brushed your bare arm, slow enough to feel like a question. You should have answered no. Instead, your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Tell me to stop.” He didn’t. For one suspended second, neither of you moved.
Then he kissed you. It felt like anger, like relief, like something starved, messy and immediate and years too late. Your hands found him without permission, his shirt, the line of his jaw, the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and rough against yours, like he’d thought about this too many times and was done pretending otherwise. There was nothing careful about it. No softness. No hesitation.
Just all the tension finally breaking open. He kissed you like he was trying to win something, and you kissed him like losing had never sounded better. The sound that left him was low, wrecked, against your mouth. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend inside. When he finally pulled back, it was barely, forehead against yours, breath uneven, your lips still brushing when he spoke.
“Fuck.” The word sounded like confession. Then his mouth found yours again, harder this time, and the world narrowed to heat and salt and the way his hands made thinking impossible. He kissed down the corner of your mouth, breath warm against your skin, voice rough and half-lost. “Mm. Fuck, inside. Now.” You should have laughed. Should have reminded him he was arrogant, impossible, and absolutely not carrying you anywhere. Instead, when he lifted you, your legs finding his instinctively, your mouth was still on his.
Still kissing him as he walked. Across the sand. Up the path. Toward his house lit quiet against the night. The world beyond it disappeared. There was only this. His hands. Your heartbeat. The sound of the ocean somewhere behind you like witness. The back door. The hallway. Darkness and breath and mouths and hands and years of wanting collapsing all at once.
He barely got his bedroom door shut before you were against it, the sound of it closing sharp in the dark. Heeseung didn’t waste a second. His mouth was back on yours before the echo faded, hotter, deeper, more desperate than on the beach. One large hand cupped the back of your head, the other already sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping the soft fabric of your black dress like he’d waited years to tear it off.
You gasped into the kiss as your back hit the door again, the wood cool against your bare shoulders. His body pressed flush against yours, hard and burning, the evidence of how much he wanted you unmistakable against your stomach. “Fuck, this dress,” he muttered against your lips, voice gravel-rough. His fingers found the thin straps first, tugging them down your shoulders with impatient hands. The fabric whispered as it slid down your body, pooling at your waist before he pushed it lower, letting it fall completely to the floor in a dark heap around your ankles.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, bare except for the delicate black bra and panties, skin flushed, chest rising fast. His eyes darkened, jaw tight. “Beautiful,” he breathed, almost angry about it. “So fucking beautiful it pisses me off.”
Then his head dipped. His lips found the swell of your breast above the bra, hot and open-mouthed, tongue dragging over the lace. You arched into him with a shaky moan as he mouthed at your nipple through the thin fabric, sucking lightly, then harder, the wet heat of his mouth making your knees weak. His teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.
Your hands trembled as you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in the dark. The metallic clink sounded loud in the quiet room. You shoved his shirt up and off his shoulders, desperate to feel skin, and he helped you, ripping it the rest of the way off and tossing it somewhere behind him.
The moment his belt came undone, your hand slipped inside, palming him over his boxers. He groaned low against your chest, hips twitching forward into your touch. But Heeseung wasn’t letting you set the pace. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pushing them aside without ceremony. Two long fingers dragged through your folds, finding you already slick and aching for him.
“Shit,” he hissed against your nipple, voice vibrating through your skin. “You’re soaked.” You couldn’t even answer properly, only a broken sound escaped as his fingers circled your clit once, twice, before sliding lower and pushing inside you without warning. The stretch was sudden, perfect, and your head fell back against the door with a soft thud.
Heeseung’s mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder now, tongue flicking over the hardened peak while his fingers curled inside you, slow and deep, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. His thumb pressed firm circles against your clit in time with every thrust of his fingers.
Your hand tightened around his cock, stroking him through the fabric as best you could while your other hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in. “Heeseung—” His name came out wrecked, half-moan, half-plea. He lifted his head from your chest, lips shiny, eyes nearly black with want. His fingers didn’t stop moving inside you, steady and relentless.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough. “My name. Like that.” You did, moaning it louder this time as he added a third finger, stretching you open, preparing you for what was coming next. His mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing every sound you made while his fingers fucked you against the door, wet sounds mixing with your ragged breathing.
Your dress was long forgotten on the floor. His pants hung low on his hips. The only thing that mattered now was the burning friction between you, the years of tension finally snapping apart in the dark of his bedroom. And neither of you was nearly done yet. Heeseung’s fingers were still buried deep inside you when he suddenly pulled them out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You barely had time to protest before his hands gripped the back of your thighs.
In one smooth motion, he lifted you, wrapping your legs high around his waist. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you away from the door. The movement pressed his body flush against yours, and the second your weight settled, his pants, already tugged low on his hips, slid further down.
His cock, hot and heavy, shoved straight against your soaked folds. Your panties had been dragged aside earlier and stayed that way. There was nothing between you now except bare, slick skin. The thick length of him slid right between your folds, the head nudging insistently against your entrance with every step he took. You gasped sharply at the sudden, intimate contact.
Heeseung groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck—feel that?” he rasped, hips twitching involuntarily as he walked you across the room. Every movement made his cock drag slowly through your wetness, the head rubbing right over your swollen clit.
The friction was maddening. Skin to skin. Hot. Wet. Overwhelming. You moaned into his neck, legs tightening around him as another wave of arousal slicked between you. Heeseung’s grip on your thighs turned bruising, his breathing ragged against your ear. By the time he reached the bed, both of you were trembling. He laid you down carefully, never fully breaking contact. The moment your back hit the mattress, he followed, settling between your spread thighs. His pants were shoved just low enough. His shirt was long gone. And his cock, thick, flushed, and glistening with your arousal, rested heavy against your pussy.
Heeseung braced himself on one forearm, the other hand guiding his length. He rubbed the head slowly up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass. His eyes found yours in the dim light filtering through the window. Dark, hungry, and strangely vulnerable. You could feel him throbbing against you. Could see the tension in his jaw as he held himself back, waiting. You nodded, barely a breath. “Yes.”
That was all he needed. Heeseung didn’t hesitate. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. The stretch was intense, perfect, overwhelming. A broken moan tore from your throat as your walls clenched tight around his cock. Heeseung let out a low, guttural sound, forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.
“Shit— so tight,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel… fuck.”
For a few heartbeats, he stayed still, letting you adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter around him. Then he started moving. Slow at first, long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust pushed a soft cry from your lips. Heeseung’s rhythm quickly grew harder, more desperate, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the dark room. His mouth found yours again in a messy kiss as he fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with increasing force. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could hit even deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.
You were lost in it, lost in him. The way he filled you. The way he moaned your name against your mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time. The way years of tension finally shattered between you with every brutal, perfect stroke. Heeseung’s pace turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make up for every summer you’d spent pretending this didn’t exist.
And you took every single thrust, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails raking down his back as the pleasure built sharp and fast inside you. Heeseung’s thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his hips slamming against yours with a desperation that bordered on violent. You were so close it hurt, every stroke pushing you right to the edge.
“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned against your mouth, voice strained and raw. “Come with me. Now.” You could only nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching violently around his cock as you came with a broken cry of his name. The intensity made your vision blur, thighs shaking around his waist.
Heeseung followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with one final, deep thrust. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came inside you, hips stuttering, pulsing hot and deep while he rode it out, filling you with every twitch of his cock. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. He collapsed on top of you, chest heaving, sweat-slick skin pressed against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your throat. You could feel his heart hammering wildly against your chest.
Silence. No soft kisses. No gentle words. No confessions whispered in the dark. Just heavy breathing and the slow realization of what you’d just done. After what felt like forever, Heeseung finally pulled out of you with a quiet hiss. He rolled off to the side, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead. You both lay there, naked and still catching your breath. Then, quietly, “This was a mistake.”
Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Yeah,” he answered, just as flat. Liars. Neither of you believed it. Not even for a second. But neither of you said anything more.
Morning came like regret. Too bright. Too warm. Too aware. Sunlight spilled through the curtains in long golden strips, cruel in the way only summer mornings could be, soft and beautiful and entirely uninterested in your emotional devastation. Somewhere outside, the ocean moved lazily against the shore. A gull screamed like it had a personal vendetta. Your head hurt. Not from alcohol. Worse. Memory.
Every second of last night returned in fragments the moment you opened your eyes, his mouth on yours, your back against his door, the way he had said your name like it meant trouble, the heat of it, the impossibility of pretending it hadn’t happened. You stared at the ceiling for a full minute. Then another. Then sat up with the slow dread of a woman remembering she had, in fact, made every bad decision available to her.
Excellent. Fantastic. Character development. Heeseung’s room looked unfairly like him, clean without trying, expensive without showing off, sunlight falling over dark wood and linen sheets and the kind of quiet luxury that made you want to rob him on principle. He was standing by the window, already dressed. Of course he was. Dark T-shirt. Messy hair. Coffee in hand. Looking like the human embodiment of consequences. He turned when he heard you move. And for a second, neither of you said anything.
No teasing. No smugness. Just that strange stillness people had after crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself for dignity. It did nothing. He leaned against the window frame, studying you with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said finally, voice rough from sleep and something else, “this feels healthy.”
You let out one dry laugh. “Absolutely thriving.” His mouth twitched. Dangerous. Because if he smiled right now, if either of you made this softer than it was, the whole thing would collapse into something harder to survive. You got out of bed, collecting your clothes from the floor like evidence. “This was a mistake.” The words landed between you. Again. Too quick. Too sharp. You regretted them immediately. Something in his expression shifted, not hurt, exactly, but enough to make your chest tighten.
He set his coffee down. “Was it?” You pulled your dress on with more focus than necessary. “That depends. Are we pretending this was a one-time lapse in judgment, or are we being honest?” He watched you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Pretending clearly hasn’t worked for us so far.”
No. It hadn’t. Not for years. You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by the weight of it. The almosts. The history. The fact that wanting him had somehow become the least surprising part of all this. Outside, the day kept moving. Waves. Sunlight. People living normal lives. Inside, it felt like standing at the edge of something. You looked at him.
“So what now?” He crossed his arms, considering. And because the universe had a sense of humor, the answer came with the terrifying logic of two people who were entirely too good at making bad ideas sound reasonable. “We don’t do relationships.”
You snorted. “Understatement of the century.” “You said it yourself. No settling down this summer. No complications.” “No emotional disasters.”
“Preferably.” Silence. Then, you said it first. “Friends with benefits.” The words hung there. Ridiculous. Obvious. Inevitable. Heeseung looked at you like he hated how much sense it made. “Very mature.”
“Extremely.”
“Probably a terrible idea.”
“The worst one we’ve had so far.”
Another silence. Then both of you, at the same time, “Okay.” You stared at each other. And somehow, that was the funniest part. Because of course this was how it happened. Not with romance. Not with confessions. With negotiations. You stood, stepping closer now, the air between you still carrying the remains of last night. “Fine,” you said. “But if we’re doing this, there are rules.”
His brow lifted. “Of course there are.”
“Obviously. I’m not running an emotional free-for-all.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, watching you like he already knew this would be entertaining. “Go on, then.”
You started counting on your fingers. “No dates.” “Agreed.”
“No jealousy.” A pause. Small. Noticeable. Then: “Agreed.”
You narrowed your eyes but kept going. “No emotional attachment.” “That sounds healthy.” “It sounds necessary.” He nodded once. “Fine.”
“No sleepovers.” His expression shifted slightly. You ignored it. “No public affection. I’m not becoming beach gossip.”
“Sunoo will be devastated.” “He survives on disappointment.”
A ghost of a smile. You continued. “No calling unless it’s late.”
“That sounds suspiciously specific.”
“It sounds like boundaries.”
“And?”
You took a breath. The final one. The one that mattered. “This ends with summer.” That one stayed in the room longer. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about tonight or last night or whatever this was becoming. It was a deadline. An expiration date. A promise to keep it temporary. Necessary. Smart. A lie, probably. But necessary. Heeseung looked at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ends with summer.”
You hated how that felt. Still, you extended your hand like a business deal, because if you were going to ruin your life, professionalism mattered. “Deal?” He looked down at your hand. Then back at you. Slowly, he took it. Warm. Steady. His fingers closed around yours and something about it felt far less casual than either of you intended. “Deal.”
Too intimate. Too dangerous. You pulled your hand back first. Because someone had to be responsible here, and apparently it was going to be you. You grabbed your bag from the chair and moved toward the door before common sense could return and save either of you. At the threshold, you paused. Didn’t turn around. “Just so we’re clear,” you said, hand on the door, “if this ruins my life, I’m blaming you.”
Behind you, his voice came low and familiar again. “If this ruins your life, it’ll be because you let it.” You smiled despite yourself. Didn’t let him see it. Then opened the door. And walked out into the sunlight like a woman with a plan. Very mature. Very stupid. Exactly the kind of thing summer was made for. It started quietly, almost politely. As if whatever existed between you and Heeseung had agreed to disguise itself as something manageable.
A bad decision with boundaries. A summer arrangement. A temporary indulgence. Nothing more. That was the lie you told yourself the first time he texted you after midnight and you slipped out of your house barefoot, cardigan thrown over bare shoulders, the path between your homes lit only by moonlight and terrible judgment.
That was the lie you told yourself when he opened the back door before you even knocked, like he had been waiting there, like he knew the exact second your resolve would break. That was the lie you told yourself when his hands found your waist before either of you said hello. This is fine. It was not fine. At first, it felt almost easy.
There was a thrill to it, sharp and bright and addictive in the way summer secrets always were. The private satisfaction of sitting through family dinners knowing exactly how his mouth had looked against your skin the night before. The way his knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you reacted, though both of you remembered. It lived in stolen things. In late-night visits when the whole neighborhood had gone quiet, and the only sound was the ocean somewhere beyond the trees and your own heartbeat betraying you on the walk next door.
In the pool house one humid Thursday afternoon, when everyone else had gone sailing and the house sat warm and empty under the sun. Chlorine in the air, sunlight breaking over the water in fractured gold, your bikini still damp against your skin while Heeseung stood too close and said your name like it meant trouble. His hand sliding underneath the strap to touch you then quietly adjusting it back into place as if he hadn’t branded your entire neck in marks.
In parties where you crossed crowded rooms without touching, where his hand at the small of your back lasted only a second but ruined the rest of your night. Where you’d disappear separately and meet somewhere quieter, on balconies, behind the marina, near the dunes where the music couldn’t quite reach and the summer air felt heavier.
Every moment carried that same dangerous illusion: that because no one knew, it somehow meant nothing. You learned each other in fragments. The sound of his laugh when it was real, not performed for a room full of people. The way he got quieter when he was tired. How he always reached for your wrist first, like stopping you there somehow felt more honest than pretending he wasn’t pulling you closer.
How you started recognizing the sound of his car before it even turned into the driveway. You hated that one. Because it meant anticipation. And anticipation implied care. Care was not part of the agreement. So you became very good at pretending. You rolled your eyes when Sunoo accused you of being suspiciously unavailable lately. You blamed “family obligations” when Eunchae asked why you kept vanishing halfway through parties.
You told your mother you were staying in because the heat was unbearable, and then spent the entire afternoon in Heeseung’s room with the windows open, listening to the sea and trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of daylight. That was the dangerous part. Not the sneaking around. Not the kissing. Not even the wanting. Daylight. Because night made everything easier to dismiss. Midnight had always been built for mistakes. But sunlight was honest. It stripped things down. Left no shadows to hide inside.
And lately, you were both finding reasons to stay. A cancelled beach day because it was “too hot.” Skipping a yacht party because neither of you were “in the mood.” Sunday brunch abandoned halfway through because one look across the table had made patience impossible. Your parents thought you were finally becoming mature. Choosing rest. Prioritizing peace. If only they knew. On Tuesday, your mother found you in the kitchen at noon, wearing one of Heeseung’s old shirts thrown hastily over your swimsuit because you had forgotten your own cover-up and panic had terrible fashion sense.
She looked at you. Looked at the shirt. Looked back at you. And simply said, “Interesting.” You nearly died on the spot. “Laundry accident,” you replied immediately.
She sipped her iced tea. “Of course.” You fled before she could smile. It was becoming ridiculous. The kind of ridiculous that should have frightened you more than it did. Because somewhere between the late-night texts and the locked doors and the way he said your name when no one else was around, the rules had started feeling less like boundaries and more like decorations.
No sleepovers, and yet you had woken up in his bed twice this week. No emotional attachment, and yet you knew when he was in a bad mood before he said a word. No jealousy, and yet when a girl from the marina laughed too long at something he said, your entire evening soured without permission. This is fine. It was not fine. And the worst part was how natural it all felt. Like maybe this had been waiting for years. Like every summer before this had only been rehearsal.
One evening, stretched beside him on the pool house couch while golden light slipped slowly across the floorboards, you listened to the distant sounds of your families having dinner on separate patios, laughter drifting across the hedges, glasses clinking, the whole world carrying on politely while the two of you existed here in the quiet center of your own disaster. His hand rested lazily over your waist. Your head against his shoulder. Too comfortable.
Far too comfortable. You should have left an hour ago. Instead, you stayed. Because leaving meant acknowledging it. Because staying meant pretending this was still simple. You traced absent patterns against his arm and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. Summer had always felt like this, beautiful enough to make bad ideas look romantic. Temporary enough to make them feel safe. You told yourself that was all this was.
A season. A secret. Something that would end when the weather changed. But even then, with the evening light soft around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, some quieter part of you already knew the truth. This was never going to end cleanly. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came when you felt his hand sliding between your legs. Later, neither of you said much.
The room was quiet in that intimate, ruined way it only became after too much honesty, sheets tangled at your legs, the windows cracked open to let in the salt-heavy night air, the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead like time had slowed just for this. Outside, summer kept moving. Waves somewhere beyond the trees. A car passing faintly down the road. Someone laughing in the distance, far enough away to belong to another world entirely.
Here, everything felt still. You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, your body heavy with exhaustion, skin still warm, his sheets twisted around your legs like evidence. Your hair was a mess. Your thoughts were worse. This had become dangerous. Not because of the sex. That part had been inevitable the second either of you admitted wanting it. No, the dangerous part was afterward. This. The silence that didn’t feel awkward. The way neither of you rushed to leave. The softness that slipped in when no one was paying attention.
You hated softness. Softness made people stupid. Beside you, Heeseung was quieter than usual, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, his breathing finally even after the storm of the last hour. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Less polished. Less like the version of him the rest of the world got.
Just him. That was somehow worse. You turned your head slightly, watching him. His eyes were closed. For once, he wasn’t performing anything. No teasing, no arrogance, no carefully placed smirk like armor. Just tired. Real. You wondered if he knew how dangerous that was too. As if sensing it, he spoke without opening his eyes. “If you’re staring because you’ve finally admitted I’m right about everything, I’d like it formally documented.”
Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I was actually wondering how someone can be this annoying while unconscious.” He opened one eye. “Talent.”
“Curse.”
“Chemistry.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the ceiling, but the smile betrayed you anyway. Silence returned. Softer this time. The kind that settled around people who had stopped trying so hard to fill it. You should leave. That thought came and went three separate times. You should absolutely get up, find your dress, reclaim your dignity, and walk back to your own house like a woman with standards and emotional boundaries.
Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Because moving felt like too much effort. Because his room was warm and the ocean breeze through the window made everything drowsy. Because your body had given up on principles sometime around midnight. Because leaving would make this feel real. And staying let you pretend it was still just summer.
Your eyes grew heavier. The last thing you really registered was the lamp on his bedside table casting soft amber light across the room, and the faint smell of salt and clean linen and him. Then sleep came quietly. No dramatic realization. No final declaration. Just exhaustion winning where common sense had failed. Sometime later, minutes, maybe an hour, you felt movement.
Half-asleep, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, you registered the mattress shifting, the lamp clicking off, the room falling deeper into darkness. Then warmth. A blanket pulled over you. Careful. Quiet. His hand brushing lightly against your shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.
You should have opened your eyes. Should have made a joke. Broken the moment before it could become one. You didn’t. You stayed still, breathing slow, pretending sleep because somehow that felt safer than acknowledging tenderness. In the dark, his voice came low and almost amused. “Rule number four,” he murmured.
No sleepovers. You felt him settle beside you. The mattress dipped. The silence deepened. And then, after a beat, “Terrible at following instructions.” You smiled into the pillow where he couldn’t see it. Outside, the ocean moved patiently against the shore, summer stretching endlessly into the night. And there, in Lee Heeseung’s bed, beneath his sheets and your own very bad decisions, you fell asleep. Oops.
Something shifted after the sleepover. Not dramatically. No confessions, no declarations, no grand cinematic moment where either of you admitted the obvious and ruined everything properly. Worse. It changed quietly. In the spaces between things. And somehow, that made it far more dangerous. Because sex was easy to dismiss. Sex could be blamed on summer, on heat, on proximity, on years of unresolved tension finally finding somewhere to go. Sex was physical. Temporary. Conveniently stupid.
But softness, softness was treason. It started with coffee. You were standing in his kitchen one morning, barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies because your own clothes were somewhere upstairs and dignity had long since packed its bags. The house was still half-asleep, sunlight slipping pale and warm through the windows, the kind of slow summer morning that made everything feel deceptively gentle.
You were reaching for the coffee tin when he slid a mug across the counter toward you without looking. Iced. Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly right. You stared at it. Then at him. He was leaning against the opposite counter, scrolling through something on his phone with the dangerous calm of a man who had no idea he’d just committed emotional violence. “You remembered.”
He looked up. At the mug. At you. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You complain about bad coffee like it’s a moral issue.” You narrowed your eyes. “It is a moral issue.” He smiled into his own cup. That was the problem. Not remembering. How natural it felt. As if of course he knew. As if of course you noticed. As if this was normal. It wasn’t. Nothing about this was normal. And yet the days kept folding around it anyway.
He started bringing you food without asking. Not in some dramatic, romantic gesture way. Nothing obvious enough to name. Just showing up at the beach with the exact sandwich you liked because he “happened to be near the deli.” Leaving fries on the passenger seat when he picked you up because you’d skipped lunch and he could always tell when you did. A bottle of water handed to you silently after too much sun and too much pretending at some yacht party, his hand brushing yours for only a second before he walked away.
Little things. The kind people noticed. The kind people definitely noticed. By the second week of July, your friends had reached collective suspicion. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon at the beach club, where everyone had collapsed under umbrellas with overpriced drinks and varying levels of sunburn. Sunoo was the first to say it, because of course he was. He lowered his sunglasses dramatically and pointed between you and Heeseung like a detective solving a murder. “You two are weird.”
You didn’t even look up from your book. “That is the least shocking thing anyone has ever said.”
“No,” Yunjin cut in, leaning forward, “like weird weird. You’re not fighting.”
That got your attention. You looked up. Across from you, Heeseung was stretched lazily in a chair, sunglasses on, looking entirely too comfortable for someone under investigation.
Yoonchae nodded. “It’s unsettling. I miss the hostility. It was romantic.” Jay, who treated gossip like a legal proceeding, added, “The last thing you said to him that even resembled an insult was, and I quote—” He lifted a hand, reciting with criminal accuracy: ‘Don’t stay in the ocean too long, your wig might fall off.’ Silence. You blinked.
Sunghoon, traitor, added quietly, “That wasn’t even an insult. That was concern wrapped in a taunt.” You hated all of them.
“It was a warning,” you said.
“Because you care,” Sunoo sang.
“Because baldness is a public issue.” Across the table, Heeseung laughed. Actually laughed. Low and easy and far too pleased with himself. And you, idiot that you were, smiled back before you could stop it. The entire group gasped like Victorian women witnessing an exposed ankle. Eunchae clutched her chest. “Oh my god. They’re smiling at each other. We’ve lost them.”
You buried your face in your drink. This was unbearable. But the truth sat heavier than embarrassment. Because they were right. You weren’t fighting anymore. Not really. The sharpness had softened at the edges, and in its place had come something quieter. More dangerous.
You knew when he was lying. It was always in his shoulders first, too relaxed, too deliberate. Like if he made himself look calm enough, no one would notice. And he knew when you were upset before you said a word. Sometimes before you did. Like the night you came back from dinner with your parents, frustrated and restless and not wanting to explain why, only to find him sitting on the hood of his car outside your house.
He took one look at you and said, simply, “What happened?” No performance. No jokes. Just knowing. You sat beside him without answering, and he handed you fries in silence. That was worse than comfort. That was intimacy. And intimacy was not part of the agreement. Neither was the fact that you kept ending up in his clothes.
His hoodie mostly. Dark gray, too big, sleeves falling over your hands, smelling faintly like him and expensive detergent and whatever impossible thing made you feel too warm when you wore it home at sunrise. The first time, you’d told yourself it was practical. The second time, convenient. By the fifth, even you had stopped pretending. One evening, walking back from his house with that hoodie wrapped around you and the sun barely rising over the water, you caught your reflection in a neighbor’s window and had the deeply humiliating realization that you looked happy.
Not smug. Not victorious. Happy. You nearly turned around and walked directly into the sea. And then there was jealousy. The rule neither of you talked about because talking about it would make it real. No jealousy. Very simple. A lie, obviously. It surfaced one night at another party on Jay’s yacht. Some guy, tall, forgettable, rich in the boring way, spent too long talking to you by the bar. Leaning in too close. Laughing too easily.
You were polite. Mostly. But from across the room, you felt it before you saw it. Heeseung, watching. Still. Cold. Not dramatic, that would’ve been easier, just quiet. His expression shuttered in that way he did when he was trying very hard not to let something show, and suddenly the rest of the night tasted wrong. Later, when you found him outside near the dock, the air heavy with salt and dark water below, you said it before you could stop yourself.
“You’re being weird.” He leaned against the railing, gaze on the ocean. “I’m always weird.”
“Not like this.”
A long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, “Nothing’s wrong.” You laughed softly. There it was, the lie. You stepped closer, “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”
Finally, he looked at you. Moonlight catching the edges of him. That familiar unreadable expression. “No,” he said. “You just like thinking you can.” You folded your arms. “And you like pretending I’m wrong.”
His jaw shifted. A tell. You noticed. Of course you noticed. For a second, it almost cracked. Whatever this was. Whatever sat under all the rules and pretending and carefully chosen silence. But then he straightened. Looked away. And the wall went back up. “It means nothing,” he said. The words landed heavier than they should have. Because both of you knew he wasn’t talking about the guy. He was talking about all of it. This. You. Him.
The arrangement. The softness. The way neither of you were following your own rules anymore. Nothing. You stared at him for a long moment, the ocean loud in the silence between you. Then you nodded once. “Right.” A lie, both his and yours, both of you standing there in the warm dark of summer, pretending not to bleed where it hurt.
It means nothing, and somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said everything, the silence between you lingered for a second too long. Warm night air moved around you, carrying the salt of the ocean and the distant hum of music from the party still going on behind the marina. The dock swayed faintly beneath your feet, water dark and endless below, moonlight breaking silver across the surface.
You stood there with his words still sitting heavy in your chest. It means nothing. Such a simple sentence. Such a stupid, transparent lie, but you hated that it hurt. More than that, you hated that he knew it hurt. That somewhere beneath all the arrogance and all the careful pretending, he knew exactly where to place the knife. And still, somehow, neither of you left. Because leaving would mean ending the conversation. Because staying meant there was still something unfinished here.
You folded your arms tighter, more for protection than attitude. “Right,” you said again, quieter this time. Heeseung looked at you like he wanted to say something else, something better, or worse. You could see it in the hesitation. In the way his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. In the tension sitting sharp in his shoulders, like even he was tired of performing indifference.
But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. Instead, after a long moment, he stepped closer. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to be familiar. And maybe that was the problem. The familiarity of it. The way your body recognized him before your mind had time to argue. His hand brushed your arm lightly. A thoughtless gesture. Comforting. Soft. Dangerous. You should have stepped back. Instead, you stayed still.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his body had made the decision before his brain could stop it, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Careless. Tender. The kind of kiss that belonged to something entirely different than whatever this was supposed to be. And the second it happened, you both froze. Completely, the world stopped, the ocean, the music, your heartbeat, everything. Because that, that was not in the rules. Not even close. No public affection. No emotional attachment. No softness.
And forehead kisses? Forehead kisses were practically emotional terrorism. You stared at him. He stared at you. His hand was still lightly on your arm. Your lips parted, but no sound came out because honestly, what exactly was the appropriate response to being emotionally assassinated on a dock? Apparently, the answer was, a dramatic choking noise.
You both turned. Too late. Because standing ten feet away, carrying drinks and what looked like the absolute time of their lives, were your friends. All of them. Sunoo. Sunghoon. Jay. Eunchae. Yunjin. Yoonchae. Witnesses. To your death. For one beat, nobody moved. Then Yunjin made a sound like a Victorian woman seeing a man’s ankle and clutched her chest.
“No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No. No, I refuse.”
And with all the theatrical commitment of a woman born for performance, she dramatically dropped backward onto Eunchae. “I’ve fainted,” she announced to the night. “I’m dead. Tell my family I died right.” Eunchae, instead of helping, was already doubled over laughing. Actually laughing. Tears in her eyes. Full-body betrayal. Jay turned away entirely, hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to remain dignified. Sunghoon stood there in complete silence, which for him was basically screaming.
Sunoo looked like he had ascended to another spiritual plane. And Yoonchae, traitor, elegant, terrifying, just slowly raised one eyebrow and said, “Well.” You wanted the dock to collapse. Immediately. Preferably with you on it. Beside you, Heeseung cleared his throat with the deeply haunted expression of a man realizing public humiliation was hereditary.
“It was nothing.” Silence. Then six people spoke at once. “Nothing?” Sunoo repeated, scandalized. “You kissed her forehead!” Eunchae shouted.
“That’s husband behavior,” Yunjin yelled from her fake death position. Jay pointed accusingly. “That is not casual. Casual men do not forehead kiss.”
Sunghoon, finally contributing, said simply, “That was intimate.” Which, somehow, was worse. You covered your face with both hands. This was how legends ended. Not with dignity. Not with grace. But with your friends conducting a public trial over a forehead kiss. Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, visibly regretting every life choice that had led him here. “It was automatic.”
“A Freudian slip,” Sunoo said immediately.
“A cry for help,” Yunjin added.
“A confession,” Eunchae gasped.
“A legal declaration,” Jay said.
“A marriage proposal,” Yoonchae finished.
You made a strangled noise. “Please stop talking.”
“No,” everyone replied. Across the chaos, you finally looked at Heeseung. Really looked. And annoyingly, he looked just as wrecked as you felt. His composure cracked at the edges. His usual confidence gone. His ears, very slightly, red. Interesting. Very interesting. For one brief second, despite the humiliation, despite the six idiots currently planning your wedding in real time, you almost smiled. Because he was embarrassed. Actually embarrassed. And somehow, that made the whole thing worse. Or better. Definitely worse.
He looked back at you. Something unspoken passing there. Something quiet and dangerous. Then, because the universe refused to let either of you have peace, Sunoo threw an arm dramatically into the air and declared to the ocean, “THEY’RE IN LOVE AND THEY’RE MAKING IT EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.” You and Heeseung, at the exact same time: “Shut up, Sunoo.” Which only made everyone laugh harder.
—
The yacht looked like something built for people who had never been told no. White and gleaming and impossibly large, anchored just far enough from shore to feel exclusive, close enough for everyone to pretend it was casual. Music spilled across the water in low, expensive waves. Champagne sweated in silver buckets. Someone was laughing too loudly near the upper deck, and somewhere below, the ocean moved dark and patient against the hull, like it had seen this all before. Summer in Jeju Island had always been performative, but yacht parties were theater. Everyone arrived looking like they had something to prove. Girls in silk and gold, boys in linen and old money and inherited arrogance. Sunglasses even after sunset. Bare shoulders catching the last of the light. Beautiful people pretending they weren’t waiting for someone specific to notice them.
You hated how much you fit into it. Tonight, the dress was white. Soft and dangerous. The kind of dress that looked innocent until someone stood too close. Thin straps, bare back, fabric skimming your skin like seawater. Your hair loose from the salt air, gold at your throat, your mouth glossed and unhelpful. You looked like a mistake dressed as a good idea. Maybe that was the point. By the time you stepped onto the deck, the sun was already beginning to sink, everything dipped in amber, the ocean turning molten and gold around you. The air smelled like sunscreen, champagne, and money.
Sunoo spotted you first, of course. He stood near the bar, already three drinks deep into being everyone’s problem, and his eyes widened slowly as you approached. “Oh,” he said softly, like someone witnessing divine intervention. “Someone is about to ruin a life.” You took the champagne he handed you. “Only one? I’m aiming higher.”
