just checking in and giving an update on my side! i found myself feeling inspired lately… maybe i’ll go back to writing, hopefully soon?!?!??
things were a bit rough on my side. the best course of action was to take a break from EVERYTHING in order to feel like myself again. but i’m (halfway) back now!
i want to rework my whole blog too. new year, new me, new blog… so i unpinned my about me and “masterlist”, replacing it with whatever this is. temporarily!
don’t forget to stay warm and always be safe out there! hopefully the next time i see you, i’d have a new story to publish <3
݁⋆. VISUAL REASONS ˚.⋆ || 박성훈 x fem!reader || smau
ib; sunghoon’s recent gym pics bcs they revived my soul
summary: sunghoon wants to be a gentleman and drive you home from work, but clearly telling you to stop by the gym was a mistake .. or maybe not
genres: fluff, romance, suggestive, smau, est. relationship, non-idol!sunghoon x fem!reader
warnings: swearing/cursing, attempts at humour, pet names, suggestive jokes and references, nothing explicit tho, a hurried frenzy of an smau bcs i made this in a trance
[archive]
a.n: man .. i was feeling so out of it for ages since . well yk.. BUT NOTHING LIKE SUNGHOON GYM PICS TO BRING ME BACK TO LIFE sighhh i love that man
⤷ For all those who want to be fucked by a man who pins you down, pulls your hair, and takes complete control. This one's for you.
⸝⸝ Synopsis : Five years ago, Sunghoon walked away without a word, left you with silence where love used to live. You told yourself you’d forget him, bury him, some things don’t stay buried. Now he’s back. As your bodyguard. Every step you take, he’s there. Every breath you steal, he’s closer. You should run. You should hate him. But obsession like his? It doesn’t let you go twice. ⸝⸝
Warnings : Strong language, bodyguard au, p in v, unprotected sex(no), oral(f.rec), degradation kink, power dynamics, spanking, tying up, belly bulge, multiple orgasms, fingering, recording, filthy sex bro, breeding kink, obsession, praise kink, edging, they’re so down bad.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who broke your heart back in college and disappeared without a word, only for you to come face-to-face with him again five years later, after nothing but silence.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who you run into at an underground boxing match—pure coincidence. He pulls his hood down, and that’s when you see it. Your name, tattooed across his back. Permanently carved into his skin like even after five years, he never let you go. Screaming to the world he belonged to you.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who catches your eye in the crowd, surprise flashing across his face. You meet those same eyes you once loved… and glare, ready to turn and walk away. He just tilts his head, a dangerous grin pulling at his lips, mouthing—“Don’t you fucking run from me, baby.”
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who shows up a week later as your new personal guard. You only realize when he steps in front of you, those same eyes locked onto yours as if the last five years never stopped haunting him. “I’ve been hired as your personal guard, ma’am.”
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who mutters curses under his breath every time you push his buttons, every time you ignore his orders like you ever would listen. “Y/n… don’t make this harder than it already is.” The way he says your name, low, strained—makes your breath hitch, and rub your thighs together under the skirt. You can’t help but think… the audacity of this man.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who watches you flirt with other men just to get a reaction out of him, jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides. ‘You did this to yourself. She’s not yours anymore. You don’t get to want her’ But the next second, he snaps. His hand wraps around your wrist, grip rough, dragging you somewhere no one can see. Your back hits the wall, his body crowding yours, eyes dark and burning. “Keep testing me,” he mutters, voice dangerously low, “and I swear I’ll forget why I’m supposed to stay away from you.”
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who finally snaps, professionalism slipping the moment you push him too far. His hands close around your wrists, pinning them above your head in one swift motion. His free hand tilting your chin, forcing your head to the side, exposing your neck like a goddamn offering. His voice drops, “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who’d whisper “You're such a fucking slut for my cock." his deep growl fills your ear. "You're desperate to be my good girl aren't you, love? To sit at my feet like a good little bonded mate and worship at my cock. Mmm... I would have you suck it so good. Your pussy would be dripping.” You glare, “I would NEVER. Keep dreaming asshole.”
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who notices the slight tremble in your knees and smirks, pressing his knee between them just enough to steady you—or maybe to make it worse. The tightened fabric of his pants meet with your soaked ones as you let out a low breath. His eyes flicker with amusement, “Look at you,” Sunghoon murmured. "Shaking for the monster you swore you didn't want anymore.”
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who finally has you beneath him now, the scent of you flooding his senses. A low groan claws his way from his throat at the sight of your dripping cunt. He leans down, "You're going to be the death of me." Sunghoon’s stubble scraped across your skin as his mouth trailed a line of fire down your neck, parting your perfect legs without breaking eye contact.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon whose jaw tightens the second another man’s hand lingers too long on your bare back—eyes going dark, almost feral as he watches from a distance. It eats at him. The way they look at you. The way they think they even have a chance. Because in his mind, there was never a “before” or “after.” You were always his. Always meant to be his. His gaze doesn’t leave you, tracking every movement, every reaction—waiting. Watching and when your eyes flicker, when your body betrays even the slightest hesitation, his lips twitch, Sunghoon knows, he’s been waiting five years just to prove it.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who groans at the first taste, so fucking sweet, exactly like he remembers. He lets out a sigh and presses his tongue flat on the fabric, inciting a low whine from you. “So fucking greedy.” He mumbles as he slides your panties down with his teeth, driving into your heat. You feel his fingers make its way up to your entrance, pressing it there first before slamming them in. You gasp, nails digging into his hair as you pull at them. Sunghoon moans into your heat, “Fucking—fuck. Missed this—you.” His fingers work you open and your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head when his lips find your pulsating clit.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon whose breath hitches every time you walk past him, cock hardening at the mere sight of you. And there you were. Sprawled across your bed in the softest shirt he has ever hated with his entire soul—because it made you look like something worth worshipping. One leg out of the covers, hair an absolute disaster, breathing slow and even. He stood there for a second longer than he meant to. God, You looked peaceful. And Sunghoon was about to ruin it.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who drags you away, "You don't get to drag me away from conversations." You try to yank your wrists but he presses you against the hallway wall, palm braced beside your head "Then stop letting men look at you like you're available." You scoff, “I AM available." His jaw tightens at that. “Not to them."
Bodyguard!Sunghoon whose stubble grazes your inner thighs when you feel his nose bump against your clit, completely soaked. Your back arches off the bed but he pins you down with his strength. “Fucking take it. I’ll take my time ruining you.” He rasps under you, “I’m close—honnie—” Sunghoon goes completely still at the nickname. Been so long, so fucking long since he’s heard you say it. Fuck, he loves you so much. “Yeah? gonna come all over my tongue, hmm?” He circles his tip around your sensitive bud, you shake your head, eyes closing. "You will watch me make you come, or you don't come at all." You snap your eyes to him, your need overwhelming any lingering embarrassment. With your gazes locked, Sunghoon bends more to take a lazy lick of you, running his tongue between your lips to your clit and circling. My eyes roll back in my head. "Eyes, Y/n," He demands. "Give me those eyes.”
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who couldn’t get enough of you the moment he had tasted you again. After the first time, he’d always find a quiet corner somewhere in the house, jerking off at the thought of you between his legs. His cock in your mouth as you’d bob your head up and down, adjusting to his size. This became regular. He was always pulling you into dark corners, empty hallways, places no one would see. You kept telling yourself it meant nothing—that you didn’t love him. But Sunghoon? He stopped lying to himself a long time ago.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who never really moved on—not even for a second in those five years. You were always there, stuck in the back of his mind, every sleepless night. And now? Now he has you again. Except this time… it wasn’t coincidence. Every step that led you back to him, every place you ended up, it was all too perfect. Too calculated. You thought you found him again, prob fate dragging you back. But Sunghoon knows better. Because he made sure you would.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who keeps his voice calm in public, calling you “ma’am” like hes obviously meant to—but the second you’re alone, it drops, rough and possessive. “Don’t test me like that again.” Even after five years away, you still hit him the same way you did back in college. And it’s the same for you. Every time you see him—his face, his body, that fucking tattoo—smth inside you curls. You watch him from the corner of your eye as he pulls out that stupid pencil he’s always carried around. His back faces you, broad, inked—your name still carved into his skin like a sin he never tried to wash away. Fuck, he looks good. The pencil moves, scratching against your open notebook. You don’t even notice him getting that close until the words appear in his slanted handwriting. “I want to taste you again.” Your breath catches. Was he actually insane?
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who’d growl "Shut your mouth." when you disobey him in bed, He does it for you instead, his lips devouring yours and he kisses you with unbound lust, his hips jerking as he fucks your hole, “Fuck you..." You gasp out loud. He bites the corner of your lip and stretches the skin. "Fuck you..Sunghoon—Why the fuck did you come into my life... Fuck..." He smirks and slams forward, hips jolting against yours. A vigorous speed breaking out, hammering his cock in deep. Sunghoon grunts, keeping the back of your knees hooked over his biceps for leverage as he fucks into you without abandon. “I'm in your life because you're fucking up mine, baby."
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who’d spank you for your insolent tone, Spank! "From now on, when I tell you to do something, you do it." Spank! “If I warn you, you don't ignore me." Spank! “You'll listen to fucking orders." Spank! “You will obey me." Spank! The redness of his slaps spreads across your skin blooming in pink. "Cry louder. Let everyone know who owns you."
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who wants to look into your eyes as he takes you, slow and deep, so you feel every inch of him and know you're his. He wants to see the way you break, the way your body surrenders, the way you whisper ‘don't stop’ like it's the only thing you know how to say.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who ties both of your wrists with his necktie, and steps back, admiring the sight of you. Hands behind your back, leather belt knotted across your skin. You glance behind your shoulders. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You say teasingly. The tone of yours has his eyes darkening and he reaches for his phone, snapping a few pictures before throwing it back on the bed. “Bend for me, let me see that pretty cunt dripping.” You do as he says, face dipping into the mattress, ass up in air, back arched, pussy all bare and wet for him. Sunghoon kisses your throat hard enough to bruise, and when you flinch, he laughs, not cruelly, but softly, like it's proof of how real you are. Then his fingers trail down the soft skin of your ass before giving it a smack. Your body jerks forward, you feel the collar attached to your neck—leash being pulled back by your ex. Your breath becoming foggy and ragged as u feel his lips next to your ears, "Godamn, you're wet for me. Do you like it when i play with you?"
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who’s gone past obsessed—You call it obsession, he calls it devotion. “Run, baby.” He leans against the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the exit, presence suffocating. His voice is calm but edged with steel. “Go on,” he murmurs. “Walk out if you want to test me.” He pushes off the frame, step perfect, silent power in every move. “You won’t find softness anywhere else,” Sunghoon says, eyes locked on you. “Only me.” Your heart pounds as you take a step back. Then another. “And if you turn your back…” his lips curve, something dangerous flashing in his eyes, “…you’ll find out just how far I’ll go to keep what’s mine.” You gulp. So this is what he likes. Predator play. Got it. “And if i catch you, i fuck you, baby.” So you run. For a moment, you let yourself believe you’d won. Then—A hand. Your breath hitched as he found you, His grip was rough as he pulled you up by yanking your hair. “You really thought I wouldn’t find you?” he whispered, voice low against your ear. "You are so fucking wet," Sunghoon growled. "Does this turn you on, hmm?
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who falls in love even more. Thinks the safest place for you is right next to him and nowhere else even comes close. He realizes he doesn’t just want you around, he needs to know where you are, if you’re okay, if you’re safe… all the time. He spins, kicking a chair out of his way so he can plant you on the kitchen table. He steps between your open thighs and grabs a handful of your hair, forcing your eyes to his. "You run to me. When shit goes sideways, you run to me, not from me, okay?" You think you nod but your not sure when you feel his lips near your ears, "I wanna be everything," he said, his mouth against your ear. "Wanna be the reason you light up. I wanna make you laugh, make you moan, make you safe." He kept stroking you as you quivered helplessly. "I want to be the thought that lulls you to sleep. The memory that gets you off. I wanna be where all your paths end." He nipped your earlobe. "I wanna do everything you do to me."
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who would close his teeth around the strap of your dress and gently tug it down while he raised your hips so he could push your soaked thong to the side. You didn't have time to do more than gasp before he was inside you, filling you to the hilt with only one thrust. You only had a few seconds to adjust before he gripped your hips and slammed you down again on his cock, hard, while he drove up inside you. You clung to him, head thrown back, body nothing more than a mass of sensation as you matched his rhythm. You bounced up and down, grinding your clit against him on every down stroke. "Just like that," Sunghoon growled. He grazed his teeth across your nipple, his breath raising goosebumps all over your skin. "Ride my cock like a good slut.” An embarrassingly loud moan climbed up your throat when he closed his mouth around the pebbled peak and sucked. Wetness gushed down your thighs, over his leg, and onto the car seat. “You're making a mess, sweetheart." He turned his attention to the other nipple and tugged on it with his teeth. "Should I make you clean it up, hmm? Have you lick your own cum off the seat while I fuck you from behind?"
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who fucking loves your moans. The moans you let out only drive him to fuck into you more violently, filling you with each inch of his thick long cock. His moves his hand which was on your neck, slight fingerprints of his palms visible from how hard he was chocking you, "Every bruise I leave is a reminder you belong to me." You couldn’t respond with anything but a scream as sunghoon reached around and slapped your pussy. The sudden spike of pleasure yanked you back to the present and made your back bow from the intensity. Only half your resulting scream made it out before a hand clamped over your mouth. "Shh," Sunghoon murmured. "You don't want people to hear how much you love being fucked like this, do you? On all fours in the backseat of a car, taking every inch of my cock like you're fucking born for it." He gave your clit another long, lazy stroke with his other hand. "Good girl, you can take it, you’ve taken worse.” The gentleness of his voice, contrasted with the filthiness of his words and the brutal slam of his cock inside you, tipped you over the edge.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who starts doing things he was never supposed to, tucking you in at night, making sure you’ve eaten, even doing your makeup sometimes with a quiet focus that feels too intimate to be just “his job.” you both started acting like nothing ever happened. Like he hadn’t been the one to break your heart. But the worst part? He still hasn’t given you a reason. "You said you loved me," You whispered. "I hate that we lost that." Nothing was lost. He lifted you up, guided your legs around himself and walked you both to the bed, feeling the heat of your center on his stomach. "We never lost that." He means it. Sunghoon never fucking stopped loving you. You were always the one he’d think about.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who just loves making you feel good, everytime you try to shy away, he’d say , “Don’t act shy, you started this.” Then continue to wreck you for hours. "Stubborn fucking girl," Sunghoon growl, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you closer. "You don't get it, do you? I always see you" His thumb presses into your clit, rubbing ruthless circles as his fingers slam into your warmth, unrelenting. "I'm always fucking seeing you, Y/n. In every room, no matter how much I want to ignore you, you burn too fucking bright. You're the goddamn sun, and I hate that I can't stop looking at you." White-hot pleasure crashes over you and you bite your bottom lip to keep yourself from crying out. Your orgasm ebbs and flows, seemingly going on forever before it finally fades out.
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who edges you for hours. Not letting you come. He would pull out his fingers each time you neared your release and you’d whimper loudly at the loss to which he’d just chuckle darkly. "So pretty when you're soaking wet like this I can't wait to see how perfect you look around my bare cock" he whispered, watching you close your eyes and part your lips at his words. You were lost in it. Lost in him, wanting nothing more than for him to use you for his own pleasure. The next thing you knew, he was shoving his own pants down just far enough to free his pulsing length. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him giving himself a few long pumps, eyes dark, burning into yours. A shaky sigh escapes your lips as he uses the head of his cock to spread your own slickness along the length of his member.
He didn’t give you any time to adjust before slamming into you with a ferocity that makes your knees shake, cock thrusting in and out of you harder and harder, faster and faster till you felt him poking your stomach. Sunghoon notices and glances down, eyes going feral when he sees his dick outlining your perfectly sinister waist—He presses down on the belly bulge, hard. Causing u to moan because of the pressure. “Look at how fucking full you are. Shit—so perfect. Gonna fucking breed you.”
His hands squeezed your waist almost painfully. "You were always fucking mine. You're gonna come to me from now on. Every time this pussy gets wet, got it?" Your legs squeezed around him tighter, feeling his pelvis grind against your clit, the poor, overstimulated nub practically screaming from the pain. "Oh my god—please.” he pulls back just an inch before driving home again, harder this time. “Gonna breed you—yeah? gonna stuff you with my cum till its fucking leaking. Doesn’t matter i’ll shove it back in.”
Bodyguard!Sunghoon who never really left your mind—and you never left his either. He seals the promise against your lips, voice low, almost breathless—“I’ll give you the world… the moon, the stars. Anything you want—it’s yours. I’m yours.” The confession hits you out of nowhere, You weren’t ready for it but God, you felt it just the same. Your gaze drops, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed, undone. “Y/n… my love, look at me.” His fingers curl gently under your chin, lifting your face back up to him. “Give me those beautiful eyes.” And holy cow, he loves yours eyes. Those same eyes he fell for years ago, the ones he could never forget, never escape.
You knew one thing with terrifying clarity that you’d follow this man to the fiery gates of hell even if he just held your hand. “I love you.” He says, pecking your lips. “The world isn’t ready to see who i become if this—” his thumb presses on your pounding pulse and he gestures between you both. “—ever stops.” Because you're so sweet you fucking glow and Sunghoon knows he’ll kill anyone who tries to take that light from you. If he'd been ready to burn the world for you before, it was nothing compared to the destruction he would cause now.
Navi : This is just a headcons for my upcoming sunghoon fic cus its been a long time i didn’t post anything I lit have no fucking motivation to write fml. I miss heeseung sm. Come back to me dada.
Smut writers continuing writing about heeseung on here is so important actually. Fics are big part of fandom and it ensures that even if belift tries to erase him, heeseung will never be forgotten.
their stocks are falling, the petition is around LESS THAN 100k signatures away from reaching ONE MILLION, there have been almost EIGHT MILLION posts on x/twt about this, multiple protest trucks outside the building of hybe THAT HYBE STAFF THEMSELVES TOOK PHOTOS OF !!!! and reminder there have been NO news of his contract termination even if he’s supposedly (let’s assume) under a soloist contract THERES STILL NO NEWS OF HIS CONTRACT TERMINATION FOR ENHYPEN. as bad as it may feel and look like for us rn it’s looking WAY worse for hybe/belift. there’s still sm hope don’t any of u dare to give up pls — mass email, call, use as many emails as you have, do anything in your capability because nothing has been fully confirmed and decided yet we still have a chance !!!
SIGN THE PETITION !!! LINK
• READ THE THREAD TO HELP: LINK
• EMAIL THEIR INVESTORS: LINK 1 | LINK 2 | LINK 3
• KOREAN [in person] PROTEST: LINK 1 | LINK 2
• GIVE BAD REVIEWS (they’ve currently deleted over hundreds of bad reviews to fix their image — meaning that they’ve seen and heard everything!!! keep going!!!): LINK
• EMAIL KOREAN JOURNALISTS/MEDIA: LINK 1 | LINK 2 | LINK 3
• TRUCK DONATIONS: LINK 1 | LINK 2
• BANNER DONATIONS / FUNDRAISERS: LINK
• EMAIL JBTC CHANNEL [one of the biggest news outlets in sk]: LINK
synopsis: everyone thinks you’re a sweet, innocent cutie, but only your friends know that you’re hella geeked. when sunghoon bumps into you and falls inlove at first sight, he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.
→ “then you come through like the sweetner you are to bring the bitter taste to a halt” ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
parings: sunghoon x reader
synopsis: everyone thinks you’re a sweet, innocent cutie, but only your friends know that you’re hella geeked. when sunghoon bumps into you and falls inlove at first sight, he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.
Say you’re writing an article about how to drive a man away. Say he reads it, and decides to turn you into a bet. Sunghoon isn’t supposed to fall. You’re not supposed to care. But somewhere between stolen looks, sharp words, and lines crossed on purpose, the rules blur. You stop pretending first. He confesses last. Everything explodes. And when the truth comes out, when the article goes live and hearts hit the floor, you’re left with one final choice: publish the ending… or burn it all down for him. A game of control. A collision of pride. And one very bad idea that turns into something dangerously real.
genre: Enemies-to-lovers • Fake Dating • Romcom with Teeth • College AU • Emotional Slowburn • Messy Feelings • Slightly Unhinged Romance • Smut • Angst
pairing: football captain!Sunghoon x school editor!reader
warnings: Cocky reader and cocky Sunghoon playing mind games.
Manipulation, gaslighting, toxic flirting, fake dating, hurt feelings.
Crack energy, angst, lots of yearning, and an asshole in love (he just doesn’t know it yet), family PTSD, drinking, bets, parties, hurt/no comfort, language, rough kissing
warnings (smut): Explicit sexual content • multiple sex scenes • make up sex • consensual intercourse • oral sex (f receiving) • fingering • nipple play • missionary • belly bulge • creampie • praise kink • dirty talk • multiple orgasms • aftercare • emotional vulnerability during sex • unprotected sex (they're fictional you're not) • breeding kink undertones • love confessions mid-sex • sex when drunk (consensual)
cameos: Heeseung, Jay, Jake, Riki (from Enhypen) as Sunghoon's friends/teammates. Manon (from Katseye) as Reader's bestfriend. Keeho (from P1Harmony) as Reader's bestfriend. Sunoo (from Enhypen) as Reader's bestfriend. Sophia (from Katseye) as a supporting character.
inspired by: How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days
word count: 40.9k
Sam: a big thank you to the loml @si3rren (for helping me with motivation and deciding between Hoon's personality) and my other loml @siyalogue for reading it, i love you so! chat… K… if you ever read this, no you didn’t. This is definitely not inspired by you and your aggressively affectionate relationship, which I secretly think is hella cute but will deny under oath.
[Better Than The Movies] [Masterlist]
PING!
HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS!
An Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
Spoiler: it’s easier than you thought.
If you’re reading this, congratulations.
You are either:
A woman who has just realized that modern dating is a psychological endurance sport,
A man who clicked this link out of spite, curiosity, or misplaced confidence, or
Someone’s roommate, best friend, or lab partner who was forcibly sent this article with the caption “THIS IS YOU.”
Welcome.
Let’s establish something immediately: this is not a how-to guide for the weak-hearted, the romantically hopeful, or anyone who still believes that “communication” fixes things. This is a social experiment, a field study, and, if we’re being honest, a public service announcement.
For years, we’ve been fed the same recycled advice: Be chill. Don’t text first. Play hard to get. Don’t scare him away.
But what if… hear me out… What if we did the opposite?
What if instead of shrinking ourselves into palatable, low-maintenance versions of human beings, we leaned all the way in? What if we became everything men claim they want, just… all at once?
This article exists for one reason and one reason only: To answer the age-old question: How hard is it, really, to make a man leave?
(Spoiler: not very.)
Consider this your cheat sheet. Your cautionary tale. Your "do not try this at home... unless you're me, and you're petty, and you have a Substack deadline."
THE HYPOTHESIS
Men love the idea of romance.They fear the practice of it.
They adore:
mystery,
independence,
“cool girls who don’t ask for much.”
They panic at:
emotional availability,
expectations,
a woman who remembers what they said last Tuesday and asks follow-up questions.
Thus, the experiment. Over the next ten days, I will attempt to drive one (1) willing male participant away using nothing but socially accepted behaviors that women are constantly told to suppress. No manipulation. No cheating. No cruelty. Just… too much honesty, too much affection, and too much presence.
I'm calling it: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.
DISCLAIMERS (PLEASE READ BEFORE YOU GET MAD)
This is satire. If you feel personally attacked, that’s between you and your conscience.
Names will not be used (unless you deserve it).
If this article ends your relationship, that relationship was on life support already.
If you’re a man reading this and thinking “That wouldn’t work on me”—
thank you for volunteering as our control group.
WHY THIS MATTERS (UNFORTUNATELY)
Dating culture is obsessed with control.
Who cares less. Who texts slower. Who “wins.”
But women are still penalized for wanting:
clarity,
effort,
reassurance.
We’re told to relax, be patient, stop overthinking, while men are praised for doing the bare minimum with a straight face and a podcast microphone.
So instead of asking, “How do I make him stay?”I asked a better question: How fast will he run if I stop pretending I don’t care?
THE STRUCTURE
This is not a step-by-step manual. This is an incomplete guide, updated in real time, because frankly, watching this unfold is more fun than finishing it.
Each day introduces one strategic behavior designed to test a man’s emotional endurance.
Think of it as exposure therapy.
For him.
DAY 1: OVERSHARE IMMEDIATELY
Men say they want “emotional depth.” What they mean is: selective vulnerability, delivered slowly, with breaks for football.
On Day 1, we ignore that. Meet cute at a bar/coffee shop/dog park (pro tip: always pick a venue where escape routes are visible).
Objective: Establish emotional intimacy before he’s decided whether you’re “serious” or “casual.”
Methods may include:
Mentioning childhood trauma on the second date. Not "my parents divorced," but "my dad left when I was seven because he said my mom's emotional unavailability was contagious, and honestly, I've been chasing unavailable men ever since, hey, therapy is expensive, but patterns are free!"
Casually referencing your abandonment issues before the appetizer arrives.
Using the phrase “I’ve never told anyone this before” while maintaining unbroken eye contact.
Expected reaction:
Initial concern.
Followed by quiet panic.
Followed by a sudden, very urgent need to wake up early tomorrow.
Notes from the field:Men claim they want honesty.
They just don’t want it unscheduled.
Bonus points: Cry prettily while stirring your iced latte. Mention how you've already named your future cats after your exes (for closure). Watch his eyes glaze over like he's calculating the nearest exit.
DAY 2: BE TOO INVESTED
This is where we separate the boys from the men, and then watch both groups back away slowly.
Objective: Remove the illusion of low stakes.
Recommended tactics:
Ask about long-term goals unironically. Text him good morning at 6:47 a.m. Follow up at 6:52 with "miss u already 🥺."
Mention baby names “as a joke.” By noon, casually mention you've been thinking about baby names. "If we have a girl, I'm leaning toward Seraphina Moonbeam, it's celestial but grounded, you know?"
Say “when” instead of “if.”
Examples:
“When you meet my parents—”
“When we live together—”
“When this becomes something real—”
Important: Do not laugh after saying these things.
Confidence is key.
Expected reaction:
Nervous laughter.
Statements like “Let’s not rush things.”
A sudden interest in “seeing where things go.”
Translator’s note:“Seeing where things go” means hoping you forget you said that.
Pro move: Call him "babe" in front of his friends. Refer to yourself as "your girl" in the third person. "Your girl was thinking we should do couples' yoga this weekend. Namaste, right?"
DAY 3: VIOLATE PERSONAL SPACE (CONSTANTLY)
Men love physical affection.
They just want to schedule it.
Show up unannounced at his gym/work/happy hour with "surprise!" energy. Bring homemade cookies shaped like hearts (bonus if they're slightly burnt, shows effort). Hug him from behind while he's mid-conversation with colleagues. Whisper, "I just couldn't wait to see you."
Objective: Remove his sense of autonomy without technically doing anything wrong.
Suggested behaviors:
Sitting too close.
Touching his arm while he’s mid-sentence.
Leaning your head on his shoulder unprompted.
Holding his hand in public for longer than socially necessary.
If questioned, smile and say:
“What? I just like you.”
This phrase is lethal.
Expected reaction:
He will say it’s “cute.”
He will not mean it.
Invade every boundary like it's your birthright. Sit in his lap at a bar stool built for one. Steal his phone to take selfies together ("for the 'gram!"). Text his mom from his phone: "Hey Mrs. [Last Name], [His Name] talks about you all the time. Can't wait to meet the woman who raised such a catch! ❤️"
If he pulls away, pout and say, "I thought we were moving fast. You said you liked spontaneous!"
(He never said that. But gaslighting is just foreplay for the emotionally unavailable.) And that's just the warm-up.
PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS
After only three days, patterns begin to emerge.
Men are remarkably consistent in their responses:
They retreat when confronted with certainty.
They resist when desired openly.
They crumble when expectations are voiced out loud.
And yet, they insist women are “complicated.”
FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS
Q: Isn’t this manipulative?A: No more than pretending not to care about someone you do.
Q: What if he likes it?A: Then congratulations. You’ve found a statistical anomaly.
Q: What if I accidentally fall for him?A: That is not covered under this study. Seek help.
WHAT COMES NEXT
Days 4 through 10 will explore:
Public embarrassment,
Strategic clinginess,
Jealousy induction,
Emotional availability at inconvenient times,
And the psychological impact of being loved on purpose.
Updates will be posted as the experiment progresses.
Until then, remember:
If a man leaves because you asked for too much,he was never planning to give you anything.
—
Yours truly,Xoxo
The first sign that something has gone terribly, beautifully wrong is the sound.
Not screaming. Not alarms. Not even the frantic slap of shoes against dorm hallways.
It’s the ping. One phone vibrates. Then another. Then a dozen. Then the entire Decelis University network lights up like someone dropped a match into gasoline and stood back to admire the flames.
Screenshots travel faster than facts ever could.
By 9:07 a.m., the Decelis Uni Gossip Site crashes, not once, but twice. Someone screenshots the headline before the servers go down. Someone else screenshots the screenshots. By the time the site limps back online, the comment section has already evolved into a living organism with opinions, grudges, and a frightening amount of self-recognition. ‘IS THIS ABOUT JAKE???’ ‘nah bc why does this feel personal’ ‘men are already crying in the replies’ ‘WHO LET HER COOK’
Someone posts the headline, just the headline, on the Decelis Uni Gossip Site at 12:03 a.m., and by 12:05, it’s everywhere. Group chats with names like ECON101 SURVIVORS, DECELIS WAG CIRCLE, FOOTBALL FAM, DO NOT OPEN AT 3AM, all erupt at once. The article link is shared so aggressively it almost feels personal, like an accusation.
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. People don’t even need to open it yet. The title alone does the damage.
By 12:10, screenshots of the opening paragraphs are circulating, highlighted, underlined, annotated with “NAHHHH 💀” and “THIS IS FOUL” and “WHO WROTE THIS???” in increasingly unhinged fonts. Someone zooms in on Spoiler: it’s easier than you thought like it’s a crime scene clue.
By 12:17, the comment section is unusable. Men are arguing with men who are arguing with women who are arguing with men who claim they “don’t even care” but somehow typed six paragraphs anyway. Someone drops a Thinkpiece Thread explaining why the article is “harmful to modern dating,” complete with bullet points and a misuse of the word gaslighting. Someone else responds with a screenshot of Day 1 and the caption: if this applies to you, seek therapy.
It is chaos. Academic, romantic, existential chaos. By morning, it’s no longer contained.
Girls read it out loud in the dining hall, choking on their iced lattes between laughs. A table near the windows reenacts Day 2 verbatim, complete with fake baby name suggestions and dramatic hand gestures. Someone prints it out, actually prints it out, and pins it to a dorm bulletin board like a manifesto.
Guys pretend not to read it. They fail. They scroll in class, phones angled carefully behind laptops. They read it on the treadmill. In bathroom stalls. One of them snorts so loudly during a lecture that the professor stops mid-sentence and asks if everything is alright. He nods too fast, face red, phone face-down like it might bite him.
They react in three predictable stages:
Denial
Rage
“This is satire but also she’s evil actually”
No one can agree on whether it’s funny or dangerous. Which, historically, is how you know you’ve done something right. Professors are worse.
They don’t acknowledge it, officially. They maintain the thin, polite illusion that nothing scandalous has happened on campus, that academia exists in a vacuum untouched by gossip and satire and emotional warfare. But you see it anyway.
A literature professor clears her throat before class and says, “Some of you seem… distracted today,” and then pauses just long enough for the room to vibrate with unspoken understanding. A sociology TA assigns a reading on modern dating dynamics that absolutely was not on the syllabus yesterday. A communications professor changes an entire lecture slide to include the phrase “viral rhetoric” and definitely doesn’t look at the back row when she says it.
The article becomes unavoidable. A shared language. A weapon. A joke. A mirror. The gossip site slaps a red banner on top of the article:
EDITOR’S PICK — TRENDING
And somewhere between outrage and fascination, people start asking the real question: Who wrote this? Not in the curious way. In the reverent way.
The answer spreads slower, but when it hits, it hits clean. The school editor. You.
The same name that’s been quietly sitting at the bottom of editorials, event recaps, exposés, and opinion columns for the past two years suddenly becomes radioactive. People connect the dots backwards, every sharp line, every carefully worded takedown, every reputation that mysteriously didn’t recover after a single article went live.
Oh. Of course it’s you. The realization settles like a chill.
You aren’t just funny. You aren’t just bold. You’re precise. You’re the kind of person who knows exactly how much damage a sentence can do, and writes it anyway. By noon, your name is being said with a mix of admiration and fear. By evening, it’s legend. And the thing is, you have no idea any of this is happening. You’re in the shower.
Steam fogs up the small bathroom mirror, blurring the world down to soft shapes and muted sound. Your phone is abandoned on your bed, vibrating itself into exhaustion, screen lighting up over and over with notifications you can’t hear over the rush of water.
You hum absently, some stupid catchy tune stuck in your head, shampoo dripping down your spine as you tilt your head back. There’s no drama in the moment. No grand awareness. Just warm water, clean skin, and the satisfaction of having finally hit publish on something you’ve been sitting on for weeks.
When you step out, towel wrapped loosely around you, the world is still quiet.
Then you pick up your phone. It’s hot to the touch. You blink at the lock screen, missed calls stacked like a to-do list, messages previewing in fragments.
DECELIS GOSSIP SITE: 99+ mentionsMom: ARE YOU INSANESophia: THIS IS EVERYWHEREVice-editor (DNI!!): PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS A JOKE
fentanyl eyelash extensions (groupchat):MMWICKEDWITCH: I’M SCARED OF YOU (AFFECTIONATE)
Sunoobiteme: THE FOOTBALL TEAM IS LOSING IT
Keehovirus: THE COMMENTS?????
You scroll. And scroll. And scroll. Your reflection stares back at you from the darkened screen, hair damp, expression unreadable, mouth quirking just slightly at the corners as the reality settles in.
Oh. So it landed. You dry off slowly, deliberately, like you’re not standing in the epicenter of a social earthquake. You pull on clothes with the same unhurried precision you use when editing a sentence for maximum impact. By the time you sit at your desk, towel draped over the chair, laptop opening with a soft click, you look exactly like what everyone has decided you are.
The school editor. Not the title they hand out. The one you earn. You open the gossip site and watch the numbers climb in real time, views ticking up, comments refreshing faster than you can read them. You don’t respond. You never do. Your silence has always been part of the brand, whether you intended it or not.
People think that makes you untouchable. They’re right. You lean back in your chair, scrolling through the chaos you set loose with a calm that borders on dangerous. Somewhere on campus, friendships are being tested, egos bruised, arguments ignited. Somewhere else, men are reading your words and seeing themselves in ways they deeply resent.
And you? You just hum again, softer this time, already thinking about the next update. You have ten days to finish the experiment. And apparently, the entire university has decided to watch.
The hallway is alive in that specific way it only ever is when something has happened.
Not the usual class-change chaos, bodies slamming into each other like pinballs, backpacks swinging wildly, voices overlapping in a desperate bid to be heard before the next bell. Not the end-of-day relief either, when exhaustion settles over everyone like fog and people shuffle toward exits with the slow relief of prisoners released for the afternoon. This is different. This is buzzing, electric, threaded with whispers that slice off the second you pass by. The air feels thinner, pressurized, like everyone is holding their breath and pretending they’re not staring.
You don’t notice at first. You’re laughing, actually laughing, the real kind that starts in your stomach and bubbles up without permission. Head tipped back slightly, strands of hair sticking to your lip gloss from the humidity that always clings to these old university corridors no matter how many windows they crack open. Earbuds in, music loud enough to drown out the world. Something upbeat and stupid and perfect is playing, maybe that one indie track everyone pretends they discovered first, the one with handclaps and a chorus that begs to be screamed in a car at 2 a.m. It makes your steps lighter, shoulders loose, hips swaying just enough that you feel invincible.
Your phone is in your hand, screen lit up with notifications you’re very deliberately not opening. The little red badges stack like accusations: 47, 82, 119 and climbing. You already know what’s in them. You published. It detonated. That part’s done. Right now, you’re just walking. Carefree. Untouchable. Exactly the way people imagine you are when they scroll through your byline and picture someone who never second-guesses, never flinches, never cares.
You turn the corner without looking, why would you? The hallway is muscle memory at this point. Four years of the same route between the media building and the east quad, same chipped paint on the lockers, same faint smell of burnt coffee drifting from the student lounge.
And collide, hard, with something solid. No. Someone. The impact knocks the breath from your chest in a sharp, involuntary thud that echoes louder than it should. Your earbuds slip loose, one dangling against your collarbone like a broken promise, the music cutting out mid-chorus so abruptly the silence feels violent. Your phone nearly flies out of your hand, your heart lurches with it, but a reflexive grip saves it at the last second, knuckles whitening.
“Sh—” you start, already ready to snap, heat rising fast behind your ribs like a match struck, then you look up. And up. And, oh. Park Sunghoon stands in front of you like a brick wall someone sculpted shoulders onto and then forgot to add mercy.
He’s fresh from football practice, and it shows in every infuriating detail. Black hair damp with sweat, pushed back messily with careless fingers like he didn’t bother finding a mirror, or didn’t care to. Strands stick to his forehead in dark, rebellious pieces. A gray duffel bag hangs from one shoulder, heavy enough to pull the fabric of his white practice shirt taut across his chest, outlining muscle that shifts subtly when he breathes. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, forearms corded and glistening faintly. His jaw is set, lips pressed into a thin line that suggests he was already in a bad mood long before you existed in his path.
He smells like effort. Like heat radiating off skin, clean cotton soaked through, the sharp bite of cedarwood body wash undercut by something rawer, adrenaline, maybe, or just the particular scent of someone who’s spent two hours running drills until their lungs burned. You’ve seen him before, obviously. Everyone has. Football captain since sophomore year. Campus golden boy who somehow manages to look bored even when he’s breaking records. Untouchable in the way men who’ve never been told no often are, girls stare, guys want to be him or hate him, professors give him extensions without asking. But seeing him this close is different.
Too close. His gaze flicks down to you, cool and assessing, dark eyes scanning your face like he’s already decided something and is just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. There’s a flicker of irritation there, brief, tightly controlled, before it smooths out into something unreadable. Almost bored. Almost. Silence stretches, thick and deliberate.
You straighten immediately, spine snapping into place, chin lifting on instinct. If he thinks for even a second that you’re going to apologize like you ran into him, “Watch it,” he says flatly, voice low, edged with the kind of exhaustion that comes from pushing your body past its limits and still having to deal with people afterward.
You blink once. Then smile. Not sweet. Not apologetic. Sharp. Polished. The kind of smile you use right before you dismantle someone with words so clean they don’t even bleed until later. “Maybe don’t walk like the hallway owes you space,” you shoot back, slipping your remaining earbud the rest of the way out and letting it dangle from the cord. “It’s a public university, not a runway.”
A couple of people nearby very obviously slow down, phones half-raised like they’re waiting for the next viral moment. Someone whispers your name, your byline, really, like it’s a spell.
Sunghoon’s eyebrow twitches. Just once. The smallest crack in the armor. Like he didn’t expect that. Like he expected contrition, or at least a stammer. His eyes drop briefly, to the phone still clutched in your hand, screen still glowing with unread notifications, to the way you’re standing your ground without even realizing how deliberate it looks, before returning to your face. Something shifts. Not softer. Sharper. Interested, maybe. Curious in the way predators sometimes are when prey doesn’t run.
“Didn’t realize bumping into people was part of your editorial process,” he says coolly, voice carrying just enough to make sure the eavesdroppers catch every syllable. Ah. So he knows. Of course he does. You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because the timing is impeccable, almost cinematic. You glance around exaggeratedly, like you’re searching for hidden cameras, then look back up at him with mock innocence. “Wow,” you say, drawing the word out. “You read it. I’m flattered. Truly.”
“I didn’t say I read it.”
“You didn’t have to.” Your eyes flick to his face pointedly, lingering on the tight set of his mouth, the faint flush high on his cheekbones that could be leftover from practice or something else entirely. “Men who haven’t read it don’t look this personally offended.” That earns you a reaction. Not a smile. God, no. But the corner of his mouth tugs upward, barely there, like a secret he hasn’t decided to share yet. His grip tightens on the strap of the duffel bag; the muscles in his forearm flex under tan skin.
You hate that you notice. Hate that your pulse skips once, traitorously. “Careful,” he says then, voice dipping just enough to make it feel private despite the growing semicircle of onlookers pretending to tie shoelaces or check nonexistent texts. “You’ve got a reputation now.”
“Oh, I had one before,” you reply easily, tilting your head so your hair falls over one shoulder. “People are just paying attention this time.” His gaze holds yours for a long second. Too long. There’s a strange weight to it, like he’s measuring something, testing balance, pressure, the exact distance between insult and invitation.
You feel it then. That tiny, traitorous flutter low in your stomach. Annoying. Inconvenient. Completely unacceptable. He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re a puzzle he didn’t expect to enjoy solving. When he speaks again, his tone has changed. Lighter. Almost amused, though the amusement feels edged with something darker.
“Still might want to be careful,” he says.
You arch a brow, slow and deliberate. “Is that a threat?”
“No,” he says, and then, there it is. That shift. That unmistakable change in energy, like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes. His voice drops, smooth as sin, quiet enough that only you can hear the next part. “Advice.” He steps closer. Just one step. Barely anything. But the hallway suddenly feels smaller, like the walls have leaned in to listen, like gravity has tilted toward him. You’re acutely aware of the height difference now, how you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes, how his presence eclipses the fluorescent light overhead, casting you in soft shadow. You refuse to move. Refuse to give him even that small victory. He leans down just enough that his breath brushes your temple, warm and faintly mint-scented from whatever gum he chews during cooldowns.
“Who knows,” he murmurs, lips curving into something dangerous, private, devastating. “Maybe yours truly will write another article about me.” He winks. Actually winks, one slow, deliberate drop of those stupidly long lashes. Then he straightens, already moving past you like this interaction was nothing more than a footnote in his day. The duffel bag shifts against his shoulder with the motion. His steps are unhurried. Confident. Untouched. He doesn’t look back.
You stand there, frozen for half a heartbeat longer than you’d ever admit, heart doing something stupid and arrhythmic in your chest. Irritation and adrenaline tangle into something hotter, something that feels suspiciously like excitement. You hate that it worked. Hate that your fingers tighten around your phone until the case creaks.
Hate that your mind is already racing, not with insults or comebacks or the perfect tweet to clap back later, but with possibilities. With the way his voice dropped when he said advice. With the way his eyes lingered on your mouth for one second too many before he walked away. The whispers start up again behind you, louder now, phones clicking as people capture the aftermath like it’s evidence.
You exhale slowly through your nose, force your shoulders down, force your expression back into cool indifference. But your pulse won’t settle. Down the hall, around the next corner where no one can see, Park Sunghoon lets the smallest, most private smile curve his lips. He adjusts the strap of his bag, feels the ache in his quads from sprints, feels something else entirely, a spark, a challenge, a game he didn’t know he wanted to play until right now.
He already knows your next article won’t be the last. And he’s already certain this was never going to be just an article. Sunghoon doesn’t look back when he leaves you in the hallway. He keeps walking like nothing happened, like his pulse didn’t spike the second your shoulder hit his chest, like your voice isn’t still lodged somewhere under his skin, sharp and bright and irritating in a way he can’t quite shake. Like the way you lifted your chin and smiled that razor-edged smile didn’t just rewrite the rest of his afternoon.
The double doors to the athletic complex swing shut behind him with a heavy pneumatic sigh. The corridor noise fades, whispers, footsteps, the faint echo of your laugh still ringing in his ears, replaced by the familiar roar of the locker room. It hits him like a wall of sound and smell the moment he pushes through.
Metal lockers slamming in rapid-fire succession. Laughter ricocheting off the white-tiled walls like loose change. Someone’s blasting a drill playlist from a cracked iPhone propped on a bench, probably Heeseung’s, because only he still thinks 2010s trap is motivational, bass rattling through the benches, vibrating up through Sunghoon’s cleats. The air is thick, humid, heavy with the unmistakable cocktail of fresh sweat, old sweat, Axe body spray someone over-applied, and the sharp chemical bite of disinfectant that never quite wins against the funk.
It’s chaos. Controlled chaos. His territory. He drops his duffel bag onto the floor with a dull, satisfying thud that cuts through the noise for half a second. Rolls his shoulders once, twice, loosening the knots still pulled tight from two hours of sprints, suicides, and Coach screaming about footwork like they’re prepping for the goddamn Super Bowl instead of a mid-season conference game against a team.
Normally, this is where his mind settles. Replays the film in his head: that missed block on third-and-long, the way Ni-ki over-pursued on the edge, how Jay’s route-running looked lazy in the red zone. He catalogs mistakes, files them away, moves on. Captain shit.
Today, it doesn’t settle. His brain keeps rewinding to the hallway. To you. To the way your earbud cord dangled like you couldn’t be bothered to fix it while you dismantled him with six words. To the way your eyes didn’t flicker when he stepped closer. To the way your perfume, something clean and citrusy and annoyingly memorable, cut through the post-practice haze like a blade.
“Yo, Captain’s late,” Jake calls from across the room, grin splitting his face so wide it looks painful. He’s already half-dressed, towel slung low around his hips, hair dripping onto the bench. “Thought you got lost in the media building or some shit.”
Sunghoon doesn’t answer. He reaches for his locker, number 17, bottom row because he’s never been one for theatrics, spins the dial with the same precise flick he’s used since freshman year. 14-32-7. Click. Another voice pipes up. Louder. Way too amused. “More like Captain got distracted.” That gets his attention. He glances over his shoulder slowly, expression flat, eyes narrowed just enough to make the room feel ten degrees colder. “Say it,” he says, voice low and even. “Whatever it is you think you’re being subtle about.”
The room erupts. Whistles. Hoots. Someone, probably Jungwon, does an exaggerated wink so dramatic he nearly falls off the bench. Phones are already out, group chat notifications pinging like popcorn. “Hallway,” Jake says, not even trying to hide the shit-eating grin. He leans forward, elbows on knees. “You and the school editor. Full rom-com collision. We all saw the stories.”
Sunghoon freezes for half a second. Not outwardly. Not enough for anyone to screenshot and meme later. But inside, something sharp twists, annoyance, mostly. The fact that they noticed. The fact that the entire east wing probably has shaky vertical videos of the moment by now. The fact that he noticed how your lips curved when you fired back. “I didn’t know you were into journalism now,” Jay adds from his locker two down, pulling on a hoodie. His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp, watching. “Thought your type was… quieter. Less likely to write think pieces about your entire personality.”
Sunghoon shuts his locker a little harder than necessary. The metallic bang echoes. “She ran into me,” he says coolly, like that closes the subject. “Sure,” Ni-ki snorts, lobbing a balled-up sock in Sunghoon’s direction. It bounces off his shoulder. “Looked more like you ran into *trouble*. She didn’t even flinch, bro. Just smiled like she was about to drop another article titled ‘Why Football Captains Should Stay in Their Lane.’”
Laughter explodes again, louder, rowdier. Someone mimics your tone perfectly, throwing out a fake sarcastic line that’s uncomfortably close to what you actually said: “Maybe don’t walk like the hallway owes you space.” The room loses it. Sunghoon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. He shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t. He hates gossip. Hates how fast it spreads on this campus, like wildfire through dry grass. Hates how people take one thirty-second interaction and turn it into campus lore by dinner. He’s spent four years keeping his name clean, his image disciplined. Captain. Leader. Untouchable. The guy who shows up early, leaves late, wins games, and doesn’t give anyone ammunition. And yet.
The article flashes in his mind uninvited. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days: A Campus Guide to Dodging the Golden Boy Trap. He hadn’t planned on reading it. Hadn’t wanted to. But the link was everywhere, pushed into the team group chat at 11:52 a.m., screenshotted in the defensive line’s Snapchat, joked about between sets on the squat rack like it was harmless banter.
He read it anyway. Not all of it. Skimmed. Enough. Enough to recognize the voice behind the words. Sharp. Calculated. Funny in a way that cut without drawing blood right away. The kind of writing that didn’t beg to be liked, it dared you to keep up, and then laughed when you couldn’t. It dissected the archetype, the charming, talented, slightly arrogant athlete who gets everything handed to him, and pinned it to the board like a butterfly.
It shouldn’t have bothered him. But it did. Because it wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t sloppy. It was intentional. Confident. And worse, it assumed something about men like him that hit a little too close to home. That they expect adoration. That they crumble when challenged. That they never see the trap coming.
“You should’ve seen his face when she clapped back,” Heeseung says now, snapping him back to the present. He’s leaning against a locker, arms crossed, smirking. “She didn’t even blink. Just hit him with that editor stare, like she’s already drafting the follow-up in her head.” “That girl’s got teeth,” Jake adds, shaking his head in mock awe. “Campus is eating it up. Twitter’s on fire. Someone already made a thread called ‘Sunghoon vs. The Pen: Round 1.’”
Sunghoon finally turns fully, eyes sweeping the room in one slow arc. The laughter falters, not because he looks angry, exactly, but because he looks… thoughtful. Dangerous. “Everyone’s eating it up,” Jay says carefully, quieter now. He zips his bag. “You good, man?” Sunghoon considers the question. He thinks of the way you didn’t back down an inch. The way your smile was a weapon, not a shield. The way that last exchange felt less like banter and more like the opening move in something bigger. The way your eyes held his for that extra second, like you were daring him to make the next play.
He huffs a quiet laugh before he can stop himself. It’s low, almost private, but the room hears it anyway. Everything goes silent. “That bad?” Ni-ki asks, eyebrows raised. Sunghoon reaches for his water bottle, black Hydro Flask with the team logo scratched off from too many drops—takes a slow drink, eyes fixed somewhere past the wall like he’s seeing something no one else can. When he lowers it, his voice is calm. Steady. Almost conversational. “She thinks she’s in control,” he says. A beat. The room leans in.
“And?” Jake presses, grin widening like he already knows what’s coming. Sunghoon sets the bottle down with deliberate care. “If she’s trying to lose a guy in ten days,” he says, evenly, like he’s stating tomorrow’s practice schedule instead of lighting a match in a room full of gasoline, “I’ll make her fall for me in five.” Silence crashes into the locker room like someone cut the music. Then, explosion.
“What?!”
“No fucking way.”
“Captain, you’re insane.”
“That’s the school editor. The one who writes the tea. She’ll bury you.”
“That’s straight-up suicide, bro.”
“Bro said five days like it’s a warm-up drill.”
Sunghoon just shrugs, unbothered, already turning back to his locker. He pulls out a clean black hoodie, movements smooth, unhurried. Like this decision doesn’t feel seismic. Like it isn’t already rearranging something inside his chest, pride, curiosity, a flicker of something hotter he refuses to name yet. “Bet?” Riki asks, half-laughing, half-serious, eyes gleaming with chaos.
Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. “Bet.” The word lands heavy. Not about money. Not about bragging rights. Not even about proving his teammates wrong, though they’ll never let him live it down if he fails. It’s about pride. About someone daring to write a narrative that doesn’t include him as the hero, or even the villain, really. Just a trope to be dissected and discarded. About assuming he’d react the way everyone else does: defensive, loud, predictable.
He won’t. He pulls the hoodie over his head, fabric catching briefly on damp hair. The laughter resumes behind him, louder now, charged with anticipation. Plans are already being made. Timelines guessed. Odds debated in the group that’s blowing up faster than post-game memes. “Day one: eye contact in the quad,” Jake announces like he’s commentating a fight.
“Day two: ‘accidental’ coffee run,” Ni-ki adds.
“Day three: she blocks him on everything,” Jay predicts, laughing. Sunghoon tunes it out. He zips his bag, slings it over one shoulder. All he can see is you in that hallway, chin lifted, eyes sharp, completely unaware that you just painted a target on your own back. Five days. He smiles to himself, just barely, small, private, dangerous.
