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[yeokii]

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⠀ ❤︎ ' jake, your boyfriend didn't care enough for you. but his best friend heeseung did.

𝗖𝗛𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗦 ─── ✿ smau . heavily inspired by otl ! 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 ' angst regret guilt lawyer hee?? rijake bum ' ( 𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 ) ♱ like and reblog ! 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽 . 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝖾

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여키 EDITION . CALL HER A BIRD NOW I DARE U

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⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

[madaboutminho]

Too Bad For Us

Pairing: idol!kim seungmin x gn!reader

Summary: you and Seungmin love each other, but sometimes love just isn’t enough.

Warnings: just pure angst.

Word count: 3.4k.

a/n: soooo... sorry in advance, but there is no happy ending in this part (but there's always part two 😉)

The first time you met Kim Seungmin, he was a nobody.

Not in a cruel way. Just… ordinary.

He was the lanky fifteen-year-old studying to be a prosecutor, the one with messy brown hair and an impossible habit of humming songs under his breath while his head was buried in his notes in the school library.

The first thing you ever said to him was, “You’re singing the wrong lyric.”

He’d looked up, startled and immediately frowned.

“No, I’m not.”

"You definitely are."

"I'm definitely not."

"You are."

He narrowed his eyes, and you just narrowed yours back.

Three minutes later, you were both laughing so hard that Seungmin had doubled over where he was sitting.

That was the beginning. There were no fireworks, nor was it love at first sight. You were just two teenagers who made each other laugh. It was the kind of beginning that never feels important until years later.

Years later, when everything has changed.

As the years passed, Seungmin's biggest dream narrowed down to simplicity.

He wanted to sing. He didn’t want to become famous, walk red carpets, or have millions of fans screaming his name. He just wanted to perform.

You spent countless afternoons listening to him talk about music, watching his eyes light up whenever he spoke about melodies and lyrics. Sometimes you'd sit beside him while he practised. Sometimes he'd drag you to tiny local performances where only twenty people showed up. Sometimes he'd even sing just for you.

Every single time, you thought the same thing: He's going to make it someday.

You just didn't realise what "making it" would cost.

At seventeen, Seungmin got his first real break. He participated in JYPE's 13th Open Audition, placing second. Not long after that, he joined JYP Entertainment.

Just months later, it was announced that he would debut in Stray Kids.

You remembered sitting on the swings at the park between both your houses, quietly. The stars were bright, and you could feel Christmas in the air. Neither of you wanted to acknowledge that things were about to change.

"You'll forget about me," you teased.

Seungmin immediately scoffed. "Impossible."

"You'll be famous."

"I won't."

"You will."

"I won't."

You smiled. "You totally will."

He reached over and squeezed your hand. "Then you'll just have to remind me who I am."

At the time, it sounded romantic. Now you knew that it was a promise neither of them understood.

When Seungmin debuted, you cried harder than he did. You stood backstage after one of his earliest performances, tears streaming down your face while he laughed at you.

"Why are you crying?"

"You did it."

He smiled, the kind of smile that made your heart stop.

"We did it."

Then he pulled you into a hug, and for a moment, nothing felt different. He was still Seungmin - still your Seungmin. The boy who stole your fries and sent you terrible memes at two in the morning, the boy who knew exactly how you liked your coffee. The boy who held your hand whenever you got anxious.

Nothing had changed.

At least, that's what you both told yourselves.

The first year was easy, but busy.

There were late-night phone calls, endless text messages, and video chats that lasted until one of you fell asleep. Whenever he came home, he spent every spare second with you. The distance was hard, but your love wasn't.

Then Stray Kids exploded.

One successful comeback became another. Then another, and another. Concerts became arenas and arenas became stadiums. Schedules became impossible. And somewhere along the way, your lives stopped moving at the same speed.

The first crack appeared during an interview. It was small, so small you almost ignored it.

You were curled up on your sofa watching him on television. The interviewer had smiled and asked him a simple question:

"Who is Kim Seungmin when he's not an idol?"

Seungmin had laughed. "Honestly? I don't really have a life outside work."

The audience laughed, and the interviewer, but you didn't. You just frowned at the screen, feeling an uneasy feeling build in the pit of your stomach, because he did have a life. He had his members, his family, his friends.

He had you.

Yet, somehow, all of that had disappeared from his answer as though Kim Seungmin the idol had swallowed Kim Seungmin the person.

When you mentioned it later, he brushed it off. "You know what I meant."

You nodded, but something about it stayed with you, and the doubt started creeping in.

The years passed, and Seungmin changed. Not all at once, and not dramatically, but little by little. The way water smooths stone.

His laugh became quieter, and his words became more careful. Every answer felt rehearsed, every reaction measured. Every action seemed filtered through an invisible question:

What will people think?

You understood why, you really did. Millions of eyes were constantly watching him. They were waiting for him to make a mistake, to say the wrong thing. Waiting for him to be human.

The world demanded perfection, and eventually, Seungmin started demanding it from himself, too.

One evening, months after his latest tour ended, the two of you sat across from each other at dinner.

It was a rare night alone with no schedules demanding time and energy. There were no cameras to perform for, or managers rushing about requiring his attention. It was just you and him, exactly the way it used to be. Or at least it should have been.

You were halfway through telling a story about work when you noticed he wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on his phone. When you leaned over to look at his screen, you noticed he was scrolling through and reading comments on the last Stray Kids upload. He was checking the fans’ reactions and monitoring engagement.

Watching the endless flood of opinions from strangers instead of being here. With you.

"Seungmin."

Nothing.

"Seungmin."

He looked up. "What?"

You smiled sadly. "Exactly."

Guilt immediately flashed across his face. "I'm sorry."

You looked down at your plate, messing with the food that you no longer had the appetite for.

"You always say that."

The silence that followed felt heavier than any argument.

You convinced yourself that the worst part wasn't that he had changed, but that you knew why.

You knew what fame had done to him. You saw the exhaustion behind his smile, the anxiety hidden beneath his confidence, and the pressure sitting permanently on his shoulders. You knew he wasn't becoming distant because he wanted to. He was just surviving, and surviving meant adapting to protect himself.

Knowing that didn't stop your heart from breaking, though, because every day, you felt like you were losing the boy you fell in love with, and every day, he seemed a little harder to reach.

The argument happened on a rainy Thursday night.

It was the kind of rain that makes the city feel lonely. It had enveloped the city in a blanket of isolation, forcing people indoors and off the streets. By now, only a few people remain outside.

You were one of them.

You were standing outside the restaurant where he was meant to meet you. The one he’d made the reservations for himself. But that was before he'd cancelled dinner. Again. There was another schedule or meeting. Another apology. Another disappointment.

When he finally arrived home hours later, exhausted and breathless, you were already sitting in the dark, waiting. Seungmin immediately knew something was wrong. You hadn’t changed out of your wet clothes, and your hair was still sticking to the side of your face.

"Hey."

You didn't answer as he sat beside you.

"Talk to me."

For a long moment, you stared out the window. You knew what you needed to do – needed to say – but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

"I can't keep doing this."

His face fell. "Doing what?"

"Waiting." The word hung between you, heavy in its truth. "I've spent years understanding."

His eyes filled with guilt. "I know."

"I've defended you."

"I know."

"I've supported you."

"I know."

Your voice cracked. "Then why do I feel so alone?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

You knew then that he didn't have an answer.

You finally turned to look at him. Physically, he was the same Seungmin. His face hadn’t changed much over the years, only aged. He was still the same lean build as he was in his youth. What had really changed was on a deeper level. You saw the tired eyes, the carefully controlled expression.

The version of Seungmin that the world adored.

Suddenly, the question escaped before you could stop it. "What happened to you?"

Seungmin froze as if you'd physically hit him. It hadn’t come out as an accusation, but rather a plea. A plea to understand where it had all gone wrong.

The room fell silent around you both before he laughed brokenly.

"You think I don't ask myself that every day?"

Your breath caught. For the first time in years, the mask slipped, and there he was.

Not the idol, and not the celebrity.

Just Seungmin.

You could see how lost he was, see the humanity behind the cold mask of fame.

"I miss him too." His voice barely rose above a whisper. "The boy you fell in love with. I miss him all the time."

Tears filled his eyes, and you felt your heart shatter completely, because you realised something devastating.

You weren't the only one mourning who he used to be.

He was mourning him too.

The conversation didn't end that night.

After Seungmin admitted he missed the person he used to be, neither of you knew what to say. There wasn't a solution hiding somewhere between the two of you. There was no compromise or grand sacrifice. No choice that magically fixed everything. You loved him, and he loved you. That had never been the problem. The problem was that life kept moving, and neither of you could move with it.

The weeks that followed felt strange, almost… softer than before. It was like both of you were handling something fragile and trying not to break it. There were no more arguments, no accusations or frustrated tears.

In their place, however, were long silences. Conversations that trailed off before reaching the thing you were both thinking.

The thing neither of you wanted to say first.

One evening, Seungmin showed up at your apartment after practice. It was late, almost midnight. You opened the door and immediately knew he'd come straight from work. His hair was still styled, and there was makeup lingering around his eyes. Exhaustion sat heavily in his shoulders, yet somehow, he still smiled when he saw you.

The familiar one that made your heart ache now.

"Hey."

"Hey."

You stepped aside to let him in. Neither of you spoke much; he just curled up beside you on the sofa. You watched a movie that neither of you paid attention to. He was no doubt busy thinking about something from practise, and you were thinking about how handsome he looked, even this tired.

Eventually, his hand found yours. It was instinct, muscle memory from years of loving each other. For a while, everything felt normal – dangerously normal.

Then Seungmin spoke.

"So what do we do?"

The words were so quiet you almost missed them.

You stared at the television, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know."

He nodded slowly as if he'd expected that answer. He'd been asking himself the same question. Every day for months, maybe even years, without an answer.

"What if I try harder?" he asked.

Your throat tightened, and you looked at him. Even now, with barely enough energy left to watch a film, he was still fighting to make this work, still putting the pressure on his own shoulders.

Try harder.

As though he wasn't already giving every piece of himself away - to the company, the members, the fans, the public.

To everyone except himself.

"You already are."

His jaw tightened at your answer. "Then what if I make more time?"

"You can't."

"I can."

"You can't."

For the first time, frustration flashed across his face. "Why are you deciding that for me?"

"Because it's true."

The words came out sharper than intended. Seungmin immediately looked wounded, and you hated yourself for it. But you couldn't take it back. Not now.

"You have a tour next month. Then recordings. Then promotions. Then another comeback."

His eyes dropped to the floor as you checked them off on your fingers. He knew that you weren't guessing. You were describing reality - his reality. The life he'd worked years to build. It was the dream he'd sacrificed everything for; he just never expected you to be part of that sacrifice.

You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "I'm not asking you to give that up."

His eyes lifted immediately, almost desperately. "Then tell me what you need."

The question shattered something inside you because he still didn't understand. You didn't need anything, not anymore. There wasn't something missing, and this wasn't a problem to solve. There wasn't a compromise waiting to be found.

There was simply reality.

It was a reality neither of you had created, yet both of you were trapped inside.

Your eyes stung. "That's the problem."

Seungmin's expression crumpled. "What is?"

You swallowed hard, then finally said the thing you'd been avoiding.

"We can't go back."

The room fell silent, and you felt his hand tighten around yours. Your voice trembled as you carried on.

"We can't go back to how things were before. Before the schedules and the tours. Before everyone knew your name."

His eyes filled with tears, but you had to say it. If you stopped now, you'd never would do.

"And we can't go forward."

The words cracked in the middle, the truth in them bringing you pain. You couldn't move forward together because nothing could change. At least, not in the ways that mattered. Seungmin wasn't choosing fame over you. He was living the dream he'd spent his entire life chasing. One he'd worked too hard to abandon. One he deserved.

And you would never ask him to give it up.

Never.

It was in the same way that he could never ask you to spend the rest of your life waiting for moments that became shorter every year. Waiting for him to come home, for a future neither of you could actually picture. He couldn’t ask you to wait for things to somehow become different, knowing that they wouldn't.

The silence stretched on, two hearts breaking in unison.

"So that's it?"

The sound of his whisper nearly broke you, and you forced yourself to look away. Seeing him cry had always made it difficult to breathe, and seeing him cry now might very well suffocate you.

"I don't know."

It wasn't the answer he wanted, but it was the truth. Because neither of you wanted this, and neither of you had chosen this. Somehow it was happening anyway.

Seungmin laughed suddenly, but it was a hollow, miserable sound. Far from the boy you once knew, doubled over in the library all those years ago.

"All these years… All this time."

You watched tears slide down his face.

"And this is what beats us?"

You couldn't answer – wouldn’t answer – because what were you meant to say? There has been no scandal, no cheating or betrayal as so many feared in his industry. It was just… time. Time and distance.  Life, really. All the things that nobody warns you about that love can't always survive.

You moved closer, wrapping your arms around him. Immediately, his arms locked around you like he was afraid you'd disappear. For a long time, neither of you spoke. You simply sat there, holding each other, memorising the feeling of being in each other’s arms for what might be the last time.

Somewhere deep down, both of you already knew. This was goodbye. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but soon. It was inevitable, the approaching elephant in the room, waiting to make its final appearance. You realised that the end had arrived long before either of you admitted it. You were only catching up to it now.

Three weeks later, Seungmin showed up outside your apartment. There were no flashing cameras, no security or manager.  It was just him, the same way he'd come to see you hundreds of times before.

You knew the second you opened the door. His eyes were red, but then again, yours probably were too. Neither of you smiled; there was no point in pretending anymore.

"Can I come in?"

You nodded.

The apartment felt impossibly quiet. He sat beside you, close enough to touch, but neither of you were willing to. For a long time, the only sound was your breathing.

"I kept trying to think of another answer."

Your chest tightened at his words, eyes closing to brace yourself against the inevitable.

"I know."

"I couldn't find one."

A tear slid down your cheek, but you didn't wipe it away, because neither of you were pretending to be okay anymore.

"I couldn't either."

His eyes closed, and for a moment, he looked younger. Like the boy from the library, you realised painfully. The one who used to sing the wrong lyrics on purpose just to make you laugh. The one who'd stolen your heart long before the rest of the world knew who he was.

When he opened his eyes again, they were shining.

"I love you."

The words landed between you, gentle but no less devastating.

You smiled through your tears. "I know."

"No." His voice broke. "I need you to know that this isn't because I stopped loving you."

Your heart shattered. Hearing it made everything worse, and you wondered, briefly, if it would have been easier to have something worse to blame this whole thing on.

"I know."

"I'll probably love you for a really long time."

A sob escaped you, and before you knew it, he was crying, too.

Years.

Years together. Years of memories, of becoming part of each other, and now you were sitting here trying to untangle something that had rooted itself into your bones. It felt impossible, and maybe it was.

Eventually, Seungmin reached for your hand, and you let him for one final time.

"I wish I'd met you in another life."

You laughed through your tears. "One where you weren't famous?"

He shook his head. "No." His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "One where I didn't have to choose between my dream and the person I love."

The tears came harder after that.

Neither of you had ever really been given a choice, at least not a fair one. Not one that let you keep everything. Life rarely worked that way, though. Sometimes it asked for sacrifices, and sometimes it made them for you.

When he eventually stood to leave, the final moment felt impossibly small. It was just a doorway and a pair of tear-filled eyes.

A goodbye.

At the same time, it felt bigger than all your previous years put together. Seungmin looked at you one last time, memorising every last inch of your face in the same way that you were memorising him.

He gave you one last smile. It was small and broken, but no less beautiful. It was still the smile you fell in love with all those years ago.

"Thank you."

You started crying again. "For what?"

"For loving me before any of this. For knowing me before I forgot who I was."

And then he was gone.

The door closed softly behind him. The silence was overwhelming, and you stood there for a long time staring at the space he'd occupied moments before. You knew you couldn’t go back, and you couldn’t move forward, so this was the only path to take.

You knew then just how difficult this would be. Because sometimes love doesn't end when the relationship does. Sometimes it stays, lingering quietly in the spaces someone used to occupy. Not as regret or anger, but rather proof.

Proof that once, before the world claimed him, Kim Seungmin was yours.

And for a little while, you were his.

a/n: I TOLD YOU THERE WAS NO HAPPY ENDING OKAY?

Taglist: @hanniesbubuwife @skrach84 @felixstarz @starrynightviper @mrsleeknowsaurus @2minracha @cchapssaltteok @barbie-girl84 @hannieslovebot @nzzzzzzzzzzzz @mongmongsworld @sparklybunnygirl @lunr-eclipsee @jeonginsfavglazer @hyunjinswifey143 @whights-t

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XVIII

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reade

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count: 2.6 k

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing

part XII / part XIII / part XIV / part XV / part XVI / part XVII / part XVII / part XIX

Han's eighteenth birthday was three weeks away, and you were already in crisis, a severe crisis.

The kind that made you stare dramatically at your bedroom ceiling at two in the morning while Dori slept on your stomach completely unaware of the emotional emergency occurring beneath him, because what exactly were you supposed to do?

Seriously.

What.

Exactly.

Were.

You.

Supposed.

To.

Do.

You groaned and covered your face with a pillow. Dori immediately meowed in protest.

"Sorry."

The cat looked unconvinced, the problem wasn't that Han was difficult to buy gifts for. Actually, Han was surprisingly easy.

Give him:

music

food

cats

attention

And he'd probably cry. The problem was bigger than that, much bigger.

Because every time you thought about his birthday—

your mind immediately drifted back to your own. Your eighteenth birthday, the worst birthday you had expected.

And somehow—

the best one you ever got.

You remembered waking up in your tiny apartment expecting nothing, no luxury gifts, no huge parties, no designer bags, no trips, no surprises, nothing.

You remembered sitting in the kitchen with your mom, the tiny cupcake, the apology in her eyes, the way both of you pretended it was enough, then school, then Han. Han, who somehow found out, Han, who disappeared for an hour, Han, who bought you that little camera, a secondhand camera, a cheap camera. One that your old self would've probably ignored.

And yet—

you still kept it beside your bed, because nobody had ever paid attention like that before, nobody had listened when you casually mentioned loving photography, nobody had remembered, except him.

Then there was the rooftop, hhe abandoned building, the sunset, the way he smiled when you hugged him.

God.

Your chest physically hurt, because if someone asked you right now:

"What was your favorite birthday?"

You wouldn't say:

the luxury parties

the five-star hotels

the expensive gifts

You'd say:

The day Han bought you a used camera and somehow that felt insane.

You rolled onto your side dramatically, Dori immediately rolled too.

"What do I do?"

You asked him, the cat yawned, unhelpful.

The next day at school the crisis continued.

By lunch you had reached the stage where even Felix noticed, which was saying something, because Felix usually noticed things approximately three business days late.

You sat staring at your food, not eating, thinking.

Then suddenly:

"...You look haunted."

You blinked.

Felix.

"Thanks."

"No seriously."

Changbin looked up too.

"You do."

Hyunjin glanced over his sketchbook.

"...What happened."

You sighed dramatically.

"It's Han."

The table immediately reacted.

"Oh no."

"What did he do."

"Did he get arrested."

"Again?" Han asked as he sit down at the cafe table, everyone ignored him. You pointed aggressively at your boyfriend.

"It's going to be his birthday."

Silence.

Han blinked.

"...Yeah."

You looked genuinely distressed.

"How am I supposed to top mine?"

The table froze.

Then immediately:

"Aww."

"Oh."

Felix looked emotional.

"That's actually adorable."

"I'M SERIOUS."

Because you were, hHan looked equally confused.

"What do you mean."

You stared at him.

"What do I mean?"

"Han."

"Your gift literally changed my life."

Silence. Han's ears immediately turned red.

"Oh."

You kept going.

"You got me my favorite camera."

"It wasn't even expensive."

"That's not the point."

The entire table went quiet, because everyone knew. Everyone remembered, the birthday, the camera, the rooftop, the beginning.

You looked down at your food, then admitted quietly:

"It was my favorite birthday."

Han stopped breathing completely.

Because the way you said it—

so casually.

So honestly.

Like it was simply a fact.

Meanwhile your friends looked between both of you. Then Felix immediately stood up.

"Nope."

"What."

"Nope."

"Felix."

"I cannot be here."

"Why."

"Because you're looking at each other."

Hyunjin nodded.

"The look is happening."

"The look?" you asked.

Han immediately covered his face.

"Oh my God."

Changbin pointed dramatically.

"The one where they forget we're alive."

The worst part?

They weren't wrong, because right now Han couldn't stop staring at you, not because of the proximate birthday, not even because of the gift conversation. Because suddenly he realized something. You remembered, not the camera, the feeling. The way he made you feel, and honestly? That mattered more than any gift ever could.

After school, the crisis somehow became worse, because now Han kept teasing you about it, you sat together on the bus.

Spring sunlight spilled through the windows, the city moved softly outside and Han looked entirely too amused.

"...You're really stressing about this."

You glared.

"Yes."

"It's cute."

"It's not cute."

"It kinda is."

You crossed your arms aggressively. Han laughed, then gently grabbed your hand and immediately your anger weakened. Traitorous heart.

"Seriously though."

His voice softened, you looked over.

Han smiled.

That small smile.

The one that always felt private.

"Soojin."

"What."

"You don't have to beat your birthday."

Your chest tightened, because suddenly he sounded sincere, not teasing anymore, just honest.

"The reason it was my favorite birthday wasn't because of the camera."

You looked at him carefully.

Then softly:

"...Then why."

Han squeezed your hand once and smiled.

"Because it was you."

And unfortunately—

that answer made planning his birthday approximately ten times harder.

Han's eighteenth birthday arrived far too quickly.

And somehow—

despite three weeks of panicking—

you still felt completely unprepared, because no matter what you bought, made, planned, or said...

nothing felt big enough, not for Han, not for the boy who accidentally changed your life.

The day itself started quietly, exactly how Han liked it, no giant parties, no crowded restaurants, no fancy venues, just friends.

The five of you spent most of the afternoon together, eating convenience store food, walking through the city, making fun of each other, doing what you always did.

At one point Felix dramatically announced:

"Eighteen years ago the world made a mistake."

Han immediately threw a chip at him, Changbin bought him a cheap keychain, Hyunjin gave him a sketch, Felix gave him something so ridiculous nobody could explain it.

Including Felix.

And somehow—

Han loved all of it.

Because honestly? The older he got, the less he cared about gifts, the more he cared about moments and today was full of them.

The afternoon slowly turned into evening, the city lights came alive,the sky darkened. Spring air carried the first hints of warmth, eventually everyone gathered near the river, sitting together beneath glowing streetlights, talking about nothing, talking about everything.

At some point Han looked around, at Felix laughing, at Changbin eating everyone's food, at Hyunjin pretending not to care, at you. And suddenly eighteen didn't feel scary anymore.

Because somehow—

he wasn't alone.

Hours later the group finally separated. Felix left first, then Changbin, then Hyunjin.

Until only you and Han remained.

The city felt quieter now, the kind of quiet that only happened late at night. You walked beside him slowly, neither of you speaking much.

Han noticed immediately.

"...You're nervous."

You looked offended.

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

"No."

"Your ears are red."

"It's cold."

"It's twenty degrees."

Traitor.

Han laughed softly, then slipped his hand into yours.

Comfortable.

Natural.

Home.

The word appeared in your mind immediately, as it always did now.

Eventually you stopped near a small hill overlooking the city, one of your favorite places, one of his too. Han sat beside you on the grass, then looked over.

"...Okay."

You immediately panicked.

"What."

"You've been weird all day."

"I have not."

"You have."

Silence.

"...Maybe a little."

Han smiled.

"I knew it."

Then softer:

"What is it?"

And suddenly—

your heart started racing again, because this was the moment. You reached into your bag and carefully pulled it out.

The photo album, simple, handmade. Filled with photographs, memories, pieces of your life together. Han immediately froze.

"...Soojin."

You suddenly felt shy, which almost never happened around him anymore.

"It's not that good."

Han looked horrified.

"Don't start."

You laughed nervously, then handed it over, for a moment neither of you spoke. The city glowed below, cars moved like tiny stars, spring wind moved softly through the trees.

And Han opened the first page. The first picture was from the bus, months ago, s younger version of him, blond hair, laughing, completely unaware you were taking a picture.

Beneath it:

The first person who made public transportation less terrifying.

Han immediately smiled, then turned the page.

And another.

And another.

Pictures.

Stories.

Memories.

The convenience store.

The rooftop.

Incheon.

Dori.

The first snowfall.

The flea market.

The stupid gray birthday frosting.

Every page carried little notes, tiny things only the two of you understood.

At one point Han laughed.

At another he covered his face.

At another he looked suspiciously emotional.

You pretended not to notice.

Then he reached a page.

And stopped.

It was a picture of both of you.

Before dating.

Before the confession.

Before everything.

Just two people looking happy.

Underneath you had written:

We were already home. We just didn't know it yet.

The words hit him so hard he physically looked away, because God.

Nobody had ever loved him like this, nobody, not in details, not in memories, not in moments. Han swallowed hard, then quietly kept turning pages. Until he reached the end.

And there—

tucked carefully inside—

was the second gift.

A necklace, simple, silver, slightly worn. The kind of thing most people would've ignored, but not you, not him. Han picked it up carefully.

"...This is from the flea market."

You smiled.

"Yeah."

Silence.

Then softly:

"It reminded me of you."

Han looked down, the pendant was tiny, a little star, slightly imperfect, a little scratched, but somehow beautiful anyway. Your voice softened.

"It felt like something you'd find in one of your notebooks."

God.

That nearly killed him, because of course that's why you chose it, not because it was expensive, not because it was perfect, because it felt like him.

Han looked down at the necklace for several seconds.

Then quietly:

"...Is beautiful?"

Your chest melted instantly.

When he finally fastened it—

Han immediately touched the pendant, then smiled, small, soft, completely in love. You knew that smile, it belonged only to you.

Then suddenly:

"I'm never taking it off."

You laughed.

"Han."

"I'm serious."

"You don't have to wear it forever."

"I literally do."

And the thing was—

he wasn't joking.

Because to Han—

the necklace wasn't jewelry.

It was you, a reminder, a memory, a piece of home he could carry everywhere.

Then quietly—

after a long silence—

he looked at the photo album again, then at you.

And for once—

Han Jisung looked completely speechless.

"...You know..."

"What."

His voice softened.

"I think every year after this is gonna be disappointing."

You laughed immediately.

"Why."

Han reached for your hand, then kissed your knuckles gently and smiled.

"Because I don't think anyone can top this."

And honestly?

Neither of you cared about topping it.

Because years later—

when the photos faded a little,

and the necklace became worn,

and life changed again—

Han would still keep both, not because they were gifts.

Because they were proof proof that once upon a time a girl who used to have everything

looked at him—

and decided he was the best thing she'd ever found.

At some point, Han Jisung stopped being embarrassed and honestly?

That should've terrified society more than it did, because for the first few months of dating, Han had at least pretended to have shame, a little, tiny amounts, trace amounts. Sure, he'd hold your hand, sure, he'd sit too close sure, he'd stare at you like you personally invented happiness. But there was still a line, a tiny one, a fragile one.

Then one day—

it disappeared completely.

And unfortunately for everyone around him—

Han suddenly realized something.

You were his girlfriend.

His.

Girlfriend.

Not in a possessive way.

Not in a weird way.

Just in a:

wow i somehow got the prettiest girl alive to like me back

kind of way.

Which apparently unlocked a new personality trait, affection, constant affection.

The first victim was Felix. Because one morning, Felix was talking to you outside school completely normal conversation, nothing weird. Then Han arrived, saw you, and immediately walked over.

Without breaking eye contact with Felix—

he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and rested his chin on top of your head.

"...Morning."

You smiled instantly.

"Morning."

Meanwhile Felix stared, then slowly looked between both of you.

"...Wow."

"What."

"You're marking territory."

Han looked offended.

"No I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

Han squeezed your shoulder, immediately proving Felix right.

"See?"

Han ignored him aggressively. You laughed, which somehow made Han even happier.

Then came the forehead kisses, those appeared randomly. St first only when nobody was looking.

Then eventually—

all the time, Before class, after class, while waiting for the bus, while studying. Once while you were literally talking, Han simply leaned down ,kissed your forehead, then continued the conversation, like that was normal. You forgot what you were saying immediately.

"Han."

"What."

"You can't just do that."

"Apparently I can."

Felix almost walked into a wall watching.

The biggest change happened because of the boys at school, not because they bothered you, most didn't. But occasionally Han noticed things, a guy lingering too long, someone trying to talk to you, some random idiot asking for your number. Normally Han wasn't jealous, actually, he trusted you completely.

The problem was:

he liked showing you off, a lot. Because honestly? Look at you. Of course he wanted everyone to know.

One afternoon, you were standing by your locker when some guy from another class started talking to you, perfectly polite, perfectly normal. You were answering nicely, everything was fine. Then Han appeared, like he'd been summoned. The guy didn't even notice, you did, immediately. Because Han was already smiling, that smile, the dangerous one, the one that always meant trouble.

Before you could react—

Han walked over, slipped one arm around your waist, pulled you gently toward him and kissed you. Just once, soft, quick, natural.

Then:

"Hi baby."

Silence.

The guy froze, you froze, Han smiled, completely innocent.

Liar.

The guy immediately understood.

"Oh."

"Oh."

And suddenly found somewhere else to be. Interesting, very interesting.

The second he left—

you looked up.

"...Baby?"

Han immediately looked proud of himself.

"What."

"You've literally never called me that."

"Did it work?"

You started laughing, Han grinned. Mission accomplished.

Meanwhile from across the hallway:

Felix screamed.

"THAT WAS INSANE."

Changbin pointed.

"THAT WAS A WARNING SHOT."

Hyunjin didn't even look surprised anymore.

"You guys are becoming a married couple."

Han shrugged.

"Okay."

The others immediately exploded.

"OKAY?"

"HE SAID OKAY."

"HE DIDN'T DENY IT."

Han laughed, because honestly? Why would he deny it? Not anymore.

The thing was—

Han spent so much time terrified of losing you, back when you were friends, back when he didn't know if you liked him, back when every glance felt dangerous.

Now?

Now he got to love you openly and that was his favorite thing in the world.

One afternoon, you were sitting together outside school. Your head rested on Han's shoulder while he played with your fingers absentmindedly, neither of you talking much, just comfortable.

Then suddenly you asked:

"...Why are you so clingy lately?"

Han blinked.

"I'm not clingy."

You stared, silence, long silence. Han looked down.

Realized:

one arm around your shoulders

fingers intertwined

your backpack beside his

your hoodie currently stolen by him

"...Okay maybe a little."

"A little?"

"A medium amount."

You laughed and immediately Han smiled too.

Then after a second—

his expression softened, the teasing disappeared, only honesty remained, quiet honest. Because suddenly he looked at you like he did when nobody else was around, like you were his favorite thing.

Then softly—

"I just like people knowing."

Your chest tightened immediately.

"Knowing what."

Han looked genuinely confused.

"That you're my girlfriend."

Because of course, of course that was his answer, simple, honest. He shrugged slightly, then smiled.

"I spent too long wanting to be your boyfriend."

God.

Your heart immediately melted.

"So now..."

He squeezed your hand gently and leaned over, kissing your forehead once more.

"...Everybody can know."

taglist:@velvetmoonlght @jiaaabbahng @rrhwang

[mynameseo]

RETURN || Hyunjin

Pairing : Hyunjin x Y/n

Genre : Angst, Romance, Hurt

Warning : Bullying, Racism, Violence

Preview :

"Sir, please breathe. Are you dying?"

"No... I saw her. The girl I killed."

He loved her in secret, broke her to survive, and spent ten years filled with deep, suffocating regret. But suddenly, she appears. Will she return to his life and forgive him?

Here's the chapter one and two

Chapter 3

"I'm a Coward."

"I know."

__________

The bullying didn't stop. It got worse.

By the third month of the semester, Y/N's existence in the classroom had become a daily routine of humiliation.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. The sky outside was dark gray, threatening rain. Hyunjin stood near the back door of the classroom, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

He watched. He always just watched.

At the front of the room, Y/N was standing by her desk. Someone had taken a permanent marker and written words across the wood.

Dirty.

Stray.

Go back to where you came from.

Someone had also dumped pencil shavings into her open backpack.

Taejin and Minseok were sitting on a desk nearby, tossing a milk carton between them and laughing.

"I think she actually likes it," Taejin sneered, looking directly at Y/N.