He smiled, but it faded quickly when his gaze shifted past your shoulder. There. At the far end of the deck. Heeseung. Talking to Jay, drink in hand, sleeves rolled, dark shirt open at the throat in that infuriating way he never seemed aware of. The wind moved through his hair. The sunset caught against the sharp line of his profile. And then he looked up. Found you. Paused. There was always that moment. That small, suspended second where everything else fell away and it was just this, the recognition, the tension, the memory of every version of yourselves that had led here. His gaze moved slowly.
Not rushed. Not subtle. Like being touched without contact. And even from across the deck, you felt it. Something in your chest pulling too tight. It would have been easier if he looked away first. He didn’t. Neither did you. Until Yunjin bumped your shoulder lightly and saved you from your own poor decisions. “Don’t do that,” she murmured. You blinked. “Do what?” She took a sip of her drink, watching the sunset like she wasn’t dismantling your life. “Look at him like that. It makes the rest of us feel like unwilling participants.”
You laughed, but it sounded thinner than you meant it to. Because tonight, something already felt wrong. Not wrong. Fragile. Like standing barefoot on glass and pretending it was only sand. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of it. The weeks of pretending. The rules bent past recognition. The softness neither of you spoke about. The forehead kiss that still sat in your chest like a bruise. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe you were tired. Tired of pretending this was casual. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of him saying it meant nothing when it had started to feel like everything.
So tonight, you decided to be reckless. Not because you wanted someone else. Because you wanted him to react. Which, in hindsight, was the kind of decision people wrote warnings about. Minjae found you first. Again. Pretty enough. Easy enough. Familiar enough to be useful. He leaned against the rail beside you while the yacht drifted slow under the dying sun, talking about some party in Seoul, some mutual friend, something forgettable. His hand brushed your arm when he laughed.
You let it. You smiled. You leaned closer. You let the dress do half the work and the silence do the rest. And all the while, you could feel it. Heeseung. Across the deck. Watching. It wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t storming across the yacht like some jealous cliché. Worse. He was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that meant all the dangerous things were happening underneath. You knew him well enough now to recognize it.
The way his shoulders went too rigid. The way his mouth flattened when he was holding something back. The way he stopped pretending to enjoy the party. You kept flirting. Because cruelty, apparently, was a love language. By the time the sky had gone violet and the city lights glittered faintly across the water, the tension had become its own living thing. Heavy.
Everyone noticed. Sunoo kept looking between you and Heeseung like he was watching a live sports event. Eunchae physically winced every time Minjae touched your arm. Jay had the expression of a man reviewing poor investment choices. And Heeseung, he stopped speaking entirely. You should have stopped. You didn’t. Because part of you wanted him angry. Wanted proof. Wanted something undeniable.
You found it when you excused yourself to the lower deck for air. The music faded there, softer beneath the sound of the water. The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet. Moonlight stretched silver over the sea, and the world felt quieter, suspended between one decision and the next. You barely had time to breathe before he was there.
“Seriously?” His voice behind you was low. Controlled. Too controlled. You turned slowly. He stood in the narrow corridor of moonlight and shadow, jaw tight, eyes dark enough to make the night feel thinner around you. There it was. Finally. You leaned back against the railing, crossing your arms like your pulse wasn’t trying to leave your body. “Are we opening with accusations? Very romantic.” His laugh was short. Humorless. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re late. I thought jealousy would get you here faster.” That landed. You saw it. The flicker in his expression. The anger sharpened by something much worse. He stepped closer. “You think this is funny?”
“No,” you said quietly. “I think you don’t get to care.” The ocean moved below you. Dark and endless. He stopped. For one second, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. “And why not?” The question came softer than you expected. Not angry, not sharp, honest, and that was worse, because there was an answer. A real one. Because caring meant naming this. Because naming this meant breaking it. Because if he said it first, if either of you said it first, there would be no way back to pretending.
You looked at him and saw all of it at once, the boy you had spent every summer fighting, the man standing in front of you now, the terrible inevitability of wanting someone you were never supposed to want this much. Your throat felt tight. “Because,” you said, and even your own voice sounded unfamiliar, “you were the one who said it meant nothing.” Something in him shifted. Like regret. Like anger turned inward. He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t step back. There was nowhere to go.
Moonlight on the water. Champagne still bitter on your tongue. His hand braced against the railing beside you, trapping you there without touching. His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “And you believed me?” Your heart stuttered. Because no. No, you hadn’t. That had been the problem. You had heard the lie and let him keep it because the truth was too dangerous.
You looked up at him, and the space between you felt like standing in the ocean during a storm, like drowning and floating and drowning and floating, never knowing which one would win. “Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered.
He stared at you like he was trying to decide whether honesty would ruin him. Maybe it would. Maybe it already had. His hand lifted, slow enough to stop, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt far too intimate for a yacht full of people and all the lies between you. His mouth was only inches from yours. And when he spoke, it was barely sound at all. “I think,” he said, “I stopped being careful with you a long time ago.”
Not quite a confession. Worse. Because it was true. And truth, between the two of you, had always been the most dangerous thing of all. He stood there for one suspended second after saying it, like even he was startled by the sound of his own honesty. The yacht rocked gently beneath you, the ocean below black and endless, moonlight breaking itself into silver shards across the water. Somewhere above, the music still played, muffled now, distant, belonging to another life entirely. Laughter drifted from the upper deck like something from far away, from people who had not just stepped to the edge of something irreversible.
You could still feel the words between you. I stopped being careful with you a long time ago. It settled into your chest like saltwater, slow, stinging, impossible to separate from your own blood. For weeks, maybe years, the two of you had been circling this. Pretending desire was just annoyance sharpened into habit. Pretending every almost was accidental. Pretending the way he looked at you meant less than it did. And now here it was. Not clean. Not graceful. Just true. You should have said something. Something intelligent. Something devastating. Something that would let you keep whatever remained of your pride. Instead, your body betrayed you first.
Your hand found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like instinct, like gravity. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until he looked down at your hand and something dark and quiet moved across his face. His restraint snapped so softly you almost missed it. Then he took your wrist. And before you could think, before either of you could retreat back into irony and self-preservation, he pulled you with him. Up the narrow staircase. Past the low spill of music and careless laughter. Through the blur of warm bodies and champagne and summer pretending to be harmless.
You barely registered the startled glance Sunoo gave you as Heeseung walked past him without a word, your hand still in his like a confession neither of you were ready to speak aloud. The hallway inside the yacht was cooler, quieter. White walls. Dim lights. The hum of the engine beneath your feet. Somewhere, a door shut. Somewhere else, the sea kept breathing against the hull.
He kept walking. You followed because there was no version of this where you didn’t. Because at some point, resisting him had become another kind of surrender. At the end of the corridor, he stopped. A private deck. Smaller. Hidden from the party. Open to the night. Only the ocean. Only the moon. Only the two of you and everything you were pretending not to destroy.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. Silence. He turned. For a moment, neither of you moved. The wind came off the water cool against your overheated skin, lifting your hair, carrying salt into the space between you. You could hear your own breathing. His too. He looked at you like a man standing too close to fire and knowing he was about to step in anyway.
And suddenly, it felt like standing at the edge of land. Like the last piece of solid ground beneath your feet. Like one more step would mean surrendering to something larger than either of you, something tidal and reckless and impossible to survive unchanged. You crossed that distance first. Or maybe he did. Later, you wouldn’t know. Only that one second there was space, and the next there was none. His mouth found yours like gravity.
Not gentle. Not hesitant. Like being pulled under. The kiss hit you like cold water and summer lightning, sharp, immediate, consuming. Every part of you lit at once, every defense dissolving so quickly it felt humiliating. His hands were at your waist, your neck, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, only that he needed to. You kissed him back like drowning. Like if you let go, you’d wash out to sea. His mouth tasted like champagne and salt and every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make. It was anger and relief and hunger all tangled together, all the years between you collapsing into something hot and breathless and overdue.
The world tilted. Or maybe it was just the boat. Or maybe it was him. You had the absurd thought that this was what slipping away from land felt like, that moment your feet stopped touching the ocean floor and suddenly there was nothing holding you up but instinct and want. Floating. Falling. The same thing, sometimes. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, and the sound that left him against your mouth was low, wrecked, like even he was surprised by the force of this.
You understood. Because kissing Heeseung felt like melting. Like sun-warmed skin slipping beneath water. Like losing the shape of yourself. Like becoming something softer, stranger, more dangerous. He kissed you like he was angry at how much he wanted to. You kissed him like you were tired of pretending you didn’t. And somewhere in the middle of it, all your carefully built walls, your rules, your boundaries, your clever little exits, went under like they had never been there at all.
His forehead rested against yours for one brief second, both of you breathing like you’d been running, like maybe you had. His thumb brushed your cheek. A tenderness so small it almost hurt more than the kiss. When he spoke, his voice was rough enough to sound like truth. “You make this impossible.” You smiled, breathless, your lips still close enough to steal.
“So do you.” Then his mouth was on yours again, and whatever was left of reason disappeared with the tide.
—
The rain started sometime after midnight. By morning, Jeju Island had turned silver. The sky hung low and heavy over the coastline, clouds blurring the horizon until the ocean and the storm became one endless sheet of grey-blue. Rain slid steadily down the windows in soft crooked lines, tapping against rooftops and palm leaves and the quiet little streets of the neighborhood with the kind of patience only summer storms possessed.
Everything felt slower in the rain. Softer. The beach emptied. Yacht plans were cancelled. The marina sat abandoned except for boats rocking gently against their docks like sleeping animals. For the first time all summer, the town stopped performing. And somehow, that felt dangerous too. You woke late to the sound of thunder somewhere far away, curled beneath your sheets with damp air drifting through the cracked window. Your phone rested beside your pillow, screen lighting softly against the grey room.
A text.
power’s out at our house.
Then, a second later:
mom says yours still has electricity
And finally:
tragic. devastating. i’ll survive somehow.
You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then sighed. Because despite everything, despite all your promises to yourself about boundaries and self-preservation and not becoming the kind of girl who let boys ruin her summer, you were already smiling. An hour later, Heeseung arrived at your front door soaked from the rain.
Not drenched dramatically. Just enough that dark strands of hair clung messily to his forehead, rainwater catching along the line of his jaw and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. The storm had turned the whole world softer around the edges, and standing there beneath the muted grey sky, he looked less like the polished golden boy everyone knew and more like something real. Your mother let him in with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Oh good,” she said brightly, already walking back toward the kitchen. “Now you can both stop pretending you don’t miss each other.”
“Mom,” you warned. Heeseung coughed into his sleeve to hide a smile. Rain followed him inside in traces, the smell of wet pavement and ocean wind clinging faintly to him as he stepped into the warmth of the house. For a moment, neither of you moved. No parties. No music. No late-night tension sharp enough to cut through.
Just quiet. The kind that made you suddenly aware of ordinary things. The soft ticking of rain against the windows. The oversized sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders. The fact that he looked at home here. That realization unsettled you more than it should have. The day unfolded slowly after that. Not exciting. Not dramatic. And maybe that was why it mattered.
You spent most of the afternoon in the living room while the storm darkened outside, half-watching terrible movies neither of you cared about. Your legs stretched across the couch beneath a blanket, his shoulder brushing yours every so often in that absent, thoughtless way intimacy sometimes arrived. At some point, your mother disappeared upstairs with a suspicious smile and the kind of timing that deserved investigation.
The rain deepened. Hours passed unnoticed. You learned strange things about each other in the quiet. Not the big things. Not the carefully curated versions people offered at parties. Small things. Real things. Heeseung hated peaches because he got sick eating too many as a kid one summer. You used to fake injuries during tennis lessons because you hated losing more than you liked sports.
He still remembered the time you punched a boy at thirteen for making Eunchae cry near the marina. “You broke his nose,” he recalled from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.
“He deserved worse.” “You were terrifying.” “I still am.” A smile touched his mouth then. Soft. Unthinking. Rainlight filled the room pale and blue around him, and suddenly the years between childhood and now felt strangely thin. Like maybe you had always been circling each other. Like maybe every version of yourselves had led here eventually. Later, thunder rolled low across the coastline while you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, flipping through an old photo album your mother had abandoned on the shelf years ago.
Bad idea. There were photographs everywhere. Sunburnt summers. Beach days. Bonfires. All of you impossibly young. You paused on one picture, eight years old, missing front teeth, shoving Heeseung into the sand while he laughed hard enough to blur in the frame. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “We look awful.”
“We look happy,” he corrected quietly. The room fell still after that. Outside, rainwater slid endlessly down the glass. Inside, something shifted. Not loudly, just enough to feel it. He sat down beside you on the floor, close enough that warmth gathered between you naturally. The photo album rested forgotten between your knees. And for the first time since this began, it didn’t feel like war. No tension sharpened into cruelty. No sarcasm waiting like a weapon.
Just this strange, aching softness neither of you knew how to hold. You turned another page slowly. Another photograph. Older this time. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A summer party. You standing near the water laughing at something outside the frame while Heeseung looked at you instead. Not the camera. You. Your breath caught slightly. “You kept this?” He glanced down at the picture. Then away. Your pulse stumbled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His jaw shifted faintly. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Turn it into a joke. Deflect the way he always did whenever things came too close to honesty. Instead, his voice came quieter than you expected. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve spent a long time trying not to.”
The rain outside seemed to hush around the words. You looked at him carefully. Something vulnerable flickered there beneath all the practiced ease. Something raw enough to make your own chest ache in response. And suddenly you understood something terrifying, this was no longer just desire. Desire was simpler.
This, whatever this was becoming, had roots. Deep ones. You looked back down at the photograph because meeting his eyes felt too dangerous. “I used to hate summers here,” you admitted softly. The confession surprised even you. He looked at you then. “Why?” You traced your thumb along the edge of the page.
“Because everything always ended.” The words settled heavily between you, summer romances, bonfires, fireworks, warm nights, every beautiful thing in Jeju Island came with an expiration date stitched into it from the beginning, and suddenly, without meaning to, you had said something true. Something too true. You felt him shift closer beside you. Not touching. Almost worse.
For one suspended moment, it felt like standing at the edge of another confession, like both of you could ruin yourselves completely if you kept talking, so neither of you did. Cowards.
By evening, the storm had softened into a quiet drizzle. The whole house glowed warm against the rain-dark world outside, lamps casting amber light across the living room while distant thunder faded somewhere beyond the ocean. You’d lost track of time entirely. Dinner had happened somewhere in between conversation and silence and accidental touches that lasted too long. And now he stood near the front door pulling his sweatshirt back on while you lingered barefoot by the hallway, neither of you acknowledging how reluctant this felt. The rain tapped softly against the windows.
He looked tired. You probably did too. For one dangerous second, you almost asked him to stay. You could feel the question there, hovering at the back of your throat. Stay, not because of sex, not because of loneliness. Just, stay, and somehow that made it infinitely more frightening, across from you, he hesitated too, his hand resting on the doorknob, eyes on yours. Like he almost wanted to ask, but neither of you moved.
Because asking would mean admitting this had already crossed into something neither of you knew how to survive. So instead, he opened the door. Cool rain air slipped inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. Not later. Tomorrow. Something about that felt dangerously permanent. You nodded once.
“Yeah.” He left. And somehow the house felt emptier after. You stood there for a long moment listening to the rain before your mother appeared behind you carrying two mugs of tea. She looked toward the door knowingly, then back at you. “You know,” she said lightly, “summer’s ending soon.”
The words hit like cold water. Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too warm. Your heartbeat stumbled somewhere beneath your ribs. Because for the first time all summer, the ending no longer felt theoretical. It felt real. And terrifyingly close.
Summer began leaving in pieces. Not all at once. That would have been kinder. Instead, Jeju Island unraveled slowly, quietly, like a tide pulling back from shore before anyone realized the water was disappearing. The marina grew emptier first. Boats vanished from their slips one by one, carried back toward cities and obligations and real lives waiting elsewhere. Beach houses that had glowed warm every night for months slowly darkened at the windows. Suitcases appeared in entryways. Goodbyes drifted through the neighborhood in soft, temporary promises.
See you next summer.
As if next summer was guaranteed. As if people stayed the same long enough for promises like that to survive. The air changed too, still warm, but thinner somehow, the evenings arriving earlier, sunsets softer, touched already by the melancholy of something ending, even the ocean looked different, darker blue, quieter, less forgiving. You hated noticing it, because noticing meant acknowledging the clock, and the clock meant him, everything suddenly seemed measured in remaining time, three more Friday nights, two more yacht parties, a handful of mornings left before the entire town dissolved back into memory.
Your arrangement had always come with an expiration date stitched into it. Ends with summer. At the beginning, the rule had felt safe, now it felt like standing beneath a blade waiting to fall. You started sleeping badly after that, not because of him, because of the way he had started looking at you. More carefully, more openly, like somewhere along the way, he had grown tired of pretending.
It happened in small moments at first, his hand lingering too long at your waist before letting go, the way his gaze searched for you automatically in crowded rooms now, no hesitation, no embarrassment about it, how he no longer acted surprised by tenderness, as though caring had become instinctive, dangerous, dangerous things. And worst of all, he had stopped treating this like it was temporary.
You noticed it one evening at the beach. The sky had gone pale gold with approaching sunset, the shoreline nearly empty except for scattered locals and gulls drifting low over the water. You sat wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled loosely to your chest while the tide crept closer across the sand. Heeseung sat beside you quietly, one arm draped over his bent knee, watching the horizon.
Comfortable silence stretched between you. The kind that should have felt peaceful. Instead, it terrified you, because this wasn’t supposed to become comfortable. Comfort implied permanence. Permanence implied loss. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured eventually.
You glanced at him. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you get this look on your face when you’re spiraling.” You looked away too quickly. The ocean breathed in and out before you answered. “I’m not spiraling.”
“You started reorganizing the snacks in my kitchen alphabetically yesterday.”
“That was stress cleaning.”
“That was psychotic.” A faint smile touched your mouth despite yourself. His gaze softened when he saw it. There it was again, that look, something gentler, something infinitely more frightening. Your chest tightened.
You stood abruptly before the feeling could settle properly. “I should go.” The shift was immediate. You saw him notice it in real time, the distance, the retreat, his expression changed carefully, like someone stepping onto unstable ground. “You just got here.”
“I know.” Rain clouds gathered faintly over the horizon, turning the water darker beneath the evening light. You avoided his eyes while brushing sand from your legs, because lately every time you looked at him too long, something inside you started giving way, and you couldn’t afford that, not now, not with endings everywhere. The drive home was quiet. not tense, worse, careful, as though both of you could feel something fraying between your hands and neither knew how to stop pulling. After that, it became impossible not to notice. How often he reached for you now. How naturally your lives had begun folding together. How every goodbye felt heavier than the last.
And the more real he became, the more frightened you grew. So you started pulling away, subtly at first, taking longer to answer texts, leaving earlier, skipping late-night visits with excuses thin enough that even you didn’t believe them, too tired, family dinner, headache, lies, all of them, because the truth sounded too ugly to admit aloud: You were beginning to love him, and loving someone with an end date felt like volunteering for heartbreak in advance. He noticed immediately, of course he did, he had always known you too well.
One night at Sunoo’s house, while music drifted softly through crowded rooms and everyone else played cards half-drunk around the kitchen island, you felt his eyes on you from across the room almost constantly, not possessive, not angry, trying to understand, which somehow hurt worse. You laughed too brightly at things that weren’t funny. Let conversations distract you. Pretended not to see the way his jaw tightened every time you slipped further away from him. By midnight, the tension between you had become unbearable.
You found him eventually outside on the balcony overlooking the ocean, moonlight silvering the sharp edges of his profile. The wind moved softly through the dark. Neither of you spoke immediately. There was too much sitting between you now. Finally, he turned. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Not accusatory. Just tired. You crossed your arms tightly against yourself. “I’ve been busy.”
A pause. Then quietly, “That’s not true.” Something sharp moved through your chest. Because no matter how carefully you built distance, Heeseung always walked straight through it. You looked out toward the water instead, far easier than looking at him. The ocean below looked endless tonight, cold, restless. “I just think maybe we forgot what this was supposed to be.” The silence after that felt dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice had gone lower. “And what exactly was it supposed to be?” You swallowed, temporary, easy, nothing, but none of those words fit anymore. Not after rainy afternoons and forehead kisses and sleeping beside each other until sunrise, not after the way he looked at you now.
You could feel him watching you carefully, waiting, and suddenly the pressure of it became unbearable, the ending hanging over everything, the fear curling tighter around your ribs every day this became more real, because if you admitted what this was becoming, then losing it would destroy you. So instead, you stepped backward emotionally the way frightened people always do. “You said it yourself,” you murmured. “This ends with summer.”
His expression shifted, hurt, this time, barely hidden, “And that’s all you want?” You opened your mouth, nothing came out, because the answer existed, because it terrified you. The wind moved cold against your skin, below you, waves crashed endlessly against the shore, over and over, like something trying desperately to return to land. He stared at you for a long moment. Then finally asked, softly enough to hurt, “What are we doing?”
The question hung there between you, not angry, not dramatic, honest, and honesty had become the most dangerous thing between the two of you. You looked at him, really looked, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he was trying not to show, the terrifying possibility of being loved back. Your throat tightened painfully. But fear arrived faster, fear always did.
So instead of answering, you stayed silent, and in that silence, something began to break.
—
The storm rolled in after midnight, it didn't rain at first, just pressure, heavy clouds swallowing the sky whole, the air turning electric and difficult to breathe. Wind moved through Jeju Island in restless waves, rattling windows and palm trees and the fragile remains of your composure. You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.
His question kept replaying in your head like something unfinished. What are we doing? You had no answer that didn’t terrify you. So instead, you spent hours pacing your room while lightning flickered faintly beyond the ocean horizon, illuminating the walls in brief silver flashes. Coward.
The word followed you everywhere now, by one in the morning, your thoughts had become unbearable, by one-thirty, you were walking toward his house through the storm, barefoot, sweatshirt pulled tight around yourself, heart beating too hard.
The neighborhood lay silent beneath the dark sky, every house asleep except his. Light still glowed beneath his bedroom door upstairs. Something inside your chest twisted painfully at that. Like some foolish part of you had hoped he’d be sleeping peacefully. Unaffected. But of course he wasn’t.
You knocked once before opening the door. He looked up immediately from the couch. And the moment your eyes met, you understood this was going to hurt. The room was dim except for one lamp near the window. Thunder murmured low outside, rain finally beginning against the glass in soft scattered drops. Heeseung stood slowly. Neither of you spoke at first.
The distance between you felt enormous. You hated it. You hated that you were the one who created it. “You came,” he said eventually. His voice sounded exhausted. You wrapped your arms around yourself tighter. “I couldn’t sleep.” Something unreadable moved across his face. For one dangerous second, it almost softened. Then he remembered. “What do you want me to say?”
There it was. No avoiding it now. Your pulse stumbled painfully. “I don’t know.” “That’s the problem.” The words landed harder than they should have. Thunder rolled somewhere closer now. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the calm he’d been holding together for days. “I feel like I’m standing outside a locked door with you lately.”
You looked away immediately. Because if you looked at him too long, you would fold. “You’re making this more serious than it is.” Even saying it felt wrong. You could hear the lie rotting underneath the sentence. So could he, his laugh this time sounded hollow.
“Seriously?” You swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be simple.” “Simple?” His voice sharpened suddenly. “You think any of this has felt simple?” Rain hit harder against the windows. The room felt smaller now. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you knew how to survive. You took a step backward instinctively, he noticed, of course he noticed, and something inside him finally snapped.
“I’m tired,” he said quietly, “of pretending I don’t care.” Silence, the words settled into the room like lightning striking water, there it was, the thing both of you had spent all summer running from, not hidden anymore, not softened into implication, real. You stared at him, your heart hurt so badly it almost felt physical, because part of you had wanted this, wanted him to say it, and another part, the larger, more frightened part, wanted to run until your lungs gave out.
Loving someone meant they could leave. Summer always left. You knew that better than anyone. So fear reached for cruelty the way drowning people reached for air. You laughed softly. Wrong move. His expression changed immediately. You felt your own panic rising now, wild and sharp and impossible to control. “This was never supposed to mean anything.”
The second the words left your mouth, you wanted them back. Too late. Silence. Not dramatic. Worse. Stillness. You watched the hurt move across his face slowly, like something extinguishing. His eyes lost warmth first, then softness, then hope, and suddenly the room felt freezing. He nodded once, a small movement.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Got it.” You opened your mouth instantly. Nothing came out. Because the truth was trapped somewhere beneath all your fear, clawing at your ribs too late. He grabbed his keys from the counter. Didn’t look at you again. Thunder cracked outside just as he reached the door. “Heeseung—”
He stopped. For one second, hope flared painfully inside you again. Then he spoke without turning around. “I think,” he said softly, “I deserved better than that.” And left. The door shut behind him with terrifying finality. You stood there frozen while rain hammered against the windows and the storm swallowed the coastline whole. For the first time all summer, he didn’t come back, and afterward came silence.
No texts. No late-night knocks at your window. No headlights outside your house. Nothing. Just absence. Cold and endless as the sea. After Heeseung left, summer collapsed in on itself. Not dramatically. No thunder. No shattered glasses. No cinematic unraveling loud enough for the world to notice. Just absence. Quiet and creeping and everywhere.
It settled over Jeju Island like fog rolling in from the ocean, slipping beneath doors and into lungs and through the spaces between ordinary things until everything familiar felt wrong. The beach became unbearable first. You still went sometimes out of habit, carrying books you never opened, towels that stayed folded beside you untouched. The shoreline stretched wide and glittering beneath the August sun, beautiful in the same indifferent way it had always been, but now it felt hollow somehow.
Like a photograph of somewhere you used to belong. Everywhere you looked, there were ghosts of him. Near the dunes where he had first kissed you like he was starving. At the marina docks where moonlight had turned his honesty into something dangerous. On the stretch of sand where he’d once laughed at you for trying to fight the tide after too much tequila and too little dignity. You kept expecting to see him.
Leaning against the lifeguard tower. Walking toward you through the surf. Looking at you the way he always did lately, like he had already memorized every version of your face. But the spaces stayed empty, and somehow emptiness had weight.
The parties weren’t any better. Without him, they felt exposed somehow. Too loud. Too artificial. Music thumping against hollow spaces where your heartbeat used to live. Champagne too sweet. Laughter arriving half a second too late to feel real. You drifted through them like someone haunting her own life.
People noticed, of course they did. Sunoo stopped cornering you with gossip and instead watched you carefully whenever you thought nobody was looking. Eunchae started hugging you too tightly before leaving parties. Even Yunjin, who usually treated emotional devastation like a spectator sport, went strangely quiet around you. One evening near the bonfire, while everyone else sat tangled in conversation and salt air and late-summer exhaustion, Sunghoon settled beside you silently with two drinks. You accepted one without looking at him.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly before him. The ocean breathed dark beyond the shoreline. Then finally, “You look miserable.” No judgment. Just fact. You let out a quiet laugh that sounded closer to breaking. “I’m fine.”
“Right.” The word carried enough disbelief to hurt. You stared down at the bottle in your hands. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re the first thing he’s ever taken seriously.” Your chest tightened immediately. You looked at him then. Sunghoon kept his gaze fixed on the fire. “He acts like nothing matters most of the time,” he continued quietly. “But you did.”
Past tense. The word sliced through you before you could stop it. You swallowed hard. The fire blurred faintly. “He won’t even come out with us anymore,” Sunghoon admitted. “Jay says he’s been packing.” Packing. Something cold moved through your ribs.
You looked away quickly toward the ocean because suddenly breathing felt difficult. Summer had always ended. You knew that. You had built your entire heart around that truth years ago. Nothing beautiful stayed. Not beach towns. Not warm nights. Not people. Especially not people.
But somehow, somewhere between the rainstorm and the yacht and the way he remembered your coffee order, you had forgotten. Or maybe you had simply hoped he would become the exception. That realization arrived slowly over the following days. Not all at once. In fragments. You missed him in stupid ways first. Reaching automatically for your phone after something funny happened.
Turning toward the empty seat beside you at dinner before remembering. Still wearing one of his hoodies to sleep because taking it off felt too much like admitting he was gone. You found traces of him everywhere. In your routines. In your silences. In yourself.
And the worst part was understanding that this grief did not feel temporary. It rooted itself deeper every day. One afternoon, rain threatened faintly over the coastline while you wandered through town half-distracted, passing storefronts already packing away summer displays. Towels disappearing from racks, souvenir stands closing early, seasonal flowers wilting slowly in the heat. August ending in real time. You paused outside the small café near the marina where you and Heeseung had once hidden from the heat for nearly two hours, sharing iced coffees and childhood stories neither of you had meant to tell.
You remembered the way he’d looked at you across the table that day, soft, unarmed. Like loving you had happened quietly when he wasn’t paying attention. The realization hit then, simple, terrible. Oh. This is love. Not infatuation, not summer lust, not convenience sharpened into attachment. Love.
Real enough to hollow you out. Real enough to ruin everything else afterward. You leaned against the storefront window, eyes burning suddenly. Horrible, absolutely horrible, because now you understood why everything felt wrong without him. He had become stitched into the shape of your summer so completely that removing him tore pieces out alongside it.
And worse, you had done this. Fear had done this. You replayed the fight endlessly afterward, every cruel sentence tasting more poisonous each time you remembered it. This was never supposed to mean anything. You had watched those words break him in real time, and still you’d said them. Coward.
By the final week of August, panic settled fully into your bloodstream. You started looking for him without meaning to. Driving past the Lee house too slowly. Watching the beach at sunset. Checking your phone at two in the morning like your body still expected him to return eventually. He never did. The silence between you became its own kind of violence. Finally, the worst part.
It happened accidentally. Your mother stood in the kitchen arranging flowers while late afternoon sunlight spilled gold across the countertops. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the heat, summer sounding exhausted now. You barely listened until she said, “I saw Mrs. Lee earlier.” Something inside you immediately sharpened.
“Oh?” “She said Heeseung’s leaving tomorrow morning.” The world stopped. Your hand froze halfway around your coffee mug. “What?” Your mother glanced up, surprised by the sudden rawness in your voice. “He’s heading back early. Something about work starting sooner in Seoul this year.” Tomorrow. The word crashed through you like cold seawater. Tomorrow meant this was real. Tomorrow meant endings.
Tomorrow meant there was suddenly almost no time left to fix the thing you had destroyed with your own hands. Your pulse turned violent beneath your skin. Outside the window, the ocean stretched blue and endless beyond the cliffs, glittering beneath the fading August light. Beautiful. Temporary. Already slipping away.
—
The next morning arrived too bright. Cruel sunlight flooded Jeju Island in sheets of gold, the ocean glittering innocently beneath the sky like yesterday had not split your heart open. Everything looked painfully beautiful in the way endings often did.
You barely slept. Every hour had passed tangled in panic and memory and the unbearable realization that if you let him leave now, this would become one of those tragedies people carried forever. The kind stitched permanently beneath your ribs. By nine in the morning, your hands were shaking. By nine-fifteen, you were in your car.
You drove too fast down the coastline road, sunlight flashing violently through the trees, your heartbeat louder than the music still playing faintly through the speakers. Wind rushed through the open windows carrying salt and heat and the last dying breath of summer. Your mind replayed him endlessly. The rainstorm. The yacht. The forehead kiss. The way he had looked at you like you were something worth staying soft for.
The moment his face went cold after your cruelty. You gripped the steering wheel harder. Not this. Please not this. The marina came into view suddenly beyond the cliffs, boats swaying gently beneath the sunlight. People moved lazily along the docks carrying luggage and coffees and ordinary lives. Heeseung. Standing near the end of the dock beside one of the ferries heading toward the mainland.
White T-shirt. Dark sunglasses. One duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Leaving. The sight hit you so hard you nearly forgot to breathe. For one terrible second, fear almost won again. Turn around. Protect yourself. Pretend this never mattered. Then he glanced up. Saw you. And everything stopped. You barely remembered getting out of the car. Only the sound of your footsteps against the dock, the ocean below, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown the gulls overhead.
He straightened slowly as you approached, no smile, no anger either, just exhaustion, like he had finally become tired of hoping, that hurt most. You stopped a few feet away from him, sunlight breaking across the water between you both. Neither of you spoke at first.
Words suddenly felt impossibly small compared to everything sitting between your ribs. Finally, he exhaled quietly, “You came.” The simplicity of it nearly broke you, no accusation, no bitterness, just surprise, your throat tightened painfully. “I had to.” The wind moved softly around you, carrying warmth off the ocean.
He looked at you carefully then, like he was trying not to expect too much, and suddenly you realized something devastating, if you stayed silent now, you would lose him forever, no more pride, no more running, just truth, your eyes burned. “I was scared,” you admitted first. The words came rough, fragile around the edges. Heeseung stayed perfectly still. So you kept going before courage disappeared again.