This is going to be interesting. He pushes out of the locker room, the door swinging shut on the chaos behind him. The hallway is quieter now. Empty. But he can still feel the echo of your voice. Game on. The library is supposed to be quiet. That’s the lie everyone agrees to uphold, the one printed in pastel posters above the turnstiles and whispered by every RA during orientation like gospel. In reality, it’s just a different kind of loud, pages snapping shut like gunshots, chairs scraping tile with the violence of someone who’s failed three midterms, the soft but aggressive machine-gun tapping of keyboards as students pretend they’re annotating Foucault instead of doomscrolling the fallout of your article in real time.
You sit at one of the long oak tables near the back stacks, the ones nobody claims because the overhead lights flicker like they’re possessed. Posture perfect. Legs crossed beneath the chair like you’re posing for a Vogue spread. Reading glasses perched on your nose, clear frames, slightly oversized, the kind that scream “I could destroy your GPA and your ego in the same breath.” Highlighter uncapped. Notes aligned with military precision. Pen poised like a scalpel.
The picture of composure. If anyone were watching closely,and they are, they might notice the way your jaw tightens every time a group two tables over whispers your name too loudly. Or the way your phone stays face-down on the wood, vibrating intermittently like a trapped hornet begging to be crushed. You ignore all of it. You’re mid-sentence in something dense and academic and blissfully unrelated to modern dating warfare, some Foucault-adjacent drivel about power structures in institutional discourse, when the air changes.
You don’t hear him approach. You feel him. A shadow falls across your open book. Large. Intentional. Blocking the sickly fluorescent light just enough to make the words blur. The scent follows, clean sweat, cedarwood cologne, the faint metallic bite of adrenaline that clings to athletes like second skin. Completely out of place among old paper and recycled HVAC air.
You sigh without looking up, turning a page with exaggerated slowness. “If you’re here to ask me to take it down,” you say calmly, eyes still scanning the text, “the answer is no. Save your breath. And your ego.” Silence. Heavy. Pressed close. The kind that makes the hairs on your neck stand up. Then,“Bold of you to assume I’d ask for anything.” You freeze. You’d recognize that voice in a blackout now. Low. Controlled. Annoyingly steady, like he’s narrating his own highlight reel.
Slowly, deliberately, you lift your gaze. Park Sunghoon stands there like he personally requisitioned the entire fifth floor. Backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. Sleeves of his black compression shirt rolled up just enough to show forearms still corded and veined from whatever sadistic circuit Coach ran today. Expression unreadable, but his eyes, dark, focused, locked on you like you’re the only thing in the building worth seeing.
The football captain in a library feels like a felony. You tilt your head, letting your lips curve just enough to be dangerous. “Ah,” you drawl. “If it isn’t my favorite demographic. Come to mansplain why men aren’t the problem?” A muscle in his jaw ticks, once, sharp.
“You turned dating into a game,” he says flatly. No preamble. No polite buffer. You blink at him through your glasses. Once. Twice. Slow. “And men turned relationships into a joke long before I put pen to paper,” you reply, voice velvet over steel. “Guess we’re even. Or are we keeping score already?” A couple of students at the next table glance over, phones half-raised like they’re waiting for the live-tweet moment. You don’t care. Let them watch.
Sunghoon steps closer. One step. Then another. He stops directly in front of your chair, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep eye contact. He braces one hand on the table beside your notes. The wood creaks under the pressure of his palm. You can see everything now, every ridge of muscle shifting under his shirt, the way his abs tense when he leans in, controlled and deliberate and infuriatingly calculated.
“People are laughing at me,” he says. Quiet. Dangerous. “You like that?” You lean forward just enough to close another inch of space. “I like accuracy,” you shoot back. “If they see themselves in it, if you see yourself in it, that’s not my fault. That’s physics. Cause. Effect. Mirror.” His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. Quick. Intentional.
“Men aren’t lab rats,” he says. Your smile widens. Sharper. Brighter. “Men deserve to be studied,” you counter. “Extensively. With citations.” That does it. Something in his expression finally cracks, not anger, exactly. Not amusement. Something vicious and glittering in between. A smirk ghosts across his lips, slow and knowing, like he’s already three moves ahead.
“Then study me.” Your breath catches, just for a second. You hate that he notices. Before you can fire back, he reaches out. Two fingers. Light. Precise. He hooks them under the bridge of your reading glasses and lifts them off your face like he’s removing a crown he never asked permission to touch. Like this isn’t wildly inappropriate in the middle of a public library. Like you won’t drive your highlighter through his hand for it.
Your breath stutters. Audibly. You hate that even more. The world sharpens without the lenses, his face suddenly closer, too close. You can count every individual eyelash now. See the faint white scar slicing through the tail of his left brow. The steady, infuriating calm in eyes that should be furious but look… hungry. He sets the glasses down on the table beside your notes with deliberate care. Almost gentle. Mocking.
“You don’t get to hide behind words,” he murmurs, voice so low it vibrates against your skin, “when you start a fire like that. Not with me.” You stand abruptly. Chair scraping loud enough to earn three shushes from nearby tables. Now you’re face to face. Chest to chest. Height difference glaring, you have to look up, but you make it look like you’re doing him a favor. You refuse to step back. “Careful,” you say quietly, sweetly. “Libraries are full of witnesses. And I have a very good memory.”
“I’m counting on it,” he replies. No hesitation. His hand moves, fast, gripping the edge of the table beside your hip, caging you in without touching you. The proximity is suffocating. Intimate. You can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, smell the faint mint on his breath. “This whole thing,” he continues, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “you think you’re in control.” You scoff, soft, dangerous. “I am in control.”
“Then prove it.” The challenge hangs between you like a live wire, humming. “What do you want, Sunghoon?” you ask, using his name like a blade for the first time. It feels good. Sharp. His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t blink. “A deal.” Your laugh is breathless, incredulous. “I don’t make deals with men who think intimidation passes for personality.”He leans in, slow, deliberate, until his lips are near your ear, breath warm against the shell. “Good,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you comfortable.”
You swallow. Against every screaming instinct, you say, “Talk.” He straightens just enough to meet your eyes again. “You need a subject for your next piece,” he says. “Someone willing. Someone visible. Someone who won’t fold after day three like the rest of them.” Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. “And you need?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“To prove you wrong.” He pauses. Lets it sink in. “Completely.” The silence stretches. The library seems to hold its breath with you. You consider him. The discipline in every line of his body. The arrogance that’s earned, not assumed. The undeniable, maddening appeal of turning the campus golden boy into your personal experiment, the one variable that thinks he can rewrite the hypothesis.
“Publicly,” you say slowly, testing the words, “we’re dating.” He nods once. Sharp. “Privately,” you continue, leaning in until your lips are a breath from his jaw, “this is a war.” A real smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, small, vicious, thrilled. “Deal.” You extend your hand between you. He takes it. The handshake is brutal. Fingers locking. Grip crushing. Both of you refusing to yield even a millimeter. Your knuckles ache white-hot. His doesn’t show it, but his eyes flicker, dark and impressed and something dangerously close to respect.
You lean in closer, close enough that only he can hear the poison wrapped in silk. “I will ruin you,” you whisper sweetly. “I will take you apart piece by piece and publish every shard. And you’ll thank me for it.” He squeezes harder, enough that you feel it in your bones. “I’m counting on it,” he murmurs back. “And when I win, when you’re the one begging, I’ll make sure the whole campus knows exactly how loud you scream my name.”
You release each other at the same time. Palms stinging. Hearts hammering. The overhead lights flicker once, like the building itself just felt the shift. Somewhere in the distance, the end-of-hour bell rings. Students exhale. Books snap shut. The world resumes its pretending. And just like that, the experiment begins. You sit back down. Pick up your glasses. Slide them on slowly, like armor re-donned. Sunghoon doesn’t move. Just watches you with that same unreadable intensity.
“Day one starts now,” he says quietly. You meet his eyes over the rim of your frames. “Try not to cry too early.” He smirks, full, devastating. “Try not to fall too fast.” Then he turns. Walks away. Doesn’t look back. You watch him go. Your pen is still in your hand. But for the first time in weeks, you don’t write anything down. Because some things are better left unwritten. Until they’re screaming.
Ten days. That’s what you agree on. Not because ten is symbolic, or neat, or poetic in some rom-com way that would make you gag. Not because it matches the title of the piece you’re already mentally drafting. But because Sunghoon says it like it’s already written in stone, like anything longer would be indulgent, like anything shorter wouldn’t give him enough time to watch you unravel thread by thread.
You’re standing just outside the lecture hall in the narrow corridor that always smells faintly of stale coffee and desperation, backpacks brushing, bodies angled too close for people who supposedly can’t stand the sight of each other. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like they’re judging you both. A group of freshmen scurries past, eyes wide, already pulling out phones like this is live content.
Sunghoon’s voice drops so low it feels like a private secret being pressed directly into your ear, warm breath ghosting the shell. “Ten days,” he says. “You get your article. I get the truth.” You scoff, sharp, immediate, chin tilting up so you’re looking down your nose at him even though you have to crane your neck. “The truth about what, exactly?” His eyes flick down, deliberately, slowly, tracing the line of your throat, the dip of your collarbone where your shirt gapes just enough, then dragging back up to lock on your face like he’s cataloging every micro-expression.
“About how much of this—” he gestures between you with a lazy flick of his wrist, “—is an act. And how long it takes before you crack first.” You don’t hesitate. You never do. “Please,” you drawl, letting the word drip with mockery. “Men crack first. Always. It’s practically biological. Testosterone makes you impulsive. You’ll fold by day four, tops. I’ll have receipts.” That’s when he smiles.
Not wide. Not warm. Just sharp enough to be dangerous, the kind of smile that belongs in crime documentaries right before the twist. The handshake that seals it is violent. Not playful. Not teasing. It’s fingers lacing tight, palms grinding together like you’re both trying to assert dominance through bone and pressure alone. You swear he squeezes harder when he feels your grip doesn’t falter, when your nails dig half-moon crescents into the back of his hand and you don’t blink. Your knuckles ache white-hot. Your pulse jumps traitorously against his thumb where it presses over your wrist.
For a split second, neither of you lets go. You’re both breathing a little harder than the moment warrants. Then he releases you first. You make a mental note of it, file it under advantage: you. The rules are simple, laid out like landmines between you while the hallway slowly empties around the two of you. You write the article in real time. Each day, a new “strategy” from the original playbook, updated, weaponized, personalized. Each day, he participates. Fully. No half-assing. Publicly, you’re dating, affectionate in public, disgustingly couple-coded, the kind of PDA that makes people screenshot and send to group chats.
Privately, nothing is off-limits except actual confession. No “I love you.” No “this feels real.” No drunk 3 a.m. texts that cross the line. No backing out, no matter how vicious it gets. And most importantly, your non-negotiable condition, he doesn’t read the updates until they go live. Sunghoon agrees anyway. Shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he’s not handing you the detonator to his own ego. “Fine,” he says. “I like surprises.”
You hate how much that pisses you off. The day he cornered you in the library, the day you “date,” the campus notices immediately. Because Park Sunghoon does nothing quietly. He shows up after your last class, Media Ethics, third floor, the one that always runs ten minutes over because the professor loves hearing himself talk, like he owns the building. Football jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the locker room shower, dark strands sticking to his forehead in that effortlessly devastating way. Jaw set in that infuriating line that makes people straighten their posture without realizing why.
Your friends, clustered near the stairwell like they’re waiting for the after-lecture debrief, go dead silent the second they clock him. Sunoo’s eyes go comically wide. “Is that—” Keeho gasps, actually gasps, like this is a soap opera reveal. Someone else whispers your name like a warning shot. Sunghoon doesn’t break stride. He walks straight through the scattering crowd like they’re background extras and stops directly in front of you.
“Ready?” he asks, voice casual, like this is something you’ve done a hundred times before. You raise an eyebrow, slow and deliberate. “For?” He doesn’t answer with words. He just steps in, close, too close, hands sliding to your waist with the kind of firm, practiced confidence that screams I’ve done this before and I know exactly how it lands. Then he lifts you.
Not bridal. Not gentle. Not cute. He hoists you up just enough that your feet leave the floor in a clean, controlled motion, your breath stutters out of you in a shocked little sound you immediately hate yourself for making, and suddenly you’re eye-level with him, nose to nose, mouth to mouth if either of you moved a fraction of an inch. The hallway erupts. Wolf whistles slice through the air. Shouts. Laughter. Someone, probably a frat guy two doors down, yells something absolutely obscene about the football captain finally getting ruined by the school editor. Phones are out everywhere, vertical videos already rolling, flash on, no shame.
You feel it all like heat pressing against your skin, but Sunghoon blocks it out effortlessly. His focus never leaves your face. Not once. His mouth doesn’t go for your cheek. Doesn’t go for your lips. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the sharp line of your jaw instead. It lingers. Just long enough to feel obscene. Just close enough to the corner of your mouth that it feels like a threat wrapped in velvet. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket before you can stop them, gripping hard, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his collarbone through the open zipper. Your nails dig in just enough to leave crescent marks he’ll see later in the mirror.
His lips brush skin like a promise he has no intention of keeping, slow drag, faint exhale, the barest graze of teeth. When he finally sets you down, his mouth is right by your ear, voice so low only you can hear it over the chaos. “Smile,” he murmurs. “They’re watching.” You do. God help you, you do. It’s sharp. Polished. The same smile you use when you know you’ve already won the room. But underneath it, your pulse is hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it where his thumb still rests against your waist.
He steps back, slow, deliberate, gives the crowd a lazy once-over like he’s daring anyone to say something. No one does. Then he walks you out. Hand low on your back. Possessive. Public. Perfect. That night, the article updates. It goes live at 11:47 p.m., the exact time stamp of your original piece, because you’re nothing if not theatrical. People refresh like it’s oxygen.
PING!
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
An Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
Spoiler: sometimes, the guy volunteers.
Today’s update is simple. Brutal. Delicious.
Yours truly has found herself a boyfriend!
No details. No names. Just one carefully cropped photo, taken from behind by a very cooperative friend (thank you Manon) who was hiding behind a pillar, showing the unmistakable navy sleeve of a football jacket, broad shoulders filling the frame, and your hand fisted in the fabric like you’re holding on for dear life.
The caption beneath it reads:
Day 0: Acquisition phase complete. Let the games begin.
The comments explode within minutes.
“WAIT IS THIS ABOUT SUNGHOON???”
“no way she actually bagged him”
“this is either the best revenge arc or the messiest situationship of the semester”
“he’s cooked bro”
“she’s gonna eat him alive and we’re all invited”
Sunghoon doesn’t read it yet. He’s probably in the athletic center weight room or sprawled on his bed scrolling through play breakdowns, completely oblivious to the digital fire you just lit under his name. But you know. You know he’ll see it tomorrow morning, probably over black coffee and pre-practice film, right before the group chat starts blowing up with screenshots and laughing emojis. Tomorrow? Tomorrow is Day One.
And neither of you is planning to lose. You close your laptop. Smile at the dark screen. And whisper to the empty room, “Game on, golden boy.”
Sunghoon doesn’t look back. That’s the first rule. You don’t look back after a move like that. Not when the entire point is dominance, optics, control, narrative. Still, the feeling follows him. It starts at the base of his spine, a heat that doesn’t belong to post-practice adrenaline. It crawls upward, slow and invasive, like something claiming territory. The hallway behind him is chaos, voices overlapping, laughter ricocheting off concrete walls, someone shouting his name like it’s a punchline.
His. Yours. Paired together. He keeps walking. He shouldn’t feel anything. That was the point. A calculated move. Controlled. Clean. He lifted you because he knew the cameras would eat it alive. Kissed your jaw because it was intimate enough to sell the lie, distant enough to keep the upper hand. Not your lips. Never your lips.
Except, you grabbed his jacket. Not reflexively. Not shy. Not surprised. You grabbed it like you expected him to stay. Like the story wasn’t over yet. That’s the part that won’t let go. By the time he reaches the locker room, the rush is gone, burned off too fast, leaving something sharper behind. The door slams shut with a metallic echo, lockers rattling like they felt it too. The noise follows him in, teammates talking over each other, grinning, already spinning it into legend.
“Captain’s got game now?”
“School editor? Bro, you’re finished.”
“Did you see her face—”
He drops his duffel onto the bench harder than necessary. The sound cuts through them, but only for half a second. “Shut up.” They don’t. Someone makes an exaggerated kissing noise. Someone else laughs too loud, trying to provoke him. Jay leans against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes sharp in a way that says I saw something.
“So,” Jay says casually, too casually. “Is she as scary up close as everyone says?” Sunghoon reaches for his water bottle. His hands are steady, annoyingly so. He twists the cap like this is just another night, another practice, another rumor he’ll outlast. “She’s not scary.” The room quiets just a fraction. He takes a long drink before finishing the thought. “She’s calculated.”
That lands. Because Sunghoon doesn’t talk about people like that unless they matter. Unless they’re a threat. Or an equal. Someone whistles low. Another mutters, “Damn.” His mind betrays him then, replaying the moment with cruel precision. Your chin tilted just enough, not submissive, not defiant. The way your smile didn’t flicker even with a hundred eyes burning into you. The way you didn’t blush or pull away or try to soften it with a laugh. You met him. Worse, you enjoyed it. Sunghoon exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. That’s when the realization hits, sharp and unwelcome. You didn’t lose control. You let him think he had it.
The kiss wasn’t the problem. The lift wasn’t the problem. The whispers, the rumors, the inevitable fallout, that was all manageable. The problem was the moment after. When he pulled away. When he set you down. When he expected relief, distance, detachment, the clean satisfaction of a move well-played, and felt none of it. Instead, there was the urge. Sudden. Reckless. To do it again. Jake whistles. “Yo, Sunghoon, don’t tell me you’re already whipped.”
The word irritates him more than it should. He bends forward, unlacing his cleats with slow precision, giving himself a second to clamp down on the impulse crawling up his throat. The line leaves him anyway. Not planned. Not rehearsed. Pure instinct, pride snapping into place like armor. “If she’s trying to lose me,” he says calmly, not looking up, “I’ll lose her first.”
Silence. Then absolute chaos.
“You’re insane.”
“Put money on it, right now—”
Sunghoon finally straightens, tossing one cleat aside. His expression is unreadable, carved into that familiar, untouchable calm that made him captain in the first place. But inside? Something is already shifting. Because somewhere between the hallway and this bench, he’s realized something else too. This isn’t just a bet. This isn’t just reputation management. This isn’t about winning. It’s a challenge. And the way your fingers curled into his jacket, tight, intentional, like you were anchoring him there for half a second longer than necessary? That wasn’t fear. That was interest.
His phone buzzes in his locker. Once. Then again. He doesn’t check it. He already knows. Sunghoon smiles to himself, small, controlled, dangerous. Yeah. He underestimated you. And for the first time in a long time, he’s not just prepared to lose control. He wants to see what happens when he does.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Decelis University.The field is the campus. The crowd is feral. And tonight’s matchup?
Park Sunghoon vs. Yours Truly.Ten days on the clock. Egos on the line. Loser falls first. Whistle blown.
Live from Decelis University, folks, strap in.
The campus wakes up to a notification like it’s kickoff night. Not a gentle buzz. Not a casual ping. A collective one.
PING!
How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
The group chats explode first. Dorm halls echo with laughter. Someone reads the title out loud in the cafeteria and nearly drops their tray. And then:
DAY 1: CLINGY OVERLOAD
Men love independence. So naturally, today we do the opposite. Text constantly. Appear unannounced. Make his personal space a shared resource. If he survives Day One, congratulations, you’ve found a keeper. Or a fool.
— Yours truly, xoxo
If this were a match, the crowd would already be roaring. You read it once. Twice. Then you lock your phone and grin, slow and satisfied, stretching your arms over your head like you’re warming up before the real work begins. Because this isn’t theory anymore. This is application. Sunghoon said study me. You intend to annotate.
8:03 a.m.
You text him.
You: Good morning :) Did you sleep well?
You don’t wait. Waiting implies doubt.
8:05 a.m.
Sunghoon: Did you dream about me or is that too much for Day One? lol
You picture him reading it, jaw tight, shoulders already braced like he’s about to take a hit. The thought makes you bite back a laugh in the middle of your lecture.
8:07 a.m.
You: I had a dream about you. You were less grumpy.
You stop there. Not because you’re out of ideas, but because restraint is part of the game. You want him checking his phone, wondering when the next one’s coming. Five minutes later, it buzzes.
Sunghoon: Don’t you have class?
You hum quietly to yourself. Deflection. Control attempt. A man pretending this isn’t getting under his skin. You reply instantly.
You: I do. But multitasking is hot.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. Oh, that’s good.
Sunghoon: You’re doing this on purpose.
You don’t even hesitate.
You: Always.
You put your phone away like you haven’t already won the exchange, like your pulse hasn’t picked up just a fraction. Scoreboard in your head updates.
You: 1Sunghoon: 0
By noon, half the campus knows you’re “dating.” By one, people are whispering your name like it’s part of a headline. By three, you’re standing at the edge of the football field with an iced coffee in one hand and your bag slung over your shoulder, casual, comfortable, unmistakably present. Practice is chaos. Whistles slicing through the air. Shouts. Pads colliding. The sharp rhythm of discipline and aggression. You spot him instantly. Park Sunghoon, center of gravity, movements precise, expression locked down like a fortress. He looks untouchable out there. He notices you when he turns to grab his helmet. He freezes.
Not enough for anyone else to see. Just a fraction of a second, shoulders tightening, focus flickering like a bad signal. You lift your hand and wave. Bright. Cheerful. Almost domestic. He groans. You hear it from here. You walk closer, every step deliberate, ignoring the stares, the murmurs, the is she serious? energy crackling around you. His teammates are already clocking it, nudging each other, grinning like they’ve just been handed front-row seats.
You stop at the barrier. “Hi,” you say warmly. “I brought you coffee.”
“I didn’t ask for—”
“You didn’t say no either,” you cut in sweetly, holding it out. “Oat milk. No sugar. You look like you’d judge me if I got it wrong.”
Someone laughs outright. Sunghoon takes the cup. Your fingers brush. It shouldn’t matter. It does. For half a breath, his guard slips. His eyes drop to your hand like he’s registering the contact too late. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice low, careful.
You tilt your head, innocent. “Supporting my boyfriend?” The word lands heavy. Boyfriend. You watch it hit, how something dark flickers behind his eyes, how his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile he absolutely refuses to give you. “You’re enjoying this,” he says.
You lean in just enough for him to catch your perfume, just enough to make it personal. “Oh,” you murmur, “this is just the warm-up.” Coach shouts his name. Sunghoon steps back, reluctant despite himself, eyes lingering on you like he’s trying to decide whether you’re a distraction…
…or a challenge he’s already losing. You sit on the bleachers anyway. You cheer when he scores. Loud. Unapologetic. You call his name like it belongs to you. His teammates lose their minds, wolf whistles, hoots, someone yelling something about rings and registries. Sunghoon pretends not to hear. He does not pretend not to look. Every time his gaze finds you, you smile, calm, certain, like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
That night, you text him again.
You: You played really well today.
A pause. Then:
Sunghoon: You don’t have to come to every practice.
You reply instantly.
You: Of course I do. That’s what girlfriends do.
Three dots. Gone. Reappear.
Sunghoon: You’re impossible.
You grin, lethal, thumbs flying.
You: And yet, you haven’t told me to stop.
You set your phone down before he can respond, heart thudding a little louder than you’d like to admit. Across campus, Sunghoon stares at his screen longer than necessary. He tells himself it’s irritation. Disruption. Strategy fatigue. He tells himself you’re exactly as advertised, clingy, calculated, relentless.
So why does the locker room feel quieter without your voice? Why does he replay the way you said boyfriend like it wasn’t a joke at all? He locks his phone, exhales, presses his palms briefly to his face. Day One isn’t supposed to matter. Still, somewhere between the coffee, the cheering, and the texts that didn’t stop, the match clock starts ticking. And for the first time…Sunghoon isn’t entirely sure who’s leading.
END OF DAY ONEScorecard:You: 1Sunghoon: 1(He won’t admit it.)
That night, as you’re tossing and turning,plotting your next move, your phone lights up in the dark.
Sunghoon: Are you alive or plotting?
You smile into your pillow despite yourself.
You: Both. Multitasking, remember?
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Sunghoon: You didn’t write what tomorrow’s strategy is.
You roll onto your side, staring up at the ceiling like you’re considering mercy.
You: Where’s the fun in spoilers?
The pause stretches. Longer than last night. Long enough that you imagine him lying there, phone heavy in his hand, jaw clenched. Preferably shirtless.
Sunghoon: I don’t like surprises.
You type carefully. Slowly. Like each word is placed with intent.
You: That’s funny. You looked like you enjoyed yesterday’s.
Silence. Then, another notification.
Sunghoon: Get some sleep.
It shouldn’t sound gentle. It does.
You: Goodnight, captain.
You wait. He never corrects the pet name.
Sunghoon: Gnight ;)
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Decelis University, where pride meets pressure, reputations crack under fluorescent lights, and the audience is merciless.
The notification hits at breakfast. Not quietly. Not privately. Phones light up across tables. Someone gasps. Someone laughs too hard. Someone reads it aloud like a prophecy. PING!
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
An Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 2: PUBLIC EMBARRASSMENT
Privacy is a man’s comfort blanket. So today, we rip it away. Excessive affection. Infantilizing pet names. PDA so loud it echoes. If he blushes, you’re winning. If he smiles through it? Run.
— Yours truly, xoxo
You sip your coffee slowly, watching the campus react in real time. The whispers start immediately. Heads turn. Someone across the hall mouths that’s her like they’ve spotted a celebrity. You don’t correct them. Sunghoon comes prepared. That’s the first thing you clock. He’s crossing the main quad like it’s hostile territory, jacket immaculate, expression cool, posture sharp enough to cut. Jay and Jake flank him, Riki trailing with that dangerous grin like he knows something is about to go wrong. Sunghoon looks… braced. Ready. That should worry you. You tighten your grip on the coffee tray. Three tablespoons of sugar. Measured. Intentional. You step directly into his path.“Sunghoonie!” The name detonates. Jay coughs like he’s choking. Jake straight-up freezes. Riki makes a sound halfway between laughter and disbelief.
You smile sweetly, lashes lowered, eyes razor-sharp beneath it. You hand Sunghoon the cup with both hands like it’s ceremonial. “I got you coffee, baby,” you say brightly. “I know how much you love sweet things.” There’s a ripple through the crowd. Phones come up. Someone gasps like this is reality TV. Sunghoon looks down at the cup. Looks back at you. Then, he drinks. Winces. There it is. You log it instantly.
You: +1
But then, he smiles. Not tight. Not polite. Real. And before you can recalibrate, he bends down and presses a kiss to your cheek. Slow. Intentional. Warm enough that your brain blanks. “Thank you, baby,” he says easily, turning that smile on his friends. “You’re the best.” Your stomach drops. Your cheeks burn. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Jay stares like he’s witnessing betrayal. Jake lets out a low whistle. Riki actually laughs, delighted.
Sunghoon’s arm slides around your shoulders like it belongs there. Like it’s muscle memory. “Walk me to class?” he asks. You nod because speech has temporarily abandoned you. He doesn’t loosen his hold. If anything, he pulls you closer. Your shoulder fits too well against his side. His thumb traces absentminded circles against your arm, small, unconscious, devastating. The quad is silent in that way crowds get when something important is happening.
You retaliate. “That’s my good boy,” you coo softly, patting his chest. “Being so patient with me.”
Jay chokes on air. Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Anything for you,” he replies smoothly. “You know I’m sensitive.” Sensitive. Your lungs forget how to work. He glances down, voice dropping just for you. “You okay?” There it is. Not performative. Not loud. Concern.
You glare up at him, pulse tripping. He smiles back, smug, infuriating, entirely too aware. You lean into him anyway. “Of course I am,” you say sweetly. “I just love how affectionate you are. It’s very… reassuring.” His hand tightens briefly on your shoulder. “You bring it out in me.” That one lands sideways. Too honest. Too close to the bone.
By the time he drops you off outside your building, your head is spinning. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, almost reverent, and murmurs, “See you later, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. He walks away without looking back. You stand there, stunned, heart thundering like you lost track of the rules mid-play. You open your notes app immediately.
Scorecard — Day 2:
Public embarrassment: initiated.
Subject adaptation speed: alarming.
Counteroffensive via authentic affection.
You hesitate. Then add:
Possible vulnerability detected.Response appeared… unguarded.Further testing required.
Across campus, Sunghoon exhales, fingers brushing his lips like he’s grounding himself. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. And the worst part? He didn’t fake it. Did he?
END OF DAY TWOScorecard:You: 2Sunghoon: 2(The crowd can’t tell who’s bluffing anymore.)
Sunghoon reads the update with a towel draped around his neck, hair still damp, water tracing slow lines down his collarbone before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He shouldn’t be reading it like this. He tells himself that as he scrolls. Tells himself it’s reconnaissance. Film review. Pattern recognition. Knowing the enemy has always been his strength, anticipating moves before they happen, identifying pressure points, exploiting hesitation. This is no different.
Except it is. His thumb stills when he reaches the line about unexpected counteroffensive via affection. He exhales through his nose and looks up at his reflection in the locker room mirror like it personally betrayed him. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters. The mirror offers no defense. He looks the same. Calm. Composed. Captain carved out of discipline and routine. Same sharp eyes. Same posture that never slouches, even alone. But his jaw tightens anyway.
Because his body remembers before his pride does. The way you said Sunghoonie like you wanted him to hear it echo. The deliberate sweetness in your voice. The coffee, too sweet on purpose. The way you watched him drink it, already tallying the outcome like a win. And the worst part? He let you. No, worse than that. He enjoyed it.
Sunghoon drags the towel through his hair harder than necessary, the friction grounding and irritating all at once. He tosses it onto the bench and leans forward, bracing his hands on the sink, shoulders tense as he studies his own face like he’s searching for a fault line. This was supposed to be simple. A bet. A challenge. A controlled descent into your own trap. He was supposed to dismantle you slowly, with restraint, with patience. Let you exhaust your own rules. Let you blur the line between performance and reality until you forgot which side you were playing for.
Instead, he’s here. Heart beating faster than it should. Pulse loud in his ears. Actively replaying the way your breath hitched when he kissed your cheek. That part wasn’t strategy. That part was instinct. And that’s new. He straightens abruptly, irritation flaring hot and sharp. “Get it together,” he says aloud. The words echo off tile and metal, too loud in the empty room. And then, because today apparently exists solely to test him, his brain starts planning. Not reflexively. Not defensively. Intentionally. What if he shows up first tomorrow? What if he escalates before you can? What if he stops reacting and starts dictating? The idea settles in his chest with dangerous ease.
He imagines leaning into the clinginess, not mocking it, not resisting it, but weaponizing it. Turning it inside out. Being too attentive. Too present. The kind of affection that stops being funny and starts being… unsettling. Texting first. Waiting outside buildings. Remembering things he shouldn’t care enough to remember. The kind of behavior that makes people whisper he’s down bad instead of she’s doing too much.
His lips press together. Since when the fuck does he think like this? Sunghoon has never been the guy who rearranges his routine for someone else. Football first. Discipline above everything. Emotions filed neatly away where they can’t interfere. And yet, here he is. Standing in front of a mirror with half-dry hair and a restless pulse, wondering what you’ll try next like it’s Christmas Eve.
That realization unsettles him more than anything you’ve done so far. He reaches for his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. Stops. Control. Always control. The phone buzzes anyway. Not you. Jay.
Jongseong (DNI if you cherish your braincells): didn’t know you’d call a girl sweetheart in front of the entire quad, but okay
Sunghoon scoffs softly, the sound sharp and humorless. His reply is immediate.
Sunghoon: Shush. You literally cried for your girlfriend when she broke up with you over a meme.
Three seconds pass.
Jongseong (DNI if you cherish your braincells): that was a deeply emotional meme
He almost smiles. Almost. Then his phone buzzes again. This time, it’s you. Your name lights up his screen like a provocation.
You: be prepared tomorrow :D
Just that. No context. No strategy reveal. Just a smiley face that feels like a threat wrapped in sugar. Sunghoon stares at it longer than he should. Then he laughs. Quiet. Disbelieving. A single breath of sound that escapes before he can stop it, surprised not by you, but by himself.
“Oh, I fucking am,” he murmurs. He doesn’t reply. He locks the phone, slips it into his pocket, and lifts his gaze back to the mirror. There’s something different there now. Not panic. Not doubt. Interest. Something sharp. Awake. Almost eager. He tilts his head slightly, studying it, this version of himself that looks like he’s already stepped onto the field. He shakes his head once, slow and resigned. He knows exactly what he’s gotten himself into. And God help him, he’s already anticipating the opening move. Day Three isn’t just another round. It’s escalation. And for the first time since this started… Sunghoon isn’t playing defense.
You don’t sleep. Not really. You drift in and out of something shallow and restless, sheets twisted around your legs, ceiling fan ticking like a countdown you can’t shut off. Every time you close your eyes, your mind betrays you. Sunghoon’s smile, too easy, too real, pressed warm into your cheek. The casual thank you, baby like it wasn’t supposed to land that hard. The way his arm felt around your shoulders, solid and infuriatingly comfortable. And the text.
be prepared
It loops until it stops feeling smug and starts feeling personal. So you do what you’ve always done when something threatens to slip past your defenses. You plan. You lie there until the sky lightens, until your pulse slows back into something manageable. By the time morning arrives, your eyes are sharp, your thoughts aligned, your heart tucked neatly back where it belongs, behind your ribs, locked down, under control. Sunghoon Park is not a problem. He’s a variable. And variables can be managed.
Manon clocks it immediately. She doesn’t even look up from her coffee. “You’re awake-scheming,” she says flatly. “What did he do?”
“Nothing,” you reply, too fast. Sunoo snorts from across the table. “That’s never a good sign.”
Keeho leans back in his chair, arms crossing, already suspicious. “Okay. Context. Why do I feel like I’m about to be weaponized?” You smile. Slow. Sweet. Dangerous.
“So,” you begin, folding your hands neatly on the table like a general addressing her officers, “hypothetically, if one were to induce mild psychological distress via jealousy—” Sunoo lights up instantly. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I love where this is going.”
Manon groans, rubbing her temples. “I already don’t.” Keeho blinks. “Why am I in this sentence?” “Because,” you say calmly, “you’re charming, non-threatening, and tragically underutilized.” Keeho stares. “…that’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”
You lean in, voice dropping. “The plan is simple.” You lay it out with surgical precision. Laugh a little too loud. Touch his arm, casual, friendly, linger half a second too long. Stand too close. Tilt your head. Smile like you’re enjoying yourself. “Have I ever flirted like this before?” you ask rhetorically. Sunoo slaps the table. “No.”
“Should I?”
“OH FUCK YEAH!”
Manon levels you with a look. “You realize this is going to provoke him.” “That’s the point.”
Keeho exhales slowly. “I just want it on record that if the football captain murders me with his bare hands—”
“I’ll write a beautiful article about your sacrifice.”
Sunoo grins. “Worth it.” You pinky swear. Dramatic oaths. Over-the-top seriousness like you’re planning a heist instead of social sabotage. Then, just like that, you scatter. Different buildings. Different schedules. Normal expressions. Normal lives. Like nothing happened.
You spot Sunghoon ten minutes later. Of course you do. He’s crossing the quad like he’s entering hostile territory, jacket zipped, posture locked, gaze sharp and scanning. Jay is talking animatedly beside him. Riki laughs too loud. Jake keeps glancing around like he knows something’s coming. You don’t look at Sunghoon. That’s the key. You laugh instead. Too loud. Too bright. Keeho says something stupid, on purpose, bless him, and you throw your head back like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. Your hand lands on his arm, fingers curling briefly, familiarly.
Sunghoon’s head turns. You feel it before you see it, the shift in gravity, the air tightening like it’s been pulled taut. You lean closer to Keeho, murmuring something conspiratorial. Your smile softens. Interested. The kind of smile that suggests history, or at least possibility. You’ve never done this before. You’re excellent at it. Keeho plays his part flawlessly. His hand brushes your back. His posture is relaxed, confident. He looks comfortable. Like he belongs there.
That’s what makes it lethal. When you finally glance up, Sunghoon has stopped walking. He’s not smiling. His jaw is tight, eyes dark, unreadable. Jay is mid-sentence, frozen. Jake’s eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline. Riki looks between you and Sunghoon like he’s watching a live match. You hold Sunghoon’s gaze for exactly one second. Then you look away. Checkmate.
Your phone buzzes five minutes later. You don’t open it. Not yet. You finish the conversation. Laugh again, quieter this time. Keeho leans in, whispering, “He looks like he’s deciding whether to murder me and how exactly to do it.”
“Good,” you murmur. “You’re doing amazing.” When you finally check your phone, the message is waiting.
Sunghoon: Who’s your friend?
No emoji. No softness. Just plain directness and blatantness. You smile. Oh. He noticed. You reply slowly, deliberately.
You: Oh, Keeho? He’s just someone I enjoy spending time with.You: Why?
A beat. The response comes immediately. Too immediately.
Sunghoon: Just curious.
You scoff softly. Liar. Across campus, Sunghoon exhales through his nose, hands flexing at his sides. He tells himself it’s nothing. Tells himself this is part of the game. Tells himself he doesn’t care who you laugh with. And yet, that image won’t leave him alone. Your smile, real, unguarded. The one that was not directed at him, one that’ll never be directed at him. Your hand on someone else’s arm. The way you didn’t even look at him. Something ugly coils in his chest.
He hates it. He also recognizes it. Jealousy. The realization hits harder than he expects. He hasn’t felt this in years. You walk into class steady, composed, heart thrumming but controlled. You take notes. You participate. You act like your entire morning wasn’t a carefully staged provocation. Your phone buzzes again. This time, you don’t smile.
Sunghoon: Don’t play dumb.
Oh. You glance around the lecture hall, imagining him somewhere nearby, jaw tight, shoulders tense, control and patience fraying like a thin, overused, old rope. You type back.
You: I’m not playing anything, baby :)
Three dots. Gone. Reappear. His brain probably short circuited.
Sunghoon: You didn’t look at me.
That stops you. You stare at the screen longer than you should. Then:
You: Was I supposed to?
Silence. Long. Heavy. Charged. When his reply finally comes, it’s clipped. He could probably imagine the innocent look on your face, lips curling upwards as you bat your lashes across your face.
Sunghoon: We need to talk.
Your pulse spikes. You refuse to show it.
You: About what?
Another pause.
Sunghoon: Later.
You lock your phone. Exhale. Your fingers tremble just a little. Wondering what it was that he wanted to say.
That night, you sit at your desk, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keys. You type. Delete. Type again. The article drafts itself like muscle memory.
DAY 3: JEALOUSY PROTOCOL (UNOFFICIAL)Sometimes, the fastest way to lose a guy… is to make him realize he already thinks he owns you.
You stop. Your heart stutters. That wasn’t part of the plan. You stare at the words, then close the laptop without publishing. Not yet. Somewhere two blocks down, Sunghoon lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He tells himself he’s irritated. Disrupted. Strategizing. But his mind keeps drifting back to you, laughing with someone else, deliberately out of his reach. His phone buzzes. Jake.
Jakey: so are we not gonna talk about how feral you looked today
Sunghoon doesn’t reply. Another buzz. Was it really that obvious? God. The last thing he needed was the whole campus thinking he was whipped for the school editor. Which… might not be half a lie.
Jakey: bc you almost dropped a man with your eyes
He exhales, rolls onto his side, stares at his screen. Pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighs and finally types:
Sunghoon: Stay out of it.
Jake responds instantly.
Jakey: too late chat. you’re cooked.
Sunghoon shuts his phone off. He closes his eyes. Fails to sleep.
By the time Day Three officially drops, both of you are already in too deep. And the scariest part? Neither of you wants to stop.
The campus is louder today. Not in sound, in attention. Whispers skim across the quad like static. Phones are out. Eyes linger a beat too long. Ever since Day One, the article’s been circulating faster than class notes, and people have started treating you like a live experiment. Or a ticking bomb. One wrong move and someone’s getting carded.
PING!
Your phone vibrates in your palm.
How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 3: JEALOUSY TEST
Men claim they don’t get jealous. They lie. Jealousy doesn’t announce itself. It leaks. Flirt, casually. Laugh, softly. Touch like it’s accidental. Make it look unintentional. Make it look harmless. If he doesn’t react, he doesn’t care. If he does? You’ve hit something tender.
— Yours truly, xoxo
You read it once. Then again. Not because you need to, but because you like the way your pulse stays even. You lock your phone. Your hands are steady. That’s how you know you’re ready. You don’t go looking for Sunghoon. That would be obvious. Instead, you move where he’ll have to see you. The arts building sits at the intersection of three major paths, between dorms, lecture halls, and the café. If someone wants to cross campus, they pass through here. Which makes it perfect.
Sunoo’s already there, leaning against a pillar, thumbs flying over his phone like he’s deep in a text war. Manon pretends to retie her shoe for the third time, eyes flicking up every few seconds. Crowd control. You spot Keeho near the steps, laughing with someone before they peel away. He looks relaxed. Approachable. Safe. You slide in beside him like it’s coincidence.
“Keeho,” you say warmly. “Wow. You look… painfully charming today.” He startles, then laughs. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”
“Relax,” you murmur, tilting your head. “Just be yourself.” You don’t overdo it. That’s the key. You laugh, not loud, not showy. Just close. Intimate. You lean in when he speaks, brows furrowing like you care about every word. When you gesture, your fingers brush his wrist and linger, just long enough to feel his pulse jump under your thumb.
Like it doesn’t mean anything. Because the trick is, it always looks like it doesn’t mean anything. Around you, the quad keeps moving. Students slow. Some stop outright. A couple of girls whisper behind their hands. Sunoo glances up from his phone. Then stills. Manon straightens. You feel it before you see it. The air tightens. Like pressure dropping before a storm. You look up. Sunghoon stands across the quad with Jay and Jake, frozen mid-step. Jay’s mouth is halfway open like he was in the middle of a joke. Jake’s brows knit together slowly, eyes tracking the scene like he’s watching something unravel.
Sunghoon doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His face is calm, too calm, but his eyes are locked on you. Not Keeho. You. You meet his gaze. Hold it. Then you turn back to Keeho and smile. Sunghoon moves. He doesn’t storm over. That would draw attention. Instead, he walks, measured, deliberate. Each step controlled like he’s counting them. Shoulders squared, posture perfect, like he’s heading into a match he refuses to lose. Jay mutters, “Hoon—”
Sunghoon doesn’t slow. Jake stops walking entirely, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon like he’s already calculating damage control. Sunghoon stops in front of you. Keeho straightens instinctively, sensing the shift. “Hey,” Sunghoon says, to you, voice smooth enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know him. You tilt your head, all sweetness. “Hey, baby.” The word lands like a dropped glass.
Keeho goes rigid. Sunghoon’s jaw tightens, just a fraction. “Didn’t know you were busy,” Sunghoon says, gaze flicking to Keeho for half a second before snapping back to you.
“Oh,” you reply lightly, “we just ran into each other.” You slide your hand into Sunghoon’s jacket pocket. Like it belongs there. Like you belong there. The fabric is warm. “So,” you add, looking up at him, lashes batting. “That okay?” Sunghoon covers your hand with his. His grip is firm. Too firm.
“That’s fine,” he says evenly. Then, quieter, so quiet only you hear, “But we need to talk.”
Your smile widens. Hook. Line. Sink. “You said that yesterday too, didn’t you baby?” He doesn’t ask. Sunghoon guides you away with a hand at your lower back, polite enough to pass as affectionate, possessive enough that Keeho lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Behind you, Sunoo exhales softly. Manon mouths holy shit.
The moment you’re out of sight, Sunghoon stops. His hand drops like it burns. “That wasn’t accidental,” he says flatly. You cross your arms. “What wasn’t?” “You flirting with him.” You tilt your head, innocence perfected. “I flirt with everyone.” “No,” he snaps, and there it is. Sharp. Immediate. Unfiltered.
“You don’t.” The silence that follows crackles. Sunghoon drags a hand through his hair once, like he’s trying to reset something that’s already gone wrong. His breathing is heavier than it should be. His eyes don’t leave your face. “Is this part of the article?” he asks.
You meet his gaze, unblinking. “Does it bother you?” A laugh escapes him, short, disbelieving. “You think I care who you talk to?” You step closer. Slow. Deliberate. “Then why are you clenching your jaw like that?” That’s when he steps into your space. Not aggressive. Not loud. Dangerously quiet. “Don’t do that again,” he says. Your heart stutters. “Do what?”
“Pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.” The air between you is too tight. Too charged. Like one wrong breath would set something off. You swallow. “You’re breaking character.” His jaw flexes. “So are you.” For a second, just one,you think he might say more. Instead, he exhales, steps back, and the composure slides back into place like armor snapping shut. “Next time,” he says evenly, “warn me.”
You blink. “About what?” He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at. “About when you’re trying to make me jealous.” Then he turns and walks away. Doesn’t look back. You stand there longer than you mean to. Your chest feels tight. Your phone buzzes. You open your notes app instead.
Scorecard — Day 3:Jealousy confirmed.
Subject reacted emotionally.
Loss of composure observed in controlled environment.
Reaction stronger than predicted.
Sunghoon finally exhales. His hands are shaking. He hates it. Hates that he cared. Hates that he noticed. Hates that the image of you smiling at someone else twisted something hot and ugly in his chest. Hates that he wants to pull you in and kiss you stupid. This was supposed to be a bet. But bets don’t usually feel like this.
END OF DAY THREE
Scorecard:You: 3
Sunghoon: 2
(And now everyone knows who flinched first.)
Oh. This is where the game breaks. The message comes when you least expect it. The son’s bright, you can hear the familiar chitter of people walking and chatting, shoes scuffing the pavement as sunlight streams through your window unfiltered. Today is supposed to be Day 4, and you're halfway through rereading Day Three’s draft, trying to decide if reaction stronger than predicted sounds too clinical, when your phone vibrates.
Mom.
You don’t open it right away. Your stomach sinks before your brain catches up, like it already knows. Like it remembers every other time. You read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, as if maybe the words will rearrange themselves into something kinder if you stare hard enough. They don’t. It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s worse. Disappointed. Cutting. Familiar. The kind of hurt that doesn’t yell, it erases.
Your smile fades mid-breath. Something hollow opens up in your chest, sudden and deep, like the floor dropped out from under you and forgot to warn the rest of your body. You set your phone down carefully, because your hands are shaking too much to trust them.
Manon’s gone, shopping trip, three unread messages about shoes you never replied to. Keeho’s with her. Sunoo’s out, location shared hours ago with a heart emoji and a miss u you didn’t answer. You’re alone. You sit there for a full minute, staring at the wall, trying to logic your way out of the ache. It doesn’t work. Your throat tightens. Your eyes burn. You swipe angrily at the first tear like it personally offended you, but that just makes it worse.
You stand up. Grab your jacket. And before you can overthink it, before you can remind yourself this is a bad idea, a rule violation, a catastrophic mixing of variables, you’re already on your way. Because there is exactly one person who knows you exist right now. Sunghoon is in the middle of setting his keys down when the knock comes. He frowns, confused, he isn’t expecting anyone. Practice ended early, teammates scattered, apartment quiet in that rare, precious way he usually appreciates. He opens the door. And freezes.
You’re standing there like you ran straight out of a storm, hair slightly tangled, jacket half-zipped, eyes red and glassy like you’re holding yourself together by muscle memory alone.
You don’t even get a word out. Sunghoon drops everything. Keys clatter to the floor. His bag slips from his shoulder. He’s already reaching for you before his brain finishes processing why you’re here. “What happened?” he asks softly. Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. That’s all it takes. His expression changes instantly, guard down, edges gone, that cold composure evaporating like it never existed. He steps forward and pulls you into him without hesitation, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other pressing your head gently against his chest.
You break. The sob rips out of you, ugly and raw and completely unedited. Your hands fist into his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you don’t anchor yourself. Sunghoon holds you tighter. It’s instinctive. Protective. Solid. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, like he’s grounding both of you. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” You shake your head against him. “I—I didn’t know where else to go.”
“That’s fine,” he says immediately. “You came here.” Like that answers everything. He presses his chin lightly against the top of your head, hand smoothing down your back in slow, reassuring strokes. No teasing. No smugness. No games. Just presence. You breathe him in, clean laundry, faint cologne, something warm and familiar, and the ache in your chest eases just enough to keep you standing. Minutes pass like that. Neither of you moves. Sunghoon doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t push. He just lets you exist there, folded into him, until your breathing evens out and the tears slow to quiet hiccups.
When you finally pull back, embarrassed and exhausted, he cups your face gently, thumbs brushing under your eyes without comment. “You don’t have to explain,” he says. “But you can. Whenever you want.” Your throat tightens again. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the article. Or the bet. Or the rules. But standing there, wrapped in his arms, you realize something terrifying and undeniable.
This isn’t a strategy. This is real. And Sunghoon, Park Sunghoon, football captain, emotionally unavailable nightmare, is looking at you like you matter more than the game ever did. Somewhere in the back of your mind, the scorecard flickers. Then it disappears entirely. Because for the first time since Day One, no one is winning. And neither of you wants to be the first to let go.
Ladies and gentlemen… the playbook is on fire.
The article goes live at 12:04 a.m. By morning, it’s everywhere. Screenshots in group chats. Whispers in lecture halls. A few people laugh when they see you pass, like they’re in on something you’re pretending not to notice. Day Four. You don’t reread the rules this time. You already know them by heart.
PING!
How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 4: EMOTIONAL OVERSHARING
Men fear emotions they can’t fix. So give them everything. Overshare. Unpack trauma like it’s casual conversation. Cry if necessary. Make it messy. Make it real. Make it inconvenient. If he pulls away, success. If he stays? Abort mission.
— Yours truly, xoxo
You stare at the screen longer than usual. Not because you’re nervous. Because something in your chest feels… tender. Exposed. Like the armor you’ve been wearing all week finally has a crack in it. This isn’t flirting. This isn’t strategy. This is you. And that makes it the most dangerous test yet.
You don’t remember how you end up outside Sunghoon’s place. Only that at some point your legs start shaking, and the night air feels too sharp against your skin, and suddenly he’s there, closer than you expected, concern already written across his face. “You don’t look okay,” he says. And for once, you don’t pretend. Sunghoon doesn’t ask before he lifts you.
One second you’re standing there, hollowed out and swaying, and the next his hands are under your thighs, steady and sure, like this decision has already been made somewhere deep inside him. You gasp softly as he hoists you up, instinct taking over, your leg wraps around his waist, fingers clutching at his shoulder for balance. He adjusts immediately. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly how to hold you.
He carries you inside without a word. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the hallway, the noise, the eyes, the game. His apartment greets you with quiet, clean lines, neutral colors, the faint scent of laundry detergent and something unmistakably him. Order. Control. Restraint. He sets you down on the couch gently, like you’re something fragile, something he’s afraid might splinter if he moves too fast. “You okay?” he asks, voice low. You nod. It’s automatic. It’s a lie. Sunghoon sees right through it. He kneels in front of you anyway. Not towering. Not imposing. Just there. And that, more than anything, undoes you. The words don’t come all at once.
They trip over each other. Stumble out half-formed. You start small. Safe. A weak laugh. “My mom used to say I was too sensitive.” You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s a punchline. “She’d say it like it was a joke,” you add, glancing away. “But it never felt like one.” Sunghoon doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you. So you keep going. You talk about growing up feeling like affection had fine print. About learning early how to read moods, how to adjust yourself to keep the peace. About the way praise always came with expectations, and how silence, long, heavy silence, felt worse than being yelled at.
Your voice shakes. You laugh at the wrong moments. You hear yourself and think: this is too much. This is exactly how people decide you’re exhausting. This is how you lose them. That’s the tactic. That’s the point. You sneak a glance at Sunghoon, bracing for the moment his expression tightens. For the polite withdrawal. The subtle step back. It never comes. He watches you like he’s listening to something important. Like he’s memorizing it. His jaw is tight, not annoyed, but controlled, like he’s holding something back. His eyes soften every time your voice wavers, and when your hands twist together in your lap, he reaches out without thinking, thumb brushing over your knuckles. Warm. Solid.