"Look, she's not even crying. Must be used to living in trash."

A few girls in the front row giggled.

Y/N didn't say a word. She pulled a pack of cheap wet wipes from her pocket and started scrubbing the desk. The marker didn't come off. She scrubbed harder, pressing down until her knuckles turned red.

Hyunjin stood perfectly still. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth hurt. His stomach turned with self-hatred.

Stop it, his brain screamed. Just walk over there. Tell them to shut up.

He didn't move an inch.

He looked at his friends. If he defended her, he would become the target. His father's face flashed in his mind the cold eyes, the anger, the promise that any social embarrassment would result in him being sent away to a boarding school in Switzerland and cut off completely.

Suddenly, Y/N stopped scrubbing.

She lifted her head. Across the noisy classroom, her eyes found Hyunjin standing by the door.

She looked at him. Her eyes were dry, but they were full of exhaustion. She was looking at the boy who had the power to stop this with one word, and watched him choose to do nothing.

Hyunjin couldn't hold her gaze. The shame was too much. He looked down at the floor, turned his back to her, and walked out into the hallway.

By 5:00 PM, the rain started. It came down heavily, hitting the school windows. Most of the students had already left.

Hyunjin walked down the empty corridor on the fourth floor. His heart was beating fast. He stopped at the end of the hall, in front of the old library archive room. It was a place no one ever went, full of dusty books and broken chairs.

He turned the doorknob. It opened.

The room smelled of old paper and dust. The only light came from the small window at the back. He stepped inside and closed the door, locking it.

She was there.

Y/N was sitting on the dirty floor between two bookshelves. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her oversized uniform jacket wrapped around her. She was holding a ripped textbook, trying to tape the torn pages back together.

She didn't look up when the door locked.

Hyunjin walked toward her. He stopped right in front of her. He looked down at her messy hair, her scraped knuckles, the red mark on her neck where someone had thrown an eraser at her earlier.

Guilt choked him.

He didn't say hello. He didn't say sorry.

He dropped to his knees right in front of her. He reached out, grabbed the front of her jacket, and pulled her forward.

He kissed her.

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't gentle. It was a collision.

Hyunjin pressed his mouth against hers desperately, like he needed her to breathe. He gripped her jacket so tightly his fingers cramped. He kissed her because he didn't know what to say. He kissed her to prove to himself that he wasn't the coward who had turned his back in the classroom, even though he knew he was.

For a second, Y/N pushed her hands flat against his chest, trying to shove him away.

But Hyunjin let out a broken sound in the back of his throat, and her resistance stopped.

Her hands curled into his shirt. She pulled him closer, kissing him back just as desperately, her nails digging into his shoulders.

They stayed like that on the dusty floor, surrounded by the sound of heavy rain. They kissed until their lips were bruised, until they had to break apart just to breathe.

Hyunjin pulled his face away, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes were squeezed shut.

"I'm a coward," he whispered, his voice shaking.

"I know," she replied. Her voice was flat and breathless.

Hyunjin pulled away completely, his back hitting the opposite bookshelf. He slumped down on the floor. He reached up and aggressively unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, pulling the collar aside.

Just below his collarbone, expanding across his shoulder, was a massive, ugly purple bruise.

Y/N stared at it. She had her own bruises from his friends. His were from his father.

"I got ninety eight on the mock math exam," Hyunjin said, his voice empty. He stared at the ceiling, blinking rapidly to stop the tears. "Second place. Taejin got first."

He let out a dry laugh.

"He hit me with a golf club." Hyunjin's voice cracked. His tough act shattered. He pulled his knees up and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as he began to cry quietly. "If I tell them to stop bothering you... Taejin will tell his father. His father will tell mine. And my dad... he'll lock me in the study again. He'll send me away."

He sobbed, the sound echoing in the small room. "I can't do it, Y/N. I can't stand up for you. I'm so scared of him."

It was incredibly selfish. He was the reason she went through hell every day, yet here he was, crying in front of her. He wanted to keep his perfect life in the daylight and keep her hidden in the dark.

Y/N looked at him. She should have hated him. She should have walked out the door.

But she didn't.

Y/N was entirely alone in the world. She lived with a grandmother who barely remembered her name in a basement that flooded every summer. And in this dusty room, this broken boy was the only person who ever touched her with anything resembling affection.

Y/N moved across the floor and sat next to him, their shoulders touching.

She didn't tell him it was okay. She didn't say she forgave him, because she didn't.

Instead, she lifted her hand, the knuckles still red from scrubbing her desk. She placed her hand on the back of his neck, her fingers tangling gently in his hair.

Hyunjin flinched at the touch, then immediately leaned into it, dropping his head onto her shoulder. He cried into her cheap uniform, hiding his face.

Y/N stared straight ahead at the dusty bookshelves. The rain hammered against the glass window.

She opened her mouth, her throat dry, and started to hum.

It was an old pop song. Her voice was quiet, cracking a little in the middle.

She sat there in the dark, comforting the boy who was ruining her life, while he clung to her as if she were the only thing keeping him alive.

It was wrong.

But as long as the lights stayed off, neither of them had to let go.

Chapter 4

[gyuuberryy]

user error

pairing: nerd!jake x reader

genre: college au, eventual simp x simp dynamic, smut, slow burn

synopsis: getting partnered with jake, the tall awkward nerd from on of your computer science classes, should've been simple—work on the project, get your grade, move on. except now you're completely obsessed with him and he's totally clueless about it. between tutoring sessions you definitely don't need and "coincidental" dorm hall run-ins, you're pulling out all the stops. too bad jake's more interested in his textbooks than your very obvious flirting.

you've never been rejected before, so this should be fine. …right?

warnings (MDNI 18+ only!!) : smut (oral sex(f. and m. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, size difference, big dick!jake, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, pussy drunk!jake, dry humping, heavy makeout, whiny!jake), cursing, mild alcohol use, emotional manipulation, jealousy, themes of insecurity, angst, lots computer science related terms(i kind of geeked out here), reader's kind of delulu and a jerk

note: i'm back to my writing style for lighthearted fics for this one hehe. i lovelovelove nerdy shy men tropes sooo much. i did try to keep it a little realistic though. i hope you like this! enjoyyy

word count: 21.8k

taglist | more works!

you were alone in the computer science lab at nearly midnight, which wasn't unusual. assignments had a way of turning the building into a second home. but tonight felt wrong. everything felt too much. the lights buzzed too loud, drilling into your skull with that persistent electrical hum. your eyes burned from staring at your screen for four hours straight, vision going fuzzy at the edges. somewhere around hour three, you'd stopped actually processing code and started just staring through it.

your cold coffee sat forgotten beside your laptop, abandoned but still somehow necessary because the alternative was admitting defeat and going back to your dorm where your roommate and her boyfriend were probably still taking up the entire common space. you'd rather deal with this. the overstimulation. the way every tiny sound felt amplified in the empty lab. the aggressive brightness of your laptop screen. the uncomfortable pressure building behind your eyes that meant you were about to either cry or throw your laptop across the room. probably both.

your code wasn't working. hadn't been working for two days, and you'd tried everything. every forum suggestion, every stack overflow solution, every pathetic office hours visit where you'd explained your problem three times and still left confused. the cursor blinked at you on line two thousand and forty seven, mocking. the compiler kept throwing errors you didn't understand, and you'd rewritten that function six times already. your hands shook slightly from too much caffeine and not enough food. that tight, hot feeling crept up your throat. the one that signalled imminent breakdown.

you pressed your palms against your eyes until you saw spots, trying to reset something in your overwhelmed nervous system. didn't work. nothing worked tonight.

the silence in the lab was the worst part, it was so quiet that it made you hyper-aware of your own breathing, your heartbeat, the small wet sound your tongue made against the roof of your mouth when you swallowed. you hated it.

then suddenly, the power cut out. total darkness that swallowed everything in an instant, your laptop screen going black, even the emergency exit signs disappearing. your heart kicked into overdrive, adrenaline flooding so fast you felt dizzy. you reached out instinctively for your laptop, fingers scrabbling across the desk, needing to confirm it was still there, that everything you'd been working on wasn't just gone.

suddenly you heard footsteps. someone else was in the lab. you hadn't known anyone else was here. the realisation sent fear spiking through your chest because you'd been so certain you were alone. now there was someone moving closer, footsteps uneven and hurried like they couldn't see any better than you. you opened your mouth to say something, but before you could form words there was sudden pressure against your shoulder, hard and unexpected, and then there was the splash of cold liquid, spreading across your lap and chest.

your coffee. the cup tipped and spilt, liquid soaking through your jeans, spreading sticky and uncomfortable across your thighs. panic hit first, pure and primal, because for a split second all you could think was laptop, everything's gone, hours of work, my entire project. your hands flew out in the darkness, patting frantically at the desk, trying to assess the damage. your chest was so tight you couldn't get a full breath.

then came the anger. fast and hot and overwhelming, rising from somewhere deep in your stomach. you wanted to scream. wanted to grab whoever crashed into you and shake them. wanted to cry from sheer frustration because this was exactly what you didn't need tonight, not when you were already hanging on by a thread.

"oh my god, oh my god, i'm so sorry, i didn't see you, i didn't think anyone else was here, i'm so sorry." the voice came rapid-fire from somewhere to your left. male, young, pitched higher than normal with genuine distress. 

he kept apologising, words tumbling over each other, and there was something in his tone that didn't sound rehearsed. he sounded actually afraid, like he'd just committed some unforgivable sin. 

"i didn't mean to, i couldn't see, the power just went out and i was trying to get to the door and i'm so sorry, did it get on your laptop? please tell me it didn't get on your laptop."

you took a breath, trying to force words past the tightness in your throat, trying to formulate some response that matched the fury still coursing through your veins. your mouth opened, something sharp and cutting right on the edge of your tongue.

the emergency lighting kicked in. not much, just pale green strips along the baseboards casting everything in eerie, insufficient glow. enough to see by. enough to make out shapes, faces.

the guy who'd run into you stood about two feet away, and the first thing you noticed was his hands. hovering in the air between you, trembling visibly even in the dim light, fingers spread like he wanted to help but didn't dare touch anything. he was tall and lean, dark hair stuck up in odd directions like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. glasses had slipped down his nose, and behind them his eyes were wide. genuinely panicked in a way that didn't feel performed at all.

"your laptop," he said, voice still shaking with that same desperate concern. "what model is it? did the coffee get on it? the keyboard is the main concern, if liquid got into the keyboard we need to shut it down immediately and flip it over to drain, we need to know if you had everything backed up." 

he was already moving closer, trembling hands reaching toward your desk, and you realised with a start that he hadn't even looked at you properly yet. his entire focus was on your laptop. on the problem he'd created. on fixing it.

"it's fine," you managed, voice coming out rougher than intended. you looked down at your computer. sitting safely to the right of where your coffee had been, completely dry and unharmed. "it didn't get on it."

the relief that washed over his face was so profound you almost felt embarrassed witnessing it. his shoulders sagged. his hands finally dropped to his sides. he let out a long, shaky breath like he'd been holding it since the collision.

 "okay. okay, that's good, that's really good." then, almost as an afterthought, his eyes finally moved to actually look at you. taking in your coffee-soaked lap, your tense posture, your expression which you were sure wasn't friendly. "are you okay? did you get burned? that coffee looked hot, if it was hot we should get you to a sink, run cold water on it."

"it was cold," you said. true, but didn't make the situation better. your jeans were soaked through, fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin, coffee starting to seep into your chair. you were sticky and irritated and still running on too much adrenaline. but he looked so genuinely distressed that some of your anger started deflating despite yourself.

"cold coffee is still a problem," he said, already pulling his backpack off his shoulder, unzipping it with fumbling fingers. "the sugar content means it'll get sticky when it dries, and it can stain, especially on lighter fabrics. i have napkins, i think, or maybe paper towels, i definitely have something." 

he was rummaging through his bag now, pulling out crumpled papers, a graphing calculator, several pens, tangled earbuds, talking the entire time in that same rapid, anxious way. 

"i'm really sorry, i should have been more careful, i knew the power was out, i should have used my phone flashlight, i just thought i knew the layout well enough to navigate in the dark but obviously i was wrong."

you watched him. something uncomfortable shifted in your chest. you'd been prepared to snap at him, to unleash all your accumulated frustration on whoever had been careless enough to run into you. but he wasn't making excuses. wasn't trying to minimise what he'd done or deflect blame or make some joke to lighten the mood. he was just genuinely, almost painfully concerned about the problem he'd created. the way he kept apologising, kept trying to fix things, made it very hard to stay angry.

"here," he said triumphantly, producing a small pack of tissues from the bottom of his bag. he held them out, then seemed to realise how inadequate they were and let out a frustrated sound. "these aren't going to be enough. we should go to the bathroom, get some actual paper towels. or maybe the kitchen area on the second floor, they have those industrial dispensers that are way more absorbent." 

he paused, finally seeming to register that you hadn't moved, that you were just sitting there watching him. his ears went red, visible even in the dim green emergency lighting. "sorry, i'm sorry, i'm doing it again. my sister always tells me i go into problem-solving mode when i'm anxious and it makes people feel like i'm not actually listening to them. are you okay? like, actually okay, not just physically okay?"

the question caught you off guard. nobody had asked you that in days. maybe weeks. everyone just assumed you were fine because you were handling things, meeting deadlines, showing up to class. but this stranger who'd just spilt coffee all over you was looking at you with genuine concern, waiting for a real answer. something in your chest felt suddenly too tight.

"i'm fine," you said, softer than intended. you took the tissues from him, dabbing uselessly at your jeans. he was right. they weren't nearly enough. but the gesture felt important somehow. "it's been a long night."

"assignments?" he asked. when you nodded he made a sympathetic noise. "yeah, same. i've been here since six. had a project deadline at midnight but then the power went out fifteen minutes before and now i don't know if my submission went through because the wifi died with the electricity." he pushed his glasses up his nose. nervous gesture you got the impression he did frequently. 

"i'm jake, by the way. jake sim. i feel like i should probably introduce myself since i just, like, assaulted you with your own beverage."

despite everything, ruined jeans and exhaustion and broken code, you felt the corner of your mouth twitch. not quite a smile, but close. "assaulted me with my own beverage?"

"well, yeah," he said, looking vaguely embarrassed. "i mean, i weaponised your coffee against you. that's technically assault, right? or maybe battery? i always get those mixed up. my roommate's a poli-sci major, he'd know."

 he was rambling now, words spilling out in that same anxious rush, and there was something almost endearing about how completely lacking in artifice it was. he wasn't trying to be charming. wasn't trying to be funny. just genuinely nervous and dealing with it by talking too much.

you told him your name. he repeated it carefully, like he was committing it to memory. "i really am sorry," he said again, quieter this time. "what were you working on? before i interrupted?"

"data structures project," you said. just thinking about it made your shoulders tense again. "it's due tomorrow and there's a bug i can't figure out and i've been staring at it for hours."

his eyes lit up behind his glasses, spark of interest that transformed his whole face. "what kind of bug? runtime error? logic error? is it a pointer issue? those are always the worst, especially with linked lists."

 he was already moving closer to your laptop, stopping himself at the last second like he'd realised he was being presumptuous. "sorry, i mean, i could take a look if you want? i'm pretty good with data structures. it's kind of my thing. i'm a TA for comp 201 actually, so i see a lot of common bugs. but also totally no pressure, i know i just dumped coffee on you so you probably don't want my help."

you should have said no. didn't know this guy, didn't owe him anything. you'd been managing just fine on your own. except you hadn't been managing fine. you'd been on the verge of a breakdown in an empty lab at midnight. now here was this nervous, rambling stranger offering help without expecting anything in return, looking at you like your problem was genuinely important to him.

it was disorienting. how quickly your anger had evaporated, replaced by something you couldn't quite name. you found yourself noticing details you shouldn't care about. the way he kept pushing his glasses up. the way his hands had finally stopped shaking now that he had something concrete to focus on.

"okay," you heard yourself say. his whole face brightened in a way that made something flutter uncomfortably in your stomach. "yeah, if you don't mind looking at it."

"i don't mind at all," he said quickly, already pulling up a chair. he left careful distance between you though, hyper-aware of not invading your space again. "show me what you've got."

you turned your laptop toward him. he leaned in, eyes scanning the lines with immediate focus. his expression shifted into something concentrated, intense. this was probably what he looked like when he wasn't tripping over people in the dark and panicking about it. he started asking questions about your implementation, your logic, what you'd already tried. his voice had lost that nervous edge. this was clearly where he was comfortable. in the clean logic of code, in problems that had solutions.

you answered his questions. watched as he nodded, occasionally pushing his glasses up, finger tracing lines of code on the screen without quite touching it. the emergency lighting cast strange shadows across his face, highlighting his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed in concentration.

you were noticing things you shouldn't notice. but you told yourself it wasn't because you found him attractive. you were just paying attention because he was helping. because he'd disrupted your solitary misery and replaced it with something else. something that felt almost like companionship.

"there," he said suddenly, pointing to a line in the middle of your function. "you're incrementing the counter before you check the condition, but you need to check the condition first. it's causing an off-by-one error. see? you're accessing index n when your array only goes up to n minus one."

you stared at the line he was indicating. slowly, horribly, you realised he was right. such a simple mistake, the kind of thing you should have caught hours ago. but you'd been too tired, too frustrated, too deep in your own head to see it. "oh my god," you said quietly. "that's it. that's the whole problem."

"easy fix," jake said, smiling now. a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "just move that line down two spaces and add the conditional check first. you want me to...?" he gestured at your keyboard, asking permission. you nodded, watched as he made the adjustment with quick, confident keystrokes. "there. try running it now."

you hit compile, holding your breath. for the first time in two days the program ran without errors. the output printed exactly the way it was supposed to. clean and correct and perfect. relief flooded through you so intensely you felt dizzy with it, all the tension you'd been carrying suddenly releasing at once. "thank you," you said, voice more emotional than intended. "seriously, thank you, i've been losing my mind over this."

"it happens to everyone," jake said gently. "sometimes you just need fresh eyes. i've definitely been there." he leaned back in his chair, that nervous energy returning now that the immediate problem was solved. "your code is really clean, by the way. like, really well-structured. that bug was literally the only issue, everything else is solid."

the compliment settled warm in your chest. you realised with a start that you felt calm. actually calm, for the first time all night. your heart rate had slowed. your hands were steady. the overwhelming pressure behind your eyes had eased.

the lab was still too quiet, the emergency lighting still eerie and insufficient, your jeans still soaked with cold coffee. but somehow none of it felt as unbearable as it had fifteen minutes ago. and that was because of him. because jake had crashed into you in the dark and apologised too much and fixed your code and made you feel less alone in this empty building at midnight.

jake was gathering his things, shoving papers and pens back into his backpack with the same energy he'd had while searching for tissues. "i should probably try to find someone about the power situation," he said. "and you should probably change before that coffee stains permanently. there's a campus store in the student centre that's open twenty-four hours, they have overpriced sweatpants but at least they're dry."

"yeah," you said, surprised to find you didn't want him to leave yet. "yeah, i probably should."

he stood up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, and hesitated. "hey, um. if you ever need help with code stuff again, or if you just want to work in the lab at the same time, i'm here most nights. usually not spilling beverages on people, but, you know. tonight was special." he smiled awkwardly. you found yourself smiling back, a real smile this time.

"i might take you up on that," you said. meant it.

jake's expression brightened again. that same transformation you'd noticed earlier. he nodded. "cool. yeah, that would be cool. okay. i'm gonna go now before i accidentally break something else." he gave you a small wave, started toward the door, then turned back. "your code really is good, by the way. i wasn't just saying that."

then he was gone, disappearing into the dark hallway beyond the lab. you were alone again. but that realisation, that awareness that a stranger's clumsy kindness had affected you so much, sat uncomfortable and warm in your chest as you saved your work and finally, finally, packed up to leave.

you walked into your lecture the next morning running on four hours of sleep and caffeine-induced alertness that felt vaguely hallucinogenic. your jeans from last night were balled up in your laundry basket, probably stained beyond saving, and you'd thrown on the first clean thing you could find. 

you slid into your usual spot next to yunjin, who was already comparing notes with beomgyu across the aisle. they were your people. your safe zone. the ones you'd suffered through intro courses with, pulled all-nighters with, shared desperate pre-exam breakdowns with.

"you look like death," yunjin said cheerfully, not looking up from her phone.

"thanks. love you too."

"late night?" beomgyu leaned over, stealing one of yunjin's chips. "you missed the group chat meltdown about the algorithms homework."

you hummed noncommittally, pulling out your laptop. your code from last night was still open, that perfect, error-free output staring back at you. you'd submitted it at 12:47 am, seventeen minutes after jake had fixed it. seventeen minutes after he'd disappeared down that dark hallway.

you hadn't told yunjin and beomgyu about any of it. the power outage, the coffee, jake. especially jake. it felt somehow private, like explaining it would cheapen it or make it feel less significant than it had been in the moment.

professor kim walked in, and the room settled into that particular brand of restless attention that morning lectures always had. "alright, alright," she said, pulling up a slide that made half the room groan in unison. "i know you're all thrilled to hear this, but it's time to discuss your semester-long project."

chairs scraped against floors as people twisted around to look at their friends. voices overlapped, people already calling out names, forming pairs out of habit and convenience. you felt yunjin's hand on your arm at the same time beomgyu leaned over.

"partners?" yunjin said.

"obviously we're doing a group," beomgyu added. "the three of us, right?"

you nodded, half-listening, your attention already drifting across the lecture hall. you weren't sure what you were looking for until you found it. him. jake was sitting near the back with a small group of guys you vaguely recognised from other cs classes. he was hunched slightly over his notebook, pen moving across the page, taking notes while everyone else was busy forming alliances. his hair was even messier today, sticking up on one side like he'd rolled out of bed. his glasses kept sliding down his nose and he kept pushing them back up with his index finger, that same nervous gesture from last night.

he looked small somehow, despite being tall. like he was trying to take up less space. one of his friends said something and laughed, nudging jake's shoulder, but jake just smiled politely without really engaging. his attention stayed on his notebook.

you watched him for a moment longer than necessary. watched the way his shoulders curved inward, the way he held his pen, the concentrated furrow of his brow. something in your chest did an uncomfortable little flip.

"so we're agreed then?" yunjin was saying. "i'll handle the frontend, beomgyu can do the database stuff, and you can—"

you stood up. the decision happened before you'd fully processed it, your body moving on instinct or impulse or something you didn't want to examine too closely. your chair scraped loud enough that a few people glanced over.

"actually," you said, already stepping past beomgyu into the aisle. "i'm gonna partner with someone else."

"what?" yunjin's voice pitched up in genuine confusion. "who?"

but you were already walking. moving up the steps toward the back of the lecture hall, weaving between people who were still negotiating partnerships and arguing about skill distributions. you were aware of people watching. of yunjin and beomgyu's matching expressions of confusion. of the way conversations paused as you passed.

jake's friends noticed you first. one of them, a guy with bleached hair, nudged jake's arm and nodded in your direction. another one went quiet mid-sentence, eyes tracking your approach with unconcealed curiosity. jake looked up last, following their gazes, and when his eyes met yours he froze. actually froze, pen suspended over his notebook, lips slightly parted like he'd been about to say something and forgotten how.

you stopped at the edge of their row. suddenly hyperaware of how many people were definitely watching this interaction. "hey," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near awkward. "you have a partner yet?"

jake blinked. once, twice. his friends were staring at him now, then at you, then back at him like they were watching a tennis match. "i—what?"

"for the project," you clarified, gesturing vaguely at professor kim who was still explaining requirements at the front of the room. "do you have a partner?"

"i—" jake's hand came up to push his glasses up his nose even though they hadn't moved. his ears were already turning red. "no? i mean, no, i don't, but—" he glanced at his friends, then back at you, looking genuinely lost. "are you—do you mean—"

"i'm asking if you want to partner up," you said, more directly this time. your heart was doing something weird and arrhythmic in your chest. "for the semester project."

the guy with bleached hair made a noise that might have been a strangled laugh. another one of jake's friends just gaped openly. jake himself looked like you'd just spoken to him in a language he only half understood. "you want to—with me?"

"yeah."

"but—" he gestured helplessly toward where yunjin and beomgyu were sitting, both of them now watching with unconcealed shock. "don't you usually work with your friends? i thought—"

"i'm asking you," you said, cutting him off before he could talk himself out of it or before you could overthink what you were doing. "if you already have other plans it's fine, i just thought—" you paused, scrambling for justification that didn't sound insane. "you're good at this stuff. you're a TA. you knew exactly what was wrong with my code last night in like, five seconds. it makes sense. strategically."

strategically. god, you sounded unhinged.

jake stared at you. his friends stared at you. half the lecture hall was probably staring at you at this point. "i—" jake swallowed visibly. "yeah. yes. i mean, if you want to, then—yeah. okay."

"yeah?"

"yeah." he nodded, more firmly this time, though he still looked vaguely shell-shocked. "we can—yeah. that would be—yeah."

his friends exchanged glances that were absolutely loaded with unspoken communication. the bleached hair guy, jungwon you think, was grinning now, looking between you and jake like he'd just witnessed something phenomenal. "well," he said, voice thick with amusement, "this is interesting."

you ignored him. "cool. we should probably meet up sometime this week to go over the requirements?"

"yeah, definitely," jake said quickly, already pulling out his phone with hands that trembled slightly. "i can—do you want my number? or i can get yours, or—we could use email if that's easier—"

"number's fine." you rattled it off, watching him type it into his contacts with endearing focus, tongue poking slightly between his teeth. when he looked up his expression was softer, less panicked. almost shy.

"okay," he said. "i'll text you?"

"sounds good."

you turned to head back down to your seat, acutely aware of the weight of multiple stares following your retreat. yunjin grabbed your arm the second you sat down, eyes wide with questions, but professor kim chose that moment to actually start the lecture and yunjin had to settle for furious whisper-hissing "what the hell was that?" while you studiously ignored her.

you pulled up your laptop, pretending to focus on the slides about project requirements and grading rubrics. but your attention kept drifting. you could feel it, that awareness of jake sitting several rows behind you. you wondered if he was taking notes. if his friends were grilling him. if his ears were still red.

you told yourself this was practical. logical. jake was skilled, focused, clearly knew his stuff. working with him made sense from a grades perspective, from an efficiency perspective. it was a smart choice. strategic, like you'd said.

but the justification felt thin even as you repeated it to yourself. because practical partnerships didn't make your pulse spike like this. strategic choices didn't leave you feeling weirdly breathless, or hyperaware of your phone in your pocket, waiting for a text that might come in an hour or a day. smart decisions didn't come with this flutter of satisfaction sitting warm and dangerous in your chest, the kind that felt unearned and a little reckless.

you'd just chosen jake over your actual friends for a semester-long project. you'd walked across the entire lecture hall in front of everyone to ask him specifically. you'd done it without planning it, without fully understanding why, acting on instinct alone.

your phone buzzed. you grabbed it maybe too quickly, ignoring yunjin's pointed look.

unknown number: hi, it's jake. from the lab? and also from just now. obviously. you know who i am. anyway this is my number. unknown number: we can meet whenever works for you btw. i'm pretty flexible. unknown number: sorry i'm rambling over text now apparently. i'll stop.

despite everything, despite the weirdness of the entire situation, you felt yourself smile. properly smile, which made yunjin lean over and whisper, "oh my god, you're blushing," which you absolutely were not.

you saved his number. typed out a response. deleted it. typed it again.

you: library tomorrow at 6?

his reply came almost instantly.

jake: perfect. i'll see you there.

yeah. perfect. that's exactly what this was.

you'd gotten there ten minutes early, which was ridiculous and you knew it, but you'd told yourself it was just to secure a good table. not because you were nervous. definitely not because you'd changed your shirt three times.

jake showed up at 6:02, slightly out of breath like he'd been rushing, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair even messier than usual. 

"sorry, sorry," he said, sliding into the chair across from you. "my last class ran over and then i couldn't find my charger and—" he stopped himself, ears going pink. "sorry. you don't need the full explanation. i'm here now."

"you're fine," you said, surprised by how much you meant it. "i just got here too."

it was a lie, but whatever.

he pulled out his laptop, a slightly battered thing covered in tech company stickers, and immediately opened what looked like a meticulously organised project folder. 

"so i was thinking we could start by breaking down the requirements," he said, already pulling up the assignment sheet. "if we divide it into modules we can work on different parts simultaneously and then integrate everything at the end. i made a rough outline last night, but obviously we can change whatever you want."

you blinked at him. "you made an outline? already?"

"i—yeah?" he looked uncertain suddenly, like he'd done something wrong. "was that—should i not have? i just thought it would be helpful to have a starting point, but if you wanted to plan it together—"

"no, that's—" you leaned closer to look at his screen, close enough that you could smell whatever soap or shampoo he used. something clean and faintly citrusy. "that's really good actually. you're like, super organised."

"oh." he pushed his glasses up, not quite meeting your eyes. "thanks. i just like having things structured, it makes the actual coding part less chaotic."

you shifted your chair around the table, closing the distance between you under the pretence of seeing his screen better. your knees almost touched under the table. jake didn't seem to notice, already walking you through his outline with the kind of focused enthusiasm that made his whole face more animated. he talked with his hands a little, you realised. small gestures that punctuated his explanations.

it was kind of endearing. he was kind of endearing, in this unpolished, genuine way that made you want to keep watching him talk even though you should probably be paying attention to the actual content of what he was saying.

"—so if we use that framework it'll save us a ton of time on the backend. does that make sense?" he glanced at you, expectant.

"yeah, totally," you said, even though you'd caught maybe half of it. "you're really good at this."

"at what?"

"explaining things. breaking stuff down." you let your voice soften deliberately, the kind of tone you'd use on someone you were interested in. testing. "you must be a really good TA."

jake's expression brightened with genuine pleasure, completely innocent. "oh, thanks! i really like teaching actually. it's really satisfying when something clicks for someone, you know?" he turned back to his laptop. "okay so for the first module, i was thinking we could—"

you felt something deflate slightly in your chest. he'd just. moved on. thanked you politely and redirected straight back to work like you'd commented on the weather.

you tried again twenty minutes later, when he'd finished explaining the database architecture. "seriously, how is your brain even wired like this?" you said, letting your hand rest on the table between you, close enough to his that moving a few inches would mean touching. "like, this would've taken me hours to figure out and you just see it."

"i mean, i've been coding since i was like twelve," jake said, smiling in that self-deprecating way that made your stomach flip. "my dad's a software engineer so i kind of grew up around it. you'd be just as good if you'd had the same exposure." 

he grabbed his water bottle, took a sip, completely oblivious to the way you were looking at him. "anyway, should we start on the initial setup? i can handle the repository if you want to draft the pseudocode for the first function?"

"sure," you said, trying not to sound as frustrated as you felt.

it continued like that. you'd find little ways to compliment him, to touch his arm when he said something funny, to lean into his space. and every single time jake would light up with friendly appreciation and then just. keep going. keep working. keep being nice in this utterly platonic way that was starting to drive you slightly insane.

when you suggested taking a break and offered to buy him coffee, he'd said "oh that's so sweet, but i'm good, i don't want to lose momentum." when you'd asked about his hobbies, trying to find some common ground beyond code, he'd given you a genuine answer about gaming and soccer and then immediately asked about your hobbies with the same earnest interest he gave to literally everything.

he wasn't being cold. wasn't being dismissive. he was just. friendly. sincerely friendly in a way that suggested he thought you were also just being friendly and nothing more. the idea that you might be flirting with him clearly hadn't even crossed his mind.

it shouldn't have bothered you. it was one study session. you barely knew him. but there was something about the way he was so completely unaffected that made you want to push harder, try more obviously, make him see you the way you were apparently seeing him.

which was insane. you were being insane.

"okay i think that's a good stopping point," jake said eventually, glancing at his phone. "we got through way more than i expected, honestly. you're really fast at this."

"we work well together," you said, maybe too much emphasis on the together part.

"yeah," he agreed easily, already packing up his stuff. "this is gonna be way less painful than i thought. usually group projects are a nightmare but i think we're pretty compatible."

compatible. he said it like he was talking about software versions.

you packed up your own stuff, trying to shake off whatever weird frustrated feeling had settled in your chest. this was good. you had a competent partner who was easy to work with. that's what mattered. not whether he noticed when you laughed at his jokes or sat closer than strictly necessary.

the library had gotten dark outside while you'd been working, the early winter darkness that feeking too heavy for eight pm. you pushed through the doors together, the cold air immediately biting at your face.