“I think…” You swallowed hard. “I think I knew what this was becoming before you did. And it terrified me because everything here ends eventually and I didn’t know how to love someone without already grieving them.” His expression shifted slightly. You stepped closer. “I said those things because I thought if I ruined this first, it would hurt less when summer ended.”
Your voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. The ocean blurred faintly behind him. “But it already hurts,” you whispered. “It hurts all the time.” Silence. Not empty. Listening. You looked at him fully then, no defenses left anywhere inside you. “I was stupid.” A breath. “And cruel.” Another. “And completely in love with you.”
Just love. Messy and terrifying and real enough to destroy you if he rejected it. Your chest ached violently waiting for him to say something. Anything. Heeseung stared at you for a long moment that felt endless beneath the August sun. Then finally, he laughed softly, not mockingly, disbelieving, like he had spent the entire summer waiting for a miracle and couldn’t quite believe it had arrived, you frowned immediately through the tears threatening your eyes. “That’s your reaction?”
He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the relief slowly undoing it. “I’ve been waiting all summer for you to admit that,” he said quietly. Idiot. You made a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him, hard, desperate enough to make up for every moment you wasted being afraid. His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you against him with something almost painful in its urgency, and suddenly the entire world dissolved into sunlight and saltwater and relief.
The kiss felt different now, not drowning, not war, like finally reaching shore after spending months lost at sea, his forehead rested against yours when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly beneath the burning light. “You are unbelievably difficult,” he murmured.
You laughed wetly. “You stayed anyway.” “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I did.” Around you, the marina continued moving, boats departing, gulls crying overhead, summer ending one irreversible second at a time. But for the first time since this began, nothing about this felt temporary anymore.
—
The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Heeseung’s bedroom, casting a golden haze over tangled sheets and bare skin. Months had passed since that messy night, since the angry kisses and the “this was a mistake” lies. What started as stolen moments and stubborn denial had slowly, stubbornly, become something real.
Now, you were exactly where you belonged, underneath him, legs locked around his waist as he moved inside you with deep, unhurried strokes. Every thrust pulled a fresh sound from your throat. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, back arching as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “Heeseung— mmph!” Your cry was muffled as he leaned down and kissed you, slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips kept that devastating rhythm. Heeseung chuckled warmly against your mouth, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He kissed you once more, softer this time, then pressed his lips gently to your forehead, lingering there as he stayed buried deep inside you.
Still teasing. Still chaos. Still both completely insufferable. But now it was real. He pulled back just enough to look at you, sweat-damp hair falling over his eyes, that signature smirk playing on his lips even while he was still pulsing inside you. “Thought I told you not to fall in love with me,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection.
You smiled up at him, glowing and utterly wrecked, your hand coming up to brush his hair back.
“Thought I told you not to call.” Heeseung let out a genuine laugh, the kind that made your chest feel too full. He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, drawing a soft gasp from you before stilling again. “Yeah, well… I never was good at listening,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “That night after the party, when I texted you to come over… I told myself it was just one more mistake. One more time and we’d get it out of our systems.”
You raised an eyebrow, tracing your fingers down his spine. “And how’s that working out for you?” “Terribly,” he admitted, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Because every time you walked away, I kept thinking about you. Every summer. Every fight. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”
He shifted slightly, still deep inside you, and rested his forehead against yours. “I kept telling myself not to fall. And then you showed up at my door the next morning anyway. Stubborn as hell. Beautiful as ever.” You laughed softly, tightening your legs around him. “You’re the one who kept calling. Kept texting. Kept pulling me back in.”
Heeseung’s eyes softened, that rare vulnerable look breaking through the cocky exterior. “Because I couldn’t stop. Even when I tried.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “Guess I’m the idiot who fell first.” The room felt smaller, warmer, wrapped in golden light and years of history finally settling into place. All the almosts, the what-ifs, the angry almost-kisses on balconies and beaches, they had led here. To this. You pulled him down into another kiss, slow and sweet this time, savoring the way he melted against you.
When you broke apart, Heeseung froze for half a second, then broke into the brightest, most boyish grin you’d ever seen on him.“That’s what this whole thing has been, hasn’t it? One long, messy ‘maybe’ that turned into forever.” You nodded, eyes shining. “No more mistakes. No more running. Just us.”
“Just us,” he echoed. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and started moving inside you once more, slow and intentional, like he was sealing the words into your skin. The laughter faded into soft moans and whispered names, the two of you losing yourselves in each other one more time.
Later, as the sun dipped lower and you lay tangled together under the sheets, Heeseung’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, he pressed one last kiss to your shoulder.
“So… Call Me Maybe?” he asked, smirking.
You grinned. “Only if you promise to always pick up.”
Money, sex, and a lifetime of feeling like luck was never really on your side—until the universe decided to fuck with you in the most inconvenient way possible. What started as simple coexisting turned into something more when you paid a little too much attention to your quiet, awkward, painfully responsible roommate—who, on paper, is a complete fucking loser. But, hey, he’s not that bad!
In which Sim Jaeyun becomes the only genuinely good, unfairly lucky thing that’s ever happened to you… and just like everything else in your life, good things have a way of slipping right through your fingers. So now you have to figure it out, fix it, or risk losing the only thing that ever felt right before you run Out of Luck.
content tags and warnings: roommate au! romantic comedy, jake is an engineering student x volleyball varsity player reader, jake has braces! hopeless romantic reader (she almost get off), internal conflict, jake is such an awkward introverted baby (he likes lego and collects hotwheels), burning slowburn (slow pacing i swear), lots of awkward erm moments, jake is secretly a simp, reader is pathetic, angst!!!! ft. karina, other kpop idols and robots as side characters. more detailed tags on each part. explicit content (smut): masturbation (f&m), virginity loss, overstimulation, hand jobs, grinding, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI.
UNIVERSE | RELEASE DATE OF PART 2: FIRST WEEK OF MAY
1: AGAINST THE ODDS | WC: 35K
2: FORTUNE’S FAVOR | WC: 34K
NOTE: it’s been so long ever since i posted a story and i COMPLETELY FORGOT how tumblr works. huhu. how are you guys doing?
i have so many words? so many words and i want to just say them.
i love every single work you put out. i really do, each one the writing is so beautifully done. each one hits with the vibe you are going for every single time. this one though? this one is on my TOP list. it's now a comfort fic for me. i'm such a sucker for fics where it's more romance/love based and the smut is something nasty and shit, but beautiful and yearning. something that brings out both parties true feelings but after it happens, things hit. you've been seen. i love fics like this. regardless of the tensions, the characters, the bad choices. the fate is always gonna play out and the end up together. how everything leads to the moment of certain word or line. i don't know if any of this makes sense, but there are so many few writers on this app and in this fanbase (one that fics likes yours, @simpjaes, neohazed, and so many few other writers do IMMACULATELY at that) i don't follow a lot of enha writers, but god the words you use. the way you write. hot disgusting smut that fits with a fic meant to be pwp. the way you can write smut that doesn't overtake and throw the story. i just. i want to kiss your forehead. i want to just thank you for writing this for free. with access to read this. writing like this should be paid for. it really should. you have such a beautiful talent and i just thank you for letting us have this free. i adore you and the writing so much, but this one is gonna be my favorite comfort fic on hard days. on the days where maybe my atz and skz fics for comfort aren't hitting the way i need. genuinely, all of us readers owe you so many thank yous. thank you for this amazing piece of work and for allowing access into such a beautiful story.
in which jay gives you lessons on how to get (and fuck) jake sim.
synopsis: when your crush on jake sim turns into full-blown panic about your complete lack of experience, your best friend suggests the one person on campus who can help: jay park — the dangerously attractive, notoriously skilled senior with a reputation for being an incredible teacher.
what starts as innocent lessons in flirting, kissing, and confidence quickly spirals into something much hotter… and much more complicated. because the more jay teaches you how to drive jake crazy, the more you realize you only want him touching you.
pairing: jay x fem!reader (x jake)
wc: 34.6k
warnings: smut! light fluff and angst
cw: college au, love triangle, mutual pining, slow burn. themes of virginity, virginity loss, sexual inexperience, anxiety about intimacy. mentions of alcohol. explicit sexual content (kissing, making out, dry humping, handjob, blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex.) heavy flirting and sexual tension, playful teasing, use of petnames, strong language.
a/n: even though today is my birthday, i wanted to be the one giving you a gift. so... yeah, here you go, the longest fic i've ever written. i hope you enjoy it as much as i did while writing! <3
the bass hums low through the crowded living room, a warm pulse that vibrates under your skin as you lean against the kitchen counter, half-hidden behind a cluster of red plastic cups.
the party is the usual saturday chaos — too many people crammed into this frat house off campus, bodies swaying and bumping into each other under the dim string lights someone messily hung on the ceiling. laughter spills over the music, loud, while the faint smell of cheap beer, cheap vodka, and even cheaper perfume hangs thick in the air, mixing with the occasional scent of cigarette smoke drifting in from the backyard. red cups litter every surface, and the floor already feels sticky under your sneakers from whatever got spilled earlier.
but your eyes stay fixed across the room, unable to look anywhere else, like some invisible string keeps pulling your gaze back no matter how much you tell yourself to stop.
jake sim stands near the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard, where the night air probably feels cooler and less suffocating than in here.
one hand is casually tucked into the pocket of his dark jeans, the fabric hugging his legs just right, while the other gestures animatedly as he talks to a girl you vaguely recognize from your literature class — maybe her name is karina or something close. she’s laughing at something he said, head tilted back in that carefree way, exposing the line of her throat, her fingers brushing his arm every few seconds like she can’t help touching him. the way she leans into his space screams interest, flirtiness, and he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he seems to welcome it, that charm radiating off him.
and jake — good god, jake looks perfect. the kind of perfect that makes your chest ache with a sharp, longing twist.
he’s wearing a simple black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those toned forearms that flex subtly every time he moves his hand for emphasis. his hair falls softly over his forehead in that effortless, slightly tousled way, like he ran his fingers through it once and left it alone, knowing it would look devastating. the dim lighting catches on the sharp line of his jaw, the warm brown of his eyes, and when he smiles at her, it’s the same warm, dimpled smile he’s given you a dozen times in the hallway or during group project meetings. the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making his whole face light up.
he leans in closer to hear her better over the music, nodding along with genuine interest, his full attention on her like she’s the only person in this entire crowded house.
that’s the thing about jake. when he focuses on someone, it feels like the rest of the world fades into background noise — no distractions, no half-measures. just him, fully present, making you feel seen in a way that’s dangerously addictive.
you swallow hard, fingers tightening around your barely-touched drink until the plastic creaks under your grip. the soda has gone warm and gass-less, but you don’t care. you haven’t taken more than a sip in the last twenty minutes anyway, too busy nursing this quiet ache while pretending to scroll on your phone every few seconds so no one notices you staring.
you’ve been crushing on him for four months now.
four long, torturous months of stolen glances across lecture halls, light flirting in the library where his knee would accidentally brush yours under the table, and random texts about class notes that somehow turned into conversations about favorite movies and late-night snacks and that one time he admitted he secretly loves cheesy romance dramas even though his friends would tease him endlessly for it.
and, the thing is, everybody knows jake doesn’t flirt casually. if he gives a girl that kind of attention — the lingering eye contact, the playful teasing texts at midnight, the way he remembers small details like how you take your coffee — it means he’s interested in something real. dating, commitment, the whole boyfriend package with hand-holding walks across campus and good morning messages that make your heart race.
he’s had two serious girlfriends in the past three years, one lasting several months where you’d see them together looking so effortlessly in sync, the other stretching a whole year where rumors said they were practically inseparable until things eventually ended on good terms. each one looking blissfully happy in his presence, glowing like they’d unlocked some secret level of connection and pleasure that you can only imagine.
and that’s exactly why your stomach twists into tight, anxious knots right now.
you’re a virgin. painfully, embarrassingly inexperienced.
you’ve kissed a couple guys before, sure — awkward fumbling in the dark during high school parties, all sloppy lips and unsure hands that never quite knew where to go or how to make it feel good. but nothing more. no one has ever touched you the way you know jake has touched his exes. you’ve overheard enough whispered conversations in the girls’ bathroom or seen the way those exes still look at him sometimes with fond, satisfied smiles.
jake is the type who probably knows exactly what he’s doing — patient, attentive, skilled in ways that leave girls breathless and glowing, satisfied down to their bones. the kind of guy who takes his time, learns what makes someone moan and shiver, who makes sex feel like an art form instead of a clumsy rush. and the thought of him finding out how clueless you are makes your cheeks burn even in the middle of this loud, overheated party, a flush creeping up your neck that has nothing to do with the alcohol you’re barely drinking.
what if you freeze up when things finally get intimate? what if your hands shake too much to touch him the right way, or you don’t know how to kiss him properly with that slow, deep confidence he probably expects? what if you can’t make him feel good, can’t match the energy of his past girlfriends who clearly knew how to please him back? what if he realizes you’re not on the same level — not experienced, not sexy, not adventurous enough — and the interest in his eyes dims? the flirting would stop. the texts would fade. he’d move on to someone who doesn’t need to google basic techniques in secret or lie awake at night worrying about being a disappointment in bed.
you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste the faint metallic taste, forcing your gaze away just as the girl leans up to whisper something in jake’s ear. her lips brush close, too close, and he laughs softly — that low, charming sound carrying across the room like a sweet melody cut through the bass. it’s warm and genuine, the kind that makes butterflies erupt in your stomach even from this distance.
you turn toward the counter instead, pretending to refill your cup from the half-empty punch bowl, the liquid sloshing messily as your hand trembles slightly. the ice cubes clink loudly in your cup, a small distraction from the way your heart pounds against your ribs.
around you, the party pulses on without pause. someone bumps your shoulder accidentally, muttering a quick sorry before disappearing back into the crowd. a group of girls nearby bursts into giggles over some inside joke, their voices high and tipsy. the music shifts to a slower track, something with heavy bass and breathy vocals that only makes the atmosphere feel more charged, more intimate despite the chaos. you glance back once more, unable to resist, and catch jake’s eyes flicking in your direction for the briefest second. does he see you? does that dimpled smile flicker with recognition? your breath catches, but then he’s turning back to the girl, saying something that makes her touch his arm again, and the moment slips away like smoke.
you set the cup down untouched, wiping your damp palms on the sides of your jeans. the insecurity sits heavy in your chest, a constant whisper reminding you that jake sim deserves someone who can keep up. someone confident. someone who knows how to flirt without second-guessing every word, how to touch without hesitation, how to make a guy like him lose control in the best ways.
and right now, that someone feels impossibly far from who you are — standing here in the corner, heart racing over nothing more than a smile across a crowded room.
the party swirls around you, alive and indifferent, but your mind stays trapped in that loop of what-ifs and quiet longing, the bass still humming low like a reminder that time is moving forward whether you’re ready or not.
“you’re doing that thing again,” a familiar voice says beside you.
yunjin appears like magic, sliding an arm around your waist and resting her chin on your shoulder. her long hair tickles your neck, smelling like coconut shampoo and the strawberry lip gloss she always wears. she’s been your best friend since freshman orientation — loud where you’re quiet, confident where you overthink everything.
“what thing?” you mumble, even though you already know.
“the ‘staring at jake like he hung the moon but also might destroy my entire soul’ thing.” she steals a sip from your cup and grimaces. “ugh, you’re drinking the watered-down shit again. come on, let’s get you something stronger.”
you let her drag you toward the other end of the kitchen, but your mind stays stuck on jake. even through the hazy, crowded warmth of the party, your eyes keep drifting back to where he’s laughing with some guys from the club soccer team. yunjin notices, of course. she always does, her grip tightening on your arm in a silent show of support while she pours something sweet and dangerously strong into a fresh red cup for you.
later that night, after the party finally winds down and the bass stops rattling your teeth, you’re both back in your shared off-campus apartment. the contrast is jarring, the heavy silence of the night settling over everything. the real conversation happens when the rest of the world is asleep. you’re sprawled on your bed in oversized pajamas, hair still slightly damp and curling from a quick shower, while yunjin sits cross-legged on the floor painting her nails a deep, glossy burgundy. the lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, amber glow across the room, and the distant city hums faintly outside the window.
“okay, spill,” she says without looking up, carefully dragging the tiny brush over her thumbnail. “you’ve been weird about jake for weeks. what’s the hold-up? he literally flirted with you for twenty minutes last tuesday in the café. he doesn’t do that unless he’s serious. he was giving you that puppy-dog look the whole time.”
you pull your knees tightly to your chest, hugging them until your knuckles turn white. the weight of the secret has been crushing you for days, and the words finally tumble out before you can stop them.
“i’m scared, yunjin. really scared.”
she glances up instantly, the brush hovering inches above her index finger. the playful tease drops from her face. “scared of what? jake’s a sweetheart. he’s not some asshole who’s going to play games with you.”
“it’s not him. it’s… me.” your voice drops to a pathetic whisper, your cheeks instantly heating up with a fierce, burning blush. you bury your chin in your knees. “i’m a virgin. completely. i’ve barely even done anything beyond clumsy high school kissing. and jake’s had actual girlfriends. serious ones. he knows what he’s doing, yunjin. what if i’m bad at it? what if i disappoint him? he’ll realize i’m not… enough. not experienced enough. not sexy enough. not whatever his exes were.”
yunjin sets the nail polish bottle down on a stray magazine slowly, giving you her full, undivided attention. her expression softens, the fierce protectiveness she always has for you melting into something tender, though there’s still a sharp spark of determination in her eyes.
“babe… first of all, that’s so normal. lots of people are virgins in college, even if they don't advertise it. second, if jake likes you — and he clearly does — he’s not going to expect you to be some kind of porn star on day one. he'd probably think it was sweet, honestly.” she pauses, watching your miserable expression. “but i get it. you want to feel confident. you don't want to be overthinking every single touch when you're finally alone with him. you want to blow his mind when it happens.”
you nod miserably, burying your face completely in your knees for a second, your voice muffled. “i just want to feel like I know what I'm doing. just a little bit.”
yunjin taps her freshly painted fingers on the carpet, her mind visibly whirring. then she smiles — that mischievous, slightly dangerous, scheming smile you know all too well. it’s the smile that usually precedes a terrible, brilliant idea.
“if you really want to impress him… there’s someone who can help.”
you peek at her over the tops of your knees, skeptical. “what do you mean? like a book? a podcast?”
“sunghoon’s friend. jay. jay park.” she says it like the name should mean something immediately, dropping it into the quiet room like a bombshell. “he’s discreet as hell. experienced — like, really experienced. girls talk about him in hushed tones in the sorority houses, trust me. apparently he’s an incredible teacher. no strings attached, just pure skill-building. he’s actually done this before for a couple of people who were in your exact shoes. helps them get confident, learn what they need to know. everything from flirting, body language, touching, all the way down to… you know.”
your eyes widen to the size of saucers. “you’re joking. you want me to ask a random guy to tutor me in sex?”
“dead serious. he’s not a fuckboy in the messy, heartbroken-trail way. more like… selective. efficient.” yunjin leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her tone shifting into something more serious. “and look, here's the thing. jay is known for fucking the girls he hangs out with, yeah. he has that reputation for a reason. but… you don't have to do that. he's not some caveman. jay is actually the best one on this entire campus to go to for advice, even if you never lay a finger on him.”
she waves a hand to emphasize her point, careful not to smudge her polish. “he might make an exception for you. you can literally just have the option of not sleeping with him. you can just go to him, tell him the situation, and let him give you advice. he knows how guys think, he knows what jake’s vibe is since they run in similar circles, and he can literally just talk you through it. teach you how to read the room, how to touch without being awkward. but if you do decide you want hands-on practice? he's the guy. if you approach him the right way and you’re honest, he’ll probably say yes to whatever level you’re comfortable with. he’s good at keeping secrets too. sunghoon swears he's the most trustworthy guy he knows.”
you stare at her, your heart hammering a rapid rhythm against your ribs. jay. you’ve seen him around campus, of course. everyone has. he’s impossible to miss — tall, with that sharp jawline, dark hair usually styled flawlessly, always dressed like he just stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine. he has this quiet, heavy confidence mixed with a sharp, teasing look that makes people nervous to look him in the eye for too long. the mere idea of walking up to him and asking him for… lessons felt completely insane. humiliating. but beneath the embarrassment, a tiny, buried part of you felt a thrill that was absolutely terrifying.
“i couldn’t,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly. “yunjin, that’s crazy. 'hey jay, can you teach me how to be good in bed so i can go sleep with your acquaintance?' he’ll laugh in my face.”
“is it crazier than stressing yourself sick over whether you’ll be good enough for jake? you're practically giving yourself an ulcer over a guy who hasn't even kissed you yet.” yunjin raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “look, you deserve to feel prepared. empowered. jay’s the guy for that, whether he's just talking to you over a drink or showing you what to do. no emotions, no drama, just practice and advice. think about it. just promise me you'll think about it.”
the conversation lingers long after yunjin finally packs up her nail polish and leaves your room, kissing your forehead goodnight and telling you to text her if you need to spiral more. you lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the name jay repeating in your head like a dare.
you lie there in the dark, the harsh blue glow of your phone illuminating your face in the otherwise pitch-black room. your thumb hovers precariously over the message bar, trembling slightly.
you had found jay’s contact info through a mutual friend's group chat earlier that night, your heart racing so fast you could hear it in your ears the entire time you were saving his number. now, at exactly 2:17 a.m., the sheer absurdity of the hour matches the sheer absurdity of what you're about to do. you type a sentence, delete it. type another, delete that too. you rewrite the message five times, your palms sweating against the glass screen, before you finally force your thumb to stay still and craft something that sounds at least semi-coherent.
you: hi… this is awkward but um. yunjin mentioned you might be able to help with some… lessons? about confidence and stuff. with guys. i’m really new to all of it and there’s this guy i like and i don’t want to mess it up. if you’re not interested that’s totally fine, sorry for bothering you this late.
you hit send.
the instant the little outgoing chime sounds, a wave of pure, instant regret crashes over you. you toss the phone away like it’s physically burning you, letting it land somewhere in the tangled blankets at the foot of your bed. you cover your face with both hands, groaning softly into the quiet room. this is ridiculous. it's humiliating. who even asks for something like this? jay park is going to think you're an absolute freak, or worse, he's going to screenshot it and show sunghoon.
a minute passes. then two. the silence in your room feels heavy, suffocating. you're just about to reach down and turn the phone completely off to save yourself further agony when the mattress vibrates.
buzz.
your heart leaps into your throat. you scramble through the covers, fishing for the device and unlocking it with shaking fingers.
jay: well this is a new way to get my attention. lessons, huh? for a specific guy? bold.
before you can even process the dry, teasing tone of his text, another message bubbles up right underneath it.
jay: meet me tomorrow at the café near the east library. 4pm. we can talk details. don’t overthink it too much, newbie.
your stomach flips hard, dropping into a dizzying freefall. he said yes. kind of. it’s incredibly teasing, dripping with the exact kind of effortless confidence that usually intimidates you, but it’s still a yes. he didn't laugh you off. he didn't tell you to lose his number.
you roll onto your back, dropping the phone onto your chest and staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you. the shadows from the blades cut rhythmic patterns across the ceiling, but they do nothing to soothe your mind, which is currently racing at a thousand miles an hour.
what the hell are you actually doing?
asking jay park — the campus mystery, the guy who walks through hallways like he owns them, the one with that intense, piercing stare that makes people look away first — to teach you how to flirt, how to touch, how to… god, how to do everything. and you're doing it all just so you can feel like you're enough for jake sim. the contrast between the two boys couldn't be wider: jake, with his warm, sweet, golden-retriever energy and easy smiles, and jay, who feels like a sharp knife, dark leather jackets, and expensive cologne.
but underneath the suffocating layers of panic and embarrassment, a tiny, unfamiliar spark begins to take hold. it’s a spark of excitement. of real hope. yunjin was right; you've been putting yourself through misery over your lack of experience. maybe this is exactly what you need to break out of your own head. maybe jay really can turn you into someone confident, someone desirable — someone who won’t freeze up or panic when jake finally makes a real move.
you pull the heavy blanket higher up over your shoulders, curling onto your side as your phone screen finally times out and dims, plunging the room back into total darkness.
tomorrow at 4 p.m. there's no backing out now. you're really doing this.
and as exhaustion finally starts to get to you, a nervous, slightly hysterical laugh escapes your lips into the quiet apartment.
what have you gotten yourself into?
-------
the next afternoon, 4:00 p.m. arrives far too quickly.
the café near the east library is tucked away in a quieter corner of the campus, mostly populated by grad students typing furiously on laptops and the heavy smell of roasted coffee beans. you change your outfit three times before leaving the apartment, finally settling on something casual but not too casual, your hands sweating the entire walk over.
when you push the glass door open, the little bell chiming above you feels like a death threat. you look around the dimly lit space, and there he is.
jay is sitting at a small corner table near the back window, looking entirely too calm and entirely too hot for a thursday afternoon. he’s wearing a simple black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, and his dark hair is perfectly styled, just like always. he has a half-empty iced americano in front of him, his thumb casually scrolling through his phone. there’s a quiet, effortless aura of arrogance around him, but as he catches movement and looks up, his sharp features soften into a playful, lazy smirk.
“you’re exactly on time,” he says, his voice a low, smooth rumble that instantly makes your stomach do a flip. he slides the empty chair opposite him out with his foot. “sit. you look like you’re about to faint.”
you sink into the chair, gripping your tote bag tightly against your chest like a shield. “hi. thank you for coming.”
“relax, newbie. i don’t bite,” he teases, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. he studies your burning, red face for a second before a soft chuckle escapes him. “you know, you could have just told me the whole story in the text. saved yourself some typing.”
you blink, confused. “what do you mean?”
jay leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a dangerous amount of amusement. “yunjin told sunghoon. sunghoon told me. so, i already know the full context.” his smirk widens, making him look devastatingly handsome. “so you want to learn how to fuck properly for jake sim? bold.”
your entire face explodes in a fierce, blinding heat. you literally feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, and for a terrifying, very long second, you consider hiding under the table or running away as fast as you can. you bury your face in your hands, your voice muffled and laced with pure mortification. “oh my god. i am going to kill yunjin. i am actually going to murder her.”
jay lets out a genuine, low laugh at your reaction, the sound rich and surprisingly warm. “don’t kill her yet. she’s just looking out for you. and honestly? it’s refreshing. most girls try a lot harder to play it cool around me.”
you slowly drop your hands, your cheeks still burning a bright pink. “i don't even know what i'm doing here. this is insane.”
“it’s only insane if you make it insane,” jay says calmly, his playful tone softening just a fraction into something a bit more business-like. he pushes a clean napkin and a pen toward you, though he keeps his eyes on your face. “let’s treat this like an introduction. an assessment. before we can fix anything, i need to know what we’re working with. list all the things you think you’re bad at. everything you're worried about. so i know what to focus on.”
you stare at the blank napkin, swallowing hard. the vulnerability of it feels immense, but you’re already here, and you’re already completely humiliated. you take a deep breath and start listing them off, your voice dropping to a quiet whisper so the barista won’t hear.
“flirting,” you start, counting on your fingers instead of writing it down. “i freeze up. and… kissing. i’ve only ever done clumsy high school kissing, nothing serious. touching… like, knowing where to put my hands without being awkward. sex, obviously, since i’ve never done it. and… just confidence in general. i overthink everything until i ruin the mood.”
jay listens quietly, his sharp eyes tracking the movement of your fingers. he doesn't laugh, and he doesn't tease you this time. he just nods slowly, absorbing the information.
“okay. that’s a solid list,” he says. then, his gaze drops to how tightly you’re still clutching your bag, your knuckles white, your shoulders tense and pulled high. his eyes lift back to yours, perceptive and sharp. “you’re terrified i’m going to try to jump you, aren’t you?”
your breath hitches. you open your mouth to deny it, but the words catch in your throat. you are skeptical about getting physical with him. the idea of practicing on jay park feels like playing with fire, and you’re fully aware you might get burned.
jay sighs softly, leaning back again, his posture completely relaxed to contrast your tension. “look at me.”
you look up, meeting his intense stare.
“yunjin told you i have a reputation, and she’s right. i’m not going to sit here and pretend i’m a saint,” jay says, his tone completely direct, peer-to-peer, without a shred of judgment. “but i don’t do anything without absolute consent. i can see you’re stressed out of your mind right now. so, let’s take the pressure off. we are not getting physical. the ‘lessons’ will be entirely theoretical. just talking, advice, breaking down how guys think, and giving you the blueprint. unless you explicitly ask to change that later down the line, we keep our hands to ourselves. deal?”
the relief that washes over you is so sudden and heavy that your shoulders visibly drop. “deal. thank you. seriously.”
“don’t thank me yet, newbie. you’re still going to have to work on that confidence,” jay says, that familiar, teasing grin creeping back onto his face. he stands up, grabbing his iced coffee and sliding his phone into his pocket. “we’re done for today. meet me at my dorm tomorrow afternoon. third floor of the west quad, room 314. we’ll start the actual work then.”
he gives you one last, lingering look — a mix of amusement and something else you can’t quite read — before turning and walking out of the café, leaving you alone at the table with a racing heart and the sudden realization that you’re actually going through with this.
-------
the next afternoon, you find yourself standing outside room 314 in the west quad, your heart doing gymnastics against your ribs. you take three deep, stabilizing breaths before finally raising a shaking hand to knock.
the door swings open almost immediately, and jay stands there looking effortlessly put-together in a gray hoodie and sweatpants. his hair is slightly messy today, falling over his forehead, which somehow makes him look even more intimidatingly handsome.
“you’re on time again. i like that,” he says, stepping back to let you in.
his dorm is surprisingly clean and smells faintly of sandalwood and expensive laundry detergent. there’s a vinyl player in the corner, a desk stacked with textbooks, and a neatly made bed. jay walks over to his desk chair, spins it around to face the bed, and motions for you to sit on the mattress.
“alright, newbie. welcome to lesson one,” jay says, his tone shifting into something surprisingly focused. he sits down, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. “today is all about the fundamentals. eye contact, body language, and light teasing. if you can't master the tension before you even touch a guy, everything else falls flat. so, we start here.”
you nod, swallowing hard, trying to look like a good student. “okay. what do i do?”
“first thing: eye contact,” jay says, leaning forward slightly. his dark eyes lock onto yours, intense and unblinking. “when you’re talking to jake, you have a habit of looking down at your shoes or glancing away every three seconds. it makes you look like you’re guilty of a crime. i want you to hold my gaze. don’t look away until i do.”
you brace yourself and look straight into his eyes. one second passes. then two. the sheer intensity of his stare feels like a physical weight in the room. by second four, your heart is pounding, your throat feels dry, and your eyes instinctively dart toward the window.
jay lets out a soft, amused scoff. “four seconds. tragic. again.”
you lock eyes with him again, biting the inside of your cheek. this time, you manage to hold it, but you can feel your face flushing a bright, furious pink.
jay watches the blush spread across your cheeks, a slow, lazy half-smile spreading across his face. he’s clearly enjoying how easily he can fluster you, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “you’re cute when you’re panicking, you know that? but you need to relax your shoulders. you look like a statue.”
“it’s hard,” you complain, your voice a little high. “you’re staring at me like a hawk.”
“jake is going to stare at you too, newbie. you need to get used to it,” jay teases, leaning back in his chair with a playful grin. “alright, let’s move on to flirting and light teasing. pretend i’m jake. we’re at a party, i just walked up to you, and i say, ‘hey, i like your outfit.’ how do you respond?”
you clear your throat, trying to channel every romantic comedy you’ve ever watched. you try to mimic the slow, confident smirk jay always uses, but your lips twitch awkwardly.
“oh, this old thing?” you say, your voice dripping with a completely unnatural, overly dramatic theatricality. you even throw in a bizarre little hair flip that feels entirely forced. “thanks. i guess you don’t look too bad yourself.”
the room goes completely silent.
jay just stares at you for three long seconds, his expression an unbelievable mix of utter disbelief and pure, unadulterated amusement. then, he buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as a deep, breathless laugh escapes him.
“oh my god,” jay groans, looking up at you with tears of laughter in his eyes. “that was… easily the worst thing i have ever heard in my entire life.”
“hey!” you yell, grabbing a stray pillow from his bed and throwing it at his chest. your face is practically purple with embarrassment. “i told you i was bad at this!”
jay catches the pillow effortlessly, still laughing. “bad? newbie, that wasn’t just bad. that was completely goofy. you sounded like a cartoon villain trying to seduce a detective. and what was that hair flip? did you have a muscle spasm?”
“stop laughing at me!” you hide your face in your hands, completely mortified. “this was a mistake. i’m leaving.”