Grounding. When your voice finally breaks, it surprises you. You press your lips together, breathing uneven, staring at the floor like it might save you. Sunghoon shifts closer. Doesn’t touch you more than that, just enough to let you know he’s there. When the silence stretches, he doesn’t fill it. He waits. Finally, you let out a weak, breathy laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.” “Don’t,” he says immediately. Not sharp. Not commanding. Gentle.
“You don’t have to apologize for being honest.” Something twists in your chest. You swallow. “Most people get uncomfortable.” He shrugs slightly, eyes never leaving your face. “Most people aren’t worth your time.” The words hit harder than anything you’ve said tonight. You look at him, really look, and for the first time, you see it. The restraint isn’t arrogance. It’s practice. The control isn’t coldness. It’s survival. Someone who learned early how to hold things in until they hardened. Someone who knows exactly how heavy unspoken feelings can get. Sunghoon leans back against the couch, careful, giving you space, but his arm settles around your shoulders anyway. Not possessive. Just… there.
You hesitate. Then you let yourself rest against him. Just this once. No article voice. No scorecard. No audience. Your breathing slowly evens out. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. Outside, the world keeps moving, bets, whispers, rules, expectations. Inside, something fragile and unplanned settles into place. Later, much later, you’ll realize this was the moment the game stopped being theoretical. Because Day Four wasn’t about oversharing. It was about staying. And neither of you walked away.
END OF DAY FOUR
Scorecard:You: —
Sunghoon: —
(Game suspended due to unforeseen emotional impact.)
It’s too late for the building to still feel alive. The overhead lights are dimmed to that after-hours glow that makes everything look softer, less real, like you’re trespassing in a version of the day that doesn’t belong to you. The kind of lighting that turns study rooms into confessionals. You’re supposed to be reading. Your laptop sits open between you, a paragraph half-highlighted, notes scattered in the disorganized way that pretends to be productivity. You haven’t scrolled in ten minutes. He hasn’t blinked at the screen in longer.
You sit too close. Not intentionally. Not at first. But close enough that when you shift in your chair, your knee brushes his. It’s nothing. It’s everything. “Oh, sorry,” you say too fast, already pulling back like you’ve been burned. “It’s fine,” he replies too quietly, like the words weren’t meant to travel. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Pressurized. You fill it because you always do. You start talking again, too much, too quickly, about something adjacent to the point you were trying to make. You gesture with your hands like you can carve the feeling out of your chest if you explain it well enough. You laugh in the wrong places. Your voice wobbles and you barrel right through it.
Sunghoon watches you unravel with an expression you can’t read. Not pity. Not discomfort. Focus. When your words start looping, when you hear yourself circling the same fear with different phrasing, his hand moves. Not fast. Not dramatic. His fingers close gently around your wrist mid-gesture, stopping you like a soft wall. “Hey,” he murmurs. The room stills. It’s subtle, but you feel it, the way the air seems to settle, like everything just leaned in to listen. Your breath catches, uneven now that you’re aware of it. His thumb presses once against your pulse, grounding, steady. Are you okay? I’m here. Slow down.
All without words. You nod because it’s easier than speaking. But your eyes give you away. They’re shiny. Too full. You look down before you can stop yourself, throat tight, embarrassment blooming hot and unwelcome. Sunghoon doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts closer, barely an inch, but it’s enough that you feel the warmth of him at your side. He looks at you for a long moment. Really looks. Like he’s committing something to memory. The tension in your jaw. The way your shoulders are drawn in. The practiced calm cracking at the edges.
When he leans in, it’s slow. Careful. The kiss happens like an accident. Barely there at first, his lips brushing yours as if testing the reality of it, as if he’s giving you time to pull away, to laugh it off, to say this is a bad idea. You don’t. Your lips part on a quiet inhale, and something inside him shifts. The world narrows. No lights. No notes. No rules. Just warmth and quiet and the faint hitch in his breath when your mouth moves against his. His hand tightens around your wrist just a fraction, like he’s losing a battle he didn’t plan to fight.
It’s not rushed. It’s not hungry. It’s reverent. Like he’s afraid to take too much. You pull back first. It costs you more than you expect. “This doesn’t count,” you whisper, forcing a smile that feels brittle the moment it leaves your mouth. “It’s… for the experiment.” The words hang there, thin and unconvincing. Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He studies you, jaw tight, eyes dark with something unsettled, something that looks suspiciously like restraint stretched too far. Like he’s deciding whether to let you have the lie.
You turn to leave before he can answer. Before he can say something that makes it real. Your fingers barely make it an inch away from his hand before he catches you. Not rough. Not desperate. Certain. The second kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Intentional. There’s no hesitation this time. He pulls you back like he’s done pretending this is incidental, like he’s accepted whatever line this crosses. Your breath stutters when he shifts, lifting you onto his lap with an ease that steals the air from your lungs.
You fit there too easily. Like this has always been where you were meant to land. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the curve of your neck, unhurried, almost reverent. Not marking. Not claiming. Just there, like he’s grounding himself through you now. Your hands curl into his sweatshirt, knuckles pressing into solid warmth. His hands slide along your sides, steady and warm, thumbs tracing small arcs that feel like questions. His fingertips brush skin as they slip beneath the hem of your shirt, and you shiver, not from the touch itself, but from the care in it. Like he’s checking in with every inch.
Like he’s waiting for you to say stop. You don’t. You breathe his name instead, barely audible, like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. He stills. Just for a second. His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath uneven now, like he’s anchoring himself before this tips into something neither of you can undo. His hands stay where they are, present, warm, restrained. This isn’t losing control.
This is choosing not to run. The room feels impossibly quiet around you, like it’s holding its breath. And somewhere in the back of your mind, the game flickers, rules, scorecards, outcomes, but it’s distant now. Muffled. Less important than the way he’s holding you like something fragile and worth protecting. You know this is the moment everything changes. You also know you’re not ready to name it yet.
So you stay. Just like this. For one more heartbeat. Before anything else begins. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the curve of your neck, unhurried, almost reverent. Not marking. Not claiming. Just there, like he’s grounding himself through you now. Your hands curl into his sweatshirt, knuckles pressing into solid warmth. The fabric is soft from too many washes, still carrying the faint cedar-and-fabric-softener scent that’s become stupidly comforting over the last few days. You tug once, small, needy, and he makes a low sound in his throat, not quite a groan, more like permission granted.
His hands slide along your sides, steady and warm, thumbs tracing small arcs that feel like questions. His fingertips brush bare skin as they slip beneath the hem of your shirt, and you shiver, not from the touch itself, but from the care in it. Like he’s checking in with every inch. Like he’s waiting for you to say stop. You don’t. You breathe his name instead, barely audible, like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. He stills. Just for a second.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against your collarbone. Voice rough. Honest. “Any second. I stop.” You nod once, throat tight. Then you tilt your head back just enough to catch his eyes. “I know,” you whisper. “I trust you.” The words land heavier than you expect. His gaze flickers, something raw flashing through the dark before he swallows it down.
He exhales slowly through his nose. Then his hands move again. Slow. Deliberate. Palms flat against your ribs now, sliding upward under the cotton of your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grope. Just maps you like he’s memorizing every dip and curve for later. You lift your arms without being asked. He pauses, gives you one last searching look, then peels the shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. Cool air hits your skin. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being half-naked and everything to do with the way he’s looking at you. Not hungry. Not triumphant. Awed.
Like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years. He drops the shirt somewhere behind him without looking. Doesn’t care where it lands. His hands return immediately, cupping your waist again, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your jeans. Then higher. Tracing the line of your bra straps. The dip of your sternum. The soft swell above the lace. Every touch is followed by a kiss. Soft. Open-mouthed. Lingering. First the hollow of your throat. Then the slope of your shoulder. Then the top of one breast, right above the cup, where skin meets fabric. You gasp, quiet, involuntary, and his mouth curves against you in the smallest smile.
“Still okay?” he asks, voice wrecked. You thread your fingers into his hair, damp at the ends from earlier practice, and tug just enough to make him look up. “Keep going,” you say. No sarcasm. No game. Just truth. He does. He kisses lower, slow drag of lips across the swell of your breast, then the other, until he reaches the edge of the lace. His tongue flicks out, just once, teasing the boundary, and your back arches on instinct, pressing yourself closer. A low, appreciative sound rumbles in his chest.
He hooks one finger under the strap of your bra. Pauses. “May I?” You nod, fast, desperate now. He slides the strap down your shoulder. Then the other. Reaches behind you with practiced ease, fingers finding the clasp, and unhooks it in one smooth flick. The bra falls away. He doesn’t stare. Doesn’t leer. He just looks, like he’s seeing something sacred. Then he leans in and kisses the center of your chest, soft, reverent, right over your heart. You feel the beat of it against his lips.
His hands come up to cup you, gentle at first, thumbs brushing over already-hard peaks, and you whimper. The sound surprises you both. He groans against your skin. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead he takes one nipple into his mouth, slow, warm, tongue circling, and your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud. Pleasure spikes sharp and bright down your spine. He switches sides, same careful attention, while his hand kneads the other, rolling the peak between thumb and forefinger just hard enough to make your hips jerk forward.
You’re suddenly aware of how wet you are. How empty. How badly you want him inside you. “Sunghoon,” you gasp, half plea, half demand. He releases you with a soft pop. Looks up, eyes blown dark, lips shiny. “Tell me what you want,” he says. Voice gravel. “Anything.” You swallow. Drag your nails lightly down his neck, feeling him shiver. “Everything,” you say. “I want everything.” He exhales a shaky laugh against your skin. Then he’s moving.
Hands sliding to your hips, lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He carries you the few steps to his bed like you weigh nothing, lays you down like you’re made of glass. He doesn’t climb over you immediately. He stands at the edge of the mattress for a second, just looking. You feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. Then he reaches behind his neck, yanks his sweatshirt off in one fluid motion, tosses it aside.
The sight of him, broad shoulders, carved chest, the faint red lines your nails left earlier on his collarbone, makes your mouth go dry. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats. Pauses. “You sure?” he asks one more time. You sit up, reach for him, fingers curling into the elastic. “Very,” you say.
You tug. He lets you. The sweats slide down. Boxers follow. He’s hard, painfully so, and the sight of him makes heat flood your core. He kneels on the mattress. Crawls over you slow, caging you without trapping. Forearms braced on either side of your head. His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time. Hungrier. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, both of you breathing hard through your noses. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your jeans, then your underwear, finding you soaked.
He groans into your mouth when he feels how ready you are. “Jesus,” he mutters against your lips. “All this for me?” You bite his bottom lip, sharp enough to sting. “For you,” you confirm. He circles your clit once, slow, testing, then again. And again. Until your hips are rolling up into his hand, chasing the pressure. “Need you,” you gasp. “Inside. Now.”
He doesn’t tease. He pulls your jeans and underwear down in one go, tossing them off the bed, then settles between your thighs. He notches himself at your entrance, slow, gives you time to adjust to the stretch. You both exhale at the same time when he pushes in, inch by careful inch, until he’s buried to the hilt. The fullness is overwhelming.
Perfect. He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “You okay?” he whispers. You nod, clenching around him on purpose just to hear the choked sound he makes. “Move,” you breathe. He does. Slow at first, long, measured strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. Then faster. Deeper. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, and he pins it beside your head. The other slides between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles that match the rhythm of his hips.
You’re climbing fast, too fast, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly. “Sunghoon—” Your voice cracks on his name. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Let go. I’ve got you.” You do. The orgasm hits like a wave, sharp, blinding, your back arching, thighs clamping around his hips, his name spilling from your lips in broken gasps. He fucks you through it, slowing only when your tremors start to ease, then picks up again. Chasing his own.
You feel him thicken inside you, feel the stutter in his rhythm. “Where?” he grits out. “Inside,” you say without hesitation. “Please.” That undoes him. He buries himself deep, one last hard thrust, and comes with a low, guttural groan, pulsing inside you, face pressed to the side of your neck. You hold him there, arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs still locked around his waist, while his breathing slowly evens out. He doesn’t pull out right away.
Just stays, softening inside you, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Soft. Lazy. Like he has nowhere else to be. After a long minute, he lifts his head. Looks at you, really looks. And whatever he sees makes his expression soften in a way you’ve never seen before. “No rules tonight,” he says quietly. You swallow. Nod. “No rules,” you echo.
He kisses you again, slow, sweet, lingering. And for the first time in days, neither of you is keeping score. The quiet afterward settles over you like a shared secret. Not the awkward kind. Not the kind that begs to be filled with noise. The kind that wraps around both of you and stays.
Sunghoon’s thumb traces slow, absentminded patterns along your waist, the motion unthinking, muscle memory more than intention, like his body hasn’t realized yet that the world still exists beyond the room. Each pass of his thumb is lazy, grounding, a silent check-in he doesn’t even know he’s making. Your fingers drift through his hair in return, nails grazing his scalp in slow arcs until his breath stutters, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, chin tipping back against the pillow.
You smile to yourself, all lazy satisfaction, and press your cheek deeper into the hollow of his collarbone. His skin is warm there. Solid. Real. “Wow,” you murmur, voice soft but smug in that way you know gets under his skin. “So this was part of the experiment?” He huffs, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath your ear. “Absolutely not.”
You tilt your head just enough for him to feel your grin against his skin. “Liar.” His head angles down, eyes half-lidded and sleep-heavy when they meet yours, that familiar glint of cocky amusement slowly creeping back in like he’s easing into an old role. “You’re the one who came up with emotional oversharing as a tactic,” he says. “I just… adapted.”
“Oh, you adapted,” you echo, dragging your fingers through his hair again, slower this time, deliberate. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” His hand tightens at your waist for half a second, possessive, reflexive, like his body reacts before his brain can stop it, then relaxes again, thumb resuming its lazy path. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna start acting like you ruined me.” You hum, pleased, smug curling warm in your chest. “I did ruin you.” A low laugh escapes him, fond and helpless, like he’s already lost the argument and doesn’t mind. “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet,” you say lightly, words already blurring at the edges as exhaustion creeps in, “you screamed my name like it was a lifeline.” He groans, tipping his head back against the cushion, eyes squeezing shut. “I hate you.” “Mm,” you reply, already drifting, “you love me.”
Silence stretches again, longer this time. Comfortable. Earned. The kind that doesn’t demand clever comebacks or defenses. His fingers slow, drifting from your waist to your back, tracing the curve of your spine before sliding up to your hair. He strokes gently now, reverently, like he’s handling something fragile. The bravado drains out of him with every second, confidence ebbing away until what’s left is just… him. After a moment, quieter, careful, he asks, “Hey. You okay?”
You nod against him, eyes closed, voice soft with sleep. “Yeah. I’m good.” Something in his chest loosens at that. He smiles to himself, small and private, like he doesn’t want you to see it. “Who knew,” you mumble drowsily, words slurring just slightly, “the guy who hates gossip would end up dealing with the gossip queen.” He chuckles, low and warm, pressing a kiss to the top of your head without thinking about it. “Occupational hazard.” Your breathing evens out, deep and slow, your weight melting fully into him like that’s exactly where you’re meant to be. Like you’ve done this a hundred times before. And that’s when it hits him, the ache, sharp and unwelcome, blooming in his chest without warning.
Because this isn’t just flirting. It isn’t just chemistry. And it definitely isn’t just a stupid bet he can laugh off later. He stares at the far wall, jaw tightening as he watches you sleep against him, trusting, unguarded, completely unaware of the storm in his head. He knows, knows, how this ends. Knows he’s going to hurt you. Knows he’s already halfway to hurting himself.
This is the part he was supposed to avoid. This is the line he swore he wouldn’t cross. And still, when you shift in your sleep, brow furrowing for just a second, he tightens his hold on you instead of pulling away. His arm curls more securely around your back. His chin dips, resting against your hair. No rules tonight, he’d said.And for the first time in days, neither of you is following them.
You go home alone. Not because he asks you to leave, he doesn’t, but because if you stay one more minute, you might forget why this started in the first place. You slip out while he’s half-asleep, fingers still loosely hooked into your sleeve like he expects you to come back, and that alone nearly ruins you. The walk back is quiet. Too quiet. Your phone feels heavier in your hand, like it knows what you’re about to do.
Day 4 waits for you like a confession you weren’t supposed to publish. You shower. You change. You sit at your desk with damp hair and a racing pulse, staring at a blinking cursor that feels accusatory in its patience. For a long moment, you don’t type. You replay instead, his voice, the way he didn’t interrupt, the way his arms had closed around you like it was instinct instead of strategy. Trauma dump as a tactic, you remind yourself, like it’s a spell that might undo the weight in your chest.
Your fingers finally move. You write about showing up unannounced. About expecting resistance and finding quiet instead. About how some men don’t flee when things get heavy, some just sit with you in it. You don’t name him. You don’t have to. Anyone who knows you knows. The words come smoother than you expect. Honest in a way that makes your throat tighten. You frame it like a win, like progress, like a clever maneuver in a game you’re still pretending you control. And then, because this whole thing has rules, you scroll to the bottom.
SCORECARD
You hover for a second longer than necessary. Day 4: Emotional Oversharing Result: Unexpected Loss of Composure
You sigh, sharp and resigned, and type it anyway.
You: 3Sunghoon: 3
Balanced. Tie game. Your finger hesitates over publish. Then you press it. The article goes live with a soft click that feels louder than it should. The screen refreshes. The world doesn’t end. Your heart still thuds like it’s waiting for consequences. You drop your phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, one arm thrown over your eyes. Three to three. A dead heat. Except it doesn’t feel like a game anymore. It feels like standing in the middle of a frozen lake, hearing it creak beneath your feet, realizing a little too late that you’re not sure which direction is safe.
Your phone buzzes. Once. Then again. You don’t check it right away. You already know who it is. You know the tone before you read it, because you know him now in ways you weren’t supposed to. Finally, you look.
Sunghoon: You gave me a point.
You smile despite yourself.
You: Don’t get used to it.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Sunghoon: Too late.
Then, a pause. Another message.
Sunghoon: Sleep. We’re tied. Means tomorrow matters.
You swallow, chest warm and aching all at once. Tomorrow matters. You set your phone down again, this time face down, and let the ceiling blur as your eyes close. Three to three. And somehow, for the first time since this all started, you’re not sure who you want to win.
Because nothing destabilizes a man faster than pretending you already belong in his life.
Ladies and gentlemen, history has been made. For the first time since this experiment began, you don’t knock first. Instead, you wake up to it. Three sharp raps against your door cut through your sleep like a referee’s whistle. The sound slices clean through whatever dream you were half-clinging to, jolting you upright with a groan. You roll over, face buried in your pillow, eyes still closed, fully prepared to ignore it on principle, until the knocking comes again.
Slower this time. Measured. Intentional. Familiar. Your stomach drops before your brain catches up. You drag yourself out of bed, limbs heavy, hair an absolute disaster, mind foggy in that disoriented way that makes everything feel a half-second behind reality. The hallway outside your room is quiet. Too quiet. When you pull the door open, Sunghoon stands there like he owns the hallway. Hands tucked casually into his pockets. Hoodie slung low on his hips like he threw it on without thinking. His hair is still slightly damp, darker at the ends, curling just enough to suggest he showered recently, and not in a rushed way. With intent. With time.
His expression is calm. That’s what sets off every internal alarm you have. Not smug. Not irritated. Not flustered. Just… steady. Eyes sharp, unreadable, mouth set in a line that feels more deliberate than relaxed. “Enough of your surprises,” he says, voice even. Controlled. A pause. Long enough to make your pulse stutter. “Now it’s my turn.”
You blink. Once. Twice. For four days, you’ve been the instigator. The architect of chaos. The one showing up unannounced, rewriting his routines, poking at his composure just to see what gives. This, him here, in your space, uninvited, short-circuits your internal playbook entirely. “Did you just—” you start, then stop, brain catching up too late. “Are you… kidnapping me?” His mouth quirks, barely. “Put on shoes.” And then he turns around and starts walking down the hall like there was never a question you wouldn’t follow. You don’t know why you do. Actually, you do.
And that’s the problem. You grab your shoes, tugging them on without socks, door clicking shut behind you as you trail after him. He doesn’t look back to check if you’re there. He doesn’t need to. That confidence, quiet, assumed, settles under your skin in a way that feels dangerous. The walk is silent. Not awkward. Just… loaded. You keep stealing glances at him, trying to read his posture, his pace, anything that might give away what he’s planning. He keeps his gaze forward, shoulders relaxed, steps unhurried. Whatever this is, he’s already decided how it goes.
The destination reveals itself slowly. Too slowly. You pass the café. The quad. The corner where couples always sit too close on the benches. You expect something calculated. Public. Flashy. A counterattack designed to rattle you the way you’ve rattled him all week. Instead, he pushes open the sliding doors of a grocery store. A regular one. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Soft pop music hums through tinny speakers. Somewhere near produce, someone is arguing quietly over avocados. You stop so abruptly he has to glance back.
“…This is your big move?” you ask, incredulous. Sunghoon reaches for a cart without looking at you. “Relax. It’s research.” You snort. It slips out before you can stop it, real laughter, unguarded, bubbling up from your chest instead of your throat. You don’t remember the last time something caught you this off-balance. Domestic simulation. You hate how fast it works. He walks beside you down the aisles like it’s second nature. Like this is something you’ve done together before. The cart rolls between you, metal clinking softly as he steers it with one hand.
You reach for a familiar cereal at the same time he does. “Absolutely not,” he says immediately. “You don’t even know which one I picked,” you argue. He glances at the box in your hand. “That’s exactly why.” You roll your eyes and toss it into the cart anyway, just to be annoying. He doesn’t take it out. That feels… significant. You wander produce. He inspects fruit like it personally offended him. You steal grapes when he’s not looking. He notices anyway. “You’re supposed to wash those,” he says. “You’re supposed to mind your business.” He hums, clearly unconvinced, and drops a bag of apples into the cart like this argument has happened before. Like it will happen again.
At some point, you stop performing. You forget to angle your body just right. Forget to keep track of how close you’re standing, whose arm brushes whose, who’s watching. You’re laughing too easily now, leaning into him when he mutters something dry under his breath, fingers brushing when you pass items back and forth. He reads labels. You mock him for it. “I don’t trust anything with more than five ingredients,” he says mildly. “That explains so much about your personality,” you shoot back. “You’re insufferable,” he says, fondly. And then freezes. It’s subtle. Just a hitch. A half-second too long of silence after the word leaves his mouth. Like he didn’t mean to say it that way. You pretend not to notice.
That’s the most dangerous part. You check out with shared bags, receipt crumpled and stuffed into his pocket without discussion. Outside, the air feels different. Quieter. Like the world narrowed itself while you weren’t paying attention. Instead of parting ways, he leads you to a small café tucked into the corner of the store. You sit across from each other at a too-small table, notes spread between half-drunk coffee cups. Your knees knock under the table. Neither of you moves them away. You study. Sort of.
He explains something patiently. You interrupt him. He corrects you without condescension. You realize, too late, that you’re not doing this for the article anymore. This isn’t loud. This isn’t messy. This doesn’t feel like a tactic. And that terrifies you more than any of the other days combined. That night, the article updates quietly. No fireworks. No scandal. Just truth wrapped in observation.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 5: DOMESTIC SIMULATION
There is a very specific kind of intimacy in shared mundanity. Grocery lists. Inside jokes. Knowing how someone takes their coffee without asking. Simulate a future. Not the dramatic kind, the boring one. If he runs? You’ve won. If he stays, and laughs like he belongs there? You’re in trouble.
— Yours truly, xoxo
At the bottom, the scorecard stares back at you.
You consider it for a long moment. Then you type:
Result: Mutual Compromise
Point: None
Score: 3–3
A draw. No winner. Yet again, so who really wins this stupid game? 5 days in. You close your laptop with a quiet click and lean back against your bed, heart thudding for reasons that have nothing to do with strategy. Lying on his bed, Sunghoon is probably doing the same thing, replaying moments that weren’t supposed to matter. The cereal box. The apples. The way you didn’t pull your knees away. And for the first time since this began, neither of you knows exactly how to break the other tomorrow. Which makes Day 6 dangerous. Sunghoon does not journal. He has never needed to. Thoughts are meant to be handled internally, sorted, categorized, dismissed. Writing things down feels like an admission that something can’t be controlled otherwise.
So the fact that he’s staring at a blank document at 1:47 a.m. feels like a personal failure. The cursor blinks at him. Once. Twice. Again. He exhales through his nose and leans back in his chair, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. His room is quiet except for the hum of his laptop fan and the distant sounds of someone laughing outside, too carefree for the hour. His hoodie, the hoodie, is draped over the back of the chair, still faintly smelling like grocery store detergent, cheap coffee, and your pretty scent.
He should wash it. He doesn’t. Instead, his brain does the thing it’s been doing all evening: rewinds. The time he knocked. He hadn’t planned to knock like that. Too sharp. Too deliberate. He’d stood outside your door for a full thirty seconds beforehand, debating whether this was crossing a line or finally drawing one. He’d almost walked away. Almost. The look on your face when you opened the door flashes through him again, sleep-soft, disoriented, hair a mess. No guard up yet. No strategy active. Just you. That had nearly ruined him right there.
He closes his eyes briefly and exhales. Focus. This was supposed to be a countermeasure. A recalibration. You destabilize someone by rewriting their expectations, he knows that. You’d been doing it to him all week. Showing up where you shouldn’t be. Acting like space and boundaries were optional. Dragging him into emotional territory he’d spent years neatly fencing off. So he adapted.
Domesticity is a known psychological trigger. False familiarity. Routine simulation. People get uncomfortable when you skip ahead too fast. When you act like a future already exists. The grocery store had made sense. What hadn’t made sense was how easy it felt. How his hand had reached for the cart automatically. How he’d fallen into step beside you without thinking. How he’d noticed, immediately, when you reached for cereal you always buy, like he’d been mentally cataloging your habits without permission. That’s the part that bothers him.
Not the flirting. Not the banter. Not even the way your laughter had startled something loose in his chest. It’s the noticing. He scrolls back up to the top of the blank page, jaw tight. You didn’t panic, he reminds himself. That’s good. But panic isn’t the only metric. You didn’t pull away when your fingers brushed. You didn’t step back when your knees touched under the café table. You didn’t perform. Neither did he. That’s the mistake. Sunghoon opens his eyes and stares at the far wall of his room, replaying the moment you tossed the cereal into the cart just to irritate him. He remembers thinking, absurdly, that you’d probably do that every time. That you’d always pick the worst option just to see if he’d object.
And worse, he remembers not taking it out. He types a single line before he can stop himself. Day 5 was not a win. He stares at the sentence like it might argue back. By all measurable standards, it should have been. You didn’t score a point. Neither did he. A draw keeps the experiment stable. Predictable.
But his chest had felt too full walking back across campus. Heavy in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with attachment formation. That’s dangerous. He scrolls down and types again. Domestic environments accelerate emotional bonding through repetition and shared low-stakes tasks. Clinical. Detached. Better. But even that feels insufficient.
Because this wasn’t repetition. This was implication. You hadn’t asked if he wanted apples. You’d just assumed. You hadn’t hesitated to sit down with him after. You’d leaned into the quiet like it was yours to claim. Like he was. Sunghoon rubs at his face, frustration creeping in. This was supposed to make you uncomfortable. Instead, it had made him… careful.
He remembers the moment he called you insufferable. The exact second the word slipped out, softened by affection before he could stop it. He remembers freezing, not because you noticed, but because he did. Affection is a tell. He doesn’t do that. He scrolls again, fingers hovering. Observation: Subject responds positively to shared routine. Risk: High.
He snorts quietly despite himself. Subject. Right. You are not a subject. You’re the girl who stole grapes when you thought he wasn’t looking. The girl who mocked his ingredient paranoia and then leaned closer anyway. The girl who didn’t pull her knees away, even when the table was small enough that it would’ve been easy. You’re his girl. His girl that he fell in love with. That’s the part that keeps replaying.
Not the flirting. The comfort. Sunghoon closes the laptop halfway, then opens it again with a frustrated sigh. He knows avoidance when he sees it. He’s lived on it for years. Across campus, your article exists. Public. Polished. Controlled chaos masquerading as insight. His isn’t. His is this, private spirals and late-night realizations and the uncomfortable awareness that he is no longer reacting to you. He’s anticipating you. That’s worse. He types again. There was no exit strategy today.
He hadn’t planned one. That realization hits harder than he expects. Every other day, he’d known how it would end. A goodbye. A retreat. A reset. Today had just… drifted. From aisle to aisle. From coffee to studying. From pretending to something dangerously close to real. He presses his lips together. This is how people get hurt. He knows that. Knows how quickly lines blur when you let yourself believe in mundane futures. Grocery lists turn into shared apartments. Study dates turn into expectations.
And expectations turn into disappointment. Sunghoon leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You don’t know the ending. That’s the worst part. You’re playing to win. To prove a point. To finish the article with clean hands and clever conclusions. He’s playing defense against something he wasn’t supposed to want. He scrolls to the bottom of the page and hesitates.
Then, against his better judgment, he types one last line. If Day 6 escalates, I will need to draw a boundary. The cursor blinks beneath it. He doesn’t believe himself. Sunghoon closes the laptop without saving, the quiet click too loud in the stillness of his room. He stands, crosses to the window, and stares out at the dark campus below. Somewhere out there, your lights are probably still on. Or maybe you’re asleep, blissfully unaware of the damage done by apples and cereal and shared silence. He exhales slowly.
No rules tonight, you’d said yesterday. He hadn’t argued. Tomorrow, he’ll have to be smarter. Sharper. Less… human about it. Because if Day 5 taught him anything, it’s this: He’s not afraid of losing the experiment. He’s afraid of winning, and realizing too late what it cost. You wake up like you’ve been shoved out of a dream. A sharp inhale. Sheets twisted around your legs. Your heart stuttering so hard it almost hurts. For a second, you don’t know where you are, just that your skin feels too warm and the room feels too empty.
Then it hits you. Not all at once. In fragments. Sensations before images. The memory of his hands, steady, impossibly warm, anchoring you when everything inside you had been unraveling. The way his thumbs had moved without thinking, slow and grounding, like he was reminding your body where it existed. The weight of his presence behind you, solid and sure, not crowding, not overwhelming. Just there.
You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s not even the kiss that gets you this time. It’s everything around it. How careful he’d been. How he’d paused like he was giving you space to change your mind, and how you hadn’t. How afterward, when the moment softened instead of exploding, he hadn’t pulled away. He’d stayed. That’s the part that makes your chest ache now. You turn onto your side, staring at the faint glow of your phone screen on the nightstand. 2:31 a.m. The world quiet in that fragile way it only gets when everyone else is asleep and you’re left alone with your thoughts.
You remember his voice, lower than usual, close enough that you’d felt it more than heard it. The way he’d surprised you, showed up first, planned something gentle instead of strategic. The way that alone had knocked you off balance. You’re used to being the one in control. The instigator. The girl with the plan and the punchline and the exit already mapped out. You weren’t supposed to like being caught off guard.
Your fingers curl into the sheets as another memory surfaces, him asking, quietly, if you were okay. Not as part of the experiment. Not as a move. Just… asking. You swallow, throat tight. This is bad. Worse than bad. Because attraction is manageable. Tension can be played with. Even longing can be weaponized if you’re clever enough. But safety? Being seen without having to perform? That’s not something you know how to fake. You sit up, dragging a hand down your face, breath shaky now. Somewhere between Day 1 and Day 5, the rules blurred. Somewhere between teasing and touching and shared silence in a grocery store aisle, something shifted off its axis.
You weren’t counting points tonight. Neither was he. And that realization lands heavy. He’s afraid of winning, and realizing too late what it cost. The thought settles in your chest like it belongs there. Like it’s been waiting. Because if he wins, he loses the distance he’s been hiding behind. And if you win, you lose the version of yourself who could walk away clean.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stare into the dark, pulse finally slowing, but your mind still racing. Tomorrow is Day 6. There will be plans. Counters. Smiles sharpened into strategies. But lying here, alone in the quiet, one truth curls uncomfortably close to your heart: You don’t know how to make this hurt less. And for the first time since the experiment began, you’re not sure you want to. You tell yourself it was a one-time thing. You have to. You cling to the sentence like it’s a life raft, repeating it until it starts to sound less like a lie and more like a hypothesis you could defend if asked. One time. An accident. Contextual.
You swing your legs back onto the bed and sit there, spine curved, elbows on your knees, hands hanging uselessly between them. The room smells faintly like laundry detergent and the vanilla candle you forgot to blow out earlier. Normal things. Safe things. Things that have nothing to do with the way his hands felt, felt, past tense, done, finished, when you were unraveling and didn’t know where to put yourself.
It was pity, you decide. That’s the cleanest explanation. The least dangerous one. He saw you raw and shaking and half-broken by a message you hadn’t meant to show anyone. He’s disciplined. He’s decent. Of course he stayed. Of course he touched you gently. Of course he kissed you like that, slow, careful, like he was trying not to spook something wounded. Pity makes sense. You nod to yourself, like you’ve cracked a code. You’re the gossip queen, after all. The experimenter. The one who studies men like specimens under glass. If anyone could misread compassion as chemistry, it would be you. You were emotional. Vulnerable. Of course you projected.
Of course you did. The thought should settle you. Instead, something tightens under your ribs. Because pity doesn’t explain the way his breath changed when you shifted closer. It doesn’t explain the pause, that infinitesimal second where he could’ve pulled away and didn’t. It doesn’t explain how his hand didn’t hover, uncertain, but stayed, sure and grounding, like he knew exactly where it belonged. You press your lips together.
No. Stop. You’re rewriting the memory. Romanticizing it. That’s what you do. You spin narratives until they sparkle and cut at the same time. He felt sorry for you. That’s all. But even as you think it, there’s a dull, unexpected ache in your chest, sharp enough to make you inhale a little too fast. Because pity means obligation. It means he didn’t want you, he endured you.
The idea shouldn’t matter. You’ve built an entire reputation on not caring what men want. On being untouchable, clever, above it all. So why does the word sit so badly in your mouth? You lie back down, staring at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the paint like constellations. You tell yourself that tomorrow you’ll wake up and this will feel smaller. Manageable. A footnote in the article. A scandalous aside you can laugh about later.
You’ll frame it right. You always do. But your mind betrays you, drifting back, not to the kiss, not to the heat of it, but to what came after. The way he didn’t rush you. The way his thumb traced slow, absent-minded patterns like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. The way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay, like the answer actually mattered.
Pity doesn’t sound like that. You roll onto your side, hugging a pillow to your chest, annoyed at yourself for the small, traitorous sting behind your eyes. Get a grip. This is a bet. A game. A ten-day experiment designed to prove a point about men and control and emotional incompetence. You’re not supposed to feel things. You’re supposed to observe them. And yet. The thought of him touching you out of obligation makes your chest ache in a way that feels suspiciously like disappointment. Which is ridiculous. You don’t want his desire. That would complicate everything. So you cling harder to the lie. It was pity. It was situational. It meant nothing.
You repeat it until your breathing evens out, until the night quiets around you again. But somewhere, beneath the practiced logic and carefully stacked excuses, a softer truth presses back, unwelcome and stubborn and terrifying in its simplicity: If it really had been pity…it wouldn’t hurt like this.
When the audience enters the arena, the game stops belonging to the players.
Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. The article goes live at 7:02 a.m., sharp enough to feel intentional. You don’t even reread it this time. You already know exactly how it sounds.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 6: MEDIA PRESSURE
If one man won’t break, let everyone else do the work. Introduce an audience. Encourage opinions. Frame the narrative so loudly that silence feels like failure. Men don’t fear commitment, they fear humiliation. Let’s test that.
— Yours truly,
xoxo
You hit publish and sit back, phone warm in your hand, heartbeat steady in that way it only gets when you’re about to detonate something. The first notification lands before you’ve even locked the screen. Then another. Then five more. By the time you’re brushing your teeth, your phone is vibrating like it’s possessed.
DECELIS UNI GOSSIP — POLL POSTED🗳️ Will Park Sunghoon survive Day 6?▢ Absolutely. He’s built different.
▢ He’s already gone.
▢ I give him 48 hours.
▢ Who cares, I’m invested either way.
You choke on toothpaste. Someone’s already screenshotting the poll and dropping it into group chats with crying emojis and football references. Someone else adds a slow zoom edit of Sunghoon from last night’s practice with dramatic music. A professor you definitely have for media ethics likes the post and then, very obviously, unlikes it. The experiment isn’t just yours anymore. It’s entertainment. By the time you leave your dorm, the campus feels different. Charged. Like you’re walking through the aftermath of something loud and public and slightly illegal.
People glance up when you pass. Some grin. Some whisper. One girl actually salutes you like you’re a general going to war. Someone mutters, “She’s insane,” and it sounds like admiration. You should feel powerful. You mostly feel… aware. You scan the quad automatically. Old habit. You don’t see him. Not by the fountain where he usually waits between classes. Not by the steps where his teammates loiter. Not cutting across the grass with that easy, controlled stride like the world never asks him to rush.
Your stomach tightens, just a little. Get it together. You head inside, weaving through the morning rush. Every other conversation sounds like static until your name slices through it.
“—did you see the poll—”
“—I swear he looked pissed yesterday—”
“—no because if he folds I’ll lose my mind—”
You take the stairs two at a time, jaw set, pulse ticking faster with every landing. Where are you? You find him by accident. Or maybe instinct. He’s standing in the corner of the hallway outside the lecture wing, half-shadowed by the tall windows. Not leaning. Not scrolling. Not talking to anyone. Waiting. His duffel bag hangs loose from one shoulder. His hoodie is zipped all the way up like armor. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump when someone laughs too loudly nearby. And his eyes, dark. Focused.
Locked straight onto you the second you look up. The air between you goes sharp. Everything else fades: the foot traffic, the murmurs, the stupid buzzing of your phone as another notification rolls in. It’s just the two of you, suspended in a moment that suddenly feels very, very real. You slow without meaning to. He doesn’t move. There’s something different about him today. Not anger, not exactly. It’s restraint. Pressure held too long. Like he’s standing still only because he’s chosen to.
You stop a few feet away. For a second, neither of you speaks. You’re acutely aware of how exposed this is. Of how many eyes could be watching even if none of them seem to be right now. Of the fact that your article is open on half the phones in this building. “You made it public,” he says finally. His voice is low. Even. Dangerous in its calm. You lift your chin. “You knew that was coming.” “I knew you’d write,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d turn it into a spectator sport.”
You bristle. “That’s rich, coming from the campus golden boy.” Something flickers across his face at that. Not offense. Recognition. “You put a poll up,” he continues, stepping closer. Not invading your space, just enough to remind you of the height difference. Of the weight of him. “Do you know what that does?” You do. You just hadn’t wanted to think about it this early. “It pressures the subject,” you say coolly. “That’s the point.” His mouth curves, humorless. “You’re not studying anymore.” “And you are?” you shoot back. “Because last I checked, you agreed.”
“I agreed to an experiment,” he says. “Not a referendum.” The word lands harder than you expect. Around you, someone laughs. A phone camera clicks. The world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware that something fragile is stretching thin. You glance past him, just for a second, see two girls pretending not to stare, see a guy very obviously texting with his phone angled your way.
When you look back at Sunghoon, his expression has tightened further. “You like the attention,” he says, not accusing. Observing. You open your mouth, ready with something sharp and clever and dismissive, and stop. Because you don’t. Not like this. You like control. You like authorship. You like knowing where the line is. This feels like the line is moving without asking you.
“You don’t get to rewrite the rules now,” you say instead, quieter than before. “Not because people are watching.” His gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. “That’s the problem,” he says. “They’re not watching you.” Your pulse kicks. “They’re watching me lose.” The words sit between you, heavy and undeniable. For the first time, the scorecard feels irrelevant. For the first time, the experiment feels like it’s outgrown its margins. You straighten. “If you want out—” “I don’t,” he cuts in. Fast. Certain. That should reassure you. It doesn’t. “Then don’t glare at me like that,” you say, forcing lightness back into your tone. “It ruins the brand.”
His lips twitch despite himself. Just barely. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs. “And you’re not the only one who gets hurt when it spirals.” You swallow.
“I can handle it.” He studies you for a long second. Really looks. Like he’s trying to decide whether that’s true, or whether he believes you even if it is.
Then he steps back. Just one pace. Enough to reintroduce space. Enough to remind you that this is still pretend. Still public. Still a performance. “Then don’t disappear on me today,” he says. “If we’re doing this, we do it clean.” You nod, sharper than you mean to. “Fine.” He turns to leave, then pauses. Without looking back, he adds, “And stop pretending you don’t feel the weight of it. You’re better than that.” Then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd, the whispers, the polls and predictions and stupid edits with dramatic music. You stand there longer than necessary, heart thudding, phone buzzing again in your hand.
DECELIS UNI GOSSIP: Poll Update: 62% say Sunghoon’s already emotionally compromised.
You exhale slowly. Day 6 has begun. And for the first time, you’re not sure who the audience is rooting for anymore. He ignores you the entire day. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Not in a way that invites confrontation. Which is worse. He doesn’t look at you in the hallway. Doesn’t slow when you pass. Doesn’t text. Doesn’t send one of those clipped, annoyingly precise messages that always sound like he’s three steps ahead of you. When you sit two rows behind him in lecture, he doesn’t turn, not once. His posture is perfect. His attention fixed forward. Like you don’t exist. By noon, your confidence has started to fray. You tell yourself it’s strategy. A counter. He warned you he’d draw a boundary, this must be it. A withdrawal maneuver. Starve the experiment of reaction and wait for you to crack.
Fine. You can play that game. You laugh louder than usual with Manon at lunch. You let Keeho steal fries off your plate and don’t scold him like you normally would. You post an innocuous story, just coffee, sunlight, a caption that reads working on something dangerous, and watch the views climb.
Nothing. No reaction. No message. No subtle acknowledgment that he’s even seen it. Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with competitiveness and everything to do with dread. By late afternoon, you’re restless enough to go looking. You tell yourself it’s for the article. Continuity. Optics. You can’t write about a subject you haven’t observed all day.
That’s the excuse you use as you walk toward the athletic building, heart ticking too fast, fingers curling and uncurling at your sides. You hear it before you see it. Laughter. Low. Female. You slow, instinct screaming. And then you see him. Sunghoon is backed against the brick wall near the side entrance, the quiet one, the one no one uses unless they’re trying not to be seen. His duffel is on the ground at his feet. His hands are on someone else’s waist. She’s pretty. Of course she is. Soft hair, short skirt, fingers threaded into his hoodie like she belongs there. She’s on her toes, pressed close, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
And he’s kissing her. Not hesitant. Not distant. Mouth moving against hers like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s easy. Like it means nothing. The world tilts. You stop short, breath punching out of you as if someone’s landed a blow you didn’t see coming. There’s a sharp, cracking sensation in your chest, too sudden to be dramatic, too deep to be ignored.
Oh. So that’s what that feels like. Your mind scrambles, grasping for footing. Logic. Narrative control. Anything to explain this away before it finishes breaking something important. It’s strategy, you think wildly. Media pressure. Optics. He’s reminding the audience he’s unattached. Proving the poll wrong. Reasserting dominance. You almost laugh.
Because none of that stops the way your throat tightens when his hand slides up her back. Or the way your stomach drops when she smiles against his mouth, pleased, chosen. He pulls back just enough to murmur something you can’t hear. She laughs. Your vision blurs at the edges. You take a step back before you even realize you’re moving. Then another. Your heel scuffs against the concrete, loud in the sudden silence of your head.
Sunghoon looks up. For half a second, nothing happens. Then his eyes meet yours. Whatever expression he was wearing, easy, casual, detached, vanishes. It’s replaced by something sharp and unreadable. A flicker of… something. Surprise? Guilt? Calculation? You don’t wait to find out. You turn and walk away. Not run. You refuse to give him that. You keep your spine straight, your pace even, like your heart isn’t splintering with every step. Like the sound you just heard wasn’t something inside you cracking open. You don’t check your phone. You don’t look back.
You make it halfway down the block before the first tear slips free, hot and humiliating. You swipe it away angrily, jaw clenched. Stupid. This is stupid. You did this. You invited this. You turned intimacy into an experiment and then forgot that experiments have variables you can’t control. He doesn’t owe you anything. The thought is rational. Clean. Correct.
It also hurts like hell. By the time you get back to your dorm, the campus noise feels distant, muffled, like you’re underwater. You shut the door behind you and slide down it, breath finally breaking as you press your forehead to your knees. Your phone buzzes in your hand. A notification. You don’t have to look to know what it is.
DECELIS UNI GOSSIP: SPOTTED: Sunghoon looking VERY alive on Day 6.
Your chest caves in. So this is how he wins, you think dully. Not by breaking. But by reminding you that he never needed you in the first place. You laugh once, softly, the sound edged with something dangerously close to a sob. Fine. Game on. Even as your heart lies in pieces at your feet, one brutal truth settles in, clear and unavoidable: This wouldn’t hurt this much if you weren’t already losing.
You don’t go to your next class. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. You sit on your bed with your phone face-down like it personally betrayed you, legs pulled up to your chest, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands. The world outside your door keeps going, footsteps, laughter, someone arguing loudly on the phone, but you opt out. For once, you don’t feel like being observed.
Your phone buzzes anyway. Once. Twice. Again. You don’t look. You already know it’s him. You imagine the texts without opening them, measured, probably. Annoyingly calm. Something like We should talk or This isn’t what it looked like or, worse, Are you okay?
That one would ruin you. So you don’t give it the chance. You flip the phone over and slide it under your pillow like that might muffle the existence of Park Sunghoon entirely. It doesn’t. Five minutes later, there’s a knock. Then a familiar voice through the door. “Okay, before you say no, we brought snacks.” Manon.
You sigh, defeated. “Come in.” The door opens like a storm. Manon barrels in first, dramatic as ever, carrying two iced coffees and a paper bag like she’s delivering emergency supplies. Keeho follows, already mid-sentence about how he knew athletes were a disease, and Sunoo trails behind them, shutting the door softly, eyes scanning your face in one quick, devastating sweep.
“Oh,” Sunoo says quietly. “Yeah. That’s bad.” You scoff weakly. “Hello to you too.” Keeho drops onto the floor cross-legged like he’s settling in for a war council. “I just want you to know,” he says seriously, “that if violence were legal, I would already be in jail for you.” Manon shoves a coffee into your hands. “Drink. You look like you’ve been personally victimized by a man with good bone structure.” That does it.
You laugh. It comes out broken and surprised, but it’s a laugh, and suddenly your chest loosens just enough to breathe again. Sunoo sits beside you on the bed, close but not crowding, knees tucked up neatly. “Okay,” he says gently. “Start talking. Before Keeho starts hexing people.” Too late. Keeho is already pacing. “I’m just saying, hypothetically, if all his teeth fell out tomorrow—” “—hypothetically,” Manon cuts in, deadpan, “I would thank the universe.” “—and then he tripped,” Keeho continues, warming up, “and fell into, say, a pool of battery acid—” You snort. “Keeho.” “I’m not saying I’d push him,” he says quickly. “I’m just saying I’d hold the ladder.”
Sunoo pats your arm. “We’re workshopping curses. It’s therapeutic.” You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and finally, finally, your eyes sting. “I saw him,” you admit. “With someone else.” The room stills. Manon’s expression sharpens instantly. “Where.” “Kissing,” you add, before anyone can ask. “Like it was nothing.” Keeho’s jaw drops. “Oh, absolutely not.” Sunoo frowns. “That’s… wow.” You stare at your coffee. “I know he doesn’t owe me anything. I know this is technically part of the game. But it still—” You gesture vaguely at your chest. “It still sucked.”
“That’s because,” Manon says, sitting on the arm of the chair like a queen about to pass judgment, “you’re a human being with feelings. Tragic flaw, I know.” Keeho points at you. “You are allowed to be upset. You are encouraged to be upset. I, personally, am upset on your behalf.” Sunoo nudges your shoulder lightly. “You didn’t imagine it. It mattered.” That’s the one that lands.
You swallow hard. “I feel stupid,” you confess. “I built this whole thing. I made it public. I turned it into content. And now I’m acting like I didn’t know this could happen.” “That doesn’t make you stupid,” Sunoo says softly. “It makes you honest.” Manon nods. “And brave, honestly. Messy, sure. But brave.” Keeho flops back dramatically onto the floor. “Also, for the record, he’s an idiot.”
You huff. “You were literally praising his jawline last week.” “That was before he emotionally compromised you,” Keeho replies. “Now he’s dead to me.” You sit there with them, coffee cooling in your hands, snacks forgotten on the desk, wrapped in the strange comfort of chaos and loyalty and people who don’t need you to be sharp right now. Your phone buzzes again under the pillow. You ignore it.
Manon notices anyway and grins. “Good. Let him sweat.” Sunoo leans his head against your shoulder. “You don’t have to decide anything today.” Keeho lifts his head from the floor. “But if you do decide to ruin him, I have ideas.” You laugh again, this time steadier, even as the ache lingers beneath it. Heavy and light at the same time. For now, you let yourself be held up by caffeine, bad jokes, and the knowledge that even if the experiment is spiraling, you’re not alone in the fallout.
Sunghoon realizes he fucked up about three seconds after it happens. Not when her mouth is on his. Not when her hands slide up his chest like they’ve done it before. Not even when he kisses her back. It’s when his brain supplies the wrong face. Yours. The kiss is warm, familiar in the way all meaningless things are. Easy. Automatic. He knows exactly what he’s supposed to do, where to put his hands, how long to linger, when to pull back just enough to make it look real.
That’s the problem. It looks real. But the only thing he can think about is the way you look when you’re trying not to cry. The way your mouth quirks when you’re pretending you’re not affected. The way you’d gone still when he touched you, not startled, not unsure, just present.
He breaks the kiss first. Too fast. The girl blinks up at him, confused, lips parted like she’s waiting for a line he doesn’t have. He gives her something polite. Vague. Safe. A smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. She says something, he doesn’t catch it. He nods anyway. She leaves.
And the silence that follows is brutal. Sunghoon drags a hand down his face and stares at the brick wall like it personally betrayed him. His heart is beating too fast for something that was supposed to be nothing. His chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with panic. He doesn’t know her name.
That realization hits harder than it should. He replays the last ten minutes in his head, searching for it, something, anything, but comes up blank. No name. No detail. No imprint. Just a placeholder where a person should be. That’s when it clicks. He didn’t kiss her because he wanted to. He kissed her because he wanted you, and thought denying that would make it go away.
It doesn’t. It makes it worse. He thinks of your face when you saw him. The way you stopped like you’d hit a wall. The way your eyes went distant before you turned away, pride intact even as something fragile shattered behind it. His stomach drops. Fuck. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t optics. This wasn’t media pressure management or some calculated move to reassert control. This was cowardice.
He’d told himself you were a bet. Clean. Contained. Ten days, a winner, an ending he could live with. He’d framed you as a variable he could manipulate because that was safer than admitting you were a person who got under his skin in ways he didn’t have language for. And he knows, knows, that to you, he’s a game too. A challenge. A headline. Something to win and walk away from with a clever conclusion and clean hands.
You’re both pretending. The difference is, he’s losing control of the pretense. He leans his forehead against the wall and exhales slowly, trying to steady the chaos in his chest. He thinks about the way you’d laughed in the grocery store. About how easy it felt to stand beside you. About how unnatural it now seems to imagine not doing that again. He thinks about your silence today. The way you didn’t answer. Didn’t show. Didn’t perform.
That scares him more than the poll ever did. Because silence means you’re hurt. And hurt means this isn’t just an experiment anymore. Sunghoon straightens, jaw tight, heart heavy with a truth he didn’t plan for and doesn’t know how to undo. You are a bet to him. He is a game to you. And somehow, against his better judgment, against every rule he’s ever lived by, he’s falling for you anyway.
The article goes live late. Not because you hesitate. But because cleverness feels dangerous right now, and you don’t trust yourself not to bleed through the margins.