"which way are you headed?" jake asked, adjusting his backpack.

you pointed toward the east side of campus. "miller hall."

jake stopped walking. just fully stopped and stared at you. "wait, seriously?"

"yeah?"

"i'm in miller," he said, and his face did this thing, this open, delighted thing like you'd just told him something genuinely exciting. "i'm on the fourth floor. what floor are you?"

"third," you said, trying to keep your voice normal even though your brain was already racing ahead. same building. same building. you lived in the same building and you hadn't known. "that's—what are the odds?"

"i know, right?" jake fell into step beside you, and he seemed more relaxed now, less formal than he'd been in the library. "i can't believe we haven't run into each other before. though i guess i'm not around that much, i'm usually either in class or the lab or—" he laughed. "okay i'm making myself sound really boring."

"no you're not," you said, maybe too quickly. "i'm the same way. especially during midterms."

"the worst," he agreed. "hey, at least now if we need to meet up for the project it's super convenient. we can literally just knock on each other's doors."

he said it so casually. so normally, like it was just a nice logistical benefit and nothing more. meanwhile your mind was already cataloguing possibilities. you could time your meals to match his schedule. figure out when he usually left for class. find reasons to be in the common areas when he might pass through. it would look natural, coincidental. just friendly neighbors running into each other.

you were already strategising.

the realisation made something uncomfortable twist in your stomach. this was. this was too much maybe. you were thinking about him too much, cataloguing details about him like you were studying for an exam. getting frustrated when he didn't respond to your flirting even though you had no actual reason to expect him to. you'd had one late-night interaction and now one study session and somehow you were already rearranging your mental map of campus to accommodate his presence in it.

"you good?" jake asked, and you realised you'd gone quiet.

"yeah, just tired."

"same." he smiled at you, easy and warm. "thanks for picking me as your partner, by the way. i know you could've worked with your friends and i'm—i'm really glad you asked me instead. i think this is gonna be fun."

fun. he was looking forward to the project because he thought it would be fun. because he liked coding and teaching and he probably thought you were a cool person to work with. he was just. happy to have company. happy to make a new friend.

meanwhile you were over here planning imaginary coincidental run-ins and getting weirdly possessive over someone who didn't even know you liked him.

god, you were pathetic.

"yeah," you managed. "me too."

you reached miller hall, and jake held the door open for you, still talking about some technique he wanted to try for the project. you half-listened, watching the way his hair flopped over his forehead, the animated way he gestured when he got excited about something.

the elevator ride to your floor felt too short. jake got off with you, said he'd just walk up the extra flight of stairs for the exercise. "text me if you think of anything for the project," he said, already heading toward the stairwell. "or honestly just text me whenever. i'm always on my phone."

then he was gone, and you were standing alone in the hallway outside your door, feeling weirdly deflated and wired at the same time.

your phone buzzed before you'd even gotten your key out.

jake: forgot to say this but your idea for the UI was really smart. i think it's gonna make the whole thing way more intuitive. jake: ok NOW i'm done bothering you. have a good night!

you stared at the messages, that dangerous warm feeling spreading through your chest again. he'd texted you immediately to compliment your idea. with absolutely no prompting.

you were smiling at your phone like an idiot.

yeah. you were definitely pathetic.

"i'm just saying, he's clearly not interested," yunjin said, stabbing her salad with more force than necessary. "like, you've tried everything."

you were sitting in the dining hall, picking at your food while yunjin and beomgyu conducted what was essentially an intervention about your jake situation. an intervention you hadn't asked for and definitely didn't want.

"maybe he's just shy," you said, defensive.

beomgyu snorted. "shy guys still notice when someone's flirting with them. they just get weird about it. this guy sounds like he genuinely has no idea."

"which means he's not into you," yunjin added, gentler now. "and that's fine, you know? you can just be project partners. you don't have to keep torturing yourself."

except the thing was, you weren't entirely convinced jake wasn't interested. or maybe you just didn't want to accept it yet. because he texted you unprompted sometimes, sent you memes he thought you'd find funny, always smiled when he saw you in the hallway. that had to mean something, right?

"i'm not torturing myself," you muttered.

"you've mentioned him like fifteen times in the past hour," beomgyu pointed out.

"have not."

"you literally just told us about how he holds his pen. his pen."

okay. maybe you were torturing yourself a little.

you left the dining hall feeling irritated and restless, your friends' words circling in your head. he's not interested. he has no idea. you're torturing yourself. maybe they were right. probably they were right. you should just focus on the project, get a good grade, and move on like a normal person.

you were cutting through the student centre, not really paying attention to where you were going, when you passed the community bulletin board. the usual chaos of flyers and posters, study abroad programs, club meetings, someone selling a barely-used microwave. your eyes skimmed over it automatically, not really looking.

then you saw his name.

TUTORING AVAILABLE - COMP 101, 201, 301

patient, experienced, flexible schedule

contact: jake sim

there was a row of little tear-off tabs at the bottom with his phone number. several were already missing. the flyer itself was simple, almost plain. you stared at it. people flowed around you, conversations and footsteps and the ambient noise of the student centre, but you just stood there staring at jake's handwritten flyer.

you didn't need tutoring. your grades were fine. good, even. you and jake were in the same advanced class, for god's sake. he'd probably seen your test scores when he was TAing. this would be…obvious. wouldn't it? taking a tab would be transparent and desperate and—

your hand moved before you'd fully decided. the paper tore with a soft sound that felt too loud. you stared at the little strip in your palm, jake's number printed in his neat handwriting even though you already had it saved in your phone.

what were you doing?

you shoved the tab in your pocket and walked away quickly, like someone might have witnessed you doing something incriminating. your heart was beating too fast. this was insane. this was transparent. he was going to see right through it.

but.

but it was also legitimate, wasn't it? people got tutoring all the time, even when their grades were fine. wanting to understand the material better, wanting a different perspective, wanting to be extra prepared. those were all valid reasons. normal reasons. and yeah, maybe you had ulterior motives, but the cover story was solid enough that you could maintain plausible deniability. to him. to yourself.

you made it back to your dorm before you pulled out your phone.

you: hey! i saw your tutoring flyer in the student centre. do you still have availability?

you hit send before you could overthink it. then immediately started overthinking it anyway. he was going to ask why. he was going to point out that you clearly didn't need help. he was going to—

your phone buzzed.

jake<3: oh hey! yeah i have some slots open. but wait, aren't you doing pretty well in class? i've seen your test scores when i'm grading and you're like, consistently in the top range jake<3: not that you CAN'T get tutoring obviously! everyone can benefit from extra help jake<3: i just want to make sure you actually need it and aren't just being nice or something

god, he was even considerate about this. checking in to make sure you weren't wasting your time or money on something you didn't need. being thoughtful and genuine while you were over here manipulating the situation to manufacture more time with him.

you felt a twinge of something uncomfortable. guilt maybe. but you pushed it down.

you: i mean yeah my grades are okay, but i feel like i'm just memorising patterns without really UNDERSTANDING the concepts you know? like i can solve the problems but i couldn't explain WHY you: i just want to make sure i actually get it. especially since the material keeps building on itself

it wasn't entirely a lie. you did sometimes feel like you were pattern-matching your way through assignments. and deeper understanding was always good. these were reasonable concerns. the fact that they weren't your primary motivation didn't make them untrue.

jake<3: oh yeah that makes total sense actually. i see that a lot with students. they can execute but the underlying logic isn't solid jake<3: okay yeah we can definitely work on that! my rate is $20/hour but honestly for you i'd be happy to just do it for free? since we're already working together on the project anyway

you: no way i'm paying you. you're already helping me so much with the project

jake<3: the project is a two person thing, you're helping me just as much jake<3: but okay we can argue about payment later. when works for you?

you felt that warm, dangerous flutter again. he'd offered to tutor you for free. just casually, like it was no big deal. like spending extra time with you was something he actively wanted to do, even without compensation.

you: i'm pretty flexible. whenever you have time

jake<3: thursdays at 7? we could do the library again or somewhere on our floor if you want somewhere quieter jake<3: also i promise i'll actually TEACH and not just fix your code for you like last time lol

you smiled at your phone. somewhere on your floor. which meant his room or yours. which meant private, just the two of you, no other students around.

you: thursdays work for me! 

jake<3: cool! we can switch off. i'll bring snacks jake<3: this'll be fun :)

he'd sent a smiley face. an actual emoticon. it shouldn't have made your heart skip but it did.

you locked your phone and sat on your bed, that satisfaction settling warm in your chest. you'd done it. you'd created a legitimate, recurring excuse to see jake outside of project work. an hour a week, minimum, where you'd have his complete attention. where you could sit close to him in the privacy of a dorm room, help him help you, let those boundaries get just a little bit blurrier.

it was harmless. he was offering tutoring anyway, you were just taking him up on it. and yeah, maybe your motivations weren't entirely pure, but you weren't lying to him. not really. you did want to understand the material better. the fact that you also wanted to be around him more was just. additional context. secondary reasoning.

you were being smart about this, honestly. creating opportunities without being pushy. letting things develop naturally within structures that already existed.

you ignored the small, quiet voice in the back of your mind that whispered this was too much. that you were engineering situations and manufacturing proximity and maybe that wasn't as harmless as you wanted to believe. that jake was offering to help you in good faith while you had an agenda he knew nothing about.

you were good at ignoring that voice.

your phone buzzed again.

jake<3: btw i've been thinking about the database structure and i had an idea

and just like that you were smiling again, typing back, that uncomfortable feeling dissolving into something easier and warmer and more immediately gratifying.

it was fine. everything was fine. this was just tutoring. just spending time with someone you enjoyed being around. there was nothing wrong with that.

nothing wrong with it at all.

you'd been doing the tutoring sessions for three weeks when your roommate officially moved out. well, not officially officially. her stuff was still there, her side of the room still technically occupied. but she'd been spending every night at her boyfriend's off-campus apartment for the past month, and one day she just stopped pretending she was coming back.

"i'm still paying rent," she'd said, shoving clothes into a duffel bag. "so like, it's still my room. i'll probably crash here sometimes. but you basically have the place to yourself."

you'd nodded sympathetically while internally celebrating. your own space. privacy. no need to coordinate schedules or deal with her boyfriend's annoying habits. it was perfect.

it took you less than a day to realise it was perfect for other reasons too.

the next tutoring session was supposed to be in the library. thursday at seven, like always. but you'd been sitting in your empty apartment that afternoon, looking at your space with new eyes, and the idea had planted itself so naturally you'd almost convinced yourself it was practical.

you: hey, would you maybe want to do tutoring at my place tonight instead? my roommate moved in with her boyfriend so it's way quieter than the library you: totally fine if you prefer the library though!

the response took longer than usual. long enough that you started second-guessing yourself. maybe this was too much. too obvious. crossing some line from study partner into something else.

jake<3: oh jake<3: um jake<3: yeah that's fine. if you're sure? jake<3: i don't want to like. intrude or anything jake<3: but yeah quieter is definitely better for focusing

you: you're not intruding i literally invited you haha you: i'm in 3B. just come by at 7

jake<3: okay! see you then

you spent the next two hours in a cleaning frenzy you absolutely did not want to examine too closely. you weren't trying to impress him. you just wanted the place to look nice and presentable. the fact that you changed your clothes twice and lit a candle that made the whole apartment smell like vanilla and sandalwood was just. coincidence.

the knock came at exactly seven. jake was annoyingly punctual.

you opened the door to find him standing in the hallway looking uncertain, backpack slung over one shoulder, holding a bag of chips. "hi," he said. "i brought snacks. i didn't know what you liked so i just got the variety pack."

"you didn't have to do that."

"i know, but—" he shifted his weight. "i don't know, it felt weird showing up empty-handed."

you stepped back to let him in, watching as he moved into your space with obvious hesitation. he didn't walk in so much as carefully entered, like he was worried about disturbing something. his eyes went immediately to your walls, taking in the art prints you'd hung, the string lights, the bookshelf crammed with novels and textbooks. then to your desk setup, the small kitchen area, the couch that your roommate had left behind.

"wow," he said quietly. "this is. really nice."

"it's just a dorm apartment."

"no, i know, but—" he gestured vaguely at everything. "it's decorated. like, actually decorated. my place looks like a prison cell compared to this." he was still standing near the door, like he hadn't fully committed to being here. "is that an original print?"

you glanced at the framed artwork he was pointing at. "yeah. local artist. i got it at a campus market thing."

"it's really cool." he finally took a few more steps inside, setting his backpack down carefully on the floor like he was afraid it might scuff something. his attention caught on your kitchen counter, where you'd left out the fancy coffee you'd bought yesterday. the expensive cheese and crackers. the fruit you'd pre-cut and arranged in a bowl because apparently you were that person now.

jake went quiet for a second. then he laughed, but it sounded a little uncomfortable. "okay i have to ask. are you like, rich?"

you felt your face heat. "what? no."

"because this—" he gestured at your apartment again, at the candle burning on your coffee table, the throw blanket artfully draped over your couch, the general aesthetic coherence of the space. "this seems like. i don't know. very put together for a college student."

"i just like my space to feel nice," you said, defensive. "there's nothing wrong with that."

"no, definitely not! i didn't mean—" he ran a hand through his hair, flustered. "i just meant. my room has like, a bed and a desk and some clothes on the floor. this looks like an apartment from a magazine. in a good way," he added quickly. "it's impressive. i'm just. you know. mildly intimidated."

"don't be intimidated," you said, softer now. trying for casual. "seriously, make yourself comfortable. do you want something to drink? i have coffee, tea, juice, those fancy sparkling waters—"

"you have fancy sparkling water?"

"they were on sale."

they were absolutely not on sale. you'd bought them specifically because you remembered jake mentioning he liked trying different flavours. but he didn't need to know that.

"um, sure. i'll try one." he was still standing awkwardly in the middle of your living room, like he couldn't figure out where he was allowed to exist.

you grabbed two cans from the fridge, handing him one and gesturing toward the couch. "we can work there if you want. or the desk. whatever's comfortable."

"couch is good," he said, finally sitting down and immediately looking slightly less tense. he opened the sparkling water, took a sip, and made a surprised noise. "oh this is actually really good."

"told you." you sat next to him, closer than you would have in the library. not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him next to you. close enough that when he leaned forward to pull his laptop out of his backpack, you caught that familiar scent of soap and citrus.

he pulled up the lesson he'd prepared, something about optimisation algorithms, and fell into his teaching rhythm. you'd noticed this about jake before. when he was explaining code, he became more confident. less apologetic. his hands moved as he talked, tracing invisible diagrams in the air, and his whole face became more animated.

you were trying to focus. really, you were. but you kept getting distracted by the fact that he was here, in your space, sitting on your couch. his knee bumped yours at one point and he apologised even though it was barely contact. you told him it was fine. his handwriting was neat when he sketched out examples in your notebook. he had a small scar on his left hand you'd never noticed before.

"are you following?" he asked, glancing over at you.

"yeah," you said, snapping back to attention. "sorry. just thinking."

"it's kind of a dense topic," he said, apologetic again. "we can take a break if you need."

"no, keep going. you're good at this."

something in his expression softened. "thanks. i—i actually really like doing this. the tutoring, i mean. it's nice having someone to talk through concepts with who actually cares about understanding them properly." he paused, looking around your apartment again like he was seeing it with fresh eyes. "and this is. yeah. this is better than the library for sure."

"yeah?"

"the library's always so loud, even in the quiet sections. and people keep interrupting to ask if they can take chairs from our table." he settled back into your couch slightly, his shoulders loosening. "this is way better. i can actually think here."

you felt that dangerous satisfaction bloom in your chest. this is better. i can actually think here. he was comfortable. in your space. comfortable enough to relax, to take up room, to exist without that careful hesitation he'd had when he first arrived.

"we should do all our sessions here," you said, trying to sound casual. "if you're cool with it."

jake glanced at you, then around the apartment again. for a second you thought he might question it. might recognise this for what it was. but then he just smiled, easy and genuine. "yeah, i'd like that. this is really nice."

"cool," you said. your heart was doing that annoying fluttery thing again.

you went back to the lesson, jake's voice steady and patient as he walked you through increasingly complex problems. his knee stayed pressed against yours. he'd stopped apologising for taking up space. he reached for the fancy crackers you'd set out without asking if it was okay first, just casual and comfortable like he belonged here.

and god help you, you liked seeing him like this. liked having him in your space, surrounded by your things, relaxed and focused and entirely unaware of how much thought you'd put into creating this exact scenario.

he was more comfortable here than he should be. settling into your life with an ease that should have alarmed you but instead just made you want to pull him deeper.

you were playing a game he didn't know existed. creating intimacy in careful increments. manufacturing closeness that felt organic to him but was entirely designed by you.

"okay your turn," jake said, pushing your laptop toward you. "try implementing that function we just talked through."

you pulled the computer into your lap, fingers moving over the keys, hyper-aware of jake watching. of his presence next to you, patient and encouraging. of how easy it would be to let this become routine. thursday nights on your couch, just the two of you, the rest of the world locked outside.

professor kim handed back midterms on a wednesday, and the energy in the lecture hall was exactly what you'd expect. nervous shuffling, people immediately comparing scores, that girl in the front row who always cried regardless of her grade already tearing up.

you flipped your exam over and saw the 100 staring back at you. perfect score. you felt a flush of satisfaction that had nothing to do with the grade itself and everything to do with the fact that jake would see it.

"holy shit," yunjin whispered, leaning over to look. "you got a perfect score?"

"apparently."

"that's insane. i got an 87 and i thought i did well." she shook her head, impressed and maybe slightly annoyed. "what did jake think? he must be so proud, that's basically a direct result of his tutoring."

speaking of jake, he was two rows behind you, and you could hear his friends' voices carrying.

"dude, you got a 98," one of them said. "that's insane."

"i missed this one question," jake said, and he sounded genuinely disappointed. "i can't believe i mixed up the time complexity."

you turned around without really thinking about it, catching his eye. he was already looking at you, and his face did this thing, this hopeful uncertain thing. "how'd you do?"

you held up your exam. his eyes widened.

"you got a hundred?" he said it loud enough that a few people glanced over. then he was standing up, moving past his friends, coming down to your row with his exam still in his hand. "holy shit, that's—that's amazing. you—" he stopped himself, looking almost embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. "sorry, i'm like. weirdly excited about this."

"don't apologise," you said, smiling despite yourself. "you sound more excited than i am."

"because i—" he gestured at your exam, then at you. "you understood it. like really understood it. i could tell during our sessions that things were clicking but seeing it actually translate to a perfect score is just—" he ran his hand through his hair, grinning in a way that made your stomach flip. "i'm really proud of you."

the words hit you weird. i'm proud of you. said with such genuine warmth, such unironic sincerity. like your success was somehow his success too. like he was personally invested in your performance because he'd helped you get there.

except you hadn't really needed the help. you'd manufactured the entire situation. you'd been doing fine before the tutoring started and you'd probably have gotten a perfect score regardless. jake's proud smile was based on a false premise. he thought he'd helped you achieve something when really you'd just. used him. used his time and his patience and his genuine desire to help people, all so you could sit close to him once a week.

something uncomfortable twisted in your chest. you shoved it down.

"i couldn't have done it without you," you said, because that's what you were supposed to say. what he expected to hear. even if it made you feel slightly sick.

"i know, i know. it's a good grade. i just hate making careless mistakes." he smiled at you again, softer this time. "but seriously, i'm really happy for you. you worked really hard for this."

"we should celebrate," you said, before you could second-guess it. "both of us. good scores, successful tutoring, whatever. come over tonight? i'll make dinner, we can watch a movie. my treat, as a thank you."

jake hesitated, just for a second. "you don't have to thank me."

"i want to," you said firmly with a smile. "you've been helping me for weeks and not accepting any payment. the least i can do is feed you."

"when you put it that way." he was smiling again, that easy smile that made your heart do stupid things. "yeah, okay. what time?"

"seven?"

"perfect."

...

you went slightly overboard with dinner. not crazy overboard, just. more effort than was strictly necessary for a casual thank-you meal. homemade pasta, the good parmesan, a salad that actually had more than three ingredients. you'd also bought wine, which felt very adult and sophisticated until you remembered you were literally just having your study partner over.

jake showed up at seven on the dot, holding a bag of cookies from the expensive bakery near campus. "i know you said your treat, but i can't show up empty-handed," he explained, handing them over. "it's like, physically impossible for me."

"you're ridiculous."

"i've been told." he stepped inside, immediately more comfortable than he'd been that first time. he knew where to put his shoes now, where to set his bag. he went straight for the couch like he belonged there.

dinner was easy. conversation flowed naturally, jumping from classes to campus gossip to a debate about whether the dining hall pizza was underrated or genuinely terrible. jake argued passionately for underrated, gesturing with his fork, getting sauce on his chin that he didn't notice until you pointed it out. he laughed, embarrassed, wiping it away.

"wine?" you offered, after you'd cleared the plates.

"oh, um. sure?" he looked uncertain. "i'm not really a big drinker."

"me neither. but we're celebrating, right?"

"right." he accepted the glass you poured, taking a small sip and making a face. "god, why do people like this? it tastes like someone made juice go bad on purpose."

you laughed despite yourself. "it's an acquired taste."

"that's what people say about things that are objectively bad." but he took another sip anyway, settling back into the couch as you pulled up netflix.

you ended up on some action movie neither of you had seen, the kind with improbable stunts and a plot that didn't require much attention. which was good, because you weren't really watching it. you were too aware of jake next to you, closer than he needed to be, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours. he'd finished his wine faster than you expected and seemed looser now, more animated. he kept making commentary on the movie, pointing out plot holes and questionable physics, his hands moving as he talked.

"—and there's no way that building would still be structurally sound after that explosion," he was saying, gesturing at the screen. "like, basic engineering, you know?"

"you're thinking too hard about it."

"i can't help it. my brain won't turn off." he glanced at you, something warm in his expression. "this is nice though. just hanging out. we're always studying or talking about the project, it's cool to just…exist. without an agenda."

without an agenda. the words hit harder than they should have. because you did have an agenda. you'd had one this entire time. this whole evening was carefully constructed, from the homemade dinner to the wine to the deliberately casual intimacy of it all.

"yeah," you managed. "it's nice."

the movie continued. jake shifted closer, his thigh pressing against yours. you didn't move away. his arm ended up along the back of the couch, not quite around your shoulders but close enough that you could feel the warmth of it. neither of you acknowledged it, but neither of you adjusted either.

"can i ask you something?" jake said during a particularly slow part of the movie.

"sure."

"why did you pick me? for the project, i mean." he was looking at you now instead of the screen, his expression curious and open. "you could've worked with your friends. people you already knew. but you walked all the way across the lecture hall to ask me."

your heart kicked up. "i told you. you're good at this stuff."

"yeah, but." he paused, like he was trying to figure out how to phrase something. "it felt like. i don't know. like you went out of your way. and i've been trying to figure out if i'm reading too much into it or if there was something else."

the air felt suddenly thinner. "something else like what?"

"i don't know." he laughed, self-conscious. "i'm probably being weird. forget i said anything."

"jake."

"i just—" he met your eyes, and there was something vulnerable in his expression that made your breath catch. "i really like spending time with you. like, more than i probably should for someone who's just a project partner and tutoring student. and sometimes i think maybe you. i don't know, feel the same? but i'm also really bad at reading these things so i'm probably completely wrong."

oh. oh.

"you're not wrong," you said quietly.

his eyes widened slightly. "i'm not?"

instead of answering, you leaned in. gave him enough time to pull back, to stop this, but he didn't. he met you halfway, his lips soft and uncertain against yours. for a second neither of you moved, the kiss chaste and almost careful. then something shifted. his hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and you pressed closer, your fingers curling into his shirt.

jake made a soft sound against your mouth, surprise or maybe pleasure, and kissed you back with more confidence. his other hand found your waist, tentative at first then firmer, pulling you closer. you ended up in his lap somehow, his hands spanning your back, your fingers threading through his hair. he tasted like wine and something sweet from the cookies he'd brought.

"is this okay?" he whispered against your lips, breathing hard.

"yes," you said, and kissed him again before he could second-guess it.

his hands moved under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you felt him shiver when you rolled your hips experimentally. "god," he breathed, sounding almost pained. "we should—are we really—"

"do you want to stop?"

"no. god, no. i just—" he looked up at you, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen. "i didn't think this would happen. i'm not. i don't usually."

"it's okay," you said softly, meaning it. "we don't have to do anything you don't want."

jake didn’t stop you. instead, he seemed to melt into the contact, his hands trembling as they slid further up your back, skin hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. when you moved to guide him off the couch and onto the rug, he followed with a sort of dazed compliance, his glasses slightly askew on his face.

you knelt between his legs, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. the movie was still playing—some distant sound of tires screeching—but all you could hear was the ragged, uneven hitch of jake’s breath. when you reached for the button of his jeans, his hand flew to your wrist, not to stop you, but just to steady himself. his knuckles were white.

"are you sure?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "i—i'm not... i don't want to mess this up. our project, the tutoring... i don't want to make things weird for you."

"jake," you said, looking up at him through your lashes. "shut up and let me."

he let out a shaky, half-strangled laugh, his head hitting the base of the couch as he let go of your wrist. "okay. okay, yeah. shutting up."

as you eased his jeans down, you realised the lanky, awkward way he carried himself in the halls was a massive deception. he was built with a surprising, heavy sturdiness that the oversized hoodies always hid. his legs were long, his thighs thick with the kind of muscle that suggested he actually did play soccer as more than just a hobby. and when you finally freed him, you couldn't help the small, sharp intake of breath that escaped you.

"jake," you breathed, your eyes widening. "holy..."

he groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest, and covered his eyes with his forearm. "don't. don't look at me like that. i know. i'm sorry, is it... is it too much? i can—"

"it's perfect," you cut him off, reaching out to touch him. his skin was searing, and the moment your fingers closed around him, his entire body jolted like he’d been hit with a live wire.

when you leaned forward to take him into your mouth, jake’s reaction was explosive. he arched off the floor, his fingers tangling desperately in your hair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. he was so sensitive, so completely overwhelmed by the sensation that it felt like he was losing his grip on reality.

"oh god," he choked out, his voice high and strained. "wait, wait—that's—you’re so... the pressure, i can't—"

you didn't slow down. you liked the way he lost his composure, the way the articulate, logical TA was reduced to incoherent stutters. you used your hands to keep him steady, your tongue swirling around the head of him, and jake’s hips began to move in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm. he was trying to keep some semblance of control, trying to stay "polite," but the sheer intensity of it was breaking him.

"i'm gonna... i'm actually gonna..." he gasped, his hands tightening in your hair, pulling you closer until he was practically burying himself in you. "please, don't stop. don't stop, just like that—right there—"

he hit his limit with a loud, guttural shout that was muffled only by the back of his hand as he bit down on his own knuckles to stay quiet. his body went rigid, muscles in his arms and chest standing out in sharp relief as he came, the force of it leaving him limp and shuddering against the couch.

it took him a long time to come back down. for several minutes, the only sound in the room was his heavy, labouring breath and the flickering light of the tv. you pulled back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling a fierce, glowing sense of triumph. he looked completely wrecked—hair a disaster, glasses hanging off one ear, chest heaving.

you felt powerful. you’d spent weeks engineering this, calculating every move, and seeing him like this—totally undone by you—was better than any perfect exam score.

"you okay?" you asked, leaning your chin on his knee.

jake let out a long, shaky exhale, finally moving his arm to look at you. his eyes were hazy, his face flushed a deep, beautiful red. "i... think my brain just short-circuited," he whispered, a small, dazed smile tugging at his lips. 

"in a good way?"

"in the best way." he reached out, his fingers trembling as he tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. "thank you. seriously. i don't—i don't even know what to say."

you smiled, leaning into his touch. the apartment was warm, the air still smelling of vanilla. "you don't have to say anything. you should just stay."

the words were soft, natural. it felt like the obvious next step. but the second they left your mouth, you felt the shift.

it was subtle at first—the way jake’s fingers went still against your skin. then his pupils, which had been blown wide with pleasure, suddenly constricted. he blinked, the haziness clearing as his internal "problem-solving mode" kicked back in with a vengeance.

"stay?" he repeated, his voice sounding suddenly small.

"yeah. it's late, and it's cold out. just stay over. we can... i don't know, wake up and have coffee. maybe look at the project again."

jake’s eyes darted toward his hands, then to his backpack, then to the door. the relaxation in his shoulders vanished, replaced by a rigid, frantic tension. he looked like he’d just realised he was standing in the middle of a minefield.

"i—" he started, scrambling to pull his jeans up. he was moving so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. "i can't. i mean, i should... i have that grading to finish. for kim. and i—i didn't bring my toothbrush. or my meds. and my roommate, he—he'll wonder where i am. he gets worried."

"jake, it’s fine, you can borrow—"

"no!" he said, a bit too loudly. he was fumbling with his belt, his fingers shaking so badly he could barely loop it through. he wouldn't look at you. his face wasn't flushed with pleasure anymore; it was pale, his expression twisted into something that looked dangerously like panic. "no, i really should go. i’m sorry. i just... i realised the time. i have to go."

you stood up, feeling a cold, hollow pit open in your stomach. "did i do something wrong? was it... was it too much?"

"no! no, it was... it was amazing," he said, finally getting his shoes on, not even bothering to tie the laces. he grabbed his backpack, clutching it to his chest like a shield. "it was too amazing. that's the... that's the problem. i'm—i'm not good at this. i think i need to... i need to think. logically. about the implications."

"the implications?" you asked, your voice rising with a sharp, hurt edge. "it was just a night, jake. it doesn't have to be a 'logical problem' to solve."

"i know, i know. i'm sorry. i’m just... i'm a mess." he backed toward the door, his hand fumbling for the handle behind his back. "i'll text you? about the project? we still have that deadline on tuesday."

"jake—"

"goodnight! thank you for dinner. the pasta was really... the texture was perfect. okay. bye."

he practically fell out of the door, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway as he sprinted toward the stairs.

the click of the door closing felt final. you stood in the centre of your perfectly decorated, candle-lit apartment, surrounded by the remnants of the dinner you’d spent hours on. the half-empty wine glasses, the bag of expensive cookies, the rumpled rug.

you felt a hot, stinging prickle behind your eyes. you’d done everything right. you’d been strategic, patient, and kind. you’d gotten him to open up, to trust you, to want you. and yet, watching him run away like you were a bug in his code—something to be deleted or fixed—hurt more than any midterm failure ever could.

you sat back down on the couch, the silence of the room suddenly feeling just as oppressive as it had back in the computer lab. you picked up your phone, looking at his last text. this'll be fun :)

you threw the phone onto the cushions and buried your face in your hands, the smell of his citrus shampoo still clinging to your skin, mocking you.

jake didn't text.

you stared at your phone for the entire next day, watching the screen like you could will a message into existence. the "i'll text you" he'd thrown over his shoulder before fleeing felt increasingly like a polite lie. by saturday afternoon you broke first.

you: hey, you okay?

the message sat there. delivered, but no response.

you tried again sunday morning, going for casual.

you: still on for project work this week?

still no response.

by monday you'd moved past confusion into something that felt uncomfortably like panic. this wasn't how things worked. people didn't just. stop responding to you. they didn't ignore you or avoid you or remove you from their orbit like you were some problem to be managed. you were used to being wanted, pursued, the one who had to let people down gently. this reversed dynamic was unfamiliar and honestly humiliating.

you saw him in the dining hall on tuesday. he was with his friends, laughing at something one of them said, looking completely normal. like nothing had happened. like he hadn't been on your couch four days ago falling apart under your touch.

you started walking toward their table before you could think better of it, but jake's eyes flicked up, met yours for a fraction of a second, and then he was standing, gathering his tray, saying something to his friends. they all got up and left. just. left. walked out the side exit while you stood there holding your lunch like an idiot.

yunjin grabbed your arm. "okay, what the hell was that?"

"nothing," you said, but your voice came out wrong. 

"that was not nothing. did something happen with you and jake?"