“no, stay, sit down,” jay says, his laughter finally dying down into a wide, bright grin. he tosses the pillow back onto the bed and leans in closer, his voice dropping into a softer, playful murmur. “i'm sorry, i shouldn't laugh. it was honestly kind of endearing. but we definitely have our work cut out for us.”
you peek through your fingers at him, pouty and defensive. “fine. how am i supposed to say it, mr. expert?”
jay shifts in his chair, his entire demeanor changing in a split second. the laughter vanishes, replaced by a smooth, magnetic confidence that makes your breath hitch. he looks at you, his eyes dropping to your lips for a microsecond before rising back to your eyes. a small, knowing grin plays at the corner of his mouth.
“if i say ‘i like your outfit,’ you don’t act like a theater kid,” jay says softly, his voice a low, teasing purr that makes goosebumps break out on your arms. “you look him right in the eye, hold it for a second, smile just a little bit, and say… ‘thanks. i wore it hoping you’d notice.’”
you stare at him, your mouth slightly open, completely paralyzed by how smoothly he delivered the line. the air in the dorm suddenly feels incredibly thick, the playful atmosphere from a second ago completely evaporating into something heavy and charged.
jay holds your gaze for a beat longer, making sure the lesson lands, before breaking the tension with a quiet chuckle. he taps his fingers against his knee, leaning back in his chair. “see the difference? subtle. playful. now, let’s try it again. and this time, keep your hair exactly where it is.”
you swallow the lump in your throat, trying desperately to shake off the weird shiver that just ran down your spine. he’s just demonstrating, you remind yourself. he does this for fun.
“okay,” you mutter, pulling your knees up to your chest on his bed and trying to center yourself. “subtle. no theater-kid energy. got it.”
“alright. take two,” jay says, his expression shifting back into that smooth, predatory calm. he locks his eyes onto yours. “hey. i like your outfit.”
you force yourself not to look away. you look at his dark eyes, then let your gaze drop slightly to his lips — just like he did — before looking back up. you attempt a small, knowing smile, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.
“thanks,” you say, your voice a little softer than usual, a little more genuine. “i wore it hoping you’d notice.”
jay doesn't laugh this time. he stays perfectly still, his eyes tracking the slight tremor in your bottom lip. for a second, his grin falters, replaced by a sharp, intense curiosity that makes your stomach do a violent flip. then, the lazy crooked smile creeps back onto his face, and he nods approvingly.
“better,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “way better. see? you don’t need to put on a performance. guys like jake — and guys like me — we can tell when a girl is trying too hard. authenticity is hotter than any script you could write. you just have to let yourself feel the tension instead of running away from it.”
the rest of the hour goes by in a blur of intense eye contact and brutal, playful critiques. jay puts you through a dozen different scenarios. he teaches you how to respond to a compliment without deflecting it, how to use a quiet pause in conversation to your advantage, and how a simple change in posture can make you look completely magnetic.
he doesn't miss a single chance to tease you, though. every time you stumble over your words or give a goofy response, he boops your nose with his pen or groans dramatically into his hands. but by the time the alarm on his phone buzzes to signal the end of the hour, you realize something shocking: you aren’t so uncomfortable anymore. you’re actually laughing with him.
“alright, session one complete,” jay says, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, pulling his hoodie up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his toned stomach. you quickly look away, your face heating up again. he catches you, of course, and just smirks. “homework for tonight: practice looking people in the eye. the cashier at the dining hall, your professors, yunjin. don’t look down.”
“fine, professor park,” you roll your eyes, sliding off his bed and grabbing your bag. “thanks. for not totally giving up on me.”
“i don't give up on my projects, newbie,” he says, walking you to the door. he opens it, leaning against the frame and looking down at you with a soft, surprisingly warm expression. “see you in two days. don't overthink it.”
“i'll try,” you murmur, giving him a small wave before turning and walking down the hallway.
the walk back to your apartment is a long one, and the cool evening air does nothing to calm the frantic state of your brain. you wrap your cardigan tighter around yourself, your sneakers clicking rhythmically against the pavement as you re-read every single moment of the last hour in your head.
your mind is a chaotic mess of conflicting thoughts.
first of all, jay was right. the theoretical approach did help. just understanding the mechanics of how to hold a gaze and how to drop your voice made you feel like a secret weapon was being built inside you. you find yourself imagining using those exact tricks on jake next tuesday at the café. you imagine looking jake in the eye, holding his gaze, and saying something subtle and confident. the thought makes your stomach flutter with a nervous, happy anticipation. it’s exactly what you wanted.
but as you cross the street near the campus green, another thought creeps in, unbidden and entirely unwelcome.
jay.
you pull a breath into your lungs, a strange, tight feeling in your chest. you had gone into that room completely terrified of him, expecting a cold, arrogant guy who would judge your total lack of experience. instead, he had been… patient. incredibly observant. and so frustratingly attractive that it felt like a safety hazard.
when he had delivered that line — i wore it hoping you’d notice — the look in his eyes hadn't felt like a lesson at all. it had felt entirely too real. the way his voice had dropped, the way he had effortlessly controlled the energy in the room… it was terrifying how easily he could manipulate your feelings with just a shift in his posture.
he’s a professional, you remind yourself sternly, walking up the steps to your apartment building. he has a reputation for a reason. he’s doing this to help you with jake. do not confuse the lines.
yet, as you unlock your front door and hear yunjin yelling something from the kitchen, you can’t shake the memory of jay’s lazy, knowing smirk from your mind. you had spent weeks stressing yourself sick over jake sim, but as you step into your apartment, you realize with a sudden wave of panic that learning how to play the game with jay park might be a hundred times more dangerous.
-------
two days later, you find yourself back outside room 314. you don't even need to take three deep breaths this time — only two.
when jay opens the door, he’s wearing a faded vintage band tee and dark jeans, looking like he just rolled out of bed but somehow still managed to look effortlessly attractive. he takes one look at your face, steps back to let you in, and closes the door with a quiet click.
“welcome back, newbie,” he says, a lazy grin already spreading across his face. “did you do your homework? did you look the dining hall lady in the eye, or did you stare at your tater tots again?”
“i looked her straight in the eye,” you say proudly, tossing your tote bag onto his desk chair. “she looked confused, but i didn’t look down once.”
“proud of you,” jay chuckles, walking over to his mini-fridge to grab a bottle of water. he takes a sip before turning his full attention to you, his eyes sweeping over your outfit before locking onto yours. “alright, today is lesson two. we’re graduating from eye contact. today is all about compliments, voice tone, and what i like to call ‘innocent’ touching. leaning in, brushing an arm, breaking the physical barrier without making it a big deal. ready?”
you nod, though your stomach does a familiar little nervous flip. “ready.”
“good. sit on the bed,” jay commands smoothly, pulling his desk chair over so he’s sitting directly across from you again, only this time, he hitches the chair closer. his knees are barely a few inches from yours. the proximity alone makes the air feel instantly thick. “let’s start with compliments and tone. a lot of girls think giving a compliment means squealing and saying ‘oh my god your hair looks so good today!’ that’s friend-zone energy. jake doesn't need another cheerleader. he needs to know you see him as a man. understand?”
“yeah,” you murmur, swallowing hard.
“so, voice tone is everything. drop your volume. speak from your chest, not your throat. make him lean in to hear you,” jay instructs, his own voice dropping into that low, gravelly pitch that makes your ears tingle. “let’s try it. i walk up to you. i’m jake. i’m wearing a nice cologne. compliment me.”
you take a second to clear your throat, trying to channel your inner siren. you lean forward slightly, look him in the eye, and speak in what you think is a sultry whisper. “wow, jay. you smell really… nice. like a tree.”
jay blinks. the room is dead silent for three seconds.
then, he lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, burying his face in his hands. “like a tree? like a tree? oh my god, newbie, please tell me you’re joking.”
“it’s sandalwood!” you protest, your face instantly turning a furious shade of crimson as you grab his pillow again, though this time he anticipates it and firmly plants a hand on it before you can throw it. “you literally smell like sandalwood and cedar! that’s a tree!”
“you sound like a park ranger,” jay groans, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he pulls the pillow out of your hands. “and your voice went all breathy and weird at the end, like you were running out of oxygen. i said drop your pitch, not sound like you have asthma.”
“i told you i’m bad at this!” you whine, burying your burning face in your hands. “this is why i’m a virgin, jay. i have negative game.”
“hey, look at me,” jay says, his voice softening, though the vibrant amusement is still dancing in his dark eyes. he gently reaches out and taps your wrist until you drop your hands from your face. “it’s fine. that’s why you’re here. let’s try it again, but don’t think about the specific words. don’t describe the scent. just focus on how it makes you feel. and keep the voice steady. smooth. try it.”
you take a deep breath, looking into his eyes. you wait a beat, letting the silence stretch just like he taught you in lesson one. then, keeping your voice low and stable, you say, “you smell really good today. it’s distracting.”
jay pauses. his smirk falters for a fraction of a second, his eyes darkening just a tiny bit as he processes the delivery. a slow, appreciative smile replaces his laughter. “there we go. that’s the tone. smooth, grounded, a little bit dangerous. jake would literally lose his mind if you said that to him.”
a rush of pride swells in your chest. you actually did it.
“alright, now let’s add the physical element,” jay says, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes locked onto yours. “innocent touching is all about making it look accidental. it has to look accidental, but feel intentional. a brush of the shoulder when you laugh, a lingering touch on the arm when you’re emphasizing a point. it makes the moments stick, you know? let’s combine them. give me that same compliment, but this time, i want you to break the physical barrier.”
your heart restarts its frantic rhythm. touching him wasn’t part of the original plan, but this is entirely safe — just an arm, just a shoulder. theoretical practice in action.
“okay,” you whisper.
you look at him. you focus on your breathing, trying to get rid of the tension in your shoulders. you lean in slightly, your eyes dropping to his lips before rising back to his eyes. you reach your hand out, your fingers trembling just a fraction, and gently brush your fingertips against his forearm, letting them linger on the soft fabric of his sleeve.
“you smell really good today,” you say softly, your voice perfectly steady this time. “it’s distracting.”
you expect jay to pull back, or to laugh, or to give you another critique. instead, jay doesn't even flinch. he doesn't get nervous at all; if anything, the touch seems to ground him. his eyes track your hand on his arm, and then slowly, deliberately, he tilts his head, a devastatingly handsome, wicked grin pulling at his lips.
he doesn't break your touch. instead, he leans forward, bringing his face so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
“is it?” jay murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, completely turning the tables on you. “if you think my cologne is distracting, newbie… you’re never going to survive the rest of these lessons.”
your breath hitches completely. your heart thumps so hard against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it. he’s completely unbothered, completely in control, flirting back with an effortless grace that leaves you completely breathless.
“you… you cheated,” you squeak out, frantically pulling your hand back and sitting straight up, your face hot enough to fry an egg. “you’re not supposed to flirt back! you’re supposed to be jake!”
jay lets out a low, rich chuckle, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, looking immensely pleased with himself. “jake is going to flirt back, newbie. if a girl touched him like that and gave him that compliment, he wouldn't just sit there like a log. he’s going to lean in. you need to learn how to handle the counter-attack.”
you pout, crossing your arms defensively. “you’re just showing off.”
“maybe a little,” he admits, his eyes crinkling with that playful, arrogant charm. “but you did great. seriously. the touch was perfect — light, lingering, just enough to make a guy notice. let’s try another one. this time, let’s practice the ‘laugh and lean.’ when i say something funny, you lean in, laugh naturally, and let your shoulder brush mine. let’s see if you can handle it without panicking.”
for the next hour, the room feels like a battlefield of tension and laughter. you practice over and over again. you try leaning in to whisper something “secretive” in his ear, your breath brushing against his neck, which makes jay’s jaw tighten for a brief second before he recovers with a smooth, teasing remark. you practice brushing a stray piece of lint off his shoulder, letting your fingers drag slowly down his chest.
every time you do it well, jay praises you, his voice warm and encouraging, but he never lets you get too comfortable. he always pushes back — catching your wrist gently, leaning into your space, or dropping a low, dangerous compliment right back to test your boundaries. he doesn't get flustered, but you notice that as the lesson goes on, his jokes get a little quieter, his smirks a little softer, and his dark eyes stay locked onto yours with an intensity that makes it harder and harder to remember that this is just a game.
“alright,” jay finally says, his voice a bit rough as he checks his phone. “that’s enough torturing you for one day.”
you sink back against his pillows, completely exhausted but tingling with a weird, electric energy. “i think i actually did okay today.”
“you did better than okay,” jay says, standing up and looking down at you. he reaches out, and for a second, you think he’s going to tease you again, but instead, he gently runs his thumb over the side of your cheek, a surprisingly tender gesture that makes your heart stop. “you’re a quick learner, newbie. jake won’t know what hit him.”
he pulls his hand back smoothly, leaving your skin tingling where his thumb had just been. he walks to the door, opening it with that signature, lazy smirk.
“go home, get some rest. next lesson, we’re talking about kissing mechanics. try not to lose sleep over it.”
you scramble off the bed, grabbing your bag and practically running past him into the hallway, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm as his quiet laughter follows you down the corridor.
the next monday, you’re sitting in the back row of your lecture hall, pretending to take notes on a PowerPoint about microeconomics. in reality, you’ve just been drawing mindless spirals in the margin of your notebook, your brain completely occupied by the memory of jay’s thumb brushing against your cheek.
“next lesson, we’re talking about kissing mechanics.”
the memory of his low, rough voice echoes in your head, making you shiver despite the aggressive air conditioning in the auditorium.
suddenly, a sharp elbow digs into your ribs.
“you’re doing a new thing,” yunjin whispers loudly, leaning over the shared desk. she has her laptop open, but instead of notes, she has a blank word document filled with a massive, stylized question mark. “the ‘staring into the abyss like you’re trying to decode the matrix’ thing. spill. now.”
“shh,” you hiss, keeping your eyes glued to the professor. “we’re in the middle of class.”
“the professor is seventy-five and doesn’t have his hearing aids turned up, babe. talk,” yunjin demands, sliding her chair a microscopic inch closer to yours. her eyes narrow, her strawberry lip gloss catching the fluorescent lights as she tilts her head. “it’s been days. you’ve been acting weirdly quiet, you didn’t spiral once this weekend, and you’ve been practicing weirdly intense eye contact with the barista at the campus cafe. which means… the lessons started. how is jay park?”
your face immediately flares up, the heat rising rapidly from your neck to your cheeks. you grab your highlighter and aggressively color over a random definition on your paper. “it’s fine. it’s going fine.”
“‘it’s fine’ does not make a girl turn the color of a fire hydrant,” yunjin points out, a massive, predatory grin spreading across her face. she leans in so close her coconut-scented hair brushes your shoulder. “oh my god. did you guys do it? did he break his rule? did you break the no-fucking clause already? details, give me details!”
“no! oh my god, no!” you whisper-yell, frantically looking around to see if any of the athletes in the row ahead of you heard. luckily, they’re all asleep. you drop your voice to a desperate, tiny whisper. “we didn’t do anything. i told you, it’s completely theoretical. he promised.”
“okay, okay, keeping it professional. i respect it,” yunjin says, waving a dismissive hand, though her eyes are still dancing with intense curiosity. “so what exactly happens in a ‘theoretical’ sex lesson with jay park? does he use a whiteboard? powerpoint slides?”
“no,” you mumble, hiding the lower half of your face behind your hand. “he… we just sit in his dorm. he makes me practice scenarios. the first lesson was just eye contact and light teasing. he basically told me i have the flirting skills of a cartoon villain.”
yunjin bursts out into a short, choked laugh, quickly covering her mouth with her sleeve when the professor coughs. “i mean, he’s not wrong, babe. remember freshman year when you tried to wink at that guy on the club team and looked like you were having a neurological event?”
“i’m better now!” you defend yourself, your voice tight. “jay fixed it. well, he’s fixing it. we had lesson two a couple days ago.”
yunjin leans in even closer, her notebook completely forgotten. “and? what was lesson two?”
“compliments. voice tone. and… innocent touching,” you whisper, your chest tightening just thinking about it. “like, leaning in and brushing his arm. or laughing and letting our shoulders touch.”
yunjin’s jaw literally drops. she stares at you, her eyes wide. “wait. you touched jay park? the guy who usually looks like he’ll have you legally removed from his presence if you breathe his oxygen? how did he react? did he flinch?”
“no, that’s the thing,” you groan, burying your face in your notebook for a second before looking back at her miserably. “he didn't flinch at all. yunjin, he’s completely immune to me. when i gave him the compliment and touched his arm, i thought i did a really good job. i dropped my voice, i held his gaze, all of it. but then he just… he didn't even blink. he just leaned all the way into my face and flirted back. he said something like, ‘if you think my cologne is distracting, newbie, you’re never going to survive the rest of these lessons.’”
yunjin lets out a low, silent gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. “oh my god. newbie? he calls you newbie? that is so disgustingly hot, i think i’m going to throw up.”
“it’s not hot, it’s terrifying!” you whined, chewing on the cap of your pen. “he is so effortlessly in control of the room. every time i think i’m getting the hang of it, he just raises the stakes to test if i’ll panic. he spent the whole hour praising me when i did it right, but then he'd immediately counter-attack to show me how a guy would react. by the end of it, my heart was beating so hard i thought i was going to pass out.”
yunjin studies your face, her playful demeanor shifting into something a bit more analytical, a small, knowing grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “and what about jake? are you thinking about jake when you’re doing all this?”
the question catches you completely off guard. you pause, your pen hovering over the paper.
“i… yeah,” you say, though the answer feels a little delayed, a little less certain than it should be. “of course i am. the whole point of this is so i don’t ruin things with jake. i keep imagining using the tricks on him.”
“right. of course,” yunjin says softly, though the look she gives you is incredibly perceptive. she taps her chin. “so, what’s next on the syllabus, student of the year?”
you swallow hard, the bell suddenly ringing to signal the end of the lecture. you pack your laptop into your bag with slightly trembling hands, refusing to look yunjin in the eye as you mutter the final detail.
“kissing mechanics. we’re doing kissing next.”
yunjin pauses mid-stride as you both walk out into the crowded hallway, a massive, thrilled grin spreading across her face. “oh, babe. you are playing with actual fireworks. good luck surviving that one.”
-------
the next afternoon, you find yourself walking back up the stairs of the west quad. your nerves are completely fried, mostly because yunjin’s warning about "playing with fireworks" has been looping in your brain for the last twenty-four hours. kissing mechanics. the words alone make your pulse skyrocket.
when jay opens the door to room 314, he’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt and charcoal grey cargo pants. he looks you up and down, a faint, amused smile lingering on his lips. "come on in, newbie."
you step into the familiar, sandalwood-scented space and immediately drop your bag by his desk, hopping onto the edge of his bed. before he can even sit down in his usual chair, the words start spilling out of your mouth in an anxious rush.
"okay, so something happened," you blurts out, waving your hands around. "jake came up to me yesterday at the student union. he was wearing his soccer jersey and he literally leaned against my locker and told me my hair looked pretty."
jay pauses, capping his water bottle and looking at you with a raised eyebrow. "and? did you use the eye contact?"
"yes! i held his gaze for like, five whole seconds," you say proudly, leaning forward. "and then i tried to do the subtle, playful voice thing you taught me. i looked at his jersey and said, 'thanks, you don't look too bad yourself.' but jay, the second the words left my mouth, i panicked. i got so incredibly awkward. i think my shoulders went up to my ears, and i literally backed into the locker door so hard it made a loud clanging sound."
jay stares at you for a beat, and then he breaks. he covers his mouth with his hand, his shoulders shaking as a deep, breathless laugh escapes him. "you backed into a locker? newbie, please tell me you didn't."
"i did!" you groan, burying your face in his pillows. "it was terrible. but… the weird part is, it might not have ruined everything? he’s been texting me literally all day today. look."
you scramble to pull out your phone, unlocking it and flashing the screen at him. there’s a string of text messages from jake, filled with emojis and casual questions about your week.
jay steps closer, leaning down slightly to look at the screen. his eyes scan the notifications, and a low, thoughtful hum hums in his throat. he straightens back up, crossing his arms over his chest, his playful smirk turning into a highly analytical expression.
"okay, first of all, the text volume is good. he's definitely hooked," jay says, tilting his head. "but based on your little locker incident, i'm officially changing the syllabus for today."
you peek up from the pillow. "wait, what? aren't we doing kissing mechanics today?"
"absolutely not," jay says smoothly, a wicked, completely teasing grin spreading across his sharp features. "no offense, newbie, but if you're still crashing into structural steel because a guy complimented your hair, you are legally not ready for the kissing lesson. you'd probably faint on him."
"hey!" you protest, sitting straight up and kicking your legs out, though you can't help the blush spreading across your face. "i was just caught off guard!"
"exactly. which is why we need to build your confidence up through texts and pictures first," jay says, walking over to his closet and leaning his shoulder against the frame. "given how much he's texting you right now, it’s the perfect opportunity. so, lesson three: how to dress sexier, body language upkeep, and sending suggestive texts and photos."
your jaw drops. "photos? like… selfies?"
"relax, i don't mean nudes," jay scoffs playfully, rolling his eyes. "i mean the kind of photos that make a guy stare at his phone for ten minutes straight. subtle hints. showing off your collarbone, an arched back, a casual half-smile. the kind of stuff that says 'i'm not trying,' even though you absolutely are."
he walks over to your bag and picks it up, tossing it onto the bed next to you. "dump it out. let’s see what clothes you brought today, and then we're going to fix your text game."
for the next hour, jay takes his role entirely too seriously. he makes you stand up to practice your posture — forcing your shoulders down, teaching you how to subtly arch your back when you're sitting so your silhouette looks sharper, and showing you how to cross your legs to elongate your frame.
then comes the text interrogation. he sits right next to you on the bed, his shoulder pressing against yours, looking over your screen as you type.
"no, delete that exclamation point. it makes you sound too eager," jay commands, his thumb reaching over to tap your screen. "type this instead: 'busy right now, but i might have time for you later.' it creates mystery. it makes him want to compete for your attention."
"isn't that a little mean?" you ask, looking up at him.
"it's not mean, it's a hook," jay murmurs, his dark eyes fixed on yours from mere inches away. "trust me. watch how fast he replies."
you hit send. less than thirty seconds later, jake replies: 'what are you up to? let me know when you're free x'.
you stare at the screen in absolute shock. "oh my god. you're a wizard."
"i'm a guy. i know how our brains work," jay smirks, entirely pleased with himself. "now, let's seal the deal. we're sending a photo. stand up."
you get up, your heart doing a nervous dance as jay picks up your phone. he walks you over to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of his door, positioning you just right where the warm afternoon light hits your face.
"your sweater is too high. pull it slightly off one shoulder," jay instructs, his voice dropping into that focused, professional tone.
you hesitantly tug the knit fabric down, exposing your collarbone. jay steps behind you, looking at your reflection in the mirror. he frowns slightly, stepping closer until his chest is almost pressed against your back. he reaches out, his warm, large hands gently gripping your waist to adjust your posture, tilting your hips just a fraction.
"don't look directly at the camera like a deer in headlights," jay murmurs near your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "look slightly down, tilt your chin up. think about something that makes you feel good."
your whole body feels like it's on fire from his touch. your reflection in the mirror shows your cheeks flushed a deep pink, your eyes dark and wide. jay raises your phone, snapping a few photos. he pulls away smoothly, scrolling through the gallery before handing the phone back to you.
you look at the screen and literally gasp. the photo doesn't even look like you. it looks incredibly soft, effortless, and undeniably sexy. your collarbone stands out, your lips are slightly parted, and the flush on your cheeks looks intentional.
"send him that one," jay says, leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms, watching your reaction with an intensely satisfied smirk. "and don't add a caption. just let him suffer."
you hit send, your hands shaking. almost instantly, the typing bubbles appear from jake's contact.
they bounce up and down, then disappear, then start up again. jake is clearly panicking on the other end, deleting and rewriting his response just like you had done nights ago.
jay steps closer, leaning over your shoulder to look down at the screen. his chest gently brushes your back, the warm, clean scent of his sandalwood cologne enveloping you completely. “look at that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble right next to your ear. “he’s losing his mind. i told you.”
finally, the text comes through.
jake: oh wow. you look really pretty. where are you?
you automatically start typing a reply, your fingers flying across the keyboard. i’m just hanging out at a friend’s dorm.
“stop, stop, stop,” jay says, his hand suddenly coming down over yours to physically halt your thumbs. his palms are warm and broad, completely wrapping around your hands. a jolt of electricity zaps straight up your arms. he doesn't pull away immediately; instead, he slowly guides your hands down, forcing you to lower the phone. “what did i say about theater-kid energy? you’re giving away too much information, newbie. you’re killing the mystery.”
“but he asked where i am!” you protest, looking up at him over your shoulder. your faces are incredibly close, so close you can count the dark lashes framing his piercing eyes.
jay just smiles, that slow, devastatingly confident grin that makes him look entirely too in control. he reaches out and smoothly takes the phone right out of your fingers. “he doesn’t get to know where you are. he didn't earn that yet. right now, he’s sitting in his room staring at a photo of your bare shoulder. we need to lean into that.”
he taps the screen, typing out a message with one hand while keeping his eyes locked on yours. “if he asks where you are, you don’t give him a location. you give him a tease.”
he turns the phone around to show you what he wrote.
you: somewhere you’re not. 😉
your jaw drops. “jay! that is so forward! i can't say that!”
“you didn't say it, i did. now watch,” he says, tapping send before you can grab the device back.
you watch the screen in an agony of suspense. the response from jake is almost instantaneous this time.
jake: that’s not fair. maybe i want to be there.
your breath hitches. jake has never talked to you like this before. usually, his texts are sweet, casual, and safe. jay’s little formula is completely shifting the dynamic, turning a simple crush into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse.
“see?” jay says, his tone dripping with playful smugness as he slides the phone back into your hands. he leans his hip against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms and looking down at you. “he’s chasing now. when a guy says ‘maybe i want to be there,’ he’s testing the waters. he wants to see if the door is open. so, what do you do?”
“i… i tell him he can come over?” you guess, completely out of your depth.
jay groans, tossing his head back dramatically. “no! god, newbie, you’re trying to speed-run this. if you invite him over now, you’re giving up all your power. you have to make him work for it. keep him on his toes.”
he steps back into your personal space, the playful arrogance in his eyes shifting into something focused and instructional. he grabs your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up so you’re forced to look directly into his dark eyes.
“this is the suggestive texting masterclass,” jay explains softly, his thumb lightly brushing the sensitive skin of your jawline. “you always want to imply a double meaning. you want him to read your texts and wonder if you’re being totally innocent or incredibly dirty. it keeps his mind completely occupied with thoughts of you.”
he lets go of your chin, but the ghost of his touch leaves a burning trail on your skin. he points at your phone. “type this: ‘i don’t know, jake. i’m kind of a handful. not sure you could handle it.’”
your fingers are practically sweating as you type out the words exactly as he dictated. you hit send.
the typing bubbles appear immediately.
jake: try me. i’m pretty good at handling things.
you let out a soft, choked gasp, completely floored by the sheer boldness of jake's reply. your face is burning hot, your heart hammering against your ribs. you look up at jay, wide-eyed and completely breathless. “oh my god. it worked. it actually worked.”
jay doesn't look surprised at all. if anything, he’s studying your reaction with an intense, quiet curiosity. his eyes drop to your flushed cheeks, then down to your parted lips, before slowly rising back to meet your gaze. the playful, teasing smirk slowly fades from his face, replaced by a heavy, unreadable expression.
“of course it worked,” jay murmurs, his voice suddenly dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through your chest. he steps a fraction closer, completely erasing the distance between you until your clothes are almost brushing. “you’re a beautiful girl, newbie. when you actually give a guy a green light, he’s going to run straight through it.”
the air in the dorm room becomes completely stagnant, thick with a sudden, suffocating wave of tension. jay is looking at you with an intensity that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim. his gaze feels heavy, physical, like a hand tracing the curve of your neck. for a terrifying, thrilling second, you forget all about your phone, all about jake’s texts, and all about the rules of these lessons.
you stare up at him, your heart in your throat, completely paralyzed by how easily he can shift the gravity in the room.
jay holds your gaze for one more lingering, breathless second. then, just as quickly as it appeared, the heavy tension snaps. a lazy, familiar smirk creeps back onto his sharp features, and he steps back, breaking the spell.
“alright, lock your phone,” jay says, tapping the top of your head playfully. “that’s enough digital damage for today. leave him on read for a few hours. let him stew in his own thoughts while he waits for you to reply.”
you quickly lock your screen, nodding dumbly as you try to force your lungs to remember how to breathe normally.
“lesson three concluded,” jay says, walking over to the door and swinging it open, looking entirely unbothered by the emotional hurricane he just caused in your chest. he gives you a sharp, teasing wink. “next time, newbie… we’re finally doing kissing mechanics. don’t forget to practice your posture before then.”
-------
four days pass, and your life feels like it has been completely split into two entirely different realities.
on one side of the screen, there’s the jake sim reality. and to your absolute shock, jay’s blueprint is working flawlessly. jake has been pursuing you with a fervor that leaves you dizzy. when you see him on campus now, he doesn't just give you a sweet, friendly wave from across the quad. he actively detours to walk with you to class. when you talk, his eyes don't wander; they stay locked onto your face, and he looks at you with this intense, focused hunger that makes your stomach do backflips.
last night, he texted you out of nowhere at 11:00 p.m. just to say he saw a sweater in a store window that reminded him of the photo you sent, adding a little tongue-in-cheek comment about how he's still waiting to find out where "somewhere you're not" is.
it's everything you wanted. you're finally getting the boy you’ve been pining over since freshman orientation. you should be ecstatic. you should be texting yunjin in a flurry of capital letters and celebratory emojis.
but instead, you find yourself staring at your bedroom ceiling in the dead of night, feeling completely untethered.
the truth is a terrifying, heavy weight in your chest, and admitting it to yourself feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. because every time jake texts you, a tiny, dark voice in the back of your mind whispers that it isn’t actually your game he’s falling for. it’s jay’s. you’re just the actress reciting lines written by a boy who understands the mechanics of desire like the back of his hand.
and then there's the next lesson.
kissing mechanics.
your stomach drops into a cold abyss every time you think about it. you’re terrified. actual, physical kissing is a universe away from just holding eye contact or letting your shoulders brush during a laugh. it means jay’s hands on you. it means his face inches from yours, his lips touching yours, his sharp jawline, his heavy, low breathing. even if it’s entirely "theoretical" — even if he's just using his fingers to map out where to press or demonstrating the pacing on a pillow or explaining the biology of how a guy reacts — the mere thought of being that close to him makes your chest tighten until it hurts.
but beneath the suffocating layers of panic, there is an even darker, more humiliating truth that you barely have the courage to acknowledge in the privacy of your own head.
you were disappointed.
when you walked into room 314 a few days ago, fully braced for the kissing lesson, your heart had been pounding because you thought you were finally going to cross that terrifying physical threshold with him. and when jay had laughed, called you a newbie, and casually pushed the lesson back because you "weren't ready," a sudden, sharp pang of rejection had sliced right through you.
you had spent the rest of that afternoon acting annoyed and pouty, but deep down, your skin had been practically begging for the exact thing you claimed to be afraid of. you had wanted him to look at you and decide you were ready. you had wanted to know what his lips felt like, even if it was just a clinical demonstration.
it's a dangerous, toxic thought. jay is your tutor. he’s sunghoon’s best friend, a guy known for his selective, zero-strings-attached reputation, and he is actively helping you construct a trap to catch jake. confusing your feelings now would be absolute social suicide. it would ruin everything.
you roll onto your side, pulling your blanket tightly around your shoulders as you look at your phone. tomorrow afternoon is the day. there are no more text modules left to practice. no more posture corrections or wardrobe updates.
tomorrow, you have to look jay park in the eye and let him teach you how to kiss.
and as you close your eyes, trying to force yourself to sleep, you realize with a jolt of pure panic that you aren't sure which reality you're more afraid of anymore: the one where you finally kiss jake sim, or the one where you have to watch jay pull away from you when the lesson is over.
-------
the rain is drumming a steady rhythm against the glass of room 314 when you walk in. the afternoon light is weak, casting the dorm in a hazy, intimate shadow that immediately makes your throat feel dry. jay is sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs spread, hands loosely clasped between his knees. he’s wearing a soft, oversized gray crewneck sweater, looking entirely relaxed, while your nerves are stretched so tight they’re practically screaming.
“welcome back, newbie,” jay says, his voice softer than usual, matching the quiet hum of the rain. he tracks your movement as you set your bag down, his eyes lingering on your tense shoulders. “you look like you’re walking to the gallows.”
“i’m just… anticipating,” you mumble, sitting on the opposite end of the bed, pulling your knees to your chest.
jay watches you for a beat, a faint, understanding smile touching his lips. “right. lesson four. kissing mechanics.” he shifts, leaning back against his headboard, his expression turning professional, though his dark eyes retain that sharp, observant glint. “before we start, a reminder of the rules. we agreed on a strict blueprint. entirely theoretical. no physical interaction. i’m here to give you the breakdown so you can take it to jake. clear?”