You reread it three times before posting. Not to polish. To make sure it still sounds like you. Detached. Observant. Sharp enough to cut without revealing where the blade came from. It does. That’s the problem.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 7: THE WITHDRAWAL
When a man no longer responds to provocation, remove yourself entirely. No confrontation. No explanation. No spectacle. Nothing destabilizes control like the absence of reaction. If he notices, you mattered. If he doesn’t, you already have your answer.
— Yours truly,
xoxo
You stare at the screen for a long moment after it posts. The scorecard sits below it, blank and waiting. You don’t look. You close your laptop instead, the quiet click sounding louder than it should, and lie back on your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. Your chest feels tight. Not panicked. Just… bruised. Like something’s been pressed on for too long and hasn’t been released yet.
Withdrawal is strategy, you tell yourself. Distance is control. Silence is power. You sleep badly anyway. The next morning, campus feels… watchful. Not loud like yesterday. There are no polls shoved in your face, no notifications popping up every five seconds, no one loudly reading excerpts out of context. It’s quieter than that. Thinner. Taut. Like the air itself is waiting for something to snap.
People look at you longer than usual. People look past you, too, toward wherever Sunghoon might be. Manon links her arm through yours the second you step outside, like she’s anchoring you to something solid. “I swear to God,” she’s already saying, voice sharp with righteous fury, “if one more man tells me he’s ‘emotionally unavailable’ like that’s a personality trait and not a warning label—” You hum noncommittally, eyes scanning the quad without meaning to. “You’re dating men who think liking one sad playlist counts as depth.”
“EXACTLY,” she snaps, vindicated. “They’re just… not enough. None of them are. I’m bored. I’m spiritually underwhelmed. I want someone who ruins my life a little.” You snort despite yourself. “That’s a dangerous desire.” “Worth it,” she says immediately. “Men are either too much or not enough. There’s no in-between.” You’re smiling when you see him. Not because you’re happy. Because your body recognizes him before your mind catches up.
He’s across the quad, duffel slung over his shoulder, walking with his head slightly bowed like he’s arguing with himself. He looks tired. Not rumpled, Sunghoon is never that, but worn around the edges. Like sleep didn’t stick. Like something’s been gnawing at him since yesterday. Your chest tightens. Instinct screams at you to slow down. To look again. To confirm he’s really there. You don’t. You keep walking. Keep talking. Keep nodding at Manon’s story about a disastrous date involving a man who thought negging was a personality.
“And then he said, get this,‘You’re intimidating, but in a hot way,’” she scoffs. “Immediate ick.” “Immediate,” you agree, voice steady enough to fool even yourself. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sunghoon stop. Not hesitate. Stop. His gaze snaps up, sharp and searching, finding you too late. You’re already passing him. Already mid-laugh. Already moving on like he’s not the gravitational center of your week.
You don’t turn. You don’t acknowledge the shift in the atmosphere. And everyone clocks it. Whispers ripple like a wave. Phones tilt subtly. Someone actually gasps, hand flying to their mouth like they’re watching live television. “Wait,” Manon mutters under her breath, finally clocking it. “Are we… are we ignoring him?” “Yes,” you say lightly. “We’re discussing your love life.” “Oh,” she says, delighted. Then, louder, “ANYWAY, I just think men need to try harder. Like, if you can’t emotionally devastate me a little, what’s the point?”
You hear it then, the soft scuff of footsteps behind you. Sunghoon catches up easily. Too easily. “Hey,” he says. Your name follows, quieter. Careful. Like he’s afraid it might break if he says it too loudly. You don’t respond. Manon does, though. She beams like she’s just been handed front-row seats. “Hi! Oh my God, you’re the football guy.” Sunghoon doesn’t look at her.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks. You keep walking. “About what?” you ask, not looking at him. The tone is polite. Distant. Impeccably controlled. He falters. Just for a second. “About yesterday,” he says. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you reply smoothly, still angled toward Manon. “Did I tell you about the part where he split the bill?” Manon clutches her chest. “Oh, don’t get me started.” Sunghoon reaches out, then stops himself inches from your arm. “I messed up,” he says, low enough that only you can hear.
That’s the first crack. Your steps slow despite yourself. Manon feels it instantly. She squeezes your arm once. “I’ll… go terrorize someone else,” she murmurs, already backing away. The look she gives Sunghoon is lethal. “Try not to traumatize her.” And then you’re alone with him. The quad suddenly feels too open. Too exposed. Like the world has zoomed out just to watch this happen. Sunghoon steps in front of you, not aggressive, not blocking, just enough that you have to stop. Up close, the signs are impossible to miss. The tension in his jaw. The faint shadows under his eyes. The way his hands keep flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” he says. You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Congratulations.” “I mean it,” he insists. “I wasn’t thinking.” “That much is obvious.” He exhales, frustration bleeding through his control. “You didn’t even let me explain.” “You kissed someone else,” you say, finally looking at him. Your eyes don’t soften. “What explanation could possibly improve that?” His throat bobs. “I thought I was doing what you wanted.”
The words hang there. “What I wanted,” you repeat quietly. “Yes,” he says. “Distance. Detachment. Proof that I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter.”
“No,” you agree. “It doesn’t.” Something breaks across his face. “That’s not true,” he says softly. You step closer before you can stop yourself. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough that the noise of campus fades again, like it always does when it’s just the two of you. “For days,” you say, voice low and shaking despite your best efforts, “you let me believe this was… something. And the second it got hard, you proved exactly why I wrote the article in the first place.”
“That’s not fair.” “Neither was watching you kiss someone else.” Silence crashes down between you. His gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly. Instinctive. Uncontrolled. Your heart stutters. For one terrifying second, it feels like he might say it. Like he might close the distance and ruin both of you completely. “I think about you,” he says instead. Quiet. Barely there. “More than I should.”
Your breath catches. This is it. This is the almost. Footsteps cut through the moment, loud, rushed. “HOON! COACH IS LOOKING FOR YOU.”
The spell shatters. Sunghoon blinks like he’s waking from something dangerous. His shoulders square. His mask slams back into place. “I—” He stops. Swallows. “I’ll see you.” You snort once, the sound is bitter and ripples straight from your chest. “Yeah,” you say. “Maybe.”
He hesitates, then turns away, disappearing into the crowd like something monumental didn’t just fail to happen. You stand there long after he’s gone, hands trembling slightly at your sides. Almost confessed. Almost kissed. Almost honest. You pull your phone out, not to text, not to spiral, but to open the article draft. Not to write. Just to remind yourself this is still an experiment. That you’re still in control. But your chest still aches. You’re not sure what you’d do if he actually said the words out loud.
You don’t hear him call your name at first. The hallway outside the gym is chaos, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against tile, someone laughing too loudly like they’re trying to prove they’re not exhausted. The air smells like sweat and cheap deodorant and floor cleaner. It’s all noise, all movement, all distraction. You’re tuned out.
Walking shoulder to shoulder with Manon, your brain is still stuck somewhere between the quad and that moment where Sunghoon’s mouth hovered too close to yours and then didn’t cross the line. Your body feels wrong, too aware, too tight, like it never got the memo that you’re supposed to be detached now.
“I’m serious,” Manon is saying, waving her water bottle like she’s making a point in court. “Men are just… disappointing. Like, why do they all think bare minimum deserves applause?” You hum in agreement, eyes straight ahead. “Manon, baby, you’ve been talking about this since the morning.” She groans and mutters something incomprehensible under her breath. Probably cursing your bloodline for being right. You do not look to the left. But you feel him.
It’s not subtle. It never is with him. There’s a shift, like the air itself tightens, like conversations falter half a beat too late. From the corner of your eye, you catch movement: Sunghoon peeling away from Jay, Jake, and Ni-ki mid-conversation. He doesn’t explain himself. Doesn’t slow. His duffel hangs loose on one shoulder, practice jacket unzipped, hair still damp at the nape of his neck. He’s coming straight for you. Manon clocks it instantly. Her grip tightens just a little around your arm. She keeps talking, louder now, deliberate. “I mean, if I wanted emotional whiplash, I’d go to an amusement park—” “Hey,” Sunghoon says. He sounds breathless. Not like he just finished practice, like he’s been holding something in for too long. “Can we talk? We didn’t finish earlier.”
You don’t answer. You don’t even turn your head. You keep walking. The hallway notices. There’s a very specific kind of silence that follows, not total, not dramatic, just… attentive. Curious. Hungry. Like a dozen people have decided, collectively, to pretend they’re not watching.
Manon glances at you, eyebrows lifting in a silent oh. But she keeps pace, loyal to the bit. Sunghoon’s jaw tightens. You can see it without looking at him. “I just need a minute.” Nothing. You pass the science wing. The vending machines hum. You’re almost at the stairs when suddenly, your wrist is warm. He grabs you. Not hard. Never hard. Just enough to stop you. Enough to say please without using the word. “Sunghoon—” Manon starts.
“I’ll bring her back,” he says quickly, already steering you sideways, his hand still firm around your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Manon doesn’t fight it. She just tilts her head and calls after you, sweet and venomous, “Don’t commit crimes!” The janitor’s closet door opens and closes in one sharp motion.
Click. The sound echoes. The space is small. Too small for two people who are already wound this tight. Cleaning supplies line the walls, mops, buckets, bottles with half-peeled labels. The air smells faintly like soap and dust and something industrial. The light hums overhead. Sunghoon is right there. Too close. Breathing hard. Chest rising and falling like he ran here instead of walking. His eyes are dark, not angry, not gentle, just overwhelmed, like he’s been holding himself together with sheer force of will.
“What is your problem?” he snaps. The words are sharp, but his hands are shaking. You laugh, short and breathless. “Wow. Straight to that?” “You won’t answer me,” he says, frustration bleeding through now. “You won’t even look at me.” “Good observation,” you reply lightly. “You’re learning.” He swears under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “You can’t just ignore me like this.”
“Watch me.” That’s when something in him breaks. He steps forward, crowding you back against the shelves. The bottles rattle softly behind you. His hands come up automatically, bracketing your waist, not rough, not gentle, just desperate, like he needs to anchor himself to something solid. And then he kisses you. It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s frustration and longing and restraint snapping under pressure. His mouth is warm and insistent, like he’s trying to say everything he never did without using words. Like he’s been waiting for permission he finally decided to take.
You gasp against his lips, fingers curling into the fabric of his practice jacket. “Sunghoon—” He kisses you again. Shorter. Slower. Like he realizes what he’s doing even as he does it. “You don’t get to do that,” you whisper, voice unsteady. Another kiss, lighter now. Almost reverent. “You don’t get to act like nothing happened.”
A kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your jaw. Everywhere except where you’re trying to speak, like he’s avoiding the argument and the truth all at once. “I hate you,” you breathe. He stills. Forehead resting against yours, eyes closed, his hands remain at your waist, thumbs moving without thinking. When he speaks, his voice is wrecked.
“No,” he says quietly. “You don’t.” Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. You’re sure he feels it. “This is a game,” you say, forcing the words out. “For both of us.” His breath stutters. “I know,” he admits. “And I’m losing.” The door rattles suddenly, someone passing by too close, and reality slams back into place like cold water. Sunghoon pulls away just enough to really look at you. To take you in like this, flushed, breathing hard, eyes bright with something neither of you wants to name. His expression is wrecked. Guilty. Wanting. Terrified. “I meant what I almost said earlier,” he murmurs. “I—”
Footsteps stop outside. Someone clears their throat. Sunghoon lets out a shaky, bitter breath. “Of course.” You don’t let him finish. You slip past him before he can reach for you again, fingers brushing the door handle. Before you leave, you glance back, just once. He’s standing there, surrounded by mops and cleaning supplies and the consequences of his own hesitation. “Figure out what you want,” you say softly. “Then come find me.” And then you’re gone. The door clicks shut.
Sunghoon stays there long after the hallway noise fades back in, staring at the spot where you stood, chest aching with the realization settling deep and unwelcome in his bones, this was never just a point on a scoreboard. The door clicks shut behind you. That’s all it takes. Sunghoon exhales a laugh that sounds wrong even to his own ears, too sharp, too breathless and then he’s sliding down the wood like his bones forgot how to hold him upright. His shoulder hits first. Then his spine. Then he’s sitting on the floor with his knees pulled in, fist buried in his hair like if he grips hard enough he can rip the thought of you out by the root.
He laughs again. Bitter. Broken. Almost hysterical. “Unbelievable,” he mutters to no one, staring at the opposite wall like it personally betrayed him. He told you. He actually told you.
Seven days, a week, of pretending this was a game. Four days of rules and schedules and sarcasm and controlled distance, and then tonight, one stupid crack in his armor, one look at you standing there too close, and suddenly his mouth was spilling confessions like they’d been waiting for permission. The way he watches you when you’re not looking. The way your laugh sticks to him hours after it fades. The way this fake thing stopped feeling fake sometime around Day Two. You hadn’t said anything. That’s the part that hurts most.
He presses the heel of his palm into his eye, breathing through it, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Somewhere down the hall, he hears voices, yours, shaky and distant, and Manon’s sharp disbelief. “What the fuck was that?” she asks. Sunghoon doesn’t hear your answer.
He doesn’t need to. Because he knows the sound of you when you’re unraveling. He’s memorized it without meaning to. The way your steps drag. The way your voice goes thin, like you’re holding something fragile together with bare hands.
His head tips back against the door. “Idiot,” he whispers. To himself. Always to himself.
You don’t remember getting to your room. You remember your hand on the wall, steadying yourself. You remember Manon saying your name twice before giving up. You remember the click of your door, softer than it should’ve been. Now you’re on your bed. Still in your clothes. Still breathing like you ran a mile. The bottle on your nightstand is tipped just slightly on its side, amber catching the light, half-drunk and forgotten until now. You don’t remember opening it, but the burn in your throat says you did. Your eyes sting. Not crying. Not yet. Just… glassy. Red-rimmed. Empty in that too-full way.
You stare at the ceiling, replaying his voice over and over like your brain doesn’t know how to stop. I don’t know when it stopped being a joke. I don’t know why it’s you. I tried not to feel this. Your fingers curl into the sheets. You hadn’t been ready for honesty. Not his. Not like that. Outside your door, the hallway is quiet again. Somewhere else in the apartment, Sunghoon is probably still sitting on the floor, head in his hands, laughing at himself for breaking the rules first. And here you are, wide awake, half-drunk, heart pounding too loud for a fake relationship, thinking about the way his voice shook when he said your name.
Thinking about how real it sounded. Thinking about how neither of you knows how to undo it now. You don’t let yourself think. If you do, you’ll talk yourself out of it, convince yourself it’s the alcohol, the exhaustion, the humiliation of being seen too clearly. So you don’t think. You move.
Coat over pajama shorts. No bra. Flipflops slapped on with shaking hands. Phone left behind. Dignity already gone, so why bother packing it. The hallway is too bright. The elevator takes too long. Every step toward Sunghoon’s dorm feels like treason against the version of you who promised to keep this fake. By the time you get there, your heart is trying to claw its way out of your throat. You knock.
Sharp. Loud. Once. Inside, Sunghoon is standing in the middle of his room with a half-folded hoodie in his hands. The bed is a mess of clean laundry. His eyes burn. He swiped at them not even a second ago, annoyed at himself for being like this, for letting it get to him. The knock makes him flinch.
“Jake,” he calls, voice hoarse, not even bothering to hide the irritation, “please fuck off, I already told you—” He opens the door. And freezes. You’re standing there in pajama shorts and flipflops like you forgot how to be a sensible human being. Hair messy. Coat too big. Eyes still red, still glossy, still ruined in a way that makes something inside his chest snap.
“…oh,” he breathes. That’s all he gets out. Because you grab him by the collar of his t-shirt and yank him forward, hard, like you’re afraid if you hesitate for even half a second you’ll lose your nerve. Your mouth crashes into his. It’s not gentle. It’s not clean. It’s heat and frustration and four days of restraint going up in flames. Your lips are chapped, tasting faintly of alcohol, and Sunghoon makes a sound low in his throat that surprises both of you. For a split second, his hands hover uselessly at his sides. Shock. Disbelief. Fear.
Then instinct takes over. He grabs you back, one hand fisting in your coat, the other cradling your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t anchor you. He kisses you like he’s been starving, like this is something he’s rehearsed in his head and never thought he’d get. You gasp against his mouth, breath hitching, forehead knocking against his as you pull back just enough to breathe. “I couldn’t—” you start, then stop, shaking. “I couldn’t sit there anymore.”
Sunghoon’s forehead drops to yours. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, like a confession. Like a plea. “I know.” Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into fabric, grounding yourself in the solid proof of him. You look wrecked. He knows it. He looks wrecked too, eyes red, lashes wet, lips swollen already from kissing you like that. “Say it again,” you whisper. “What you said earlier.”
His jaw tightens. “This isn’t fair,” he says. “I don’t care.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and trembling. Sunghoon exhales, shaky, defeated. “I meant it,” he says finally. “All of it. And if you walk out after this, I don’t know if I can pretend again.” You swallow. “Then don’t.” That’s all it takes. He kisses you again, but this time it’s slower, desperate in a different way, like he’s trying to memorize you. Like this is no longer about impulse, but choice.
Outside, the hallway stays quiet. Inside, the rules are officially dead. He doesn’t break the kiss when he moves. The door gets kicked shut behind you with his heel, hard enough to rattle the frame, and that sound is what finally makes this real. Not a mistake. Not a drunk spiral. A decision with weight.
Sunghoon’s hand stays firm at your jaw as he backs you up, guiding without asking, like he already knows where this is going. You stumble once, breath hitching, fingers clutching at his shirt, and he steadies you instantly. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked. The room blurs past you. Desk. Chair. The stupid folded laundry on the bed he never finished because he couldn’t stop thinking about you. And then, the bed. The same one. The realization hits you both at the same time. You feel it in the way he stills, the way his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s bracing for something heavier than desire. “This is—” you start.
“I know,” he cuts in, quietly. He doesn’t let you finish because if you do, you might both stop. He turns you, guiding you down, following you without hesitation, like muscle memory pulls him forward. The mattress dips beneath your weight, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. This bed has already seen you stripped bare once, seen the lie of just for the bet, just for the experiment. Sunghoon hovers over you, hands planted on either side of your head, breathing hard.
“This is where it happened,” you whisper, not accusing. Just stating the truth. His eyes search your face like he’s looking for permission, absolution, damnation, anything. “Yeah,” he says. “And that’s why you should tell me to stop.” You don’t.
Instead, you reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where your kiss left him swollen and red. “I came here,” you say softly, voice shaking but sure, “because I don’t want to pretend this didn’t matter.” Something breaks in his expression. He closes his eyes for half a second, forehead dropping to yours, breath shuddering out of him. “Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re going to ruin me.”
You smile sadly. “Too late.” He kisses you again, slower than before, deeper, like he’s sealing something sacred and doomed all at once. His hand slips into yours, fingers lacing tight, grounding, intimate in a way that feels worse than anything reckless. The room goes quiet around you. No audience. No rules. No experiment. Just the two of you, back where it started, this time knowing exactly what you’re risking. And neither of you pulls away.
He doesn’t rush. He never does when it’s like this, when the pretense has cracked open and there’s nothing left to hide behind. His free hand finds the hem of your shirt again, knuckles brushing your stomach in a slow, deliberate sweep. He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, eyes dark and searching. “Can I?” he asks, voice low, wrecked.
You nod. Lift your arms. He peels the shirt off you like it’s something fragile, something he’s afraid to tear. Folds it once, habit, stupidly tender, before setting it on the nightstand. Then his hands are back on you, palms sliding up your bare sides, thumbs tracing the underside of your ribs like he’s counting every breath. Your bra follows next. He reaches behind you, fingers deft but careful, unhooks it without looking away from your face. The straps slide down your arms. He catches the lace before it falls, sets it aside with the same quiet reverence.
When you’re bare from the waist up, he exhales like the sight of you hurts him. “God,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at you.” He leans in, kisses the center of your chest, soft, open-mouthed, then trails lower. Slow kisses across the swell of one breast, then the other. Tongue flicking once over a nipple, gentle, testing, until it pebbles under his mouth. You arch, small, involuntary, and he groans against your skin. “Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
He kisses his way back up, jaw, cheek, temple, then finds your mouth again. Deeper this time. Tongues sliding lazy and hot, like he’s trying to taste every corner of you. His hands move to your jeans. Button. Zipper. He hooks his fingers into the waistband, pauses. “Still with me?” he murmurs against your lips. “Always,” you whisper back. He pulls them down, jeans, underwear together, slow enough that you feel every inch of fabric dragging over your thighs, your calves. He kneels to tug them off your ankles, presses a kiss to the inside of one knee, then the other. Worshipful. Unhurried.
When he rises again, he’s still fully dressed, sweatshirt, sweats, everything, but the outline of him is unmistakable. Hard. Straining. You reach for the hem of his sweatshirt. He lets you pull it off. The sight of him shirtless still steals your breath, broad shoulders, carved collarbones, the tight, ridged planes of his abs flexing with every breath. You drag your nails lightly down the center of his stomach, watching the muscles jump under your touch. “Jesus,” you breathe.
He huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s strained. “Keep looking at me like that and this ends before it starts.” You smile, small, wicked, and pull him down on top of you. He settles between your thighs, weight braced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. Kisses you again, slow, filthy, tongues curling, while one hand skates down your body. Over your breast, your waist, the soft curve of your hip. Then lower.
He cups you, palm warm, possessive, then slides two fingers through your folds. Finds you already slick, swollen, aching. “Fuck,” he swears softly. “You’re soaked.” “For you,” you gasp when he circles your clit once, light, teasing. He groans. Kisses you harder. Slips one finger inside, slow, careful, then another. Crooks them just right, pressing against that spot that makes your hips jerk. “Like that?” he murmurs against your mouth.
You nod, frantic, nails digging into his shoulders. He works you open like that, slow, steady pumps, thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit. Kissing you the whole time, lips, jaw, throat, like he can’t bear to stop tasting you. “You feel so good,” he whispers. “So fucking tight around my fingers. Can’t wait to feel you on my cock.” You whimper, high, desperate. He kisses the sound away.
When your thighs start trembling, when your breath hitches every time he curls his fingers, he pulls them out, slow, brings them to his mouth and licks them clean while holding your gaze. The sight of it, his tongue dragging over his own fingers, tasting you, makes heat flood your core all over again. He reaches between you, shoves his sweats down just enough. His cock springs free, heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance. Pauses.
“Look at me,” he says, voice rough, pleading. You do. He pushes in, slow. Inch by torturous inch. You both exhale at the same time when he bottoms out, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. “Fuck,” he chokes out. “You’re—shit, you’re perfect.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just stays buried deep, letting you adjust, letting you feel every thick inch of him stretching you open. Then, slowly, he rolls his hips. Long, languid thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. He swears under his breath, low, broken, every time you clench around him. “God, baby,” he groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”
He kisses you through it, messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every gasp and moan you make. One hand finds yours again, fingers lacing tight, while the other slides up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek. He fucks you like he’s making love. Slow. Deep. Unhurried. Every thrust deliberate, measured, like he’s trying to imprint himself into every part of you. You feel the coil tightening again, hot, bright, overwhelming.
“Sunghoon—” Your voice cracks. “I know,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Come for me, pretty girl. Let me feel it.” He angles his hips just right, grinding against your clit with every roll, and you shatter.
The orgasm rolls through you slow and shattering, waves of pleasure that make your toes curl, your back arch, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He fucks you through it, slow, steady, drawing it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, clinging to him. Only then does he let himself go. A few more deep thrusts, harder now, chasing, until he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a low, guttural groan. Pulsing inside you, hot and endless, face pressed to the side of your neck. He doesn’t pull out.
Just collapses over you, careful not to crush, arms wrapping around your back, holding you close. You stay like that, sweaty, tangled, breathing hard. He presses soft kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your mouth. “Stay,” he whispers against your skin. “Just… stay.”
You thread your fingers through his damp hair. Nod. “I’m not going anywhere.” He exhales, shaky, relieved. And for the first time since the hallway collision, since the bet he still hasn’t told you about, he lets himself believe, maybe, just maybe, this could be real. Even if the truth is still waiting to burn everything down. The room feels different once it’s over.
Not quiet, just… rearranged. Like the air itself has shifted and hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet. Sunghoon is the first to move. He sits up, dragging a hand down his face, breath evening out, the familiar armor already clicking back into place piece by piece. When he speaks, his voice is lighter. Easier. Almost practiced. “We should probably,” he says, exhaling a short laugh, “get back on track.”
You don’t respond right away. He glances at you, catching the way you’re staring at the ceiling instead of him, lashes clumped, mouth parted like you’re still somewhere else. “I mean,” he adds, softer but still careful, “we agreed. Going soft now won’t exactly help. Someone’s gotta finish the article, right?”
There it is. The word article lands between you like something dropped and sharp. You turn your head slowly to look at him. He’s already halfway back to being Sunghoon. The confident one. The one who knows how to compartmentalize. Who knows how to survive by pretending things don’t touch him as deeply as they do. Your chest tightens. “So,” you say quietly, “that’s what this is now?”
He frowns, just slightly. “That’s not what I—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in, sitting up. The sheet slides down your shoulder, but you don’t bother pulling it back. “No, seriously. You’re right.” That seems to throw him off more than anger would’ve. You swing your legs off the bed and stand, ignoring the way your knees feel weak, the way your body still hums with something unresolved. You cross the room and start gathering your clothes, slowly, deliberately, like each piece is another choice being made.
Sunghoon watches you, confusion creeping in. “Hey. What are you doing?” You don’t look at him as you tug on your shirt. “Going back to normal,” you say. “Isn’t that what you want?” “That’s not—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “You’re twisting this.”
You finally face him then, fingers curling around your jacket. “Am I?” you ask, not loud, not dramatic. Just honest. “Because five minutes ago you were telling me things you don’t say to anyone. You kissed me like you were scared I’d disappear. And now you’re talking about optics.”
Silence. He opens his mouth. Closes it. You laugh, but it’s brittle. “Wow. That answers it.” You pull on your coat, shove your feet into your shoes without bothering to sit. Your hands shake, and you hate that he can see it. “I came here because I thought—” You stop yourself, swallowing. “Doesn’t matter.” He stands abruptly. “You’re overreacting.”
That’s the wrong thing to say. You straighten, something cold settling into place. Familiar. Protective. “Right,” you nod. “My mistake.” You walk past him toward the door. He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. “Don’t do this,” he says quietly.
You pull your hand back. “Fine,” you say, voice flat. “If that’s what you want.” The door opens. Before you leave, you glance over your shoulder one last time. He’s standing in the middle of the room, bare feet on the floor, expression torn between frustration and something dangerously close to panic.
“You don’t get to have it both ways,” you tell him. “Not with me.” Then you’re gone. The door shuts behind you with a soft, final click. And Sunghoon stands there, staring at the empty space you left behind, realizing, too late, that pretending this was just part of the game might be the one move he can’t recover from.
Because emotional whiplash is still a strategy.
You go home. You shower. You don’t cry, that would imply softness. Instead, you change. Something short. Something low-cut. Something that says I’m fine in a way that’s obviously a lie. Lip gloss instead of balm. Jewelry you don’t need. You look at yourself in the mirror and practice the expression until it sticks: bored. Untouchable. Dangerous.
By the time you step onto campus, you’re already back in character. Sunghoon sees you before you see him. You know because his stride falters. Because his eyes drop, then snap back up like he’s been burned. You give him nothing, no pause, no glance, not even the satisfaction of pretending you didn’t notice.
You walk past him like he’s furniture. By mid-morning, you’re unbearable on purpose. You interrupt him in class just to correct something trivial. You lean back in your chair when he talks, arms crossed, mouth tilted like you’re amused by how seriously he takes himself. You laugh a second too late at things Jay says, make eye contact with Jake for half a beat longer than necessary.
Sunoo clocks it immediately. You’re walking to class together when he bumps your shoulder lightly. “Wow,” he says, grinning. “Who hurt you?” You smile sweetly. “No one.” He snorts. “Liar. You’re radioactive.” Good. Lunch rolls around. You sit alone. You don’t invite anyone. You don’t look at Sunghoon even when you feel him hovering three tables away, tense, watching. At exactly 12:43 p.m., you publish. No hesitation. No edits. Just a quiet click and a rush that feels like stepping off a ledge.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 8: MOOD SWINGS
If intimacy makes him comfortable, unpredictability will keep him awake. Today’s lesson is simple: Pull back. Dress sharper. Smile colder. Be everything he can’t categorize. Men love to believe they understand the women they’re involved with. Disrupt that narrative. Remind him that access is temporary, affection is conditional, and attention is a privilege, not a promise. If he asks what changed? Say nothing. If he looks unsettled? Perfect. Distance isn’t disinterest. It’s control.
— Yours truly, xoxo
You don’t add a score. You don’t need to. He already knows who’s winning. Across the cafeteria, Sunghoon reads it on his phone. You see the exact moment his jaw tightens. The way his thumb stills. The way something dark and wounded flickers across his face before he schools it back into indifference. He looks up.
You’re already standing. You grab your bag, toss your hair over your shoulder, and walk out like you don’t feel the way your heart is trying to claw out of your chest. Behind you, the game keeps pretending it’s still a game. And you keep pretending that doesn’t hurt. By afternoon, it’s not subtle anymore. You don’t just ignore him, you provoke. You brush past his shoulder in the hallway like he’s in your way. You answer his questions in class with lazy, amused indifference. When his friends talk, you laugh at the wrong moments. You look incredible doing it.
Jake notices first. “Damn,” he says, not quietly. “She’s on demon time today.” Riki snickers. “Hoon, what did you do?” Sunghoon doesn’t laugh. He hasn’t all day. By the time practice ends, his patience is shredded. His friends are still joking about it, about you, about the article, about how whipped he looks, and something in him finally snaps.
You’re at your locker when a shadow falls over you. “Hey,” he says, low. “Move.” You don’t. You just glance at him lazily. “Didn’t know you were waiting for your turn.” That’s when he does it. He steps in close, too close, one arm braced against the lockers by your head. The metal rattles softly. The hallway noise fades, replaced by the sound of your own breathing.
“You think this is funny,” he murmurs near your ear. His voice is calm. Too calm. “You’ve been poking me all day like you want to see how far I’ll go.” Your smile sharpens. “Am I wrong?” “You think you’re funny,” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges. “Parading around like you didn’t leave claw marks on my back last night.”
You arch a brow. “Public image, remember?” His laugh is quiet. Not amused. He leans in further, lips almost brushing your ear now. “You’re gonna make me forget myself,” he says, softer still, threaded with something dangerous. “Keep acting like this and I swear I’ll lose my grip completely.”
There’s an ache, fast, traitorous, pooling heat low in your stomach. You press in anyway, just enough that he feels it. His jaw tightens. He leans in even closer, breath warm, words meant only for you, dark, dangerous, deliberately obscene in implication if not detail. It’s not about what he says as much as how he says it: slow, controlled, like he’s painting the picture just to watch it wreck you.
“You’re gonna make me drag you behind the arts building right now,” he says, quieter still, almost a growl. “Pin you against the wall. Shove that little top up and suck those pretty nipples until you’re begging. Then fuck you stupid against the bricks while everyone walks by.”
Your pulse betrays you anyway. Heat curls low in your stomach. Your thighs press together under the skirt despite yourself, already feeling the slick forming there. You don’t back down. You step closer.
“So scary,” you whisper, sweet as poison, stepping even closer so your chest almost brushes his. “Because your boys are right there. And you’re too chicken to actually do it in daylight.” For half a second, you think he might grab you. His hand twitches, then curls into a fist. “Keep pushing me,” he says, eyes locked on yours, voice rough now. “See what happens the next time we’re alone.”
You hold his gaze. Smile wider. “Looking forward to it.” You duck out from under his arm and walk away like your knees aren’t shaking. Behind you, his friends are still laughing. And Sunghoon is standing there realizing, you didn’t just get under his skin.
You lit a match. You don’t follow him. That’s the mistake. You turn the corner, heart still buzzing from the lockers, pulse loud in your ears, telling yourself you won that exchange, told yourself you meant every sharp word. You’re almost gone when voices drift down the hall. Familiar ones. Laughter first. Loud. A little too loud. Then Sunghoon. He’s angry. You can hear it immediately, the edge in his voice, the way it’s pitched lower than usual, clipped and reckless.
“God, she’s impossible,” he snaps. You stop. Your body freezes before your brain catches up. “What’d she do now?” someone asks, Jake, maybe. It doesn’t matter. Sunghoon exhales hard. “Plays me in front of everyone. Acts like I’m just some headline she hasn’t finished exploiting yet.”
A pause. Someone whistles. “That bad?” “She knows exactly what she’s doing,” he says. “Every look, every outfit, it’s all calculated. It’s literally a bet to her.” The word hits wrong. Your stomach drops. “A bet?” another voice repeats. “Yeah,” Sunghoon scoffs. “Whole thing started as an experiment. How fast she could get me invested. How much she could mess with my head.”
You feel it then, your shoulders locking, breath stuttering like your lungs forgot the rhythm. “That’s brutal,” someone mutters.
“Don’t act surprised,” Sunghoon says, bitter. “She never cared. I’m just content.” There’s more. You know there’s more. Context. Something you’re missing. But your ears start ringing. “She’s not even subtle about it anymore,” he continues, voice sharp with humiliation. “Wakes up, chooses violence, writes another article about how men are stupid for falling for it. Guess I’m today’s cautionary tale.” A laugh, uneasy. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah,” Sunghoon says quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine. I knew what this was.” That’s the line that ruins you. Because you know he’s lying. Your vision blurs at the edges. You swallow hard, but it doesn’t help. Your chest tightens like someone cinched a wire around it. You step back before anyone can see you. Before he can turn around. Before your face gives you away. You walk. Not fast. Not slow. Mechanical. Like if you stop moving, you’ll fall apart in the hallway. It’s a bet to her. She never cared. I knew what this was.
Your room feels too quiet when you finally get there. You shut the door. Lock it. Slide down against it until you’re sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, breath uneven and embarrassing. You stare at nothing. Maybe you didn’t hear everything. Maybe you weren’t supposed to. But the damage is done anyway.
You wipe at your eyes angrily, like that’ll erase it. Like you’re not shaking. Fine. If that’s how he wants to frame it, if that’s the story he’s telling now, you wipe your face, stand up, and open your laptop. The cursor blinks in the draft like it’s waiting. You straighten your shoulders. You harden. You double down. If this is just a game to him now, then you’ll make sure you win it.
And this time, you won’t hesitate. The worst tactic yet. You expect him to walk away. That’s the whole point of today, burn it down so thoroughly that there’s nothing left to stand on. No tension. No longing. No almosts. Just scorched earth and an exit wound.
So you make it ugly. You don’t avoid him this time, you perform. You laugh too loud in class. Sit too close to someone else. Let your hand linger on a forearm that isn’t his. You publish the article mid-morning, sharp and venomous and dripping with implication, the kind that turns private moments into public speculation without naming names. You feel it working immediately.
The looks. The whispers. The way people glance between you and him like they’re watching a slow-motion collision. By afternoon, your phone is buzzing nonstop. You ignore all of it. You don’t ignore him. Because he doesn’t leave. He finds you outside the library just before sunset, when the sky is bruised purple and gold and everything feels like it’s holding its breath.
“Are you done yet?” he asks. No greeting. No restraint. You turn slowly. Smile like a blade. “With what?” “This,” he says, gesturing between you and the world. “Whatever the hell this is.” “Oh,” you say lightly. “You mean the experiment?” His jaw tightens. “Don’t.” “You hate when I call it that in public, right?” you press. “Ruins the illusion?”
“That’s not what this is,” he snaps. You laugh, short, sharp. “Funny. Because it’s exactly what you called it.” Silence. It stretches. Tightens. “What are you talking about?” he asks, but there’s something wrong in his voice already. Something wary. You step closer. Close enough that the air between you hums.
“I heard you,” you say quietly. “The other day. With your friends.” His face drains of color. “You were talking,” you continue, calm and deadly. “About how this was a bet. A game. Content. How I never cared. How you ‘knew what this was.’”
“That’s not—” He stops himself, drags a hand through his hair. “You don’t know the full—” “I don’t need the full truth,” you cut in. “I heard enough.” He exhales, sharp and frustrated. “I was angry.” “So was I,” you fire back. “Funny how only one of us gets forgiven for that.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” “But you said it like that,” you say. “And that’s what matters.” People are staring now. You don’t care. “You think I didn’t know?” you go on, voice shaking despite yourself. “You think I didn’t clock what this was from the start?”
His brow furrows. “Then why—” “Because I thought,” you interrupt, heat flooding your chest, “that maybe if I played along long enough, you’d stop treating me like a fucking case study.” That lands. Hard. “You don’t get to act betrayed,” he says, voice rising now. “You started this. You wrote the rules.”
“And you volunteered,” you shoot back. “You leaned in. You let me believe—” “What?” he snaps. “That I was falling for you?” “Yes,” you shout, finally breaking. “That you were choosing me anyway.” The word choosing hangs there, raw and dangerous. For a second, he looks stunned. Then angry.
“You think this hasn’t been destroying me?” he demands. “You think I don’t wake up every day wondering which version of you I’m getting, the girl who laughs with me in a grocery store or the one who turns my life into a headline?”
“Then why didn’t you walk away?” you cry. “Why are you still here?” Because that’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the one neither of you can outrun. “I don’t know,” he admits, voice rough. “But I tried.” “You kissed someone else,” you say bitterly. “You called me a bet.”
“I fucked up,” he says. “I know that.” “You don’t get to ‘fuck up’ when you’re playing with someone’s heart,” you spit. “Neither do you,” he throws back. “You’re not innocent here.” “I never said I was,” you whisper.
Your chest hurts now. Your throat burns. You’re shaking, hands clenched at your sides like if you let go you’ll collapse. “I knew,” you say suddenly. The words rip out of you before you can stop them. “I knew the whole time.” He freezes. “I knew I was a game to you,” you continue, voice breaking despite your efforts. “I just thought, if I won, maybe it would stop being one.”
The silence after that is deafening. His anger falters. Cracks. “You… thought I was playing you?” he asks slowly. “You said it yourself,” you snap. “To your friends.”
He stares at you like the ground just shifted. “That wasn’t the truth,” he says hoarsely. “Then what was it?” you challenge. “Because from where I’m standing, you only ever defended yourself. Never me.” He opens his mouth. Closes it. You laugh, hollow. “There it is.” You turn to leave. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Desperate. “Don’t,” he says. “You don’t get to end this like that.”
“Oh, but I do,” you reply, yanking free. “That’s the only control I have left.” “You’re wrong,” he says, voice breaking now too. “I didn’t stay because it was a bet.” “Then why?” you demand, tears finally spilling. “Why are you still here?” He steps closer, voice shaking. “Because I couldn’t stop wanting you.”
The confession hits like a punch. Your breath stutters. “That doesn’t erase what you said,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “But walking away won’t either.” You stare at each other, wrecked, exposed, furious, aching. This is the moment everything could end. Or explode. And for the first time since Day One, neither of you knows which outcome would hurt less. Truth, vulnerability, choice. You don’t sleep. Not really. You lie on your bed staring at the ceiling, the dark slowly paling at the edges, your thoughts looping back to the same moments like bruises you keep pressing to see if they still hurt. The grocery store aisle. The lockers. His voice, angry, breaking, honest in all the wrong moments. The way he didn’t walk away when you gave him every reason to.
Your laptop sits closed on the desk. It’s been closed for hours. The draft is already written. It’s been written for days, actually, hovering, unfinished, changing every time you reread it. Every time you remember something that doesn’t fit the narrative you built so carefully at the beginning. At 7:42 a.m., you sit up.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet hit the floor. Cold. Grounding. This is it. You open the laptop. The title blinks at you, familiar and foreign all at once.
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days: Final Results!
Your fingers hover over the keys. You don’t rewrite the whole thing. You just… stop lying.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 10: FINAL RESULTS
This experiment was supposed to be simple. Create emotional instability. Trigger attachment. Force retreat. The hypothesis was that men fear commitment when confronted with intensity, that given enough vulnerability, they will choose distance over discomfort. I believed that. I built a framework around it. Rules. Days. Tactics. A scoreboard. I told myself control was the same thing as clarity.
It isn’t. Somewhere between provocation and pretending, something went wrong. Or maybe something went right.
Because instead of leaving when it got complicated, he stayed. He argued. He got angry. He made mistakes. So did I. And somewhere along the way, the experiment stopped being an experiment and started being… real. I can’t tell you when exactly that happened. Only that by the time I noticed, it was already too late to undo. So here are the results, honestly reported: The experiment failed. Or maybe I did.
Because it turns out you can’t quantify chemistry. You can’t score genuine care. And you definitely can’t “win” when feelings get involved, only decide whether you’re brave enough to keep choosing the same person after the rules fall apart.
This was never about losing a guy. It was about discovering what happens when you stop protecting yourself with irony and start telling the truth.
And the truth is, I don’t know how this ends. But for the first time in ten days, I’m not trying to control it.
— Yours truly, xoxo
You stare at the screen after you post it. No edits. No qualifiers. No scorecard. Your chest feels raw. Exposed. Lighter in a way that scares you. Your phone buzzes immediately. Notifications stacking. Messages you don’t open. Opinions you don’t read.
You close the laptop. Outside, the campus is waking up. Somewhere out there, he’s going to see it. Read it. Realize there’s no punchline waiting at the end. This time, there’s no tactic left. Only choice. And for once, you’re willing to let him make his. It happens at night. Of course it does.
He texts you once, Can we talk? and for the first time in ten days, there’s no edge to it. No anger. No bait. Just exhaustion. You meet him outside his dorm. No crowd. No witnesses. The air is cool, sharp enough to keep you awake. He doesn’t waste time. “There was a bet,” Sunghoon says. Just like that. No easing into it. No defense mechanism. His voice is flat, stripped bare. Your stomach still drops anyway.
“How much?” you ask quietly. He swallows. “That I wouldn’t last the ten days without falling for you. That I’d either walk away, or ruin myself trying not to.” You laugh once, hollow. “And?” “And I lost,” he says. “Almost immediately.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and aching.
“So you admit it,” you say. “It started as a game.” “Yes.” That word lands harder than any insult he ever threw. You nod slowly. Your hands are steady now. That scares you more than shaking would. “I figured,” you say. “I just didn’t know when you’d be brave enough to say it out loud.” His head snaps up. “You knew?” “I suspected,” you reply. “Then I overheard enough to stop giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
He winces. “I said things I didn’t mean.” “I know,” you say. And that’s the worst part, you do know. “But I also know when I stopped pretending.” His breath catches. “When?” “Days ago,” you admit. “Before the grocery store. Before the almost-confession. Before the night I couldn’t write without thinking about you.” He looks at you like that confession hurts worse than his own.
“You should’ve walked away,” he whispers. “So should you.” Neither of you did. The fight doesn’t explode this time. It collapses. You argue anyway, quietly, viciously, with truths instead of accusations. You talk about control. About fear. About how you both hid behind games because honesty felt like free-falling. At some point, you both go silent. There’s nothing left to say that wouldn’t break something. He doesn’t reach for you. You don’t ask him to stay. Eventually, you turn and walk away. And this time, he lets you.
You don’t cry when you get home. You don’t drink. You open your laptop. The article is still live. The comments are still coming. People still think this was entertainment. You stare at the title for a long time. Then you do the thing no one expects. You open a new draft. And you tell the truth again, louder this time.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
FINAL ADDENDUM
How I Lost the Bet, and Fell Anyway
I said the experiment failed. That wasn’t the full truth. The truth is, there was more than one bet being placed. One of them wasn’t mine. Yes, this started as an experiment. Yes, there were rules. Yes, someone underestimated what would happen when feelings got involved.
But somewhere along the way, the score stopped mattering. I stopped pretending first. I stopped writing for shock value. Stopped provoking for reaction. Stopped wanting to “win.” I stayed because I wanted him. He stayed because he couldn’t leave.
That doesn’t excuse the hurt. It doesn’t erase the mistakes. It doesn’t magically turn this into a fairytale. But it does mean this wasn’t fake. So here’s the final result, no irony, no performance:
I lost the bet. And I fell anyway. Whether that makes me foolish or brave… I’ll let you decide.
— xoxo
You publish it. Then, because this part is just for you, you delete the entire series. Every tactic. Every scorecard. Every headline that tried to make love into something measurable. The site goes quiet. Your phone buzzes once. Not notifications, none that matter anyway. Just him.
Sunghoon: I read it.
You don’t reply right away. You close the laptop. You breathe. For the first time, there is no experiment left to hide behind. Only two people. Two choices. And whatever comes next, honestly. He doesn’t even knock.
Your phone buzzes once, Where are you, and then there’s pounding on your door so frantic it rattles the frame. You barely have time to stand before it swings open. Sunghoon looks wrecked. Hair a mess. Eyes red. Breathing hard like he ran the whole way. He takes one look at you and whatever he was holding together completely gives out. He drops. Actually drops, knees hitting the floor with a dull thud, hands bracing on your carpet like he can’t stay upright anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, voice breaking on the first word. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Your chest tightens painfully.
“Sunghoon—”
“No,” he cuts in, shaking his head hard. “Let me say it. Please.” He looks up at you, eyes glassy, jaw trembling in a way you’ve never seen before.
“I turned you into something small when you were never that,” he says. “I talked about you like you were disposable because I was embarrassed that I wasn’t.”
You don’t move. You can’t.
“I started it as a bet,” he continues. “I did. I won’t lie about that ever again. But I swear to you, by the time I realized I was losing, I was already in too deep to know how to stop without getting hurt.”
Tears spill over now, uncontained. “And instead of choosing you out loud, I hid behind my pride. I let you think you were just… entertainment.” Your throat burns. “I hated myself for it,” he whispers. “Every day.” Silence fills the room, thick and shaking. Finally, you sink down in front of him too. Not above him. With him.
“I’m sorry too,” you say quietly. His head snaps up.
“I was so obsessed with control,” you admit, voice trembling. “With winning. With proving I could walk away first. I didn’t realize how cruel that made me.”
You swallow hard. “I used irony like armor. I kept hurting you just to feel like I still had the upper hand.” His face crumples. “I stopped pretending days ago,” you confess. “But I didn’t know how to stop performing. I didn’t know how to just… be honest without feeling like I was losing myself.”
You both sit there, two people kneeling on the floor, stripped of every strategy you ever used to survive. “I don’t want to win anymore,” you whisper. “I don’t either,” he says instantly. “I just want… a chance to do this without games. Without bets. Without spectators.”
You exhale shakily. “I don’t know how this ends.”
He nods. “Me neither.” A beat. “But I know I don’t want to walk away,” he says. “Not now. Not like this.” You reach out then, slow, careful, and cup his face. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, like he’s been waiting for permission. “Then we choose,” you say softly. “Not because it’s safe. Not because it’s clean.”
“Because it’s real,” he finishes. You rest your forehead against his. No headlines. No scoreboards. No experiments left to hide behind. Just two people, finally, terrifyingly honest, deciding to stay. And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like losing at all.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s you leaning in. Maybe it’s him rising from his knees just enough that your breaths collide. It’s clumsy at first, foreheads knocking, noses brushing, like neither of you remembers how to do this without defenses in the way. Then his hands find your waist. Not gripping. Not claiming. Just there, thumbs warm through the fabric, like he needs the contact to stay upright.
“Can I—” he starts. You don’t let him finish. You kiss him. It’s not sharp or demanding. It’s slow, almost reverent, like you’re relearning his mouth now that there’s no audience, no script. His breath stutters against your lips, a sound halfway between relief and disbelief. He kisses back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t.
One hand slides up your back, hesitant at first, then more certain when you melt into him. He sighs into your mouth, a broken sound, like weeks of tension finally giving way. “I’m here,” you murmur against his lips. That’s all it takes. His composure fractures. The kiss deepens, not frantic, not rough, but heavy with everything unsaid. His thumb brushes your jaw, your cheek, like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s afraid this is the last time he’s allowed to touch you.
You pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, both of you shaking a little. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers. You don’t. You kiss him again, longer this time, pouring every apology, every confession, every stay into the way your mouth moves against his. This isn’t about winning. It’s about choosing. And when his arms finally wrap fully around you, pulling you close like he’s done running, you let yourself believe him. He doesn’t speak for a long minute.
Just holds you, face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you’re oxygen after drowning. Then he pulls back, only far enough to look at you. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. Raw. “I never should’ve, God, the bet was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t think it would… become this. Become you.” You cup his face, thumbs stroking the sharp line of his cheekbones.
“I know,” you whisper. “I read between the lines a long time ago. But I stayed anyway.” His eyes flutter shut like the words physically hurt. Then he kisses you again, soft, grateful, and starts walking you backward toward the bed. Clothes come off slowly. No rush. Your shirt first—lifted over your head, his lips following the path of exposed skin. Your bra, unhooked with trembling fingers, set aside like something precious. Jeans next, yours, then his, until you’re both bare, skin to skin, heat bleeding between you.
He lays you down gently. Covers you with his body like a shield. Kisses trail from your mouth to your throat, down the center of your chest. He pauses at your breasts, takes one nipple into his mouth, slow swirl of tongue, gentle suction, while his hand cups the other, thumb rolling the peak until you arch beneath him.
“Sunghoon,” you breathe. He hums against your skin, vibration straight to your core. Then he moves lower. Kisses your stomach, soft, open-mouthed, tracing the faint line where your abs tense. Lower still. He settles between your thighs, shoulders spreading you open. Looks up at you, eyes dark, reverent. “Gonna take my time with you,” he murmurs. “Wanna taste every second of this.”
He doesn’t dive in. He starts slow, long, flat licks up your slit, savoring. Tongue circling your clit without direct pressure, teasing until your hips lift, seeking more. When you whimper, he finally gives it, lips closing around the swollen bud, sucking gently while two fingers slide inside you, curling just right. You moan, loud, broken, hands fisting the sheets.
He groans against you when you clench. “Fuck, you’re so sweet,” he mutters between licks. “Could do this forever.” He eats you out like he’s worshipping, slow, thorough, unrelenting. Fingers pumping steady while his tongue works lazy circles, then flicks, then sucks again. Building you higher without ever rushing. When your thighs start trembling, when your breath turns ragged, he doesn’t let up.
“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against your clit. “Let me feel it.” You do, hard, shuddering, back arching off the mattress, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He works you through it, soft licks, gentle fingers, until you’re boneless, panting. Only then does he crawl back up. Kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
You reach between you, wrap your hand around him. He’s thick, hot, leaking against your palm. He hisses, hips jerking forward. “Need you,” he breathes. “Please.” You guide him to your entrance. He pushes in, slow. You both moan when he bottoms out, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling. He stills for a second, just feeling you around him, warm and tight and perfect.
Then he starts moving. Slow rolls of his hips, deep, measured thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him closer. He groans, low, wrecked, every time you clench. “Fuck, baby,” he pants against your mouth. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
His abs flex with every thrust, hard ridges pressing against your stomach, creating that delicious pressure, that faint bulge you can feel every time he bottoms out. You drag your nails down his back, light enough to leave faint red lines. He shudders. “You see that?” he murmurs, voice rough. “See how deep I am? How perfectly you take me?”
You look down, see the outline of him moving inside you, and whimper. He kisses you again, messy, desperate, while one hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit. He rubs slow circles, matching the rhythm of his hips. You’re climbing again, fast.
“Sunghoon—”
“I know,” he breathes. “I’ve got you. Always got you.”
He kisses your neck, your jaw, your mouth, soft, endless. “You’re the best thing in my life,” he whispers against your skin. “The absolute best. Nothing comes close.” You smile through the haze, breath hitching.
“Better than football?” you tease, voice shaky. He groans, deep, guttural, thrusts slowing to a torturous grind. “Ten folds,” he says without hesitation. “Better than football. Better than my friends. Better than anything I’ve ever had.”
Another deep thrust. “Better than winning,” he continues, voice cracking. “Better than every trophy, every cheer, every fucking thing.” You clench around him, hard, at the words. He swears, low, broken.
“Fuck! Gonna come,” he warns. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna—” You nod, frantic, nails digging into his shoulders. “Inside,” you gasp. “Please.”