"no. i don't know. it's complicated."

it wasn't complicated. it was actually pretty simple. you'd pushed too hard and now he wanted nothing to do with you.

wednesday he wasn't in his usual spot in lecture. you spent the entire class scanning the room, finally spotting him in the very back corner, a place he'd never sat before. he kept his eyes on his laptop the entire time, didn't look up once. when class ended he was the first one out the door.

thursday was supposed to be tutoring. seven pm, his room or yours, the standing appointment you'd had for weeks now. you waited in your apartment, laptop open to the half-finished project, telling yourself he'd show up. he was responsible and dedicated. he wouldn't just bail without saying anything.

seven came and went. then seven-thirty. by eight you accepted he wasn't coming.

you: are we still working together on the project? i need to know so i can plan accordingly.

again, no response.

friday morning you were walking to class when you saw him ahead of you on the path. for once he hadn't spotted you first. you sped up, closing the distance, and watched in real time as he seemed to sense your presence. his shoulders tensed. then he took a sharp left turn down a path that definitely wasn't toward any of his classes. he was actively avoiding you. taking different routes. altering his entire routine just to not run into you.

something hot and humiliated burned in your chest.

by next week, you'd had enough. you knew his schedule. knew he had algorithms right before lunch on mondays, in the engineering building, third floor. you positioned yourself outside the classroom before class ended, ignoring the curious looks from other students filing out. you spotted jake immediately when the doors opened. he saw you at the same moment and actually stopped walking, causing someone behind him to bump into his back.

"we need to talk," you said.

"i have—i need to get to—"

"jake." your voice came out sharper than intended. "five minutes. please."

something in his expression shifted. resignation maybe. he nodded once, following you to an empty study room down the hall. you closed the door. the small space suddenly felt suffocating.

"you've been ignoring me," you said.

"i know."

"for a week. you didn't text, you didn't show up to tutoring, you're literally avoiding me on campus."

"i know," he said again, quieter. he wasn't looking at you, his eyes fixed somewhere around your shoulder. "i'm sorry. that wasn't— i should have communicated better."

"so communicate now. what's going on?"

jake was quiet for a long moment. when he finally spoke, his voice was careful. measured. "what happened last week. that crossed a line for me."

"we both wanted it."

"did we?" he looked at you now, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach drop. "because i've been thinking about it a lot. about how we got there. and i feel like. i don't know. like maybe i missed something."

"what do you mean?"

"the tutoring," he said. "you didn't actually need it, did you? your grades were already good. and the project. you had friends you could have worked with. people you actually knew. but you picked me." he paused. "why did you pick me?"

the question hung in the air between you. you could lie. deflect. but something about the way he was looking at you, patient and a little sad, made it feel pointless.

"i liked you," you said finally. "i wanted to spend time with you."

"okay." he nodded slowly. "so the tutoring was. what. an excuse? a way to manufacture time together?"

"it wasn't like that."

"wasn't it though?" there was no anger in his voice. just. tiredness. "because from my perspective, i thought i was helping someone who needed help. i thought we were becoming friends. and then suddenly we're… doing that. and i'm trying to figure out when the shift happened and i can't. because maybe there was no shift. maybe that's what you wanted the whole time and i just didn't see it."

"i did want to be your friend," you said, defensive now. "i wasn't. it's not like i was using you."

"weren't you?"

the words hit harder than they should have. because he wasn't wrong. you had used him. used his kindness, his eagerness to help, his complete inability to see through your motivations. you'd engineered situations and manufactured proximity and told yourself it was harmless.

"i like you," jake said, and somehow that made it worse. "i really do. but i feel. god, i don't even know how to explain it. exposed? like you saw something in me that made me an easy target and you just. went for it. and i didn't even realise what was happening until it had already happened."

"that's not—"

"and the thing is," he continued, talking over you gently, "you're so far out of my league. like, objectively. you're smart and pretty and confident and you have your shit together. and i'm just. me. i'm awkward and i ramble and i spend friday nights debugging code for fun. so the fact that you were interested never made sense. i kept waiting for it to click, for me to understand why, and now i think i do. it wasn't about me. it was about. i don't know. the chase? the conquest? i was a project to you."

"no," you said, but your voice came out weak. "jake, that's not true. you weren't a project."

"then what was i?"

you didn't have an answer. or you did, but it was complicated and messy and saying it out loud would mean admitting things you didn't want to admit.

jake sighed. "i'm not trying to be cruel. i'm really not. but being around you right now makes me feel uncomfortable. like i can't trust my own judgement because i didn't see any of this coming. and that's. that's my issue to work through. but i need space to do it."

"what about the class project?"

"we can do it over email. divide up the work, combine it at the end. we don't have to see each other."

"and tutoring?"

"i think we should stop. you don't actually need it anyway."

each sentence felt like a door closing. practical, reasonable, and completely final.

"i'm sorry," you said, and meant it. "i didn't mean to. i wasn't trying to hurt you."

"i know," jake said, and he sounded sincere. "i don't think you set out to do anything malicious. i just think you didn't really consider how it would feel from my side. and now we're here."

"so that's it? we just stop talking?"

"for now, yeah. maybe later we can be normal around each other. but right now i need. distance."

he moved toward the door, his hand on the handle. you wanted to say something, anything that would fix this. some argument that would make him see you differently. but looking at his face, at the quiet certainty there, you knew there was nothing you could say. he'd made up his mind. he'd set a boundary. and you had no choice but to respect it.

"i really am sorry," you said again.

"i know," jake said. "me too."

then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with that same horrible finality. you stood there in the empty study room, staring at the space where he'd been.

you couldn't even argue with his reasoning. everything he'd said was true. you had manufactured situations. you had used his kindness and his obliviousness to get what you wanted. you'd told yourself it was harmless, that your feelings were real even if your methods were questionable.

but intent didn't matter when the impact was someone feeling manipulated and exposed.

you left the study room feeling hollowed out. the campus looked the same. people laughed and talked and went about their days. somewhere out there jake was probably headed to lunch with his friends, relieved to have finally said what he needed to say.

and you were just. alone. with the sharp realisation that you'd ruined something before it even had a chance to be real.

the party was exactly the kind of loud, chaotic mess you needed. bass thrumming through the floors, bodies packed into every available space, the air thick with sweat and cheap alcohol and too many competing perfumes. yunjin had dragged you here, insisting you needed to "get out of your head" after moping around for two weeks straight.

so here you were. red cup in hand, smile fixed in place, laughing at jokes you weren't really hearing. performing normalcy while your brain kept circling the same thoughts on loop. jake's face in that study room. the careful way he'd said i need space. the hollow feeling that had taken up permanent residence in your chest.

"you good?" beomgyu asked, leaning close to be heard over the music.

"yeah, great," you said automatically, taking another drink.

you were on your third. or fourth. you'd stopped counting. the alcohol sat warm in your stomach but hadn't managed to quiet your thoughts yet. maybe if you drank enough you'd stop replaying every conversation with jake, analysing every moment for signs you'd missed, evidence of how thoroughly you'd fucked everything up.

"i'm gonna get another drink," you said to no one in particular, pushing through the crowd toward the kitchen.

that's when you saw him.

jake. standing near the makeshift bar someone had set up on the counter, red cup in hand, talking to a girl you didn't recognise. and he was laughing. actually laughing, head thrown back, completely at ease in a way that made something hot and ugly twist in your chest.

because he never looked like that with you. even before everything went wrong, even during those tutoring sessions in your apartment when you'd thought you were building something real, he'd always been slightly careful and polite, like he was containing himself. but now he was loose and animated, gesturing with his free hand while the girl laughed at whatever he was saying, her hand resting on his arm.

her hand was on his arm.

you watched as she leaned closer, saying something that made jake grin. that specific grin, the one where his eyes crinkled at the corners and you could see his perfect teeth on display. you'd thought that smile was special. something you'd earned. but apparently he was just like this, with everyone who wasn't you.

the jealousy hit so hard it felt physical. burning through your chest, turning your vision sharp and focused. you were moving before you'd decided to, weaving through people, your jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

jake saw you coming. his smile faltered, something uncertain crossing his face. "hey—"

"who's this?" you said, gesturing at the girl. your voice came out sharper than you'd intended, heavy with something you couldn't quite name.

the girl looked between you and jake, confused. "i'm mina. jungwon's sister remember? we just met like ten minutes ago."

"oh right." you focused on jake, ignoring her entirely. "you look like you're having fun."

"i—yeah?" jake's eyebrows drew together. "it's a party?"

"funny how you can make time for parties but couldn't respond to any of my texts about the assignment."

"i told you we could do it over email—"

"is that what you're doing right now? project work?" you knew you sounded irrational, accusatory, but you couldn't stop. the words kept spilling out, poisoned by alcohol and jealousy and two weeks of feeling like you'd been the only one affected by any of this. 

"or are you just. moving on? found someone new to—"

"okay, i'm gonna go," mina said, backing away with her hands up. "this seems like. a thing. nice meeting you, jake."

she disappeared into the crowd. jake stared at you, his expression shifting from confused to something harder. "what the hell was that?"

"you tell me. you've been ignoring me for two weeks and now you're here flirting with random girls?"

"flirting?" jake's voice pitched up slightly. "flirting? i was literally just talking to her. she asked where the bathroom was and then we started chatting about the music. that's—that's not flirting, that's called being polite."

"she had her hand on your arm."

"so?" jake looked genuinely baffled now. "people touch arms when they talk. that doesn't mean anything. and even if it did—" he stopped himself, jaw tightening. "i don't owe you an explanation. you don't get to. we're not together. we're not anything."

the words hit exactly where they were meant to. "right. because you decided we're not."

"no, because you decided we weren't, like a month ago when you started playing games instead of just being honest." his voice was rising now, frustration bleeding through. "and now you're mad because i'm talking to someone else? you don't get to do that. you don't get to manipulate me into something and then act possessive when i try to move on."

"i'm not—" you started, but stopped. because he was right. you were being possessive and irrational. reading intent into a harmless conversation because you wanted there to be something there. wanted confirmation that jake was thinking about you as much as you were thinking about him.

but he wasn't. he was just living his life. talking to people at parties. laughing easily with strangers. completely unaffected while you spiralled.

"i wasn't flirting with her," jake said, quieter now. tired. "i was just being friendly. that's what normal people do. they don't engineer entire relationships or manufacture situations. they just exist around each other."

"i know," you said, your voice coming out smaller than you wanted. "i'm sorry. i shouldn't have. that was out of line."

jake nodded once, already turning away. "yeah. it was."

you watched him disappear back into the crowd, leaving you standing alone by the kitchen counter. your hands were shaking. you downed the rest of your drink in one go, the burn doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.

you'd just proven everything he'd said about you. possessive. manipulative. unable to let go. you'd projected your own feelings onto a completely innocent interaction and made a scene because you couldn't handle seeing him okay when you were so thoroughly not okay.

you'd been so certain. so sure he was flirting, that the girl meant something, that you'd caught him in some kind of lie. but you'd been wrong. completely, embarrassingly wrong. because you didn't actually know what jake was thinking. you never had. you'd just assumed, projected, filled in the gaps with your own narrative.

and now he was probably telling his friends what a psycho you were. probably regretting he'd ever let you into his life in the first place.

you grabbed another drink.

…

the party had devolved into that late-night haze where everything blurred together. people you didn't recognise, conversations you weren't part of, music that had gotten somehow both quieter and more invasive. you'd lost track of yunjin and beomgyu somewhere around drink number six. or seven. the room tilted slightly when you moved too fast.

you were trying to find your jacket, ready to call it a night, when you spotted him. jake. sitting alone on a couch in the corner, looking absolutely exhausted. his head kept drooping forward like he was fighting to stay conscious, then jerking back up. his eyes were half-closed, his usual careful posture completely abandoned.

you should walk past him. nothing good could come from another interaction tonight. you'd already embarrassed yourself once. but your feet carried you closer anyway, some magnetic pull you couldn't quite resist even knowing it was a bad idea.

you were almost past him when his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist. "don't," he said, not looking at you. his voice was rough, slurred slightly. "don't leave."

you stopped. "jake—"

"been trying," he mumbled, his grip loosening but not releasing. "trying so hard. but you make it impossible."

"what are you talking about?"

he finally looked up at you, and his eyes were unfocused, glassy with alcohol. "you. i'm talking about you. can't stop thinking about you. it's driving me insane."

your heart lurched. "you're drunk."

"i know but so are you," he said, like that explained everything. "that's the only reason i'm saying this. because sober me knows better. sober me has self-control and boundaries and all that shit." he pulled gently on your wrist, making you stumble slightly closer. "but drunk me is tired. so tired of pretending i don't want you."

"you said you needed space."

"i do need space. because when i'm around you i can't think straight. i can't trust myself." his words were coming out uneven, tripping over each other. "you think i was avoiding you because i was mad? i was avoiding you because if i saw you i'd—" he made a frustrated noise. "i'd do something stupid. like this. this is stupid."

you sat down next to him, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. "jake—"

"you're so pretty," he said, almost accusatory. "and you smell good. and you're smart, like actually smart, not just good at school. and when you laugh it's. it does things to me. and i hate it. i hate that you have this much power over me when i don't even know if you actually like me or if i'm just… convenient."

"i do like you," you said quietly. "i've liked you the whole time."

"but do you?" he turned to face you more fully, his eyes searching yours even though he seemed to be having trouble focusing. "or do you like the idea of me? the nerdy guy you can manipulate? your little project?"

"that's not—" you stopped. "it wasn't like that. it's not like that."

"then what is it like?" he was still holding your wrist, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. "because i've been trying to figure it out for weeks and i can't. i can't understand why you'd want me. what you get out of this. and maybe i'm just stupid but i need you to tell me. plainly. what do you want from me?"

"you," you said, the word coming out more honest than you'd intended. "just. you."

jake laughed, bitter and tired. "that doesn't make sense."

"i know."

"i'm not interesting. i'm not cool or funny or—"

"you are though," you interrupted. "you are all of those things. you just don't see it."

he went quiet for a long moment. then, so quietly you almost missed it: "i've been trying so hard not to want you back. because i knew—i know it's not good for me. but i can't stop. and i'm so tired of trying."

his hand slid from your wrist to your hand, fingers threading through yours. the touch was so much gentler than you expected, almost reverent. "i deleted your texts without reading them," he admitted. "because if i read them i'd respond. and if i responded i'd end up right back where i started. wanting you. letting you in. getting hurt."

"i don't want to hurt you."

"i know. that's what makes it worse." he leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closing. "you don't mean to. you just. do."

you didn't know what to say to that. didn't know how to fix the damage you'd done or convince him that your feelings were real when your actions had been so calculated. so you just sat there, holding his hand, feeling the warmth of him next to you.

"i missed you," jake said, so quiet you barely heard it over the music. "i fucking missed you and i hated myself for it."

"i missed you too."

"yeah?" he opened his eyes, looking at you with something raw and unguarded. "you missed manipulating me?"

"that's not fair."

"isn't it though?" but there was no heat in his words. just exhaustion. "god, i'm so tired. tired of being angry. tired of trying to stay away from you. tired of pretending i don't want you so badly it hurts."

the confession hung in the air between you. jake was looking at you like he was waiting for something, permission or rejection or maybe just confirmation that you'd heard him.

you leaned in. gave him time to pull away, to remember all the reasons this was a bad idea. but he didn't. he met you halfway, his lips crashing against yours with none of the careful hesitation from before. this was messy and desperate, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kissed you like he'd been holding back for too long, like all that careful control had finally snapped.

you shifted closer, practically climbing into his lap, and he made a sound against your mouth that went straight through you. his hands were everywhere, spanning your waist, sliding up your back, gripping like he was afraid you'd disappear if he loosened his hold even slightly.

"been thinking about this," he mumbled against your lips, barely pulling back enough to speak. "every night. hated myself for it but couldn't stop."

"me too," you admitted, kissing along his jaw. "i couldn't sleep. kept replaying everything."

"i lied about the texts i didn't respond to," he said, tilting his head to give you better access. "i read them. all of them before deleting. at like three am. read them over and over."

"why didn't you answer?"

"because i wanted to say things i shouldn't say. like how much i missed you. how i kept going to the lab hoping you'd be there. how seeing you at the party tonight fucking destroyed me even though i pretended i was fine." his hands tightened on your waist. "how i've been so fucking miserable without you."

you kissed him again, harder this time, swallowing his words. he responded immediately, pulling you fully into his lap now, and you could feel how much he wanted this, wanted you. it was overwhelming. intoxicating. the desperation in every touch, every small sound he made.

"we should," he said between kisses, "we should probably stop."

"do you want to stop?"

"no. god no." he pulled back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown, lips swollen. "but i'm drunk and you're drunk and tomorrow we're gonna regret—"

"i won't," you said firmly. "i won't regret this."

something shifted in his expression. softened. he touched your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "you're gonna break my heart," he said, not quite a question.

"i'm not."

"you will." but he kissed you anyway, softer this time. slower. like he was memorising the feel of you. "and i'm gonna let you. because i'm weak and pathetic and i want you so much i don't even care anymore."

"you're not weak."

"i am though." he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closing. "i'm so weak for you. it's embarrassing."

you could feel his exhaustion creeping in, the way his body was getting heavier against yours, his movements slowing. "come on," you said softly, standing and pulling him up with you. "let's get you somewhere you can actually sleep."

"don't wanna sleep," he protested, but let you guide him anyway. "wanna stay with you."

"you will. i'm not going anywhere."

you found an empty bedroom on the second floor, the door unlocked and the bed mercifully unoccupied. jake collapsed onto it immediately, pulling you down with him. he was asleep within minutes, his arms wrapped around you, face buried in your neck. his breathing evened out, deep and steady.

you should probably feel guilty. taking advantage of his drunken honesty, letting him confess things he'd normally keep locked away. but you were too tired, too overwhelmed by everything he'd said. i want you so badly it hurts. i've been so fucking miserable without you. you're gonna break my heart and i'm gonna let you.

you didn't have answers. didn't have promises you could make. didn't know how to fix the fundamental imbalance between you, the manipulation and hurt that had gotten you here.

but for now, in this quiet room with jake's warmth pressed against you, you could pretend tomorrow didn't exist. could pretend this was simple. just two people who wanted each other, tangled together in the dark, nothing more complicated than that.

you fell asleep still wearing your shoes, jake's arms tight around you, his heartbeat steady against your chest.

you woke to pale morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the warm weight of jake still wrapped around you. for a disorienting moment you couldn't place where you were. then it came back in pieces. the party. the confrontation. jake's drunken confessions. falling asleep tangled together.

jake stirred against you, his breath catching as he woke. you felt the exact moment awareness returned, the way his body went tense. slowly, carefully, he pulled back just enough to look at you. his hair was a disaster, sticking up in every direction. his glasses sat crooked on the nightstand. his eyes were cautious but clear.

"hi," he said quietly.

"hi."

he didn't let go of you. didn't immediately scramble away or apologise or retreat into panic like last time. he just looked at you, searching your face for something.

"i said a lot of things last night," he finally said.

"yeah."

"i meant them." his voice was serious, steady despite the embarrassment colouring his cheeks. "i know i was drunk, and i probably shouldn't have said half of it, but. i meant it. all of it."

your heart kicked up. "jake—"

"i like you," he said, cutting you off gently. "i've liked you since that first night in the lab when you were stressed about your code and i got to actually help you with something. and it's been killing me trying to stay away from you because every time i see you i just. want you. so much that it scares me."

"why does it scare you?"

"because i don't know how to want someone this much and still protect myself." he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could see you better. "last time i didn't protect myself at all. i just. gave in. and then i panicked because it felt too big, too fast, and i didn't know how to handle it."

"and now?"

"now i'm still terrified," he admitted. "but i'm more scared of not trying. of walking away and spending the rest of college wondering what could have happened if i'd just. been brave enough to give you a real chance."

you felt something tight in your chest start to loosen. "i want that. a real chance. i want to do this right."

"yeah?"

"yeah." you reached up, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. "i'm sorry. for all of it. the manipulation, the games, not being honest about what i wanted. you deserved better than that."

"i know," jake said simply. then, softer: "but i also know you were scared too. just in a different way."

he leaned down, kissing you with a gentleness that made your chest ache. different from last night's desperate intensity. this was slow, careful, almost questioning. you kissed him back, trying to pour everything you couldn't quite say into it. apology and promise and want all tangled together.

when he pulled back his eyes were dark, pupils blown. "i want to try again," he said. "properly this time. but i need you to be honest with me. about what you want. about what this is."

"i want you," you said. "not as a project or a conquest or whatever i convinced myself it was before. just you jake."

something in his expression softened. "okay," he said. "okay. we can work with that."

he kissed you again, deeper this time, and you felt his weight settle more fully over you. "i want to make it up to you," he murmured against your lips. "for running away before. for making you feel like you did something wrong when i was just scared."

"you don't have to—"

"i want to." he was already kissing down your neck, hands sliding under your shirt. "let me. please."

there was something in his voice, almost pleading, that made you nod. he smiled against your skin, helping you out of your clothes with more confidence than he'd had before. when you were bare beneath him he just. looked. taking his time, hands mapping your body like he was memorising every detail.

"you're so pretty," he said, almost reverent. "i thought about this. about you. so many times."

then he was moving lower, pressing kisses down your stomach, your hip bones, the inside of your thighs. when his breath ghosted over where you needed him most you couldn't help the small sound that escaped.

"tell me if anything's too much," he said, glancing up at you. then he lowered his mouth to you and your brain short-circuited.

he started slowly, almost tentatively, like he was learning you. his tongue moved in careful strokes, testing what made you gasp, what made your hips shift toward him. when he found the rhythm that had your fingers tightening in his hair, he made a low, satisfied sound against you that you felt everywhere.

"jake," you breathed, and he looked up at you through his lashes, pupils blown wide, lips glistening with your arousal.

"tell me," he said, voice rough. "tell me what feels good."

"that—" your words cut off as he did it again, tongue flicking over your clit with that same perfect pressure. "right there. just like that."

he was a quick learner. always had been. he catalogued every reaction, every sound you made, adjusting and refining. except this wasn't detached or analytical. this was hungry. desperate. he sucked your clit into his mouth and you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your thighs trembling on either side of his head.

"fuck, jake—"

"god, you taste so good," he mumbled against your pussy, barely pulling back enough to speak. his chin was wet, his glasses fogged slightly. "been thinking about this. wanted to do this right last time."

he was getting lost in it now, the careful control slipping into something messier, greedier. he alternated between focused attention on your clit and broad, indulgent strokes through your folds, like he couldn't decide between making you fall apart and simply savouring you. his tongue pushed inside you and you keened, your back arching off the bed.

"oh my god," you gasped. "jake, your mouth—"

he moaned against you, the vibration making your thighs clench around his head. he didn't seem to mind, just gripped your hips harder, pulled you closer, like he wanted to suffocate in your pussy. when his fingers joined his mouth, sliding through your wetness before pressing inside, you nearly sobbed.

"so wet," he murmured, almost to himself.

he crooked his fingers, finding that spot inside you that made you cry out, and worked it mercilessly while his tongue circled your clit. the dual sensation was overwhelming, pleasure building so fast you couldn't catch your breath. your fingers tightened in his hair, probably painful, but he just groaned and doubled his efforts.

"jake, i'm—fuck, i'm gonna—"

"i know," he said against you, his voice wrecked. "i can feel it. let go for me."

his fingers thrust deeper, faster, his mouth sucking hard on your clit, and you shattered. your orgasm hit like a shockwave, your whole body going taut as pleasure whited out your vision. you were dimly aware of the sounds you were making—high, desperate whimpers and moans—but you couldn't stop them.

jake moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and he didn't let up. he worked you through it with devastating patience, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him like he was starving for it.

"jake," you gasped, trying to push at his head. "too much—"

but he just whined—actually whined—and gripped your thighs tighter, keeping them spread. "please," he mumbled against your pussy, his words muffled and desperate. "please, just one more. need to feel you come again. please."

"i can't—" but your protest died as he sealed his lips around your clit again, sucking gently, his fingers still working inside you. the overstimulation was almost painful but it was already shifting into something else, something that had you gasping and arching into his mouth instead of away from it.

he was making sounds now—desperate, needy whimpers and moans that vibrated against you. he was rutting against the mattress, you realised dimly, seeking friction while he lost himself in eating you out. his hair was a mess from your fingers, and he looked absolutely wrecked.

"so good," he whined between licks. "taste so good. could do this forever. please let me—need to make you come again—"

he was babbling now, drunk on you, his movements getting messier and more desperate. his tongue worked your clit in frantic circles while his fingers curled inside you, and the pleasure was building again impossibly fast. you were so sensitive that every touch felt electric, overwhelming.

"that's it," he gasped, feeling you start to tighten around his fingers. "yeah, give it to me. please, please—"

your second orgasm hit even harder than the first, ripping through you with an intensity that had you crying out his name, your thighs clamping around his head. jake moaned like he was the one coming, his hips jerking against the mattress as he worked you through it, tongue lapping up everything, fingers gentling but not stopping until you were actually sobbing from oversensitivity.

only then did he pull back, and when he finally lifted his head he looked completely gone. his face was flushed and wet, his eyes glazed and unfocused, his lips swollen and red. he looked drunk on you, his eyes unfocused and dark.

"fuck," he breathed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "you're so hot when you come. the sounds you make—"

you pulled him up into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, feeling the way he groaned into your mouth. his cock was rock hard against your thigh, leaking and desperate.

"your turn," you said, reaching down to wrap your hand around him.

he hissed at the contact, his hips jerking forward. "you don't have to—"

"i want to." you stroked him slowly, base to tip, feeling how hot and heavy he was in your palm. precum leaked from the slit and you used it to ease the glide. "you're so hard, jake. does eating my pussy turn you on that much?"

"fuck—" his voice broke. "yes. god, yes. you have no idea."

"tell me." you tightened your grip slightly and he whimpered. actually whimpered. "tell me what you were thinking about."

"i was thinking—" he gasped when your thumb swept over the sensitive head. "thinking about how good you taste. how you were shaking. how i could feel you clenching and i wanted—wanted to be inside you—"

"yeah?" you stroked him faster, loving the way his abs tensed, the way his thighs trembled. "you want to fuck me, jake?"

"so bad," he choked out.

you guided him between your legs, not quite inside yet, just letting the head of his cock slide through your wetness. he made a strangled sound, his whole body shuddering.

"we should—do you have—" he was trying to think through the haze of arousal, being responsible even now. "condom?"

"pill," you said. "i'm on the pill. and i'm clean. tested recently."

"me too. clean, i mean." his cock twitched against you, smearing precum through your folds. "can i—fuck, can i feel you bare?"

"yes," you breathed. "want to feel all of you."

he positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head pressing against you, and even that felt like too much. he pushed in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch was intense. you were wet enough that he slid in smoothly at first, but the sheer size of him was overwhelming.

"oh fuck," you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders. "jake, you're so—you're so big—"

"i know, i'm sorry—" he froze, only halfway in. "am i hurting you?"

"no, don't stop," you urged, your legs wrapping around his hips to pull him deeper. "just—go slow. need to adjust."

he sank in another inch and you both moaned. he was splitting you open, stretching you so full you could barely breathe. when he finally bottomed out, buried completely inside you, he dropped his forehead to yours.

"oh my god," he choked out. "you're so tight. so fucking tight and wet and—i can't—"

"don't move yet," you managed, clenching around him involuntarily. he was so deep you could feel him everywhere, pressing against spots that made your toes curl. "just let me—fuck—"

"you feel incredible," he said, his voice shaking. "i've never—nothing compares to this."

you tightened around him experimentally and he swore, his hips jerking forward. "sorry, sorry," he gasped. "i'm trying to hold still but when you do that i want to—"

"want to what?" you rolled your hips slightly and he groaned, deep and guttural.

"want to move," he admitted, his control clearly fraying. "want to fuck you."

"then do it," you said.

something in him snapped. he pulled almost all the way out and thrust back in hard, the force of it punching a cry from your lips. he did it again, and again, finding a rhythm that was deep and relentless. the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall with each thrust.

"yes," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "just like that—don't stop—"

"god," he panted, his voice wrecked. "you feel so good."

you looked down between your bodies and moaned at the sight—his thick cock disappearing into you, glistening with your wetness, stretching you obscenely. "jake, oh my god—"

"feel how deep i am?" he thrust particularly hard and you keened.

"yes—fuck yes—"

he wasn't being careful anymore, wasn't being gentle. he fucked into you with abandon, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that made sparks shoot up your spine. the sounds were obscene—skin slapping against skin, the wet slide of his cock, his grunts mixing with your moans.

"wanted this," he said against your neck, his breath hot. "wanted you. for so long."

"tell me more," you demanded, loving this unfiltered version of him.

"thought about this constantly," he admitted, his thrusts getting harder. "thought about having you like this. making you feel good. hearing you say my name."

"jake—" you were getting close again, that familiar tension building low in your belly.

"touch yourself," he said. "want to feel you come on my cock. need it. please."

you slid your hand between your bodies, finding your clit, already swollen and sensitive. the added stimulation made you clench around him and he swore, his rhythm faltering.

"that's it," he encouraged, his eyes fixed on where your fingers worked. "fuck, that's so hot. you're so hot. make yourself cum. let me feel it."

you worked your clit in tight circles, the pressure building faster with each thrust of his cock. he was so deep, hitting all the right spots, the slide of him inside you absolutely perfect. you were making sounds you'd never made before—high, desperate whines and gasps.

"close," you managed. "so close—"

"come for me," he urged, his voice strained. "squeeze my cock. want to feel your pussy milk me. come on, baby, let me feel it—"

the orgasm hit you like lightning, sudden and intense. you cried out his name, your whole body convulsing, your pussy clamping down on him rhythmically. waves of pleasure crashed over you, so intense you forgot how to breathe.

"oh fuck," jake choked out, his hips stuttering. "you're—i can feel you—i'm gonna—"

he tried to last, you could see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his arms were shaking. but your pussy was still fluttering around him, still clenching in aftershocks, and it was too much. he buried himself deep with a broken moan, his cock pulsing inside you as he came. you felt the warmth of it, felt him fill you up, and the intimacy of it made something in your chest crack open.

"fuck," he gasped, collapsing on top of you. "oh my god. that was—i've never—"

you wrapped your arms around him, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing in sync. he was still inside you, softening slowly, and you could feel his release leaking out around his cock.

"that was amazing," you said when you could finally speak. "you were amazing."

he lifted his head to look at you, his expression soft and vulnerable. "i think i might be falling for you," he said quietly. "is that okay? am i allowed to say that?"

your throat felt tight with emotion. "yeah. that's okay."

"good." he kissed you gently, sweetly. "because i don't think i could stop even if you told me to."

he pulled out carefully and you both hissed at the sensitivity. immediately he was gathering you into his arms, pulling you against his chest like he couldn't stand not touching you. you fit there perfectly, your head tucked under his chin.

"we should probably talk about this," you said after a while. "about us."

"we will," jake promised, his fingers tracing patterns on your spine. "but can we just stay like this for a bit first?"

"yeah." you pressed closer, breathing in the scent of him. "we can stay like this."

and you did. stayed tangled together as the morning light grew stronger, as the sounds of people leaving the party filtered up through the floor. his cum was still leaking out of you, making a mess on your thighs, but neither of you moved to clean up. you just held each other in this new, tentative peace.

jake changed almost overnight once you started dating. it was like giving him permission to want you openly had flipped some switch in his brain. suddenly he was everywhere.

he'd show up at your door before your 9 am lecture with coffee, your exact order memorised, his hair still messy from sleep because he'd woken up early just to see you. he'd kiss you goodbye and then text you five minutes later with some random thought he forgot to mention. did you know that octopuses have three hearts? just learnt that. thought you should know.

in class he'd sit next to you instead of in his usual back corner spot, his knee always pressed against yours under the desk. sometimes his hand would find its way to your thigh, just resting there, his thumb tracing absent patterns while he tried to focus on the lecture. you'd catch him staring at you instead of his laptop, and when you'd raise an eyebrow he'd just smile, unashamed.

"you're distracting," he'd whisper.

"i'm literally just sitting here."

"i know. it's very distracting."

study sessions became impossible. you'd be explaining a concept and he'd lean over to kiss your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your mouth. "jake, i'm trying to help you."

"i know, keep going," he'd say, already doing it again.

"you're not even listening."

"i am. you were talking about. um." he'd grin sheepishly. "okay i wasn't listening. but you're just so pretty when you're focused."

your friends noticed immediately. yunjin had taken one look at jake's arm slung around your shoulders at lunch, the way he was playing with your hair while talking to beomgyu, and pulled you aside.