“clear,” you say. you try to sound relieved. you try to make your voice bright and cooperative. but a small, involuntary drop in your tone betrays you, a tiny hesitation that doesn’t escape his notice. a sudden, heavy wave of disappointment washes through you, sharp and humiliating, and you hate yourself for feeling it. you should be grateful for the boundary, but your skin feels suddenly cold.
jay’s eyes narrow slightly, analyzing the split-second change in your expression, but he doesn't comment on it. instead, he clears his throat and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“alright. let’s break down the mechanics,” jay begins, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always makes your pulse spike. “kissing isn’t just about the lips, newbie. if you just dive in, it’s clumsy. it starts with the pacing. when jake leans in, you don’t rush to meet him halfway. you let him do the work. you tilt your chin up, keep your lips slightly parted — just a fraction — and breathe out softly. it signals invitation.”
you nod, trying to memorize the words, but your brain is panicking because jay is demonstrating the head tilt himself, his sharp jawline defining itself in the dim amber light of his desk lamp.
“when the actual contact happens, you start slow,” jay continues, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels almost physical. “it’s a gentle pressure. one lip tucked between his. you hold it for a beat, let the warmth build, and then you shift. it’s a rhythm. you use your hands — remember lesson two? — you let your fingers rest right on the side of his neck, just below the jaw. your thumb rests on his cheekstone. it stabilizes the movement, and it drives a guy absolutely crazy because it feels grounding.”
as he speaks, jay mimics the hand placement in the air, his long, elegant fingers moving with a slow grace that makes you track them like a hawk. the air in the room is growing increasingly thick, the space between you on the mattress suddenly feeling incredibly small.
“now,” jay murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, unhurried second before rising back to your eyes. “let’s practice the approach. the build-up of tension right before the lips touch is fifty percent of the kiss. if you panic there, the whole thing is ruined.”
he slides down the mattress, closing the distance between you until he’s sitting cross-legged directly in front of you. your knees are practically brushing.
“i’m going to act as if i’m going to kiss you,” jay instructs softly, his playful arrogance completely gone, replaced by a quiet, suffocating gravity. “i’m going to get close. your job is to hold eye contact, keep your breathing steady, and do not pull away. understand?”
“yes,” you whisper, your heart hammering so loudly against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it.
“look at me,” he commands gently.
you look up. jay leans in slowly.
the world outside the window completely ceases to exist. his movements are deliberate, agonizingly drawn out, giving your brain time to register every single detail. you see the dark depth of his eyes, the slight curve of his nose, the perfect, soft shape of his lips. he tilts his head to the side, a fraction of an inch, mapping out the angle perfectly.
closer. you can smell the rich, intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne mixed with the clean scent of his skin.
closer. his chest is almost touching yours, the warmth radiating off his body enveloping you in a heat wave. your breath catches in your throat, your lips parting automatically, exactly the way he taught you. your eyes flutter, desperately wanting to close, but you force them to stay open, locked onto his.
he stops.
his lips are barely half an inch from yours. you can feel the literal heat of his breath brushing against your skin, hovering right over your mouth. the tension in the microscopic space between you is a physical, electric current, pulling at you, begging you to lean forward just a millimeter to erase the agony of the distance. your heart is in your throat. you are completely paralyzed, drowning in the proximity of him.
jay stays perfectly still for three agonizing, breathless seconds, his gaze raking over your eyes, your nose, your trembling mouth. his jaw tightens, a sudden, fierce flash of hunger crossing his features before he forces it down.
slowly, deliberately, jay pulls back. the sudden rush of cool air between you feels like a physical shock. he sits straight up, clearing his throat, though his breathing is visibly shallower than it was five minutes ago.
“just like that,” jay says, his voice a little rough, a little strained. “you held the gaze. you didn't panic. do that with jake, and he’ll—”
the mention of jake’s name feels like a bucket of ice water, snapping something inside you. you look at jay — at his parted lips, his flushed neck, the sheer, unbothered control he’s trying to fake — and a sudden, reckless wave of desperation overrides every single rule, every single boundary, and every shred of your common sense.
and then something you would've never expected comes out of your mouth:
“jay, can you give me a practical example?”
the words hang in the air. jay freezes, his usual smirk vanishing. and for the first time since you walked into room 314, jay park looks completely caught off guard. his dark eyes widen just a fraction, his posture locking up as he stares at you in absolute silence. he stares at your face like he’s waiting for you to say you’re joking. the only sound in the room is the sound of the rain against the windowpane.
“what?” he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. he tilts his head, blinking down at you like he’s entirely convinced his ears are playing tricks on him. “what did you just say, newbie?”
the sudden realization of what just tumbled out of your mouth hits you like a physical blow. your stomach plummets, and a fierce, blinding heat instantly erupts across your cheeks, burning all the way down to your neck. you instinctively try to pull your knees tighter to your chest, wanting nothing more than to shrink into a microscopic atom and disappear into the mattress.
“i… um,” you squeak out, your voice dropping to a mortified, breathless whisper. you look down at your hands, your fingers frantically twisting the fabric of your pajama pants. “i said… can you give me a practical example? like… a real one.”
jay doesn't move. he just stays cross-legged in front of you, absorbing your words. then, slowly, the shock on his face melts away. a brilliant, wicked, and entirely amused grin spreads across his sharp features. he lets out a low, rich chuckle that vibrates deep in his chest, leaning back slightly on his hands as he studies your purple face.
“wow,” jay murmurs, his tone dripping with pure, unadulterated amusement. “the quiet girl strikes again. you really are full of surprises, aren't you?”
“stop laughing at me!” you whine, hiding your face in your hands. your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your teeth. “i’m being serious! i’m trying to be logical about this!”
“logical?” jay teases, his voice filled with a quiet, shaking laughter. he reaches out and gently, but firmly, tugs your wrists away from your face so you’re forced to look at him. he doesn't let go of your hands, keeping his fingers loosely looped around your wrists. “okay, professor. please, explain the logic to me. i’m dying to hear this.”
you swallow hard, your eyes darting everywhere but his lips. you try to summon every ounce of justification your panicked brain can manufacture.
“well… because!” you stammer, your voice incredibly shy, filled with an embarrassed pitch. “you said it yourself! you said kissing is all about the rhythm and the pacing. and— and you said if i panic during the approach, the whole thing is ruined! how am i supposed to know if i’m going to panic with jake if i haven't actually practiced the real thing? what if my timing is completely off? what if i accidentally bump teeth with him, jay? that would be traumatizing!”
jay listens to your anxious, stuttering speech, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners. he looks incredibly smug, entirely enjoying how completely flustered you are.
“so,” jay says slowly, a lazy, teasing purr in his voice as he lightly squeezes your wrists. “let me get this straight. purely for educational purposes… for my duties as your instructor… you think we should break the non-physical clause. for the sake of science.”
“yes!” you whisper-yell, your face burning hotter, if that was even physically possible. “it’s just… a hands-on lab! like chemistry class! it makes perfect sense!”
“chemistry, huh?” jay echoes, his voice dropping an octave, the vibrant laughter in his eyes shifting into something much darker, much more intense.
he slowly releases your wrists, but he doesn't move back. instead, he slides even closer on the mattress, completely invading your personal space until the heat radiating from his body wraps around you like a blanket. the playful, mocking expression of his face softens into something dangerous.
“you’re a terrible liar, newbie,” jay murmurs, his eyes dropping to your parted lips, staring at them for a long, unhurried second before rising back to yours. “you’re not thinking about jake sim’s teeth right now. and you’re definitely not thinking about science.”
your breath hitches completely, your voice trapped in your throat.
“but…” jay whispers, his hand slowly rising to cup the side of your face, his broad palm warm against your burning cheek, his thumb gently resting right on your cheekbone — exactly where he had just described a minute ago. “if you’re really that worried about failing your practical exam… i guess your teacher is just going to have to show you how it’s done.”
jay doesn't give you a chance to think, to backtrack, or to let the embarrassment completely swallow you whole.
his fingers anchor themselves gently behind your neck, his thumb still resting right on your cheekbone, stabilizing you exactly the way he had mapped out verbally just moments before. he leans in, but there is no hesitation this time. the agonizing half-inch of space between your lips vanishes in a split second.
when his lips first touch yours, a gasp catches in your throat, and jay uses that exact fraction of a second to deepen the pressure. his lips are incredibly soft but firm, moving against yours with a practiced, devastating slow rhythm. a full-body shiver ripples through you, your hands automatically reaching out to clutch at the fabric of his soft gray sweater just to keep yourself grounded.
“breathe, newbie,” jay whispers against your mouth, his voice a low, rough vibration that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. “don't hold your breath. follow me, don't overthink it.”
he pulls back just a millimeter, letting the cool air hit your wet lips before tilting his head to a slightly different angle and sliding right back in. it's a gentle, heavy pressure. he tucks your lower lip between his, sucking on it so softly it makes a quiet, embarrassing sound echo in the quiet dorm room. you try to copy the movement, your lips parting a little more as you attempt to match his pace.
“there you go,” jay murmurs, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he praises you mid-kiss. his hand slides from your neck down to your shoulder, his broad palm squeezing gently through your clothes. “keep your hands right there. stay relaxed. you’re doing perfect.”
he leads you flawlessly, controlling the entire gravity of the moment. every time you feel like you're about to lose your mind from the sheer intensity of it, jay slows things down, lingering in a soft, pressing rhythm that lets you catch up. your eyes have completely fluttered shut now, the darkness making the sensation of his lips, his warm hands, and the intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne a thousand times more overwhelming. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the heat of his mouth, forgetting about the rain outside, forgetting about the syllabus, forgetting about everything.
when jay finally draws back, he does it slowly, his lips brushing against yours one last time before he fully breaks the contact.
the sudden loss of warmth leaves you feeling completely dazed. you slowly blink your eyes open, your chest heaving as you try to force air back into your lungs. jay is still hovering inches away from your face. his dark hair is slightly messy, his own breathing is visibly shallower, and his usually perfectly composed lips are a dark, flushed red. he’s staring down at you with a heavy, unreadable gaze that is entirely devoid of his usual playful arrogance.
for three long seconds, neither of you says a word.
then, reality comes crashing back down on you with the force of a tidal wave.
oh my god. you just kissed jay park. you practically begged him to do it. you used a fake excuse about "science" and "chemistry class" just to get him to put his hands on you.
a massive, blinding wave of mortification slaps you across the face. your cheeks explode into a furious, bright purple flush. you instantly let go of his sweater as if it had turned into white-hot iron, scrambling backward on the mattress until your back hits his headboard. you pull your knees all the way to your chest, burying your face completely in your arms, a small, choked groan escaping your throat.
“hey,” jay’s smooth voice breaks the silence, a soft, familiar chuckle bubbling up in his chest. you hear the mattress shift as he slides closer to you. “what are you hiding for? you’re the one who demanded a practical exam, professor.”
“please don’t look at me,” you whine into your knees, your voice incredibly muffled and strained with pure embarrassment. “i am going to jump out of that window. i am actually going to die right here on your bed.”
“don’t die yet, we still have to grade you,” jay teases, his tone dropping into that lazy, effortless purr. you feel his long fingers gently tap the top of your head. “come on, look up. i promise i won’t tease you too bad.”
you slowly, hesitantly lift your chin just enough to peek at him through the gap in your arms. jay is sitting right there, leaning his elbow on his knee with his chin resting in his palm, watching you with an incredibly amused, knowing grin.
“so,” jay murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto your wide, panicked ones. “how was the lesson? did it help clarify the mechanics for you?”
“i… yes,” you squeak out, your face still burning hot.
you pull your arms tighter around your legs, your heart still hammering a rushed rhythm against your ribs. you are completely, thoroughly embarrassed — more humiliated than you have ever been in your entire life. but beneath the suffocating layers of shyness, as you look at jay's slightly curved lips, you feel a terrifyingly honest truth settling deep in your chest.
you liked it. you liked it a lot. in fact, you liked it so much that the mere thought of taking these newly learned "mechanics" and using them on jake sim suddenly felt entirely, completely impossible.
-------
you keep your mouth shut. you don’t tell yunjin. in fact, you don’t tell a single living soul.
when you get back to your shared apartment that evening, yunjin is sitting on the kitchen counter eating dry cereal straight from the box, her eyes instantly narrowing into little laser beams the second the front door clicks shut. you quickly mutter something about having a massive headache from the library lights, sprint into your bedroom, and lock the door behind you. if you open your mouth, even just to breathe, you’re terrified the taste of jay’s strawberry-and-mint lip balm will somehow manifest in the air and give you away.
you spend the next two days in a state of absolute, localized hysteria.
the embarrassment is a physical weight, pressing down on your chest until you feel lightheaded. you can't stop replaying the feeling of his broad palm cradling your jaw, the specific, gravelly pitch of his voice when he whispered “breathe, newbie,” and the agonizingly soft, rhythmic pull of his lips against yours. you had loved it. you had loved it so much that just thinking about it while sitting in a Tuesday morning lecture makes your stomach do a violent, hot flip.
and that’s not even the worst part. the worst part — the thing that is currently keeping you awake at 3:00 a.m. staring at your ceiling fan — is how the lesson had actually ended.
right before you had practically bolted out of his dorm room, your face still a catastrophic shade of purple, jay had stood by the door with his hands shoved casually into his cargo pants. he had looked down at you, that slow, devastatingly handsome smirk firmly back in place, and murmured: “since you passed your practical exam with such high marks, newbie… i’ll let you call the shots for lesson five. it can be anything you want. think about it.”
anything you want.
how are you supposed to walk back into room 314 on thursday afternoon, look jay park in his incredibly symmetrical, aristocratic face, and say: 'oh, yeah, hi, remember how i said i wanted to learn for science? well, the science was great, can we please just make out for another hour?'
you can’t. you literally cannot do that. it would destroy the flimsy, pathetic shield of "educational purposes" you’ve been hiding behind. it would mean admitting that you aren't a student trying to impress jake sim anymore; it would mean admitting that jay has completely, effortlessly rewired your brain in the span of three weeks.
speaking of jake, his reality is becoming increasingly harder to navigate. he texts you a picture of a coffee cup on Wednesday morning: 'at the café near the library. wish you were somewhere i am today.'
you stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. a week ago, a text like that would have made you scream into your pillow. it’s exactly what you wanted. it’s a direct reference to the tease jay helped you send him. but now, looking at the letters, all you can think about is jay’s chest pressed against your back, his warm hands adjusting your waist in front of the mirror, and his low voice telling you to let him suffer.
when you reply with a simple, sweet 'awkward timing, i'm stuck in a study group! next time x', it feels like you’re writing a script for a play you’ve completely lost interest in starring in.
by thursday afternoon, your anxiety has reached a fever pitch. you change your sweater twice, eventually settling on a high-necked, oversized crewneck that offers absolutely zero skin-to-air vulnerability. you walk up the stairs of the west quad like a prisoner marching to the electric chair, your knees feeling strangely hollow.
when you reach room 314, you stand outside the heavy wooden door for a full sixty seconds, your hand raised to knock, your heart hammering a rushed rhythm against your ribs.
just be normal, you tell yourself, closing your eyes tightly. ask him to practice advanced flirting. ask him to break down how to read body language across a crowded room. do not look at his mouth. do not think about his hands.
you take one final, deep breath, brace your shoulders, and knock.
the door swings open, and jay is standing there looking entirely too comfortable in a soft cream-colored knit sweater and dark trousers. his eyes immediately lock onto yours, his gaze dropping to your high-necked crewneck before rising back to your face with a slow, knowing amusement.
“well, look who it is,” jay says, stepping back to let you into the room. the door closes behind you with a quiet, solid click that feels incredibly final. “come on in, newbie. i was starting to think you’d skipped town.”
“i wouldn’t skip town,” you mumble, keeping your eyes trained firmly on his desk as you walk past him. you sit on the very edge of his bed, your posture rigid and stiff, your hands tightly clasped in your lap.
jay doesn't sit in his desk chair this time. instead, he walks over and leans his hip against the edge of the mattress, just a couple of feet away from you. he crosses his arms, tilting his head as his sharp, observant eyes trace the tense line of your shoulders, the frantic way your fingers are twitching, and the obvious blush already coloring your cheeks.
“alright,” jay murmurs, his voice low and conversational. “lesson five. you’re calling the shots today. what’s on the agenda, professor? more chemistry labs, or are we pivoting?”
you clear your throat aggressively, trying to sound as clinical and professional as possible. “i think… i think we should practice advanced flirting. like, body language across a crowded room, or how to subtly command attention in a group conversation. i think that’s a really logical next step for jake.”
jay doesn't say anything for a long, agonizing beat. he just stands there, watching you stumble over your words. then, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips, his eyes glinting with pure, unadulterated mischief. he knows you're lying. he can see right through your pathetic little shield, and he is clearly planning on playing dirty.
“advanced flirting in a crowd,” jay repeats smoothly, nodding his head as if he’s taking you completely seriously. “okay. sure. let’s practice that. but you know, advanced flirting isn’t just about looking across a room, newbie. it’s about what you do when you finally get close to someone in a crowded, loud space. when the music is too loud and you have to make them listen to only you.”
before you can even process his words, jay moves.
he slides onto the bed, shifting his weight until he is sitting directly beside you. his thigh presses flush against yours, the heavy, intoxicating warmth of his body immediately enveloping you. your breath hitches, your entire body going completely rigid as you stare straight ahead, terrified to look at him.
“let’s set the scene,” jay whispers, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through the mattress. he leans in closer, his chest brushing against your arm. “we’re at a busy bar. the music is throwing heavy bass. jake is standing right next to you, but there are people everywhere, pushing into your space. if you just talk normally, he won't hear you. you have to close the distance.”
he leans over, his face entering your peripheral vision. you bite your lip, staring straight ahead at his closet door, your heart hammering so violently against your ribs it feels painful.
then, jay eliminates the space entirely.
he leans over your shoulder, his chest pressing firmly against your back. he tilts his head, burying his face right in the crook of your neck, just an inch away from your sensitive skin. his hot, heavy breath fans out across your jawline and the side of your neck, sending a violent, electric shiver straight down your spine. you let out a soft, helpless gasp, your fingers tightly gripping the fabric of your own sweater.
“if you want him to notice you,” jay murmurs, his lips brushing against the tiny hairs on your neck as he speaks, his voice a devastatingly hot, quiet rumble right against your ear, “you don’t shout over the noise. you lean in. right here. where it’s quiet.”
you can feel the warmth of his lips moving, the heat of his skin radiating into yours. the air in the room is completely gone, replaced by the suffocating, heavy scent of his sandalwood cologne. your mind is a chaotic, blurred mess; you can’t think about jake, you can’t think about advanced flirting, you can’t think about anything other than the agonizing friction of jay’s body pressed against yours.
“and then,” jay continues softly, his hand slowly rising to rest on the curve of your waist, his large palm squeezing gently through your thick sweater, anchoring you to him, “you tell him something confidential. something that makes him forget the entire room exists.”
he lingers there for an agonizing, breathless three seconds, his breath hot against your ear, letting the agonizing tension build until you’re practically trembling under his touch. you’re completely paralyzed, your lips parted, waiting, secretly begging for him to just turn your face and kiss you again.
instead, jay slowly draws his head back just a fraction. he doesn't move his body away, keeping his chest pressed to your back and his hand firmly on your waist, but he tilts his head so he can look at the side of your face. his eyes are dark, intense.
“but we aren't at a crowded bar, newbie,” jay whispers, his voice dropping even lower, turning into something raw and fiercely honest. his thumb rubs a slow circle into your waist. “it’s just you and me in a quiet room. and your shoulders are up to your ears because you’re lying to me.”
you swallow hard, a shaky breath escaping your lips.
jay leans in just a millimeter closer, his lips almost brushing your earlobe. “so stop playing games with me. look at me and tell me what you really want to do for lesson five.”
you swallow hard, the feel of his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles through the fabric of your sweater making it completely impossible to form a coherent thought. your gaze is frozen on the wrinkled blankets of his bed, your pulse hammering a rapid rhythm in your ears. jay doesn't move. he stays right there, his chest warm against your back, his breath a steady, intoxicating heat against the side of your neck, patiently waiting you out.
"i'm waiting, newbie," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing purr that completely undoes the last shred of your resolve.
"i... i want to practice kissing again," you blurts out, the words rushing out of you in a desperate, breathless squeak.
the hand on your waist pauses for a fraction of a second. jay doesn't immediately pull back, but you can feel the slight shift in his posture, the way his jaw tightens against your hair. you quickly scramble to cover your track, the sheer embarrassment forcing your brain into overdrive as you try to construct a pathetic safety net of logic.
"because— because of the mechanics!" you stammer quickly, your voice dropping to a mortified whisper as you twist your fingers together. "the last time... i was entirely caught off guard, jay. and i felt like i was completely awful at it. i didn't know where to put my hands, and my timing was definitely off, and... and if i'm going to be ready for jake, i need to actually make sure i can do the rhythm properly without freezing up. it’s just for the lesson. for practice."
the silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a knife. for three agonizing seconds, you’re entirely convinced you’ve gone too far, that he’s going to laugh at your transparent excuse and tell you the lesson is over.
then, slowly, jay draws back.
you force yourself to turn your head, your cheeks burning a bright, furious pink as you look at him. jay is studying your face, his dark eyes incredibly heavy and focused. the playful, arrogant smirk you expected isn't there; instead, his lips are parted slightly, his gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your eyes with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"for practice," he echoes, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates straight to your core.
"yes," you whisper.
"alright," jay murmurs, his tone shifting into something thick and serious. he slides closer, crossing his legs so he’s sitting directly in front of you, completely erasing the distance. "if we’re going to fix your rhythm, we need to do it right. look at me."
you lift your chin, your eyes locking onto his. jay doesn't hesitate this time. his large, warm hand rises, his long fingers sliding effortlessly into the hair at the back of your neck, his thumb anchoring right on your jawline to tilt your face up. he leans in, and before your brain can even register the proximity, his lips are pressing firmly against yours.
the contact is an immediate shock of heat. unlike the brief practical exam from days ago, jay doesn't start with a gentle question. he slides his lips over yours with a slow, heavy confidence, guiding your mouth to open slightly with a soft, persistent pressure.
"put your hands on my shoulders," jay whispers directly against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged as he pulls back just a millimeter to give the instruction. "don't just let them hang there. hold onto me."
your hands shake as you lift them, your fingers clutching tightly at the soft cream fabric of his knit sweater. the moment your palms make contact with his broad shoulders, jay lets out a low, approving hum deep in his throat. he tilts his head to the opposite angle, his lips sealing over yours again, deepening the kiss with a slow, agonizingly deliberate pace.
he teaches you through the movement itself. when your movements get too rushed or frantic from the sheer panic of how good it feels, jay uses the firm grip on the back of your neck to slow you down, lingering in a heavy, pressing rhythm that forces you to match his breath. his tongue lightly brushes against your bottom lip, a subtle, electrifying hint that makes a quiet, helpless sound escape your throat. jay catches the sound, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your jawline, pulling you closer until your chest is completely pressed against his.
the "practice kiss" begins to stretch, the boundaries of the lesson blurring until the air in the dorm room feels thick and heavy with a sudden, suffocating wave of genuine friction. it isn't just a clinical demonstration anymore. his lips are moving against yours with a raw, unhurried hunger, his breathing turning shallow and rough against your cheek. your fingers tangle deeper into the knit of his sweater, your body leaning entirely into his warmth, completely lost in the intoxicating taste of him. it’s a full-on makeout, a lingering, breathless collision that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim.
suddenly, as if realizing exactly how far the line has been crossed, jay stiffens.
he pulls away, his hand sliding out of your hair as he abruptly breaks the contact.
the sudden loss of his warmth leaves you gasping for air, your lips tingling and flushed a deep red. you scramble back a few inches, your heart thumping violently against your ribs as reality comes crashing down on you like ice water.
the silence in the room is deafening, save for the sound of your ragged breathing. jay is sitting right in front of you, his dark hair completely messy from your fingers, his chest heaving under his sweater. he looks completely ungrounded, his eyes staring down at his own hands for a long, heavy beat before he finally forces himself to look up at you.
the atmosphere is thick with a sharp, suffocating awkwardness. both of you are completely aware that that wasn't on the syllabus.
jay clears his throat, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck as he shifts slightly on the mattress, trying desperately to summon his usual composed, unbothered demeanor.
“that was… good,” jay says, his voice rough, strained, and completely lacking its usual playful smugness. he avoids looking directly at your lips, his dark eyes focusing on your forehead instead as he slides off the bed and stands up. “your timing is… it’s fine. we’ll work on it.”
the minute those words leave jay’s mouth, the spell breaks entirely. you don't even wait for him to officially dismiss you. you practically scramble off the edge of his bed, your sneakers skidding slightly on the hardwood floor of his dorm as you snatch your tote bag from his desk chair with trembling hands.
“i— i have to go,” you stammer, your voice a high, frantic squeak that you barely recognize. you can't even look him in the eye; your gaze is glued to the door handle as you sprint toward it. “i have… a study group. and a paper. thank you for the lesson!”
you yank the door open and fling yourself out into the hallway, slamming it shut behind you before jay can even utter a response.
the walk — or rather, the hyperventilating run — back to your apartment is a blur of pure, unadulterated panic. your chest feels incredibly tight, your lungs burning as the cool evening air hits your face, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the raging fire still burning on your lips. your lips are tingling, slightly swollen, and heavy with the undeniable taste of him.
it’s for jake, you tell yourself, your fingers gripping the straps of your tote bag so tightly your knuckles turn a stark, ghostly white. it’s entirely for jake.
you turn the corner past the campus library, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you mentally repeat the words like a sacred mantra. the only reason i asked him to do that is because jake is going to kiss me soon. yunjin said jay is the best teacher. i just needed hands-on experience so i don’t humiliate myself when jake finally makes a move. it’s an educational baseline. that’s all it is.
but the anxious pacing of your thoughts only gets faster, louder, and more desperate.
if i didn't practice with jay, i would have frozen up with jake. jay was just correcting my rhythm. he said my timing was fine. so now, when jake kisses me, it’s going to be perfect. i’m doing this to save my future with jake. jay is just an instrument. a tutor. a textbook.
you push open the heavy glass door to your apartment building, practically taking the stairs two at a time because the elevator feels too slow, too claustrophobic for the storm currently raging inside your head.
it doesn't matter that my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. it doesn't matter that i forgot how to breathe. it doesn't matter that i wanted him to keep going. you reach your front door, fumbling blindly with your keys, your hands shaking so violently that the metal clicks loudly against the lock. it’s for jake. it’s all for jake sim. it has to be.
you unlock the door and burst inside, instantly slamming it behind you and leaning your back against the wood, letting out a long, shaky exhale. the apartment is dark and quiet — yunjin isn't home yet — which is a blessing, because if she took one look at your wild eyes and bitten lips, she would know instantly that you didn't just practice advanced flirting.
you drop your bag on the floor and walk straight into the bathroom, flicking on the harsh overhead light. you lean over the sink and stare at your reflection in the mirror.
your cheeks are still flushed a deep, telltale crimson. your hair is slightly unruly where jay's fingers had tangled into it, and your lips are undeniably darker, stung red from the heavy, lingering pressure of his mouth. you look completely undone. you look like a girl who just got thoroughly made out with by jay park.
your phone suddenly buzzes in your pocket, the sharp vibration making you jump.
with a racing heart, you pull it out. a notification blocks the screen.
jake: hey! just finished soccer practice. totally random, but are you free to grab dinner tomorrow night? just the two of us? 😊
you stare at the glowing text, the emojis, the sweet, easy invitation from the boy you’ve been dreaming about for months. it’s the exact moment you’ve been working toward. the ultimate goal. the reason you embarrassed yourself, the reason you sent the photos, the reason you walked into room 314 in the first place.
you lift your eyes back to your reflection in the mirror, your thumb hovering over the screen to type out a reply.
see? you think, your mind screaming at you to believe the lie as a cold sweat breaks out across your palms. it worked. the lessons worked. everything i did today… it was all just so i could be ready for tomorrow night. with jake.
but as you finally press your thumb to the glass to type 'i'd love to', your eyes automatically drift down to your own lips, and the phantom sensation of jay's heavy, rough breathing against your skin returns with a fierce, suffocating intensity that leaves you completely breathless.
-------
the afternoon sun is hitting the windows of room 314 when you walk in, casting long, warm bars of light across the hardwood floor. it’s a sharp contrast to the stormy darkness of your last lesson, but the familiar scent of sandalwood and clean laundry still hits you the second the door opens.
jay is sitting at his desk, casually typing something on his laptop, but he looks up the moment you step inside. his dark eyes immediately track your movement as you set your tote bag down by the door. he looks entirely composed, the previous lesson's awkwardness seemingly evaporated from his demeanor, replaced by his usual calm, lazy aura.
“welcome back, newbie,” jay says smoothly, closing his laptop with a quiet click. he stands up, stretching his arms slightly before walking over to his mini-fridge. “how was the big date?”
you sit down on the edge of his mattress, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. just the mention of yesterday makes a strange swirl of emotions tighten in your stomach.
“it was… really nice,” you say softly, staring down at the pattern of his blanket. “jake was amazing. he took me to that little Italian place downtown, the one with the string lights. he paid for everything, even when i tried to argue with him. and he was just so sweet, jay. he listened to me talk about my classes, he laughed at my jokes, and he walked me all the way back to my apartment building.”
jay leans against the edge of his desk, taking a sip of water, his eyes locked onto your face. “sounds like a textbook perfect date. so why do you look like someone just kicked your puppy?”
you swallow the lump in your throat, your voice dropping to a shy, embarrassed whisper. “because… he didn't kiss me.”
jay pauses, his water bottle halfway down from his lips. a sudden, sharp curiosity flashes in his eyes. “he didn't?”
“no,” you groan, burying your face in your knees for a second before looking back up at him, completely miserable. “we stood on the porch of my building for like three whole minutes. i did the eye contact. i did the posture thing you taught me. i held his gaze, my lips were parted, i did everything right! but he just… he smiled, ruffled my hair, told me he had an amazing time, and said goodnight. i don’t get it. did i do something wrong? did he see right through me?”
jay stares at you for a beat, and then, a slow, incredibly wicked smirk begins to crawl onto his face. the intense seriousness from the end of your last lesson is gone, replaced by a wave of pure, triumphant amusement. he sets his water bottle down on the desk and steps closer to the bed.
“newbie, you didn't do anything wrong,” jay says, his voice a low, deeply satisfied rumble. “you’re just dealing with jake sim. the guy is a traditionalist. he’s old-school. he’s not going to lunges at a girl on the very first dinner date, especially not a girl he actually respects and likes as much as he clearly likes you.”
he hitches his usual desk chair over, spinning it around to sit directly in front of you, his knees inches from yours. “honestly? this is perfect for us. it means we’re officially two steps ahead of him.”
you blink, confused. “two steps ahead? what do you mean?”
“i mean,” jay says, leaning forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a suffocating amount of focus, “by the time he finally gets the nerve to make a real move on you, you’re not just going to know how to handle a basic kiss. you’re going to be a master. which brings us to today's actual syllabus.”
he rests his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that instantly sets your pulse racing. “today, we’re moving past the initial contact. we’re talking about a full-on makeout. the pacing, the breathing, how to build the physical escalation without getting overwhelmed. how to take control of the rhythm so he’s the one losing his mind, not you.”
your breath hitches completely. the memory of how your last "practice kiss" had spiraled into a lingering, breathless fog flashes through your brain, making your lips tingle instantly.
jay studies the sudden, bright pink flush spreading across your cheeks. his smile softens just a fraction, a quiet, intense gravity taking over his features. he leans in a microscopic inch closer, his eyes dropping to your mouth before rising back to yours.
“so,” jay murmurs, his voice a heavy, dangerous purr. “do you want today's lesson to be purely theoretical… or do you want a practical example, newbie?”
your heart is thumping so hard against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it. you know you should say theoretical. you know you should protect your sanity, preserve the lie that this is all just an educational game for jake. but as you look at jay — at his sharp jawline, his messy dark hair, his perfect, parted lips — the desperation from days ago takes over completely.
you don’t say a word. you just look him straight in the eye and nod your head, a tiny, submissive gesture.
“good girl,” jay whispers, the words vibrating straight down your spine.
he doesn't waste a single second. jay slides out of the chair and onto the mattress, crossing his legs right in front of you. his large, warm hand rises instantly, his long fingers sliding effortlessly into the hair at the back of your neck, his thumb anchoring firmly against your jawline to tilt your face up.