That undoes him. A few more deep, stuttering thrusts, then he buries himself to the hilt, groaning your name as he spills inside you, hot, endless pulses that make you feel claimed in the best way. The sensation tips you over. You throw your head back, moaning loud and shameless, as you cream around his cock, walls fluttering, milking him through every aftershock. He collapses over you, careful not to crush, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing ragged. You hold him there, arms wrapped tight, legs still locked around him, while the world slowly rights itself.
He presses soft kisses to your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your mouth. “I love you,” he whispers, quiet, like a confession he’s been holding too long. You thread your fingers through his hair. Smile against his temple. “I know,” you murmur. “I love you too.”
He exhales, shaky, relieved, like he’s finally home. And this time, when he kisses you again, it’s not goodbye. It’s beginning. He doesn’t pull out right away. He never does when it’s this raw, this real. Instead he stays buried deep, softening inside you, hips still pressed flush to yours like he’s afraid the space between you will swallow everything you just rebuilt. His chest rises and falls against yours, slow, heavy breaths that match the lazy thrum of your pulse where your bodies connect.
One arm snakes under your back, cradling you closer; the other hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek in slow, absent circles. He presses his lips to your temple, soft, lingering, then your forehead, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your eye where a stray tear escaped earlier without you noticing.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice gravelly and wrecked in the best way. You hum, too blissed-out to form full sentences yet, and nod against his shoulder. He exhales a shaky laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not letting you go for at least the next hour.”
You smile into his neck. “Promise?”
“Swear on every championship ring I don’t even wear.”
He finally eases out,slow, careful, so you don’t feel empty all at once. You both hiss softly at the loss. He presses one last kiss to your mouth, gentle, apologetic, before rolling to the side and pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, legs tangled, his heartbeat steady under your ear. For a minute it’s just quiet breathing and the faint hum of the city outside his dorm window. His fingers trace idle patterns on your bare back, lazy figure-eights, then little hearts he probably doesn’t even realize he’s drawing.
“Stay right here,” he says quietly. “Don’t move.”
You feel him shift, careful not to jostle you too much, then the mattress dips as he reaches for the nightstand. A moment later he’s back, warm washcloth in hand. He sits up just enough to kneel between your thighs again. His touch is impossibly tender as he cleans you, slow swipes, gentle pressure, checking your expression every few seconds like he’s terrified of hurting you even a little.
“Too much?” he asks when you flinch slightly at a sensitive spot. You shake your head. “Feels nice.” He smiles, small, relieved, and keeps going until you’re both clean. When he’s done he tosses the cloth toward the hamper (misses, doesn’t care), then grabs the soft throw blanket from the foot of the bed and drapes it over you both. He lies back down, pulls you half on top of him so your cheek rests over his heart. One hand cards through your hair, fingers gentle at your scalp, while the other settles low on your back, palm flat and warm, grounding you.
“You’re shaking a little,” he notices after a while. “Aftershocks,” you mumble. “And maybe… everything else.” He tightens his hold. Kisses the top of your head. “I’ve got you,” he says again, like it’s the only promise he’s ever sure he can keep. “All night. All tomorrow. However long you need.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. His eyes are soft in the low light, none of the sharp edges he used to wear like armor. Just him. Open. Yours. “Water?” he asks. You nod. He reaches again, this time for the half-full bottle on his desk. Unscrews the cap one-handed, brings it to your lips. You drink slowly; he watches like it’s the most important thing in the world. When you’re done he takes a sip too, then sets it aside.
“Better?”
“Mm-hmm.” He pulls you back down, tucking your head under his chin. His fingers resume their slow path through your hair.
“Tell me if you get cold,” he murmurs. “Or if you want food. Or if you just want me to shut up and hold you.” You laugh softly, muffled against his skin. “I want all of it,” you say. “But mostly this.” He exhales, long, contented. “Then you’ve got it.” Minutes stretch into comfortable silence. His heartbeat slows under your cheek. His breathing evens out, but his arms never loosen.
Eventually you feel him press another kiss to your hair. “I love you,” he whispers, like he’s still getting used to saying it out loud. “So fucking much.” You turn your face up, brush your lips against the underside of his jaw. “Love you more,” you reply. He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not possible.” You settle back against him, limbs heavy, heart full.
He keeps stroking your hair. Keeps you close. Keeps whispering little things against your temple when he thinks you’re drifting off, how beautiful you are, how sorry he still is, how he’s never letting go again. And when sleep finally pulls at you, it’s with his heartbeat in your ear, his arms around you like home, and the certain knowledge that this time, neither of you is running.
Time doesn’t erase the mess. It teaches you how to live with it, how to step around the sharp parts without flinching. The newsroom still smells like burnt coffee and ambition, like toner and old arguments that never quite leave the walls. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, constant, familiar. There’s a comfort in it now. Once, it used to feel like a battlefield.
Some things never change. You have. You’re perched on the edge of your desk, one heel hooked lazily around the chair leg, scrolling through a shared folder of freshman submissions. The cursor blinks at the top of a document titled, of course:
Situationships Are Modern Tragedies (And I Am Hamlet).
You close it without opening. Across from you, Keeho lets out a long, theatrical sigh, slumping dramatically against the filing cabinet like he’s about to pass away from emotional exhaustion. “I’m just saying,” he announces, waving his pen like a conductor’s baton, “if one more freshman submits a thinkpiece about how eye contact is a binding contract, I’m filing a formal complaint. With God.”
“You say that every semester,” you reply, not bothering to look up. “And yet, here you are. Still alive.”
“Barely,” he mutters. “I blame you.”
You hum noncommittally. Manon is sprawled across the couch, boots kicked up on the armrest, legs draped unapologetically over Sunoo’s lap as she flips through the latest issue. She pauses, squints, then clicks her tongue. “This one’s good,” she says, clearly annoyed by it. “Annoyingly good.”
You finally glance up, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “I’ll take that as praise.”
“It is,” she sighs. Then, sharply, “But I hate that you’re good at this and happy now. Pick a struggle.”
Keeho snaps his fingers. “Yes! Exactly! Where’s the suffering? Where’s the chaos?”
You lean back against the desk, folding your arms. “Oh, I have struggles,” you say lightly. “I just don’t publish them anymore.” There’s a beat. Sunoo looks at you, head tilted, expression thoughtful instead of teasing. “That’s… actually huge.”
That’s the difference. The office still buzzes. Deadlines still loom. Headlines still matter. But the desperation, the need to perform pain, to provoke reaction, to win at all costs, has eased into something steadier. Quieter. Something that doesn’t demand blood for proof. You’re still editor-in-chief. And your subordinate still hates you. Definitely, thinks you’re the worst thing that’s happened since the office coffee machine broke and no one took responsibility. You’re just not bleeding onto the page anymore. Your phone lights up on the desk. You don’t have to look to know.
Sunghoon: Practice just started. You coming or what?
Your thumb hovers for half a second, out of habit, not hesitation, before you type back one-handed.
You: Only if you don’t pretend you’re cool about it.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Sunghoon: No promises.
Keeho watches your face soften and makes a loud, offended gagging noise. “I hate this era for us.” Sunoo grins. “I love it. Character development.” Manon finally looks up from the magazine, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Hold on.” She points at you accusingly. “This is also your fault.”
You blink. “What is?” She gestures vaguely at the pile of submissions, the inbox notifications, the collective emotional oversharing of an entire incoming class. “All of this.” Keeho gasps. “She’s right.” Sunoo nods solemnly. “It’s the butterfly effect.”
You frown. “Explain.” Manon smirks. “Your stupidly famous ‘How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days’ article?” Keeho groans. “The manifesto.” “The emotional terrorism,” Manon continues, delighted, “you unleashed on campus? You made freshmen think self-sabotage was a personality trait.” You open your mouth. Close it. “…Okay,” you admit. “Maybe I influenced the discourse.”
“Influenced?” Keeho laughs. “You ruined it. People cite you like scripture.” Sunoo pats your knee. “Legacy is complicated.” You groan, grabbing your bag. “I’m leaving before you revoke my tenure.”
The field is loud when you arrive. Whistles cut through the air. Shouts echo from one end to the other. Cleats hit turf in dull, rhythmic thuds. The late afternoon sun hangs low, washing everything in gold like it’s trying very hard to romanticize football practice.
Manon immediately kicks your foot. “There,” she mutters. “Your menace.” You look up, eyes sparkling, ignoring the three ambiguous groans beside you. Sunghoon is mid-drill, barking instructions, posture, all command and confidence. Captain through and through. The same presence that once made your chest tight with frustration, longing, and everything you refused to name back then.
He spots you instantly. Of course he does. His face lights up, grin wide and unguarded, and he blows you an exaggerated kiss across the field like he’s thirteen and trying to embarrass you on purpose. You groan, rolling your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out.
Your heart does backflips anyway. From the sidelines, Jay sighs like a man who has seen too much. Jake shakes his head. Riki squints, then mutters, “I’ve seen this movie. It’s sickening.”
Manon groans dramatically. “UGH. GODDAMN COUPLES, MAN.” Keeho smirks. “You’re just jealous, darling.” Sunoo’s eyes sparkle. “I mean, Keeho is offering, Manon. If I were you, I’d take it.”
“I will end you,” Manon says flatly, glaring daggers at the back of Sunoo’s head. The four of you dissolve into laughter. Sunghoon watches from the field, smile softening as he takes it all in. The chaos. The comfort. The fact that this, you, exists in his life without conditions now. It still amazes him. When practice finally wraps up and the sun dips low enough to stain the sky pink, he jogs over, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and pushed back. He looks tired. Grounded. Real.
“You came,” he says unnecessarily. “You summoned me,” you reply. “Very imperiously.” He grins. “Occupational hazard.” You tilt your head. “Captain complex?” “Editor attitude.”
You bump his shoulder as he walks you toward the bleachers. It’s easy now. Casual. Still charged, but no longer sharp enough to cut. “How was the meeting?” he asks. “Productive,” you say. “No emotional devastation. A personal best.” He laughs, warm and unforced. “Proud of you.” You glance at him. He means it. That still gets you.
The article pings later that night. You’re curled up on his bed, laptop balanced on your knees, the room dim and quiet. Sunghoon is half-dozing beside you, one arm slung lazily around your waist, thumb tracing absent-minded circles like it’s muscle memory. “You posting something?” he mumbles.
“Mm. Just a brief.” Your finger hovers over publish. Old habits whisper. Old versions of you wait, curious. Then you do it anyway.
PING!Breaking News
Park Sunghoon Survived.
There were many predictions made this year.
Some were statistical.
Some were emotional.
Some were very loudly wrong.
Despite early speculation, public scrutiny, and one ill-advised experiment that spiraled wildly out of control, Park Sunghoon remains:
– Captain of the team
– Annoyingly resilient
– Still here
No bets were won. No scorecards kept. Just two people who learned, loudly, that pretending not to care is much harder than telling the truth.
More updates soon. (Probably.)
— Editor’s Note
You close the laptop. Sunghoon squints at you. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” you say innocently. He reaches for your phone. You yank it away, laughing. “Absolutely not.”
“Editor privilege?” he asks.
“Exactly.” He studies you for a moment, then presses a kiss to your temple. Soft. Unshowy. Just for you. “Hey,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not turning me into a cautionary tale.”
You smile. “You survived. That’s headline enough.” He exhales, content. Outside, the campus hums on. Inside, everything is still. No experiments. No bets. No pretending. Just choice, made daily, imperfectly, honestly, somehow, that’s enough. And as you finally stretch out beside him, letting the quiet sink in, letting the mess exist without needing a punchline… you think, not for the first time, that maybe surviving is its own art form.
Against all logic, you still remember exactly how to do it. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.
this picture makes me actually SICK just looking at it. making ni-ki hide because he's japanese, not letting him do the fansign and forcing him to do fancalls instead, belift what the fuck is this? this is so heartbreaking for my nini.
stats class. keep ur glasses on when u fuck me. statistical analysis with ur tongue. thats abt it. sunghoon word porn ngl
ENHA HARD HOURS (kinda) 18+ MDNI
-
You're late. Again.
The digital clock on your phone reads 3:10 PM as you sprint across campus, your backpack bouncing against your spine with each step. Statistics seminar started ten minutes ago, and Professor Clarke has definitely noticed your absence by now. Not that it's unusual—you've made it a habit to burst through those doors at exactly ten minutes past, a whirlwind of apologies and bright smiles.
"Sorry, sorry!" you announce as you push open the computer lab door, slightly out of breath.
Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward you, but Professor Clarke doesn't even look up from his laptop at the front of the room.
"How kind of you to join us," he says dryly. "We were just assigning semester project partners."
You flash him your most charming smile as you slide into an empty seat. "Perfect timing then."
A few people laugh. You've mastered the art of diffusing tension with humor, of making your tardiness seem like a quirky character trait rather than a genuine inability to manage time. It's gotten you this far in university.
"As I was saying," Professor Clarke continues, "this statistical analysis project will count for forty percent of your grade. You and your assigned partner will select a dataset, develop a hypothesis, and use STATA to analyze your findings." He gestures to the complex statistical software displayed on the projector screen—the same software that has been giving you nightmares since week one.
You glance around the room, hoping you'll be paired with Olivia or Zara—friends who wouldn't mind carrying the team if necessary. But when Professor Clarke reads off, "Sunghoon Park and..." followed by your name, your heart does something unexpected.
It skips.
You've noticed him before—it's hard not to. He always sits in the same spot three rows from the front, always arrives fifteen minutes early, always has his notebook open at the exact moment class begins.
What you haven't fully appreciated until now, as you turn to locate him in the room, is just how devastatingly handsome he is. His dark eyes find yours immediately behind stylish wire-rimmed glasses that give him an irresistible intellectual appeal. One corner of his perfectly shaped mouth lifts in the smallest acknowledgment, and a strand of black hair falls across his forehead when he nods at you. The combination of his reserved demeanor and model-worthy looks creates an effect that makes your stomach flip. He's the definition of a hot nerd—the kind that makes you temporarily forget about statistical analysis altogether and wonder what he'd look like with those glasses slightly askew, his usually perfect hair disheveled.
After partnering announcements finish, Professor Clarke instructs everyone to move next to their assigned partners to discuss project ideas.
You gather your things and make your way to Sunghoon's station, dropping into the chair beside him with dramatic flair.
"Fair warning," you say brightly, "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with this software. Like, none. Zero. Statistical analysis to me is deciding which café has the shortest queue."
You expect a sigh or a look of disappointment—it's what most serious students do when they realize they've been paired with you. Instead, Sunghoon's expression softens.
"It's okay," he says quietly, his voice carrying just a hint of an accent. "I'm... not an expert either."
"But you always look so focused during class," you say, gesturing to his immaculate notes.
He shrugs, the movement slight and controlled. "I write everything down. Doesn't mean I understand it all."
When he opens the STATA program and navigates through a few screens with apparent ease, you lean closer.
"Okay, so you're being modest. You definitely know more than I do."
"Barely," he admits, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile—not the polite one from before, but something genuine that makes you want to see it again. "I just know how to make it look like I know what I'm doing."
"That's an important life skill," you laugh, pulling your chair closer to see his screen better. "So what kind of data are we analyzing? Please say something fun like ice cream consumption versus happiness levels."
Sunghoon doesn't laugh, but his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "Actually," he says, "we can choose almost anything that interests us."
You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. "See? We're going to be great partners. I bring the wild ideas, you bring the common sense."
"Is that what they call it?" he asks, and there's a hint of playfulness in his voice that catches you off guard.
"What would you call it?" you challenge.
He considers for a moment, adjusting his glasses with a single finger pushed against the bridge. The gesture shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Survival instinct."
You laugh, genuinely surprised. "So I'm dangerous?"
"No," he says, turning slightly to face you better. "Statistical software is dangerous. You're..." he pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "unpredictable."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was meant as one." The quiet confidence in his voice sends a small thrill through you.
Professor Clarke clears his throat at the front of the room. "I expect project proposals by the end of next week. Choose your dataset carefully—it will determine the scope of your entire project."
You glance at the clock. Only fifteen minutes of class remain.
"So, partner," you say, lowering your voice as Professor Clarke continues, "when should we meet to figure this out? I promise I'll try not to be ten minutes late."
Sunghoon's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Would you actually show up if I said 8 AM at the library?"
"Now you're just testing me," you whisper back.
"Coffee shop after class on Thursday?" he suggests instead, his voice equally quiet. "The one behind the science building?"
"Beans & Books? You've got good taste." You nod approvingly. "I practically live there between classes."
"I know," he says, then immediately looks as if he wishes he could take it back.
"You know?" You raise an eyebrow, intrigued and slightly pleased.
A faint color appears high on his cheekbones. "I've seen you there. You always order something different and then type furiously on your laptop."
The fact that he's noticed you before, observed your habits even, gives you a little flutter of satisfaction. "And what do you order, Sunghoon Park? Let me guess—plain black coffee, no sugar."
His eyebrows lift slightly. "Close. Earl Grey tea."
"Of course," you nod sagely. "Sophisticated."
When class ends, you gather your things slowly, suddenly reluctant to leave. Sunghoon stands, slinging his messenger bag across his chest in one smooth motion.
"Thursday, then," he says, as if confirming an important business meeting.
"It's a date," you reply with deliberate casualness, watching his reaction.
His expression remains mostly neutral, but you don't miss the quick blink, the slight pause before he nods. "For statistics," he clarifies, but the slight upturn of his lips betrays him.
"For statistics," you agree solemnly, though you're already wondering what other subjects you might explore together.
The coffee shop meeting goes surprisingly well. What you expected to be an hour of awkward dataset discussions turns into three hours of conversation that meanders far beyond statistics. Sunghoon, it turns out, has layers beneath his reserved exterior—he plays piano, reads philosophy for fun, and has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard and makes you laugh harder than you have in weeks.
By the end of the evening, you've not only selected your dataset (coffee consumption versus academic performance—your suggestion, which he surprisingly agreed to), but you've also learned that his stammer appears when he's either nervous or passionate about a topic. You find both instances equally endearing.
When Friday's class rolls around, something shifts. You arrive only five minutes late (progress), and the space beside Sunghoon, which is usually empty, now seems to be waiting for you. You slide into the seat and he glances up from his notebook, the corner of his mouth lifting in that subtle way that's becoming familiar.
"You're almost on time," he says quietly, amusement in his eyes.
"Don't get used to it," you reply, but there's no bite to your words.
Throughout the class, your awareness of him is heightened—the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, how his fingers tap thoughtfully against the desk when Professor Clarke asks a difficult question, the scent of his cologne when he leans closer to point something out on your screen.
After class, you find yourself hesitating as you pack up your things, watching as he meticulously organizes his notes.
"So," you begin, aiming for casual, "I was thinking... we should probably meet again this weekend to work on the project." You pause. "My roommate's gone for the weekend. We could use my dorm? Fewer distractions than the coffee shop."
Sunghoon looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nods. "That would be... efficient."
You laugh at his choice of words. "Very statistical of you."
"I meant—" he starts, a hint of that stammer appearing.
"I know what you meant," you interrupt, grinning. "Saturday at four?"
He nods, adjusting his glasses. "I'll bring the data analysis. You bring the coffee."
"Deal."
Saturday arrives, and for the first time in your university career, you spend thirty minutes tidying your room before a study session. You tell yourself it's just basic courtesy, not because you care what Sunghoon thinks of your living space.
At precisely four o'clock, there's a knock at your door. Punctual as always.
You open it to find Sunghoon standing there in jeans and a simple button-down shirt, his laptop bag slung across his body. He's swapped his usual wire-frames for slightly thicker black glasses that somehow make him look even more attractive—scholarly but with an edge.
"You're making me look bad with this punctuality thing," you say by way of greeting, stepping aside to let him in.
"Sorry?" he offers, clearly unsure if he's actually done something wrong.
You laugh. "I'm joking. Come in."
Your dorm room is standard—bed, desk, small seating area with a loveseat and coffee table—but you've made it yours with art on the walls and plants on every available surface. Sunghoon takes it all in with curious eyes.
"I like your space," he says, and it sounds genuine.
"Thanks. Where should we set up? Desk or coffee table?"
"Either is fine," he says, that formal politeness still present even after your hours in the coffee shop.
You end up at the coffee table, sitting side by side on the loveseat, laptops open. For an hour, you actually make progress on the project. Sunghoon explains correlations in a way that finally makes sense, and you discover you have a talent for visualizing data in creative ways that makes his eyes light up with approval.
But as the afternoon wears on, the small space means your shoulders keep brushing, your knees occasionally touch, and each point of contact feels increasingly deliberate. When you reach for your coffee at the same moment he reaches for his tea, your hands collide, and neither of you pulls away immediately.
"Sorry," you both say at once, and then laugh.
"Great minds," you add, but you're distracted by how his eyes look behind those glasses, warm and focused entirely on you.
At some point, you shift positions, both of you turning toward each other to discuss a particularly complicated aspect of your analysis. Your knees are definitely touching now, and the loveseat suddenly seems much smaller than it did an hour ago.
"So if we compare these variables..." he's saying, but you're watching his mouth form the words more than listening to their meaning.
"Hmm?" you say, forcing your attention back to the screen.
He turns to look at you fully, and you realize how close your faces are. "You're not listening," he says, but there's no accusation in his voice.
"I'm distracted," you admit.
"By statistics?"
"By you."
The words hang in the air between you. Sunghoon blinks, his expression shifting from confusion to something more intense. He swallows visibly, and you watch the movement in his throat.
"I'm... distracting?" he asks, his voice lower than before.
"Extremely." Your eyes lock on his glasses, the way they frame his dark eyes, how they complete his devastatingly attractive intellectual look. "Especially with these on."
His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. "The glasses?"
"God, yes," you breathe, moving closer. "You have no idea how fucking hot you look in them."
A flush spreads across his cheeks, but there's a new confidence in the way he holds your gaze. Without warning, he pulls you forward into a kiss that has nothing of his usual restraint. His laptop slides forgotten to the coffee table as you shift closer, and then somehow you're straddling his lap, your hands on either side of his face as you deepen the kiss.
When you break apart to breathe, his glasses are slightly askew. You straighten them gently, then run your fingers through his usually immaculate hair, deliberately messing it up while keeping the glasses perfectly in place.
"You're so sexy," you murmur against his mouth. "I've been thinking about this since the first day we were paired up."
His hands find your hips, holding you firmly against him. "I find that... statistically improbable," he manages, but his breathing is as uneven as yours.
"I'll show you improbable," you whisper, grinding down deliberately. His glasses fog slightly from the heat between you, and the sight sends a thrill through your body. "So fucking hot," you repeat, unable to stop yourself.
His hands slide beneath your shirt, exploring with a surprising boldness that makes you gasp. "We should—" he starts, breathing heavily.
“Yes,” you agree, already pulling him up from the loveseat, walking backwards toward your bed while keeping his mouth on yours. “The project can definitely wait.”
You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you, careful not to knock his glasses off as he hovers above you. They’ve fogged again from the heat between your bodies, and something about that sight—this controlled, precise man coming undone while still looking every bit the hot intellectual—pushes you past any remaining hesitation.
“Leave them on,” you insist when he reaches to remove his glasses. “Please.”
His lips curve into a smile that’s nothing like his usual restrained expressions—this one is knowing, almost wicked. “If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your neck.
“It’s definitely what I want,” you gasp as his teeth graze your skin. “Along with… everything else.”
There’s a playful air to each touch, a slow building of tension as you both start to peel away layers. You tug at the hem of his shirt first, sliding it up inch by tantalizing inch until he lifts his arms to help you pull it off. He returns the favor by slipping a hand under your blouse, fingertips teasing over your ribs. Every time he tries to hasten the pace, you grin and slow him down, dragging the fabric just a bit more before letting it fall away, leaving him momentarily breathless. The sound he makes—caught somewhere between a groan and a laugh—sends a thrill through you.
Time seems to blur as clothing is discarded piece by piece, inhibitions falling away with each new revelation of skin. The afternoon sunlight filters through your curtains, casting everything in a warm glow.
At some point, you find yourself above him, both of you completely bare except for his glasses, which have somehow remained perfectly in place despite everything. You pause for a moment, taking in the sight of him beneath you—all lean muscle and flushed skin, those wire-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat between your bodies.
“You’re staring,” he whispers, a vulnerability in his voice despite the intimate position.
“Can you blame me?” You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, then another, and another, each one growing more insistent. “God, look at you.”
His hands find your hips, steadying you as you continue to kiss him, his glasses occasionally bumping against your face in a way that only heightens your desire. There's something impossibly erotic about him being completely naked except for those glasses—the contrast between his exposed body and that one remnant of his studious, put-together appearance.
"You're so fucking sexy," you breathe against his mouth. "How does anyone focus in that statistics class with you sitting there looking like this?"
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your lips. "I could ask you the same question."
Your kisses become more urgent, your bodies moving together with increasing need. The heat between you builds with each touch, each whispered encouragement. Sunghoon's usually careful movements grow bolder, more instinctive, as your hands explore each other's bodies. His glasses, still perfectly perched on his nose, begin to fog at the edges first—just a light mist that catches the dim light of your room. But as your passion intensifies, as your breathing grows more ragged and synchronized, the lenses cloud completely.
When you pull back to look at him, you can't help but laugh softly at the sight—this brilliantly composed man now completely blinded by the evidence of your shared desire, those glasses that make him look so irresistibly intellectual now rendered useless by the heat radiating between your bodies. To your surprise, he laughs too—not the polite chuckle you've heard in class or the soft amusement from your coffee shop conversations, but a genuine, uninhibited sound that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. It's rich and warm and completely unguarded.
"I can't see a thing," he admits, his voice husky with desire and amusement. His hands find your face despite his temporary blindness, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with unexpected precision. "But I don't need to see to know exactly where you are."
"Is that so?" you challenge, your breath catching as his fingers trail down your neck, across your collarbone, mapping you with deliberate attention.
"I've been studying you," he murmurs, his touch making you shiver despite the heat between you. "Memorizing. Analyzing patterns." His hands continue their exploration, finding every sensitive spot with remarkable accuracy. "It's very... statistical."
You laugh against his mouth. "Only you could make statistics sound sexy."
Through the fogged lenses, you can just barely make out how his eyes darken at your words. "I have other statistical terms I could demonstrate," he offers, surprising you again with his boldness. His accent becomes slightly more pronounced when he's like this—another detail you've grown to cherish.
"Show me," you whisper, and he does—his hands and mouth conducting a thorough analysis of cause and effect, of stimuli and response, until you're clutching at his shoulders and gasping his name. All while those fogged-up glasses remain perfectly in place, the final vestige of his composed exterior while everything else between you unravels into glorious chaos.
You’re already bare beneath him, skin flushed from teasing and anticipation, but the only thing still clinging to his body—those damn glasses—make it so much worse. Or better. Definitely better.
Sunghoon hovers over you, gaze dark behind the lenses, lips swollen and slightly parted as he takes in the sight of you. You should be embarrassed at how wanton you must look, legs spread for him, body already trembling, but he’s the one who looks wrecked. His composure is gone, shattered somewhere between the desperate kisses and the way you dragged your nails down his back.
His lips quirk. “Still want me to leave them on?”
“Don’t even think about taking them off.”
His smile turns wicked, and then he’s moving—kissing, sucking, trailing his mouth down your body with purpose. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and then he’s right there—close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath against you, the heat of it making your stomach clench.
He doesn’t start slow. No teasing, no light flicks of his tongue just to test the waters. Sunghoon eats you like he’s been starving for this, like he’s been waiting for the moment he could taste you, drown in you. His tongue is hot and relentless, curling against you just right, pressing where you need him most, sending shockwaves through every nerve in your body.
But what really undoes you is the feeling of his glasses pressing against your inner thighs, the cold metal contrasting with the heat of his mouth. Every time he moves, every time he adjusts his angle, the frames shift against your skin—slightly rough, slightly smooth, a reminder of exactly who is between your legs and how absolutely ruined he’s making you.
You fist the sheets, hips jerking up into his mouth, but he pins you down effortlessly, a strong arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you exactly where he wants you. He groans when you tug at his hair, the vibrations shooting through you, making you gasp his name.
“Fuck, Sunghoon—”
His response is a low hum against your clit, and your whole body shakes. You feel the damp heat of his breath, the slick slide of his tongue, but more than anything, you feel the weight of those goddamn glasses as they drag along your skin, fogging up even more, smudging against your inner thigh every time he moves deeper, harder, sloppier.
The sheer filth of it makes you clench around nothing.
Sunghoon notices, because of course he does—because he’s been studying you this whole time, memorizing what makes you gasp, what makes your thighs tremble around his head. And he’s smug about it, too, because when he pulls back just enough to glance up at you, lips glistening, glasses just barely slipping down his nose, he smirks.
“You like that, don’t you?” His voice is raspy, breathless, wrecked.
You don’t even try to deny it. “Yes—God, yes, don’t stop.”
Sunghoon’s smirk deepens, and he doesn’t make you beg for it. He dives right back in, tongue flicking, sucking, his grip on your thighs tightening as you lose yourself completely. The drag of his glasses, the precise way he adjusts his angle to push you higher, the way he groans into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are—it’s too much.
The coil in your stomach snaps hard, pleasure crashing over you so intensely that you barely realize you’re pulling at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer, like you might fall apart completely if he stops.
Sunghoon doesn’t stop. Not right away. He works you through the aftershocks, his tongue slow, methodical, lazy in a way that makes you shudder from overstimulation. Only when your body twitches beneath him does he finally pull away, chin glistening, glasses fucking ruined.
You’re still gasping when he crawls back up your body, hovering over you, his mouth right there, his glasses so close you can see the way they’re fogged-up and smudged with sweat.
When you finally collapse beside each other, spent and satisfied, his glasses are askew once more. You reach over to straighten them, and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.
"So," you say, when you've caught your breath, "should we tell Professor Clarke we've found an interesting correlation to study?"
Sunghoon laughs, the sound free and unrestrained in a way you hadn't heard before today. "I don't think this is what he had in mind for the assignment."
"His loss," you murmur, snuggling closer. "I'd say our statistical analysis was very... thorough."
"We should probably actually work on the project at some point," he says, but makes no move to get up.
"Tomorrow," you promise, running a finger along his jawline. "I think we need to collect more data first."
His eyebrow raises above the rim of his glasses. "For the sake of academic integrity?"
"Absolutely," you agree solemnly, before dissolving into laughter.
The statistics of probability have never been so compelling.
-
Over the next few weeks, your statistics class takes on an entirely new dimension. What was once your least favorite part of the week has become the highlight—not because you've suddenly developed a passion for data analysis, but because of the subtle dance that unfolds between you and Sunghoon twice a week in that computer lab.
The Monday after your "study session," you arrive to class five minutes early—a personal record. Sunghoon is already there, of course, and the moment he sees you, his ears turn slightly pink. When you slide into the seat next to him, now officially your spot, he gives you a small smile that feels like a secret.
"You're early," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
"I had motivation," you reply, letting your knee brush against his under the desk.
His eyes flicker to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his notebook. "I hope it wasn't just for... statistical analysis."
"Depends on how you define statistics," you whisper just as Professor Clarke calls the class to order.
Throughout the lecture, you're acutely aware of every movement Sunghoon makes—how he adjusts his glasses when he's thinking, the precise way he takes notes, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking. Halfway through class, you deliberately drop your pen between you. When you both reach for it, your fingers touch, and he doesn't pull away. Instead, he hooks his pinky finger over yours for just a moment before handing you the pen. The small gesture sends a flutter through your chest.
After class, you walk together to the coffee shop without needing to discuss it. Somehow, it's already become your routine.
"How's the dataset compilation going?" he asks as you find a small table in the corner.
"That's what you want to talk about right now? Really?" You raise an eyebrow.
A faint smile plays at his lips. "We do have a project due in three weeks."
"Always so responsible," you sigh dramatically, but there's fondness in your voice. "It's going fine. I've got the coffee consumption survey data from about fifty students so far."
He nods approvingly. "That's a decent sample size for our purposes."
When your drinks arrive—his Earl Grey and your excessively complicated latte—you notice something different about him. He's still quiet, still thoughtful, but there's a new ease to his movements, a softness around his eyes when he looks at you.
"What?" he asks, catching you studying him.
"Nothing," you say, then reconsider. "Actually, not nothing. You seem... different."
He takes a sip of his tea, considering. "I feel different," he admits after a moment. "With you."
The simple sincerity of his words catches you off guard. For all your flirtatious confidence, his straightforward honesty disarms you completely.
"Good different?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy.
"Very good different," he confirms, and beneath the table, his foot rests against yours. Not by accident.
By the third week, you've fallen into patterns that blend the academic with the intimate. Your Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are devoted to actual project work—usually in the library where the public setting keeps you reasonably focused.
Your Saturday “study sessions” in your dorm room are significantly less productive in the statistical sense, though you joke that you’re certainly collecting plenty of data on other variables.
Sunghoon rolls his eyes every time you say it, but you know he loves it—loves how eager, how shameless you are when it comes to him. Because every time you spread your legs for him, every time you drag him into another compromising position, he never tells you no.
Case Study #1: The Textbooks
It starts with an innocent enough setup—Sunghoon sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against your bed, flipping through a statistics textbook while you sit across from him, pretending to study. But it’s boring. He looks too good in his glasses, sleeves rolled up, the slightest furrow in his brow as he concentrates. And before you even realize you’re moving, you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him right there on top of the book.
He barely has time to exhale your name before you sink down onto him, making both of you groan.
The hardcover digs into your knees, the pages creasing beneath you, but you couldn’t care less. Sunghoon is buried inside you, stretching you open, warm and deep and perfect, and the only data you’re analyzing is how his breath stutters when you roll your hips just right.
“Fuck, you’re unreal—” he pants, hands gripping your waist, watching you through the slightly fogged lenses of his glasses as you use him, ride him slow, grind on him like you want to ruin him.
You do. You want to wreck him just as much as he’s wrecking you. The friction, the delicious drag, the way his hands squeeze your hips to urge you to go faster, harder—it all shreds your self-control.
By the time you both come undone, gasping and clinging to each other, the textbook beneath you is thoroughly creased, sticky, ruined. Neither of you even bother looking at it.
Case Study #2: The Desk Chair
Another Saturday, another useless attempt at studying.
Sunghoon’s seated at your desk this time, one leg lazily spread, hand bracing his forehead as he tries to focus. But you’re kneeling between his legs, and the moment you reach for his zipper, his entire body tenses.
“You’re insatiable.”
“And?” You tug his pants down just enough to free him, palming his length, watching him harden in your hand as his breathing turns shallow.
He leans back, exhaling sharply when your lips part and you take him deep. His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you swirl your tongue around him, tease him, make him fall apart.
His glasses slip down his nose as he watches you, half-lidded and dazed, jaw slack as you take him deeper, sucking, hollowing your cheeks, making obscene little noises that drive him insane.
He trembles when he finally spills down your throat, groaning your name, head thrown back against the chair.
And the moment he catches his breath, he drags you into his lap, flips you onto the desk, and fucks you stupid.
Case Study #3: Against the Window
Another week. Another “study session.” Another location.
This time, you find yourself pressed against the glass of your dorm window, palms splayed, breath fogging the pane as Sunghoon pounds into you from behind.
The curtains are open.
You don’t know if anyone can see—if someone walking by on the street below can look up and spot your bare body, the lewd way you’re bent over, Sunghoon’s hands gripping your hips as he drives into you with punishing force.
But you don’t care.
All you care about is the way he grunts into your ear, his glasses slightly askew, one hand slipping down to rub your clit, making you jerk and gasp his name as pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave.
“Keep your eyes open,” he growls, voice thick with lust, dragging his lips along your shoulder. “Look outside. Look at what a mess you are.”
Case Study #4: The Shower
It’s late, and you should be asleep. But instead, you’re pressed up against the tiled wall of your tiny dorm shower, water scalding hot, steam curling around you as Sunghoon lifts you up, holds you against him, and fucks you slow, deep.
His glasses are gone, finally.
They’d fogged up the moment he stepped into the shower, and the second you’d made a joke about it, he’d taken them off and set them on the sink. But you don’t miss them too much—not when his mouth is on your throat, sucking bruises into your wet skin, not when his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you in place as he rolls his hips into you with exquisite precision.
You come twice before you finally stumble out of the shower, exhausted, dripping, completely spent.
And the moment you walk back into your dorm room, still naked, Sunghoon picks up his glasses, slides them back on, and gives you a look that tells you he’s nowhere near finished with you.
Case Study #5: The Floor (Again, Because You Can’t Stop)
At this point, you don’t even make it to the bed.
You’re both desperate, panting, **clawing at each other like you can’t stand the idea of being apart for another second.**The moment Sunghoon pushes you onto the floor, you’re already wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him down, gasping when he fills you in one smooth thrust.
It’s fast, dirty, messy.
He grits out your name, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open as he slams into you, pace brutal, relentless. The carpet burns on your back will be worth it.
He loses his glasses at some point, but you don’t even notice—you’re too busy coming apart beneath him, clawing at his back, moaning his name like you’ll never get enough of him.
Maybe you won’t.
Because the second you catch your breath, still tangled up in him, you’re already thinking about where you’ll fuck next.
What surprises you most is how much you enjoy both versions of your time together. The project, which should be tedious, becomes engaging through Sunghoon's perspective. He has a way of finding patterns in chaos that makes even the driest data seem fascinating. And through your influence, he's learning to approach problems more creatively, to see beyond the rigid frameworks he's always relied on.
"What if we visualize it this way instead?" you suggest one Tuesday, sketching a completely unorthodox chart on the margin of his meticulously organized notes.
His initial reaction is skepticism—you can see it in the slight furrow of his brow—but he considers it longer than he would have three weeks ago.
"It's unconventional," he says finally.
"But?"
"But it might actually work better for presenting the correlation," he concedes, and the smile you give him is so bright it makes the student at the next table look over.
In class, Professor Clarke notices the change in both of you. Your questions become more insightful, Sunghoon's responses more animated. When you present your initial findings mid-semester, the professor actually seems impressed by your unusual approach to visualization.
"An interesting methodology," he comments, adjusting his own glasses in a way that reminds you of Sunghoon. "Unorthodox, but effective."
You beam at Sunghoon, who ducks his head slightly but can't hide his pleased expression.
After class, he catches your hand as you're packing up—a gesture he would never have initiated before.
"We make a good team," he says quietly.
"The best," you agree, squeezing his fingers before reluctantly letting go. Public displays still make him slightly uncomfortable, and you respect his boundaries.
-
It's during a rainy Friday evening in your dorm room, six weeks into your relationship (though neither of you has officially labeled it as such), that something shifts again.
You're sprawled on your bed with your laptop, Sunghoon sitting at your desk reviewing your latest statistical findings, his glasses reflecting the blue light of the screen. Classical music plays softly from his phone—another new development. He's been gradually introducing you to his favorite composers, and you've found you actually enjoy the background music while working.
"Your scatterplot is missing a data point," he says, turning to look at you.
"Mmm, probably deleted it accidentally," you reply, not looking up from your position. "Is it important?"
"All data points are important," he says, but there's amusement in his voice rather than criticism.
You roll onto your back, laptop balanced on your stomach. "That sounds like something that would be on a statistics department t-shirt. 'All data points matter.'"
He laughs—a sound that's become less rare but no less thrilling to hear. "I'd wear it."
"Of course you would," you tease. "With your glasses and a pocket protector."
He makes a face at you. "I don't own a pocket protector."
"Yet," you add with a grin.
He shakes his head, turning back to the screen, but you catch the smile he tries to hide. After a moment, he speaks again without looking at you.
"My parents want to meet you."
You sit up so quickly your laptop nearly slides off your stomach. "What?"
Now he turns, his expression a mixture of nervousness and something softer. "I mentioned you during our weekly call. Multiple times, apparently. My mother... noticed."
"You talk about me to your parents?" You can't keep the pleased surprise from your voice.
He adjusts his glasses, a gesture you now recognize as his tell when he's feeling vulnerable. "It seems I do."
"What do you tell them?" You set your laptop aside, giving him your full attention.
"That you're brilliant in ways I'm not. That you see solutions I miss." He pauses. "That you make statistics class the best part of my week."
Your heart does that skipping thing it did the first day Professor Clarke paired you together, only stronger now.
"Sunghoon Park," you say softly, "are you saying I'm statistically significant to you?"
His expression turns serious, though his eyes remain gentle. "With a p-value approaching zero," he replies, and though it's phrased as a joke, his tone makes it clear it's anything but.
In statistics, a p-value approaching zero indicates an extremely high likelihood that an observed effect is real and not due to chance. It's the closest thing to certainty that statistics allows.
You cross the room to where he sits, gently taking his face between your hands. His glasses are slightly smudged, and you resist the urge to clean them, focusing instead on the eyes behind them.
"So," you say, "when do I meet these parents who raised such a statistically significant nerd?"
He laughs, pulling you into his lap in a move that would have seemed impossibly bold from him just weeks ago. "They're visiting next weekend. Dinner on Saturday?"
"I'm there," you promise, sealing it with a kiss.
-
The day of your semester project presentation arrives with an unexpected lack of anxiety. You're prepared—more prepared than you've been for any academic presentation in your life. Partly because the subject has actually become interesting to you, but mostly because working on it meant spending hours with Sunghoon.
You stand beside him at the front of the class, watching him explain your methodology with a confidence that wasn't there at the beginning of the semester. His voice is still quiet, still measured, but there's a strength behind it now, an assurance that comes from truly understanding his material. When he gestures to your creative visualization on the screen, there's a hint of pride in his voice that makes your chest warm.
When it's your turn to present, you catch him watching you with undisguised admiration. You explain the correlations you found between different types of coffee consumption and various academic performance metrics, throwing in jokes that make the class laugh and complex statistical terms that make Professor Clarke nod approvingly.
"And in conclusion," you finish, "we found that while caffeine consumption generally correlates with improved academic performance up to a point, the type of environment in which the coffee is consumed may be an equally significant factor."
"Furthermore," Sunghoon adds, stepping forward to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder, "we discovered that the companionship variable—whether students studied alone or with others—showed the strongest positive correlation with both satisfaction and performance outcomes."
His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, and you know he's not just talking about the data anymore.
When Professor Clarke gives your presentation an A and commends your "complementary analytical approaches," you resist the urge to high-five Sunghoon in front of everyone. Instead, you wait until you're outside the building, then throw your arms around him in celebration.
To your surprise, he lifts you slightly off the ground in his enthusiasm, spinning once before setting you down, his face flushed with excitement and mild embarrassment at his own uncharacteristic display.
"We did it," he says, adjusting his glasses which were knocked askew by your hug.
"Was there ever any doubt?" you reply, reaching up to straighten them properly. "We're statistically significant, remember?"
His smile softens, and right there on the path outside the statistics building, with students streaming past on their way to other classes, he kisses you without hesitation or self-consciousness.
"What was that for?" you ask when he pulls away, delighted but surprised by the public display.
"I've been collecting data," he says, his eyes crinkling behind those glasses you've grown to love, "and I've formed a hypothesis."
"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow. "And what hypothesis is that, Mr. Park?"
He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as you begin walking toward the coffee shop that's become your place.
"That I'm in love with you," he says simply. "And unlike most statistical conclusions, I'm one hundred percent certain."
You stop walking, turning to face him fully. "That's a bold statistical claim. Absolute certainty is rare in your field."
"I have compelling evidence," he counters, and the confidence in his voice, so different from the hesitant student you met months ago, makes your heart race.
"I might need to review your data," you tease, though your voice catches slightly.
"Extensive observation over time," he begins, stepping closer. "Consistent results across multiple variables. Reproducible effects." His voice drops lower. "Significant positive impact on all quality-of-life metrics."
"Very scientific," you murmur, your hands finding their way to his chest.
"I thought so," he agrees, his eyes serious despite the playful exchange. "So my conclusion stands."
You rise on your tiptoes, pressing your forehead to his. "Well, as someone who's conducted a parallel study, I can confirm your findings. The evidence suggests I'm in love with you too."
His smile, rare and full, lights up his entire face. "Independently verified results. The best kind."
“Should we celebrate this breakthrough with coffee?” you suggest, already knowing his answer.
“I was thinking maybe we skip the coffee today,” he says, surprising you again. “I have other hypotheses I’d like to test.”
“Professor Clarke would be shocked at your dedication to statistical research,” you laugh, letting him lead you in the direction of your dorm instead of the coffee shop.
“Some variables,” he says with newfound confidence, “are worth studying in depth.”
You lean in close, pressing your lips right against the shell of his ear, and whisper the kind of filth that would make even the most shameless person blush.
“Then why don’t you pin me down the second we walk through that door, shove your face between my legs, and eat me so fucking good I forget my own name? And when I can’t take anymore, you’ll flip me over and fuck me like you’re trying to imprint yourself inside me—deep, rough, until I’m crying and drooling on the sheets, too dumb to do anything but take it.”
Sunghoon stops breathing.
You feel the exact moment your words hit him—his entire body locks up, his grip on your wrist tightens, his jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear his teeth grind.
His glasses fog immediately.
A strangled noise escapes him, something between a curse and a choked groan, and then he’s moving.
Not just moving—dragging you, fast, purposeful, like a man on a mission.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, voice wrecked, dangerous, and it sends a thrill straight through you.
By the time you reach your dorm, he’s already reaching for the door handle, barely keeping himself together, and the second it clicks shut behind you—
You know he’s about to make good on every single word you just whispered.
That, by any metric, was statistically significant indeed.
rereading this as i try to figure out how to use spss in my stats class… and me staying quite when the professor asked what a p-value is…. can’t let them know i learned about it through a sunghoon ff
→ “then you come through like the sweetner you are to bring the bitter taste to a halt” ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
pairings: sunghoon x reader
synopsis: everyone thinks you’re a sweet, innocent cutie, but only your friends know that you’re hella geeked. when sunghoon bumps into you and falls inlove at first sight, he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.
IM CEYFIDKFJFNFN ;-; this was TOO hilarious and TOO relatable… i’d be damned if my texts with my friends about sunghoon gets leaked too…….. anyways THIS WAS HELLA FUNNY
jungwon x fem!reader | uni au | black cat × golden retriever | friends to lovers (but he’s already in love) | yearning, jealousy, softness | trust slow-built from affection | softest obsession | mutual care | oral smut
a/n: read this whenever you think about your fuckass ex
wc: 13k
summary: you’re sharp-tongued, black cat energy, and never let people in—until jungwon starts showing up for you again and again, gentle and constant. you try not to fall, but he already has. and when jealousy cracks your calm, everything you’ve both been holding back finally comes out.
You don’t notice him at first. Correction: you pretend not to notice him.
He’s there in the way most background things are—like the class clock, or the hum of the AC, or the scratch of pens on paper. Persistent. Constant. Slightly annoying once you become aware of it.
Yang Jungwon sits two rows behind you in lecture, slightly to the left. Close enough that if you turned your head you’d probably meet his eyes. Far enough that you can convince yourself you aren’t being watched.
You feel it anyway. That soft, warm prickle at the back of your neck when you’re taking notes. The way you can suddenly tell the exact moment someone is looking at you like you’re something they want and are too scared to touch.
Black cat instinct, Chaewon would call it.
“Stop looking like you’re about to claw someone,” she whispers, leaning over your notebook, her hair tickling your arm. “You’re scaring the freshmen.”
“I’m not,” you murmur, eyes still trained on the board. “This is just my face.”
“Your face looks like a midterm,” she says. “Nobody wants it, but it’s there.”
You huff just enough air to count as a laugh. Your pen moves again, dragging ink over the professor’s slides. Behind you, his chair creaks—a tiny shift, a soft rustle, like someone straightening up, trying to pay attention.
It’s the third week in a row you’ve had this elective together. You only know that because you counted.
Not him. The… pattern. The way his backpack always lands on the seat with a soft thud two minutes before class. The way a paper coffee cup clinks onto the tiny desk. The way Heeseung slides into the seat beside him, muttering something like, “You’re early again, lover boy,” in that easy, teasing voice of his.
You hear more than people think you do. You just prefer not to respond.
________
The first time he talks to you, it’s over something stupid.
The classroom door swings open as you’re leaving, and you nearly collide with a chest full of black hoodie and the smell of soap—clean and faintly citrusy. Your body jerks back instinctively; your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.
“Oh—sorry!” His voice is soft, airier than you expect. “I didn’t see you.”
You look up.
Jungwon’s eyes are big. Eyelashes ridiculous. He’s already half-smiling, like he’s braced for you to be annoyed and is prepared to take it. You blink. “It’s fine.”
He shifts to the side immediately, back pressed to the wall so you have more space to exit. He doesn’t try to touch you, doesn’t grab your arm or your bag, doesn’t make it weird. He just… opens space. Your chest does a microscopic, treacherous flutter. You ignore it. Chaewon, of course, does not.
She steps out beside you, eyes flicking from you to him and back. “Thank you,” she says, sugar-sweet. “Most people just barrel through her like she’s a door.”
You give her a look that could cut glass. She beams. Jungwon rubs the back of his neck, the corner of his mouth tugging upward like he’s trying not to grin too hard.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, eyes sliding back to you for one second—just one. “Sorry again.”
You step past him. Your shoulder barely brushes the fabric of his hoodie. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel every atom of that distance closing: two people the universe keeps pushing a little too near.
Outside, the hallway buzzes with chatter. Chaewon nudges you with her elbow.
“He’s cute,” she says.
You shrug, lips twisting. “Lots of people are cute.”
“Yeah, but he looks at you like you’re the final boss.”
“Chaewon.”
“What?” she sings. “Little meow meow has a crush on you.”
“I don’t do crushes,” you say.
You don’t do hope, either. Not anymore.
_______
The coffee shop near campus knows you by now.
Not in a “here’s your usual, bestie” way, but in a cautious, “oh god she’s back and she looks like she wants to commit arson” way. You like it here. It’s noisy enough that your thoughts don’t echo, but quiet enough that no one forces you to speak.
“Back again?” Taehyun asks as you step up to the counter. He leans his elbow beside the register, dark eyes flicking over your expression. “You look like exams started and no one told you.”
“This is just my face,” you deadpan.
“We’ve been over this,” he says, tapping the counter. “Black coffee, two sugars?”
You hesitate.
“Make it three,” you say. “I had class.”
“You always have class,” he mutters, turning away to start your order. “In both senses. Unfortunately, that doesn’t buy the coffee.” You’re digging for your wallet when the bell above the door rings again.
You don’t turn around. You don’t need to. There’s a specific kind of silence that follows Jungwon wherever he goes, like the air holds its breath for him. It happens now—just a tiny pause, then the low rumble of another voice. Heeseung. “Bro, if you come here any earlier you’re going to open the shop,” Heeseung says, stepping up beside you. You feel more than see Jungwon freeze when he realizes you’re there.
“Oh,” he says, a fraction of a second later. “Hi.”You glance over your shoulder.
He’s a little out of breath, hair ruffled from the wind, hoodie zipped halfway over a white t-shirt. There’s a strap digging into his shoulder from his bag, and a strand of hair is stuck to his forehead. You shouldn’t notice this much. You do anyway.
“Hi,” you say, because you are not a monster.
“She speaks,” Heeseung gasps, hand pressed to his chest. “I thought you were a myth.”
You look at Taehyun. “Can I pay extra for him to shut up?”
“Tempting,” Taehyun says, sliding your cup over. “But unfortunately that falls outside our listed services. For now.” Heeseung cackles. Jungwon’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, watching the exchange like he’s grateful just to be close enough to witness it.
Taehyun nods at the cup. “Three sugars. You okay?”
You blink. “…I said three?”
He smirks. “You didn’t have to.” You narrow your eyes but take the drink. The warmth seeps into your fingers. Beside you, Jungwon shifts his weight from one foot to the other like he wants to say something and doesn’t know if he’s allowed. “Um,” he starts, voice soft. “If you want, you can take the table near the window? I know you usually sit there, but we were gonna— I mean, we can sit somewhere else. It’s fine.” You stare at him. You didn’t realize you had “a usual table.” He did.
“We can sit anywhere,” you say lightly, nodding toward the back. “The window’s all yours.” His mouth opens, then closes. “No, I—”
Heeseung throws an arm around his shoulders. “Look at you, gentleman of the year. Giving up prime real estate like that. Should I be proud or concerned?”