"okay so he's like. obsessed with you," she said. "it's actually kind of cute. in a golden retriever kind of way."

"he's not obsessed."

"babe, he just offered to carry your bag even though your apartment is literally three minutes away. and he's been smiling at you for the past ten minutes like you hung the moon. it's obsessed behaviour."

but she said it fondly, and later you caught her telling beomgyu that she'd never seen you this relaxed before. "she's not performing," yunjin had said. "she's just. being."

and she was right. with jake you didn't have to strategise or calculate or perform anything. he wanted you. obviously, openly, without games or subtext. when you showed up to his place in sweats and no makeup, he'd light up like you'd dressed up specifically for him. when you stole his hoodies, he'd just buy more so you could steal those too.

"i like seeing you in my clothes," he'd admitted once, pulling you close. "makes me feel like. i don't know. like you're mine."

"possessive," you'd teased.

"is that bad?"

"no," you'd said, kissing him. "i like it."

jake's friends had their own reactions. you'd been nervous meeting them properly, remembering that disastrous first encounter at the party. but they'd welcomed you easily, even if they did give jake endless shit.

"dude, you're so whipped," his roommate said, watching jake immediately get up to refill your drink without being asked.

"and?" jake had said, completely unbothered.

"and nothing, it's just funny. remember when you said you'd never be that guy who drops everything for someone? and now you're literally—"

"finish that sentence and i'm not helping you with discrete math anymore."

but he was smiling when he said it, and later his roommate told you that jake talked about you constantly. "it's honestly annoying how happy he is."

the thing was, you were happy too. unexpectedly, overwhelmingly happy. jake made you sharper somehow, more focused. when you studied together you actually retained information because he made learning feel collaborative instead of competitive. he celebrated your successes like they were his own, staying up with you before big presentations, bringing you stress-relief snacks, sending you encouraging texts.

and you did the same for him. learnt his patterns, his tells when he was overwhelmed. you'd show up at the lab with dinner when you knew he'd been working for hours. you'd run your fingers through his hair when he was stressed, and he'd melt into your touch, all that tension draining away.

"you make everything easier," he'd told you once, late at night when you were both too tired to filter. "like the world's less heavy when you're around."

"that's the cheesiest thing you've ever said."

"i know. i mean it though."

weeks blurred together in the best way. stolen kisses between classes. jake's hand always finding yours. the way he'd kiss you goodbye at your door and then text you goodnight five minutes later even though he lived one floor up. movie nights that turned into makeout sessions on your couch, jake's glasses getting in the way until you carefully removed them, setting them aside so you could kiss him properly.

he got clingy when he was tired, wrapping around you like a koala, mumbling into your neck. "don't leave."

"i'm just going to get water."

"too far. stay."

"jake, i'll be gone thirty seconds."

"thirty seconds too long."

you'd laugh, running your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep, and feel something warm and settled in your chest. this was what it was supposed to feel like.

the beach had been jake's idea. "there's supposed to be a meteor shower tonight," he'd said, eyes lighting up behind his glasses. "and i know this spot that's perfect for stargazing. barely any light pollution. we could bring blankets, make a whole thing of it?"

so here you were, sitting on a blanket in the sand while the ocean crashed softly in the background. the sky was impossibly clear, stars scattered across it like someone had spilt diamonds. jake lay with his head in your lap, one of your hands playing with his hair while he pointed up at the sky.

"okay, so see those seven stars there?" he traced a pattern with his finger. "that's the big dipper, which is part of ursa major. but if you follow those two stars at the edge, they point directly to polaris. the north star."

you hummed, only half listening to the actual words. you were too busy watching him. the way his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, how animated his expressions were when he talked about something he loved. the moonlight caught on his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips.

"and that one—" he was still going, completely absorbed. "that's cassiopeia. she was a queen in greek mythology who bragged about being more beautiful than the sea nymphs, so poseidon punished her by placing her in the sky upside down. you can see how the constellation kind of looks like a W? that's her throne."

"jake," you said softly.

"oh, and if you look over there, that really bright one? that's actually venus, not a star. common misconception. planets don't twinkle like stars do because—"

you leaned down and kissed him, cutting off his rambling mid-sentence. he made a surprised sound but responded immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. when you pulled back he followed your lips automatically, trying to chase another kiss.

"you were saying?" you teased.

"i—" he blinked up at you, slightly dazed. "what was i saying?"

"something about venus."

"right. venus. because of the. um." he lost his train of thought as you leaned down again, kissing him slower this time. "you're distracting me from the meteor shower."

"am i?"

"yeah. very effectively." but he was smiling, pulling you down for another kiss.

you shifted, moving to straddle his lap properly. jake's hands immediately found your waist, sliding under your shirt to rest against bare skin. 

the kissing turned heated quickly. jake made these small, needy sounds that drove you crazy, his hands roaming over your back, your sides, anywhere he could reach. when you rolled your hips experimentally he gasped into your mouth, his grip tightening.

"fuck," he whispered. "you're gonna kill me."

you kissed down his jaw, his neck, feeling his pulse racing under your lips. his hands had moved to your hips now, guiding your movements, and you could feel how affected he was. "still thinking about the stars?" you teased.

"what stars?" he pulled you down for another bruising kiss, one hand tangling in your hair. "can't think about anything except you."

you ground down harder and jake made a sound that was almost a whine, his head falling back against the blanket. "please," he gasped. "please, i need—"

suddenly, the loud, insistent beeping of his watch interrupted the moment.

you both froze.

jake's face went bright red as he fumbled with his wrist. "oh my god. oh my god. it's my fitness watch. it thinks i'm exercising because my heart rate—" another beep. "make it stop."

you couldn't help it. you burst out laughing, burying your face in his shoulder while his watch continued its concerned beeping about his elevated heart rate. "it's not funny," jake groaned, still trying to silence the watch. "this is so embarrassing."

"it's a little funny."

"my watch just cockblocked me. there's nothing funny about that."

you kissed his jaw, still giggling. "i think it's cute. your heart rate got that high just from kissing me?"

"you were not just kissing me, you were—" he made a frustrated noise. "yes. okay. yes. you have that effect on me. are you happy?"

"very." you settled against his chest, feeling his heartbeat still racing under your ear. the watch had finally stopped beeping. "for what it's worth, my heart's doing the same thing."

"yeah?" he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

"yeah."

you lay there together, the ocean providing a steady soundtrack, the stars scattered above you. jake pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "i love you," he said softly. "in case that wasn't obvious from the way my watch literally staged an intervention."

you lifted your head to look at him. his eyes were soft, open, vulnerable in the moonlight. "i love you too," you said, meaning it completely.

he smiled, that full, genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. then he kissed you again, sweet and unhurried, his hands gentle on your face.

"we should probably head back soon," you murmured eventually. "it's getting late."

"five more minutes," jake said, pulling you closer. "just. let me hold you for five more minutes."

you settled back against him, his arms wrapped securely around you, both of you looking up at the vast sky. you'd come here to watch a meteor shower but you'd been too distracted by each other to notice if any had passed.

somehow, you didn't mind at all.

"hey," jake said softly. "thank you."

"for what?"

"for giving me another chance. for being patient with me while i figured my shit out. for. this. all of it." his arms tightened around you. "i know i was difficult at first."

"you weren't difficult. you were protecting yourself. i get it now."

"still. you could have given up on me. but you didn't."

"of course i didn't," you said, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "you're worth it. you've always been worth it."

jake made a soft, overwhelmed sound, burying his face in your hair. "i'm gonna marry you someday," he mumbled. "just so you know."

"jake—"

"not now. obviously not now. but someday. when we've graduated and figured our lives out and i can actually afford a ring. i'm gonna marry you."

you felt your chest go tight with emotion. "okay," you whispered. "someday."

"yeah. someday."

you stayed like that until the cold started seeping in, until you were both shivering despite being pressed together. finally, reluctantly, you packed up the blanket and headed back to campus. jake held your hand the entire walk, occasionally pulling you close to kiss you at random intervals.

"what was that for?" you asked after the third surprise kiss.

"just because," he said, smiling. "because i can. because i love you. do i need more reasons?"

"no," you said, kissing him back. "no more reasons needed."

if you liked this please comment or reblog to give me your feedback! <3

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr ˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[junsfriend]

loyal puppy — sjy

SUMMARY: Ever since your boyfriend Jake transformed from his nerdy high-school self into the university's star football player, you've become everything you thought you’d never be. Jealous. Anxious. Clingy. But Jake really doesn't mind your newfound possessiveness. He encourages it, even. So when he defies expectations again to star in a musical with a stunning costar, you spiral. Now, the “lowkey” relationship you once insisted on gets jeopardized under the weight of your own insecurities.

PAIRING: popular!jake x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 26k+

GENRE: secret!relationship au, university!au, grumpy gf x sunshine bf (?), smut, angst, fluff, some toxic themes

WARNINGS: mdni, nsfw, porn with plot, tsundere!reader, lowkey crazy!reader, whipped!Jake, lowkey masochist!bf Jake, switch!Jake, emotional constipation, he want that cookie bad, jealousy, avoidancy, football = soccer, unsafe/unprotected sex, cursing, sweat, dacryphilia, storage closet sex, lots of biting/marking, 69, cumplay, jewelry play, begging, failed pull-out method, creampie, squirting, lmk if i missed anything

A/N: Not to pick a favorite child but… I loved writing this fic so much. 

a year ago.

It’s the last year of high school, on a relatively normal walk back home. The same cracked sidewalks, the same autumn breeze, the same shy boy matching his steps beside you like he always did. Just like any other day. 

Until he decided to ruin it.

“Do you wanna… like, date?” Jake asked suddenly, hands shoved deep into his uniform pants pockets, trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “You know… put a label on us. Or whatever.”

You remember almost running away out of pure instinct, soul escaping your body. But instead, you laughed. Because what the fuck was he on about?

You? Jake? Date?

The two of you were barely even supposed to be friends. He's a straight-A student teachers constantly compared you to, with those thick-rimmed black glasses glued to his face and unkempt bowl of hair. A striker on the football team who watched matches from the sidelines just as much as you did… and you weren't on the team.

And on the other hand, there’s you. Not-so-pleasant you. Considered a troublemaker because you always showed up late to class, talked back to ill-meaning adults, and picked fights with boys who catcalled too much. A rumor spread through school that your dad was a terrifying loan shark with gang ties. He’s a banker.

Assigned classroom cleaning duties was what brought you two together in the first place. It wasn’t fate. Nothing notable. You more or less picked him up on your shoulder and claimed him as a personal assistant. Someone who would fetch you water when you’re thirsty or give you answers to math problems when you were too lazy to solve them yourself. 

So why in the world did he think you two should date?

“Who put you up to this?” you wheezed between bursts of cackling. “I’m gonna beat their ass.”

Jake scratched the back of his head, clearly not amused.

“I mean… You and me?” you continued, tears of laughter blurred your vision. “We would make the worst couple ever—”

“I don’t think so.”

You froze mid-step. Jake had slowed his strides down a long time ago, but now he was completely still. You turned to find him a few steps behind, face flushed and hands by his sides. 

He’s holding something. A small, turquoise box. One that looked suspiciously like…

You felt like throwing up.

“I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he stammered. “What it’d be like if I were your boyfriend. If we… went on dates and stuff.”

Oh, hell no.

It’s like an immediate sense of panic overcame your body. And before your brain could process a single rational thought, you broke out into a sprint. Running down the street like a maniac. In hindsight, you probably should’ve known that you couldn’t outrun an athlete. But you weren’t really thinking, period. 

You feel a tug on your waist. Jake had already caught up to you. He spun you around, like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms, and pulled you into him. His face was close. Too close. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose, and a bead of sweat clung to his temple. And it wasn’t from running.

It was from you.

He looked nervous. Ridiculously nervous.

The ring box pressed into your back, and you put your palms sternly against his chest, trying to create some distance between you two. It wasn’t helping.

“Jake,” you warned. “Let go of me or I scream.”

He shook his head, his arms only wrapped tighter around you. “Only if you promise you won’t run,” he replied, a sort of desperation laced in his voice. “And that you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

You bit your bottom lip, suddenly too aware of his intense gaze and how they searched yours through those big, fat lenses. You gave a small nod, not trusting your voice to come out right. The moment his grip loosened, you broke your agreement almost immediately. Your feet moved on their own, like fight-or-flight, as you tried to rush out of his arms. But he was one step ahead of you, grabbing your wrist to bring you back right where you were.

“Really?” he asked, exhausted. “That’s not gonna work a second time.”

You glared, but your eyes betrayed you. They slid down to the turquoise ring box, still in his hand. Jake's eyes flickered in the same direction, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“I can put it away if it’s freaking you out,” he muttered, slipping it back into his pocket. You almost let out a sigh of relief, but not when his large hand was still wrapped around your wrist.

“...Thank you,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground. “Now make it quick.”

Jake's heart constricted. ‘The worst thing she could say is no!’ the internet had told him. This was a lot worse, actually!

“[Y/N],” he started sharply, and the sound of your name on his lips sent shivers down your spine. He released you, only to set both his hands on your shoulders, guiding your gaze up to meet his.

“I… I think—” He stopped, inhaling a deep breath. “No. I know. I… really… really… l-like you.”

His voice was as shaky as his hands, and for a brief second, almost every part of you wanted to knock him out with your backpack because your heart was beating too loud in your chest. It pissed you off. But you held back and just… stared.

Jake, ever the hopeless romantic, had fallen for you the moment you asked him to clean the entire classroom alone while you skipped duties to hang out with your friends. He said yes, only because he has a hard time saying no, especially to someone he found so pretty. But then you laughed and told him you were joking. Told him not to bend over backwards just to please other people. Spent time with him that day when usually, others paid him no attention.

He was enamored ever since. 

But the silence between you two was suffocating, heavy enough to stall his breathing. Jake’s palms were growing damp against the fabric of your uniform blazer, and his heart felt like it was ready to fall to the floor. Maybe this was a bad time to do it. Or maybe the ring really freaked you out. Was it too big a gesture? The WikiHow tutorial he consulted had told him to bring a gift, after all. 

“Hello?” Jake’s voice cut through your thoughts. He gave your shoulders a tiny shake, trying to pull you out of your entranced state.

“Hm? Sorry… say that again? I don’t think I heard you…”

Jake’s expression fell as he dropped his hands back to his sides in defeat.

“Okay,” he muttered, voice small. It wasn’t worth it. Everything went off script anyway. “Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

He brushed past you, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets again. He was fidgeting with the ring box, wishing he could throw it into the nearest bushes. God, he felt dumb. So fucking dumb.

Of course you’d say no! He was nobody. Just Jake. Just some guy you latched onto at the start of high school so you could poke fun at him for the next few years and make him pay for your boba addiction. And you, with your cool-ass friends with eyebrow slits and really underground music tastes. You’re way out of his league—

“Jake,” you called out, surprised at how loud your voice could get if you were desperate. 

He turned around immediately, wearing such a pronounced pout even from a few meters away. Somehow, seeing his face again made your throat close up. He liked you. He really liked you.

“Say it again,” you demanded, arms crossed with doubt written all over your features. “I need to hear you say it one more time.”

You walked toward him until you stood close enough to see the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was this it? Would you actually give him a chance? Jake pressed his lips together and inhaled a deep breath to calm himself. 

“I like you,” he said as softly as a whisper. “Would you… Be my girlfriend?”

You looked at the ground, feigning a calmness when your mind was racing with thoughts too insane to vocalize. When you finally looked up again, your heart betrayed you. It skipped a beat at the way his gaze fell on yours, wide and hopeful. It almost hurt. He was too bright, too cute.

(Okay, so what if you liked him back. He didn’t have to know that.)

“Sure,” you said, forcing your voice to sound casual. Jake froze.

Then his entire face lit up. Suddenly, he was grinning from ear to ear, jumping in place like a dog begging for a treat. “Really? Like really? You’ll go out with me?!”

He took your hands in his, tenderly. Like he wasn't entirely sure the moment was real. You felt the dampness of his palms first, then the tug of his fingers intertwining with yours, like he had already rehearsed this part of his confession a thousand times in his head. Your cheeks warmed.

‘What a weirdo,’ you thought to yourself. It’s not like he’d just won the lottery. What was he so happy about?

“Just don’t make it weird,” you grumbled. “Keep it on the down low.”

Jake’s smile faltered, brows knitting together so tightly you were sure it’d leave a wrinkle on his cute face.

“Like… you don’t want people to know?” he asked, voice quieter now. You nodded, confused by his confusion. 

“Why would anyone need to know?” you asked genuinely. He frowned, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand, silently asking you to reconsider.

“Not even Sunghoon or Jay?”

You scoffed. “Especially Sunghoon and Jay.”

“Why not?” he groaned. You just shrugged.

“I don’t want our dynamic to change just ‘cause we’re dating,” you reassured him, letting go of his hands to ruffle his hair. Like you always do when you tease him. Like that would make it all better. “And all that coupley PDA stuff draws too much attention anyway.”

You’d spent years cultivating your intimidating persona, and in your mind, it was simple. No one else needed to know that you were vulnerable to something as cringe-inducing as dating. The other students would only use it against you. For what? Who knows.

But you could just imagine the teasing glances and whispers in the hallways. If Jake were really serious about dating you, surely he’d be understanding of your aversion towards embarrassment. Right?

He didn't seem entirely convinced. At all. “So… what would be the difference then? Between us now and before?” 

You sighed and stepped past him.

“It's what we'd do in private, you know?” you muttered over your shoulder. “Kissing and all that…”

You didn’t see it, how Jake’s ears completely reddened or how his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched at his side, like he was already imagining what it’d be like to hold you properly. To touch you. To kiss you. Like real couples do.

“D-do you want to see the ring I got you?” he blurted out, catching up to you. “I swear it’s lowkey. It has a ‘J’ engraved inside the band. I got a matching one with your initial, too! No one would even notice if you wore it—”

And you feel your heart thunder in your chest, scaring you into another sudden sprint. “Get the hell away from me, weirdo!” 

Your joined laughter echoed down the street as he chased after you. And even though he could catch up to you, he let you have your fun, staying just a little out of his reach.

–

Jake is very good at obeying orders, always has been. Especially after the first few times you glared at him for accidentally reaching for your hand in the cafeteria. He learned fast.

He tried his best not to show affection publicly, no matter how badly he wanted to wrap his blazer around your shivering frame when you would nap during class. He forced himself not to linger near you when you were loitering with your fellow delinquents by the school staircase, laughing at a joke he didn’t quite understand. He suppressed the urge to defend you from teachers who reprimanded you out in the hallways. Tried not to look behind at you for too long during football games he never played in anyway.

Once, someone asked him about his love life, and he instantly turned into a blushing, mumbling mess. And they laughed it off. It was Jake. No one thought twice. He was always like this. Awkward. Flustered.

The parasites he calls friends, Jay and Sunghoon, would probably go into cardiac arrest if they ever found out how he doted on you in private. How soft he was. How gentle.

You pretended not to notice. But ever the observer, Jake sees how your defenses weaken, ever so slightly, each day.

You let him put his arm around you in dark movie theaters instead of yanking it away. Let him stay for dinner with your parents when he comes over to help you study (because lord knows you need it). You stopped flinching when he called you ‘babe’ in private, sometimes responding without even questioning who he was speaking to. It was baby steps, but to Jake, it was everything.

Was it awkward? Yes. The way his glasses got in the way when he finally kissed you for the first time. Your noses bumped together. Too much tongue involved. It was a mess. Still life-changing, nevertheless. 

He replays the memory often. The two of you on your bed, him holding your plushie hostage, you trying to rip it out of his arms. The way you fell on top of him with your lips accidentally crashing on his. He pretended like the make-out session that occurred immediately after didn't absolutely ruin him.

Jake edged past the warmer parts of you when no one was around to bear witness. And you both were so good at keeping secrets. No one would have believed it anyway. You’d made sure of that.

–

“You two are very strange,” Jay commented, maybe a couple of months into your secret relationship. Every senior was gearing up for graduation, choosing which universities to attend or which path to take in life.

And of course, Jay and Sunghoon found out that Jake and you would both be attending the same university. Not just any school. A top one. Yonsei. 

Jake had earned a full-ride scholarship after finally getting off the damn bench and scoring four goals in a single match against the best high school team in the nation. Jake could've gone abroad to an Ivy League, but he chose not to. Because at Yonsei he could visit family more often, save a lot of money, and… well, keep you close, most of all.

And by the will of a higher being (Jake’s relentless tutoring), you somehow made it in as well.

“I thought you said you wanted to go straight into the workforce,” Jay questioned you. “Now you’re telling me you somehow, in some way, got into the same school as Jake? This fucking nerd?”

Sunghoon chimed in with a smile he always wore before teasing you. “I didn’t even think you could get into college, honestly.”

You wanted to hit him so bad, but you stopped yourself. Your resolution for the new school year was to turn over a new leaf. And that comes with not hitting annoying boys over the head with your fist. You could get arrested for that from now on... So instead, you used your words.

“You’re mad I got in, and you didn’t,” you snorted, sticking out your tongue as Jake snickered beside you. You sat close enough to feel the warmth of his shoulder, but far enough apart to keep Jay and Sunghoon from noticing.

“You guys have no faith in her,” Jake sighed earnestly. “She’s really smart when she applies herself. She just needed a push, that's all.”

You glared at him, not sure if his comment was entirely a compliment. Yes, he played a role in your achievements. No, he could not credit himself for the hard work you put in to get that high-ass score on the college entrance exam. Even your teachers apologized for doubting you.

“Should’ve put those hours of tutoring her into me instead,” Jay groaned. “Now you’re gonna be all alone with no friends.”

Jake’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? S-she’s my friend.”

He stumbled over the words, clearly thrown off by the ominous comment. You watched him, amused. God, he was so obvious.

Sunghoon just looked between you two, doubt etched all over his face. “Barely,” he scoffed. “Trust me, bro, you are getting left behind as soon as she finds another victim willing to pay for all her food.”

You can start your resolution next week. This time, you really smacked him, sharp on his bicep. Sunghoon yelped.

“Why are you always so aggressive?” he whined, rubbing the sore spot with his arm. You raised your hand threateningly again, but you stopped yourself short. 

At the corner of your eye was Jake’s soured expression, a flash of worry obviously overcoming him. But you couldn’t comfort him. Not now. You wouldn’t hear the end of it from these two.

“You never know,” Jay chirped, faking thoughtfulness with a hand on his chin. “Jake might be too cool for us once school starts.”

Jay and Sunghoon exchanged a look and then burst into laughter.

“Ain’t gonna happen!” Sunghoon cackled, putting his whole gut into it. You joined in hesitantly, though your eyes kept drifting to your sullen boyfriend. And he wasn’t amused. Not at all.

Because he never found it funny, the idea of you leaving him behind.

–

“Do you think I’m weird?” Jake asked one evening, with you curled up beside him on your bed. Your knee draped over his stomach, his glasses pushed up just enough to rest comfortably against your pillow. On his late-night visits, your parents would come in to check if you two were truly studying as you claimed. After Jake gained their trust, they learned to leave the two of you alone (when they probably shouldn’t have).

Your eyes were shut tight to prepare yourself for an oncoming nap.

“Yes,” you said quickly, not even giving him time to process the response.

“Like… bad weird?” he asked after a second. He’d been thinking lately, after the conversation with his friends, how different the two of you really were.

How easy it was for you to stand up for yourself. Go against the grain. How you don’t automatically default to nods as he does or lose your train of thought mid-conversation. How you hated being touched by most people but would smack someone’s shoulder when you genuinely found something funny. 

He wanted that, wanted to see the world the way you saw it. To move around without hesitation. Even when people called you a troublemaker. Even when teachers scolded you for wearing your uniform skirt shorter than the dress code. How was confidence so natural for you?

“Bad weird,” you teased, eyes still closed. “But it’s okay. I’m used to it by now.”

A small ache tugged at his heart. “You still like me though, right?”

You laughed. Jake loved to do this sometimes. Bait for reassurance. But you’re not that kind of fish.

“Who said I ever did?”

You said it jokingly, but a silence followed. You don’t quite catch it as you drift to sleep, the way Jake’s eyes dimmed.

“Oh,” he said disappointingly, staring at the ceiling.

Sometimes, he wondered if the reason you wanted your relationship to be private in the first place was because of him. If his inability to relate to your friends with secret tattoos and chains on their jeans made you embarrassed to be his girlfriend. 

Because you got along well with his friends just fine, could tease Jay and Sunghoon like you’d known them your whole life. But it was so hard for him to do the same with yours. To look natural when he joined that one karaoke hangout, where they looked at him expectantly because you had bragged that he could sing well.

You said it so proudly too, and he wanted to prove himself to them. That he was worthy to be in their presence. And then his voice had to crack.

“Should we get your friend some water?” someone joked, and the whole group laughed. With his cheeks red with embarrassment, Jake sat back down next to you, silent for the rest of the night. It was lame of him. Even he knew that. 

But even as he watched you defend him with all your heart, he couldn’t find himself to cheer up. Because in your world, he had always felt out of place. 

–

And so Jake did what he’s known to do best. Research.

He avoided WikiHow tutorials on how to ask out a girl and headed straight to the most honest part of the internet: Reddit.

‘makeover tips for guys’

‘how to gain more confidence’

‘how to be attractive enough that your girlfriend isn’t ashamed of you (serious responses only pls)’

He frequented the self-help section of the school library, took notes on everything from fashion advice to fixing his posture. He practiced eye contact with himself through the mirror until they watered, joined Sunghoon in the gym, and copied his weirdly intense routine.

Jake kept this process all to himself, much like your relationship. He learned to be good at that. Keeping secrets.

He would reinvent himself for university. Become someone you’d be proud to show off because he didn’t want to feel like this anymore. Like he would fall behind. And knowing you… he wasn’t sure if you’d bother to look back and see if your loyal puppy was still there trailing behind you. 

–

present. 

So that’s how your relationship’s been going so far. While Jake was on this great journey to undergo metamorphosis, there were no real complaints on your side.

So why was it like this now? 

Waiting for your very late boyfriend, who was making you miss the first minutes of the university’s freshman orientation ceremony. You almost text him a paragraph about how, usually, you're the unpunctual one in the relationship, but a stranger approaches you.

“BOO!” 

You almost let out a scream when you notice who it is. Or who you think it is. Is it who you think it is?

Because instead of wild, unruly hair hiding his eyebrows and big black frames resting on his nose bridge, your boyfriend looked like someone else entirely. His hair was styled in a middle part, framing his handsome features perfectly. Instead of his usual oversized hoodie with holes on the sleeves masking his athletic body, he’s wearing a varsity jacket and a simple white shirt that clung way too well to his muscular frame. You could even see the faint outline of contact lenses in the whites of his eyes.

Your eyelashes flutter in confusion. You literally just saw him yesterday. When did he find the time to get a haircut and invest in a new closet?

Jake steps forward with a small, hopeful smile and holds out a box of egg tarts. Did it add to his already late ETA? Yes, but he always thinks about you and what you'd like to eat. Could you blame him for getting you a sweet treat?

But that wasn’t the part you were really focused on.

“Who are you and what did you do to Jake?” you ask, fists raised like a boxer. He chuckles nervously, bringing the pastry box back to his side.

“Do I look weird?” he asks quietly, shifting his feet. The vulnerability in his voice made you lower your hands instantly.

“So…” you start, eyes looking him up and down. “This is on purpose? Like, Sunghoon didn’t put you up to this? Or Jay?”

He pouts. His mom practically screamed, “So handsome!” when he showed her his new look over video call. So, why was your reaction like this? 

“I just thought… new school year, new me! No?” he says, puffing up with pride.

You shake your head, moving your hand on instinct to ruffle his freshly styled hair. But he catches your wrist before you can touch him. You pull away, heart squeezing a bit, knowing that he dodged one of your rare bouts of affection. Or whatever you call it.

“It took me forever to get my hair to look like this,” he mutters, looking away. “Don’t want my hard work to go to waste.”

You click your tongue, trudging past him. Since when did he care about what his hair looked like? This was the same guy who showed up to graduation with a T-shirt and sneakers and got confused when the teachers asked him to go back home and change.

“Whatever,” you sigh. “No more standing around. We have to go—”

“Still not wearing the ring?” he asks, catching up to you. He noticed it earlier when he caught your arm. 

When Jake gave it to you just a year before, he set no expectation for you to wear it. He really hadn’t… But it has been a year. Wasn’t it about time? He wears his everyday…

You suck in your teeth and glare at him. “Why would I?” 

He flinches. And you start to feel guilt bubbling in your chest as his steps start slowing next to you.

“It’s just…” he mumbles. “It’s not like we’re in high school anymore. No one’s even gonna notice. And no one’s gonna care if we’re dating.”

You roll your eyes. You care. You still had a reputation to uphold. Maybe not as a troublemaker anymore. But still. Something about wearing your boyfriend’s ring for everyone to see and question seemed like your own personal hell. Who would want to be the center of attention as a university freshman?

“It’s the principle,” you say, not really knowing what you mean by it either. Because you are wearing it. Just not on your finger. It hangs around your neck, hidden underneath your blouse. But Jake didn’t have to know that.

You would rather die than give anyone the satisfaction of knowing you were smitten with this man. Soft, but only for him. Your biggest weakness.

“So are we always just gonna be a secret?” he sighs. You turn to face him, but you keep it pushing. It’s too much to explain right now. Or ever.

“Come on,” you insist. “We need to get to the orientation.”

–

Indeed, it wasn’t high school anymore. Because everywhere you turn, Jake’s name is being brought up.

“The hot guy on the football team—”

“He set the curve on the first exam and proved Professor Kim wrong on the board—”

“I saw him help a grandma cross the street. Soooo dreamy—”

It was enough to almost make you pull your hair out of your head. This was Jake they were talking about! The guy who was too shy to ask for no pickles in his damn burgers, who used to let Sunghoon copy off his homework and then rewrote his own just to make sure the teachers wouldn’t catch on. This was your Jake.

You take a moment to breathe.

You sound crazy. Deranged, even. It shouldn’t even matter. Jake was always good-looking! People just never noticed or took the time to appreciate him outside of his ability to decode the most difficult of physics equations.

“A couple of guys from the team think I’d look good with a sweatband,” he says, showing you a photo during a late-night walk. He’s shoving his phone screen to your face, and you pout at the sight. His hair pushed back, forehead glistening. A perfect view of his beautiful, dark eyes. 

“Nah,” you say dismissively, trying to push down the fluttering in your heart. He tilts his head, staring at the photo once more.

“Really?” he mutters. “I thought it looked pretty good.”

“Do you really wanna look like Jay in junior year? He’s gonna tell you that you copied him.”

He gives a small sound of acknowledgement. You could tell he’s taking your comment seriously, like you said something truly eye-opening.

“You’re right,” he nods. “Then, how do you feel about a lip piercing?”

Your brows furrow at the thought of metal against his pouty lips. The way his teeth would tug on it. The effect he would have on all of his newfound admirers…

“Absolutely not!” 

Yeah, you were losing it.

–

No, really, you might actually be going insane.

It was hard enough for you to create genuine friendships at Yonsei, full of stuck-up rich kids who only managed to get in through elite cram schools and expensive tutors. But after a few polite conversations, their masks fell to show their true intentions. You know now that you are being used as a shortcut to get on Jake’s radar. 

Because why do people you’ve never met before suddenly feel comfortable enough to ask you to introduce them to him? Why do they request to follow you on Instagram only so they can find his account more easily? And what pisses you off most—the question they always ask, without fail: “Is he single?”

And you know there's a quick answer you can give. A very simple solution to your eye-twitching problem. Because every time someone high-fives him in the corridors or bats their eyelashes flirtatiously in his direction, you have the overwhelming urge to just pounce on him. To wrap your arms around his middle and never let him leave your sight. 

But you can’t. Your pride is too big, your ego too fragile to admit that someone actually managed to slip past the cold exteriors of your heart. So instead, you're waiting impatiently for him to reply to your text.

He's not at practice. He's supposed to be on his way. So where the hell was he?

jake: sorry! study group went for a lil bit longer than I thought. everyone kept asking me for help haha. omw!

And then he sends a photo. It's a group selfie, with him in the middle. Three girls on his right and another two on his left, surrounding him like a piece of meat.

you: dont bother coming. im sick.

With envy, maybe. But you're perfectly healthy.

jake: im sorry babe :( you feeling okay? want me to get you anything from the store?

you: Nah.