“remember the pacing,” jay murmurs right before his lips touch yours. “let me lead first.”
the instant his mouth seals over yours, the entire world outside room 314 completely vanishes. his lips are incredibly soft but heavy with a firm, demanding pressure that immediately makes a soft, helpless sigh escape your throat. jay catches the sound, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin of your jaw, guiding your mouth to open just a fraction more.
“breathe through your nose, newbie,” he whispers against your lips, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he shifts the angle of his head, deepening the kiss with a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm. “don’t rush it. follow my pace.”
you lift your hands, your fingers shaking as you clutch tightly at the soft fabric of his knit sweater, pulling yourself closer until your chest is flush against his. jay lets out a low, rough hum of approval deep in his throat at the touch, his grip on the back of your neck tightening just enough to anchor you completely.
the kiss quickly deepens, the boundaries of a simple "lesson" shattering instantly into a heavy, intoxicating fog. jay shows you how to escalate the tension; his lips move against yours with a raw, unhurried hunger, his tongue lightly tracing your bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth in a soft, agonizing tug that leaves you completely breathless.
“when the energy shifts,” jay murmurs, his voice raspy as he briefly parts from your lips to trace a line of burning kisses along your jawline, his lips hovering right over the sensitive skin beneath your ear, “you use your hands to change the dynamic. don’t just hold my sweater. slide your hands up. touch his neck.”
as if under a spell, you follow his whispered instructions. you let your hands slide up his broad chest, your fingers wrapping around the warm skin of his neck, your thumbs resting just below his sharp jawline. the physical contact makes jay let out a sharp, ragged exhale against your skin.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes clouded with a fierce, heavy intensity that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim. his chest is heaving under his sweater, his lips dark and swollen.
“just like that,” jay whispers, his large hand sliding down from your neck to firmly grip your waist, pulling your hips a fraction closer to his on the mattress. “you control the distance. if he gets too frantic, you hold him right there. if you want more… you pull him back in.”
he doesn't wait for you to pull him. jay leans back down, his mouth crashing back onto yours with a sudden, overwhelming wave of passion that makes your head spin. it’s a full-on, breathless makeout, his lips parting yours completely, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle into your waist through your shirt. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the intoxicating taste of him, your fingers tangling into his dark hair as you match his pace, completely forgetting who this lesson was supposed to be for.
when jay finally draws back, it is agonizingly slow, his lips lingering against yours in three short, pressing kisses before he completely breaks the contact.
the sudden loss of his warmth leaves you shivering, your chest heaving as you desperately try to force air back into your lungs. jay stays hovering inches away, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a brief, breathless second before he slowly straightens up. his breathing is completely ungrounded, his eyes dark as he stares down at your thoroughly kissed, flushed face.
the silence in the room is suffocating, heavy with the weight of what just happened.
jay clears his throat, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck as he shifts back on the mattress, trying to force his usual lazy, unbothered smirk back onto his face — though his trembling fingers completely give him away.
“that was… the baseline,” jay says, his voice rough, strained, and entirely devoid of his usual arrogance. he looks away from your lips, his gaze tracking a stray shadow on the wall instead. “we’ll… we’ll stop there for today. your pacing is fine, newbie. jake won’t know what hit him.”
he stands up quickly, walking over to the door to open it for you, but as you scramble off the bed with a racing heart, you realize with a sudden wave of absolute panic that you don't care about jake sim's reaction at all anymore.
-------
you would be lying to yourself if you had said you hadn't been eager for more after that. you were. in fact, you started meeting jay almost every day so you could "practice" making out.
it became an unspoken, addictive routine. you didn't even wait for a scheduled thursday afternoon anymore. a quick, vague text from jay — ‘my room’s free if you want to study’ — and you would find yourself walking toward room 314 with your heart already doing double-flips inside your chest. you didn't even bring your notebooks anymore. what was the point of pretending?
with every single day that passed, the lessons started escalating little by little, the boundaries of "basic mechanics" crumbling into dust.
one afternoon, the air in his dorm room felt so suffocatingly hot that your hands grew bold. jay was guiding you through a deeper rhythm, his lips heavy and possessive against yours, when your fingers strayed from the hem of his sweater and slid up, slipping underneath the fabric. your bare palms pressed flat against the warm, solid skin of his lower back. you remember the exact way his entire body had rigidified for a split second, a low, ragged growl catching in his throat before he completely lost his composure, his lips turning frantic against yours.
another day, the lesson wasn't about the mouth at all. jay had backed you up against his closed closet door, his large hands anchoring your wrists gently against the wood above your head. “advanced escalation,” he had whispered against your skin, his voice a dangerous, gravelly rasp right before he buried his face in your neck. he had kissed his way down your jawline, his lips warm and demanding as he sucked softly on the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, leaving a faint, stinging heat that made your knees turn to literal water.
but the most shocking shift — the one that still makes your face burn a furious purple when you think about it during lectures — happened just two days ago.
jay had been sitting in the middle of his unmade bed, watching you pace around his room as you anxiously rambled on about your nerves. without a word, he had reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you down. before your brain could even process the movement, jay's hands were on your waist, lifting you up and guiding you until you were completely straddling his lap, your knees resting on either side of his thighs.
your whole body had gone into a state of absolute shock, your face inches from his. but jay hadn't teased you. he had just looked up at you with those dark, fiercely intense eyes, his thumbs rubbing slow, heavy circles into your hips. “this is how you handle the proximity,” he had murmured. and then he had pulled you down by your neck.
you had kissed for a whole hour. a full, breathless, uninterrupted sixty minutes where your hands were tangled in his hair, his broad chest was crushed against yours, and his mouth was relentlessly teaching you a rhythm that made your entire soul ache. your body had fit perfectly against his, the heat between you completely consuming the small room. and you had enjoyed every single, agonizing second of it.
still, despite the bare skin, the bruised lips, and the sheer intimacy of sitting on his lap, you kept trying to convince yourself it was all because of jake.
every night, when you lay awake in your own bed staring at the ceiling, you forced yourself to repeat the old script. it’s not because of jay. jay park has absolutely nothing to do with it. he’s just an instructor. he’s just incredibly good at what he does because he’s experienced, and i am just a good student taking advantage of a resource.
you told yourself that the violent butterflies in your stomach, the way your hands shook whenever you touched his skin, and the desperate hunger you felt every time he leaned in were all just a biological reaction. you were just enjoying the physical sensation of making out because, in the back of your mind, you were projecting. you were simply thinking about doing all of these things with jake sim. jay was just the proxy, the placeholder, the mannequin you were using to perfect your technique so that when the time finally came, you would drive jake absolutely crazy.
or at least… that’s what you said to yourself.
-------
you keep your mouth shut, maintaining the absolute lockdown on your secret. whenever yunjin asks how the lessons are going, you look her straight in the eye and lie through your teeth, insisting it’s all strictly theoretical. you tell her jay is just drawing diagrams and explaining body language, all while your lips are still practically stinging from being thoroughly devoured by him just an hour prior.
in the meantime, you keep hanging out with jake. he takes you to get ice cream, he walks you to class, and he remains the perfect, sweet gentleman. but whenever he holds your hand or leans in to give you a polite, fleeting peck on the cheek, a bizarre, hollow sensation settles in your chest. you keep expecting the earth to move, expecting to feel that white-hot, electric current that roars through your veins every time you walk into room 314. but it never comes. you’re just building up to it, you tell yourself desperately. the real spark will happen later. jay is just priming you.
and then comes today's lesson.
the afternoon sun is completely blocked out by the heavy curtains jay drew across his window, plunging the dorm room into a dark, suffocatingly intimate haze. you’re sitting directly on his lap, your legs straddling his thighs. the friction between your bodies is a living, breathing thing. you've grown bold over the past week; your hands are slipped entirely beneath his oversized tee, your palms pressed flat against the hot, defined muscles of his chest. your hips shift instinctively, a slow, heavy grind against his lap as you chase the friction, your mouth moving against his in a deep, wet rhythm that leaves you both completely breathledd.
jay lets out a sharp, ragged groan directly into your mouth. his hands, which had been anchoring your hips, suddenly tighten with a bruising force. he abruptly pulls his head back, his breathing incredibly shallow and heavy as he forces you to stop moving.
his dark hair is completely unruly, his lips a dark, swollen crimson. he looks up at you, his eyes clouded with a raw, fierce hunger that makes your stomach do a violent flip.
“jesus, newbie,” jay rasps, his chest heaving under his shirt as his hands steady your trembling waist. he takes a long, ragged breath, his voice dropping into an incredibly low, gravelly register. “hold on. stop moving for a second.”
you blink down at him, dazed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “what? did i… did i do it wrong?”
jay lets out a low, breathless chuckle, though his jaw remains incredibly tight. “no. you didn't do it wrong. that’s the problem. the way you move…” he pauses, his intense gaze raking over your flushed face, tracking the absolute innocence in your wide eyes. a sudden, heavy curiosity settles over his features. “have you actually ever done anything sexual before this? like, at all?”
the question hits you like a bucket of ice water. a fierce, blinding wave of mortification instantly erupts across your cheeks. you instinctively try to shift off his lap, but his grip on your waist tightens, keeping you anchored right there against his heat.
“no,” you squeak out, your voice dropping to an incredibly shy, embarrassed whisper. you look down at his collarbone, unable to hold his gaze. “i haven't. i’ve never… i’ve never done anything. i told you, i'm a total newbie.”
jay stares at you, a complex flash of emotion crossing his face — surprise, a sudden wave of protectiveness, and a trace of possessiveness that he quickly tries to mask. he clears his throat, his thumb rubbing a slow, grounding circle into your hip.
“right,” jay murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “okay. well. you’re doing great for a beginner.”
you swallow hard, the frantic script in your head screaming at you to take control, to justify why you're enjoying this so much, why you’re pushing the boundaries. you look at his perfectly parted lips, then back up to his dark eyes, and a reckless, desperate thought tumbles right out of your mouth.
“jay… can you teach me about the rest of it?”
jay freezes, his hand instantly stopping its movement on your hip. “the rest of it?”
“yes,” you stammer, your voice incredibly small but filled with a panicked, stubborn determination. you force the lie out, hiding behind your golden shield. “i mean… for jake! what if things escalate on our next date? what if he wants to go further? i don’t want to be completely clueless. i want to know how to make him feel good. i need to learn how sex works. the mechanics.”
jay studies your face for a long, agonizingly silent beat. the air in the room feels impossibly thick. you can feel the sudden, intense heat radiating from his lap, a physical reminder of exactly what your grinding had done to him. but jay is a professional, and more than that, he refuses to pressure you or take advantage of the ridiculous web of lies you've spun.
slowly, deliberately, jay lifts his hands and gently guides you off his lap. the sudden loss of his warmth makes you shiver. he sits back against his headboard, pulling one knee up to his chest, his expression shifting into something clinical, serious, and entirely focused.
“alright, newbie,” jay says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that commands your absolute attention. “if you want to talk about how to make a guy feel good, we’re keeping this strictly theoretical. understand? no hands-on for this part.”
you nod quickly, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, your hands tightly clasped in your lap as your face burns hot.
“good. then let’s start with manual stimulation. handjobs,” jay begins, his tone conversational but his words dripping with a raw, explicit honesty that makes your jaw drop. “it’s not just about gripping and sliding. the anatomy is sensitive. a guy's nerves are concentrated right at the head, especially underneath, on the frenulum. if you just pull the skin up and down dry, it’s uncomfortable. you need friction control. you use lubrication, or even just saliva, and you start with a firm but gentle grip at the base.”
you feel your eyes widening, your brain frantically trying to take mental notes as he speaks. jay doesn't break eye contact; he looks straight at you, using clinical but undeniably dirty language that makes your heart thump in your throat.
“the rhythm is everything,” jay continues smoothly, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a heavy, suffocating purr. “you match his breathing. a slow, steady stroke all the way from the base to the top, and when you reach the head, you twist your thumb gently over the top. it builds the pressure. you don’t speed up until his breath catches. you pay attention to his sounds.”
“o-oh,” you squeak, your hands twisting together. “i… okay. slow rhythm. twist at the top.”
“exactly,” jay says, a faint, amused half-smile touching his lips at your absolute mortification, though his eyes remain heavy and intense. “now, if things go further… oral. blowjobs. this is where most girls panic because they think about their teeth. your teeth should never touch his skin, newbie. you keep your lips curled completely over them. like an anchor.”
you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust. your cheeks are a catastrophic shade of purple, but you are hanging on every single syllable.
“the technique isn’t just about depth,” jay murmurs, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a heavy, unhurried second before rising back to your eyes. “it’s about suction and warmth. you use the roof of your mouth and your tongue to create a vacuum. you start slow, swirling your tongue around the head before taking him in. and the most important part? the pacing. you don’t just stay at the top; you move down to the base, using one hand to stroke the shaft while your mouth handles the rest. dual stimulation.”
he pauses, leaning forward just a fraction, his voice dropping into a whisper that sends a violent shiver straight down your spine.
“and you never, ever break eye contact,” jay whispers, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying amount of gravity. “when you’re down there, you look up at him. through your lashes. you let him see exactly what you’re doing to him. it drives a guy absolutely insane, newbie. it completely breaks his control.”
you sit there, completely paralyzed, your chest heaving as you absorb the intense, explicit breakdown. you are utterly mortified, entirely overwhelmed, and your brain is screaming at you that you are supposed to be picturing jake sim during this entire lecture.
but as you look at jay — at the way his jaw tightens, the way his low, gravelly voice sounds saying those explicit words, and the dark, possessive heat hidden deep in his eyes — you realize with a sudden wave of pure terror that jake’s face hasn't crossed your mind even once.
you sit there at the foot of his bed, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you can hear it in your ears. the explicit details of his words are still hanging heavy in the dim, warm air of the dorm room. your hands are knotted tightly in the fabric of your sweater, your palms slick with a nervous sweat.
you look down at his lap, then back up to his dark, unhurried eyes. the golden shield of your excuse — the lie that this is all a clinical preparation for a future with jake sim — feels incredibly heavy, but it’s the only armor you have left.
"jay," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. you swallow hard, your face burning a catastrophic shade of crimson as you force the words out. "if... if the rhythm and the grip are that specific... what if i mess it up? what if i'm too rough, or too loose? can you... can you give me another practical example?"
jay’s entire body tenses. the casual, leaning posture against his headboard locks up instantly. his eyes widen just a fraction, his gaze dropping to your trembling hands before snapping back up to look at your face. the heavy, silent tension in room 314 returns with the force of a physical blow.
"newbie," jay rasps, his voice rougher and deeper than before. he clears his throat, his knuckles whitening as his hands grip the mattress. "we said strictly theoretical for this. i'm not trying to rush you into anything."
"i'm not rushed," you lie desperately, leaning forward just a fraction, your heart in your throat. "i just... i need to know if i'm doing it right. for the baseline. please, jay."
jay stares at you for three agonizing, breathless seconds. his jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle tick under his sharp skin. he lets out a long, slow, ragged exhale through his teeth, the restraint he’s been maintaining for weeks visibly fracturing.
"alright," jay murmurs, his tone shifting into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through your chest. "come here."
you move on your knees, sliding across the mattress until you're sitting right beside his thigh. your knees are trembling. jay reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of his dark trousers, and with a low rustle of fabric, he frees himself.
your breath catches completely. he is already thick, fully erect, and a dark, heavy flush is painting his skin. the pure, raw reality of it makes your mind go entirely blank.
"don't look away," jay commands softly, his voice remarkably steady despite the shallow rise and fall of his chest. "wrap your fingers like this."
he reaches out, his broad, warm hand wrapping around yours to guide it. he positions your fingers at the very base of his shaft, curling them in a firm, even cylinder. his skin feels smooth, white-hot, and pulsing beneath your touch.
"now, look at me," jay whispers, his face inches from yours. "stroke up. slow. all the way to the top."
you slowly move your hand upward, the physical friction sending a jolt of pure electricity straight up your arm. your heart is beating in an erratic rhythm against your ribs.
"good. just like that, newbie," jay praises you, a low, breathy rumble in his throat. his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, a soft, encouraging look melting his usual sharp features. "now, when you hit the head... slower at the top. twist your thumb over the frenulum. exactly like i explained."
you follow his instructions perfectly, slowing the motion, your thumb dragging gently over the ultra-sensitive rim.
"oh— fuck," jay lets out a sudden, ragged groan, his eyes instantly fluttering shut as his head thumps back against the headboard. the sound is deep, unvarnished, and completely intoxicating. "yes. right there. that's perfect, sweetheart. keep that exact pace."
hearing the pet name slip past his lips makes your stomach do a violent, hot flip. you keep going, your movements becoming smoother, more confident as you fall into the heavy, dragging rhythm. you watch his face, completely fascinated by the raw power you suddenly hold over him.
but as the seconds tick by, the clinical baseline completely disintegrates. the touch is too hot, the friction too intense, and jay’s carefully constructed control begins to dangerously slip.
his breathing turns shallow and frantic, his chest heaving under his shirt. his sharp, dark brows furrow in a look that almost resembles pain. he lets out another heavy, broken groan, a sudden, involuntary jerk rippling through his lower half as his hips instinctively thrust upward against the firm pressure of your hand.
"jay," you whisper, completely captivated by the sight of him losing his mind beneath your touch.
"keep going... shit, don't stop," he swears under his breath, his voice rough and completely ungrounded. his hand flies to your wrist, not to pull you away, but to physically lock your hand in place, his fingers squeezing tightly as he takes over the pace, forcing your hand to move faster, harder against him. another ragged, breathy moan escapes his lips, his jaw clenching so tightly his veins stand out against his neck. "you're too good at this... fuck, newbie..."
the sheer, overwhelming heat of the moment fills the quiet room, the sound of his ragged breathing and the soft, slick friction of your hand filling the space between you. you are utterly drowning in him, your thumb tracing the wetness at the tip, your own breathing turning heavy as you lean into his space.
you look up through your lashes, his dark eyes snapping open to look down at you, clouded with a fierce, possessive hunger. and that’s when the old, desperate script in your head panics, trying one last time to pull you back to safety.
"is this… how i should do it for jake?" you whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it.
jay freezes.
the pleasure on his face vanishes instantly. his hand snaps down, gripping your wrist hard enough to still you completely. his eyes open, sharp and raw.
jay stares down at you, his chest heaving, his lips parted as he absorbs the name. for a second, something painful flashes across his face — hurt, anger, and something deeper. he exhales shakily, then gently but firmly removes your hand from him. the silence that crashes into the room is suffocating.
he reaches down, gently but firmly removing your hand from his skin, and quietly covers himself back up, shifting his weight to sit back against the wall.
the sudden loss of contact leaves your hand feeling cold, your fingers tingling. the blinding wave of embarrassment returns, your cheeks exploding into a furious red flush as you realize what you just said.
“newbie…” he says quietly, voice rough. “don’t do that.”
you feel sick with embarrassment. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—”
but jay doesn't lash out. he doesn't tease you, and he doesn't bring up the name. instead, he just looks down at your flustered, wide-eyed face, a soft, incredibly gentle expression taking over his sharp features.
"hey," jay murmurs, his voice still low and beautifully rough from the aftereffects of the pleasure. he reaches out, his large, warm hand gently patting the top of your head, his fingers lightly smoothing down your messy hair. "don't look at me like that. you didn't do anything wrong."
you look up at him through your bangs, your heart still thumping softly. "i'm sorry. i shouldn't have..."
"it's fine," jay interrupts softly, a faint, tired but genuinely warm smile touching his lips. his hand slides down from your head to rest gently on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "you're a fast learner, newbie. really fast. you passed the lesson."
he sits there, his hand warm and heavy on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your shirt. it’s a soft, lingering moment of aftercare that feels entirely too domestic, entirely too real for a simple tutoring session. and as you look at his gentle smile, your hand still warm from his skin, the lie about jake feels smaller and more pathetic than it ever has before.
-------
when thursday afternoon rolls around, the tension inside your chest is so thick you can barely swallow. the walk to the west quad feels different today; the golden armor of your excuses is getting heavier, cracking, but the raw curiosity burning in your veins is too loud to ignore.
when you knock on the door to room 314, jay opens it almost instantly. he’s wearing a loose, dark gray t-shirt and light gray sweatpants, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead. his eyes immediately lock onto yours, a quiet, intense gravity in his gaze that lets you know he hasn't forgotten a single second of tuesday's handjob lesson either.
"come in, newbie," jay murmurs, stepping aside.
you walk in and immediately sit cross-legged in the center of his unmade bed, your hands tucked between your knees to hide how much they’re shaking. jay closes the door, the heavy click sealing the two of you in the quiet, sandalwood-scented dimness of his room.
he doesn't sit in his desk chair. he walks straight to the edge of the mattress, standing right in front of you, looking down with his hands shoved casually into his sweatpants pockets. "alright. lesson seven. what are we breaking down today?"
you look up at him, your cheeks instantly exploding into a fierce, burning crimson. you swallow hard, your fingers twisting together as you force the words out. "i... i want to learn how to give a blowjob. you explained the theory on tuesday, but... i’ve always been curious about how the actual tongue work and depth feel. i want the practical example, jay."
jay’s entire posture locks up. his eyes darken significantly, a sudden, heavy wave of heat rolling off his body as he stares down at your flushed, determined face. he takes a slow, ragged breath through his nose, his jaw clenching tightly.
"newbie," jay rasps, his voice incredibly deep and rough. "are you absolutely sure about this? once we cross this line, there’s no turning back."
"i'm sure," you whisper, looking him straight in the eye.
jay doesn't say another word. he slowly pulls his hands out of his pockets and sits down on the edge of the bed, right in front of you. with a low, deliberate rustle of fabric, he pushes his sweatpants down, freeing his thick, fully erect length. he is already pulsing, a heavy, dark flush painting his white-hot skin.
"get down on your knees between my legs," jay commands softly, his voice remarkably patient, completely ridden of his usual mocking tone
you slide off the mattress, sinking onto your knees on the hardwood floor right between his thighs. your face is level with his lap, the raw heat of his arousal radiating against your cheeks.
"now, look at me," jay whispers, his large, warm hand rising to gently cup the back of your head, his long fingers tangling into your hair to steady you. "remember what i said. keep your lips curled completely over your teeth. let me feel your tongue first. swirl it right around the head."
you lean in, your hands hesitantly resting on the top of his firm thighs for balance. you slowly extend your tongue, dragging the wet, warm tip in a slow circle around the sensitive rim of his crown.
"oh— fuck," jay lets out a sharp, ragged gasp, his head immediately tossing back, his eyes fluttering shut as a deep shiver ripples through his lower half. his fingers tighten gently in your hair. "yes. just like that, baby. you're so warm, you feel so good."
"now, open up a little more," jay murmurs, his dark eyes snapping open to look down at you, clouded with an intense, suffocating pleasure. "take the top half in. use the roof of your mouth to create a gentle suction. don't rush the depth yet."
you part your lips, curling them firmly over your teeth as he instructed, and slowly slide your mouth over the thick, smooth head of his shaft. the sudden warmth and tightness of your mouth makes jay let out a low, broken moan deep in his chest. you pull back slightly, then slide forward again, your tongue swirling against him with every movement.
"you're doing so good, newbie," jay praises you, his voice a low, breathy rumble right above your head. his hand in your hair is incredibly sweet, gently guiding your rhythm, pacing your movements so you don’t choke. "you're so pretty looking up at me like that. god, you're perfect."
hearing him call you pretty makes a violent, hot flash of adrenaline surge through you. you grow bolder, sliding your mouth a little further down, letting your throat adapt to the thickness. you manage your breathing, taking steady, short inhales through your nose as your mouth works rhythmically against him.
the clinical nature of the lesson completely shatters. jay’s control begins to dangerously fracture under the wet, tight heat of your mouth. his breathing turns shallow and frantic, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as his hips instinctively lift, thrusting a fraction deeper into your mouth with a heavy, unvarnished desperation.
"shit, look at you," jay groans out, a ragged, completely ungrounded swear escaping his lips as his grip on your hair tightens just enough to hold you in place. his eyes are locked onto yours, blazing with a raw, possessive hunger as you look up at him through your lashes. "look at you, sucking me off so good... fuck, sweetheart, you're driving me insane."
the explicit praise sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. you wrap your right hand around the base of his shaft, sliding it up and down in sync with the heavy suction of your mouth, creating a flawless, dual stimulation that completely breaks his remaining restraint.
jay let out a deep, guttural cry, his jaw clenching so hard the veins stand out against his neck, his hips moving faster, more rapidly against your mouth as he inches closer and closer to the edge.
"hold on— hold on, baby, stop," jay suddenly rasps, his breathing completely shattered. he gently but firmly pulls your head back by your hair, his chest heaving as he draws a long, shaky breath.
you blink up at him, your lips wet and flushed a deep red, your heart thumping violently. jay stares down at your face, his eyes incredibly heavy, full of a fierce, protective softness that completely melts his sharp features.
slowly, he reaches down, his thumb gently wiping away a drop of moisture from the corner of your mouth. a faint, breathless, and incredibly tender smile on his lips.
"you're a genius, newbie," jay whispers, his voice beautifully rough as he lightly taps your cheek. "lesson concluded. you're officially too good for this campus."
-------
when you arrive for the next lesson, the atmospheric pressure inside room 314 feels entirely different. the standard conversational buffer — the casual banter about classes, the lingering ghost of a mention of jake — is completely gone. when jay opens the door, he doesn’t say his usual witty greeting. he just looks at you, his dark eyes heavy and remarkably soft, and reaches down to gently take your bag from your hand, setting it by the desk.
"hey," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly timbre that instantly makes your pulse flutter.
"hey," you whisper back.
he closes the door with a quiet, deliberate click, locking it before turning back to you. he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders, and his hair is a little messy, falling perfectly over his forehead. he doesn't wait for you to sit on the edge of the mattress; instead, he takes your hand, his long, warm fingers sliding effortlessly between yours, and guides you to the middle of the bed.
"we've spent a lot of time breaking down what makes a guy lose his mind," jay says softly, sitting down right in front of you, his knees brushing against your thighs. his free hand reaches up, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your face up so you're forced to look directly into his eyes. "but that's only half the mechanics, newbie. you need to know what feels good for you, too. you need to know how your body reacts when someone is completely focused on you."
your breath catches, a fierce, sudden heat blooming across your chest. "jay..."
"i'm going to go slow, okay?" he interrupts gently, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners with a reassuring, incredibly tender smile. "no rushing. i'm going to teach you exactly how you're supposed to be touched."
he leans forward, his lips pressing softly against your forehead, then your temple, before trailing down to the sensitive column of your neck. a violent, delicious shiver ripples through your entire body as he kisses his way back up to your jawline, his lips warm and unhurried.
"lay down for me, sweetheart," jay whispers against your skin, his hands moving to your waist to gently guide you back onto the pillows.
you slide down, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as jay shifts, hovering over you, supported by his elbows on either side of your head. his gaze rakes over your flushed face, his expression so fiercely loving and sweet it makes your chest ache. he reaches down, his large, warm hand sliding under the hem of your top, his palm resting flat against the bare skin of your stomach. you let out a soft, sharp inhale at the sudden friction.
"just breathe," jay praises you, his voice a soft, comforting rumble as his fingers trail lower, gently nudging the waistband of your shorts. "let me do the work."
slowly, deliberately, he eases your clothes down, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs to the dim, warm air of the room. you instinctively try to pull your knees together, a sudden wave of shyness hitting you, but jay gently presses them apart, sliding his body between your legs to anchor you. he doesn't look away; his eyes stay locked onto yours as his fingers softly brush against the inner skin of your thigh, moving upward with agonizingly slow, light strokes.
"you are so beautiful, newbie," he murmurs, leaning down to press a deep, lingering kiss to your lips, tasting you fully before trailing his mouth down to your collarbone. "so pretty for me."
when his hand finally reaches the center of your heat, you let out a breathless, broken gasp, your fingers instantly clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt. his fingers are warm, incredibly gentle as they find the small, sensitive bundle of nerves. he starts with light, circular motions, his thumb sliding over the slick skin with a practiced, effortless rhythm.
"there you go," jay whispers against your neck, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he tracks the sudden, erratic hitch in your breathing. "feel that? that's the baseline. you just stay relaxed, let the heat build."
he introduces a single finger, sliding it slowly into your tight, wet heat. a soft, helpless moan escapes your throat, your hips instinctively lifting against his hand. jay lets out a low, rough hum of absolute approval deep in his chest, his finger moving in a slow, curling motion that targets a deep, heavy ache you didn't even know was there.
"look at me, sweetheart," he commands softly. you blink your eyes open, your vision slightly blurry from the sheer intensity of it, to find him staring down at you with an unvarnished, consuming intensity. "you're doing so good. you're so wet for me."
he continues the rhythm, his fingers moving inside you with a steady, heavy pace while his thumb keeps a relentless, agonizingly perfect pressure on your core. you feel the tension building rapidly, a hot, tight knot coiling tightly in your lower stomach. your hands tangle deep into his dark hair, pulling him closer as your breathing turns shallow and desperate.
"jay... jay," you whimpered, completely ungrounded by the overwhelming sensation.
"i've got you," he murmurs sweetly, kissing away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. he pulls his hand away for just a fraction of a second, making you let out a needy whine, before he shifts his body lower on the mattress.
he presses your knees open wider, his hands firmly gripping the undersides of your thighs to steady you. you look down through your lashes, your face burning a furious purple as jay leans his head down, his mouth replacing his fingers.
the first touch of his wet, warm tongue against your sensitive core makes your entire body arch off the mattress, a loud, unvarnished cry echoing through the quiet room. jay's hands tighten on your thighs, anchoring you completely as his tongue sweeps upward in long, firm strokes, applying a heavy, steady suction that sends a violent, electric current straight down your spine.
"oh my god," you sob out, your fingers desperately clutching at the bedsheets as the coiling tension inside you completely snaps.
jay doesn't stop. he works through your release, his tongue moving in a relentless, beautifully deep rhythm, drinking you in as your body trembles and shakes beneath him. he holds you steady through the intense waves, his mouth warm and unbelievably patient against your sensitive skin until the final tremors slowly begin to fade.
when he finally slides back up the mattress, his face is flushed, his dark eyes shining with a deep, triumphant softness. he pulls the blankets up over your shivering shoulders, immediately wrapping his broad arms around you and pulling your back flush against his chest in a tight, protective embrace.
he leans down, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your warm neck.