“Shut up,” Jungwon mutters, cheeks turning pink. You take a sip of your coffee. Too sweet. Perfect.
“Thanks,” you say.
He looks up, surprise flashing in his eyes before it melts into something softer.
“Anytime,” he says quietly.
————
He’s not obvious, you’ll give him that. If you didn’t have abandonment carved into your ribs like a warning sign, you might have believed he was just… friendly. He smiles at everyone. Holds doors. Carries things. Laughs at jokes that aren’t funny.
But then there are the little things.
You’re late to class once—just once—and slip into your seat with your hair still damp from a rushed shower. There’s a sticky note on your desk.
You didn’t put it there.
Prof gave extra reading. Check the slides after class :)
The smiley face has cat ears drawn on it.
You turn in your seat, and he’s there, pretending to listen to the professor, pen tapping against his notebook. When you crumple the note loudly, his mouth twitches.
Another time, you forget your pen entirely. You’re halfway through accepting your fate when there’s a soft tap against your elbow. You look down. A pen lies on the edge of your desk, nudged gently toward you.
You follow the trajectory back to him. He waggles his fingers once in a tiny wave, then immediately looks away like he’s done something embarrassing.
Chaewon catches you watching him.
“Well, well,” she murmurs, leaning in. “What’s this? Eye contact? In public?”
You flick the pen at her. “I hope you trip.”
“You’ll catch me,” she says confidently.
You don’t say it out loud, but the thought crawls up anyway.
You don’t trust yourself to catch anyone. Not when you’re so used to being the one dropped.
_________
Of course the universe chooses group project day to test your patience.
Names flash on the screen, dividing the class into arbitrary combinations. You cross your arms, silently praying you get paired with someone who doesn’t smell like vape and unfinished assignments.
“YO,” Heeseung shouts, leaning back in his chair. “Look at that.”
You glance up.
Your name is on the projector.
Next to it: Yang Jungwon.
You stare at it for a solid five seconds before your brain decides to function.
“No way,” Chaewon whispers, eyes gleaming. “Oh, this is so hot girl-coded.”
“It’s random,” you mutter.
“Yeah,” she says, lips curving. “Random. Sure.”
The professor dismisses you to find your groups. You stay seated for as long as possible, hoping he’ll just… forget. Leave. Decide you’re too much work.
He doesn’t.
A shadow falls over your desk. You look up.
Jungwon stands there, notebook in hand, expression soft but determined. Up close, he looks even younger and even older at the same time—baby-faced but with something steady in his gaze, like he’s decided on something and won’t be moved.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“So, um.” He glances at your name on the screen, like he hasn’t already memorized it weeks ago. “Partners?”
You could say no. Demand a reshuffle. Tell the professor you’re better alone; you always are.
Instead, you hear yourself say, “Okay.”
His smile is small but devastating.
“Cool,” he breathes. “Do you—do you wanna… library? After class?”
He sounds cautious, offering it like a fragile thing he’s scared you’ll break.
You hesitate. Chaewon’s foot connects with your ankle under the desk. You shoot her a glare.
“Sure,” you say. “Library.”
“Okay,” he says, shoulders loosening. “I’ll… I’ll save us a table.”
As he heads back to his desk, Heeseung grabs him by the hood, dragging him down to hiss in his ear.
“You got partnered?” Heeseung whisper-yells. “Oh my god, the RNG gods love you.”
“Shut up,” Jungwon groans, face hidden in his hands.
You pretend not to hear. You hear every word.
_______
The library is quieter than usual. Soft lamplight pools over wooden tables. Students murmur in low voices, fingers clicking over keyboards, pages turning. You step in, exhale, and feel your shoulders drop a fraction.
To your left, he’s already there.
Jungwon sits at a table near the window, sunlight staining his hair a warm brown. He’s surrounded by a fortress of books—neatly stacked, color-coded by subject. There are two highlighters. Two pens. Two notebooks.
Your stomach does something traitorous.
He looks up the moment you cross the threshold. His face lights up in a way that makes you want to both run and stay forever.
“You came,” he says.
You arch a brow. “I said I would.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I just—sorry. That sounded… stupid. I’m glad you’re here.”
You slide into the chair opposite him, placing your bag on the floor. “You’re very prepared.”
“Oh.” He glances at the supplies like he’s seeing them for the first time. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure what you’d want to use so I brought… everything.”
You swallow. Your throat feels tight for no good reason.
“You don’t have to,” you say quietly. “You don’t have to make it easier for me.”
He pauses. The air between you stills. “I’m not trying to make it easier,” he says, voice soft but steady. “I’m just trying to be… here.”
You look at him then.
Really look.
He’s fidgeting with the edge of a sticky note, thumbs worrying the paper. His eyes flick to your face, then away, then back again. There’s a blush high on his cheeks, but he doesn’t flinch from your gaze.
You’re so used to people giving up. Stopping at the first sign of inconvenience. Backing off the moment you don’t smile big and bright and accessible.
He doesn’t.
He just exists. Warm. Constant.
Dangerous.
You flip open your notebook. “Let’s start with the topics.”
Relief washes over his features. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
You work in comfortable silence for a while. His handwriting is small and neat, yours sharper, more angular. He leans forward when you speak, chin propped on his hand, eyes tracking your gestures like you’re the professor and he’s trying not to miss anything.
Once, when he passes you a book, his fingers brush yours.
You both freeze.
You feel heat shoot up your arm, straight to your chest. You pull back first, fingers curling into your palm like you’re tucking the reaction away where no one can see.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“It’s fine,” you say, too quickly.
A smile ghosts over his lips, like he knows it’s not fine but is grateful you’re letting it be.
________
You don’t mean to overhear.
You’re heading back to the classroom later that week to grab your charger, footsteps echoing down the hallway. The room is half-empty, only a few students milling around. You pause when you hear familiar voices.
“Dude, just ask her out,” Heeseung is saying. “Worst case, she murders you. Honestly, what a way to go.”
“Can you be serious for one second?” Jungwon groans.
“I am serious. You’ve been in love with her for, like, three months.”
“Four.” A beat. “And I’m not in— I just—I really like her, okay?”
You freeze just outside the door.
Something sharp lodges under your ribs. You shouldn’t be here. You should walk away. But your body doesn’t move.
“You stare at her like she hung the moon,” Heeseung says. “And then you freak out when she looks back.”
“Because she’s—” Jungwon cuts himself off, words strangled. “Have you seen her? She’s… I don’t even know how to talk to her half the time. She’s so… confident. And she doesn’t need anyone. She doesn’t need me.”
Your fingers curl around the doorframe, knuckles white.
“You’re not exactly unwanted stock, you know,” Heeseung deadpans. “Girls literally line up to talk to you.”
“I want her,” he says, quieter. “Even if she only ever looks at me like I’m… temporary.”
Your throat tightens.
“Maybe,” Heeseung says, softer now, “she doesn’t know how to look at someone any other way.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I just don’t want to scare her,” Jungwon whispers. “She always looks like she’s ready to run. Like if I say the wrong thing she’ll just… disappear.”
Your chest aches.
You move before you can think, stepping away from the doorway, shoes clicking too loudly against the floor as you retreat. Your heart hammers all the way down the hall.
Out of his league. Temporary. Ready to run. You hate how accurate it is.
You hate that he sees you like that and still chose to stay.
_______
Later, when you’re lying in bed staring at the ceiling, Chaewon sprawled beside you scrolling through her phone, the words won’t leave you alone.
I want her.
You swallow, pressing your palms over your eyes like that will make it stop echoing.
“You’re being weird,” Chaewon announces.
“I’m always weird.”
“Weirder,” she amends. “Is this about sunshine boy?”
You stay silent.
She grins. “Ah. It is.”
“He’s…” You search for the right word and come up short. “Persistent.”
“Normal people call that ‘consistent’ or ‘caring,’” she says. “Only you would make it sound like a crime.”
“It’s suspicious,” you say, staring at the cracks in your ceiling. “People don’t just… stick around.”
“Maybe he’s not ‘people.’” She nudges your arm. “Maybe he’s just a boy who likes you and is too scared to say it.”
Your chest twists.
“He’s out of his mind,” you mutter.
She chuckles, rolling onto her side to face you. “You know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think,” she says, sing-song, “you like him back. You’re just too chickenshit to admit it.”
You don’t answer.
You don’t have to.
Your silence is loud enough.
Chaewon sighs, softer now. “You’re allowed to be loved, you know.”
Your eyes sting.
“I know,” you lie.
————
The next time you see Jungwon, he’s standing outside the lecture hall, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, hair messier than usual. He straightens when he sees you, mouth parting like he wasn’t sure you’d show.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
For a moment, you just look at each other. The hallway buzzes around you—people laughing, doors slamming, footsteps—but it feels muffled, like someone turned the volume down on everything except him.
He clears his throat. “I, um… I made notes for the project draft. Do you wanna… go over them? After class?”
You could say no.
You don’t.
“Okay,” you say. “Library?”
His smile is small but real. “Library.”
As you walk past him into the classroom, you catch a flicker of something in his expression.
Hope. It scares you more than anything. Because for the first time, you’re not completely sure you want to run. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
______
You don't mean to make him part of your routine.
It just... happens. One day he's the boy who sits two rows behind you and hands you a pen. A few weeks later, he's the boy who slides into the seat next to yours before lecture because "group partners should sit together, right?" and somehow no one questions it.
You let him.
That's the wildest part—that you let him.
"Morning," he says one day, dropping into the chair beside you with a soft grin. There's a faint pink mark on his cheek, like he fell asleep on his notebook. "You look like you fought God and won."
You turn your head, deadpan. "This is just my face."
He laughs under his breath, quiet but genuine. "Your 'just my face' looks cool. I'd be scared to sit in your row if I didn't know you."
"You don't know me," you point out.
His gaze flickers to your notebook, then back. "I know enough to not be scared."
Your heart stutters. You look straight ahead again before he can see it on your face.
Chaewon slides into the seat on your other side, eyes flicking between you and Jungwon like she's keeping score.
"Wow," she says. "The emotional support boy is here early."
Jungwon chokes. "Emotional support— what?"
"Look at you," she gestures lazily. "She doesn't kill you when you talk. That's higher access than 99% of the population."
You roll your eyes. "I don't kill you when you talk either."
"That's because we're in a legally binding best friendship contract." She jabs a finger toward Jungwon. "He's a special case. Limited edition."
He grins, recovering quickly. "I'll take that as a compliment."
You hide your smile in the opening of your notebook.
He notices anyway.
_______
Your phones become part of it too.
It starts with project deadlines, reminders, shared documents. Efficient, distant. Normal.
[ jungwon 🐾]
hey, prof changed the due date for the draft. it's next friday now, not this one
[ you ]
i was literally about to pull an all-nighter
okay good to know. thanks
[ jungwon 🐾 ]
pls don't die
who else is gonna bully me in group meetings
You stare at that last text for a solid thirty seconds.
[ you ]
i don't bully you
you just react easily
[ jungwon 🐾 ]
so you admit i'm special 🤔
Your fingers hover over the keyboard.
[ you ]
delete this
[ jungwon 🐾 ]
never :)
He doesn't push further. Doesn't steer the conversation into heart emoji territory. He just sends you a screenshot of the updated rubric and a reminder about the page limit.
Still, the word special hangs in your mind the rest of the night.
____
You notice little things about him without meaning to.
He always brings an extra pen. (You pretend not to see the way his eyes flick to you before he sets it between your notebooks.)
He takes his hoodie off when he's focused, revealing strong forearms that your gaze absolutely does not linger on.
He doesn't talk himself down. Not once.
When someone in class jokes, "Yang, you're the professor's favorite," he just smiles and says, "I work hard. He likes good notes," like it's a simple fact.
He knows he's good. Smart. Capable.
He just also thinks you're... more.
One afternoon in the library, you catch him looking at your handwriting, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"What?" you ask, eyebrow raised.
He shrugs, unbothered. "Yours looks like a cool movie title sequence."
You blink. "Is that a compliment?"
"Yeah," he says easily. "Mine looks like a receipt. Yours looks like a poster."
You stare at him for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"Your handwriting is fine," you say, too casually. "It's... you know. Neat. Organized."
"So you have been examining it." His eyes flash with mischief.
You scowl. "I have to read it for the project."
"Sure," he says, drawing out the word.
He doesn't look away.
You're the first one to.
_______
"You're softer around him," Chaewon announces one day in the café.
"I am not." You blow on your coffee like it's personally offended you.
"You smile more," she says.
"I smile the same."
"You glare less."
"That's because I'm tired," you argue.
"And because your sunshine boy holds doors and carries your bag and sends you 'don't forget to eat' texts," Taehyun adds from behind the counter without looking up. "We see things."
You narrow your eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be busy?"
"I'm multitasking," he says. "Judgment and barista work can coexist."
As if summoned, Jungwon pushes the door open, a rush of cold air following him in. His hair's damp from the drizzle outside, cheeks pink from the wind. He spots you immediately.
He always does.
"Hi," he says, coming over. He looks at your cup. "You already got coffee."
"Is that a crime?" you ask.
He shakes his head, smile small. "No, I just— I was gonna buy you one."
Your stomach flips once, traitorous and rude.
"You can buy your own," you say. "Equal rights."
His mouth curves, amused. "Can I at least sit with you?"
You gesture to the chair across from you. "It's a public establishment."
"That's a yes," Chaewon translates, getting up. "I'll leave you two emotionally constipated idiots to your... group work. I have places to be."
"You literally don't," you say.
She winks. "Not physically. But spiritually, my time is limited."
She pats Jungwon's shoulder on the way out. "Good luck, lover boy."
He groans quietly. "She really— okay."
He sits down, dropping his bag gently by the chair.
You watch him pull out his laptop, his notebook, a purple highlighter you've secretly decided fits him.
"Did you finish your section?" he asks.
"Of the draft? Yeah." You nudge your bag open and slide your folder out. "Don't look so shocked."
"I'm not shocked," he says. "I just... like seeing you proud of your work."
You freeze.
"I'm not—"
"You get this little wrinkle right here," he continues, oblivious, lightly tapping the space between his brows on his own face. "When you're satisfied with something. Most people only see the 'do not disturb' version of you. It's fun watching the other one uh... load in."
You stare at him.
"Do you... analyze everyone like this?" you ask slowly.
He thinks about it. "No."
The answer is simple. Certain.
"So it's just me?" you push.
His eyes meet yours, steady.
"Yeah," he says. "It's just you."
Something in your chest lurches and then sits heavier than before, like your heart just took on extra weight.
You look away first.
_______
Later that week, you're both leaving class when you feel the first, faint twinge of something you are absolutely not ready to name.
It happens as you're walking down the hall together, your shoulder just barely not brushing his. You're halfway through telling him about a professor who mispronounced your name for the fifth time when a voice calls out:
"Jungwon?"
You look up.
Ningning is walking toward you, clutching a stack of notebooks, cheeks flushed from the cold. She's all bright colors and bright eyes, the kind of girl people describe as "bubbly" and "effortless."
You watch his face carefully.
He brightens, but not in the way that makes your stomach drop. It's warm. Polite. Familiar.
"Hey," he says. "Do you need help with that?"
"Oh my god, yes," she laughs, shifting the notebooks. "I didn't think this through."
He glances at you.
It's quick, almost unnoticeable. A check-in.
You wave a hand. "Go. Before she dies under that pile."
He grins. "I'll be right back."
You don't know why he has to add that. You're not going anywhere.
He takes most of the notebooks from her, easy. Ningning sighs in relief, brushing hair from her face.
"You're a lifesaver," she says, touching his arm. "Seriously, what would I do without you?"
"Trip and fall dramatically," he deadpans.
"And you'd catch me," she jokes, lightly squeezing his forearm.
Something ugly and sharp twists in your chest.
You don't like it.
You're not used to seeing him be... touchable. Accessible. His attention diverted.
You shouldn't care. You have no claim on him. He's allowed to talk to whoever he wants; you're not his girlfriend.
Still.
When Ningning laughs and leans a little closer, angling her body toward him, you feel your jaw tighten.
He's just being nice, you tell yourself.
He's always nice.
You hate that about him right now.
_____
You don't stay to watch the whole thing.
You turn away, fingers curling around the strap of your bag. The hallway blurs a little at the edges. You walk, each step a small act of stubbornness against the heat climbing up your neck.
It's stupid to feel this way. You barely talk. You've only known him for a few months. You don't do this. You don't get jealous over boys who bring extra pens and remember your coffee order.
Jealousy implies possession, and you have none here.
Still, it simmers under your skin all the way down the stairs.
You don't see the exact moment it happens.
But if you could, you'd see this:
The second you pivot away, frustrated, the second your shoulders stiffen and your gaze drops to the floor—
Jungwon's eyes dart to you.
He's mid-laugh, mid-response to something Ningning says when his attention snaps, like a magnet jerked out of alignment. His gaze follows you down the hallway, focus sharpening, the rest of the world dimming at the edges.
He doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Ningning says something. Her hand squeezes his arm again.
"—right, Jungwon?"
He blinks, eyes tearing away from your retreating back.
"Sorry," he says, forcing a smile. "What did you say?"
She pouts, playful. "You're so distracted. Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he lies. "Just... thinking about something."
Not something.
Someone.
You.
________
"Twin," Heeseung says later, dropping into the seat next to him in their shared room. "What's wrong with your face?"
Jungwon flops back on his mattress. "It's my face."
"No, this is your 'I did something wrong to my crush and she doesn't even know I exist anymore' face," Heeseung corrects. "Very specific model. Limited edition."
Jungwon stares at the ceiling.
"She walked away," he says quietly. "I was supposed to walk with her after class and she just... left."
"Okay," Heeseung says slowly. "And this personally offended you because...?"
"Because she never forgets when we're supposed to meet," he says, frustration bleeding through. "She's always on time. She double-checks everything. If she left, it wasn't an accident."
Heeseung clicks his tongue. "Ooh. Drama."
"I think she was..." He hesitates. "Mad?"
"At what? Did you breathe wrong? Blink at the wrong speed?"
He exhales. "Ningning asked me to carry some notebooks."
"Okay," Heeseung nods. "That's pretty on brand. You love lifting heavy shit for people."
"She touched my arm a lot," Jungwon says softly. "And I didn't— I mean, I wasn't—"
"Into it?" Heeseung offers.
"No," he says immediately. "I was trying to be polite. But I think..." His hands scrub over his face. "I think she saw."
"Your girl?"
"She's not my—"
"Your potential girl," Heeseung amends.
Jungwon is quiet for a long moment.
"I don't want her to think I'm playing around," he says finally. "If she saw that and thought I liked it, she's... definitely gone."
"What if she was jealous?" Heeseung asks.
Jungwon's heart does a painful, disbelieving lurch. "She doesn't get jealous."
"You sure?" Heeseung says. "You don't watch someone that closely and then just... not care."
Jungwon thinks about the way your jaw clenched. The tight set of your shoulders. The way you didn't look back, like you were annoyed with yourself for looking in the first place.
He thinks about how hard you've worked to keep your distance, even after letting him in this much.
"She doesn't owe me anything," he says quietly. "But I... owe her the truth."
He sits up, resolve settling over his features.
"What are you doing?" Heeseung asks.
"Tomorrow," Jungwon says, more to himself than anyone, "I'm talking to her."
"About Ningning?"
"About everything."
Heeseung leans back, grinning. "Finally."
________
The universe, for once, cooperates.
The next day, you end up in the same empty stairwell between classes. You're leaning against the wall, checking your phone, willing your chest to stop feeling tight over something as stupid as an arm touch.
Footsteps approach.
You look up.
It's him.
Of course it's him.
"Hey," he says, a little breathless, like he ran a bit to get there. "Can we talk?"
Your spine stiffens. "About what?"
He swallows, eyes searching yours, trying to read what he's walking into.
"You left yesterday," he says carefully. "After class."
You shrug, aiming for casual, landing somewhere near brittle. "I had things to do."
"Right," he nods, though you both know you usually walk out together. "So... that's all?"
You stare at him.
His expression is open. No defensiveness, no arrogance. Just concern. And under that, something steady and bright that makes you want to both lean in and push him away.
You could lie.
You could brush it off, act unbothered, pretend you didn't care who touched him where.
But you are so, so tired of lying to yourself.
Your jaw tightens.
You meet his eyes dead-on.
"Why did you let her touch you like that?" you ask, voice low.
The question drops between you like a stone in water, sending ripples through everything.
His eyes widen.
He wasn't expecting you to say it out loud.
Good.
You weren't expecting it either.
_____
For a second, the words just hang there between you.
Then Jungwon exhales, shoulders dropping—not in defeat, but in decision.
"Okay," he says quietly. "That's fair."
You hadn't been bracing for that answer. You'd been bracing for denial, deflection, jokes—anything you could claw at and use as a reason to pull away again.
"Fair?" you echo.
He nods, gaze steady on yours. "Yeah. If it bothered you, then it matters. I'm not... I'm not going to pretend it doesn't."
Your heart does that awful, hopeful twist.
"You didn't answer the question," you say, voice a touch sharper to hide how unsteady you feel. "You could've moved away. You didn't."
He doesn't flinch.
"You're right," he says. "I should've."
There's no excuse tacked on. No "but she grabbed me" or "I didn't want to be rude." Just a simple admission that he could've done better.
It throws you off more than anything.
"I was trying to be polite," he adds, after a beat. "I didn't think about it fast enough. That's on me. But I wasn't—" He breaks off, expression tightening. "I wasn't... enjoying it. Or whatever you're worried about."
You hate how much relief pulses through you at that.
"I'm not worried," you lie. One corner of his mouth lifts, sad and fond at the same time. "You're mad," he corrects softly. "That's... different."
You look away, jaw working. A few seconds pass. Your pulse is loud in your ears. He lets the silence sit, not pushing, not rushing you.
"I just—" you start, then stop, frustrated at your own tongue.
His voice comes in, gentle. "Can I ask you something?" You don't trust your voice, so you just nod.
"If it was just about Ningning," he says carefully, "you wouldn't be this upset." Your fingers curl at your sides.
"It's not that she's bad," you mutter. "She's not. She's nice. Everyone likes her."
"She's a friend," he says. "I like her as a friend." You swallow. His eyes soften. "But you're not... everyone." You freeze. He takes a small step closer, enough that you can feel his warmth in the narrow stairwell, but not close enough that you can't escape if you want to. It feels deliberate. Patient.
"I should've pulled away," he says again. "Not because she did anything wrong. But because if you saw that and it hurt, then I care about that more than I care about her feelings being a little bruised."
You blink hard, turning that over. "You're assuming it hurt," you say, crossing your arms—a last flimsy shield.
He smiles, small and so annoyingly understanding it makes your chest ache. "It's okay if it did." You want to deny it so badly it's almost physical. But you remember how it felt. That sharp, unfamiliar burn in your chest. The way your feet moved before your brain could catch up, carrying you away because staying meant acknowledging that you wanted something you never let yourself want.
You. Jealous. Over him. "That's stupid," you say, hating how thin your voice sounds.
"Probably," he says lightly. "But feelings usually are. Doesn't mean they're wrong." You stare at him, thrown. Nobody ever talks to you like this. No one holds space for your reactions without trying to rearrange them into something more convenient.
"There's nothing wrong with you not liking it," he says. "You're allowed to... want me to have boundaries. Even with friends."
You're quiet.
"You're allowed," he repeats gently, "to want me to choose you."
Your throat tightens painfully.
"That's the problem," you whisper before you can stop yourself. "You say that like it's obvious."
He doesn't move closer. But his voice gets softer, like it's just for you.
"It is," he says.
You look up at him then.
His eyes are warm, steady. Not pleading. Not self-pitying. Just... certain. Like he's made peace with this already: that you terrify him and he wants you anyway.
"You... you think I'm out of your league," you say, needing to hear it out loud.
He huffs a quiet laugh. "You are."
It stings and soothes at the same time.
"But that doesn't mean I think I'm... nothing," he adds calmly. "I like who I am. I work hard. I know I'm worth something. I just—" He lifts a shoulder. "I also know that you're... you."
"Is that your big thesis?" you mutter, because your heart is racing and you don't know what to do with it. "I'm 'me'?"
"Yeah," he says, a hint of a grin now. "You're you. You walk into a room and people make up stories about you in their heads. You're intense, and smart, and sharp, and you don't let people in for free. I'd be stupid not to think you're out of my league."
You swallow.
"But I'm still showing up," he says simply. "Because I want to. Because I like you."
The word lands between you like a drop of ink in water, bleeding into everything.
You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment.
"Why?" It slips out before you can bite it back. It sounds more raw than you intend. "You don't even know if I'm going to stay. Or if I'll... let you stay."
"I know," he says.
"You're not... scared of that?"
He thinks about it. Really thinks. You can see it in the way his brows draw in, the way his gaze drops briefly to the steps between you, then rises back to your face.
"I'm scared," he admits. "Of getting attached to someone who might push me away. Of caring more than you do. Of misreading everything."
Your chest tightens.
"But I'm more scared," he adds, voice low and honest, "of being near you and pretending I don't care at all."
Your fingers clench around the strap of your bag.
That's what you've been doing. Skirting the edges. Pretending you don't notice the way he remembers your schedule, your coffee order, your moods. Pretending you don't feel safer when you walk out of class together. Pretending your heart doesn't beat a little differently when his name lights up your phone.
"It's not fair," you murmur, hating how small the words sound.
"What's not?" he asks.
"That you're this... good," you say, struggling a little with the admission. "And I'm still— I still don't know if I can—"
"Like me back?" he finishes for you, but there's no bitterness in it.
You shake your head quickly. "It's not that I— I just don't know how to do this without..." Your voice trails off. Without expecting it to end. Without bracing for the drop.
He watches you carefully.
"Can I ask something?" he says.
You almost laugh. "You're going to even if I say no."
He smiles, brief. "Were you jealous?"
The word slices straight through every defense you have.
"I—" Heat crawls up your neck. "That's none of your business."
"It is if it's about me," he says gently. "And if it's about us."
Us.
As if that exists already, in some half-built, undefined way.
You stare at the railing, metal cool under your fingers. "I didn't like it," you mutter. "Seeing her touch you."
His inhale is sharp and quiet.
"I didn't like that she thought she could," you add, even quieter. "Like she had... access."
He's silent for a long moment.
Then, softly: "You have more access to me than anyone."
You let out a humorless breath. "That's your mistake."
He shakes his head. "That's my choice."
The words land heavy in your stomach.
"You should be more careful," you say, but it comes out softer than you intend.
"I am careful," he says. "That's why I'm here. Talking to you. Not pretending you didn't walk away yesterday. Not pretending I didn't notice."
You look up, eyes locking with his.
"I want you to know," he says, voice steady, "that if something makes you uncomfortable, I want to change it. Not because I'm scared you'll leave if I don't. But because I care how you feel. That's... the whole point, isn't it?"
"You make it sound easy," you whisper.
"It's not," he says immediately. "You scare the hell out of me."
You blink.
He smiles, crooked. "You do. You're intense and honest and you look at me like I'm a test I might fail. But in a weird way... that makes me want to pass it even more."
You stare at him, and something loosens in your chest. Just a fraction.
"I don't know if I can promise anything," you say, voice small but clear. "But I... didn't like seeing you with her. And I like..." You swallow hard. "I like you being around. More than I should."
His breath catches, but he keeps his expression gentle, like he's holding something fragile he doesn't want to shatter.
"That's enough," he says quietly. "For now, that's enough."
You search his face, looking for any sign of resentment, of "that's all?" of "after everything?" There's none. Just warmth. Relief. A happiness so careful it almost hurts to look at.
"Okay," you say, because you don't know what else to do with the weight in your chest. "So what now?"
"Now," he says, a hint of playful lightness sliding back into his eyes as if the heaviness didn't just happen, "I walk you to class like I always do. And I try not to stand so close to people who touch my arm without asking."
You snort. "That's your big solution?"
"And," he adds, eyes glinting, "if something bothers you again, you tell me. Before you walk away."
You hesitate.
"Communicate instead of catastrophize," he says. "New policy."
You grimace. "I hate that you made that rhyme."
"You'll remember it," he points out.
You hate that you will.
He takes a small step back, giving you space to straighten up from the wall.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says quietly. "Even if you take your time with this. Especially if you take your time with this."
You look at him, really look, and finally let yourself admit it:
You believe him.
That terrifies you.
It also makes your chest feel... warm.
"Okay," you say, exhaling. "Walk me to class, then."
His smile is soft and bright at the same time.
"Yes, ma'am."
You roll your eyes, but when you fall into step beside him, you let your arm brush his just a little longer than usual.
He notices.
He doesn't say anything.
But his fingers flex once at his side, like he's holding himself back from reaching for you.
For the first time, you think:
Maybe one day I'll let him.
_________
You don't see it, but later, when he's half-asleep in bed with his phone on his chest, Jungwon scrolls back up to your last messages and smiles at the simplest one.
[ you ]
walk me tmrw too
He types and deletes three different answers before settling on:
[ jungwon 🐾 ]
always
He hits send, turns his phone face down, and stares at the ceiling with his heart pounding so hard it's almost embarrassing.
Out of his league?
Absolutely.
But for the first time, he feels like he's not just admiring from afar.
He's in the game.
And you—slowly, stubbornly, reluctantly—have started to let him in.
________
The next time you see Ningning, she waves at both of you in the hallway and grins.
"You guys are always together," she says, amused. "So cute."
You're about to deny it on reflex when you feel Jungwon's eyes on you.
You glance at him.
He doesn't look nervous.
He looks... sure.
"If she's okay with it," he says mildly, "I don't mind people knowing we're close."
Your pulse stutters.
He doesn't look at Ningning when he says it.
He's looking at you.
Your lips part.
"Yeah," you say, surprising yourself with how quickly it comes. "I don't mind."
His smile is small, but you feel it like sunlight.
Ningning just laughs. "Told you he was whipped," she says, and flits off down the hall.
You should be mortified.
Instead, you catch yourself smiling into your coffee cup a few minutes later, and when Jungwon reaches over to straighten the crooked strap of your bag, you don't pull away.
The jealousy hasn't disappeared.
It's just changed shape.
Now it sits beside something else—something scary and gentle and growing slowly on purpose.
Trust.
________
The confession is coming.
You can feel it every time he looks at you a little too long, every time his fingers brush yours when he passes you a pen, every time your phone lights up just to say did you eat? or get home safe.
And when it finally breaks—the night you snap and admit out loud that you didn't like seeing some other girl touching what's yours—you'll both have to stop pretending this is anything less than what it is: Two people choosing each other, all the way.
_______
By the time midterms roll around, people have stopped saying "you and Jungwon" like it's a surprising combination.
You're a matched set now.
You don't remember exactly when it happened, only that one day you realized you'd stopped having to look for him in rooms. He's just there. Outside your classroom, leaning against the wall with his headphones around his neck. In the café, already at your usual table, pushing your coffee across the table without needing to ask your order. In your notifications, a quiet stream of:
[ jungwon 🐾 ]
got home?
[ jungwon 🐾 ]
drink water
[ jungwon 🐾 ]
the prof curve is cruel but i believe in you
It's... a lot.
You're not used to anyone being this consistent.
You're even less used to realizing you've grown dependent on it.
"Admit it," Chaewon says one afternoon, sprawled sideways in your desk chair while you lie on your bed. "If he stopped texting you for a day, you'd be feral."
"I'd be normal," you retort, scrolling through your phone. "Like a regular person with boundaries."
"What did he text you today?"
You don't answer.
She smirks. "Exactly."
You stare at your screen, at the picture he sent earlier—just his hand and a snack on your usual study table, captioned: for u if you don't bail on the library today.
Your heart did something unhelpful when you saw it.
It's been doing that a lot lately.
_________
Campus feels different during festival week.
There are fairy lights strung between trees, food stalls selling things that are slightly overpriced and badly portioned, and groups of students milling around in clusters—laughing, shouting, dragging each other from booth to booth.
You don't usually come to these things.
Too loud. Too messy. Too much pretending to have the time of your life.
But Chaewon is relentless, and Jungwon texted u going tonight? and you stared at the screen for an embarrassingly long time before typing:
[ you ]
if you're there
His reply came in under ten seconds:
[ jungwon 🐾 ]
then i'm there
So now you're walking through strings of colored lights, the air smelling like sugar and spice and something grilling, with Chaewon by your side and your phone buzzing in your pocket.
It's strangely... nice.
"You look hot," Chaewon says casually, licking sauce off her fingers.
You glance down at yourself. You hadn't done anything dramatic; just swapped your usual hoodie-and-jeans armor for a fitted black top, layered necklaces, and a skirt that shows more leg than you usually tolerate in public. Your eyeliner's a little sharper. Your lip balm actually has color in it.
"It's just clothes," you mutter.
"Yeah, and Jungwon is going to ascend when he sees them," she chirps. "There he is."
You follow her gaze.
He's standing near one of the game stalls with Heeseung and a few others, hands in his pockets, laughing at something. The lights catch in his hair. His shirt is simple—white, with the sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms—but it does awful things to your brain.
As if he feels you looking, he turns.
The second his eyes find you, his whole expression changes.
He straightens a little. His smile softens, gets that stupid fond curve you've been pretending not to memorize. His gaze drops to your outfit, just for a second, then darts back up to your face like he's scared of being caught. You start walking before your thoughts can catch up.
"Hey," you say, trying to sound normal.
"Hey," he echoes, sounding absolutely not normal. His eyes are everywhere at once—your hair, your mouth, the rings on your fingers. It's like he's taking a mental photo he's going to replay all week. "You came," he says. "You asked," you counter.
He huffs a small laugh, still a little dazzled. "Fair." Heeseung appears over his shoulder like a badly timed pop-up ad. "Wow," he says, looking between the two of you. "Power couple energy."
"We're not—" you start automatically.
"We're working on it," Heeseung cuts in. "Slow burn. Season two renewal pending." Jungwon elbows him hard enough to make him stumble. "Go away."
"Ow," Heeseung groans, but he's grinning. "Love is violent, I get it." He drifts away to bother someone else, leaving you and Jungwon in a small, brighter bubble of space.
"You look..." Jungwon starts, then goes abruptly silent, like his brain bluescreened mid-sentence.
You raise a brow. "I look...?" His mouth curves. He doesn't drop his gaze this time. "You look like I should've brought more self-control."
Heat shoots straight to your cheeks.
"What does that even mean?" you scoff, but your voice comes out softer than you intend. He shrugs, eyes crinkling. "You're really pretty. More than usual. It's distracting."
You don't know what to do with that, with the way he says it like it's an observation, not a pickup line. Like it's as obvious as the color of the sky.
"Walk with me," you say abruptly, before you can overthink it.
"Always."
_______
You end up at the ring toss stall because Chaewon dragged you there first and then vanished with a shriek when she won a ridiculous stuffed carrot.
Now it's just you and Jungwon, and a line of slightly rigged games.
The stall worker hands him a plastic ring. "Win something for your girlfriend," she says, uninterested.
He glances at you.
Your heart stutters.
"he's not my—" you start, out of habit.
"She is," he says at the exact same time.
The world stutters with you. Your eyes snap to his face. His cheeks are pink, but he doesn't look away. He's not smiling like it's a joke. He's not rushing to correct himself. He just... lets it sit there. The stall worker blinks, oblivious to the internal earthquake she's triggered. "Okay," she says. "Then win something nice."
He lifts his arm, aims, and tosses.
The ring lands perfectly around the neck of a glass bottle, clinking down into place.
"That should not have been hot," you mutter. Jungwon laughs, shoulders loosening in relief. "You can't just say that out loud."
"I can say whatever I want," you reply, because your brain has disconnected from your mouth. He leans slightly closer, voice dropping. "Then say you'll let me call you my girlfriend again."
You look at him. Really look. He's serious. He's also waiting. Not demanding. Not assuming. Just... waiting. Your chest feels too small for your heart. You open your mouth, but before you can answer, a familiar voice cuts in.
"Jungwon?" You close your eyes briefly. Of course. Ningning appears beside you, cheeks flushed from the cold and the games, a small plush tucked under her arm.
"Hey," he says warmly. "Did you win that?"
"Yeah!" She holds it up proudly, then glances between the two of you and grins. "Sorry, am I third-wheeling?"
For once, the ground doesn't tilt under your feet. Jungwon glances at you—quick, instinctive. It's becoming a habit with him, this constant check-in.
"Only if she says so," he says simply.
Ningning raises her brows, amused. "Wow. You really are gone for her, huh?" He doesn't even argue. Heat prickles your ears.
"I'm gonna go find Chaewon," you say suddenly, needing air. "She texted."
You haven't checked your phone.
You start to move, but his fingers brush your wrist.
"Stay?" he says softly. You look down at his hand. He doesn't grip you, doesn't hold you in place. Just touches, like a question. That's what does it. You're tired of walking away and making him chase you just so you don't have to say the quiet part out loud. You're tired of pretending this doesn't terrify you. You're tired of pretending it doesn't also make you... happy. You exhale.
"Five minutes," you say.
His eyes brighten. "I'll take it."
_________
You do end up finding Chaewon eventually, if only because she returns like a homing missile, thrusting a paper cup of something vaguely sweet into your hands.
"Here," she says. "Sugar for your emotional damage."
"I'm not emotionally damaged," you protest. "You're in love," she says. "Same thing." You're about to argue when someone shouts Jungwon's name behind you. You both turn. A group of students has clustered around a makeshift photo wall. Heeseung is in the middle, calling out instructions; Jungwon is off to the side, head ducked as someone shoves a prop into his hands.
"Yang Jungwon, stand there," one of the girls says, grinning. "We need you in the photo, or it loses 50% of its attractiveness." He groans. "Please."
"Don't be shy," another girl says, looping her arm through his. "You're like... campus golden boy. Stand in the middle." You watch her tuck herself a little too close against his side. Last week, that would've felt like a punch.
Tonight, it's... different.
The jealousy is still there, sharp and familiar. But layered over it is something heavier, deeper, built slowly over late-night texts and stairwell conversations and a boy who looked you in the eye and said, I'm choosing you. You're not questioning if he wants them. You're questioning whether you're brave enough to claim what you already know is yours.
He looks up then, searching. His gaze skims over the crowd, the lights, the camera—and lands on you. Everyone around him is laughing, jostling, pulling him into place. But in that second, it's like the scene mutes. His eyes go soft and focused, relief flashing across his face like he's been holding his breath and you're the exhale. You don't move. You don't look away. He smiles. Not the polite one, not the one he gives to the group. The private one. The one that says, I see you. One of the girls notices. "Is that your girlfriend?" she asks, half-teasing, following his line of sight.
He doesn't hesitate. "Yeah," he says. The air leaves your lungs.
Someone whistles. Someone else laughs. Heeseung whoops loudly from the other side of the group.
"Oh my god," Chaewon whispers. "Finally." Your heart is racing so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.
He disentangles himself from the cluster with a quick apology, handing the prop to someone else. "Take it without me," he says. "I'm busy."
"You're whipped!" Heeseung yells.
"Yup," Jungwon calls back, not denying it. He walks straight to you, nerves visible in the way he presses his lips together once, like he's bracing for impact. You stare at him.
"You just lied to everyone," you say, but your voice doesn't have any real bite.bHe shakes his head. "Did I?" You swallow. He stops in front of you, leaving just enough distance that you could step back if you wanted to. You don't.
"If that made you uncomfortable, I'll fix it," he says immediately. "I'll tell them I was kidding, or that I spoke too fast, or—"
"It didn't," you cut in. He blinks. "It didn't make me uncomfortable," you repeat, slower this time, so you can hear yourself say it. "It just... surprised me." "Good surprise or bad?" he asks quietly.
Your heart crawls up into your throat.
"Good," you admit. Something in his expression softens completely.
"Okay," he breathes. "Then I'm going to be honest, and if you hate it, you're allowed to tell me to shut up."
You roll your eyes, but it's weak. "You never shut up when I tell you to."
"That's because you say it when you're flustered," he says. "Which is cute."
Your cheeks burn.
He takes a breath.
"I like you," he says.
You know this. You've known this. Everyone with eyes has known this. But hearing it, plain and undesguised, knocks something loose in your chest.
"I liked you when you wouldn't even look at me," he continues, voice steady. "When you pretended you didn't see me staring. When you acted like I was just some guy in your row. I liked you when you snapped at me for giving you an extra pen."
"That was annoying," you mutter.
"I know," he says, lips twitching. "I did it anyway."
Your fingers tighten around your cup.
"I thought you were out of my league the first time I saw you," he says. "You walked into class and sat like you OWNED that seat, and everybody else rearranged themselves around you like they could feel it. And yeah, I thought, 'Wow, she's way too much for me.'"
You look away, heart pounding.
"But then I realized 'too much' is exactly what I want," he goes on gently. "I don't want someone who's easy to read or easy to leave. I want someone who scares me a little. Someone who makes me want to be better because I'm standing next to her."
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something stupid like why are you like this.
"So yeah," he says. "I think you're out of my league. And I'm still here. Because I like you. A lot. And I'm not going anywhere just because that terrifies me." Silence stretches between you, filled with the roar of your pulse and the distant noise of the festival. You could run. You could make a joke. You could ask him to give you time, to slow down, to let you stick your head in the sand a little longer. Instead, for once, you choose the option that feels like standing still. "I was jealous," you say. His eyes flicker.
"That day with Ningning," you clarify, because you're already in freefall and you might as well commit. "And today. With... everyone." His throat bobs.
"I didn't like watching them touch you," you admit, voice low. "I didn't like them acting like they had a right to pull you around, or call you theirs, or make jokes like you're up for grabs. I hated it." He stares at you like you hung the stars and then told him his name is written in them.
"I hated it," you repeat, a little breathless now, "because you've been... mine. In my head. For a while. And I don't know what to do with that."
For a second, you think he might actually pass out. Then he smiles. Not the soft, slow one he usually gives you. A brighter one. Something like relief, joy, and something else you don't dare name all at once.
"Okay," he whispers. "That's the best thing anyone's ever said to me."
"That I'm deranged and territorial?" you say weakly.
"That you think I'm yours," he corrects. Your hands are shaking a little. "I'm... scared," you say, because it feels dishonest not to. "I know," he says. "I don't know how to do this without waiting for it to end."
His eyes are so, so gentle. "Then we'll do it scared," he says. "And if it ends one day, we'll deal with it then. But I don't want to lose what we could have just because we're scared of losing it later." "That sounds like something from a bad Pinterest quote," you say, but your voice is wobbling. He laughs softly. "Yeah. But it's also how I feel."
You take a breath that feels like the first real one in weeks. "Ask me again," you say. He tilts his head. "Again?"
"What you told them," you clarify. "Say it to me. For real." Understanding dawns slowly over his face, followed by awe, like he can't believe he gets to do this. He takes a tiny step closer, until you can feel the heat of him in the cool night.
"Can I call you my girlfriend?" he asks, voice barely above a murmur. Your heart squeezes so hard it aches.
"Yes," you say. His breath leaves him in a soft, disbelieving laugh.
"Yeah?" he asks, as if making sure you're not about to snatch it back.
You nod, pulse hammering. "Yeah."
He looks like someone just handed him the sun.
"Okay," he says, almost to himself. "Okay." And then he reaches for you.
Not roughly. Not suddenly. His hand comes up slowly, fingers brushing your cheek, giving you time to lean in or step away. You lean in. His thumb strokes once along your jaw, like he's committing the angle to memory.
"I'm going to kiss you," he says quietly. "Is that okay?"
You might actually combust.
"Yeah," you breathe. "That's... okay."
He smiles, small and awed. "Okay."
The first touch of his mouth to yours is softer than you expected. You thought he'd be nervous, clumsy, maybe overly careful. Instead, he kisses you like he's been thinking about this for months and doesn't want to waste a second—but also like he'd be perfectly content to stay right here forever, doing only this. His lips are warm and a little tentative at first, asking, not taking. He tastes faintly like sugar and citrus. His hand stays cupping your jaw, holding you like something precious. You kiss him back.
The world narrows to the press and slide of mouths, the quiet puff of his breath against your skin, the way his fingers flex just slightly when you angle your head and pull him a little closer by the front of his shirt. Something hungry flickers between you then. His fingers tighten at your waist. The kiss deepens, just a fraction—still soft, still careful, but with a new urgency threaded through it, like you've both been standing on the edge of something and finally, finally stepped forward. You feel his heartbeat where your hand rests on his chest, thudding just as wildly as yours.
"Wait," you whisper against his mouth, pulling back half an inch. He freezes instantly.
"Too much?" he asks, breathing hard, eyes searching your face. You shake your head, dizzy. "No. Just... not here." His gaze darkens, just a little. "Okay," he says, voice low.
________
You end up in his room because it's closer and because your feet move there like they've been waiting for that destination all night.
Heeseung is, mercifully, not around. There's a sweater thrown over the back of a chair, an open textbook on the desk, and a string of cheap fairy lights along one wall that cast everything in a soft, hazy glow. You stand in the middle of it, suddenly hyper-aware of your body, your heartbeat, your mouth, everything. Jungwon closes the door gently behind you.
"I can make tea," he says, because of course he does. "Or water. Or we can just sit. Or I can shut up and you can tell me what you want." You turn to look at him.
He's flushed, hair a little messy, lips pink from your lip balm and his. His shirt is a little wrinkled where your fingers grabbed it earlier. You cross the small space between you and grab his collar again.
"I want," you say, "you to kiss me." Relief floods his features. "That I can do."
The second kiss is less tentative. You back into it together, laughing once into each other's mouths when you bump noses. His hands find your waist, thumbs pressing into the fabric of your top, holding you firm but gentle. When you tilt your head, he follows, matching your pace, your pressure. You're not used to this, to being the one who pulls someone closer instead of pushing them away. But with him, it feels... easy. Like breathing. Like you've been holding your breath for months and only just remembered how to let go.
His back hits the edge of his bed. He breaks the kiss on a gasp, smiling, and sits down, pulling you down with him so you're straddling one of his thighs, your knees pressed into the mattress, your hands braced on his shoulders.
You blink down at him, dazed. His hands slide from your waist to your hips, fingers splayed, holding you like he's not sure you're real. "Is this okay?" he asks, voice rougher than you've ever heard it.
You nod, breathing hard. "Yeah." His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up, slow.
"Tell me if anything isn't," he says. "I mean it." Your chest does that warm, aching thing again. "Okay," you say softly. "You too." He huffs a breath that might be a laugh, then leans up to kiss you again. It's different at this angle—more intense, somehow. You feel his breath against your tongue when your lips part, feel the way his fingers tighten on your hips when you shiver. You feel everything.
You're hyper-aware of the heat where your bodies meet, of the way your skirt's ridden up just a little, of the way his thigh is solid beneath you, the pressure sending little sparks up your spine every time you shift. You don't move much. You don't have to.
His hands stroke tentative circles over your hips, your lower back, always above the fabric, always waiting for any sign you're uncomfortable. His mouth traces the shape of yours like he's memorizing it, like he doesn't want to miss a single detail.
"God," he murmurs against your lips, breaking away just enough to speak. His eyes are dark and blown wide, but there's nothing ugly in them. Just awe. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, do you?" You swallow, heart hammering.
"Maybe a little," you say, because his leg is very much right there. He laughs, the sound breathless and warm, and presses his forehead to yours. "You're going to kill me."
You smile, genuinely, helplessly. "You're the one who begged to be my boyfriend." "Worth it," he says without missing a beat.
Your hand slips from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He shivers. "Do you want to keep going?" you ask, surprising both of you with how steady you sound.
His breath stutters. "I want..." He swallows. His hands flex at your waist. "I want whatever you want. I want to make you feel good. But I also want to go as slow as you need. So you tell me, okay? You call it."
Your stomach flips at the phrasing—like he's handing the wheel to you even though you're sitting in his lap. You think about how his eyes followed you in the hallway. You think about him saying I want you even if you only ever look at me like I'm temporary and then still choosing to stay.
You think about how scared you were of this exact moment—and how now that you're in it, the fear is still there, but it's outnumbered by something else. Want. “Okay," you whisper. "Then... don't stop yet."
His answering smile is all teeth and tenderness. "As you wish," he says, and leans in again.
_______
His lips are back on yours in seconds—hungrier now, but still careful, still reverent like he's trying to earn every gasp from your mouth one by one. You can feel the restraint in him, taut like a string—his fingers flexing against your waist, the way his breath stutters when your hips shift just a little against his thigh. He breaks away only long enough to look at you, lips swollen, breath shallow.
"Baby," he murmurs, voice low and shaking just slightly. "You're... fuck, you're grinding on me.”
Your mouth parts, heat shooting straight between your legs. Because yeah—yeah, you are. Slowly, barely, but your body's already moving on instinct, needing friction, needing him.
"I know," you whisper, your voice smaller, needier than you mean it to be. "It feels good."
He groans, head tipping back, neck exposed and tempting. "You're gonna kill me," he laughs, but it's breathless, reverent. "You're so fucking pretty like this, sitting on me like you own it." His hands tighten at your hips, guiding your movement, letting you roll against him, slow and controlled, letting the pressure build right where you need it.
"Look at you," he breathes. "So worked up, and I've barely even touched you."
You whimper, a soft broken sound as his thigh tenses beneath you. He leans in again, lips brushing your ear. "You gonna let me touch you now, pretty girl?" he murmurs, voice rich and low. "Let me make you feel even better?"
You nod, shakily.
"Use your words," he says, and there's that edge now—that tone, firm but sweet, the one that makes your spine shiver.
"Yes," you breathe. "I want—please, touch me."
"Mmh." He kisses just below your jaw. "That's better."
His hands slide up your thighs, slow and warm, trailing beneath your skirt. His fingers don't move higher—yet—just teasing, just grazing along your skin as his lips drag down your neck.
"You've been needing this, haven't you?" he says softly, one hand cupping the side of your face. "All that attitude... you just needed to be taken care of, baby?"
You whimper again, because fuck, it's true. He pulls back just enough to look at you. "Can I taste you?"
Your stomach drops. Your thighs instinctively squeeze around his, and he groans at the feeling. You nod, breath trembling. "Please." He kisses you again, slower this time, like reward. His hands slide down, lifting you gently.
"Up here," he whispers, guiding you onto the bed, backing up until he's sitting comfortably against the pillows. "Come sit on my face." You freeze, breath caught in your throat.
He sees it, immediately softening. "Hey, you don't have to if you're nervous," he says quickly. "We don't have to do anything—just grinding, whatever you want, I swear."
You shake your head. "I want to." His breath catches.
You crawl forward, heart hammering in your chest as you straddle his chest, your knees braced on either side of him. His hands stroke up your thighs, soothing.
"God, baby," he whispers. "Look at you. I've never wanted anything more."
His voice turns lower, almost reverent now. "Take these off for me?" You nod, fingers sliding under your panties, tugging them down slowly. He watches, absolutely transfixed, his hands flexing where they rest on your thighs. You toss them aside, your thighs trembling slightly as you move up—knees sliding higher until you're hovering just over his mouth.
"Fuck," he whispers, eyes dark and full of want. "Sit. Please. I need to taste this pussy."
_____
His hands slide up your thighs—firm, steady—until they're gripping your hips, coaxing you down, like he needs you to sit, like he's been starving for this.
"You're shaking," he whispers, voice low and reverent, eyes flicking between your slick, swollen folds and your flushed face above him. "But you're so wet for me, baby. You want this, don't you?"
You nod, chest heaving, knees tense where they press into the mattress beside his head. But he doesn't let you stay hovering.
"Don't be shy," he murmurs, tone thick with want. "You're not too heavy. I want you right here—on my tongue, dripping all over my face."
Then he pulls you down. Your thighs close around his head on instinct the second his mouth touches you—hot, wet, eager—tongue flattening against your pussy like he's tasting something he's craved for years. He groans into you, arms wrapping under your thighs now, holding you in place as he devours you. Not soft. Not tentative. He licks you like he means to ruin you.
And fuck, it's so much. Your head tips back immediately, mouth falling open in a choked moan as his tongue strokes up your slit—slow and deliberate, from your entrance to your clit—and then circles, slow and teasing, over the swollen nub. You grind down without meaning to, needing more friction, more pressure, and he grunts in approval beneath you.