You almost scream. There's so much you want to say and admit, but your fingers won’t type any of it. You really don't deserve him. He's so nice, and you're so… Fuck.

Why is it so hard to admit to your own boyfriend that you miss him?!

jake: ok :( I love you!

Your stomach flips.

Haha… You needed professional help. Really.

–

Jake was better at football than the bench in high school ever suggested. Senior hierarchy was everything at Yonsei. A starter as a freshman was practically unheard of before Jake. How he managed to level up from being a designated benchwarmer to being on the field at all times felt like whiplash.

Did he just have this in him this whole time?

I mean, you guess he looked kind of cool out there, all sweaty and serious-looking. Shouting call-outs to his team mid-game. Your legs squirm at the sight. He really needs to put on his damn glasses. (Though knowing you, that might only make things worse.)

You sit there, wearing the university colors of white and blue, holding onto a sign that says “Go Team!”

You would have made something with his name on it, but the thought alone sends shivers down your spine. You could not bear to give the stupid boys beside you the ammo of watching you scream Jake’s name and go crazy over his goals. So instead, you silently watch and admire as he steals the ball yet again.

Jay and Sunghoon, decked out in the rival school’s signature red for no reason whatsoever (they don’t even attend that university either), stood on either side of you with a level of passion you’ve never seen from them before.

“GET HIS ASS!” Jay screams. “Play the mental game! When Player 15 cries, he calls his mom first—”

Player 15 would happen to be Jake.

“The guy with ‘Sim’ in the back of his jersey loves to sing Celine Dion in the shower—”

You groan as heads turn, not enjoying the various glares and snide remarks from your surrounding schoolmates. You still haven't made any substantial friends yet at university. Being associated with these bozos would only make it that much harder. This would be the last time you sneak them into the student section. 

“Can you two please sit down?” you mutter. “We’re ahead by like four goals. Psychological warfare is not enough for Jake to lose.”

Sunghoon drops back into his seat with a huff, cracking his neck.

“This won’t do,” he mutters. “Jake’s gonna surpass me in Instagram followers if he wins this.”

Jay chuckles on your left side, still standing and selfishly blocking the view of everyone behind him. “If he wins, you think he’ll invite us to their celebration party after?”

Your brows furrow. “What party?”

Jay finally sits down when the opposing team calls a time-out, one eyebrow raised at your confused expression. “Isn’t that like a thing every school does? First big game of the year, there’s bound to be something.”

Sunghoon nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s like common knowledge.”

You almost pout before catching yourself. Jake never mentioned anything about a party. 

So when the game ended and, of course, Yonsei won, the two boys could not help but ask. 

“So there’s a party, right?”

“And you’re taking us?”

Jake looks between the two of them, forehead glistening and hair damp with sweat.

“What party?” he asks, and you smile gingerly. That’s right! You weren’t crazy. He would’ve told you if there was—

“You have to go to the party, Jakey!” a voice chirps from behind you.

You recognize her. The team manager of the football team. Short hair and a cute button nose. Very pretty. Your eyes cut between Jake and her. Wait.

Jakey? Who the hell calls him that?

Jay and Sunghoon give each other some shifty glances and step aside, letting the girl join the conversation. You feel this weird inclination to move closer to Jake, but you suppress the urge. 

“Hm?” Jake finally replies, confused more than ever. “No one told me about a party.”

The girl giggles. What even was her name?

“Oh, Jakey! Since you’re a freshman, I’ll give you the rundown.” 

She scooches in between you two, pushing you slightly to the side. The boys don’t seem to notice, and you have half your sense not to shove the girl right back.

“Whenever we win,” she starts, “the whole school goes to En Bar nearby and takes it over! Free drinks and everything. You’re our star player, so you definitely can’t miss it. Your friends are invited too, of course.”

She looks between Jay and Sunghoon, not even sparing you a glance.

Jake scratches the nape of his neck. “Sorry, I’m actually feeling pretty tired—” 

“We’ll be there!” Jay and Sunghoon say instantly. You raise your eyebrow at them, and the two brush it off.

“We’ll make sure he comes,” Jay laughs, slapping Jake hard on the shoulder. Having gotten hit by the ball in that exact spot just an hour before, he winces.

“I’m not really—”

“Great!” the girl smiles, clapping her hands together. “I’ll see you all there then?” 

Of course, her back is fully turned towards you. Dumb and dumber nod in unison, and as the girl walks off, they push at each other excitedly.

“First college party,” they cry out in joy.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “You two are pathetic.”

Jake nods slowly in agreement. “Well… you guys have fun. I think I’m just gonna head back to my dorm and shower…”

“And get ready, right?” Sunghoon says dangerously, wagging a finger at him. “Because you are coming, right?”

Jake shivers under his friends’ threatening glares. But what really scares him is when his eyes find yours. You look pissed. Fuck. What did he do this time?

“I mean… I guess I could pop in…” Jake says reluctantly. He sneaks in another glance in your direction and sees that your frown grows even deeper. Was that the wrong thing to say?

“Babe?” Jake calls after you as you stride across campus, shivering in your t-shirt and mini skirt. “Why are you walking so fast?”

It’s dark now, save for the dim street lamps. You stop abruptly, and he almost bumps into you. When you turn, your jaw is already clenched.

“Am I crazy, or did that girl just completely ignore me?” you ask genuinely, voice at the seams of losing composure. Because what the fuck was her problem?

Jake laughs nervously. “Choa? I thought she seemed pretty friendly?”

Your expression sours. “Yeah, maybe a little too friendly,” you say under your breath. Jake catches it.

“Wait,” he says with a shit-eating grin, leaning in. “Babe… are you jealous? Hm?”

Your cheeks heat up, arms crossing like a toddler. “Fuck off.”

He laughs now, twisting you around and guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, babeeee…”

He notices how you don’t pull away from his touch, when normally you would hiss something like, “people are watching,” or something like that. Jake bites back an even bigger smile. You just let him hold you.

The walk to his dorm was peachy for him, save for the fact that his sweaty arm stank up your shirt.

You! Jealous. This has to be a dream. When you reach his room, shared with a sophomore named Heeseung who never seems to be around, you sit on Jake’s bed, still reeling from the earlier interaction.

“Am I overreacting?” you ask him, not at all bothered that he was taking his jersey off. You’re well past the stage of pretending his bare torso flusters you. “Like… did it not seem like she wanted you?”

Jake laughs, wiping his underarms with a nearby towel. “Me? Babe, no. That’s out of the question. She's like four years older than us—”

You roll your eyes. “So where the fuck did ‘Jakey’ come from?”

He shrugs, catching his reflection in the wall mirror hanging on his door. His muscles flex in a way that makes your eyes travel down his well-toned back…

You snap your gaze back to the wall. No. Focus. You’re supposed to be mad.

“New year, new nickname?” he offers, teasingly.

You throw a pillow at his head. Like the athlete he is, Jake dodges it. He turns to you, laughing, amused by how sulky and adorable you look on his bed. Brows furrowed in contemplation, tugging your legs close to your chest. Your plush thighs in your pretty little skirt that would have gotten you dress-coded back in high school with your knee-high socks and…

Fuck. 

“It’s not like I care,” you mumble, unconvincingly. 

Jake huffs out something that sounds like a chuckle, but his thoughts are elsewhere. His mind (and eyes) are on the edge of your skirt. He places a hand on your thigh and rubs it softly. To you, it felt like reassurance, and it was. But he was also incredibly horny.

“Babe,” his words drawl. “Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his for a split second before he plants a wet kiss on your cheek. “Hey—”

He chuckles as he plants another on your nose. Then your chin. And then your other cheek. And now you’re trying to push him away, but he holds your wrists to prevent you from stopping his incessant attacks. 

“Jake—You stink—Freak!” You try to say as his lips find yours, while he’s giggling up a storm. So cute. You're so fucking cute. 

His next kiss is deep, drawing out your breath sharply. Your back is on the bed now with Jake on top, his hands still wrapped around your wrists.

Jake’s lips move against yours, your eyes fluttering shut. His tongue prods and pushes in, his taste so sweet and heavy as you breathe in his weirdly intoxicating scent. Like fresh laundry doused in the salt of his sweat. You clench his biceps as he comes up from the kiss to catch some air.

He looks at you, face flushed and mouth parted. 

“I’m hard,” he blurts out, and you smack him on his naked chest.

“What do you want me to do about that?” you mutter as you start to feel him press against your stomach. “Don’t you have a party to go to?”

He shakes his head, burying his face in your hair. He lets out a groan, grinding onto you just to feel any part of you against his football shorts. You let out a squeak, clenching at his toned muscles harder.

“You’re not coming with?” he asks, and you can hear the shakiness in his breath. You smirk, wrapping your legs around him and shifting up so that his tent could meet your core. Jake fit between you so snugly.

His head lifts to meet yours, pupils already so dilated.

“Why would I?” you say through hooded eyes, and you could visibly see him gulp. It almost makes you laugh. But instead, you tease him, moving your hips up to graze his bulge. 

“I have time,” he groans quickly. “For this. Or whatever you want to do. Like I’m really down for any—”

You roll your eyes, gripping the back of his head to smash him back down to your lips. Your movements are messy, tongues clashing at a feverish pace. He’s still sore from earlier, but like hell he would let this opportunity go. Not when you looked this fucking good. And angry too. (For him, these things aren’t mutually exclusive...)

With trembling fingers, he lifts your shirt and almost moans at the sight of your bare skin. While he wants to thank you for saving him the trouble of not fiddling with a bra clasp, you pat yourself on the back for leaving your necklace at home.

Knowing how frisky Jake gets after the adrenaline of a good win runs through him, it was the right call. You don’t think you could handle Jake seeing you so jealous while having his ring resting on your chest. Yeah, you’d probably die right in front of him.

His hands grab your tits softly, massaging them between his fingers. Jake dips down, swallowing a nipple in his mouth as he watches you sigh out in pleasure.

He’s confident in one thing when it comes to you, and it was this right here. He could make your tough exterior melt just as long as you were under him. Or over him. He has no preference.

His tongue circles your bud, tugging with his teeth lightly. 

“Jake—” When he hears you squeak, his dick twitches with anticipation. So pliant now. What happened to that dominance earlier? He’d like to see it come back…

He moves on to the other breast, licking and massaging so it doesn't feel too neglected. Jake loves your tits, could be buried between them for the rest of his life if you let him. But now isn't the time! He has a very mean and very jealous, but also very hot, girlfriend to please. And maybe some party to make it to, who knows.

Jake pulls his shorts down roughly, just enough so that he can take his dick out. Already so big, the bulbous tip weeps with desire for you. He’s palming himself, relishing in how your eyes shut tight, lips parted open as his wet, pink muscle traces circles over your sensitive skin.

He’s nipping the top of your breasts now, careful not to leave marks in visible areas. Jake knows how you get about that sort of thing. 

His fingers drag your white, damp panties off your legs, but keeps your skirt on. And the knee-high socks for good measure. His hand meets your core, pushing down on your clit with a heavy pressure he knows you like.

You gasp, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re so embarrassed. The noises you're making are unbecoming of you. All he does is laugh. Still so sensitive during sex after a whole year of dating. And he’s supposed to be the shy one.

His fingers drag slowly on your folds as he spreads your juices all over his digits. Jake might just cum in his pants with how soft your tits feel as he nestles his head in between them. 

He pushes two fingers in right away, and you draw out a sharp breath. You almost hit him on the shoulder. He has no idea how big his hands are. How sometimes you would eye them whenever he helps you with homework. Veiny, like his cock.

He’s moving his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace, wet squelches echoing through the room. 

“Ngh—Mmm—” you groan, arching your back to meet his movements. Impatient. You’re always so impatient.

“JAKE!” you cry out, when he rubs over a certain spot.

He looks up at you from his comfortable position between the valley of your chest, and with a teasing glint in his eyes, he says, “You mean Jakey?”

And it’s not an exaggeration in the least to say that you start seeing red. You grab his wrist, the pads of your fingers digging into his flesh. He stops his movements, looking at you with those puppy-dog eyes like he did something wrong. And he did. Something very. Very. Wrong.

“Sorry, I just wanted to tease—”

You pull his fingers out of you. With one swift movement, you grab him by his shoulders and push him down onto the bed. You’re hovering over him now, eyes dark.

Jake swallows nervously. Why’d you have to look so hot when provoked?

“Did I ruin the vibe or…”

“Shut up,” you growl, crashing your lips onto his. He tries to hold your waist to offer support, but you hold his wrists down onto the sheets. He could probably push you off very easily. But he doesn’t. Because he loves seeing you like this. Loves the urgency in your touch.

You want him! And you’re showing it! His heart is practically doing backflips in his chest.

Your tongue explores the inside of Jake’s mouth, licking the roof of it in a way that has him seeing stars. You’re so rough with it. Sucking on his, biting his lip, moving so desperately against him.

“Babe—” he tries to say in between your assaults on his mouth. But it comes out in a breathless whisper when he feels you grinding your slick pussy against him.

“I said,” you say through gritted teeth. “Shut. Up.”

He almost moans when his leaking tip hits your clit. Just the contact alone has the back of his head hitting the pillow roughly. But he forces himself to watch as you move against him as he offers no assistance. Your grip on his wrists moves to the sheets as you focus on grinding against his dick. Swiveling yourself on him back and forth. Rubbing and rubbing. But it’s not enough. He needs to be inside. Needs to feel you right now.

Your breath is on his neck now, riling yourself up at his stunt. Jakey? What grown woman calls someone that? Choa and her nice ass bob... Fuck her!

“Ngh—” he lets out as you suction an erogenous zone on his neck, sucking and biting him like a vampire. Your tongue lapping at his skin to soothe him from the brutal assaults of your teeth. You close your eyes to relish in his taste. So salty from sweat, but still so sweet. But you’re distracted now as Jake breaks free from your hold. He grips your ass with one hand, the other guiding his pulsing member to your slippery entrance.

“Wha—” 

He’s looking at you with pleading eyes. “Can I, baby?” Jake begs, cheeks tinged pink. “Please?”

You bite back a smile. What a fucking loser.

You push down on him, just slightly, just enough for his bulbous tip to slip inside. His grip on your ass is now slack. He doesn't even want to fight back, really.

“Fuck—” Jake’s mouth parts open, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes when you come back up. No longer inside you, he groans.

“Whyyy,” he whines. “I said I’m sorry—”

He inhales a sharp breath when you engulf his tip again, tightening around him just a little harder. 

“Do you like being called Jakey?” you question darkly. “Like it when other girls feel up on you?”

He shakes his head desperately. “No—Only you—” he says through pained groans.

And then you lift again, laughing at his pathetic form. “I don’t believe you.”

He’s practically writhing underneath you now, his mushroom tip pulsing against your folds. Your skirt hides it all from view, and he just wishes he could rip it off you. Give you a new one, much, much shorter, so he can see everything better. 

But only if you let him.

“You’re literally torturing me,” he whimpers, hips jutting up messily. He keeps missing your entrance, the one he desperately needs to be buried in. “Need to feel you right now—”

“What’s it to me?” you ask meanly, your thumb prodding at his bottom lip. His tongue comes out to lick at the pad of your thumb, sucking it ever-so-slightly. You enjoy this view. Him underneath you. Pleading. Whining. Like he's starving. 

“I’ll make you feel so good, baby,” Jake offers through the haziness of his lust. Not entirely conscious of how desperate he sounds. “You can use me however you want. I’ll literally do anything. Just please—”

And then you sink, so slowly that his eyes roll to the back of his head. The devil. His girlfriend is the devil.

“Babe—” You shut him up with another open-mouthed kiss. Messy, just how he likes it.

He grips his hands into yours as you suckle his tongue, intertwining your fingers together. You try not to wince as you sheath him fully, realizing now that you were overconfident in taking control before he could properly prep you.

Usually, sex was an hours-long ordeal with Jake. He likes to finger you, then eat you out, then repeat, until he can slip into your slick warmth with little issue. Sex is the only time you don’t deny him the pleasure of seeing you flustered over him. Over what he could do for you. What he could provide you if you let him tell everyone in the world that he’s yours. 

Regardless, Jake will always be long and thick, and he still stretches you out so deliciously. Your mouths clash against each other, swallowing back both of your moans as saliva pools at the sides of his bruised lips.

Depraved. That’s all you could think of when Jake bottoms out inside you. He’s so sweaty now, the scent so musky that it drives you insane. Do other girls smell these pheromones when he’s around? Or is this just you and your hypersensitivity to everything that involves him?

You’re moving up and down now, with shallow thrusts that do little to satiate the flame in your stomach. You don’t do this enough—take control enough. Your knees are already weak, wobbling, as you grind down on him.

But you push through it as you continue to impale yourself on his cock, gummy walls clenching him tightly with each thrust. You want to get him off like this, even if your whole body is trembling above him. 

And it’s not like Jake doesn’t notice. But like the little shit he is, he doesn’t feel like helping. Because he enjoys the feeling too much, of your breasts bouncing filthily against his chest. When you lift yourself from his lips so that you can focus on riding him, he finds it so endearing. How you put your hands on his abdomen to steady yourself, how you fuck yourself on his length. How much you struggle to take all of him in. Not sure what to do with yourself.

‘My poor baby,’ Jake thinks, chuckling at how tight your eyes shut just to feel him better. 

“Need help?” he hums, his hand drawing circles on your hip. You shake your head, teeth gritted.

“N-no,” you try to muster out, but it’s unconvincing. Your movements are stuttering, moans slipping out of your mouth too easily. He smirks. His little pillow princess. 

Jake, with his grip on your hips, pulls you down onto his cock. Hard. You gasp as his hips snap up with it.

“Ah—” you cry out, your nails now digging into his shoulder blades. He pounds into a spot that had you almost come undone at that very moment. How did he get so good at this?

Jake lifts you, all the way until his pink tip is the only thing in your wet pussy. Then, as harshly as he could, he pushes you down on him, his thickness grazing at your deepest parts. And he does this again and again until you collapse onto his chest from the roughness of his thrusts.

“I’m gonna—Ngh—Fuck—You—” you try to say through your moans, try to sound angry. But you love it. Love how tight he grabs your bum. Love the slight stretch of pain as he stuffs you full of him. Love that trickle of spit that falls out of his mouth as his back lifts off the bed to feel you better. Ugh, you hate him.

“JAKE—”

“Shhh, baby, ” he whispers, forcing your face into the crook of his neck. “Just take it.”

Jake plunges up into you, propelling your hips down with his harsh grip. He lifts a heavy hand, smacking your ass from behind as you try to match his timing. You scream. He does it again, massaging the tender spot. The pain mixes with the pleasure, as tears prick the corner of your eyes. You feel your climax building now as your lips find his neck again, sucking and biting. Marking him. Let everyone know that he’s yours. That you own him.

“Babe…” he whines, too lost in the suctioning of your tightness to really care. Because he’s close too. So fucking close. 

Jake’s arms move up to your back, caging you into a bear-like embrace. His feet plant themselves on the bed, as his dick shoves into you with newfound energy. He’s going so fast, you could practically hear the speed. Feel it too. The wet squelches of his balls slapping against your ass. You move with him, trying to sync your rhythm to his.

“Mmm—Ahh—” your moans jumble into each other. Your legs are trembling, even more than they were before. A searing feeling within you continues to build and build. A single, full thrust from him has you biting into his neck brutally, stifling your moans as your orgasm crashes through you in waves. 

“Shit—” he cries out, from both the pain of your teeth and the pleasure of your cunt's constricting grip. You grind down on him, whimpering into his skin, back arched to ease yourself through the sensitivity.

Jake’s dick twitches in you once, then twice. He pushes you off of him and onto the bed, harsher than he intended. But he doesn’t have a condom on, and... he likes the way you look in white.

He hovers over you now, his painfully hard length in his hand. He’s stroking himself with urgency, fist wrapped around himself with a panicked grip. He’s watching you intently as you splay out underneath him. So fucking pretty for him. Lips bruised and bitten so sensually. Legs opened with your juices glistening on the inside of your thighs. Maybe he should stuff his cock into your—

“Fuck—” he groans, mouth parting at the sight of his thick ropes of cum spurting out of him, coating your stomach and tits. He strokes slowly, pumping all that he’s worth onto your body. You welcome it, eyes drinking in his flushed demeanor.

“I love you,” Jake mutters as he comes down from his high. And you don’t say anything back, distracted as your fingers coat themselves on the sticky fluids on your skin. Such a mess, both of you.

You hear it then. Intense vibrations on his nightstand. Jake’s phone, very much neglected, is blowing up with texts and calls. Was it going off like that the whole time? Then his eyes go wide like saucers.

“Shit! The party—” 

Your eyes narrow. Before he can pick it up, you grab the nape of his neck to pull him down into another sloppy kiss. Your legs wrap around Jake once more, smirking as you feel him melt into you with little resistance.

“What party?”

morning after.

“You’re a bitchhhh,” Sunghoon cries out, over a FaceTime call that Jake was forced to pick up at nine in the morning. You were already gone by then, running late to your morning lecture. 

Heeseung, thankfully, still hadn’t returned to the dorm. Or else you wouldn’t have been able to stay over and let Jake devour you a few more times, but that’s besides the point. He starts humming happily to himself with the memories of last night still fresh in his mind.

“They wouldn’t even let me into the bar because I was wearing the wrong colors,” his friend continues to complain.

“I get it, I get it,” Jake replies, only half-listening. He’s fixing his outfit in the mirror, admiring how well a polo shirt fits him. It’s weird. He’s getting used to not looking like a dweeb all the time, just a few weeks into his big transformation, even with his glasses on right now.

“Yo, do you think these pants look better with a belt or nah?” he asks, not really sparing Sunghoon a glance. He adjusts his shirt’s collar slightly until—

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

Jake jumps, phone nearly dropping from the desk he sat it on.

“WHAT IS THAT?!”

“What? What?!” Jake snaps his head to look behind himself, like Sunghoon might have seen a ghost.

“Did you get eaten by a fucking lion?!” Sunghoon gawks. Jake’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red.

Damn, he forgot.

“W-what are you talking about?” he mutters unconvincingly, slowly coming out of frame. He strips the polo off in a panic, digging through his closet until he finds a turtleneck. It’s autumn anyway. This is fine, right?

“Our friendship is done,” Sunghoon deadpans at the camera. “You got fucking laid and didn’t tell me?! I mean, I understand Jay, he’d make it weird. BUT NOT EVEN ME?!”

Jake shakes his head, tugging the turtleneck on. He tries to roll up his sleeves to look more casual, but now he looks like Steve Jobs. Shit. He should put his contacts on.

“So who is it?!” Sunghoon presses. “Who’s the unlucky girl?” 

 When Jake doesn’t reply, Sunghoon gasps.

“Unlucky guy?!”

“Man, shut up!” Jake cries, snatching his phone off the desk and coming back into frame. “Please don’t tell Jay.”

–

“Okay, so he told Jay,” he blurts, shielding himself with his arm like you’re about to hit him. “Please don’t get mad at me.”

You almost asked why he was wearing a turtleneck in relatively warm weather when he tugged the collar down to show his neck. Absolutely purple and bruised. And yes. Maybe a dark, suppressed part of you jumped with glee. But the more rational part started cursing yourself out.

“I can’t believe you’d video call him the morning after,” you groan, massaging your temple with your fingers. “Ugh, I’m so stupid. What was I even thinking?!”

Jake gives you a sly smile. “I mean, I’m not complaining—”

You shoot him another icy stare, and he stops. 

“W-well, it’s not like they know that it’s you! They probably think it’s someone else…”

You inhale a sharp breath at the thought. Was he gonna tell them the hickeys on his neck were from someone else? Who? Choa?

“Whatever,” you mutter, whipping around as your bag purposely smacked his bicep. You walk off, fists clenched, ignoring Jake’s calls out to you. 

Fucking Choa.

–

A full week has passed since the disaster that was Sunghoon seeing Jake’s bruised neck. Your boyfriend only felt safe enough to see the two idiots once the marks faded, and even then, he was a little disappointed to wake up and see them all gone. 

“So run it through with me again,” Jay requests, leaning over the boiling hot pot broth. The boys sit in a dimly lit restaurant with a stage in the back. 

“Like, you were just walking back to your dorm and boom—you found a rando to hook up with out of nowhere?!” Jay questions, dropping tofu into the soup so aggressively that it splashes Jake’s wrist.

“Why are you making up fantasies in your head about my sex life?” Jake mutters, pushing his glasses up his face. He was too lazy to put his contacts on just to hang out with these two. “I plead the fifth.”

“Bro, I thought you were a virgin this whole time!” Sunghoon adds unhelpfully. “Excuse us for trying to be supportive.”

Jake rolls his eyes, struggling to grab an udon noodle with his chopsticks.

“Wait,” Jay says through the hot pot steam. “Weren’t you walking with [Y/N] that night?”

Jake gulps, throat bobbing as he fiddles with the noodle more to avoid suspicion.

“Right!” Sunghoon snaps his fingers, and for a second, Jake’s life flashes before his eyes. They know. They have to! Fuck, you’re gonna be so mad at him—

“Why don’t we just ask her who it was?”

Jake stares at them and breaks out into a nervous laugh. Never in his life was he happier to have a more idiotic set of childhood friends.

“Please do,” Jake smiles, wondering how you would weasel out of that conversation with them. “She knows her very well…”

A piercing sound of microphone feedback ricochets through the restaurant. The three cover their ears as everyone’s attention turns to the neglected stage.

“Who wants to sing?! It's open mic night!” the restaurant owner booms. When a deafening silence fills the air, Jay lifts Jake’s hand straight into the air without hesitation.

“This guy loves Celine Dion!” he cries out as Jake tries to yank his arm back down. He curses at his friend, but to no avail.

“Okay!” the owner shouts excitedly. “Come on right up, sir!” 

Jay and Sunghoon practically drag Jake up the stage, laughing themselves all the way back to their seats in the far back of the restaurant. Jake stands frozen as dozens of strangers stare at him, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He takes off his glasses, shoving them in his pocket, and brushes his hair back. He couldn't bear to look at all these blank faces staring at him. Confidence. This is all about confidence.

When ‘My Heart Will Go On' starts echoing through the restaurant walls, Jake’s face flushes all the way red. This is exposure therapy; he tries to cope with himself. If he could do this, he could probably build up the courage to ask you about going public. So that his friends stop thinking he’s a loser. Maybe for you to stop thinking it, too.

He sucks in a deep breath. What’s the difference between this and a showerhead? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

“Every night in my dreams, I see youuuu… I feel youuu…” he starts slowly, welcomed with a soft gasp from an audience member. Jay and Sunghoon’s laughter dies as Jake sings. Shit. He was actually doing it. And he sounded good, too. Like an angel. Was Jay crying?

Jake loses himself in the slow melody of the song, singing his heart out as he does in every postgame shower. ‘This one’s for you, babe,’ he thinks. Wherever you are… 

When the song ends and Jake’s eyes open, he’s met with a standing ovation. At a damn hot pot restaurant. Jay and Sunghoon are cheering the loudest, holding their hearts like their once-nerdy best friend was their child at a talent show. The owner comes up to the stage, sniffling.

“Give it up for this random kid!”

As Jake makes his way back to the table, he holds his head up high. He couldn’t have imagined doing this a year before, let alone ordering food at a kiosk without stuttering. It’s like taking off his glasses gave him super powers.

“Excuse me—” Jake turns around. A girl with long flowing hair stops him. 

“Are you Jake Sim? The freshman on the football team?” she asks, eyes bright. He nods. Does he know her?

“I’m Suji from the Dance department.” She bows slightly. “Your performance was incredible, by the way!” 

He nods, giving a small “thanks,” before he turns back around.

“Actually!” She calls after him. He stops again. “I just wanted to ask if you were interested in auditioning to be the male lead of our upcoming musical! It’s about a football player who finds passion in singing and dancing. I just thought it would fit you so well!”

Jake turns back to face the stranger. He ponders deeply. A musical? Him? He’d never thought about it before, but what the hell! He guesses he’s the type to try new things now. The power of a good haircut, maybe.

“I’ll think about it,” he says with a polite smile. 

Suji grins back. “Auditions start tomorrow. We’d love to have you.”

By the time Jake finds his way back to his seat, his friends are already geeking.

“You pulled another?!” Jay cries in anguish, biting his fist. “I should have gone up there. That should have been me! Damn it!”

“It’s not fair,” Sunghoon wails, leaning his head dramatically against the wall. “You had no play in high school. Like absolutely zero bitches—”

Jake snorts, scrounging for his glasses once more to slip them back on. “She was just asking me to audition for some musical.”

“I’m sure she was,” Jay says with a smirk. “I’m sure she’s staring straight at your back right now because she wants you in that musical soooo bad.”

Jake shifts in his chair uncomfortably, and sure enough, Suji is watching him. She shoots up her arm to wave. He looks back at his friends with a confused glance.

“Maybe they’re desperate?”

Sunghoon groans. “I’m gonna call [Y/N]. Let’s get her expertise on this.”

“Don’t!” Jake lunges, trying to grab Sunghoon’s phone as he takes it out of his pocket. But then flashes from that night start playing in his head. You above him. Riding him. Gripping his shoulders. Your lips on his neck, marking him until he whined and begged. All at the mere mention of Choa’s weird pet name for him. Jake clears his throat and sits back, not even trying to hide the shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

“...Yeah,” he says more casually. “Ask her.”

–

ma baby: Come over. Now.

Jake receives your text after Sunghoon’s impromptu call, bringing his hands together in a prayer position to the sky. Thank you to whatever higher being was watching over him.

When he reaches your residence hall, you’re waiting outside your door in pajamas, foot tapping impatiently against the carpet. You start glaring at his silhouette even before he comes into view. 

“So,” you start slowly, “you just let anyone talk to you these days?”

Jake’s already giddy. Yes… Be angry with him… Let him in your dorm room and reprimand him, while you’re at it…

“Babeeee,” he teases, his arms already reaching for yours. You dodge him. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” you reply flatly. “I’m just wondering when you started serenading restaurants and accepting invitations from random girls?”

“Just thought I could finally get some appreciation for my many talents,” he says teasingly, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you saying I don’t appreciate you?” you ask, not at all amused by his playful gaze. “I tell you all the time that you’re smart!”

He chuckles. “Everyone and your mom knows that by now, babe.”

You narrow your eyes. ‘He’s learning how to fight back,’ you think sourly. 

“So you enjoyed that girl's appreciation, then?” you counter, knowing that you were riling yourself up by asking such a loaded question. Jake bites his lip to stifle a smile. There it is. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, pushing his glasses up. “I think I might actually consider auditioning!”

And this part is genuine. He’s always enjoyed singing. It could be a cool new experience, especially since he shied away from doing theater back in high school. Maybe now was his moment to shine... But when he notices how your expression darkens, he’s suddenly excited to audition for the musical for a whole different reason.

You look around the hallway, checking to see if anyone's coming by. Then you pull him by the collar and into your dorm room. The door shuts behind you two as you push him to sit on the bed. Jake looks up, eyes bright with pure anticipation as you climb onto his lap.

“What’s up, babe?” he asks, feigning ignorance. And you fall for it. Because your cute, nerdy boyfriend couldn’t possibly have ulterior motives… Right?

“You have class tomorrow?” you ask as you adjust yourself on him, legs encasing both sides of his thighs. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer.

“It depends,” he says, knowing full well he has an 8 a.m. physics lab. “Is your roommate coming back anytime soon?”

Oh yeah. Her. 

“Not tonight,” you mutter, already peppering his neck with small kisses. “She’s visiting her parents.”

Jake smirks, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip as the wheels are already turning in his head. He fakes a cough.

“You know… I think the musical is actually a romantic comedy.”

You’re on your knees, carpet harshly grazing your skin. 

“Fuck,” Jake groans, head thrown back as his hand clutches your hair. He’s pushing you down onto his cock, relishing in the way your cheeks hollow around him. How you take his whole length into your mouth without your usual snappy commentary. Look at you. Underneath him. So eager to please, but so in need of control. He bites his bottom lip at the view. It's addictive.

“Just like that,” Jake encourages, stroking your cheek so lovingly. Your tongue licks the underside of his thickness, careful not to have your teeth graze his sensitive skin. He’s so flushed above you, a darkness blooming in your heart. The sight of his glasses pushed so low on his nose bridge. So focused, so desperate for release.

‘My Jake,’ you think to yourself. ‘All mine.’