"you did so perfect, newbie," jay whispers into your hair, his voice rough and beautifully thick as his large hand rests over your heart, feeling it hammer a frantic pace against his palm. "absolutely perfect."
the cool night air hits your face the moment you step out of the west quad, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the raging, white-hot fire burning beneath your skin. your limbs feel heavy, almost liquid, and every step you take on the concrete sidewalk feels strangely disconnected from reality.
the guilt catches up to you by the time you reach the campus quad. it settles into your stomach like a block of lead, heavy and suffocating.
you just had sex with jay park.
well, not full intercourse, but it was sexual. it was intimate. he touched you, he put his mouth on you, he held you through the most intense physical release of your life, and he wrapped his arms around you like you belonged to him. the raw, unvarnished memory of his wet tongue, his whispers of "sweetheart," and the protective warmth of his chest pressed against your back makes a violent shudder get to your core.
it's for jake, your brain screams, a frantic, high-pitched panic echoing in your head as you grip the straps of your tote bag until your knuckles turn white. the reason why you're doing this is for improving for jake. you're a newbie. you needed to know what a release felt like so you don't panic or freeze up when jake finally takes you to his bed. jay is just the instructor. he's a textbook. he has nothing to do with this.
but deep inside, in a dark, quiet corner of your soul that you are desperately trying to block out, you know it's a lie. you know text modules and posture corrections don't involve a guy worshiping your body until you're sobbing his name into his pillows.
still, you really try to convince yourself. you force the golden shield back into place, cementing the lie with sheer, stubborn willpower as you unlock the door to your apartment. yunjin's bedroom door is closed, the apartment blissfully dark. you tip-toe straight into your room, lock the door behind you, and collapse onto your bed without even changing out of your clothes.
the bed feels too big, too cold, and your skin is still tingling, practically begging for the touch that was just stripped away from it.
fine, you think desperately, staring up at the shadows on your ceiling. if it's for jake, prove it. fantasize about him.
your hands shake as you slide them down the denim of your shorts, slipping past the waistband to touch the lingering, hypersensitive heat between your thighs. you close your eyes tightly, forcing jake's face into your mind's eye. you picture the sweet way he ruffles your hair, the little Italian restaurant with the string lights, the gentle way he holds your hand across the table.
you start to move your fingers, replicating the exact circular rhythm jay had used on you just an hour ago. a soft, needy gasp escapes your lips into the quiet room. the heat builds rapidly, your body already primed and ready to boil over.
it's jake, you tell yourself, your breathing turning hurried as you pick up the pace. imagine jake doing this to you. imagine jake hovering over you in the dark.
you lean into the fantasy, letting the tight, coiling knot in your stomach take over. you bite your lip hard, letting your brain go insane — imagining the pretty sounds he’d make, mouth open in a slight “o” as his brows furrow, hair falling down, almost reaching that pretty nose adorned with the scar you love to feel between your—
wait.
jake doesn’t have a nose scar.
that’s jay.
your fingers freeze.
the world inside your bedroom completely grinds to a halt. you stare blankly at the dark ceiling, your hand slipping out from your shorts as if your skin had suddenly turned to ice. your heart is hammering, but it’s not from the pleasure anymore; it’s from pure, unadulterated terror.
you just pictured jay.
you were touching yourself, trying to build a future with the boy you’ve liked for months, and your brain completely bypassed him to conjure the exact, devastating image of jay park’s sharp jaw, his furrowed brows, and that tiny, pale scar cutting right across the bridge of his aristocratic nose.
a suffocating wave of reality hits you. it isn't jake. it has never been jake. not since you walked into room 314.
the next morning, the guilt is a physical sickness in your throat. you can’t look at your phone. when jake texts you a picture of a golden retriever he saw on his walk, you reply with a short, polite emoji, your stomach twisting into knots. you are entirely, completely compromised.
by monday afternoon, you know what you have to do. you can't keep going to room 314. if you walk back into that room, if you let him put his hands on your waist one more time, you will never be able to look jake sim in the eye again. you will lose the entire script.
with shaking thumbs, you open your chat with jay.
you: hey jay. i think we should stop the lessons. i think i have everything i need now. thank you for everything.
you hit send and immediately flip your phone face-down on your duvet, burying your face in your hands. you expect him to reply with his usual lazy, arrogant ‘sure thing, newbie’. you expect him to be relieved that his tutoring duties are officially over.
but three minutes later, your phone buzzes. then it buzzes again. and again.
jay: what do you mean? jay: did something happen? jay: newbie answer your phone. if i did something on thursday to make you uncomfortable you need to tell me. i told you we could go at your pace. did i pressure you?
the sheer, frantic panic in his messages makes your throat tighten. the cool, unbothered, perfectly composed jay park is completely gone, replaced by someone who sounds genuinely, deeply terrified that he hurt you.
you bite your lip, a stray tear slipping down your cheek as you type back.
you: no! no, jay, you didn't do anything wrong at all. you were perfect. it's just... things are getting serious with jake. he asked me out again this weekend. and since jake was the original purpose of the whole thing... i need to focus on him now. i have to be fair to him.
you watch the screen. the three little typing dots appear almost instantly. then they disappear. then they appear again. the silence stretching between your apartments feels agonizing.
finally, the phone buzzes one last time.
jay: right. the original purpose. jay: i get it. good luck this weekend, newbie. drive him crazy.
the text is so clinical, so brief, it feels like a physical slap. he doesn't fight it. he doesn't tease you. he just steps back into the box of the "instructor," closing the lid firmly behind him.
-------
the rest of the week passes in a gray, heavy blur. you don't go to the west quad. you take the long way around the library just so you don't have to risk seeing his tall silhouette walking past the glass windows.
friday night arrives, and you're sitting at the vanity in your bedroom, curling your hair for your second official date with jake. yunjin is leaning against your doorframe, watching you with a slight, curious frown.
"you're quiet today," yunjin notes, crossing her arms. "usually before a jake date you're bouncing off the walls. didn't your theoretical lessons with jay give you a confidence boost?"
"they did," you lie softly, your eyes fixed on your reflection. "i'm just... focused."
"well, jay's been acting weird too," yunjin shrugs, turning back toward the living room. "saw him at the student union yesterday. he looked like he hadn't slept in four days. completely tuned out."
your grip on the curling iron tightens so hard your palm aches. he's fine, you tell yourself desperately. he's jay park. he's glad to have his bed back to himself.
an hour later, you're sitting across from jake at a trendy, low-lit taco place downtown. the restaurant is loud, music bouncing off the brick walls. jake is looking at you with that sweet, boyish grin, talking animatedly about his soccer coach's ridiculous training schedule.
he's perfect. he's everything you wanted.
but as the noise of the restaurant swells, jake leans across the small wooden table, his face closing the distance to say something over the music. your brain immediately fires a memory — the heavy weight of jay's chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his low voice whispering 'we're in a quiet room, stop playing games with me.'
"hey," jake says, his hand reaching out to lightly tap your wrist. "you there? you looked like you were a million miles away."
"i'm here," you say, forcing a bright, sweet smile onto your face. "sorry, just listening."
when the date ends, jake walks you all the way back to your apartment building. the air on the porch is cool, the dim amber light of the streetlamp casting long shadows over the brick steps. it's the exact setup from a week ago. the final act.
jake stands close, his dark eyes looking down at you with a soft, undeniable affection. he reaches out, his fingers gently tucking a stray curl behind your ear. his hand is nice. it's sweet.
"i had a really great time tonight," jake whispers, leaning in slowly.
your heart spikes, your body automatically going rigid as you realize it’s happening. this is it. the practical application. jake tilts his head, his eyes dropping to your mouth before closing as he bridges the final inch.
his lips press against yours.
it is a perfectly nice kiss. it's gentle, polite, and safe. but as jake's mouth moves against yours, your brain does absolutely nothing. there is no white-hot rush of electricity. there is no heavy, suffocating gravity pulling at your soul. your hands stay flat against your sides, entirely lacking the desperate urge to slide beneath his shirt, to grip his broad shoulders, to tangle into his hair.
jake pulls back after a few seconds, a sweet, satisfied smile on his face. "goodnight," he murmurs, ruffling your hair gently before turning to walk down the steps.
you stand on the porch in the quiet night air, staring at his retreating back. your lips feel completely cold. your skin feels entirely empty. and as you turn the key in your apartment lock, a crushing, definitive truth finally breaks through the last of your defenses.
the lessons didn't prepare you for jake sim. they ruined you for anyone who isn't jay park.
-------
you keep trying.
you really, truly do. you go on a third date with jake to an indie movie theater, and a fourth date where he cooks dinner for you at his apartment. he is everything a boyfriend should be — attentive, sweet, incredibly handsome, and completely respectful. but every time he holds your hand, your fingers feel numb. every time he leans down to kiss you goodnight on your porch, your mind is a completely flat, silent room.
there are no shivers. there is no gravelly voice whispering “breathe, newbie” against your skin. there is no heavy, intoxicating scent of sandalwood.
you are physically with jake sim, but you are entirely haunted by jay park.
you miss him. you miss him so much it feels like a physical ache in the center of your chest. you miss the arrogant, lazy smirks that you eventually learned how to kiss right off his face. you miss the way his large, warm hands felt sliding underneath your sweater. you miss the breathless, quiet aftercare where he would just stroke your hair and tell you you did perfect.
you haven't received a single text from him in two weeks. your chat history sits at the bottom of your messages, a cold, clinical reminder of "the original purpose."
then comes tuesday afternoon.
you’re sitting on the living room rug of your apartment, your knees pulled to your chest as you stare blankly at a textbook you haven't actually read a page of in thirty minutes. yunjin is sitting on the couch right behind you, painting her toenails a vibrant shade of cherry red.
the apartment is completely quiet except for the rhythmic swipe, swipe of her nail brush.
"hey," yunjin speaks up suddenly, not looking up from her pinky toe. "so, i ran into jake at the gym earlier today."
your shoulders instantly tighten. "oh. yeah?"
"yeah. he was glowing, honestly," yunjin says, finally capping the nail polish and leaning back against the cushions. she looks down at the top of your head, her sharp eyes narrowing in a familiar, hyper-observant squint. "he said things are going amazingly with you. he literally told me you're the most perfect, sweet girl he’s ever met."
you let out a tiny, hollow sound that is supposed to be a laugh, but it sounds incredibly sad. "that's... nice."
"so..." yunjin trails off, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. her voice drops into a lighter, teasing tone. "come on. spill. how are the advanced lessons going? did jay's theoretical tutoring actually work? did he give you the magic playbook or what?"
at the mention of his name, something inside you completely snaps.
the two weeks of suffocating guilt, the crushing weight of the lies, the phantom feeling of jay's mouth on yours, and the sheer, exhausting misery of pretending to be happy with jake all come crashing down at once. your eyes suddenly sting with hot, angry tears, and a shaky, broken sob escapes your throat before you can even think to mask it.
yunjin freezes. her jaw practically drops to the floor as she watches your shoulders violently shake, your face burying themselves into your knees.
"wait— oh my god, hey," yunjin stammers, instantly sliding off the couch and dropping to the rug beside you. she wraps a panicked arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "what's wrong? did jake do something? did he hurt you? i will literally fight him right now—"
"no!" you sob out, your voice muffled and thick with tears as you shake your head against your knees. "no, jake didn't do anything! jake is perfect! he's so sweet!"
"then why are you crying like someone died?" yunjin asks, completely bewildered, her hand rubbing your back in a comforting motion. "if jake is perfect, what's wrong?"
you lift your head, your face a catastrophic, tear-stained shade of purple, your chest heaving as you look at your best friend.
"it's jay," you choke out, the truth finally tearing its way out of your chest.
yunjin blinks, her eyebrows furrowing in deep confusion. "jay? jay park? what does he have to do with you crying about jake?"
"the lessons," you whisper, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes. "they... they weren't theoretical, yunjin. i lied to you. i lied to everyone."
yunjin’s entire body goes completely still. her grip on your shoulder tightens as she stares at you, the dots in her highly perceptive brain suddenly trying to connect a picture she never expected to see. "what do you mean they weren't theoretical?"
"we... we did a practical lesson, a lot of them, actually," you confess, your voice cracking with pure, unadulterated embarrassment, but the relief of finally saying it out loud is a physical weight lifting off your lungs. "the first few weeks were just talking, but then... when he was telling me how to kiss someone correctly, i panicked because i thought i'd be bad at kissing jake. so i asked jay for a real example. and he kissed me."
yunjin’s eyes widen to the size of literal dinner saucers. "jay kissed you?"
"yes," you whine, covering your face with your hands. "and then it happened again. and again. and then we started meeting almost every single day. we weren't even studying anymore, yunjin. i would sit on his lap for a whole hour and we just made out on and on. and then last week... we... we did some more things, and he showed me what felt good for me, too. with his hands, and his— his mouth."
yunjin lets out a sharp, breathless gasp, her hand flying over her mouth. she looks completely, utterly flabbergasted, her jaw practically unhinged. "oh my god. oh my god. you and jay... you guys were sleeping together?"
"not all the way! but yes!" you cry out, pulling your hands away from your face, looking at her desperately. "and the whole time, i kept telling myself it was for jake. i kept saying 'oh, i'm just a newbie getting hands-on experience so i can be good for jake'. i even tried to touch myself thinking about jake afterwards, but yunjin... when i closed my eyes, all i could see was jay. i saw his face, and his hair, and his nose scar."
yunjin is staring at you like you’ve just spoken to her in a foreign language. she is completely speechless, processing the absolute bombshell you just dropped into her living room.
"so... so i stopped the lessons, everything," you whisper, your voice dropping to a broken, miserable murmur as you look down at your lap. "i texted him and told him i had to focus on jake. and he just said okay. and now i'm going on these dates with jake, and he's so nice, yunjin, he really is... but i… don't feel anything. when jake kisses me, it's just... cold. i don't want jake to touch me. i just want jay. i miss him so much it hurts, and i'm a horrible person because i used him as a textbook and now i've completely ruined everything."
you bury your face back in your hands, your shoulders shaking as you let the final wave of tears take over, waiting for yunjin to lecture you, to tell you how reckless you were, or to tell you how completely messy this entire situation is.
instead, yunjin lets out a long, slow, and incredibly deep exhale. she reaches out, gently pulling your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at her. the initial shock on her face has melted away, replaced by a look of sheer, unbelievable realization.
"my love," yunjin says slowly, her voice completely serious. "are you actually an idiot?"
you blink through your tears, sniffing. "what?"
"you think you used jay park?" yunjin asks, letting out a wild, disbelieving laugh. "are we talking about the same jay park? the guy who has half the girls on the humanities campus begging for a text back? the guy who doesn't let anyone into his personal space, let alone his dorm room?"
you wipe your eyes with the back of your sleeve, confused. "but... it was a casual thing. he was just being a good instructor..."
"oh my god, you are a literal child," yunjin groans, throwing her hands up in the air. "listen to me. jay fucking park did not give you a 'practical lesson' because he cares about your future with jake sim. he did not spend an hour letting you straddle his lap and eat his face because he’s a dedicated tutor. he did those things because he is completely, utterly obsessed with you, you absolute moron!"
the conversation with yunjin stays ringing in your ears for the rest of the week, a loud, echoing truth that makes your chest feel completely hollow. he is completely, utterly obsessed with you. you want to believe it. god, you want to believe it so bad, but the memory of his final text — ‘good luck this weekend, newbie. drive him crazy.’ — stands like a massive brick wall between you and room 314.
and then, jake texts you.
it’s not a casual, low-effort ‘grab coffee?’ or a late-night invite to watch him play soccer. he sends a long, beautifully constructed message, asking you on a proper, official date to a high-end jazz lounge downtown that requires a reservation weeks in advance. he tells you he’s been noticing your new confidence lately — the way you hold yourself, the lingering eye contact, the ease in your posture — and that he likes you. a lot. he wants to make things official.
a month ago, a text like that would have made you collapse onto your bedroom floor in pure, unadulterated ecstasy. it was the ultimate finish line. the exact gold medal you had been sweating and crying for under jay's brutal, meticulous guidance.
so, you say yes. you force yourself to put on your prettiest dress, you spend an hour doing your makeup, and you walk down the steps of your building to meet jake’s car.
the jazz lounge is beautiful. the dim, amber lighting reflects off the polished mahogany tables, the music is soft and smooth, and jake looks incredibly handsome in a dark blazer. he handles the evening perfectly. he pulls out your chair, he orders the best wine on the menu, and he looks at you with a heavy, sweet admiration that makes your cheeks warm.
"you look absolutely stunning tonight," jake murmurs, reaching across the white tablecloth to gently squeeze your fingers. "honestly, i feel like a different girl walked down the steps today. you've always been gorgeous, but lately... there's just something about you. you're so captivating."
you force a soft smile, nodding your head. "thank you, jake. that's... really sweet."
but as his fingers linger on yours, the crushing reality of the evening finally settles over you.
it’s nice. it’s objectively perfect. but it feels completely, utterly empty.
you sit there, listening to the saxophone player on the stage, and you find yourself looking at the way jake laughs. it’s a nice laugh, but it doesn't make your stomach do a violent, hot flip. you look at his hands, and you realize you don't have the slightest urge to slip your fingers beneath his cuffs. you look at his lips, and the thought of his mouth on yours doesn't make your breath catch.
and in that exact, agonizing moment, the grand illusion you've been clinging to for weeks finally shatters into a million jagged pieces.
you aren't projecting. you aren't using jay as a proxy.
you are deeply, completely, and irrevocably in love with park jay.
the realization hits you with the force of a physical blow, making your breath leave your lungs in a sharp, silent gasp. it isn't just about the mechanics or the white-hot heat of his mattress. it’s the way his dark eyes soften into a fierce, protective warmth whenever you look up at him through your lashes. it’s the patient, steady way he guides you when you panic, never pushing, always making sure you feel safe. it’s the quiet, breathless aftercare where he brushes the hair from your forehead, calling you sweetheart in a voice so thick and honest it makes your soul ache. it’s the easy, effortless way you laugh together between the heavy tension, the real, undeniable connection that you built brick by brick in that small, sandalwood-scented dorm room.
jay didn't teach you how to love jake sim. jay taught you how to love him.
"hey," jake's voice breaks through your thoughts, his brow furrowing with genuine concern as he leans in closer. "are you okay? you're really pale suddenly."
you look at jake — at his kind, sweet face — and you realize that staying here, pretending to be the girl he wants, is the cruelest thing you could possibly do to him. you can't live a lie anymore. the script is over.
"jake," you whisper, your voice trembling as you gently pull your hand back from his grip. "i'm... i'm so sorry. i can't do this."
jake blinks, completely caught off guard. "what? did i say something wrong?"
"no, you're perfect," you say, a tear finally spilling over your lashes as you grab your purse from the back of the chair. "you are absolutely wonderful, jake, i swear. but... my heart is somewhere else. it’s been somewhere else for a long time, and it’s not fair to keep dragging you into it. i’m so, so sorry."
before he can even process the words, you stand up from the table and walk — almost run — straight out of the jazz lounge, leaving the music behind you.
the moment you hit the cool night air of the sidewalk, you don't call a cab. you don't go back to your apartment to cry to yunjin. you sprint.
your heels click loudly against the concrete as you rush toward the west quad, your lungs burning, your heart hammering a desperate, terrifying rhythm against your ribs. the wind completely ruins your curled hair, and your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, but you don't care. the only thing that matters is the distance between you and room 314, and you need to eliminate it right now.
you burst through the heavy glass doors of his building, practically flying up the stairs three at a time because the elevator is too slow, too claustrophobic for the sudden, desperate panic roaring through your veins.
you reach the third floor, your chest heaving as you run down the carpeted hallway until you're standing directly in front of his heavy wooden door.
you don't wait to compose yourself. you don't brace your shoulders or try to be normal. you lift your shaking hand and knock against the wood, loudly, your whole body trembling in the quiet corridor.
the heavy wooden door swings open almost immediately, the sudden movement revealing jay standing in the entryway. he’s wearing an oversized black hoodie and matching sweatpants, his dark hair messy as if he’d been running his fingers through it repeatedly.
the second his dark eyes lock onto you, he freezes. his gaze sweeps over your ruined curls, the formal dress you’re wearing, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and the fresh tears spilling over your cheeks.
"newbie?" jay rasps, his voice completely stripping of its usual calm, unbothered composure. he steps forward, his hands instantly coming up to hover near your shoulders, completely shocked. "what— what are you doing here? why are you crying? did something happen with jake? did he hurt you? i swear to god i'll kill—"
"i'm in love with you," you blurts out, the words tearing out of your throat in a shaky, breathless sob before he can even finish his sentence.
jay stops dead in his tracks. his hands freeze in mid-air, his jaw dropping open just a fraction as his entire body goes completely rigid. the quiet corridor feels extremely silent, the heavy weight of your words hanging in the space between you.
"i'm in love with you," you repeat, a fresh wave of hot tears blurring your vision as you look up at his face. you feel incredibly shy, completely stripped of your armor, your voice dropping to a small, trembling whisper. "i went on the date with jake. he was perfect, jay. he took me to that jazz lounge, and he held my hand, and he told me i was beautiful... but it felt completely empty. i didn't want him to touch me. i didn't want him to kiss me. because the whole time, the only person i could think about was you. i thought about how you look at me, and how safe i feel when you hold me, and... and i realized i've been lying to myself for weeks. i don't want jake. i want you. i've always wanted you."
jay stares down at you, his expression completely blank for three long, agonizing seconds. you feel a sudden, terrifying wave of panic hit your stomach, convinced you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.
then, jay’s shoulders start to shake.
he drops his head back, a sudden, sharp bark of laughter escaping his lips. he keeps laughing, a breathless, rough sound that makes your heart sink into your shoes. he’s laughing at me, you think completely mortified, stepping back a fraction. yunjin was wrong, he thinks i'm pathetic—
before you can even take a full step away, jay moves.
his large hands shoot forward, wrapping securely around your waist, and with one heavy, desperate pull, he yanks you forward into his dorm room. the door slams shut behind you with a loud, final click, and suddenly, you are crushed completely against his broad chest.
jay wraps his strong arms around you, burying his face deep into the crook of your neck, holding you so tight it’s almost bruising. you can feel the heavy, erratic thumping of his heart against your ribs, his whole body trembling slightly as he holds you like you’re about to disappear.
"jay?" you squeak out, your hands hesitantly coming up to clutch at the thick fabric of his black hoodie.
"i'm not laughing at you, newbie," jay murmurs against your skin, his voice thick, ragged, and completely devoid of his usual arrogance. he lets out another low, disbelieving chuckle right into your hair, his grip tightening. "i'm just... i'm in complete disbelief. i can't believe you're actually standing here saying this to me."
he slowly draws his head back, keeping his large hands firmly anchored on your waist so you can't move away. his dark eyes are incredibly heavy, looking down at your tear-stained face with a raw, consuming tenderness that completely melts your heart.
"you are such a moron," jay whispers, a soft, beautiful smile finally breaking across his sharp features. "you really thought this was all just a clinical lesson for me? you think i let you straddle my lap for a whole hour because i'm a dedicated tutor?"
you sniff, looking up at him through your lashes. "yunjin said..."
"yunjin was right," jay interrupts softly, his thumb rising to gently wipe away a stray tear from your cheek, his touch unbelievably sweet. "i’ve liked you for weeks, sweetheart. even a month, probably. do you have any idea what it was like for me to sit in that chair and listen to you ramble on about jake sim every single week? i hated it. i hated every single time his name left your mouth. i wanted to throw him across the campus every time you showed me a text from him."
you blink, your heart spiking. "then why didn't you say anything?"
"because i was terrified," jay admits honestly, his jaw clenching slightly as his dark eyes lock onto yours. "you came to me so innocent, so focused on this dream you had of being with him. i was so scared that if i told you how i felt, i would pressure you. i was scared i'd ruin your confidence, or make you feel trapped in the lessons. i didn't want to hurt your feelings. so when you texted me on monday saying you were done..."
he pauses, his breathing turning shallow as he leans his forehead lightly against yours, his hot breath fanning across your lips.
"i was resigned," he whispers, his voice dropping to a gravelly, vulnerable register. "i decided to just let you go to him. i thought, if jake makes her happy, i'll just step back and let her have her perfect boyfriend. it almost killed me, newbie. i haven't slept a full hour since monday."
hearing his confession makes your chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming wave of love. you lift your hands, your fingers tangling deep into the soft, dark hair at the back of his neck, pulling him that final, microscopic inch closer.
"you don't have to let me go," you whisper directly against his lips. "i'm right here."
"yeah," jay murmurs, his dark eyes flashing with that familiar, possessive heat right before his mouth crashes onto yours. "you're right here."
the weight of his confession still hangs in the air of his room, but the heavy emotional armor you’ve both been wearing for weeks has completely shattered. your fingers are knotted so tightly in the dark hair at the back of his neck that your knuckles ache, your body pulling flush against his broad chest until there is absolutely no space left between you.
jay doesn't give you a single second to breathe. the moment your lips touch, the familiar, intoxicating taste of him rushes over you, but this time, the desperate restraint he had been clinging to during the "lessons" is completely gone. his mouth crashes into yours with a raw, possessive hunger that makes your knees instantly turn to water. it isn't a demonstration. it isn't a baseline. it is a fierce, consuming claim that leaves you both dizzy.
"jay," you gasp against his lips, a soft, helpless sound escaping your throat as his mouth slides hungrily down your jawline, his teeth gently nipping at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear.
"i've got you," jay rasps, his voice an incredibly deep, gravelly vibration against your neck. "i've got you, sweetheart. you're not going anywhere."
his large hands slide down from your waist, his broad palms gripping the undersides of your thighs with a sudden, bruising force. with one effortless, powerful lift, jay hoists you completely off the ground. you let out a sharp gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the three short steps over to his bed, collapsing both of you onto the unmade blankets.
the impact is soft, but the physical heat between you is instantly blinding. jay hovers directly over you, his heavy frame anchoring you to the mattress, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead as he looks down at your flushed, breathless face. his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, blazing with a fierce, protective intensity that makes your heart thump wildly against your ribs.
"look at you," jay whispers, his chest heaving under his black hoodie as his thumb traces the swollen, red curve of your bottom lip. "you're actually here. in my bed. telling me you want me."
"i do," you breathe out, your hands sliding beneath the hem of his hoodie to press your bare palms flat against the warm, defined muscles of his lower back. "i want you so bad, jay."
a low, ragged growl catches in his throat at the touch of your bare skin. he leans back down, his mouth devouring yours in a deep, wet, frantic rhythm that completely shatters the last of your control. his tongue slides possessively over yours, guiding your mouth to open wider, drinking in every single soft, broken moan you make.
the physical friction escalates instantly. jay shifts his weight, his heavy hips settling right between your thighs, the thick, rigid length of his arousal pressing hard through his sweatpants directly against your core. your dress is hiked up around your waist, leaving only the thin fabric of your underwear between your bodies. instinctively, a desperate, white-hot hunger takes over your body, and your hips tilt upward, a slow, heavy grind against his lap as you chase the unbearable pressure.
"fuck," jay groans directly into your mouth, his eyes flying shut as his entire body goes completely rigid at the sudden friction. his hands move to your hips, his long fingers digging into your skin to hold you still, but the desperate, needy roll of your pelvis makes a rough, unvarnished swear escape his lips. "newbie... shit, hold on. you're going to break me."
"no," you whine, your hands slipping out from his hoodie to clutch tightly at his broad shoulders, your eyes fluttering open to look up at him through your lashes. "don't stop, jay. please. i've been thinking about this for weeks."
the admission completely breaks his remaining restraint. jay lets out a sharp, ragged exhale and lets his hips move, matching your upward tilts with a heavy, rhythmic grind of his own. the dry humping is agonizingly perfect, the thick, hard pressure of his length rubbing relentlessly against your hyper-sensitive core through the fabric of his clothes. every single slide makes your head spin, your fingers digging deep into the soft cotton of his hoodie as you arch your back off the mattress, a loud, unvarnished cry echoing through the quiet room.
"yes, just like that," jay murmurs, his voice a ragged, breathless rasp as he buries his face back in your neck, his lips pressing a trail of burning, wet kisses along your collarbone. "let me feel you. god, you're so hot, sweetheart. you feel so fucking good."
he shifts the angle of his hips, grinding harder, deeper, targeting the exact spot that makes your whole body tremble. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the suffocating heat of his body, the rough friction between your thighs, and the intoxicating, raw intimacy of hearing him lose his mind beneath your touch. his chest is heaving violently against yours, his breathing shallow and rough as his hips thrust down in a fast, desperate rhythm that brings you both dangerously close to the edge.
"jay," you sob out, your head tossing back against the pillows, your core weeping with a desperate, heavy ache that dry humping can no longer satisfy. "jay, please. i don't want the clothes anymore. i want to feel you. really feel you."
jay stops his movement instantly. he draws back, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps as he looks down at you. his face is flushed, his eyes clouded with a fierce, overwhelming hunger, but beneath the passion, that deep, protective tenderness returns with a beautiful clarity.
"newbie," he whispers, his hands gently framing your face, his thumbs wiping away the tears from your cheeks. "are you sure? your first time... i want it to be perfect for you. i don't want to rush this."
"i'm sure," you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the anxious beating of your heart. you look straight into his dark eyes, your fingers rising to gently trace the tiny pale scar on his nose that had given the lie away. "i love you, jay. i want it to be you. teach me the rest."
a profound, heavy silence settles over the room, the raw emotion of your words melting away the last remnants of the old "lessons." this isn't an educational baseline anymore. this is a confession, a complete surrender, and jay handles it with a reverence that makes your eyes sting with happy tears.
"okay," jay whispers, his voice dropping into a soft, beautifully thick register. "okay, sweetheart."
slowly, deliberately, he sits back on his heels. his large, warm hands move to the hem of your dress, gently and carefully sliding the fabric up over your hips, your waist, and over your head, tossing it onto the floor. his eyes track the movement, his gaze raking over your exposed skin with an unvarnished, breathless admiration that makes you feel completely worshiped. he reaches down, his long fingers hooking into the sides of your underwear, easing them down your legs until you are completely bare beneath him.
"you are so beautiful," jay murmurs, his voice shaking slightly as he leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare stomach. "absolutely perfect."
he stands up briefly, pulling the black hoodie over his head and kicking his sweatpants away, revealing his broad, heavily defined chest and the thick, white-hot length of his arousal. when he slides back onto the mattress, the sheer, raw heat of his naked skin making contact with yours sends a violent shock of adrenaline through your veins.
he hovers over you again, but this time, he doesn't immediately move to progress things. he takes his time. his large, warm hand slides down your side, his palm resting flat against your hip as he gently coaxes your knees apart, sliding his body between your thighs. he leans down, his mouth sealing over yours in a slow, agonizingly sweet kiss that tastes of absolute devotion. his fingers slide down, finding the slick, dripping heat between your legs, and he uses two fingers to slowly stroke your core, priming you, making sure you are completely prepared for him.
"relax for me," jay whispers against your lips, his thumb applying a steady, heavy pressure that makes your hips instinctively lift. "i'm going to go so slow, sweetheart. if it hurts, you tell me to stop. understand?"
"i understand," you whimper, your fingers tangling into his dark hair, pulling his face down so you can kiss him again.
jay pulls his hand away, the sudden loss of contact making you let out a needy whine, but then you feel the heavy, smooth head of his shaft aligning directly against your tight, wet opening. the sheer thickness of him makes your breath hitch, your hands instantly clutching at the firm muscles of his shoulders.
"look at me," jay commands softly, his voice a low, gravelly purr.
you blink your eyes open, your vision slightly blurry from the sheer intensity of the moment, to find him staring down at you with a consuming, fierce possessiveness. his dark eyes are entirely focused on yours, locking you in place.
slowly, with an agonizingly careful, steady pressure, jay sinks his hips down.
the initial stretch is tight, a sharp, white-hot pinch of discomfort making your eyes widen as a soft, broken gasp escapes your parted lips. your body automatically tenses beneath him, your fingers digging deep into the skin of his shoulders.
instantly, jay stops. he freezes in place, only a fraction of his length inside you, his jaw clenching hard as he battles his own primal urge to thrust. a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin, but his entire focus remains totally on your comfort.
"i know, i know," jay murmurs sweetly, his face dipping down to press a series of soft, comforting kisses to your eyelids, your burning cheeks, and the tip of your nose. "breathe through your nose, newbie. just like i taught you. let your body adapt to me."
he reaches down, his large hand finding your core again, his thumb rubbing slow, heavy circles against your sensitive skin while he stays perfectly still inside you. the steady, masterful friction slowly melts away the sharp pinch, replacing the discomfort with a deep, heavy wave of slick, throbbing heat. your muscles slowly relax, opening up around him, practically begging for the rest of his weight.
"jay," you whisper, your hips giving a tiny, tentative upward nudge. "more. please."
"good girl," jay rasps, a low, broken hum of absolute approval escaping his chest.
he shifts his hands, wrapping his long fingers securely around your waist, anchoring you to the mattress. slowly, smoothly, he pushes his hips down the rest of the way, burying his entire length deep inside your tight, wet heat. a loud, unvarnished cry tears out of your throat, your legs instinctively wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even closer as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him completely consumes your senses.
jay lets out a deep, guttural groan, his head burying themselves into the crook of your neck as he stays completely buried inside you for three long, breathless seconds, letting you adjust to the magnificent weight of him.
"you're so tight, sweetheart," jay whispers, his voice completely ungrounded, shaking with a raw emotion that has absolutely nothing to do with a lesson. "you feel so perfect around me. fuck. you're mine. you know that, right? you're completely mine now."
"i'm yours," you sob out, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heart beneath your fingers. "i'm yours, jay."
when he finally begins to move, it is the furthest thing from the clinical, calculated pacing of before. it is slow, incredibly deep, and heavy with a fierce, possessive passion. jay draws his hips back until he is almost entirely out, making you let out a needy, panicked gasp, before sliding back in with a long, smooth stroke that drives straight to the center of your ache.
“ah— jay!” you cry out, your head tossing back against the pillows as the relentless, deep rhythm takes over the small room.
he guides you through every single movement. when your breathing gets too frantic, jay uses his grip on your waist to lift your hips slightly, slowing the pace down, lingering deep inside you until your breath catches in sync with his. his mouth is everywhere — kissing your lips, your jaw, biting softly on your neck, leaving dark, faint marks on your skin that say louder than words exactly who you belong to.
"you're doing so good for me, baby," jay praises you, his voice a heavy rumble right against your ear. his breathing is completely shattered, his chest slick with sweat as it crushes against yours with every single deep, driving thrust. "look at you. you're taking all of me so perfectly. so pretty for me, sweetheart."
the explicit, loving praises send jolts of pure electricity straight down your spine. you grow bolder, your fingers digging into his hips as you match his pace, lifting your pelvis to meet his downward thrusts, creating a flawless, sharp friction that completely breaks his remaining restraint.
the pacing quickly turns heated, the slow tenderness fracturing beneath a sudden, overwhelming wave of raw, unadulterated passion. jay's dark brows furrow in a look of pure agony, swears escaping his lips with every single heavy, pounding thrust. he moves faster, deeper, his hips crashing against yours with a bruising, desperate force that makes the entire bed shake.