"There you go," he pants between licks. "Use me, baby. Just like that." His tongue drags over your clit again, again, again—sloppy, filthy sounds filling the room as he sucks you into his mouth, lips sealing around your clit like it's the only thing he's ever wanted.
You cry out, thighs shaking on either side of his face. "Jungwon—fuck—" He moans against you, like he loves hearing his name from your mouth like that.
Then one hand leaves your thigh and slides between your legs, and you feel his fingers before you see them—two of them, thick and warm, sliding through your slick, teasing your entrance.
"So wet," he groans. "All this for me?" You can't even answer.
He slides a finger in—slow, just one, curling up as he works his mouth over your clit again—and your whole body arches forward. You whimper, grinding down again as he adds a second, stretching you open, his fingers moving in smooth, deep strokes, tongue flicking in tandem with each curl.
"You like that?" he says, voice muffled beneath you. "You like my fingers inside your pretty pussy while you ride my face?" You whine, high and needy, hips rolling down to chase the pressure.
"That's it," he groans. "Take what you need, baby. Fuck yourself on my mouth. Let me taste every fucking drop."
You don't even realize you're grinding harder until his fingers curl and hit that spot, and you scream, gasping as the coil in your belly twists tighter and tighter.
"Gonna cum for me?" he pants, fucking you deep with his fingers, his tongue messy and relentless on your clit. "Come on, baby—cum on my face. Show me how good I make you feel." You break. Your thighs squeeze around his head, your entire body trembling as the orgasm rips through you—loud, uncontrollable, wet—and he moans like he's drinking you down, like he wants to drown in the way you fall apart.
He doesn't stop. Not until your hips jerk back, overstimulated, and your breath stutters out in broken sobs of pleasure. Only then does he ease up, mouth still trailing kisses along your trembling inner thighs, lips smeared with your slick. You're still sitting on his chest, panting hard, your skin flushed and glowing, and when you look down at him—his hair messy, lips wet, face fucked-out and adoring—you nearly collapse all over again.
"Jesus," you whisper.
He grins, breathless. "Nah. Just your boyfriend." You laugh—and it's half-delirious, half-shaky—but you believe him. He reaches up, thumb brushing your hip. "Come here, baby. Let me hold you."
And when you slide down into his arms, still shaking, he wraps you up like he always does—gentle, quiet, constant. You press your face into his neck and feel him kiss the top of your head.
"I told you," he whispers. "I'm not going anywhere."
_______
His arms wrap around you the second your body sinks into his chest—strong, warm, trembling just like yours. You're still panting, still wet, still high from how hard he pulled you apart on his tongue, and he holds you like something delicate, precious. Like something he's never letting go of.
He shifts slightly to lay back on the bed with you half on top of him, his fingers trailing lazy circles into your bare thigh, the other hand still resting over your lower back like a promise.
And then you realize—
you're crying.
Just a few tears, hot and sudden, sliding quietly down your cheek as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.
You don't even know why at first. The orgasm, the overwhelming closeness, the way he kept checking in even while worshipping you like his personal religion. It all crashes down at once, too much and too gentle and too good.
You feel seen. You feel wanted. You feel safe. And your body doesn't know what to do with it—so it breaks in the softest way possible.
"Shit," you whisper against his skin, blinking hard. "I'm—fuck, I'm sorry."
"What? No," he breathes, instantly tightening his grip on you. "No, hey—what's wrong?"
You shake your head, voice thick. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. I just..."
He pulls back to see your face, his hand coming up to gently cup your jaw, his thumb swiping under your eye. "You're crying."
"I know," you say, biting your lip hard. "I'm not sad, I just... no one's ever touched me like that. Not just the sex—this. You made me feel like..."
You hesitate.
His brows furrow, lips soft with concern. "Like what?"
Your voice cracks. "Like I mattered. Like I'm not too much."
He freezes.
And then he lets out a shaky breath—and his eyes go glassy too.
"Fuck," he whispers, his thumb still brushing your cheek, his other hand tightening around your waist. "That's all I wanted. That's all I ever wanted to do. To make you feel that."
You let out a breathless laugh, the kind that trembles more than it lifts.
"I've never felt it before," you whisper.
His throat works hard. You watch as one tear slips from the corner of his eye and trails down his temple.
You blink at it. "Wait—are you crying?"
He laughs, choked and breathless, trying to brush it away with the back of his hand. "No."
"You are," you say, stunned. He grabs a pillow and covers his face. "Fuck, don't look. I'm not crying. I'm rugged. I'm feral. I just ate pussy like a god, this is ruining my brand."
You laugh again, watery and wrecked and delighted, pulling the pillow off his face so you can kiss him. It's slower now, quieter. Your lips are swollen, and his mouth is warm and familiar, and when you shift slightly to curl against his chest, he lets you, his arms closing around you without hesitation.
You can still feel him trembling.
"I just love you," he murmurs suddenly, like the words slipped out without permission—but he doesn't take them back. He presses his forehead to yours. "I didn't mean to say it first. I wanted it to be a whole thing. But—fuck, I do. I love you."
You stare at him, your heart wide open now, broken apart and filled up in the same breath.
"I love you too," you whisper. The smile that breaks across his face is soft, disbelieving, shining.
And when he kisses you again—wet mouths, swollen lips, both of you tear-streaked and undone—it's not about heat anymore. It's about knowing. About holding. About never letting go.
♡ your ultimate guide to A+ special edition: “do you have a crush on someone, but they’re taken?” ─ ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
your ultimate guide to A+ (without the effort!) ~ a totally not suspicious tutorial by yn ♡ a soft, step-by-step guide to becoming the girlfriend of your bestfriend's boyfriend (special edition!)
𓊆박성훈 x fem reader𓊇 you're my boyfriend, you're my boyfriend. i'm reborn after meeting you. i'm sorry but i took him from you, i love it. i'm your–i'm your–i'm your other girlfriend, between you and me, shh it's a secret. ─ my friend's boyfriend, DIA ⫶ 𐔌masterlist꒱
𓆩♡𓆪 ... hello ... first of all, i am so so sorry my writing is so shit, i haven't been in the right state of mind and honestly was so close to stop writing & leaving tumblr but it was just my moment of vulnerability... i'm so sorry for the unanswered texts and asks! i promise i will get back to it asap... ^3^ i wanted to try something new @ format with this fic, so i hope you guys see my vision! this will most likely be a non-committed series! it's cute, isn't it? <3 might rewrite but lmk what you think!!
word count 4.5k
warning advisory infidelity, cheating (emotional + physical), manipulation, pursuing someone taken, yn is an asshole, loss of friendship, morally gray characters, yn has no remorse at all, friendship betrayal, non proofread!
♡ your ultimate guide to A+ (without the effort!) ~ a totally not suspicious tutorial by yn ♡
q: yn! i like this boy, but he’s my bestfriend’s boyfriend :( he’s so hot and kind and i just don’t think that she should be with him! he obviously deserves so much better but i don’t know how to tell, or show it to him! what should i do?
special edition: “do you have a crush on someone, but they’re taken?”
if the answer is yes, then this guide is for you!
we all know that the good, handsome, hot, kind, perfect ones usually are taken—at least when you first notice them… he has a partner. she’s pretty, she’s fine, she’s… there.
you see them together at parties, her hand looped through his arm where it belongs—he smiles down at her the way boyfriends are supposed to, but sometimes—only sometimes his gaze drifts across the room and lands on you for a heartbeat too long..
but here’s the thing—”taken” isn’t, and never will be a permanent state! and i know that because i’m the best at ensuring that it’s not ♡ it’s just a current one, and current states can shift if the conditions change.
besides, girls help girls, don’t we?
sometimes we just help ourselves to what was already halfway ours and the ending usually goes one way, right? the sad, heartbroken one—or the happily ever after one.
we’re usually the latter.
so here’s a guide on how to steal the one for you—without making it obvious that you are the problem.
WARNING—you WILL 98% lose your bestfriend, but remember our goals, girls! the boyfriend, not the friendship! keep your eyes on the prize ♡
are you close to him? if not, first thing first—befriend him!
“oh—sunghoon?” you lifted your voice high just enough, startled to see him. your eyes were wide, small gasp, head tilting slightly for that extra touch of surprise.
sunghoon turned, eyebrows raising when he registered that it's you.
“yn?” a soft laugh escaped him, half–confused, half–amused. “what are you doing here?”
you blinked, holding up the limited–edition volume you’d been clutching since earlier. it’s your most treasured possession—kind of, but that’s beside the point. “to get it signed, obviously,” you chuckled, tilting the book so he could see the cover.
your smile was easy and teasing when you watched as sunghoon’s eyes trail the cover. “i never knew you were into this series too.” you continued, putting your hands down. sunghoon glanced back at you, something warm flickering in his expression.
“yeah, been following it for years…” he murmured, the corner of his lips twitching into an amused smile. “i didn’t know you liked it.” he continued, emphasising the you just enough that it felt personal.
you shrugged, letting a soft laugh slip out. “that’s just because nobody i know enjoys it! sooha definitely doesn’t, so i just have myself to talk about it with.” you hummed, words were light and playful, but you held his gaze a second longer than necessary.
sunghoon huffed a quiet laugh, looking down at his own copy for a moment. when he looked back up, his voice was lower, almost conspirational. “yeah—she doesn’t,” he shrugged, wetting his lips. “which collection hooked you?
you stepped a little closer—because the line shuffles forward (and something else)—and angled your book toward him so your fingers almost brushed when you pointed to the page you’ve bookmarked with a thin silk ribbon.
“tomie…” you murmured shyly, heat rising up to your cheeks. “and i don’t like it performative–way, okay? i just…” you trailed off, biting your lip gently. “i like how she’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time. she’s so fascinating—especially the part where she comes back wrong over and over.”
you glanced up at him through your lashes, voice softening.
“you?”
sunghoon smiled, chuckling. “i couldn’t tell. you’re opposite of her in a good way—” he said, looking at what you wear. yeah—you are opposite of her. white babydoll top, polka dot skirts, and calves–high socks with your mary janes…
everything’s sweet, delicate, doll–like.
he met your eyes again. “right—anyway, i like fragments of horror. blackbird’s in it, so it’s really really good.” he paused, then added quieter, almost like an afterthought he didn’t mean to say out loud, “but i also like shiver… didn’t bring that one today, though.”
your eyes lighted up—perfectly timed, perfectly genuine.
girls! always, always, always seize any opportunities that come your way!
“shiver? oh my god… i’ve always wanted to read that one!” you let your lips part adorably just slightly, like you’re surprised and delighted all at once. you glanced down at your own book, then back up at him, voice soft and a little shy—faux.
“i could never find a copy that wasn’t insanely expensive. i’ve been looking forever.”
never push and never ask! just let the words hang there, hopeful, like a question you’re too polite to voice.
and let the rest unfold.
sunghoon looked at you for a second longer than necessary—then he smiled. “i have it,” he said simply, nodding.
“i could… lend it to you. if you want.”
your heart fluttered and you tilted your head, fingers lightly tightening around your book. “really? you wouldn’t mind it, sunghoon?” a tiny laugh escaped you, sweet and grateful. “i’d take such good care of it, i promise.”
he shrugged. now that he knows what kind of girl you are—surprisingly chill, calm, easy to talk to—sunghoon allowed himself to soften. “it’s just sitting on my shelf. so it’s better if someone actually reads it.”
tip#1: don’t be too much, too pushy, or too obvious! have patience—good things take time.
you smiled, now hugging your book against your chest. “thank you so much, sunghoon. that’s really sweet of you. maybe you can pass it to jaeyun—? we share lots of classes together.”
sunghoon held your gaze before he nodded—the noise of the line and the crowd fading just a little.
“...yeah,” he murmured, nodding. “i can do that.”
quite easy, isn’t it? you don’t need a grand plan or fake an entire personality. stay true to your roots and just have a common ground with him. it won’t look like you’re flirting or trying too much to be around him.
fake it till it’s real! it’ll start with the interest, but it will develop into something more, something deeper, something more personal. trust me—been there, done that! soon enough, it’ll feel like the most natural thing in the world.
p/s: the tomie book i have? it actually belongs to my brother~ :p i’m more of a cardcaptor girl ♡
2. become the better listener!
the pros about liking your bestfriend’s boyfriend is that nobody knows her better than you! so be there—text him whenever your bestfriend rants about her problems and time it perfectly.
don’t be suspicious—boys aren’t as dumb as we thought…
“hey… she was just telling me about what happened. are you okay?”
sunghoon was on the far bench, the one half–hidden by the willow tree, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. his dark hair was messed up like he’s been running his fingers through it too many times to count.
he looked so tired…
“i’m so sorry for calling you out right now.” he sighed, running his hand along his face. you shook your head, sitting next to him but just close enough that your hoodie almost touches his’. “don’t mention it, you’re the one who came so far to my park.”
for a minute, neither of you spoke. just letting the wind in the leaves and distant teenagers laughing somewhere in the park. eventually, sunghoon cracked.
“she just… twisted everything i said. i wasn’t even mad, i just asked if we could talk about it calmly, and suddenly i’m the bad guy for bringing it up.” he rubbed a hand over his face again. “i don’t even know what i’m doing wrong anymore.”
you hummed, staring down at your flats. “tell me your side.”
sunghoon’s head lifted slowly. he cocked an eyebrow, surprise flickering his face—he genuinely didn’t expect anyone to ask. not her, not his friends—and definitely not his girlfriend’s bestfriend.
“...you want to hear it?” he asked, almost cautious. you met his eyes, nodding. “mmhm.”
see—men aren’t used to being asked, to being believed at first. especially not when the story has a villain assigned, and especially not when he’s ranting it to his girlfriend’s bestfriend with the thought that she will side with her!
but that’s where you come in.
because the villain in this story is neither of them! if we’re being real, isn’t it us?
he exhaled, slumped on the bench.
“it’s stupid, really. she saw some texts from a girl in my study group,” he shook his head, bitter laugh escaping. “but she’s convinced i’m hiding something. all because the girl texts me so late asking for resources.”
sunghoon paused, glancing at you like he’s waiting for a judgement.
you didn’t give it.
“she went through my phone while i was in the shower and found nothing, obviously. i confronted her ‘cause—cause why would you go through your boyfriend’s phone if you claim you trust him?” his voice cracked slightly on the last word.
“now she’s mad because of that.”
another silence.
you let it sit for a little while, just humming softly to let him know you’re listening. then, comfortingly—”that’s… really unfair to you.”
tip #2: never call the girlfriend crazy, or toxic. don’t badmouth her!
sunghoon’s shoulders visibly loosened. he looked at you again like he’s trying to find the catch that’s not in your eyes… oh, you got it… it is unfair for him.
“thanks,” he said quietly. “...i… i get it, to an extent that she’d have suspicions but i told her there’s nothing i’m hiding, yet, she doesn’t believe it.”
you gave him a tiny smile. “just give it some time. explain to her that it’s not like that, and let her be in her thoughts for now.”
on the surface, it’s perfect bestfriend advice. but underneath laid the permission to pull back and to stop chasing for her reassurance. you purposely seep and frame it as patience—when really, you’ve planted the seed that trying harder for sooha might not even be worth it.
and sunghoon took the bait—nodding slowly, absorbing like it’s a sensible thing he’s heard all day, especially with all the bullshit around him.
“yeah… maybe you’re right.” he exhaled, the burden hopping off his shoulders. “you can’t force someone to trust you anyway.” sunghoon continued, shrugging as he lightly kicks a pebble in front of his shoes.
you nodded, pursing your lips. “that’s on them, not you.”
another beat of silence follows.
sunghoon looked at you—really looked—and something quiet and comfort passed over his face. it’s like a relief, a gratitude, and a tiny flicker of warmth.
“you always know what to say,” he said, almost to himself. even if the truth was that it’s what he wants to listen, and not something you truly mean.
but that’s beside the point.
you let out a soft laugh, looking down at your hands, stretching them. “i just hate seeing you upset.”
he didn’t reply right away, just humming in agreement. what else was there to say, anyway? it’s when the wind picks up and you shivered slightly—that sunghoon speaks up.
“you cold?” he asked, already shrugging out of his windbreaker before you could answer.
tip #3: always refuse and play hard to get!
you started to protest—it’s okay—but sunghoon’s draping it over your shoulders, warm from his body, smelling faintly of his cologne and the night air.
“better,” he said simply.
there’s a high chance of him texting you to ask if you’ve reached home safely~ and he’ll thank you for lending him your ears to listen to his problems! if you’ve reached this point, congratulations! you are one step closer to stealing your bestfriend’s boyfriend!
3. create private air & become the contrast!
i’ve decided to combine these two tips because it’s something you do simultaneously! it’s twice as deadly and half the effort.
by now, he’s already comfortable with you. but that’s not enough just yet… we need to turn that comfort into something he craves for!
“sunghoon! are you still at the library?!”
you heard the rustle of pages, the zipper of his bag. “yeah, i’m just packing up. why? everything okay?”
“oh, thank god,” you exhaled, relief dripping from every syllable. “i think i left my ipad on the table—the pink case with little star stickers on the back. i’m already at my apartment and i have no idea how i forgo—”
you rambled, frustration and self disappointment laced in your tone. it’s cute! it’s human—it’ll make him want to fix it.
“yn—it’s okay,” sunghoon chuckled, slinging his bag around his shoulder. “i have her with me now.”
you let out a tiny, breathy laugh. “you just saved my life, by the way. i have that presentation tomorrow and i’d be dead without it.”
sunghoon’s quiet for a second, and you could almost picture the small smile tugging at his lips. “it’s really no big deal. i’m leaving the library now anyway.”
you bit your lip, then softened your voice even more.
“would you… maybe be willing to drop it off? i know it’s out of your way, but i’d feel so much better if it was here tonight. i’ll transfer you the bus money—or buy you coffee to make up for it.”
another soft chuckle from him. “yn, i pass your building anyway,” he said, like he’s already decided he’s going. “but coffee sounds nice. i’ll keep your word for it.”
you smiled to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek. “i’ll buzz you in, just come up on my floor.”
sunghoon came by exactly the next fifteen minutes and you opened the door looking really fucking grateful, eyes bright. “hey…” you breathed, pushing the door a little wider. “thank you doesn’t even cover it…”
he shrugged, handing it over. your fingers brushed his as you take it, pressing it against your chest with a smile. “safe and sound,” he said, running his fingers through his locks.
you nodded, muttering another small and soft—thanks again—before your eyes flicked to the side, then back at him. “oh—i baked cookies, if you wanna have one. i can’t send you back out without something warm.”
sunghoon only hesitated for a second.
“yeah,” he said quietly, already shrugging off his bag. “five minutes sounds good.”
five minutes turned into an hour.
sunghoon sat on your couch, legs stretched out, tea steaming between his hands—talking about everything and nothing at the same time. you curled on the other end, knees tucked under you, laughing at his stories, asking questions that made him naturally open up more.
here’s the secret bonus point of liking your bestfriend’s boyfriend—you can act the contrast of her. just do the opposite effortlessly. she interrupts, you listen until he’s finished. she demands detail, you let him share what he wants (because let’s be honest, you’re not his girlfriend yet, who cares about details?)
she fills silence with drama, you let him be safe in your silence.
when sunghoon finally stood to leave, he looked lighter than when he arrived.
“thanks for the cookie and tea,” he said at the door, leaning slightly against the frame. “and for… this.”
you smile teasingly. “this what?”
sunghoon playfully rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “listening to me and all that.” you shrugged, telling him it’s not a big deal and that he can always come up to you for anything. sunghoon nodded, fingers brushing the doorframe.
“text you when i’m home?”
you both know it’s coming.
private air: officially created. contrast: full felt.
now your boy just spent almost an hour in your world and didn’t wanna leave it! if i’m being honest, if you’ve reached up to this point, you can almost already hit it off.
i’ll let you guys in on something~ the tension is there. you feel it everytime your fingers brush, he feels it every time you laugh at something he says. it should hum under every conversation and every shared glance.
trust me!
but here’s the secret~
if you want something more than just hitting it off—something that lasts, something he chooses completely, something he can’t imagine walking away from…
don’t rush the spark and follow this next step ♡
4. let him make the first. real. move.
it’s a thursday in late november.
sunghoon texted you an hour ago—asking if you’re still up, and that he kinda needs to get out of here for a bit.
you replied with always up, and door’s unlocked if you want quiet.
sunghoon showed up just twenty minutes later with his hoodie pulled up, cheeks pink and flushed from the cold, eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. he kicked off his shoes and dropped onto your couch like how you would with someone you’re close with.
you sat on the opposite end—always—just close enough to feel him, but far enough that it didn’t make you look like a slut that wanted her bestfriend’s boyfriend.
for a while, the two of you just talked. nothing really important, and about everything that doesn’t involve sooha. he’s tired partly because of her and studying—so you quickly averted the conversation into something else.
you showed him the new playlist you made, leaning over to hand him one airpod. your shoulders touched, but neither of you moved away.
“you always do this,” sunghoon said quietly, dropping his head back on the backrest of the couch. you tilted your head slightly, both confused and amused. “do what?”
the boy shrugged, exhaling, eyes dropping to your lips for half a second before flicking back up. “it’s like you have this energy to make things feel okay… or something,” he said, looking up at the ceiling.
“it’s just easy talking to you.”
tip #4 important!: do NOT confess. do NOT tell him your true motive! this is NOT a moment of vulnerability! let him make the first move but play along!
your heart was loud in your ears, but your voice stayed soft.
“well, your presence makes everything fun.” you replied cheekily with a small giggle, shrugging like it’s not a big deal even though it means the world and more to you. sunghoon huffed a small chuckle, eyes crickling at the corners.
he shifted on the couch, letting a quiet groan as he stretched—arms stretching high above his head, hoodie riding just a little, before one arm dropped lazily behind you along the backrest.
his fingers didn’t touch you though.
“i think it takes one to know one, though,” he murmured, voice low, teasing—but there’s something else beneath. something steady and serious that makes your tummy pools with heat.
the room was quiet except for the soft hum from the tv and faint sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.
sunghoon’s gaze dropped to your mouth for a second—then back to your eyes, searching.
you didn’t say anything, eyes fixed on your lap before you moved your head to look at him. don’t say anything, don’t lean—just hold his stare, soft and open, letting him know that—
sunghoon’s hand moved first, sliding from the backrest to the nape of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. he pulled you in, not rushed, and the kiss started soft.
a brush of lips, warm and careful, like he’d been thinking about this for some time—longer than he’ll ever admit, and when he did it, he’s still thinking about it.
when you parted your lips just slightly, welcoming him, sunghoon exhaled against you and deepened it deliberately—shifting to face you, knees brushing against your bare one. “hngh—” you let out a soft moan, his lips on yours tasted faintly like the cinnamon tea you shared earlier.
your hands slid up his chest, curling into his hoodie, feeling his racing heart against your palm where he also let out a soft breathy moan. your lips molded and melted against his; sunghoon’s tongue flicked over your lips to ask for permission,
and that’s when you—
pull back.
slowly, gently, enough that your lips barely separate but still close enough that he could just dip for another kiss. your forehead still resting against his, breaths mingling in the small space between you.
his eyes fluttered open, dazed and confused, eyebrows furrowed.
you huffed—small, soft, a little shaky. “hoon,” you whispered, letting your hands fall on his wrist. your fingers traced down his arm, then rest on his thigh. “we shouldn’t…”
he froze, but didn't pull away. sunghoon’s thumb brushed your cheek, almost pleading. he almost leaned in for another kiss—when you pulled back entirely.
you tucked your hair behind your ear, looking down at your lap, trembling just the right amount like you’re guilty of it. “...maybe you should go home…”
the words hang in the quiet space.
“what?”
no worries—! remember when i said we’ll end up with a happy ending? i’m not finished with my guide yet~
here’s the truth that ties everything together:
one thing about guys is that they only realise how good something is when they’ve lost it. or when they’re terrified they’re about to.
that’s why this final tip isn’t just a trick…
it’s the endgame.
5. the push and pull game.
after that kiss—after you pulled back and asked him to go home, and closed the door behind him—you didn’t disappear.
you just faded. kinda.
sunghoon texted you like nothing changed the next morning, and you replied like usual—except it took you almost five hours to reply with one word, and it took him 2 seconds to reply to you instantly.
he wanted to call, but you rain checked him with the excuse of heading to bed early.
you never went to bed early.
the third day, he tried again.
sunghoon texted you about that one upcoming horror movie you mentioned before, and asked if you want to watch it together this weekend. you replied five hours later with a simple, “sounds fun! let me check my schedule and get back to you!”
you never got back to him.
day five, his texts got a little longer.
he asked if you were okay, and that he hadn’t heard from you much… he also hadn’t seen you around… you replied to him the next morning with another excuse of being swamped with work and family stuff.
except, you still liked his stories. still replied—eventually, never with questions, though, just answers to his texts. you still posted stories with your friends here and there.
just never him.
by day eight… his texts started carrying weight.
sunghoon: i can’t stop thinking about you.
sunghoon: i know you said we shouldn’t, but can we not pretend like it didn’t happen?
you read it but left it on delivered for the next seven hours.
yn: i think about it too. but nothing’s changed.
yn: i don’t wanna be in the middle.
day ten, you purposely missed call him. when sunghoon called you back, you didn’t pick up.
day twelve, the messages turned raw.
sunghoon: this is killing me.
sunghoon: i can’t talk to you like before and i hate it.
sunghoon: can we talk it out??
yn: i miss you too but i don’t know how to do this halfway.
and then sunghoon’s slammed with another radio silence from you again.
two weeks. fourteen days of minimal replies, excuses, and purposeful distance. fourteen days of him feeling the full weight of what life without you actually feels like—and fourteen days of sunghoon reflecting what he truly wants and doesn’t.
he found himself fighting with sooha even more when she asked what’s up with him being so gloomy these past few days? he slept less and stared at your call log more than he’d ever admit.
every time he got a notification, it felt like a punch when it’s not from you.
day fourteen, he broke. your phone buzzed at 02:00 a.m.
sunghoon: i ended it.
a pause, another text.
sunghoon: can i come over? please?
you waited fifteen minutes—just to get him on the edge, long enough for his heart to drop (yours did, though)—then replied.
yn: come here
he was there in nine minutes. hair messy, eyes red–rimmed, breathing hard as he ran his way all the way here. you opened the door in your nightgown, socked, looking small and soft and everything sunghoon had been aching for.
he didn’t speak at first—just stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and pulled you into his arms tightly because he couldn’t afford not being with you again.
“i couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispered against your hair. “couldn’t breathe without you. couldn’t pretend i didn’t want this—want you.” sunghoon buried his face into the crook of your neck, having to bend down to match your height.
you smiled unknowingly, wrapping your arms around his neck. you felt him shaking a little, full of relief of finally having you again. “took you long enough,” you murmured, soft and teasing.
sunghoon laughed—kissed you like a man who’d just realised what he was worth.
ta-da~ this really is the end of guide ♡ happy ending is yours now, forever!
try these guides and tips out and let me know how it goes, girls!
best of luck,
yn xoxo
miss_kikilala: WORKED LIKE A CHARM. you’re a genius ily forever!! 100% lost my bestfriend but nothing more i want than his boyfriend so whatever ( ;´ - `;) i lovelovelove him so much ugh your guide is dangerous in the best way possible <3
bobababy: followed exactly what you did, and he broke up with her just last week! he said he never realised how happy he’d been talking to me rather than being with her. thank u thank u thank uuuu <3333
ikuekiss: this was hard t-t using these tips rn except he’s my sister’s fiance and he’s older! i’m still trying to look for more interests we can share together since i don’t know shit about football t-t … wish me luck girls!
bunnyhoon: yn i owe you my ENTIRE relationship! just had out two monthsarry last week!
yurillit: day 11 of minimal replies and he just sent me a voice note that’s literally TWELVE minutes long of him saying how much he misses my voice and how empty his days feel without our talks… i’m shaking hold me!!
preyel replying to yurillit: fumbled my minimal reply on day 8 because i want him sooo bad… i thought i fucked it up, but he showed up just a few minutes later begging me to tell him everything i said over the texts to his face! got lucky but pls be strong…
heemunch: omg yn! your guide is literally magic >w< i did the forgotten item with my lipstick at a group hangout and now he’s been texting me goodnight every single night… the push and pull is killing me (it’s so hot it’s crazy)! update coming soon!!
sweetieyn (pinned) 📌 : reading these is making me kick my feeettt i’m so proud of everyone (∩˃o˂∩)♡ just remember to never chase! always attract ♡ keep the updates coming, i live for these success stories ♡ who’s next? what problem should i solve~?
HOLYYY!!! this was such a unique read! author melori did it again!! honestly your blog’s been my guilty pleasure lately (like less than a day ago of following)!!
what's better than riding a big horse? ride the owner, and his bigger horse!
𓊆박성훈 x fem reader𓊇 i make a lot of noise 'cause the girls they are so pretty. riding up and down broadway. on my old stud leroy. and the girls say, "save a horse, ride a cowboy!" everybody says, "save a horse, ride a cowboy!" ─ save a horse ride a cowboy, big & rich ⫶ 𐔌masterlist꒱
𓆩♡𓆪 you know i have to. i have to. speedrun the crap out of this <3 !! this is so nasty ahwhejdxj so just brace yourself for little plot n just filth >.< i hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless~ as usual, reblogs, comments, likes, and asks are soo appreciated!
word count 10k
warning advisory cheating, sexual tension is crazy, light possessive behaviour, lots of flirting, he's so fucking hot, they're so down bad for one another but adult style, innaccurate cowboy jargons, i don't proofread the smut because i'm shy
smut advisory more fucking than plot, making out all the fuckin' time, sunghoon has a big cock sorry, pussy eating/licking, squirting, fellatio, throat fucking, fucking against the countertop, face sitting, cowgirl (duh!), mating press, creampie, lots of dirty talking, profanity, reader orgasms a lot, reader's a lil bratty, dom!hoon, fucking while wearing the cowboy hat yeehaw >.<
“what the fuck…?”
the car sputtered one last time before the engine died completely, rolling to a pathetic stop on the empty stretch of highway. dust kicked up around the tires as you gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“no, no, no—come on!” you slammed your palm against the wheel, once, twice, the horn blaring uselessly into the dry air. the dashboard lights flickering like it’s mocking you before going dark.
dead.
just completely dead.
you twisted the key in the ignition again—nothing. not even a weak cough or a vibration—just silence. “baby, seriously? now?” your voice cracked with frustration as you let your forehead thud against the steering wheel—once, twice—hands gripping the wheel.
“i just got you out of the workshop!”
you were already running late, even dressed up nicer than usual—your baby tees that weren't oil stained for once, the one that hugged your curves just right, paired with shorts that fit, and the delicate necklace your boyfriend had given you last month.
not to mention, your hair was done, a touch of makeup—with that fluttery feeling in your tummy because tonight was supposed to be special. weeks of texting, late–night calls, finally seeing him again…
and now you were stuck on the side of some forgotten highway with a dead car and no signal.
you let out a shaky breath. thank god the sun wasn’t dipping yet—it was only around 4 p.m. there was plenty of daylight left, hours before the sky would think about turning purple orange. that bought you time to get some help and inform your boyfriend the car was broken.
except…
your phone had no signal.
“oh my gosh—is this a joke?” you shook your phone again, tapping the surface on your palm in hopes it’d suddenly receive a signal from somewhere. when it didn’t—you tossed your phone to the side, landing on the passenger seat.
“okay… okay yn, think,” you muttered to yourself, leaning back and rubbing your temples. pop the hood? you weren’t a mechanic—you’d only do damage to the car. or wait it out—someone had to drive by eventually, right?
you stared out the windshield at the empty road stretching both ways, the quiet was almost too loud. your eyes trailed up to the little hill. you could walk a little ways to see if you could find higher ground for signal?
but it’s so… high and your last meal was a brunch that was almost four hours ago…
sit here and… hope?
you reached for the door handle, about to step out and at least look like you were doing something, when a sound caught your ear—clearer and closer.
hoofbeats.
steady… unhurried… like the rider itself had all the time in the world.
you froze, hand still on the handle, and watched from the rearview mirror as he emerged fully into view.
a lone rider on a sleek black horse, moving along the edge of the highway. dark jacket opened over a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. his black cowboy hat pulled low, shadowing his face just enough to make your stomach flip with curiosity.
the way he sat on the saddle—straight–backed, relaxed but controlled—that quiet confidence dripping off him.
the man guided the horse closer, slowing to a stop a respectful distance from your car. the animal snorted softly, tossing its head to the side, and the rider leaned forward to calm it with a gentle pat on the neck.
then—those dark eyes lifted to meet yours through the mirror.
sharp. intense.
your breath hitched in your lungs—he swung down from the saddle effortlessly, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. tall—taller than you’d expected—long legs, lean build … biceps… the kind of presence that made the wide–open desert space around you feel suddenly smaller.
he adjusted his hat with one hand, the other holding reins loosely, and took a few slow steps toward your opened passenger window.
“hey there,” he said, voice low and smooth like… whiskey over ice, a faint tint drawl curling around the edges. he tilted his head just slightly, studying you—and the dead car—with calm interest.
“car troublin’ ya?”
your mouth went dry and you swore you forgot how to breathe. up close—he was even more fuckin’ striking. high cheekbones, honey skin glowing in the sunlight, lips pressed into a subtle line that hinted at amusement.
you… you didn’t know who this guy was—but fuck, he’s fucking hot.
you swallowed, managing a small nod. “y—yeah,” you finally said, voice coming out softer than you meant. “it just… died. won’t start—and there’s no signal out here.”
his gaze flicked to your phone on the passenger seat, then back to you. one corner of his mouth lifted.
“mind if i take a look?”
you gave him a small nod—he knew you’d say yes anyway, what option did you have? he stepped toward the front of the car. you popped the hood from inside, the latch clicking, then pushed the door open and climbed out.
the warm, dry, afternoon air hitting your skin.
sunghoon moved with that same unhurried motion, grace, looping the reins over his horse’s neck so she stayed put. he took off his jacket and rolled off his sleeves a little higher as he approached the engine, revealing his… toned forearms and biceps dusted with dust and sunlight.
you tried not to stare.
he leaned over the hood, one had bracing against the metal, the other tracing—his index and middle fingers—along the battery cables, checking connections… peering at belts and fluids… things that a pretty girl like you wouldn’t and shouldn’t know anyway.
those nice… slender fingers… suited being somewhere… better.
your eyes travelled at the way his black shirt stretched across his back and shoulders when he shifted… the light caught the sharp line of his jaw.
you stood a few feet away, arms loosely crossed against your chest, pretending to care about the car—but there’s a better view before you.
“battery looks fine,” he murmured, almost to himself. he straightened slightly, wiping a smudge of grease onto his jeans without care, then glanced over at you.
his eyes lingered.
not that… quick check–in if you were okay; but that slow… deliberate… lingering sweep—down the length of you. sunghoon swallowed in the baby blue baby tee clinging softly to your frame, the way your hair fell across your shoulders, the faint flush rising on your cheeks.
sunghoon tried so hard—so fucking hard—to not let his eyes fall onto the dip of your cleavage.
he failed.
when his gaze came back up to meet yours, he made it so obvious he was checking you out. there was something dark and unreadable flickering behind those orbs. curiousity—interest, something warmer than… the polite stranger act.
you shifted, suddenly hyper–aware of how close he was, how the faint scent of leather and sun–warmed skin drifted on the breeze.
“there’s a leak,” he said finally, tipping his chin toward your engine. “that’s why she overheated and shut down.” his tone was matter–of–fact, but he held your eyes longer than necessary made it feel anything but casual.
“...oh,” you managed, stepping closer—to see what he was pointing at—but honestly, just really drawn into his aura. you were so close to see the faint sheen at his temple, the way his lashes cast shadows. you were so close sunghoon could see the droplets of sweat trailing down the side of your neck, the way your upper teeth caught on your bottom lip.
he didn’t move.
instead, sunghoon stayed leaned against your car, arms loosely folded, watching you—not the engine—so painfully obvious it made your pulse flutter.
wow—you had no idea what’s leaking… in terms of the car, at least.
“you headed somewhere importan’?” he asked, voice dropping a fraction lower. his gaze flicked to your lips, then back up before you caught it. you swallowed. “mmhm. i… was supposed to meet… someone.”
a beat.
sunghoon’s head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitched into the tiniest smirk. “must be real disappointed right now,” he said, soft and slow, eyes never leaving yours. your breath hitched and the tension coiled tighter, warm and heavy in your chest… spreading lower.
“i—it’s okay,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out shy and a little breathless. your laugh soft and nervous as you tucked a strand of hair. “they’ll understand.”
his eyes stayed on you for a beat, dropping down just a little on your collarbone—but that faint smirk deepened just enough to make your tummy flip. after what felt like hours, sunghoon pushed off your yellow car, straightening to his full height that just towered over you.
“sunghoon,” he said simply, extending his hand. his voice was low, steady.
sunghoon, you rolled his name mindlessly in the back of your mind, tasting his name on your tongue. “mmhm,” you slipped your hand into his—warm and rough against your bare, softer skin—his grip firm but careful, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
the contact lingered, and neither of you pulled away first.
“yn,” you answered.
“yn,” he repeated, tasting the name like he was trying it out. a small nod, almost approving. sunghoon licked his lips before continuing. “pretty name for a pretty girl stuck on the side of the road.”
heat rushed to your cheeks and you quickly glanced away, pretending to look at the engine, but you could feel his gaze still on you. it’s so unfair, you thought.
you broke it first. “well,” sunghoon sighed, closing the hood with a gentle thud, wiping his hands on his handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket. “car’s ain’t gonna fix themselves out here. leaking like that—you’re not drivin’ anywhere tonight without coolant.”
you bit your lip, shaking your head, glancing at the empty hallway. “yeah… i figured.”
sunghoon looked at you—pity girl—then at his horse, then back at you—something flashed in his eyes.
“look,” he said, running his fingers through his dark locks. “i’ve got tools back at the ranch. spare house, too. it’s only a couple miles down the road.” he tilted his head slightly, making his gaze feel more intense.
“you can ride with me. get it fixed before dark, get your back on your way.”
your heart stuttered. ride with him..? ride him? on the horse? or…?
he must’ve seen the question in your eyes because the corner of his mouth lifted again. “my girl can take us both. or i can lead and walk, and you just sit pretty.”
you swallowed, glancing at the sun still high enough in the sky, the golden light catching on his shirt. then your gaze flicked back to the horse—big, calm, but still a horse…
what about… stranger danger…?
the thought slipped out before you could stop it, soft and uncertain, fingers twisting around the hem of your baby tee.
“um… what about stranger danger?” you asked, half laughing to cover your nerves, cheeks heating up again. you supposed you could just… ask this kind sunghoon stranger to return with a pipe… or something…
“i mean, i don’t know you—you don’t know me… and you want me to just… hop on your horse and ride off to your ranch?”
sunghoon paused. for a second, his expression didn’t really change, but the corner of his mouth curved. he’d find your worry both endearing and adorable.
cute.
“fair,” he said, shrugging. there was no defensiveness, or offense in it at all. he let his hand drop to his side, giving you space. “if you’re wonderin’ or scared, i get it. pretty girl alone out here—i’d be worried too.”
he glanced down the road in the direction he’d come from, then back at you.
“i live just a couple miles that way,” he continued, nodding toward a faint dirt turnoff you hadn’t noticed before. “there’s a diner right off the main road before you even get to my ranch—folks and ladies there know me.”
a small huff escaped him.
“or,” he added, tilting his head slightly, eyes softening. “we can walk the whole way. i’ll lead the way slow. you stay ten feet back if you want, i’ll even let you hold the reins.”
he said it completely serious too… like your comfort truly mattered more than getting back quickly. the sincerity in his voice, the way he didn’t push or be weird about it—just offering—made something in your chest loosen.
you looked at him again—you supposed… there was no point in waiting for other help to come by—and your heart gave a traitorous little thud.
“mm… okay. lead me the way.”
you slipped your hand out—and his fingers closed around yours and he guided you toward his horse. the animal watched you with dark eyes—much like the owner—ears flicking as you approached.
“easy now,” sunghoon murmured, more to the horse than you, running his hand down her neck. “snow’s gentle, she won’t throw you.”
he turned to you, smiling. “you ever been on a horse before?”
you shook your head, laughing nervously. “never… not even once—never had a reason to.”
a soft huff escaped him—almost a chuckle. “first time for everything.”
sunghoon moved to the side, cupping his hands together in a boost. “left foot here, grab the saddle horn and swing your right leg over it when i lift.”
your heart pounded, but you did as he said. sunghoon’s hands settled on your waist as he hoisted you up, strong and sure, and then you were in the saddle—legs dangling awkwardly, gripping the horn.
“eek—!”
he chuckled, swung behind you in a motion he’d done a billion times, settling in close—really close. his chest brushed your back as he reached around you for the reins, thighs framing yours, the heat of him immediately and overwhelming.
“you good?” sunghoon asked, voice low near your ear. you swallowed the lump in your throat, his warm breath hitting the shell of your ear. “m—mmhm,” you managed, hyper aware of every little shift and contact.
sunghoon’s arm circled loosely around your waist just to steady you on the horse—and you felt the subtle shift of his body as he nudged the horse forward with his heels.
snow started walking and rolling—making you sway instinctively. you tensed, gripping the horn harder.
“relax,” he said quietly, breathing now against the side of your neck. “lean back a little, i got you.”
you eased against him just slightly. his arm tightened the tiniest bit in response—reassured. the horse settled into a rhythm along the edge of the highway, hooves clopping against the dirt. the sun was still bright, golden, warm breeze carrying the scent of dry grass and… him.
for a minute, neither of you spoke.
until sunghoon broke it.
“so… where were you headed, dressed up like that?”
you laughed softly, glancing down at your baby tee and your nice jeans. “just… meeting someone.” sunghoon hummed, a deep sound that vibrated against your back from how close he was. “poor lad, waitin’ somewhere wonderin’ where you are right now.”
“probably,” you bit your lip, suppressing back a smile.
another beat.
his thumb brushed idly against the rein near your hip. “must be somethin’ special between you two,” he murmured, humming. “to get you out here lookin’ this pretty.”
your cheeks burned. you turned your head just enough to catch him—sharp line of his jaw… the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes.
“mayhaps,” you said softly. “could be i just like dressing up sometimes.”
sunghoon let out a quiet breath of laughter. “fair enough.”
snow kept walking, carrying you both on her strong body. you shifted slightly, getting used to the rhythm, and you slowly realised you weren’t as scared anymore.
actually… it felt kind of nice. the warmth of sunghoon, the strength of his arms, the quiet that didn’t feel awkward at all.
“so…” you said after a moment, corner of your lips twitched into a teasing smirk. “you do this often? rescue stranded girls on horseback?”
his lips curved—just a little. “first time of everything.”
you smiled despite yourself. “lucky me, then.”
he didn’t answer right away, just tightened his arm a fraction, guiding snow off the highway and onto the dirt path leading to the ranch. “yeah,” he said finally, voice warm against your ear.
“lucky me.”
——
sunghoon reached up for you, hands settling on your waist again—firm and steady—lifting you down like you weighed a feather. your boots hit the ground, but his hands lingered a second longer than necessary before he let go.
“welcome to the house,” he said dryly, gesturing at the perfect tidy yard. a faint smile tugged at his lips as he tied the reins. “come on in, i’ll grab you something while i check the garage.”
he led you up the porch steps and pushed open the front foor—no lock, you noticed. must be safe around here, you thought, humming. the cool air inside hit you—the faint smell of coffee and wood floors.
“make yourself at home,” sunghoon said, tipping off his hat and hanging it on a hook. his dark hair fell slightly messier without it, a few strands brushing his forehead. “water, iced tea, lemon—fridge it through there.” he nodded toward the open kitchen.
“i’ll be in the garage. shouldn’t take long.”
his space was simple and tidy—leather couch facing a fireplace, shelves lined with books and framed photos of … sunghoon and his friends. his six other friends. equally as fine. a worn acoustic guitar leaned in one corner, blankets folded neatly over the couch arm.
no clutter, nothing sterile either.
just him.
you wandered through the big picture window overlooking the fields, the late–afternoon light pouring in soft. a few horses grazed in the distance.
everything was peaceful in a way the city never was.
the glass of lemonade cold in your hand as you turned slowly. your eyes landed on a small cluster of framed photos near the front door—one of sunghoon on horseback, younger; another him with an older man who shared the same features. must’ve been his father.
you didn’t realise you’d drifted closer, drawn in by that smile on his face. you were standing right in front of it, lemonade tilted slightly in your grip—completely lost in the photo,
when the door swung open.
sunghoon stepped inside, grease smudged rag in one hand, the other pushing the door wide—and you startled hard.
the glass jerked in your fingers—cold lemonade sloshed over the rim, splashing down the front of your baby tee in a sticky streak that soaked straight through the thin fabric.
“oh—gosh—” you gasped, jumping back a step, holding the glass out. sunghoon’s eyes widened half a second before he was moving, closing the door behind him with his boot and crossing to you.
“fuck, sorry—didn’t mean to scare ya’,” he said, voice rushed, already reaching for the rag in his hand. but it was dirty, so he stopped. “gosh, you okay?”
you laughed, breathless, embarrassed heat flooding your face. the lemonade left a cold, clinging patch right… across your front. “it’s fine, i wasn’t paying attention,” you mumbled, dabbing at the stain with your fingers instead.
“was looking at your pictures.”
he didn’t move back, didn’t look away. the air between you felt suddenly too small and cold again… despite everything burning.
“i’ve got spare shirts in the laundry room,” he said after a beat, eyes dropping to the stain—pervert—once more before meeting yours again. “clean ones, if you want to change.”
you nodded slowly, heart thudding in against your ribs.
“mm.. yeah, sure,” you said softly, glancing up to him from underneath your lashes. “that… might be good.”
——
you peeled off your soaked baby tee, the sticky lemonade making it cling uncomfortably. you’re only grateful your bra was there to soak the rest before the liquid reached your skin.
his… white shirt was huge—falling halfway down your thighs and completely covering your shorts, sleeves past your elbows, the collar loose enough to slip off one shoulder if you weren’t careful.
it smelled like sunghoon—clean cotton and traces of wood musk.
“... nice,” you caught your reflection in the small mirror above your dryer and laughed quietly to yourself. you looked swallowed whole by it.
just then, your eyes landed on something else through the reflection—his brown cowboy hat, hanging on a hook just inside the door. the different one from what he wore earlier. you bit your lip, glancing toward the door.
no signs of him.
just for fun, you never wore a cowboy hat before.
you reached up on your tippy toes and plucked it off the hook, settling in your head. it was too big, obviously—sliding down over your eyebrows until you had to tip it back with a finger.
to be honest, you looked kinda… hot. yeah—seductive, almost.
you smoothed his shirt down, adjusted the hat, and pushed the door open.
sunghoon was leaning just against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed, looking down at his boots—but the second you stepped out, his head lifted.
and he froze.
his gaze swept over you—deliberately. the—his—oversized shirt hanging loose on your smaller frame, the hem brushing your thighs (only the little ripped strands of your shorts were showing up), the way the fabric draped over your shoulders.
that… hat tilting playfully on your head.
everything about him stilled. even the air felt heavier. his pants got tighter.
“everything’s… big,” you giggled, laughing to break the sudden tension, tugging at the sleeve that swallowed your hand. you gave a small spin, the shirt flaring slightly—you held the hat by the brim.
“like, really big.”
he didn’t laugh. didn’t even smile at first.
sunghoon just stared, his eyes darker than before, jaw tight, lips… wet.
then he pushed off the counter, closing the distance in one slow step.
“yeah?” he murmured, voice rougher, dropping an octave lower… low enough that you swore it vibrated in your chest. sunghoon reached out, fingers brushing the brim of the—his—hat, adjusting it slightly so it sat better.
so he could see your pretty face clearer.
his thumb grazed your temple as he did.
“looks better on you.”
your breath caught. he was close again—too close—hand lingering near your face. you could feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his musk and sweat filling every inch of space between you.
he didn’t step back.
he took a slow step forward—then another.
until your back met the wall with a soft thud, the cool wood at your spine contrasting to what’s warming you up in front of you. the hat tilted slightly on your head as you tipped it back to look up at him, and his eyes—heavy lidded—locked onto yours.
“r—really?”
his hand dropped from the brim, trailing down the side of your neck, over the loose collar of his shirt on you, until his palm settled at your waist. fingers splayed wide—possessive—puling you in just a fraction closer.
then his hand went lower, skimming the curve of your hip, thumb pressing lightly into the dip above your shorts.
you didn’t want to move.
your hands came up instantly, fingers curling into the front of his black shirt, feeling his heart thumping under your palms.
“mmhm,” sunghoon leaned in, forehead almost touching yours, breath warm against your lips. “you’ve been driving me crazy since i saw you in that car,” he said, voice low. “now you’re in my shirt, my hat—lookin’ like you belong here or somethin’.”
your lips parted, but no words came—just a soft, shaky exhale.
his gaze dropped to your mouth.
“you do this often?” sunghoon murmured, his fingers drumming your skin. “wreck your car hopin’ some stranger’ll come along and fix it?”
you felt the words more than heard them… the teasing edge softened by the way his thumb traced your hip.
“only cowboys like you,” you whispered, the words barely out before—
sunghoon closed that tiny gap.
he slammed his lips against yours—evoking a soft, surprised gasp out of you—his hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him and positioning his knee in between your legs.
you melted almost instantly into his mouth, hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, pulling him down as sunghoon angled his head to kiss you harder and deeper. his tongue traced your bottom lip, teasing, then slipped inside when you gasped for him—slow, hot, unhurried.
it made your knees buckle and weak.
sunghoon groaned quietly when you tagged at his hair, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “ngh—hngh—” you moaned into his mouth, tugging him down. the hat titled precariously; but he caught it with one hand, readjusting it on top of your head without breaking the kiss.
both of his hands were back on you—one splayed across your lower back, the other cupping your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, lifting your head up. sunghoon glided his tongue along your row of teeth, tasting you slow and thorough.
a low hum rumbled in his chest when you parted for him, your own tongue meeting his in a slick curl that made you tighten your grip around his shirt. “hah—s—sunghoon,” you breathed out. your salivas mixed, messy and hot, a thin strand connecting your lips when he pulled back just enough to breathe—
only to dive back in harder, swallowing every little whimper and moan.
sunghoon kissed like he worked for it… having complete control like he would with snow—angling your head to take it deeper how he wanted it to be. your back arched against the wall as his hand on your lower back slid lower, palm running along the globe of your ass before it spread over the curve of your hip.
“ah—,” you gasped as he pressed forward. you felt the head line of his cock beneath his jeans against your stomach—he was just as wrecked as you were.
sunghoon broke the kiss only to drag his mouth along your jaw, teeth scraping at the sensitive spot under your ear before coming back to your lips, no less filthy than before—long and wet and deep that left you dizzy.
your pussy was growing crazily wet and warm—heat pooling your tummy as you began grinding and rubbing yourself on his knee.
“still wanna get that car fixed?” he whispered, teasing against your swollen mouth, lips brushing but not quite kissing.
you panted, looking up at him through half lidded eyes, before answering by pulling him back in, kissing him open–mouthed and desperate, fingers threading through his hair to keep him there. he groaned into you, low and raw, and kissed you back just as deep.
sunghoon’s hands roamed—down your sides, slipping into the loose fabric of his shirt on you—until he suddenly spun you around in a smooth motion—your palms hitting the kitchen counter with a slap.
“hngh—?” you gasped as he pressed in behind you, chest to your back, hips slotting against you. sunghoon didn’t stop kissing you—his strong… bigger hand came up to your jaw, fingers curled around your soft jaw as he turned your head sideways so he could claim your mouth from this new angle.
deep.. messy, relentless—the other hand splayed across your tummy, pulling you flush.