You bob your head up and down, your mouth plunging down to the base of his member with the help of his tight grasp on your hair.

“Y-yes,” he sighs, his hips coming up to meet your lips. Jake’s gaze never leaves yours, unable to tear his eyes from the tears forming in your eyes from just how much he fills you up. You always had something to say. Always rolling your eyes at him. Now, your eyes were rolling back for a different reason.

His mouth falls open. “F-fuck—” 

You smirk as his hips start to lose rhythm. You remember the first time you gave him head. Just like this, knees on the floor of his room back home, with his parents watching TV downstairs. Glasses perched and foggy. He came within seconds. You were proud, just a little, that he was able to last this long now.

“B-babe?” he tries to cry out. “I’m close—”

You pull away from him with a pop of your lips, teasing the slit of his tip with the flat of your tongue. He groans in frustration, but his hands don’t push you down to take him in again.

“Already?” you say, eyes batting up at him. “Why should I give you the satisfaction?” 

He whines, his grip on your hair tightening just a little. 

“Please?” he asks, not really sure what you want from him. It’s not like he asked you to just fuck him with your mouth! That was all your doing. Okay, yes, maybe he did provoke you. But did that mean he didn’t deserve to orgasm?!

You’re pumping him slowly with your right hand, gripping tightly and stroking enough so that he’s still edging close to his climax. But not close enough to actually reach it.

“I thought I was supposed to be showing you appreciation,” you say pointedly. “Take my time with you and all that.”

He shakes his head ferociously, his hips snapping up into your fist. 

“Babe—Please—I’m so—” he groans when he feels you slow your pace again. 

“So what?” you ask, feigning naivety. You really are the devil.

He shakes his head. He can’t speak. Can’t even think. Just frustrated with how your lips aren’t wrapped around his fucking dick anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’ll do anything, baby. Please—Just stop teasing—Please—”

His sobs are music to your ears. Your wrist’s pace on him quickens, as your mouth engulfs his swollen tip. Your tongue circles the head, pumping him up and down with all your strength and might. Jake’s hands are clutching the sheets, hips pistoning up into your sticky fingers. He feels his load threatening to spill over. 

“Fuck—Yes, baby—There—” He pulls your head back, hand encasing yours, pumping ferociously with you. Your mouth is wide open, tongue sticking out, eyes looking directly up at his. An invitation.

Spurts of his hot, white release coat your pink tongue. He unloads everything within him all over your features. Your cheeks. Your chin. Your cute ass nose. All covered in his milky cum. His mouth parts at the sight. So pretty. His girlfriend is so fucking pretty.

“I love you,” he whispers, as he wipes dribbles of his liquid off your chin with his thumb. “I love you so fucking much…”

You hum back in approval as he lifts you back up and onto his lap. Your face, still stained with his orgasm, comes up to kiss him. He grimaces slightly. You taste infinitely better than he does. He’s almost thankful you part ways with his lips so that you could pepper kisses down his neck.

And when you start sucking and nipping in the same way you did that game night, he smiles. His arms wrap around your waist as you suction his pulse point.

‘I could get used to this,’ Jake thinks.

The audition the next day went surprisingly easily. He truly was the only one trying out for the main role, while Suji was already pre-selected to play the female lead. Jake thinks it’s a bit unfair. What if other people wanted to audition too? But whatever. At least he got the part.

He finds you in between your lectures, holding out a boba for you in his hand. Jake’s not wearing a turtleneck this time, proudly wearing the battle scars of your teeth on his neck. No one’s brave enough to bring it up to him yet, to his dismay. Except you, who promptly smacks him in the arm for his shamelessness. 

“You look like a pervert,” you grumble, still taking the drink from him.

He chuckles at your cute expression. You say that like it wasn’t your intention to have him show the bites off. To show that he is very much occupied with someone else. Not Choa. Or whoever this other girl was.

“I was wearing my jacket the whole day,” he reassures. “Just took it off when I came to see you.”

He flexes slightly. “You think I’ve bulked recently?”

You roll your eyes and ignore his obvious fish for compliments. “So how’d it go? The audition?”

He smiles. “You’re looking at the male lead of Singing Striker,” he says proudly, hand to chest. “And before you ask, the name was not my choice.”

You scoff at the cheesiness. “Congrats,” you say through small sips of your gifted drink. “Break a leg.”

“Babe… when you say it like that, I feel like you mean it the other way.”

You shake your head, speaking robotically. “So who’s the female lead? It’s a romcom, you said?”

“The girl,” he starts, snapping his fingers like he doesn’t already know who she is. “Suji. From the restaurant. The one who recruited me.”

Your eyes morph into a squint, like you’re glaring at him. 

“...Interesting,” you say, willing yourself not to overreact. So Jake is hot now (always was). Girls just love to approach him with invitations to stuff. And he gets to act in a musical with someone that Jay described as “the baddest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.” Great! You love that, actually.

You bite down hard on the boba straw. “You know what… Are they casting for extras?"

And it's like a bad habit now. How you nip and scar his neck like you’re feeding off him every time a girl even so much looks in his direction. It’s easier than saying you’re jealous, easier than admitting that you have a sick sort of need to control who Jake interacts with.

You almost bent a metal spoon in the cafeteria when a girl asked for his number while you were sitting right in front of him. Granted, you did denounce being in a relationship with him pretty heavily the first few weeks at school. You knew she had every right to shoot her shot, but that didn't stop you from taking Jake right into a janitorial closet and making you eat him out as an apology.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans into the space between your thighs as your hands push him deeper into your wetness. “I've never even seen that girl in my life—”

You grit your teeth, angry that he even mentioned her.  “Did I ask?” you growl through sharp breaths. “Just shut up.”

He smiles against your clit, sucking harshly to elicit more of your beautiful noises. He hums into you. Happy that you're mad at him. Happy that he gets to do dirty things with you without having to practically be on his knees and begging. Well, really, he already was.

His tongue laps at your folds, thrusting in and out to prolong his stay in between your thighs. Maybe he is teasing, but really, he’s just taking it all in. Your addictive noises. Your sweet taste. The feeling of his fingers digging into your ass just to hold you up. The way you clench around his tongue when he arches it inside, real deep. Yeah, he needs you bad.

Jake is lapping at you, your legs constricting around him even tighter when he finds his way back to your clit. When he tugs on it with his teeth, you jolt.

“Jake—” He does not care. He nips again, flattening his tongue to soothe the slight pinch. You arch your back into him, riding his face until you stop yourself. You look desperate. Pathetic even. But Jake groans.

“Keep going,” he huffs. “Use me, babe. Use me like I’m your fucking toy.”

You tsk, wondering where he learned to talk like that. 

“Fucking pervert,” you mutter through harsh breaths. But your grip on him does tighten, and he whimpers at the feeling of you tugging on his locks.

“You like it when I'm like this, don't you?” You grit your teeth, pushing him in further. His nose is practically buried into your clit as he fucks his pink muscle into you at a merciless pace.

“Like when you get attention. Like when everyone fucking wants you.”

You're seething, practically riling yourself up. He tries to speak, but you clench around his tongue, trapping his voice. He hums into your folds instead, licking the roof of your warm hole as he finds the exact spot he's been searching for. You mewl.

“Fuck! T-there!”

You're grinding onto his face now, smothering him with your scent. Yes, he thinks to himself, please suffocate him. Tremors go through your body as you feel something intense build in the lower pit of your stomach. So close. So fucking close.

Jake’s grip on your ass loosens as he lets you do all the work. Your legs over his shoulder pump furiously into his face. Like, Jake is just a mere vessel for your climax. And he wouldn't have it any other way. He doesn't even nurse his own hard-on, one that's painfully stretching his jeans. 

You're fucking his tongue, whining with each thrust, eyes starting to roll back, fingers almost pulling Jake’s hair from his scalp. Your hips stutter and then—

“Fuuuck…” Your orgasm pulses through you in ways that have you screaming silently. Your legs are trembling as his mouth vibrates with his hums against your core. Jake’s lapping up all your juices with an urgency.

Everything. He wants to taste everything. When you gently push him off from the oversensitivity, he resists at first. He holds you in place until he gets his fill, until tears are threatening to spill over. But your legs finally find the ground as he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, out of breath. 

‘Whore’ you want to say out loud, but you know that would only make him hornier. He’s weirdly into stuff like that. But you smile as you comb through his hair. He doesn’t have complaints about you messing it all up as long as you’re fucking him, huh?

Jake, still on his knees, looks up at you with a lick of his lips, savoring the remaining taste of you on it. You wish he could see how he looked. Flushed. Damp. Yours. You almost lift him up to kiss him when—Ding.

The loving gaze you two share is cut off by the sound of his phone. He finally gets up from his knees, checking the notification.

“Oh shit,” he mutters. “Suji says I missed the costume fitting. I think I need to head out soon—”

You smash your lips against his, interrupting his train of thought. You moan at the taste of yourself on his devious tongue. Jake smirks, wrapping his arms around your waist. Maybe you could add a few more hickeys to his collection before he heads out... Just for good measure.

jake: let’s go to jay’s together?

For one of your weekly hangouts. The nights you try to avoid because they always end with you ignoring the pile of assignments you’ve already been putting off. 

you: sure. wya rn?

You smack your forehead the second you realize how quickly you sent that text. You swear you weren’t waiting. It wasn’t like you were staring at the last message he sent five hours ago, ruminating over whether it was appropriate to tell him how much you missed him.

jake: meet me by the bleachers :D practice is ending soon.

The speed at which you change outfits is impressive, already heading to the damn field before you realize it. He’s there, dribbling with a couple of his teammates. You sit at the top of the stands, a bit out of his sight. He catches a glimpse of you anyway and waves. You shoot him a simple smile of acknowledgement that dampens almost immediately.

Because you also see Choa, handing him a water bottle. When Jake reaches for it, trying to avoid brushing her hand, she purposefully finds his fingers anyway. It’s enough for your stomach to sink.

Even though he’s just smiling politely. Even when it looks like their conversation lasts for two seconds. It doesn’t feel any less bad. Choa notices you staring, and she scoffs. “This is a closed practice—”

“She’s with me,” Jake corrects her immediately. “I told her to come. That’s okay, right?”

You lift an eyebrow, challenging her. Jake said it the nice way. If she had to hear you speak, you would have probably been escorted off the field by now. She coughs awkwardly and nods, instantly folding under Jake’s attention. Your boyfriend, by the way.

“O-of course,” she stammers. “Just make sure she doesn’t see the playbook.”

The guys continue playing, and you move down a few rows, keeping Choa in your line of sight. It’s like she feels the daggers you send her way because she whips around to glare at you.

“It’s kind of pathetic,” she starts. “How you cling onto him.” You squint at her, not sure if you heard her correctly. You turn around, too, to check if she really had the audacity to speak to a stranger like you in that way.

“You talking to me?” you ask, pointing at yourself mockingly. She clicks her tongue.

“Who else?” she bites back. “Do you even have a name, or do you usually just go by Jake’s guard dog?”

Your cheeks burn in anger. Oh, if you were in high school… She’d have been on the ground by now, makeup stained with turf and pebbles. But unfortunately, you’re trying to stick to your resolution. A reformed delinquent girl at a prestigious university—

“You mute too?” Choa adds in for good measure. You stand, and it’s like Jake’s Spidey senses tingle because he stops to watch, monitoring if he needs to step in.

“You know,” you say, voice cool and devoid of emotion, “you’ve got a lot to say for someone who has to talk like a baby to get a man’s attention.”

She snarls. “Excuse me?”

“Jake’s not gonna let you hit,” you mock, scanning her up and down with a disgusted face. You only say the next part just to piss her off. “You’re not really his type.”

“And you are?” She steps in closer. “You’re stuck in the fucking friendzone, acting like hot shit—”

Oh, if only she knew. The truth is sitting on your tongue, burning, begging to be spoken just so you can wipe that stupid smirk off her face. But you’re not that angry yet. Not enough to expose yourself.

“You seem like such a loser,” she continues, voice laced with malice. “Everyone already thinks you look like some stray puppy following Jake everywhere he goes. Don’t you have a life of your own? Any hobbies? Isn’t it sad showing up where you’re not wanted?”

Ouch. Jake was your puppy. He follows you around everywhere. 

She digs right into that ugly little fear in the back of your mind. That you look as pitiful as you feel. That you truly were just biding your time in this dumb university until Jake showers you with attention. Is this what a relationship’s supposed to feel like? Like you’re waiting for him, all the damn time?

You inhale a deep breath. You’re better than this. Better than catfights over someone that’s already yours. A man who sleeps on your chest almost every night... But you’re not above being petty.

“And did he tell you all that,” you ask with fake sweetness, “or are your delusions that Jake’s gonna fuck you starting to get to your brain?”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off. “I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you,” you continue, sarcasm dripping in your voice. “Make sure Jakey knows exactly the kind of girl you are.”

Choa bites the inside of her cheek. “Not like I said anything wrong.”

“Oh, right.” You pitch your voice up to that grating baby tone she uses with Jake. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate you calling me a ‘fucking loser,’ since you care so much about what he thinks.”

You could laugh at her suddenly hunched shoulders, but you just drop back down onto your seat, fake scrolling through your phone. “Don’t you have a team to manage?”

Choa whips her bob around, stomping back toward the group and desperately hoping that no one heard. But Jake is already staring. He doesn’t look mad. Just resigned. 

“Choa?” he calls out, voice low and almost inaudible. He’s not smiling like usual.

“Yes?” she answers immediately, with that lilted tone that sounds like nails on a chalkboard. You don’t hear the conversation that takes place, so curious as to why Choa’s expression suddenly drops.

“Don’t ever talk to her like that again,” he says, and the entire team stiffens around them. 

“And next time,” he adds, walking past her, “Just mind your fucking business.”

–

You never, in all your years of living, thought you’d be sitting in an auditorium seat watching your boyfriend act like he was in love with another girl on stage. But here you are, leg bouncing and forearms itching from the irritation bubbling in your chest.

“But don't you get it?!” Jake rehearses, script in hand. His hands flail in fake exasperation. You cover your mouth to hide the wince forming on your lips. “How can I choose between the stage and football?!”

“You don't have to choose,” Suji steps in, acting much better than Jake, at least. “You can do both.”

Jake sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. He's facing her now.

She's pretty, you think. Really pretty. Probably one of the most gorgeous girls you've ever seen in your life. And Jake is staring right into her eyes. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks the same. You grit your teeth at the thought.

“But what would people think of me?” he sighs. Suji shakes her head, moving closer. Your brows knit. That's not part of the script.

“Who cares what other people think?” she says softly, resting her hand on his chest. Your expression darkens immediately. “If it feels like you're alone… Then I can be there to support you.”

Maybe Jake's character should care what other people think, especially if he’s gonna prioritize singing on stage with some pretty girl over his football career—

You slap your own cheek lightly. Relax.

“Cut,” the musical director calls out. “Great job, you two! After this is the dance scene. We can rehearse that tomorrow. I think that's all for the day.”

When the actors and stage crew finally funnel out, you watch Jake stay behind, chatting with his costars onstage. So radiant, smiling at them with his toothy grin and cracking jokes as he says goodbye. He never used to be like that. Used to be so painfully shy that Jay had to accept his academic awards for him in high school.

And yeah, you feel like shit when he's standing there, surrounded by people who have stars in their eyes when he talks, while you're grumpily waiting in a faraway seat with no real excuse to interrupt. You're just part of the stage crew, after all. Just one of the invisible people who move props in between scenes while Jake and Suji’s characters fall deeply in love with each other. Yuck.

But you’re not gonna do the usual thing of dragging him to the nearest secluded area and fucking his brains out. No—you’re better than that. You’re not a loser! You’d let this pass.

“Bye, I’ll catch up with you guys soon! My friend’s waiting for me.”

The word ‘friend’ digs deep into your heart. But that’s your own fault.

Jake walks toward you, and the quick smile he throws your way is cut short the moment he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He stops in front of you, forehead still glistening from the stage lights, eyes glued to the screen even as he talks.

“I have practice in like thirty minutes,” he sighs, scrolling through his calendar. “And then the crew wants to have, like, a group dinner later tonight.”

He cranes his neck to release some tension, finally looking up at you. “Damn. My character is lowkey right. It really is hard balancing the two.”

You roll your eyes and stand up. “The crew? Like Jay and Sunghoon?”

He shakes his head as he walks beside you, still a bit occupied with his phone. He's sending text messages to some massive group chat, text bubble after text bubble popping up.

“The main acting crew,” he says, emphasizing the second word. “I think they wanna run the lines at En Bar and get a couple of drinks.”

You almost stop in your tracks, but you force yourself to continue walking with him, arms crossed. Good for him, you think. And you mean it. He's adjusted so well to university life, while yours feels like it revolves around him.

What's Jake up to? Is his practice done? Who's he talking to? Is it Choa? Is it Suji? Is it every girl that makes eye contact with your newly socially adept boyfriend, who just so happens to have the most gorgeous face known to mankind?

You want to punch yourself real bad.

“Do you wanna come?” he asks when he notices you've fallen silent. He thinks it's cute when you're jealous. Sulking and pouty—when it’s obvious why you’re upset. Not when you're quiet. Not when you're creating distance between you two as he walks beside you.

“I can ask them if we can reserve more chairs—”

“It's fine!” you interrupt, but even you don’t convince yourself. “I have work to catch up on anyway.”

His lips part as if recalling something important, something he promised you. 

“I'm so sorry, babe!” he gasps. “I totally forgot that you needed help studying for your exam tomorrow!”

You shrug your shoulders. You’re a cool girlfriend. Super chill. Not crazy at all.

“No, it's okay,” you say, chain necklace feeling heavy on your chest. “I'll just go to the tutoring center. You're busy, I get it.”

His eyes are still laced with concern. You sound so disconnected, so not yourself. Did he do something wrong?

“I can come over tomorrow?” he suggests, but it almost comes out as a plea. “We can watch the new movie you wanted—”

“My roommate’s gonna be home.”

“Okay…” he says, voice fading. “What about my dorm?”

You shake your head.  “I'm not really up for a movie, I guess.” 

Jake’s expression sours. It feels like you’re shoving sheets of metal down his throat. He can take you angry. Can handle you screaming, kicking, crying, and calling him names. He can’t take whatever this is.

“I can just cancel,” he says quickly. “I’ll come over tonight!”

And Choa’s voice resounds in your ear.

“You seem like a fucking loser.”

You bite your bottom lip and stare at his wavering gaze. You wonder if he pities you. 

Has he noticed? How quickly you reply to his texts? How often you show up to his extracurricular activities? How you can’t seem to admit that you’re hurting, even when he’s right here in front of you? God, you hate this feeling.

“It’s okay,” you say, and it’s small like a whisper. “Need some alone time anyway.”

“Alright,” he breathes, relenting to whatever boundary you’ve set with him. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your face, but when you flinch, he retracts his hand instantly.

“I love you?” he tests.

You give him a small smile and nod, pushing past him. He moves like he wants to catch your hand and stop you. But as always, he lets you walk just a little too out of his reach.

Because you still don’t say it back.

–

So this is what it feels like to twiddle your thumbs and try not to scream as Jake misses yet another hangout... He’s busy with his daily practices and rehearsals. You get that. But it’s still physically torturous to sit through Jay and Sunghoon stoking the fires of your insecurities.

“He’s gotta be seeing someone,” Sunghoon sighs, reclining into the beanbag in Jay’s apartment. “Dude just abandons his friends without any pussy involved? There’s no way.”

You smash a throw pillow from the couch and into his face, and Jay throws another one for good measure.

“Why do you always think with your dick?” Jay mutters. “Just let Jake be. This is his moment. Not like he had much to work with in high school.”

Sunghoon sighs. “Yeah,” he mumbles, almost apologetic. “He was pretty lame back then.”

You never thought so. Maybe you joked about it, but you never really meant it. He was kind. A little shy. So eager to please and follow you around. And now that the roles were reversed, you weren’t sure how to feel anymore. Fuck. Why couldn’t you just be happy for him?

He has this amazing life outside of you now. Cool friends (not Jay and Sunghoon). Great prospects for the future. It’s like a bird leaving the nest. Your carefully cultivated nest.

You felt like a cloud raining over his head when you’re around him now. After Choa, you started to notice the whispers around campus a little more. How people avoid him when you’re around because you can’t carry empty conversations about upcoming exam scores the same way Jake can.

It’s just different. He is. And it feels like you are too. But not a good different. It’s the kind that makes you feel like this isn’t how you should be. That you aren’t who you want to be… Maybe Choa was right.

And now a pillow is thrown in your direction. You shoot daggers at Sunghoon with your glare.

“What?!” you yell. He pounces in fear.

“I asked,” he coughs. “Is college treating you okay? You making friends?”

You roll your eyes. “Are you my dad?”

Jay sighs. “We always talk about Jake. Sue us for wanting to know how you’re doing for once.”

The words linger. What are you doing?

–

You’re stewing in it, marinating in how lonely it feels to stand in a corner with the stage crew while Jake, Suji, and the rest of the main cast laugh amongst themselves. Whatever.

“Those two are so cute,” a girl beside you says. Gaeul. So sweet, so bubbly. So oblivious to how tightly you clench your teeth. “They’d be like the it couple on campus, no?”

When you look between Jake and his toothy grin and Suji with her sweet laugh, you can’t help the way your heart constricts. “Yeah,” you mutter in disgruntled agreement. “I guess.”

Jake sends you sneaking glances, ones you don’t notice despite your eyes lingering on him. 

You haven't been the most responsive lately. He texts you a lot in between practices and rehearsals. Whenever he has the chance. He asks to come over. Asks you to come over. And you’ve turned him down almost every time.

You didn’t attend his last two games, you’re skipping rehearsals that you used to sit through for hours, and Jay knows where you're holed up more than he does. He’s worried about you. Worried that you’re avoiding him. Were you avoiding him?

“I heard you two are really good friends,” Gaeul asks you with sparkling eyes. “He seems like such a catch. How’d you not fall in love?”

You shrug. What answer are you supposed to give? It’s not like you were resistant to his charm either. “He went through a transformation recently,” you admit. “We were both kind of outcasts in high school.”

“Me too!” she says excitedly. “I bleached my hair, and everything before uni started. What about you? Were you two like super shy?”

You shake your head. “Jake was. I was just a bad student. Got in trouble a lot. My parents literally laughed when I told them I wanted to go here.”

And your heart thuds in your chest from a memory. Because Jake believed in you. Sat through hours of studying, teaching you the difference between derivatives and whatever the fuck linearization was, just for the chance to attend the same university. So he could spend time with you, so he could be with you. And now you barely see him.

“Really? I’m not surprised, though. You seem like such a chill girl. Like you don’t care what other people think of you.”

“Trust me. I’m far from it.” You catch Jake’s longing gaze again, but you turn away.

“Starting to think it was a mistake joining this thing,” you mumble, “with how often everyone forgets their lines.”

She laughs. “I like how straightforward you are,” she says with a wide smile. “Don’t really mince your words, do you?”

You smile too, in what feels like forever. It felt free to talk about something—anything—outside of him.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know how to hold back what I say.” Which is a lie. Because you hold back a lot. More than you let on. 

“Alright!” the stage manager yells. “Let’s get in position for the final scene.”

The kiss scene. The one you’ve dreaded for so long. You and Gaeul move across the stage, setting up the mics and instruments in their right place. You move past Jake with your head down. He frowns. So you are avoiding him.

“Places, people!”

You watch, from the wings, as Jake pours his heart out into the lyrics. A song about breaking free from stereotypes and whatever other inspirational stuff this whole musical’s about. He’s good. Really good. He moves like a natural on stage, throwing Suji these soft, tender glances that look so painfully real. She glows under the lights, stars in her eyes. And as the song comes to an end, he picks her up to spin her.

Just like the script says. And you clutch your forearm at the sight.

“I feel like I can really be myself with you,” he says to her. “Like I don’t have to hide or pretend.”

Whatever.

“And you make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.”

The two stare at each other. A pause. Jake leans in. And so does she. Fuck.

You can’t do this. Can’t watch. You turn and walk out the back exit. Your chest is heavy, constricted with that ugly pang of envy.

Fuck this feeling. It hurt. Why did it have to hurt? You hate the tears that well up in your eyes, hate the shivering of your shoulders as you hug yourself in the parking lot of the stupid auditorium. You need to go back in. Save face. Show how little that kiss scene affected you because you’re supposed to be his friend in the eyes of everyone else.

You clutch your necklace through your shirt, fingers twisting the ring. Jake, who loves you. Who desperately wants your relationship to be public, to show you off. The same Jake on stage kissing another girl for a stupid musical you didn’t even want to be a part of.

He doesn’t deserve this. This monstrous version of you, who cares too much but gives too little. Overbearing to the point of suffocation.

So you walk back in, face steeled and tears wiped. He’s talking to the director with Suji, like nothing happened. Like all semblance of your self-esteem wasn’t just ruined a few minutes ago. But you need to stop. Because it isn't his fault. It isn't even Suji’s.

It’s yours. You hurt your own feelings.

Jake sees you and immediately lights up, calling your name as he jogs over. You don’t smile back.

“I have some time after rehearsals,” he says lovingly, his hand tugging your arm. “Wait for me?”

This would be the last time you would.

–

He tries to hold your hand on the walk back home to steady his heart rate. Opening night creeps closer and closer, and preparation alone won’t save him from the nerves. But when you pull away before his fingers can intertwine with yours, he flinches.

Maybe there are too many people around, Jake tells himself. You’re probably worried about being seen. And so he continues his merry yapping. He doesn’t notice the defeated glint in your eyes or the slow steps you take next to his. He’s still riding the high from rehearsal, still proud he finally made it through every line without stuttering or needing the script.

Maybe he’ll do well enough on opening night that you’ll let him kiss you afterward. Maybe you’ll walk toward him with flowers while he wraps you in his arms. He’d spin you around, brag to the whole world that you’re his girlfriend. Say it loud and proud in front of annoying ass Jay and Sunghoon, who got front row seats.

The thought pulls a grin onto Jake’s face, making him skip ahead a little. And you both keep walking toward the dorms. Just like any other day.

Until you ruin it.

“I’m dropping out of the stage crew,” you say, casually. He stops in his tracks. All semblance of a smile wipes from his face. The show is sold out. It’s too late to get you tickets. 

“You won’t be able to watch,” he says, panic laced in his voice. You’re at a standstill, in the middle of campus, surrounded by trees and concrete. “You should’ve told me! I can see if I can pull some strings—”

He’s already taking his phone out to text someone. Probably the director. He doesn’t even ask why. Just goes straight to problem-solving. Your Jake. Too good. Too kind. Too forgiving.

It’s too much.

“I’m not coming to watch,” you say, harsher this time, stopping him from sending the message. Guilt washes over you instantly. Because he looks at you with his brows knit together, eyes wavering.

“I don’t understand.”  You don’t want to come? You don’t want to support him?

Your mouth opens to say something. Anything. But your throat feels hoarse, shoulders too heavy. Shit. Don’t cry. You don’t cry in front of anyone.

“Jake,” you start, clenching your quivering hands open and closed. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His heart drops. 

“Do what anymore?” he swallows, his mouth dry. “I’m confused—”

“I think we need to break up.”

Numb. Everything is numb.

“W-what?” Tears sting Jake’s eyes before he can blink them back. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

You shake your head. “Jake,” you whisper, careful not to get too close. Careful so you don’t make the mistake of taking back your words. “I don’t think we’re good for each other.”

He inches forward. You take a step back.

“Do you think that? That I’m not good enough—”

“No,” you interrupt. But he isn’t listening. And he doesn’t want to. Because this feels like a fucked up joke, a prank on him that’s been taken too far. Won’t you stop?

“Because if it’s something I did, I can change,” he begs. And your heart breaks a little at how desperately he searches for a hint of emotion in your face. But you don’t relent. You can be the bad guy. You always are. 

“Please. We can talk this through.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, an unusual softness in your voice. “I don’t want to change my mind—”

“Why not?!” he asks, voice louder. The quiet that falls between you two is masked by the rustle of surrounding trees, orange and red leaves falling around you two. The cool, autumn air brushes your face. His eyes sting with redness. 

“Why don’t you tell me anything?” His voice cracks. The aching in your heart makes you want to give in, to take it all back. But you aren’t like Jake. You can’t adjust, can’t welcome change so openly. 

So as you look at him with his slicked back hair and sharp features, so different from a year ago, it feels like you've already lost something. The version of yourself who had more to give than hollow excuses and marks left on his skin.

You couldn’t admit to it even now. That you hate who you’ve become. “I’m telling you right now,” you gulp, bracing your own words. “That I want to break up.”

And the first semblance of tears falls down Jake’s cheeks as he lets out a bitter laugh. He doesn’t believe it. Can’t accept it. He won’t let this be the end.

“If it’s because of what Choa said—”

Your brows furrow. “You heard what she said?” 

His hands are in his hair, tugging at it with frustration. You seem angry, but he doesn’t know why. He never does.

“I told her to mind her business,” he explains quickly. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. So if you’re breaking up with me just because she called you clingy or whatever…”

And he doesn’t know it, but the words trigger something in you. Something you’ve been pushing down over and over again. The feeling of seeming weak, of needing him. The need to monopolize. It sickens you.

“It matters what I think Jake!” you finally burst out. Frustration etched in your voice, shaky from the cold air and your wavering emotions. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“All I ever do now is wonder who you’re with, why you’re with them, and I just… I just feel so fucking lonely.”

He reaches for you, but you push him away. Your grievances spill out of you before you can hold them back.

“I’m paranoid of anyone who talks to you. I couldn’t even fucking watch you do that stupid kiss scene,” you continue. 

“We didn’t even kiss!”

“That’s not the fucking point!” you scream, before you can stop yourself. You inhale sharply when he flinches. Calm down. This is not his fault. Why are you getting angry with him?

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, taking one more step back. He holds your wrist gently to keep you in place.

Jake stares at you with his lips parted, stunned. “So why can’t we just go public?” he pleads. “You wouldn’t have to feel this way if—”

“That’s not the issue either,” you scoff, but you can’t even convince yourself. Because isn’t this how it all started? Your unwillingness to be embarrassed, to seem vulnerable in front of others. Was this not the root of it all?

“Then what is?!” he cries, his grip on your wrist tightens, not to hurt you, but so that you don’t run. Because you’re good at that. Running.

“I get insecure too,” he reassures, but you look past him now. “But I tell you. I tell you when I’m hurt, I tell you when I’m down. Because I… I want you to understand me. I want to understand you too…”

He swallows hard before continuing. “So I don’t get why you would even bring up breaking up before we even try to solve the problem together—”

“Because I don’t want to solve it, Jake.”

His hold on you loosens instantly, arm dropping to his side. You feel colder as he steps back. Jake stares at you, hurt laced in his gaze. Like you stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife in to marinate.

“...You're always like this,” he mutters under his breath. “Always saying hurtful things without thinking about how they make me feel.”

He feels his throat close up as he draws in some baited breaths. The tears come in more heavily, his cheeks damp as they roll down his pained face. 

“So you see what I mean?” you say, your own tears threatening to spill over without you even realizing. A part of him instinctively wants to wipe them away, to pull you close and make it stop. But all he feels is anger. Because you’re the one breaking up with him. You’re the one choosing to end things. What right do you have to cry? What right do you have to look shattered when he's the one in pieces?

“I’m horrible to you,” you let out with pained laughter. He shakes his head immediately. 

“No, you’re not—”

“I always pick fights—”

“You don’t—”

“I act like a fucking bitch—”

“Don’t call yourself that—”

"I feel like I’m insane when I’m around you,” you let out, before you can stop yourself.

“I don’t think that at all—”

“But I do, Jake,” you cry. “I hate how jealous I get when you’re surrounded by other people. I hate feeling like I’m holding you back. I hate what I’ve become since…”

And you can’t finish because his tears have stopped. He’s looking at you with a new kind of anguish. The kind that you don’t necessarily expect. The kind that feels like disgust. 

“Since you started dating me?” he says like he correctly finished your statement. But that’s not what you're going to say. Never that.

“Since you didn’t need me anymore,” you whimper. “I’m not a good girlfriend, Jake. You’d be so much happier without me. Everyone would think it if they knew.”

He stands in front of you, hollow. If they knew. He has to laugh. That’s the problem. No one does. You don’t want them to. It’s clear now.

“Fine,” he says, and the steadiness of his voice makes you shudder. Good. This is what you wanted. 