"jay... jay, i'm close," you sob out, the tight, hot knot in your lower stomach coiling so tightly you can barely breathe. your fingers tangle desperately into his damp hair, pulling him down, needing his mouth on yours as your climax approaches.
jay snaps his eyes open, his dark gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying, beautiful amount of gravity. "look at me," he rasps, his hips thrusting deep, holding you completely still beneath him. "look at me when you break, sweetheart. let me see you."
you look up through your lashes, staring straight into his cloudless, fierce eyes as he delivers three fast, incredibly deep thrusts. the coiling tension inside you completely snaps, a blinding wave of pure, white-hot release crashing over your entire body. you let out a loud, broken cry, your inner muscles clamping tightly around his length in violent, pulsing spasms.
the sudden, tight friction completely breaks jay's remaining control. he lets out a deep, guttural cry against your mouth, his jaw clenching so hard the veins stand out against his neck as his hips give one final, breathless thrust, burying himself as deep as physically possible inside you as his own release hits him.
jay stays buried deep inside you for a long moment, his chest pressed flush against your back as both of you come down from the high. his lips brush lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, like he can’t stop touching you even now.
“are you okay, pretty?” he murmurs, voice rough and low against your skin.
you nod, still catching your breath, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “more than okay.”
he hums in satisfaction and carefully pulls out, immediately rolling you over so you’re facing him. his large hand slides up your side, gentle and possessive at the same time, as he tucks you against his chest. for a while, neither of you speaks. the only sounds are your slowing heartbeats and the distant hum of campus life outside his window.
jay’s fingers trace slow circles on your bare back.
“so,” he says after a long beat, that familiar lazy grin creeping into his voice, “how do you feel now that you’ve graduated from my lessons?”
you let out a soft laugh, hiding your burning face in the crook of his neck. “i feel like an idiot.”
“yeah?” he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. “took you long enough to figure it out.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, your fingers brushing the tiny scar on his nose. “why didn’t you say anything sooner? all those weeks… you just kept teaching me like it didn’t kill you every time i mentioned jake.”
jay’s expression softens. he cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin with surprising tenderness.
“because you came to me wanting help to get another guy,” he says quietly. “i wasn’t going to be the asshole who messed with your head while you were vulnerable. even if it sucked. even if i wanted to throw my laptop across the room every time you showed me his texts.”
he leans in and kisses you slowly, deeply — nothing like the heated frenzy from earlier. this one feels like a promise.
when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“for the record,” he murmurs, smiling again, “you were never going to end up with jake. not after the first time you asked me for a ‘practical example.’ i knew it then. you were already mine.”
you groan, embarrassed but smiling. “you’re so cocky.”
“and you love it.”
you do.
jay pulls the blanket higher over your shoulders and wraps both arms around you, holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. his lips brush your temple.
“no more lessons,” he whispers. “no more pretending. just this. just us.”
you press a soft kiss to his collarbone, already drifting off in the warmth of his embrace.
“just us,” you echo.
as sleep starts to pull you under, you feel jay smile against your hair.
What begins as innocent teasing quickly turns into playful mockery, cuteness aggression, and heated touches as your boyfriend pins you down and discovers how much you love the overwhelming size difference between you two.
WARNINGS ◦ size difference themes ◦ nsfw content, mdni ◦ strength kink ◦ manhandling ◦ lil bit boring and dragging as usual ◦ reader is smaller than sunghoon ◦ cringe alert lmao ◦ bad writing and poor development because i wrote this in 20 minutes okie ◦ size kink ◦ unrealistic sex scene bahahahah #stayfocusedsisters
6,184 ━━━━━ drabble park sunghoon x reader
۶ৎ 𝓜 , park sunghoon and size difference. that's it. that's the tea. this was only created because @hoonstrology put this in my head, it's her fault guys. y'all know i'm not normal that's why i can't just write a small short drabble so here it is me yapping about hoon muscles and managing a poor developed smut scene for 6k words. I KNOW THIS IS CRINGE AND UNCANON OKAY MY BAD, not my usual cup of tea if i'm being honest. anyways, I LOVE YOU WIFE. #legendarylovers4ever
━━━━━ read on ao3
The lights were off except for the soft glow of the TV. Some random action movie neither of you were really paying attention to played in the background—explosions, car chases, loud orchestral music. The couch had become a nest: your blanket thrown over both of you, Sunghoon’s long legs stretched out so far his feet hung off the end. You were curled into his side, head on his chest, one leg hooked over his thigh because he ran warm and the apartment always felt a little cold at night.
Your boyfriend had one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other resting lazily on your thigh where it lay over his. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns on your skin under the blanket—up and down, sometimes slipping just under the edge of your sleep shorts before retreating again, innocent. Or at least that’s what it started as.
You were trying to focus on the screen. Really.
But then Sunghoon shifted. Just a small movement—reaching for his cellphone on the coffee table with his free hand. His torso twisted slightly, chest tightening under your cheek, and suddenly the sheer scale of him hit you all at once.
His chest has gotten so broad that when he stretched like that, your entire upper body felt small against him. The arm behind your shoulders flexed without him meaning to, thick bicep pressing into your nape. His thigh under your leg felt impossibly solid and warm, the muscle dense even through the soft gray sweatpants. When he settled back again, he pulled you closer without thinking, adjusting you like you weighed nothing.
“This movie is actually ass,” he muttered, already reaching for his phone on the coffee table with his long arm. He didn’t even have to sit up fully — just stretched, torso tightening under you again, and grabbed it effortlessly.
You hummed in agreement, too distracted by the way his body moved beneath you to care about the plot anymore.
He slid down the couch a little more, getting comfortable, his hips sinking lower so his long legs spread out even further. The movement caused his gray sweatpants to pull tighter across his thighs. You felt the shift immediately — the solid muscle under your leg flexing as he adjusted his posture.
Without saying anything, without even really looking at you, Sunghoon’s free hand slid under the blanket and found your waist. And then he just… moved you. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His large hand gripped your hip firmly, fingers digging in just enough for you to feel the strength there, and he pulled you higher up his body in one smooth, effortless motion. Your leg that had been hooked over his thigh was now straddling his lap completely. Your chest pressed flush against his as he tucked you tighter against him, your face ending up buried in the crook of his neck.
He did it all with one arm. No straining, no grunting, just pure, casual manhandling — like you were a pillow he was rearranging for maximum comfort.
“There we go,” he mumbled under his breath, already looking down at his phone screen as he started scrolling. His thumb moved lazily across the display, completely at peace. “You were sliding down.”
Then he went right back to scrolling on his phone, thumb moving lazily across the screen, completely at peace. The faint blue light glowed against his sharp jaw as he read something that made the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.
You, on the other hand, were spiraling.
Your entire body was now lying on top of his. Completely. Every slow breath he took lifted you gently, like you were floating on the rise and fall of a warm ocean.
You couldn’t see the TV at all anymore. Your world had narrowed down to the heat of Sunghoon's body, the clean scent of his skin at his neck, and the overwhelming size difference that was making your head spin.
He has gotten just so big.
The way your legs looked so short compared to his long ones stretched out beneath you. The way one of his hands could nearly wrap around your entire waist. How easily he had moved your whole body without even glancing away from his phone.
Heat kept blooming low in your stomach, heavy and insistent. You tried to stay still, but your fingers kept clenching and unclenching in the front of his hoodie, and your breathing had turned shallow and uneven against his neck.
Sunghoon kept scrolling peacefully for another minute, completely lost in whatever he was looking at. Then his thumb paused on the screen.
He tilted his head slightly, voice low and genuinely confused. “…Jagi? What’s going on?” His free hand rubbed your back in slow, soothing circles, still thinking you were just tired or cold. “You 'kay?”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him, cheeks flushed, eyes a little wild with frustration and want.
“Sunghoon,” you said, voice impatient and slightly breathless, “you just manhandled me like I weigh five pounds, put me completely on top of you, and now your thigh is pressed right between my legs and your hand is basically covering my entire ass and you’re just… scrolling like nothing happened.”
You kept going, the words spilling out faster.
“You’re getting so fucking big, one hand and you just slid my whole body wherever you wanted, I can’t even see the TV anymore. I can barely think because all I feel is how easily you can just… handle me.”
There was a beat of silence, then your boyfriend burst out laughing. Literally laughing.
It wasn’t a small chuckle — it was a full, deep, surprised laugh that shook his chest underneath you. His head fell back against the couch cushion as he laughed, eyes crinkling, the sound warm and boyish and so genuinely amused it made your ears burn.
“Jagi— really?” he managed between laughs, phone now completely forgotten on his chest. “That’s what’s got you like this?”
You glared at him, half embarrassed, half still ridiculously turned on. “Yes. And you’re laughing at me.”
“I’m sorry— I’m sorry,” he said, still grinning, trying (and failing) to stop laughing. One of his big hands came up to cover his mouth for a second, but his shoulders were still shaking. “I was literally just trying to make you comfortable. You kept slipping down and I thought— fuck, I didn’t think it was that, jagi.”
He looked at you again, eyes sparkling with a mix of fondness and newfound heat. The laughter slowly faded into a soft, dangerous little smile as he finally seemed to register the full situation — your flushed face, your quick breathing, the way you were gripping his hoodie.
Sunghoon’s hand slid lower again, resting heavily on your ass under the blanket, fingers spreading out possessively.
“So…” he murmured, voice dropping, “you really like it when I move you around like that, huh?” He gave a small, experimental squeeze, easily palming most of your ass with one hand, and watched your reaction closely.
“Oh my God, stop with the posturing right now,” you muttered, cheeks burning hotter.
Sunghoon’s grin widened, clearly enjoying this way too much.
“I thought you liked it.”
“Well, yes,” you huffed, “but not now that you know it.”
You twisted in his hold, trying to escape the overwhelming attention. You turned your body away from him, attempting to roll onto your side and face the back of the couch, hoping the embarrassment would cool down if you didn’t have to look at his stupid smug face.
But Sunghoon didn’t let you. His arm tightened around your waist instantly — that same big hand locking you in place like it was nothing. Before you could even finish turning, he shifted his weight and rolled on top of you in one smooth, fluid motion. The air left your lungs.
He was so heavy. Not crushing, but solid and warm and everywhere. His chest pressed you deeper into the couch cushions, completely blocking out the soft glow from the TV. His shoulders were so wide they shadowed your entire upper body. You couldn’t see anything above you except him — just the dark outline of his face, the faint shine in his eyes, and the way his damp hair fell forward slightly.
“Sunghoon—” you started, but he caught both your wrists in one of his hands and pinned them above your head against the couch.
You pouted hard, trying to tug your wrists free from his grip. You twisted and pulled, but his fingers stayed locked around both of your wrists with ridiculous ease. He didn’t even seem to put in effort — just held you there, smiling down at you like you were the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week.
“Let me go,” you whined, half-laughing, half-serious.
“Nope.” He shook his head, looking way too pleased with himself. “You tried to run away from me earlier. Can’t trust you anymore.”
Before you could curse at him again, Sunghoon suddenly got hit with a full wave of cuteness aggression. He dropped his head and attacked. First he bit your cheek — not hard, but enough to make you squeal. A playful, toothy bite followed by a loud kiss on the same spot.
“Sunghoon!” you yelped, laughing despite yourself.
He ignored you completely, too busy nuzzling and biting. He moved to your other cheek, biting gently before sucking a quick kiss there too.
“Stop— you asshole—!” you cursed between giggles, squirming underneath him, but that only made him press you down harder with his chest.
He moved lower, dragging his teeth slowly down the side of your neck before biting down on the sensitive skin there. Not enough to bruise (yet), but enough for you to feel the sharp edge of his teeth and the heat of his mouth. Then he soothed it with wet, open-mouthed kisses, sucking lightly.
You giggled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. He kissed all over your neck — slow, hungry kisses mixed with little bites and nips, murmuring between each one:
“So small under me…” Kiss. “Can barely see anything except your cute little face…” Bite. “Fits so perfectly in my hands…” Kiss. “Love how I can just pick you up and put you wherever I want…”
You were a mess — laughing, whining, cursing him between shaky breaths.
“Park Sunghoon, I swear to God—”
He cut you off by biting your jaw, then immediately kissing the spot tenderly. His free hand slid under your hoodie again, palm hot against your waist, fingers spreading wide like he needed to remind himself how much of you he could hold at once.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark but still sparkling with that ridiculous fondness.
His thumb stroked over your trapped wrists as he leaned in again, hovering just above your lips. “Tell me how tiny you feel right now, baby.”
You stared up at him, flushed and frustrated, still trying to catch your breath after his attack of kisses and bites.
“I can’t believe this is foreplay for you right now, Hoon,” you muttered annoyingly, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re literally pinning me down and acting like a giant cat with cuteness aggression and you want me to stroke your ego on top of it?”
Sunghoon’s expression shifted instantly. He looked genuinely offended, eyebrows pulling together as he stared down at you. “Ya,” he said, voice flat but clearly playful-offended. “Answer my question.”
You tried to hold back a smile. When you stayed quiet, just staring at him with a defiant little smirk, your boyfriend narrowed his eyes.
Then his eyes dropped.
Your oversized hoodie had ridden up during all the squirming and wrestling, and the collar of the shirt underneath had shifted. A delicate strap of your new bra was now peeking out near your collarbone — soft sage green lace against your skin.
He stopped mid-sentence, completely sidetracked.
Without any warning, Sunghoon used the hand that wasn’t pinning your wrists and casually tugged the hem of your hoodie and shirt upward, pulling both up halfway in one smooth motion. Cool air hit your stomach and ribs as he exposed the pretty bra fully.
“Hey!” you yelped, offended, eyes widening. “You can’t just— Sunghoon!”
He didn’t even look guilty.
His gaze was locked on your chest, genuinely focused now, the teasing completely forgotten for a second. His free hand stayed resting on your waist, thumb absently brushing the underside of the bra cup.
“Is this a new set, baby?” he asked, voice softer, almost distracted. He tilted his head, still hovering over you, eyes tracing the delicate lace. “It looks so pretty… the color really suits you.”
You stared at him, cheeks burning with a completely different kind of embarrassment now.
He was ogling. Not in a dirty way — at least not yet — but in that focused, slightly awestruck boyfriend way, like he’d just discovered something fascinating and needed to study it.
“Yeah… it’s new,” you answered reluctantly, squirming under his heavy gaze. “I bought it last week. Stop staring like that.”
Sunghoon finally looked back up at your face, but his hand was still gently touching the fabric, fingertips brushing over the lace like he was testing how soft it was.
“I’m not staring,” he said, clearly lying. “I’m appreciating. The green looks really good on you. Seriously. It’s soft too… is the whole set like this?”
You groaned, trying (and failing) to pull your wrists free again. “I hate you. You were literally in the middle of teasing me about my size kink and now you’re acting like a fashion critic because you saw lace.”
He smiled, slow and mischievous again, but his eyes kept flicking back down to the bra.
“Look, I'm just a man, jagi.” He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss right above the bra strap on your collarbone. “You should wear this more often. I like it.”
He smiled, slow and mischievous again, but his eyes kept flicking back down to the sage green lace.
“Look, I’m just a man, jagi.” He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss right above the bra strap on your collarbone. “You should wear this more often. I like it.”
You huffed, still half-annoyed at how easily he got distracted, but the way his lips lingered on your skin was making it hard to stay mad.
Sunghoon’s gaze darkened again as he slowly dragged his eyes up your body. He seemed to suddenly remember the position you were in — you pinned underneath him, wrists still trapped in one of his hands, hoodie and shirt bunched up under your chin.
The teasing smile returned.
“Fuck… look at you,” he murmured, voice lower now.
He shifted his hips, pressing his thigh harder between your legs, right against your core. The pressure was deliberate this time. You couldn’t stop the soft gasp that escaped you.
Sunghoon’s free hand slid up your ribs, fingers splaying wide across your skin until his palm covered almost the entire underside of your breast through the new bra. You let out a embarrassed, turned-on whine and tried to twist again, but he only chuckled darkly and pinned you harder into the couch.
“Stop moving like that,” he said, though his tone made it clear he loved it. “You’re making me so fucking hard.”
He finally released your wrists, but only so he could use both hands to shove your hoodie and shirt higher, completely exposing your chest. Before you could protest, he leaned down and mouthed at your breast through the lace, hot and wet, teeth grazing the fabric while his other hand squeezed your waist like he needed to feel how small it was.
“Hoon—” you breathed, fingers finally free to thread through his hair.
He hummed against your skin, sucking lightly before pulling back just enough to look at you. His lips were glossy, eyes completely blown.
“You wanted this,” he reminded you, voice rough. “You got wet the second I moved you like a doll. Don’t act shy now.”
In one smooth motion, he sat up on his knees, pulling you with him like you weighed nothing. He flipped you so your back was against his chest, your smaller body settled between his spread thighs. His arms wrapped around you from behind — one across your chest, the other sliding down your stomach until his big hand cupped between your legs possessively.
He pressed his hard cock against your ass, thick and obvious through his sweatpants.
“Feel that?” he murmured against your ear, biting the lobe gently. “That’s what you do to me. Just by being this fucking tiny.”
You moaned softly, head falling back against his shoulder as his fingers started slow, teasing circles over your sleep shorts. The TV was still playing explosions in the background, completely ignored.
Sunghoon kissed the side of your neck, slow and open-mouthed, while his hand kept working you.
“Tell me what you want, jagi,” he whispered, voice sweet but filthy. “Want me to keep manhandling you? Or do you want me to fuck you like the tiny little thing you are?”
He squeezed you tighter against him, emphasizing just how easily he could control your whole body.
Your answer came out shaky and needy:
“…Both.”
Sunghoon let out a low, satisfied laugh against your skin and tightened his arms around you.
“Good girl.”
The praise hit you low in your stomach. His voice had gone deeper, that lazy rasp he only got when he was properly turned on. One of his arms stayed banded across your chest, holding you flush against him, while his other hand kept slowly rubbing between your legs over your sleep shorts. The pressure was firm, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to drive you crazy.
You could feel every inch of him behind you. His chest was a solid wall of heat against your back. His thighs on either side of you were thick and firm, caging you in. And his cock — hard, heavy, and insistent — pressed right against your ass, twitching every time you shifted.
He nosed along your neck, breathing you in.
“Lift your hips for me,” he murmured.
You barely had time to process the request before his hands were already moving you. He gripped your waist with both hands and lifted you slightly, pulling your shorts and panties down your thighs in one smooth tug. The fabric caught at your knees before he impatiently yanked them the rest of the way off and tossed them somewhere on the floor.
The cool air hit your bare skin, but it only lasted a second — Sunghoon immediately pulled you back against him, one big hand sliding between your thighs again. This time there was no fabric between his fingers and your pussy.
“Fuck… you’re soaked,” he groaned softly, almost like he was talking to himself. Two of his long fingers dragged slowly through your folds, spreading the wetness. “All this just because I moved you around a little? My tiny baby really has it bad.”
You whimpered, head falling back against his shoulder. He circled your clit with the pads of his fingers — slow, deliberate strokes that made your thighs tremble.
Then, without warning, he slid one thick finger inside you.
The stretch was immediate. Even one of his fingers felt big, especially with how worked up you already were. He pumped it slowly, curling it just right, while his thumb kept rubbing lazy circles on your clit.
“So tight,” he whispered hotly against your ear. “Always so fucking tight for me. Like your body knows how big I am and still tries to take me anyway.”
You moaned louder, hips rolling against his hand. Sunghoon chuckled darkly and used his other arm to hold you still, keeping you pressed tight against his chest so you couldn’t move much.
“Stay still, jagi. Let me play with you.”
He added a second finger, stretching you wider. The wet sound of his fingers moving in and out of you was embarrassingly loud in the quiet apartment, even with the movie still playing forgotten in the background.
You reached back, grabbing onto his hoodie, needing something to hold onto. Sunghoon rewarded you by kissing your neck and grinding his hard cock against your ass in time with his fingers.
“You feel that?” he asked, voice rough. “That’s how hard you make me. Just from being this small and pretty and easy to move around.”
He suddenly pulled his fingers out, making you whine at the loss. But before you could complain, he manhandled you again — flipping you onto your back on the couch like you weighed nothing. He settled between your spread thighs, pushing them wide apart with his hands.
For a moment he just looked at you, eyes dark, hair messy, breathing a little heavier. His gray sweatpants were tented obscenely.
Then he leaned down, shoving your hoodie and shirt all the way up and over your head, leaving you in just the sage green bra. He hooked two fingers under the front of it and tugged it down, freeing your breasts.
“Pretty,” he murmured, almost reverently, before leaning in and sucking one nipple into his mouth.
You arched into him with a gasp. His mouth was hot and wet, tongue flicking teasingly while his hand kneaded your other breast. The size difference was even more obvious like this — his large hand completely covering one of your tits, fingers able to touch around it easily.
He switched sides, giving the other the same attention, then started kissing a trail down your stomach.
When he reached your pussy, he didn’t tease. He licked a slow, broad stripe up your center, then wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked.
Your hands flew to his hair, thighs trying to close around his head, but he easily pushed them back open with those strong arms, holding you spread for him.
He ate you out like he was starving — messy, hungry, focused. The wet sounds mixed with your broken moans and his low groans of approval. Every time you squirmed too much, he tightened his grip on your thighs, reminding you how easily he could hold you down.
“Hoon— fuck— I’m close—”
He hummed against you and slid two fingers back inside, curling them perfectly while his tongue kept working your clit.
You came hard, back arching, thighs shaking in his grip. He didn’t stop, working you through it until you were whimpering and pushing at his head.
Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, eyes blown wide with lust.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled back up your body, hovering over you again. The outline of his cock was straining desperately against his sweatpants.
Sunghoon leaned down, kissing you deep so you could taste yourself on his tongue.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
“Think you can take me now, baby?” he asked, voice husky. “Or do you want me to manhandle you a little more first?”
You barely managed a shaky breath before answering.
“…Manhandle me,” you whispered, cheeks burning.
Sunghoon’s eyes flashed with dark satisfaction. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he sat back on his knees, towering over you on the couch.
“Greedy girl.”
In one fluid motion, he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your stomach like you were weightless. He pulled your ass up high, forcing you onto your knees while keeping your chest pressed down against the cushions. The position made you feel incredibly small — face down, ass up, completely exposed for him.
His big hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he admired the view.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, almost reverently. One hand slid up your spine, pressing you down harder into the couch. “So tiny like this. I can fit both my hands around your waist… and still have room.”
You felt the couch dip as he shifted closer. The sound of fabric rustling filled the air as he finally pushed his sweatpants and boxers down. His cock sprang free, heavy and hot, slapping against your ass cheek.
He rubbed the thick head along your soaked folds, teasing your entrance without pushing in.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice suddenly softer for a second, even as his grip on your hip stayed firm.
Then he started pressing in.
The stretch was intense. Even after his fingers and his tongue, the sheer girth of him made your mouth fall open in a silent moan. Inch by inch, he sank into you, slow and controlled, growling low in his throat.
“Shit… so tight,” he hissed. “You’re squeezing me so fucking hard, jagi. Like your pussy doesn’t want to let me in… but you’re still taking every inch.”
When he bottomed out, hips flush against your ass, you felt impossibly full. The size difference was overwhelming — his much larger body completely covering yours, his chest pressed to your back, one arm braced beside your head while the other wrapped around your waist, holding you in place.
He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, lips brushing your ear.
“Feel that?” he whispered. “I’m so deep I can feel your stomach bulging a little when I push in.”
You moaned brokenly, fingers clawing at the couch cushion.
Sunghoon started moving — deep, powerful thrusts that made your whole body rock forward. Every time he drove back in, his hips slapped against your ass, the sound filthy and loud. His free hand reached under you, pressing against your lower stomach so he could feel himself moving inside you.
Sunghoon started moving — deep, powerful thrusts that made your whole body rock forward with every snap of his hips. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the living room, filthy and rhythmic, barely covered by the explosions still playing on the forgotten TV. His free hand stayed pressed firmly against your lower stomach, feeling the way his cock bulged slightly inside you with every thrust.
“Fuck, jagi,” he groaned, voice rough but still carrying that familiar teasing edge.
You whimpered into the cushion, fingers twisting in the fabric as he drove into you again, harder this time. The stretch was overwhelming in the best way — he was thick, long, and unrelenting, making your thighs tremble every time he bottomed out.
“Too big,” you gasped, half-complaint, half-plea.
Sunghoon let out a breathy laugh, the sound warm despite how hard he was fucking you.
“Too big?” He slowed his thrusts just to grind deep, rolling his hips in filthy circles. “You’re the one who got dripping wet when I moved you like a doll. Don’t act like you don’t love how big I am now.”
He leaned over you completely, his broad chest pressing against your back, caging you in. The weight of him was grounding and overwhelming all at once. One of his hands found yours on the couch, easily covering it completely as he intertwined your fingers.
You let out a broken moan, pushing back against him despite your words. Sunghoon grinned against your neck and bit down gently, the same cuteness aggression from earlier creeping back in even while he was buried inside you.
“Brat,” he whispered fondly, then suddenly pulled out.
You whined at the loss, turning your head to glare at him over your shoulder.
“Sunghoon—”
But he was already manhandling you again. He flipped you onto your back like it was nothing, hooking his hands under your knees and folding you in half. Your thighs pressed against your chest as he settled between your legs, lining himself up again.
“This is better,” he said smugly, pushing back inside you in one smooth thrust. “I like seeing your face when you’re trying so hard not to moan my name.”
You slapped his chest weakly, laughing through a moan.
“You’re so annoying— ah!”
He cut you off with a particularly deep thrust, bottoming out completely. The new angle made you see stars. Sunghoon’s eyes darkened as he watched your face, drinking in every reaction like it was his favorite thing in the world.
“There she is,” he murmured, starting a brutal pace again. “My noisy girlfriend.”
The couch creaked under you both as he fucked you harder, his hips snapping against yours. Sweat was starting to cling to his skin, making his black compression shirt stick to his broad chest. You reached up, grabbing fistfuls of the fabric, pulling him down closer.
Sunghoon obliged, folding you even more as he kissed you messily. It wasn’t graceful — it was desperate, tongues and teeth, little laughs breaking through when your noses bumped.
“You’re laughing during sex?” you gasped, half-offended, half-amused.
“Can’t help it,” he grinned, nipping at your bottom lip. “You’re just so fucking cute when you’re getting railed. Look at you… all folded up and taking me so well.”
He shifted his weight onto one arm and used the other to press your thigh higher, opening you up even more. The change made him hit a spot that had you crying out, back arching.
“Right there?” he asked, voice cocky but genuinely focused on your pleasure. “Yeah? That’s my girl.”
Your hands moved to his shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle there. Even now, in the middle of intense sex, Sunghoon couldn’t stop being Sunghoon. He kept murmuring little comments between thrusts — some filthy, some stupidly sweet.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight… my tiny pussy trying to keep me inside.” Then, softer: “You’re so pretty like this, jagi. Love you so much.”
The mix of his dirty praise and genuine affection made your head spin. You felt the pressure building again, fast and overwhelming.
“Hoon— I’m gonna—”
“I know,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. “Come on, baby. Come for me. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock.”
He reached between you and rubbed tight circles on your clit, never slowing his thrusts. The combination sent you over the edge hard. Your orgasm crashed through you, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around him as you moaned his name.
Sunghoon fucked you through it, pace turning sloppy as he chased his own release.
“Fuck— you’re so tight when you come,” he hissed, burying his face in your neck. A few more deep thrusts and he came hard, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a low, broken groan.
For a moment, the only sounds were both of you breathing heavily and the distant movie still playing in the background.
Sunghoon stayed buried inside you as he carefully lowered your legs, letting you stretch out. He didn’t pull out right away. Instead, he collapsed half on top of you, careful not to crush you completely, and nuzzled into your neck like a big clingy cat.
“You okay?” he asked softly, pressing lazy kisses to your sweaty skin. The cuteness aggression was back in full force now that the heat had settled — he was gently biting your shoulder, then kissing the same spot.
You let out a tired laugh, running your fingers through his damp hair.
“I think you broke me.”
He lifted his head, grinning proudly.
“Good. That was the plan.” Then his expression softened. “But seriously… was it too much? I know I get carried away when you look at me like that.”
You shook your head, smiling up at him.
“It was perfect. Even if you are an annoying, smug giant.”
Sunghoon chuckled and kissed you sweetly, slow and deep, before finally pulling out. He grabbed the blanket from the floor and pulled it over both of you, tucking you against his chest like he always did after sex.
“You know,” he murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back, “next time you get shy about your size kink… I’m just gonna remind you how loud you moaned when I folded you in half.”
You groaned, hiding your face in his chest.
“I hate you.”
“Love you too, jagi.”
He laughed softly, pulling you even closer, the two of you tangled together on the couch as the movie finally ended in the background.
Sunghoon stayed buried inside you for a few more moments, both of you catching your breath. Then he slowly pulled out with a quiet groan, immediately reaching for the tissues on the coffee table. He was gentle as he cleaned you up, wiping between your thighs with careful strokes.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice had lost all the teasing edge, replaced by that soft, low tone he only used when he was feeling protective.
You let out a tired hum, eyes half-closed. “That’s your fault, giant.”
He smiled and leaned down to press a soft kiss on your forehead before standing up. Even now, right after sex, he moved with that effortless grace. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and came back with a warm, damp towel and a bottle of water.
“C’mere, jagi.”
Without waiting for you to move, he slid one arm under your back and the other under your knees, lifting you easily into his lap. You curled into his chest automatically, still feeling floaty. He wiped you down gently with the warm towel, one big hand holding your thigh open while the other cleaned you with slow, soothing strokes.
“Too rough?” he asked quietly, eyes scanning your face.
You shook your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Hell no, I enjoyed it.”
He hummed, satisfied with your answer, and set the towel aside. Then he uncapped the water bottle and brought it to your lips.
“Drink.”
You took a few sips obediently while he held the bottle for you, his other hand rubbing slow circles on your bare back. When you were done, he took a long drink himself before setting it on the table.
Sunghoon pulled the blanket over both of you again and shifted so he was lying on his back with you draped completely on top of him. Your smaller body fit perfectly against his — your head on his chest, legs tangled with his much longer ones. He wrapped both arms around you, one hand resting possessively on your ass under the blanket, the other gently playing with your hair.
“You’re so warm,” you mumbled sleepily, pressing your cheek against his chest.
He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating under your ear.
“That’s because I’m a walking heater. Built for tiny girlfriends who get cold easily.”
You lightly pinched his side. “Stop calling me tiny.”
“But you are tiny,” he teased, though his voice was incredibly fond. He hugged you tighter, almost squeezing you. “My perfect little handful.”
You groaned but didn’t pull away. Truthfully, you loved being held like this — completely surrounded by him. His heartbeat was steady under your ear, and his body heat made the blanket feel almost unnecessary.
Sunghoon seemed to sense it, because he pulled you even closer, one large hand gently cupping the back of your head while the other rested possessively on your lower back. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, his lips warm and soft.
“You’re so quiet now,” he murmured, amusement coloring his tired voice. “Where’s the girl who was calling me annoying ten minutes ago?”
“Shut up,” you mumbled against his chest, but there was no heat in it. Your fingers traced lazy circles over his shirt, feeling the firm muscle underneath. “I’m recovering from you trying to fold me into a pretzel.”
He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest. “You asked for it, jagi. Literally said ‘manhandle me.’” He shifted slightly, adjusting you higher so your face tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck. “But I’ll be gentler next time… maybe.”
You pinched his side weakly. “Liar.”
“Only a little,” he admitted, smiling. His fingers continued threading through your hair in that soothing rhythm, slowly lulling you toward sleep. The rain outside had gotten heavier, creating a gentle white noise that mixed with his steady breathing.
After a long, comfortable silence, Sunghoon spoke again, softer this time.
“Thank you for letting me stay tonight. I know you had work to do.”
You smiled sleepily. “Worth it.”
He hugged you a little tighter, almost instinctively, like he couldn’t help it. “I love you,” he whispered against your hair. “Even when you’re pretending to be mad at me for being big.”
You let out a quiet laugh, already half-asleep. “Love you too, giant.”
Sunghoon stayed awake a little longer, just holding you, occasionally pressing small kisses wherever he could reach — your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your ear. Eventually his own breathing slowed, his body relaxing completely beneath yours as sleep finally took him.
The two of you stayed like that on the couch, tangled together under the blanket — your much smaller frame safely wrapped up in his warmth, the Sunday night feeling a little less borrowed and a lot more like home.
author's note — i didn't edit this btw. planning to write a proper hoon drabble soon bc i HATED this one >< but i did release it because size kink sunghoon was eating the worms in my brain lately and i had to get it out somehow. i know this is cringe ok bye <3
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