“fuck,” he murmured, grinding slow and deliberate against the curve of your ass through your shorts, the friction sending sparks down your cunt. a low rumble vibrated from his chest as he rolled his hips again, his hard on pressing hard between your asscheeks.
sunghoon’s lips broke from yours to drag wet kisses along your exposed side of your neck, teeth grazing the skin as he left angry lovebites before he turned your face toward him again, capturing your mouth in another horny kiss.
all while his hips kept that rhythm—rubbing against you, clothed but undeniably fucking horny. “you feel what you’re doin’ to me?”
you could only whimper in response, arching your back and pushing against him—eliciting a groan out him, deeper, his hips snapping forward—so fucking hard—before he slowed.
you pulled back to catch your breath, knees weakening as you braced yourself on your forearms. the words slipped out before you could stop them—half plea, half teasing.
“are you going to keep humpin’ me, or are you going to let me ride you, cowboy?”
the air went still for a beat.
the corner of his lips twitched—and so did his eye—sunghoon scoffed dryly. you barely had time to register the shift in his energy and demeanour before his palm cracked against your ass through the denim.
not gentle.
a firm, stinging smack echoed in the kitchen made you gasp, jolting forward against the corner.
“watch that mouth,” he hummed low against your ear, body still pinned, his hand caressing the globe of your ass where he’d just smacked them. “you don’t get to call the shots just yet.”
you breath hitched at the first rush of the sting, at the command of his voice. you bit your lip to keep another bratty remark to yourself—but failed to hide the way your hips rolled back against him.
he huffed before he moved—hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady, turning you just enough to guide you back against the counter before he sank down.
slowly.
until sunghoon was on his knees behind you, eye level with the curve of your ass, one palm smoothing over the spot he’d just smacked. “i’ll tell you what to do,” he murmured, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your jeans. he didn’t ask; just straight up unbuttoned them with a quick flick of his slender fingers and tugged everything down in one drag—
jeans and panties together—until they pooled at your knees.
“mmmh,” cool air hit your skin, but only for a second before his warm hands were back on your asscheeks, spreading them apart from behind. “hold still, pretty girl,” he muttered—and just like that—
his mouth was on your cunt.
no teasing and no hesitation—just confidence dripping down like your juices down your thighs. sunghoon licked a long, flat stripe up your centre, groaning low at the taste that he’d been starving for. “ungh—oh gosh,” you gasped, knees buckling on his face as you gripped the counter harder, shaky moans slipping out.
sunghoon’s tongue circled your clit from behind—once, twice—sucking the little pea in pressure that made your hips jerk back against his face. “fuckin’ hell, so sweet,” he rasped. his strong arm banded across your lower tummy, locking you in place—on his handsome face, sharp nose digging between your ass.
he didn’t let you move or shift as much as he slipped his tongue inside your cunt—sliding back up, in and out, flicking, and swirling around inside. “s—sunghoon, sunghoon,” you moaned softly, eyes fluttering.
wet sounds filled up his kitchen, filthy and so fucking obscenely loud—his mouth working you open, lips sealing like he’s making out with your pussy lips now before it moved around your clit again and again, sucking until your thighs trembled.
he sucked and tugged the pea towards him.
it’s something you’ve never, not in the years of your life, ever experienced. every time you tried to push back down for more, sunghoon only tightened his hold and slowed down like he’s telling you that you’re not in charge here.
then, he dragged his tongue in lazy, torturous strokes until you whined, before speeding up suddenly—fast with relentless flicks that had you gasping his name. “your tongue feels s’good, oh fuck,”
his free hand came up between your legs, two fingers sliding into you without warning, stretching you tight cunt and curling deep and stroking in time with his tongue. the combo wrecked you badly—your head dropped forward, forehead pressing to the cool counter as your toe curled inwards on itself.
“w—what—?! oh, fuck, sunghoon—”
he hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks in your tummy, and doubled down. “gotta stretch you out before i give you the real thing,” he murmured against your wet cunt, sucking hard, fingers thrusting faster, pressing on that spongy spot inside.
your legs shook as you began subtly riding on his two fingers as he flicked your clit with the tip of his tongue. “‘m cumming, wanna cum, cum—,” you whined adorably, chest heaving as pleasure swelled up in your gut.
“mmhm—?” sunghoon hummed teasingly, you felt the corner of his lips twitched. you tightened around his fingers—walls spasming around his digits. sunghoon curled his fingers inside and traced his name against your walls.
he’s so fucking filthy, it’s disgustingly hot.
an ecstasy tidal wave quickly rushed over you—and before you knew it, your walls pulsated before you came right on his fingers and tongue, against his face. “oh fuck—!” you cried out sharply, curling your hands into fists as you hung your head low.
every limbs of yours felt like jelly, your body twitched—clenching around him as he licked you through every pulse, gulping down your juices and squirt that trailed down your inner thighs.
“fuck, you’re so sweet, so good,” he moaned, slowly pulling his fingers out that left you empty almost instantly, pussy squeezing the thin air. your thighs trembled in pleasure as sunghoon spread your asscheeks with his wet fingers, pressing one last slow, deliberate long lick from your sensitive clit up to your entrance.
“good girl,” he whispered, hands smoothed up your sides before rising behind you.
“now… about that ride you wanted…”
you turned in his arms, still buzzing, still twitching, legs unsteady. sunghoon’s eyes were swimming with lust, lips slick and swollen from you. the hard line of him pressed against your hip through his jeans—impossible to ignore.
a slow, wicked smile tugged at your mouth as you sank down now—your turn, mirroring the way he’d just knelt for you—until you were on your knees in front of him.
sunghoon’s breath hitched, hand automatically coming up to lift the brim of his hat to look at your face. you looked up at him from under your curled lashes, palms sliding up his thighs, feeling his cock tense and twitch under denim.
“fair’s fair, cowboy,”
he exhaled a rough laugh, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “you don’t have to—”
but you were already popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down slow enough to make him groan—preparing himself. “don’t have to what?” you asked innocently, tugging everything down just enough, and his—
his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, flicked dark and already leaking precum at the tip.
your eyes widened and your breath hitched, his cock throbbed right in front of your eyes—it casted shadow over your face. your lips parted, a gasp escaped your lips.
sunghoon was fucking big—no, huge—the biggest you’ve ever seen before.
you could tell it was painful for him from the way his cock twitched in neediness, a low hiss escaped from his lips. “shit… surprised?”
you wet your lips before swallowing the lump in your throat. there was… almost no way it’d fit in your mouth, much less your pussy. but you wrapped your hands around him—even with both hands, it still wasn’t enough to hold his whole cock—stroking once, twice, feeling him throb in your grip.
sunghoon’s head tipped back slightly, jaw clenched, but his eyes stayed locked on you.
you continued jerking him off in your hands, dragging every skin, feeling every veins, milking more of his precum that trailed on the side of your hands. “i thought only horses have big cocks…” you murmured before leaning in—tongue flicking out to taste the bead at the head, salty and warm—before taking him into your mouth in one slow slide.
“but i guess their owners have too…?”
“fuck—” the curse tore out of him, low and husky, fingers tightening at your hair as his hat tipped to the side a little. he didn’t push, just holding as you took him in deeper, lips stretching around him.
you only managed to take half of his cock inside your mouth before pulling back almost all the way, tongue swirling around the tip, then took him again, deeper this time, cheeks hollowing. sunghoon tasted manly—sweaty, but not the nasty kind. just… a man.
his hips twitched, but he let you set the pace yourself. you worked him slow at first—wet, messy suckings, hand twisting in strokes at the base at the same time as your mouth—then faster, taking him in as far as you could until the tip hit your uvula, and your eyes watered.
“yn, fuck,” he groaned your name. your mouth was warm and wet, like entering a slimy, hot pond, cock totally engulfed in your saliva. it felt heavenly. you were disheveled and messy—but still so hot. glossy and smudged lipstick over your lips, leaving a pink ring mark around his cock with your flushed cheeks.
every time you pulled off to breathe, you looked up—watching his handsome face, thick brown furrowing, lips parted before his canines dragged the bottom lip, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he fought not to thrust and fuck your mouth.
you hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks up his cock that made it twitch and he cursed again, “just like that,” he murmured.
you took him inside your mouth again, this time picking up your speed and pace in sucking him—the tip hitting the back of your throat, causing you to gag and roll your eyes behind.
his veins glided along your wet tongue, sunghoon squeezed his eyes shut as wet, clicky sounds filled the space. sunghoon falls into his temptation and thrusts his hips upward, hitch in his breath as you deepthroat him.
“shit, ‘m cummin, fuck,”
his whole body went rigid, hips jerking shallowly before spilling hot down your throat, pulse after pulse. your eyes widened but didn’t pull away, taking it all. contrasting from how soft you hummed around him while he shuddered through it, curses and your name tumbling from his lips.
your throat worked in gulps as you swallowed his milk down, hands steadying his thighs. sunghoon sagged back against the counter, chest heaving as you eased off low—lips sliding along his cock until he slipped free with a pop.
a thin strand of cum and spit connected you before breaking.
“hah… hngh,” you looked up at him, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb before slipping it inside your mouth to lick it clean, a smug little smile tugging at your messy lips. sunghoon stared down at you, breathing ragged, furrowing.
“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he muttered, running his hand down his face before reaching down to haul you up by your arms until you were pressed against him, foreheads touching. “you’re g’nna kill me.”
then he kissed you—deep, filthy—combining both the taste of him and you on your tongue and groaning into it. his hands slid down to grip your thighs, turning and lifting you easily onto the counter.
“my turn again,” he murmured, hiking up your—his—shirt until it bunched at your waist. you were fully exposed to him from the hips down. “i ain’t stoppin’, so don’t tell me to.”
you only whimpered in response as sunghoon’s palm splayed across your lower stomach, holding you while the other hand wrapped around his cock, guiding himself to your entrance. the head of his cock scooped your slickness.
sunghoon teased you by slipping in just the head, stretching you and barely enough to evoke a soft gasp from your lips. from behind, he smirked at your reaction, looking down at how your slick hung down from his cock.
“easy now,” he muttered, hissing as finally pushed in slow. the stretch was immediate though, thick and burning in the best way possible. you gasped aloud, head falling forward, fingers clawing at the granite as he sank deeper—inch by inch—until he almost bottomed out with a low, guttural groan against your neck.
“oh my fuckin’ god, sunghoon,” you cried out, feeling him in your stomach. “shit, you’re perfect,” he rasped, pulling back almost all the way before snapping his hips forward, hard—burying all his inches inside you. the slap of skin echoed in the kitchen as your body jolted forward with the force, the hat you’re wearing tipped sideways.
he set a relentless, needy pace from the start—deep and punishing thrusts that had you moaning and crying with every slam, his hand on your stomach pressed down his bulging cock through your flesh, feeling the skin swelling.
his other hand gripped your hip, steadying you while his fingers dug hard enough to bruise, pulling you back to meet every roll of his hips. “so goddamn tight,” he hissed, teeth grazing your shoulder.
“takin’ me like you’re made for me.”
every thrust only dragged your walls, the head slamming and bullying that soft spot inside you, forming a wave of pleasure that coiled tighter and tighter until you’re left trembling against the counter. your breath hitched, babbling his name.
“more—more, more, more,” you whined. sunghoon didn’t let you up, his fingers moved down to work on your clit, rolling and rubbing his middle finger on that little pea as his hips snapped forward without mercy.
sunghoon’s so horny it’s fucking crazy—he fucked into you deep and hard, every thrust punching air from your lungs. sweat beaded along his neck, rolled down his collarbone; dark hair stuck to his forehead—barely leashed hunger.
he was always like this when he finally snapped—weeks, sometimes months, of nothing but endless ranch work and journey, early mornings, late nights, calloused hands busy with fences and horses and hay to even think about getting laid.
there’s almost no time for bars, patience for games (although he liked to indulge himself in dart games), just pure, pent up need stacking higher and higher.
so when you showed up—pretty, stranded, looking at him with those wide, pleading eyes, spilling lemonade down your shirt and ending up in his clothes and hat, space, hands…
a girl like you, soft and city–sweet and practically begging to be taught how the town works, walking straight into his world—he couldn’t have stopped if he tried. he didn’t want to stop.
a guttural sound tore out of him when you tightened, fingers rubbing your clit harder, pressing down. “fuck—take it,” he rasped. “take every fuckin’ inch,”
you gasped, blossoming with excitement and arousal. your pleasure spills out in trembling moans, breathy cries mixing with the echo of your skin slapping together. “fuck, fuck, it feels so good, hoonie,”
his eyes twitched before he delivered a smack against your asscheeck, the flesh jiggling before he quickly smoothed it down with his hand. “good,” he panted, clamping his teeth down on your shoulder. the sound of his balls slapping against your cunt reverberated through the kitchen.
“wanna cum, a—again, please,” you pleaded, lips parting as you hung your head down. his cock was able to delve deeper from this position of your leg on the countertop, spreading your thighs further. “hm—? cummin’ again already?” sunghoon chuckled softly, slamming and bucking his hips up that the tip slammed against your cervix.
you nodded eagerly, whimpering. you’re so overstimulated—couldn’t think straight at the way your pussy spasmed around his throbbing length. “please, please i wanna cum real bad,” you whined, pleading.
sunghoon dragged his nails and held your hips, his cock dragged against your velvety walls. “show me,” his words broke apart, the rhythm of his hips frantic and desperate. he wasn’t as close to cumming, and he wished to keep fucking you—but he supposed city girls didn’t have a lot of stamina.
“cum on my fuckin’ cock, baby,”
you cursed out loud as a gush of warm liquid squirted out and down on your thighs—and his cock totally engulfed him warm and wet. he was buried so deep inside you, not moving as much to allow you to steady yourself.
the orgasm crashed over you like a tsunami—overwhelmingly relentless. your vision whited out at the edges, walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him, pulling him deeper like your body refused to let go.
heat bloomed low in your tummy and spread in shocks as your body twitched, slumping on the counter. “oh gosh—oh my gosh,” you whimpered, thighs trembling, breath sharp, desperate gasps.
“fuck—look at you,” sunghoon rasped, fingers digging into your hips as he thrust through your climax, chasing his own release in the tight, slick grip—still not pulling out. “soakin’ me like that…”
you felt vulnerable and claimed—there was no fucking way any other men can ever come close to this—sunghoon, his demeanour, his energy, his cock—ever again. not your boyfriend, not any boys anywhere.
the wet mess between your legs proof of how thoroughly he done fucked you up.
“hngh—ah, i…” your words trailed off as you panted, pussy twitching around his cock… you stayed like that for a long moment—bent over his counter, wearing his shirt, his hat—his chest heaving against your back.
sunghoon caressed the globe of your asscheek, spreading to see his wet cock and the way your squirt dripped down on his tiles. “you what?”
you shook your head, biting your bottom lip to stifle another whimper, then turned your head just enough to meet his gaze—eyes glassy, cheek adorably flushed, with that little bratty smile.
“i still haven’t ridden the cowboy…”
sunghoon’s eyes widened for a fraction before a grin spread across his face.
“oh darlin’,” he chuckled softly. “you’re takin’ the reins.”
——
“oh fuck—!”
the sound tore out of you, high and whimpery as sunghoon licked straight up between your pussy lips one long stroke. no teasing this time—just pure filth and hunger. his tongue plunged inside you, swirling and thrusting back and forth inside your cunt, lips sealing around to suck hard.
your hands flew to the wooden headboard for balance, gripping the wood, hips rocking instinctively against his handsome face. the tip of his nose brushed your clit every time you moved.
sunghoon groaned into you, the vibration going up your cunt. his hand held your hips from falling, the other wrapped around his throbbing cock, jerking off the taste of your cunt and the sound of your moans.
wet sounds filled this room now, his nose brushing your clit as he devoured you from below.
“hoonie—fuuuckkkk,” you whimpered, head falling back as you quickly held the hat on your head. sunghoon insisted—begged—you keep it on your head. said it’s fuckin’ hot, said you’re—
his.
sunghoon answered by clamping his teeth down on your flesh, not hard that it’s painful, but enough for you to feel the pressure and his canines. his one hand left your hip to reach up and palm your tits, thumb flicking the nipple while he sucked your clit relentless.
there’s no way you could last much longer. not like this—not with him eating and tongue–fucking you like a straved man.
and from the way his hips rolled up in his grip, cock leaking against his hand—he was loving every second of it.
“hoonie, here it is’, oh jesus,” your voice broke as you grind harder. the orgasm hit like a bungee—your whole body tensed as your thighs trembled and kept his head locked between you as you came hard down on his face.
a rush of warmth flooded out of you again, coating his mouth, chin, and sunghoon licked you clean, drinking your liquid down. your legs gave out completely and you sagged forward against the headboard, panting, shaking, the aftershocks rippling through you as he gentled his tongue in soothing licks to ease you.
slowly, sunghoon lifted you off him—guiding you down to straddle on his hips again. his face was slick with you, lips red and swollen, eyes dark and triumphant as he looked at you—hair a mess, tipped hat, chest heaving.
your nipples perked up.
“fuck,” he rasped, cupping your tits. “you taste even better the second time.”
you collapsed forward onto his chest, feeling his cock hard and hot against your stomach.
sunghoon wrapped his arms around you, one hand stroking your back, the other tangling in your hair. “ready to be a cowgirl, babe?” he murmured against your temple, hips rolling up once—his cock glided against your tummy. “or you need another minute?” he teased.
you whimpered and shook your head, already shifting your hips and straightening your spine. you placed your hands on his toned chest, biting your lip.
“no more minutes,” you murmured, flicking your thumbs over his nipples. “i want my cowboy now.”
he grinned, rolling his eyes playfully.
“then take him.”
you didn’t need to be told twice.
you sank down slowly at first—teasing the head along your folds, coating, moving your hips and drawing it out until his hands gripped your hips. silent warning to not tease him—he ain’t the strongest soldier here.
you giggled softly before taking him in one smooth drop, all the way to the hilt.
“ngh—!” the stretch burned perfectly, filling and stretching you up that you both groaned at the same time at the pleasure. your head tipped back slightly, his fingers digging into the flesh. sunghoon was thick, hot, throbbing inside and you felt every inch as you adjusted, walls fluttering around him.
you were pretty, tight, warm—wrapping around him nicely.
“fuck,” he hissed, eyes squeezing shut before he opened them again, watching the lewd expression on your face. “juuust like that… ride me, pretty cowgirl,”
you began—rolling your hips in deep, lazy circles, grinding down so he hit every spot inside on every pass. your hands braced on his chest, nails dragging lightly over his skin as you lifted yourself and sank back down.
like a cowgirl—sunghoon let you lead for a while; watching you through half lidded eyes, one hand slipping up to play with your tits, thumb teasing your nipple in the same breath as your movements. the other stayed on your hip, guiding but not controlling.
he lets you take what you want.
but that only lasted a while.
you started moving faster, riding, hoping (more like a bunny, than a cowgirl)—tits bouncing so lewdly, pitchy little ah, ah ah’s moans escaping your lips. the slap of skin got louder, his cock disappeared as quick as he saw it.
sunghoon couldn’t stay still anymore.
his hips snapped up to meet you halfway, driving deeper, harder, making your cries louder as pleasure spiked suddenly.
“that’s it,” his voice wrecked, sitting up suddenly so you were chest to chest, his hands on your hips as he lifted you up and down on his cock, pulling you down harder onto every thrust.
“fuckin’ ride me just like that—use me,”
you clung to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, moving together in a frantic rhythm. your sweat dripped down on his skin as his did too, sunghoon’s mouth found your neck where he sucked marks into your skin as you clenched tighter.
“hoonie, hoonie, so good, feels s’good,” you whimpered, holding his hat on your head with one hand, the other wrapped around his neck.
“come on,” he chuckled low and filthy against your throat, your head tipped back. one of his hands palmed your tits, pinching your perky bud. “keep ridin’ me like that. fuck—takin’ my cock so good. you’re made for this ranch—made for me,”
you nodded, his balls slapping the curve of your ass as you go—giggling—just mind fucked over his cock.
“love it, don’t cha?” he kept going with his filthy talks, breath hot against your skin. “love bouncin’ on a cowboy you just met, creamin’ all over him while your little guy’s waitin’ somewhere,” sunghoon hummed, lips grazing the slope of your shoulder.
“bet he’s never fucked you this good—never made this pussy cream so many times in one evening.”
you moaned louder, clenching at his voice and words. he grinned against your neck, thrusting up harder to meet you.
“say it,” he rasped, rolling your nipple slow and mean between his fingerpads. “tell me how good you’re gettin’ it.”
“hoonie—” you whined, walls fluttering wildly.
“say it,” he coaxed, hands dropping to grip your ass, guiding you faster, deeper. “tell me whose cock you’re gonna be thinkin’ about from now on,”
you were too far gone to care—pleasure coiling tight and how low in your tummy. “yours,” you gasped, hat tilting crooked as you slammed down faster. “only yours—hoonie, fuck—only you, wanna be yours,”
sunghoon’s cock twitched. “that’s my girl,” he praised, voice dripping sin, hips snapping. “cream this cock again. milk me—let me feel that pretty pussy.”
and with his mouth on your collarbone, fingers twisting your nipple, his thick cock dragging your velvety walls—you came.
your whole body seized—back arching, a broken cry tearing from your throat. another rush of warmth flooded out of you, soaking where you joined, dripping down his length and onto his thighs. the fourth orgasm rolled through you, thighs shaking.
sunghoon groaned as well, holding you tight but he didn’t follow you over the edge—not yet. the night is still young, after all. his cock throbbed inside, impossibly harder, slick with release, but he gritted his teeth, letting you ride the aftershocks while he stayed buried.
“hngh—i—hah,” you slumped forward, panting against his chest, hat slipping sideways. sunghoon caught it and settled it back on your head. “came so pretty for me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“but i’m not done with you yet.”
he didn’t give you much time to recover before his arms hooked under your knees and he flipped you onto your back. the air left your lungs as your body bounced lightly on his mattress. “hm—?”
sunghoon folded you in half, knees pushed to your shoulders, hips tilted up—completely open, bare, exposed, and pinned beneath him in a deep, filthy—
mating press.
the hat finally tumbled off your head and onto the pillow. you barely noticed before sunghoon picked it up and wore it himself.
sunghoon loomed over you, dark hair falling into his eyes, cock still rock–hard and wet as he nudged back inside in a slow thrust. the new angle dragged him deeper than before—stretching you wide, pressing and making your eyes roll back from pleasure.
“fuck… look at ya,” he chuckled, hips rolling slow to let you feel every thick inch. “takin’ me so deep… pussy made for me, wasn’t it?”
you could only nod and whimper, looking up at him with doe, glassy eyes and swollen lips from clamping down. you looked so fucking feastible like this—body filled with his lovebites, nipples perky and red from pinching, your sweaty and glossy skin—
so perfect.
sunghoon only meant to help a poor stranded girl with her broke down car, he swore—but he supposed ending the day with a girl didn’t sound so bad.
he began moving—long, solid hard strokes that punched the air from your lungs each time he pulled up. the position left you no room to move, no escape from the overwhelming fullness, every thrust driving him against your g–spot.
sweat dripped down from his brow onto your chest—sunghoon crashed his lips against yours in open mouthed kisses with tongue involved. “tell me again,” he snapped his hips to draw a cry out of you. “who’s makin’ you feel this good?”
“you—hoonie, only you—,” the words slipped out rushly. sunghoon chuckled, the headboard knocked against the wall from the way your folded body rocked with every thrust, breasts bouncing. sunghoon gripped the backs of your thighs to keep you spread wide and pinned.
“gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he rasped, eyes locked on where you joined—his cock disappeared inside you over and over. “everytime you close your eyes, you’re g’nna remember how deep i got, how hard i fucked you, how many times i made this tight pussy come.”
your heart thumped, tummy’s doing cartwheels at his words. “yes! please, please, please—’m cumming!” you gasped, back arching as you dragged your nails down his shoulders. sunghoon’s relentless thrusts hitting your soft spot without mercy.
the coil snapped again—you came with a cry of his name, walls clamping down around him in tight, waves, another nth gush of warmth soaking you both as you whole body shook helplessly in his hold.
“fuck,” sunghoon cursed filthy, fucking you turned erratic as he chased his own high. a few more deep, brutal strokes and burying himself to the hilt—sunghoon spilled inside of you, pulsing hot and endless streaks of semen, hips jerking through every wave.
he held your hips up, milking himself dry as your pussy spasmed around him, squeezing every last drop. “shit… shit…” he panted, staying pressed for a long moment as he lazily thrusted his cum inside.
both of you panted, trembling, sweat slick, and spent. your body twitched in pleasure, eyes fluttering shut as you catch your breath. slowly, carefully, sunghoon eased your legs down, letting them fall open around his hips as he pulled his cock out.
cum dribbled down your puffy, swollen cunt, messy—sliding down your folds and onto his sheets beneath you. more followed as your body slumped down.
sunghoon’s gaze dropped between your legs before back on your face—his hand gently stroking your thigh like he couldn’t stop touching you. his cowboy hat tilted crookedly on his head, casting a shadow over his eyes as he fixed it.
you whimpered—too sensitive and overstimulated—but didn’t pry him off when he pushed his cum lazily inside just to watch you shiver. finally, sunghoon leaned down, lips brushing to exhaustedly kiss you—your lips, cheeks, and temple.
“you okay, darlin’?” he murmured, arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest as he rolled to the side. sunghoon tucked you against him, tangling your legs together.
you nodded into his neck, fingers tracing idly. “more than okay.” you murmured, “never been better.” sunghoon huffed a hum, kissing the top of your head.
“good,” he said simply, voice low in the dim room. “‘cause car’s definitely ain’t gettin’ fixed anytime soon,” he murmured, pulling the blanket to cover the two of you. “means ‘m keepin’ you here till mornin’. maybe longer.”
the last of the daylight had faded into deep twilight.
oh well—
your… ex boyfriend waiting somewhere could sit tight and wonder all he wanted; his plans had been bucked off the trail the moment the real cowboy rode in.
this filly had found her herd, and she wasn’t wandering back to any old pasture soon.
you supposed some breakdowns are just detours to exactly where you’re meant to end up.
You dreaded going to the mechanic shop after messing up your car. Until you meet the extremely hot worker there, who does a whole lot more than just fix it for you.
yang jungwon x fem!reader
content warnings: smut, teasing, degrading, slut shaming, dirty talk, oral (m), unprotected sex, pussy eating, spanking, panty sniffing, car sex? (on the car..), mentions of alcohol, reader's a spoiled brat who needs to be put in her place, and Jungwons willing to, porn with a plot..let me know if I missed anything!
word count: 6k
As soon as he saw the Aston Martin DB9 Voltane, silver exterior, pink interior, with heavy damage in the front from most likely a rear end collision pull up, he knew exactly what kind of customer he was dealing with.
Wiping his hands on his jeans, the ones he has several pairs of, so he doesnt care if they get messy or not, he watches as you step out of the car.
Predictable. Denim mini skirt, light pink baby doll top, hair freshly blown out, full face of makeup, and to top it off, playboy bunny heels.
He looks across the mechanic garage at Jay, who's already looking at him with a knowing eyebrow raised.
You grab your designer purse, looking around the garage, the smell of oil, and metal lingering in the air. You curse your father for making you do this by yourself.
Watching as none of the workers here make any move to come forward and help you, you scoff. Typical of these low lifes.
“Does anyone actually work here?” You say, attitude leaking from your voice
He shakes his head stifling a laugh before making his way to you from across the garage.
You watch as a man, probably around your age approaches you, immediately noting how handsome he is, dark hair, defined features, cat like eyes that draw you in.
“How can we help you today?” He asks, tone calm, collected.
“Well clearly the bumper’s fucked up.” You say, hand signaling to the front of your car
His eyebrows raise slightly at your straight foward attitude.
“Yeah, I can see that.” His eyes drop to your tits for a split second, how could he not when they're practically spilling out of your little top
“So I need you to like, fix it” You say like its the most obvious thing, which it clearly is.
He walks around to the front, crouching to look closer at the damage, you watch his face
“yikes..” He says through his teeth, making a slight panic bubble in your chest
“What?” You ask, urgently needing an answer
“This baby’s gonna need some work that's for sure.” He stands up, walking around the car to check for any more damage
“Sensors are definitely damaged, we’re gonna have to order a new bumper, for this specific car it could be hard to find one. You might need a new engine too.” He looks at you, reaching into the front seat, finger hovering over the hood button “May I?” you nod
He pops the hood before going back around to look at the engine, you watch as another man comes to look at it, he must also work here. “Shit– V12 too, that's gonna cost a fortune to fix” The third party adds.
“Since it uses aluminum body panels, it's going to be harder to fix than steel.” The first one says, hand rubbing his jaw in thought, you look at them confused as ever because you don't know what the hell they are saying.
“I don't even know what that means. Can you fix it or not?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest, completely oblivious to the way you're pushing your tits up more, and to the way both of their gazes drop to look at them.
“Yeah, I can fix it. But it's not gonna be cheap.” He says
“How much?” You ask, tone uncaring, this is just information your father needs to know anyway.
“It's not definitely not minor damage, parts are probably gonna have to be shipped from out of state, so maybe around 20-25 grand?” He estimates in his head
You don't bat an eye, “How long will it take then?” You ask impatiently
“Well it sure as hell isn't going to be ready tomorrow, I'm thinking 3-5 weeks.” He says calmly
“That's like almost a month!” practically shouting at him
“Like I said, parts from out of state.” He adds, watching the way you pull out your phone, swiping frantically on it, you don't excuse yourself before walking a good 5 feet away to call your father.
He picks up on the 4th ring
“Yes Y/n?” he says, bothered
“Dad, they said it's going to take almost a month to fix it!” You say in your phone, completely unaware of how Jungwon and Jay can hear your conversation perfectly clear.
Typical, you have no sense of space either.
“Well that's what happens when you get your car wrecked.” he says
“But I can't survive a whole month-”
“Well you're going to have to, maybe if you weren't so careless with your speeding, and texting while driving, you wouldn't be in this situation at all.” You quiet down as he continues
“Ill have the driver pick you up, sign whatever papers they give you. You have my card right?”
‘Yes.” You reply clipped, anger seeping in your tone
“Use it. I don't care for the cost” He adds, you hear the sound of papers shuffling in the back, knowing that the reason for his straight forward attitude is because he's at his office.
“Fine.”
“And y/n?”, "Don't be rude.” He adds before hanging up the phone, you bring it down to look at the screen, scoffing before shoving it in your bag and walking back towards the annoyingly hot workers.
They are both looking at your engine when you walk back towards them, you watch the first one look up, before he tells the other one to grab the papers.
He comes back with a clip board and hands it to you with a pen, you scan it, looking at the first box, ‘Mechanic Name’, you look up at him
"What's your name?” tone bored
“Jungwon.” He says, you repeat the name in your head. Leaning against the side of your car to fill out the rest of the form, rolling your eyes as you check off the boxes for the reasoning of your visit. The other worker is already back working on one of the other cars.
You hand him the clipboard without a word, watching his eyes skim over it before he lets a smirk show, what the fuck is he smirking at.
“What?” You ask rudely, making him stifle a laugh.
“Nothin’ I just knew it’d be a rear end.” He says, pulling out a business card from his pocket
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Your nostrils flaring at the way he’s speaking to you.
“Just means girls like you are predictable.” He watches your face, ignoring the glare you’re giving him before continuing “Let me guess, you were on your phone”
You open your mouth to speak, to defend yourself but close it, because that's the exact reason why. He grins at that, knowing he’s right.
“Right. I'm gonna see exactly what she’s gonna need, and I'll message you the exact cost so you can come back and pay.” He says, handing you his business card
You take it reluctantly, hating the fact that you actually have to come back here again. You look down at the way his hand is still held out, looking down at the oil stained flesh in disgust before glancing up at his ridiculously perfect face
“What? Do you want me to hold your hand or something?”
He chuckles lightly, “I need the car keys, princess.” You hide your embarrassment, obviously he needs the keys. You lean into your car, bending enough that your mini skirt rises slightly higher than necessary, revealing the pink lace panties from Victoria's Secret's spring collection, he ignores the way his cock jumps at the sight.
You hand him the keys, he looks down at them, resisting the urge to laugh at your key chains, the mini chanel heel, to the pink fluffy pom pom ball, before bring them down, finger hooking around the key ring
“kay’ so is that all?” You ask impatiently, kitten heel tapping on the ground lightly, “For now.” He says, shamelessly dropping his eyes to your glossy lips before turning around and walking back to his tool table.
You roll your eyes, making sure you grabbed everything out of your car before walking out of the garage, the faint smell of oil sticking to you. Yeah you're taking a long shower when you get home.
“Y’know, you could've just got her card on file” Jay mutters, walking over to him
“Whats the fun in that?” Jungwon says, looking at the papers you signed, y/n. Pretty name.
-
People often referred to you as the ‘spoiled daddy’s girl’ type, to be fair you didn't deny it. Your father did spoil you rotten, after all he was one of the wealthiest men in the country. Obviously you took advantage of it, from the designer clothes, and bags, your whole closet screamed it. Your friends were rich too, naturally. You didn't want to surround yourself with people who leech off your money.
It had been three days since you saw your car, three days since you saw that sexy ass mechanic.
So what if you wore this outfit just for this specific occasion, you weren't completely clueless. You could tell when a man knew how to fuck, simply by his attitude, and Jungwon was screaming big dick energy.
You reapply your shiny lipgloss on your lips, as your driver pulls up to the shop. Looking down at your outfit, from the tight denim shorts to the white baby tee, you purposely didn't put a bra on with.
You smile sweetly at your driver before stepping out, your dior bag in one hand, and strawberry beverage in the other before walking in the shop.
You look around the shop trying to spot Jungwon, he had messaged you that he was able to find all the parts, and needed to double check with you to confirm the payment.
You don't like when people make you wait either.
“God, this place is fucking slow.” You say before walking to your car, you pause when you him stand up from working on the engine of your car
“Sorry to keep you waiting princess” He says, putting the wrench in his hand down, dusting his hands off and standing up, he’s wearing a white tank top. Biceps, those biceps are all you can think about right now.
He runs his hand through his hair, pushing the messy strands back before walking past you. You try not to act shocked when he doesn’t even glance at your outfit– guy’s would fucking kill to see you in this.
You hesitate a beat before following him to what you're guessing is some kind of break room..looking around from the desk, to the couch, to the ash tray sitting on the table in the center.
“Is this like a man cave or something?” You ask, stepping in the room like the floor would burn you, he lets out a low chuckle before sitting down at his desk, and pulling up the website for you to pay.
You look down at his concentrated face before leaning over his shoulder to get a better look at it, slightly brushing your tits on the side of his face. He freezes for a split second before speaking without looking at you. “I need your card.”
Standing up straight you reach in your purse pulling out your fathers black card and handing it to him. He scoffs, typing the numbers in “Daddy’s money huh?” He says, voice low before handing it back to you.
You roll your eyes, but you don't deny it either.
“Alright that's all I need from you.” He says, standing up and going back out to the main garage, passing Jay as he works on the engine for another customer.
You watch him walk away, tossing your finished beverage in his office trashcan "That's all?” You say approaching him again.
“What do you mean ‘thats all’?” He turns to look at you
“You came here for somethin’ else princess?” Using that nickname again.
He lets his eyes fall to your body, he knew you weren't wearing a bra the second he saw you. Not to mention those tiny shorts that don't leave shit to the imagination.
You must be fucking desperate to shown up looking like that here.
“No–I just thought” You huff out a frustrated breath, before pulling out your phone to text your driver to come back.
He looks over your shoulder, no sign of Jay. He probably went to the office to smoke anyway.
“Thought what?” He watches the way you shove your phone in your bag, irritation on your features, even though he knows exactly what you thought. Plenty of girls think the same thing.
When you cross your arms over your chest like a spoiled brat he chuckles. “Thought I’d want you just cause’ you show up looking like a slut?”
Your face switches from irritation to straight up anger “Fuck you-”
“Yeah I'm sure you’d want that huh?” He smirks, not missing the way your nipples harden under his stare
You look past his shoulder to see the familiar black SUV pull up before looking back at him in his stupid tank top that shows off his stupidly big biceps.
You know what, fine. You're not wasting any more time on this asshole.
“Dont scratch my car.” You say before walking out, he watches the way your hips sway, your ass begging to be let out of those tight shorts, pushing his tongue against his cheek before getting back to work on your car.
-
“You have got to be kidding me.” It had been a week since you last saw him. Yet here he is, at your favorite club..dancing.
You look at the girl he’s dancing with, the way she slides her hand under his shirt–of course he has fucking abs.
You're pulled from your thoughts when your friend taps your shoulder “Girl, what's going on?”
“What? Nothing, I just need a drink. Bad.” You walk to the bar, flashing a smile that has the bartender immediately catering to you.
You can't help but let your eyes stray back to the dance floor, to see Jungwon's hands on that bitches waist, smiling against her ear. You try to ignore the ting of jealousy you feel, what does she have that you don't?
After downing whatever your friend ordered for the both of you, and something more, you turn to face her “I wanna dance” you say, dragging her on the dance floor with you
You don't miss the look of recognition that passes along his face when he sees you walking towards the dance floor, the surprise making you grin.
Took less then 3 minutes to feel a pair of strong hands on your waist, you recognize the rough look of them immediately.
“Got bored of that little whore?” You say, purposely grinding your ass back against him
He chuckles against your ear, “Jealous?”
You scoff at that, which makes him tighten his hands on your waist, for a mechanic he sure can move his hips, hitting every beat with each roll against your body
“You wanted it to be you huh?” he whispers, voice low
“Why would I voluntarily want to grind against your small dick?” you snap, earning a low chuckle from him
“Small?” He says turning you around to face him “Princess, I promise you nothing about my dick is small.”
“Yeah?” You say, brow raised, looking up and down his form like he was your next Chanel purchase, “Prove it.”
He smirks looking down then looking back up at your face, “You asked for it.” He rests his hand on your lower back before leading you two out of the club, you look at him curiously before he drags you into an empty alley, you can still hear the music from out here.
“What? Are you gonna fuck me here?” Your face shows irritation. Even though your heart is nearly beating out of your chest.
“No.” He watches your face, stepping closer till your faces are less than an inch apart, the rough brick of the club building digging into your head.
He trails his lips along your neck, breathing your scent in. You can't help the shivers that go down your spine, and straight to your core at the attention
He presses his hardening cock against your thigh, your breath slightly hitches at the contact
“You feel that?” He whispers against your neck
“What’s that, like 2 inches?” still not letting go of your bitchy attitude.
He chuckles low, but it's not jokingly, it's dangerous, knowing.
“Get on your knees, brat.” you hesitate a second before lowering yourself on the hard concrete. He almost could laugh at how quickly you listen
“Look at you, spoiled rich girl on her knees.” He looks down at you, the way your face is asking for specific instructions
“Go on.”
You hate that your hands are shaking when you lift them to unbuckle his belt, your tongue darting out to lick your lips before you look up at him, he nods, watching as you pull down his jeans and boxers in one go.
You nearly gasp at the way his thick, flushed cock springs out, slapping his abdomen with how long it is. Definitely not 2 inches.
“You really are a slut huh? On the ground in the middle of some alley, just to suck dick.” He caresses the side of your face, in such a gentle way you would think he’s comforting you, his thumb swipes over your bottom lip urging you to open your mouth
You stick out your tongue for him, letting him stick his thumb down your throat, closing your lips around it, he pushes it in farther earning a small gag from you
“Oh sweetheart, if you can't handle this, how will you take my cock?” He says condensendly, pulling his thumb out of your mouth and wiping it on the side of your face.
His eyebrows raise slightly when you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, and bring him closer to your mouth before wrapping your lips around the tip, the taste of his pre cum coating your tongue. He lets out a groan at how warm your mouth is, his hand coming down to grip your hair in his hand.
“Suck it like the slut you are.” His mouth hangs open slightly as he looks down at you
You mumble around his dick before taking more of him in your mouth, curling your toes in your heels to not gag, because then you would be proving his exact point.
Closing your eyes to concentrate, you take him slightly deeper, you whine when you see he’s not even fully in your mouth, making him chuckle at your desperate state.
“Let me help you out, yeah?” he says before gripping the back of your head harder and thrusting his cock into your mouth further, till your nose kisses his pelvis, he lets the most guttural groan at the way your throat convulses around his length, his other hand coming up to steady himself on the brick wall behind you.
You brace your hands on his thighs, gagging around his cock, before he pulls it out of your mouth, looking down at the way your saliva coats it, “Who’s small now huh?” He doesn't give you time to reply before shoving himself back in your mouth, biting his lip at the way you attempt to adjust to the length.
You look up at him, the way his head is thrown back, the slight shine of his sweat coating his neck, before moving your hand down to cup his balls in your hand, the sound he lets out is fucking insane.
“F-fuck–yeah just like that” He breathes out, watching the way you sloppily take him in your mouth, You swirl your tongue around the base, before sucking on the head of his cock sharply, massaging his heavy balls in your hand, when his grip on your hair loosens slightly, you know hes about to come.
“Can you s..swallow like a good girl for me?” He says through a moan, the vibration that comes from your mouth is your answer, he brings his hand down from the wall, gripping the back of your head with both his hands, before pushing himself deep in your throat, making you gag as he spills his warm load into you. He tries to stifle how loud he is, but fails miserably, he looks down at you, pulling his cock out of your mouth slowly, watching the way you swallow his come.
“Fuck that was hot.” He lets go of your hair, admiring the fucked out look on your face
“Should’ve came on your face though.” He says, stepping back, tucking himself in his pants and fixing his belt.
You stand up wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, fixing the way your mini dress slid up your thighs
“That's all?” you ask, watching him finish buckling his belt before looking at you
He steps closer until your back hits the wall, lips ghosting over yours, you close your eyes slightly, waiting for the kiss, he smirks at that.
“I still have a car to work on sweetheart.” He says slyly, pulling back, not sparing you a glance before he walks out of the alley way. Leaving you, confused, and absolutely soaked. And that just won't do.
-
You've been told countless times before that you have no shame, but you say it's just because you're bold. You know what you want, and you'll get it no matter what.
Which is exactly why you went back to the mechanic shop, claiming you left something in your car and needed it urgently. When you really just wanted to slip a little something into the center console, and you did just that.
“Jungwon” You watch as he works on your car's engine, sleeves rolled up, hair slick with sweat due to the spike in temperature today.
“Princess.” He replies back, casually. Like this is normal
“I think there's something wrong inside the car, can you look at it?” You ask sweetly, feigning innocence as he looks into the car, eyebrow raised
The vibration of your phone takes your attention, your drivers here. “You’ll know when you find it” You offer that smile that makes men go weak in their knees before walking out of the garage.
He watches you walk away, confusion etched on his face before looking in the cup holder, the second he opens the center console he feels the heat rush to his dick. His fingers wrap around the delicate lace.
He couldn't help but bring them to his nose throughout the day, just to inhale your scent, he swears he could get high off it.
Fine then. If you want to offer yourself on a golden platter to him, then he’s going to take it.
-
9:34
Jungwon: Your cars ready
You: Okay?
He chuckles down at his phone, already sensing your attitude through the damn screen
Jungwon: So, you can pick it up
You: Isn’t it a little late for me to come
Jungwon: Come get your car y/n.
You cant help the small laugh the slips past your lips at the message
You: Fine.
Yes, you purposely aren't wearing panties under your mini skirt, because if you're right, then you're not going to need them.
The main garage doors of the shop are closed, so you opt for the regular one, the lights are slightly dimmer then usual, but you also haven't been here at night before. You pass by the other cars in the garage, the silence being odd for a place like this, except for the sound of your heels clicking on the ground with every step you take to your car.
Its completely fixed. The bumper is brand new, it honestly looks how it did when your father first bought you it.
You walk around the front of the car to take a closer look, when something solid, No. Someone solid presses against you, a gasp slips past your lips at the contact
“Can’t believe you actually came princess” He says, smiling against the back of your ear, his breath on your skin making you shiver
“You said the car was ready, so obviously I did.” You roll your eyes, even though he cant see it. But he senses it.
His hand trails down your body, resting on your lower stomach “Is that why you're not wearing any panties?” He asks, voice low, a rasp in it you recognize from the alley
“Coming in here with your pussy out. Like a slut. You're lucky it's only me here tonight." He brings his hands back up, cupping your tits in his hand
The filthy words he’s saying only making you all the more wet. You can feel the slick dripping on your inner thigh
A breathy sound slips past your slips as he kneads the flesh in his hands over your tank top “I knew they’d feel like this too” He pulls your tank top neckline down so he can really feel you, the way it slightly pushes your tits up more makes his dick harden in his jeans. “So fuckin’ soft” He knips at your ear before pinching your nipples with his fingers, you whimper at the touch
“Aw, so sensitive already?” He smirks, rutting his hips against your ass, making you have to brace one of your hands on the hood of your car
“Just..F-fuck me already” You say through a breathy moan as he bounces your tits in his hands
He laughs at that, actually fucking laughs. Nothing is funny when you’re in this state of desperation, in need of being filled so badly.
“God, you're actually so desperate it's embarrassing” He says, before pushing you down against the hood of your car, earning a gasp that sounded a whole lot like a moan from you.
He just looks down at you for a second, spoiled rich girl bent over your own fucking car, at his mercy. “Are you just gonna stand there-” You don't even get to finish your sentence when he yanks your skirt down your legs, the air hitting your pussy immediately
You spread your legs the best you can, just to show off for him. “Holy shit, it looks like you fucking pissed yourself” He drags a finger through your folds, collected the slick on his fingers, making you moan into the cold steel of your car
“I knew you’d be this wet, could smell it the second you walked in.” he says, plaming your ass in his hand, making your body jolt when you feel a sharp slap “The fuck-” You start but immeditly shut up when he pinches your clit inbetween his fingers
“Got even more wet from that huh? You like this shit.” He chuckles low before landing another sharp slap to your ass, the sound echoing in the garage
He soothes the burn with his hand, you look behind you, straining your neck when you see him get on his knees behind you, he’s not even looking at your face, his gaze is right on the way your hole clenches around nothing
He spreads your ass just to get a better look, you push yourself back against his face slightly “Stop being greedy.” He says, the tone in his voice asserting his authority, how much power he has in this right now.
You dont have time to come up with a bratty reply when he licks a strip up your pussy, collecting your juices on his tounge “knew you’d taste this fucking good too” He mutters into your pussy before burying his nose in your folds, absolutely inhaling your scent, his dick throbbing in his pants. “Oh my–fuck..” You breathe the words out at the feeling of his nose aligning perfectly.
He smiles against your pussy before plunging his tongue in your hole making your hands attempt to claw at the hard surface beneath you, “Jungwon-!” You yell out, when his thumb comes up to rub small circles on your clit
He flicks his tongue against you, enjoying the way you squirm
“Want you to come like this” He mumbles into your cunt, fucking his tounge in and out of you at a criminally fast speed
You’re a moaning mess against the car, his name on your lips everytime you’re able to speak.
“m’ gonna come–” You breathe out as his finger speeds up its teasing on your sensitive bud, your juices are dripping on his chin, he sucks whatever you give him, the tight pressure making your legs tremble
If you weren’t bent over this car right now you’d definitely collapse.
You cry out when his tongue hits deep inside you, flicking in your pussy as you come on his face, he presses his thumb against your clit as he licks everything, taking his mouth off your cunt with a pop.
You’re slouched against the car, knees weak trying to comprehend what the fuck just happened.
He stands up, licking his lips, not giving you any time to react before he flips you onto your back, “No thank you?” He tilts his head to the side slightly, studying your face
You look at him like he has two heads, even when you’re spread infront of him like his next meal, you still have a fucking attitude.
“Oh, but you want me to fuck you right?” He scoffs, before stepping closer to you, fitting right between your legs.
If he just presses against you more, you'll feel the hard bulge in his pants that you can see so clearly right now.
You nod at his question
“You’re so fucking spoiled.” He says before leaning down against you, rocking his hips into you, letting his clothed dick grind on your pussy
You whine at the feeling. He presses small kisses to your neck, trailing up your jaw, he watches your face, the way your eyebrows furrow, like it’s killing you that he’s not inside you right now.
He doesnt think before pressing his lips to yours, Its not sweet, or loving, its fucking unhinged.
You immediately let him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck to pull him closer, his chest brushing against your hardened nipples, when his hand comes up to twist them in his fingers you moan into his mouth. “Fuck me Jungwon- please” you cry out desperately making him smile
“Yeah? Spoiled brat wants to be fucked on her fancy car?” He looks down at you as you nod frantically
“Words or else you're not getting shit.” He stands up straight, sliding off his shirt with practiced ease before unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down, along with his boxers.
You watch as his cock hits his abdomen, the tip flushed red, you practically drool at the sight of it, at the familiar memory of sucking him off , a memory that has replayed every night since.
“Yes, I want you to fuck me, right here—please” Your face mimicks a pout that has him bringing his hand down to stroke himself in his hand
“Like the slut you are?” He presses, wanting to hear you say more
“Only for you” You say, biting your lip at the way he squeezes his length in his hand
You watch him line the head of his cock with your hole,coating his dick in your arousal from earlier, and the new wetness thats fomed since, you’re so fucking easy to get wet its insane.
He brings his hand to hold down your hips, to anchor himself before he slides into your pussy, he watches as you squirm, trying to adjust to his cock, his mouth hangs open as he bottoms out,
“You’re so tight holy shit-” He breathes out, doing small movements with his hips to get you to adjust better
You can't even think right now with the way he’s stuffing you so full. He pulls out slowly before stamming back into you, watching the way your tits bounce at the movement.
“mmm..faster “ You say through a moan, he thrusts into you slow, teasing, even if it is taking everything in him to not absolutely drill into your tight cunt.
You let out a frustrated sound, that has his eyes leaving where you two connect, and up to your face, He thrusts into you harder, just see your tits bounce, before he brings his hand up from your hip to squeeze one in his hand. “You want me to go faster?” He asks, voice rough, strained.
“Yes–fuck-” You nearly scream when he delivers a harsh slap to your tit, the sting making you arch your back off the car, He smirks down at you, as the flesh turns a light shade of pink
“Use your manners.” He smooths over the flesh with his hand, fingers grazing lightly over your nipple
“Please..faster Jungwon–please.” You whine out, thats all it takes before hes lifting your leg to rest on his shoulder and ruthlessly pounding into you.
You cant even keep your eyes open as he fucks into you, the only sound being the ones coming from both of your mouths, and your wet pussy squelching around his cock as his balls slap your ass over and over again.
He watches the tears that swell in your eyes “Are you fucking crying?” He teases, thumb coming up to swipe the tear threatening to fall.
He feels the way your hole flutters around his cock, “S-shit princess” He groans out, leaning down to take you in his mouth, you immediately kiss him back
he swallows the moans you let out, letting you wrap your legs around his hips to pull him imposisbly closer
“I-im gonna come–fuck-” You manage to say, moaning into his mouth like a damn pornstar.
“Fuck yeah, come on my cock princess” He says through desperate pants of his own, when he feels you clench down even harder he thrusts into you deeper, letting your pussy suck in his cock as you reach your high, the feeling making him shoot his warm load inside of you, the sounds that leave both your mouths completing it.
His head is buried in the crook of your neck, you feel him start to soften inside you, a major part of you proud of yourself for making him come.
“That was–fuck, you’re perfect.” He whispers, pulling out slowly, the sensitivetly making you wince slightly, using his hands to help him get up, he looks down at you, the fucked out expression on your face before grabbing his jeans and putting them on, you watch him, before moving to get up but he stops you “What are you doing?” he looks at you like you're crazy “I- I was going to leave..” You say sitting up
“No you’re not.” Is all he says before picking up his shirt and using it to clean you “What-”
“Im not a complete asshole princess.” He mutters, fixing your tank top and grabbing your skirt from the ground
“Plus, I want you to come back.” he adds, watching you put your skirt on
“To fuck?” You ask, tucking a strand of hair behind your ears
He can't help the small smile that paints his lips, watching you act like this, so clueless.
“And incase you rear end someone else.” he shrugs, watching the way your face instantly changes to irritation
“You fucking-” he pulls you to him, shutting you up with a hard kiss against your lips before pulling back
“Dont finish that sentence, because im perfectly fine with fucking you dumb again.” He warns, tone serious
That familiar playful look on your face tells him everything he needs to know, as you finish what you were saying.