He’s staring at you, jaded like he had come to terms with it. He used to love how insistent you were about your point of view on things, how firmly you stood by your opinions. Used to envy it. But now, he detests it. That stubbornness. 

“Whatever you want,” he sighs, hands slipping in his pockets. “Let’s break up. Pretend we never happened.”

Your mouth parts. “Excuse me?”

Jake scoffs, hands tightening into a fist. They’re trembling, but he won’t let you see. He can do what you do. Act like he’s okay. Act like you didn’t just kill him. He’s gotten very good at that. Acting.

“I’m being honest, Jake—”

“You don’t love me,” he cuts in. And your heart sinks. “That’s all this is. You never show it. You never say it. And I’m tired of hearing you pretend like you’re doing me a favor when I’m practically begging you not to leave.”

His voice cracks, but he continues. “So fine,” he mutters. “Have it your way. You won’t ever have to admit that we dated, start a clean slate without me. Just like you want.”

He presses his lips together and gives you one last look before he takes his hands out of his pockets. He’s fiddling with the ring. His ring. The ring that matches yours.

“You know,” he starts, voice trembling and bitter, “when it was the other way around… when I felt like shit about myself…. I never once thought of leaving you.”

His gaze is on the ground. “Because I always thought I was better with you than without. Because you made me want to be better.”

His voice falters. He looks at you now, sniffling. 

“I tried to be better.”

And in one swift motion, Jake takes off the ring.  “...But you didn’t even want me enough to stay.”

“Jake, no—” 

But it’s too late. You see him throw it, the bushes rustling nearby. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He shoves his hands back in his pockets and walks past you to the direction of the dorms.

“There,” he says quietly behind you. “Like we never happened.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even spare you a glance. It’s only when he’s fully out of sight that you dig through the orange and red pile of leaves, through dirt and branches. Tears stream down your face as you sob, searching for it like a mad woman. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic. 

But you can’t find it. No matter how hard you try to find a silver glint in the greenery, there is nothing. And you clutch onto yours like it’s your lifeline. He threw it away. How could he throw it away?

And you wonder then if you made the biggest mistake in your life.

–

You thought the pit in your stomach would fade once you ripped the bandage, but the hole in your heart opened wider. And it’s only been a week.

Jake used to dodge questions about his love life, but now he admits to anyone with ears who walks by that he’s single. You have ears. And you walk by often. You’re not sure if he’s taunting you or if you just want him to be.

When your eyes meet his at the one lecture you still share, he’s the first to turn away. Jake used to sit beside you, shoulder brushing yours, tilting his laptop so you could keep up when the professor switched the slides too quickly. When you pass the football field, you try not to wince when you see Choa latch onto his arm like she belongs there. He used to always pull away. 

The worst part is that these stolen glances are all you have of him. He’s blocked you on everything, which feels weird to think about. Jake, who’s always gentle, always forgiving, always offering second chances—even to people who don’t deserve it. Maybe this time you’re one of them.

You have no right to be upset. Not anymore.

And so you wrap yourself in your studies, check out new extracurriculars, even try to make new friends on campus who know nothing about Jake. You try to rebuild, try to go back in time before that fateful day in high school when you met him. But it’s been far too long. 

He was a part of you, so deeply ingrained in your daily life. How could you act like you two never happened? Like your relationship never existed? How could he do it so well?

And then, you have to remind yourself. You'd already been doing that anyway.

–

“So what did he do?” Jay questions, tuning his guitar while Sunghoon and you sit in his living room. “Did he tell you he was done paying for your stuff or…”

“Shut up,” you grumble, already agitated enough as you scroll through Suji’s Instagram. You couldn’t even muster the energy to be jealous over a photo of Jake and her holding up peace signs next to each other. You just feel empty. “Nothing happened.”

Jay rolls his eyes. “He’s usually texting one of us to get you to answer his messages by now. It’s been crickets from him for the last two weeks.”

You swallow hard. He used to do that?

Jay’s gaze flickers toward you and sighs as he fiddles with his guitar strings. “You know, I really don’t get the two of you,” he mumbles. “Like you already rejected him in high school, you’re practically just stringing him along at this point—”

You sit up. “Excuse me?”

He shakes his head, dropping the guitar onto his lap. “Jake told us,” he starts hesitantly. “That you ran away when he tried to confess last year.”

‘But that’s not the full story,’ you want to scream out loud. 

“Yeah,” Sunghoon laughs as if recalling a memory. “Dude! Remember in the summer when he started going to the gym with me?”

Jay cringes. “Yeah, and he told us it was because he’d be starting this season, but we knew it was just because you said you liked macho guys.”

You shake your head, ears warming at the thought. That’s insane. 

“Oh, and that stupid ass ring,” Sunghoon adds, clutching his stomach. Your hand instinctively clutches at your necklace, fingers brushing the chain. “His mom beat the shit out of him when she found out how much he spent on it.”

You twiddle with the ring through your shirt. You should've taken it off by now. He'd already thrown his away. So what use was it leaving him if all you were going to do was hold on?

“Why would he do all that for me?” you mutter, not realizing that you said your thoughts out loud. 

Jay shrugs. “Love makes you do stupid things.” And then he sighs. “Go easy on him, okay? You know how he is. Jake’s a sensitive boy. Especially when it comes to you.”

You look down at the ground, shame bubbling up in your chest. Jake loved you. He really did.

–

You smile from your view of the auditorium, even from the back, feeling like a speck of dust in the full house. A bouquet is in your hand as you nervously find your seat. Jake’s right. Everyone’s here to watch.

You could see Jay and Sunghoon’s tiny heads toward the front, pushing down the bitterness of not being able to sit as close as they were. It's not fair, you think. You had to buy a last minute ticket off a student who could no longer make it while they don’t even like musicals. You shake your head.

This isn’t about you. It’s Jake’s big night. 

The lights dim. Your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—steps onto the stage in a football jersey that looks almost exactly like his real-life one. The audience quiets at his entrance. As he delivers his cheesy opening monologue, you mouth the words with him. He’d practiced it so much in front of you. Pride wells up in your chest. He doesn’t stutter once. 

Even when Suji joins him on stage, even as they sing together during their characters’ first meeting, you couldn’t help but smile. 

The scenes blur as you lose yourself in the show. You watch the characters as they are and not as your ex and the girl you desperately wanted to hate. It was actually fun. The cheeky glances, the perfectly rehearsed dance scenes. The way the main character so seriously thought that singing was going to affect his football career. It made you laugh, made you tear up, made you suck in a deep breath when Jake leaned into her. 

And because you’re still you, and because the wounds still feel fresh, you close your eyes. You don’t have to know if he really did it or not. It doesn’t matter. It’s his moment.

‘If only I felt like this the whole time,’ you thought to yourself. Then maybe you wouldn’t have to psych yourself up to find him afterward and pour your heart out to him. You shiver at the thought.

But Jay had said it: love makes you do stupid things.

And you do. Love him. 

Enough to buy him flowers. Enough to admit that you’re done hiding. Enough to risk asking him to love you again—even if there’s a chance that he already moved on.

–

“Bro,” Jay starts, with tear-stained cheeks. “Don’t ever do that again. I can’t be crying like that in front of everybody.”

“Quit football,” Sunghoon says, patting Jake on the back with unusually red eyes. “Just focus on this musical shit. I swear you could make it big time.”

Jake chuckles, watching as the auditorium empties of guests. “Thanks, guys. I’m glad you two liked it.”

God, he wishes you were here. He could imagine exactly what you’d say when you walk up to him, with a small smile you try to suppress. Saying good job while ruffling his hair. Trying to act like you didn’t cry like everyone else. Jake smiles, quietly, at his own thoughts. It’s ridiculous, coming up with hypotheticals when you’d already made it clear. You don't want to be with him anymore. 

“Jake.” 

His heart instinctively skips a beat.

When he turns, the air in his lungs escapes him. You’re holding a bouquet so big it hides most of your frame, looking at him expectantly as you push it towards him. His eyes widen, unable to speak or even take the flowers from you. Is he dreaming?

“You did a good job,” you say, trying to sound as genuine as possible, wanting him to feel your sincerity.  “You killed it up there.”

“Thanks,” he says shortly, finally taking the flowers from your hands. He can’t help but stare. 

“I—” you try to push out, but Suji rushes to the stage to tap Jake on the shoulder.

“Hey.” She smiles up at him. “We're heading out soon for the celebration. Did you still want a ride with me?”

“Damn, even musicals got afterparties?” Sunghoon mutters to Jay, who attempts to shush him.

Jake returns a smile. “Yeah, just give me a second.”

And when he turns around to look at you, to finally hear what you have to say, your eyes are glossed over. Maybe you’re too late. Maybe this is idiotic after all. It's been weeks. There's no guarantee he'll even listen.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” you mutter, though you've changed the words you meant to say entirely. It's supposed to be: ‘I’m so proud of you. Will you take me back? I’ll stop being so mean. We can tell everyone we’re in love—yes, even Jay and Sunghoon.’

But old habits die hard. And Suji—beautiful fucking Suji—crushed every ounce of confidence you had to come up to him in the first place.

“That's all,” you say, shooting him a small grin. It doesn't quite reach your eyes. He notices. Jake always does. Just never knows the reason why.

Before you can step back, he grabs your wrist, spinning you into his arms. Like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms.

“Don't,” he whispers. “Please… don't run away this time.”

You stare up at him, searching his gaze.

“Man, what the fuck is going on…” Jay whispers behind the two of you.

Sunghoon shrugs. “You think they finally…?”

Jake turns his head to give a disgruntled look to his two idiotic friends, and they shrink, making their way down the stage to finally give the two of you more privacy. He turns his attention back to you, wrist still in his hand, and gently moves it down to take your hands in both of his.

“I thought you didn't want to come,” he starts, licking his lips through the nerves. “Why are you here?”

Your cheeks heat up. Fuck. Where do you even start?

He draws circles with his thumb on the back of your palms. “Why?” he asks again, more confident this time.

It would be easy to act like your old self and push out a half-assed excuse. That you just want to be supportive, even after you’ve broken up. That you don’t miss him at all. But you're too tired to pretend like Jake's absence in your life didn’t feel worse than when you were with him. 

“Because…” you start, with a shaky breath. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

His brows furrow. “About what?”

And you feel your heart pumping in your chest, your palms slick with sweat. This is harder than you thought.

“I wanted to—” You swallow, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “I wanted to apologize. With the ring. The one you threw away.”

You see Jake's ears turn a bright shade of crimson. “Actually—”

“But I couldn’t find it,” you cut in. “No matter how hard I looked. I tried. I really, really…”

You start to choke up. Because fuck. He'd gotten you that ring to confess to you. Spent all his pocket money so that he could get something he knew you'd love. Had it engraved with the letter J. Your Jake. Your handsome, talented, smart, and wonderful Jake.

“...really want to get back together,” you finally let out, eyes shining underneath the stage lights as tears threaten to spill over. “I'm sorry, Jake.”

His breath hitches, hands releasing yours so suddenly. Your heart clenches. “You broke up with me,” he mutters.

You nod. “I-I thought I needed to. To find myself. But… you were right. I was just running away from my problems.”

You swallow hard, correcting yourself. “Our problems.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “So is this the part where you expect me to forgive you?”

Your heart clenches. “I'm sorry,” you say again softly.

“You still haven’t even given me a reason,” he scoffs. “So tell me why. Why do you want to get back together when—”

It’s like slow motion, what you do next. You cup Jake’s face right into your hands, crashing your lips onto his. In front of Sunghoon. In front of Jay. In front of the whole cast and crew who were packing up to leave. The same people he’s had to make excuses to about why he suddenly looked so distraught these past few weeks. You pull back, breathless.

“Because I love you,” you say, loud enough to elicit gasps from your watchers. You don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed anymore. Because the words fall naturally from your lips, like breathing. And it's like music to his ears. 

“I fucking love you,” you repeat, hands still on his cheeks. His mouth parts open, breathless. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then he smiles, tears forming in his eyes. Jake swoops in, his lips finding yours again. His mouth moves against yours in tandem, slow and passionate. Your eyes flutter shut, soaking in the taste of him. You missed him so much.

When he pulls away, a shit-eating grin lights up his face. “Finally,” he whispers, cheeks flushed. “You finally said it back.”

You lightly swat his shoulder. You should've known he was trying to egg you on. Jake and all his damn questions.

“I love you too,” he mutters against your temple, squeezing you against him. “I love you so much.”

He peppers kisses all over your face, and you hear gagging on the sidelines.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” he mutters into your hair. “That shit fucking hurt.”

You smile sadly. “I promise—”

“YOU TWO WERE DATING?!” a familiar voice cries out. Of course. Nosy-ass Sunghoon. You resist the urge to drop kick him right then.

“I have a better question,” Jay pipes in. “Are we invited to this afterparty too or…”

Jake furrows his brows, turning to the idiotic duo. “What afterparty?”

Sunghoon and Jay bombard you with questions about your secret relationship, but mainly just start arguing about who was gonna call the taxi for the party they still desperately wanted to go to, since Suji had already left.

Running far away from the auditorium, Jake and you giggle as the two idiots try to chase after you. When you both reach his dorm, he doesn't waste one second after you close the door to lift you over his shoulder. You yelp as your feet lift off the ground, squeaking when your back hits the mattress with a soft bounce.

He sets the bouquet softly on his nightstand before hovering over your frame, and his knees sink into the mattress as he traps you underneath him. Jake strokes your cheek lovingly, his hand trailing down and down until it reaches the edge of your skirt. Still as short as ever. Thighs so pretty underneath the thin fabric.

“I missed you,” he sighs, hands trailing to the edges of your panties. He strokes your plush skin, sending shivers down your spine. You want to roll your eyes, deflect the warm stirring in your core as he scans your figure, eyes clouded with lust. But you’re supposed to be turning over a new leaf. Honesty and all that.

“Imissedyoutoo…” you mutter lowly, rushing through your words.

He moves closer, ear practically touching your lips. “Hm?” 

You lose patience, baring your teeth and nipping his helix. He flinches, glaring at you with a playful scoff.

“You said you weren't gonna be mean anymore…” Jake sighs, tone dripping in mockery as he pouts. And you want to say something more, but Jake’s hands land on your ass, giving you a subtle squeeze.

You know what. You'll humor him. Just this once.

You bring your lips to the ear you just bit, kissing it lightly. Steady hands trail down the fake football jersey he adorns, and to the painful bulge of his shorts. Jake sucks in a deep breath.  You chuckle, amused at how suddenly it hardens. So easy to arouse. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, licking his outer shell. He shudders against your touch, your breath on his neck triggering goosebumps all across his arms. You squeeze him through the fabric, his head falling to your shoulder. “I’ll stop…”

“Don’t,” he lets out through ragged breaths, as you stroke him languidly. You chuckle. He’s so cute. Cheeks tinged with pink. It makes you want to do worse things to him...

“Lie down,” you command, and he gladly takes your place on the bed. Your knees encase him now, tugging his stupid jersey over his head. “Let me make it up to you…”

His muscles are so well-defined, glistening under the light of your dorm room. You trail kisses down his chest, licking down his abs. Salty. Just how you like him. Jake squirms underneath you as you tug his shorts down, his dick slapping your chin on the way up as it springs free. Jake almost cums from the sight, tip flushed red and pulsing with need. To feel you. To be so buried deep inside you that he can feel the head poking through your stomach. 

When you move your head down to kiss his hardness, he digs his fingers into your shoulder. “No, baby,” he mutters. “Come up here, hm?”

You furrow your brows. Why the fuck was he trying to interrupt you during your apology?

“Wha—” 

Jake cuts you short, manhandling your waist as his fingers press into your hips. He positions your knees on both sides of his head, turning you around. He pushes your mini skirt all the way up to scrunch around your midsection. Yes, you might have an amazing view of his throbbing cock, but now you can't see his beautiful fucked out face. He breathes in the scent of your panties with hooded eyes, nose grazing your clothed folds. 

You pout. “I thought I was the one making it up to you—”

“You are,” he chuckles, interrupting you instantly. He pushes your ass down to his face with one hand, using the other to press your chest flush against his body. Your face inches closer to his member. Oh. That's what he's doing.

“Pervert…” you mumble, coyly reaching out for him. So thick and large that you need to use both hands to engulf him, pre-cum dribbling out of him as if on command. 

“I am,” he mumbles, pulling your panties low enough to give him access to your cunt, lying just below your knees. He licks a stripe up your drenched folds all the way to your puckered hole. You wither against him. “Call me whatever you want, baby. Just sit on my face when you do it.”

Your hips land down on him softly as your thumb spreads his liquid down his engorged length. This position was new to you, meaning it was also new to him. But Jake moves expertly like the quick learner he is. He plants open-mouthed kisses on your folds, pink muscle lapping at your labia like a man starved. Your tongue sticks out to offer kitten licks over his tip. 

But Jake hasn’t had you in weeks. And he knows what he wants. And it’s not the weak jutting you do against his face, or the shallow sucking you offer his engorged cock. No. He wants all of you. The sick part of you that would degrade him, that would rile yourself up like all those nights before. And he doesn’t want to have to mention a stupid nickname some stupid girl said to bring it out of you.

There were more healthy methods, he’s sure, to guide you right where he wants to be. And so Jake’s hands grip your ass, pushing you down on him harder. Forcing your hips to grind back and forth against his face at the rabid pace he sets, nose sticking in between your folds slightly as his tongue laps at your clit. Like this. Dirty. Raunchy. Aggressive. He fucking loves it. 

“Ngh—” you cry out, propelling him to push himself deeper in your mouth. You take a deep breath so his cock can slide through more easily, taking as much of him as you can to drown out your warbled moans. Your tongue finds the underside of his thickness, tapping him as you start to gag. And when Jake reaches the back of your throat, he gives you a second to calm yourself before he bucks his hips up into you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, remembering to hollow your cheeks as he shoots forward. But it’s hard to stay focused when his wet, pink muscle pushes into you. 

“Fuck—Taste so good, baby—” The squelching sounds that mix with Jake’s moans against your bundle of nerves are obscene, sucking and flicking his tongue with a fervor you try to match now. Your tongue curls up to meet the underside of his girth, bobbing your head up and down with ferocity. Anything to please him. 

“Mmmm—” you moan around him. Your mouth feels so fucking good, but your pussy on his lips was like actual heaven. He could eat you out all day. As a reward. As a punishment. Anything. 

And he breathes your scent in again, groaning once more. He pushes his nose closer to your folds, the tip of it engulfed in your wetness. You almost gag around his dick at the intrusion, saliva pooling at the base of his cock. You wrap your thighs around him tighter, bouncing on his face like he was nothing but a sex toy. Erratic. Desperate. Yes. Just like that. Fuck him like you never want him out of your sights again.

He knows you're close, knows by the way you start scratching at his thighs like an agitated pet. But, no. Jake needs it. Needs you to cum all over his face. Make a mess on him. Of him. His tongue plunges into you now, index finger coming up to play with your clit.

His cock pops out of your mouth with little resistance as your body goes slack with pleasure. You're just licking at his dick with a loose hand at this point, eyes rolling back from ecstasy. 

You whimper against the slickness of his sloppy mouth, drool continuing to fall out of the corners of your mouth through your slurred speech. “Ngh—No—Let me—Fuck—Jakeeee—” you try to say, but it all sounds nonsensical.

Jake understands, more than you know, as his heart constricts so deliciously. 'My poor baby,' he thinks. Just wants to make him feel good. Wants to make it up to him so bad. But you don’t know that the only thing that could make him happy right now is for you to choke him out with your sopping cunt. 

“Mmm—Ngh—Ahh—” He’s too good down there. Too fucking messy. Why does he do this? Why does he love making you sound like a fucking animal? Your toes curl, the grip around his shaft tightening as your back arches even more into him. 

You feel it. But it's different from usual. It feels like too much. Like an impending explosion. You claw at his thigh even more, all of a sudden panicked. “Jake—Let go—Jake—” 

When he shakes his head, his tongue swipes your clit left and right. His grip on your ass pushes his nose more deeply into your soaked folds. You whimper, cheek nuzzling against his length in desperation. 

“I'm serious….” you whine as you try to pull away. This is weird. You feel weird. You try to run away from it, that foreign feeling. But it's no use. Jake's too smart, too quick. He presses you down on him harder, hugging your waist, suctioning your clit, cheeks flushed from how quickly his mouth works against you. 

“JAKE!” you scream as your thighs clamp around him, hips shuddering uncontrollably. Like a hose turning on for the first time, a spray of your juices lands onto Jake's chin and neck, coating him in your dampness. He welcomes it, tongue sticking out to taste as much of it as he can.

You cry above him, tears landing on his dick that still rubs against your heated face. He laps up every last remaining bit of your climax desperately, like they’d dry up too quickly if he didn’t. You whine, grinding yourself on him to steady your heart rate. When he’s fully satisfied, Jake frees you from his clutches, lying you down on the bed so your head can finally rest on a pillow.

His cock is still incredibly stiff. And you're still in tears.

“You… fucking… dick,” you say in between sniffles, not believing you could ever climax that hard in your life. “Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?”

And he knows what’s going through your head. Because old habits do, in fact, die hard. And now you probably think he was out fucking anyone and everyone during the weeks-long hell that was your breakup. Jake chuckles, pulling your skirt down. He bites his bottom lip at the sight of your folds. Glistening with his saliva and your juices. He fists himself tightly. 

“Still so jealous, baby?” He smirks. God, please let him indulge in his pouty girlfriend at least once more.

“No, but be honest,” you mumble. “Did you—”

“Fuck other girls?” he finishes your sentence, scoffing playfully at the ridiculousness. Your eyes narrow.

“Well, did you?”

Jake spent almost every day crying, unblocking and blocking your number over and over again just to see if you'd notice. But he can tell you all that later. Because right now, you're giving him a death glare that only makes his cock throb harder. 

“No, babe,” he mutters, swiping his wet tip against your even more drenched folds. So puffy after all he's put it through. He peppers kisses on your shoulder. “You know I’d never.”

And you do. He’s only ever been with you. Will only ever be with you. You know that. But still. The wheels are already turning in your head. You know… you're usually the one worried about these things. Doesn't he deserve a taste of his own medicine?

“Imagine if I did—”

And he slams his dick into your plushness, eliciting a scream from you. He doesn’t even let you complete your evil plan.

“FUCK—”

“Don't finish that sentence,” Jake glowers, brows furrowed. You lick your lips deliciously. "That's not funny."

“See how it feels?” you whimper, as he delivers another harsh thrust, your shirt riding up your stomach from the impact. You arch your back off of the bed as Jake groans into your neck, licking a stripe up your jaw.

“All this just ‘cause I made you squirt,” he mumbles angrily, wincing as your pulsing walls squeeze his length into a tighter grip. “So fucking immature.”

You chuckle evilly. “Immature like who? Sungho—”

His childhood friend’s name doesn't even leave your lips when Jake clamps his teeth into your neck. Hard. “OW—”

A taste of your own medicine. But his skin grazes something then—a thin chain that he's seen before but never questioned.  You never wore it when you fucked. A circular hardness underneath your shirt that weirdly looks like…

He tugs on it before you can protest, and there on the chain is a ring. With J engraved on the inside. His gaze softens. And you become a blumbering mess underneath him, shy with embarrassment. “I can—Explain—Just—” 

Jake pulls out enough so his tip is the only thing suctioned in your folds before pistoning into you harshly once more. You whimper.

“Shut up and let me fuck you,” he mutters into your ear, before engulfing your lips in his. With a newfound energy, Jake pounds into you with urgency, pace brutal against your already sore pussy. His hand comes up to grab your tits, spilling over your bra from the impact of his movements. So rough. So mean. Damn, you were rubbing off on him.

You have this aching desire to flip him over and ride him back into submission, but the slapping of his hips into yours devolves your thoughts into unintelligible moans. 

“Ngah—Fuck—Oh my god—”

Jake’s mouth leaves yours as his eyes travel downwards to the piece of jewelry. He likes how it looks on you. Sitting so nice between your bouncing breasts. Maybe, he’d buy you a necklace next. A pretty Tiffany necklace to go with the pretty Tiffany ring on his pretty girlfriend’s pretty finger. Fuck. You’re so fucking pretty.

He brings the ring up to his mouth, biting down on the metal, before he lowers himself onto your lips once more. With the ring in between his teeth, he grabs at your jaw to open for him. Jake transfers it over to your parted lips as you catch the ring with your tongue, coated in his saliva. He dives down into you, your tongues battling as the coolness of the metal moves between your mouths. His thrusts are slower now, but you moan just the same.

Drool drips down both of your lips, the ring getting passed between you two in the movements of your open-mouthed kisses. He lets up, the necklace falling wetly onto the pillow. He admires the red marks the chain leaves on your neck. Maybe a Tiffany choker instead?

And his thrusts deepen, until your cervix repeatedly kisses his mushroom tip. He wished you could see your expression right now. So needy. So perfect. 

“Jake—Baby—” When the pet name leaves your lips, Jake lets out a deep, guttural groan. Like he'd been waiting his whole life for you to say it.

“Yes, baby?” He repeats after you, sweat beading down his forehead as he continues to split you open, pumping into your tightness with urgency. His hands are pushing your thighs open now, admiring how the ring sits sloppily on your neck as he jackhammers into you.

“I love you,” you moan out, your hands reaching for his face. “I love you so much.”

He looks at you with glassy eyes, soft and tender. He kissed you again, sweeter this time. 

“I love you too.” 

And he spreads you apart further, fucking you into the squeaking mattress with his pulsing dick, so big that it fills you everywhere you need him. He pushes in and out, evoking a new set of tears to stain your cheeks. “Baby,” you cry out. “I'm almost—”

“Wait for me,” he pleads, elbows falling to the sides of your head. He buries himself in the crook of your neck. “Can you, baby? Please—”

You try to nod as he's ramming into you as deep as he can go. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear, about how good you are for him, how pretty, how perfect, how he loves the marks you leave him, how he wants you to control him, how you’re the only one he’d ever be with in any lifetime ever.

“Ngh—” His hips snap forward with everything he can give. He feels it now, too. That coil that threatens to spill inside you. But he can't. No condom. No birth control. 

And when your hips rise, clenching around him, your orgasm hits you like a truck. You mewl out in pleasure, crying as Jake tries to pull out of you. But you suction him so well, too well, that it's a little too late. He twitches deep inside of your pussy. And his mouth falls open as the first spurts of cum spill, but nothing escapes his lips. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whines. He needs to pull out. But your cunt feels so damn good… So warm… So wet… And so much of himself has already spilled inside you… It's okay, right? To fill you up with all of it? But he has self-control. He swears it.

“No…” You whimper when he actually pulls away, his seed dribbling everywhere.

“...’m sorry, babe,” he groans, as his hand wraps around himself, stroking languidly. “I’m so sorry.”

Jake’s cheeks are flushed as he pumps the remainder of his climax on your drenched folds, painting your clit a milky white. He sees the first of his juices push out of you, his fluids like cream all over your puffiness.

“Fuck,” he moans, his fingers coming up to spread it all across your folds. But when you look down, all you feel is empty. All you feel is the need to push down against his fingers and take him all over again. 

Jake's eyes widen as he lets out a shaky breath. You look so desperate. For what? He's not sure. But he can't deny his baby anything. He can't deny himself either. He wants to see it just once. Seems like you do too. 

“Can I?” he asks in a low whisper, fingers spreading your folds apart to watch more of his load seep out of you. And you nod, shyly, relieved you didn’t have to beg for it yourself, already going through too much exposure therapy for one day.

And so Jake gathers the cum that's gushed over his digits, and with a shaky breath, he pushes them back into you. You tighten your grip on his biceps.

“Fuuuuck—” You cry out when he starts pumping them in and out, slow but still so fucking deep. His veiny fingers always know which parts to knead. 

Jake’s eyes are in a daze, obsessed with how his cum goes back in so easily—even when you’re still so tight and so sensitive. Everything feels so fucking drenched. And like this, he wants to see you come undone again.

“One more, baby…” he pleads in a low whisper, pressing butterfly kisses on your eyelids. He licks the tears that spill from your eyes. So pretty like this. “You want to make it up to me, right?”

You can only whine in response, hands shaking as they clutch onto him for dear life. 

“Hm?” He asks for confirmation, curling his fingers up to the spongy spot inside you. He grinds his palm on your engorged clit. Whimpering out a pathetic ‘yes,’ you let the pleasure overtake you once again. Your body feels like it's on fire. Too hot. Too much. But still, your back arches up into him, whimpering.

“Come on,” he whispers into your ear. Low and steady. “Give it to me.”

And you can practically hear the mess that his three fingers are creating as they pump into your folds, can feel the stickiness of your mixed juices coat your inner walls. But you shut your eyes, letting the warm tingling overtake your core. Yes—Right there—Fuck—

“I'M—” you screech, but it's no use. Your head falls back against the pillow as you sob. And Jake curses underneath his breath as you spray all over him once again, massaging your clit as he pulls his fingers out to watch. Your hips rise to meet nothing, just your body spraying so beautifully against his torso. His dick could harden once more any second now from the sight. He relishes in it, admiring his work as his cum pushes out of you again. Thick and creamy.

You look down too, seeing the fucked-out state he's put your body into. Maybe you would've been right to flick his forehead and call him every insult in the book for filling you up like that. But fuck. Could you ever have him cum outside of you again if it felt that good to have his cum inside you? No, you'd definitely need to get on the pill ASAP.

Jake’s gaze falls onto your face now, at your bruised lips and your dried tears. But the ring catches his eye once more, the one he hadn’t seen in a year. And his heart flutters.

“Babe?” he starts, lying softly next to you. He wraps you in his arms, not minding the dampness of the sheets below. He’ll clean you up later.

“Mmm?” You respond, on the brink of unconsciousness. Satiated. He touches your chain, the other hand wrapped around your stomach, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“How long have you been wearing our ring like this?” Your breath catches. You'd hoped that he'd forgotten, that the conversation could wait for the morning when your heart wasn't thumping so loud. It takes you a second before you respond.

“Since you gave it to me,” you admit, slowly. Jake can feel the warmth creep up to your ears. And he wonders how he's never seen it, how you seem to hide it so well after all the times he's undressed you before. But then again, you’ve always been good at keeping secrets.

Still, he smiles. Because even after you walked away, even when you said you were done, you still kept this piece of him. Wore it so beautifully around your neck, too.

Fuck—he’s never letting you walk out on him like that again. If you even hint at breaking up, he might actually end up begging on his knees and—

“Not like it matters anyway,” you cut through the silence grumpily. “You threw yours away.”

He lets out a surprised laugh and pulls you closer, squeezing you tight. You pout. What’s he so jolly for?

“What do you mean?” he asks cheekily. “That never happened.”

You turn around abruptly, facing him with furrowed brows. “I literally saw you—”

Your words are cut short when his mouth finds yours, one hand steadies your jaw as the other reaches blindly into his nightstand. A drawer opens. He pulls back just enough to show you the turquoise box, one eerily similar to the one you have in your closet, as he flips it open.

His ring. Silver and engraved with your initial. But how…?

“I guess I'm really good at pretending to throw things,” he answers before you can even ask. Thought I’d be a little dramatic that day…”

You smack his shoulder, but your hand massages the spot soon after, swallowed by the wave of relief that crashes over you. He didn't really let go like he made it seem. He was still yours, even when you thought you lost him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you grumble, pinching his cheek. All he does is chuckle. 

In one smooth motion, Jake lifts your necklace and unclasps it, letting the ring unfurl out and into his palm. You don’t stop him. 

He looks at you for a second, as if asking for permission. You offer Jake your hand instead of speaking. He slips the piece of jewelry onto your ring finger, kissing your knuckles. Then he slides his own ring back where it belongs, to where he’s always kept it. Jake smiles up at you, planting another sweet kiss on your lips.

And you know you’ll wear it proudly this time. Without him having to ask. 

“I love you?” he says, gently, like he needs to hear you say it back just one more time. Just to make sure. And you kiss him again, warmth coating your features.

“I love you too.”

His heart clenches in the best way possible.

Damn, he could really get used to this.

epilogue

Jake runs to the benches, grabbing at his water bottle like it’s his last salvation. He gulps it all down in seconds, sweat seeping down his body. Practice was way too intense today.

“Oh my god, Jakey,” a lilting voice punctures through his ear. “You're literally dripping.”

His eye twitches as she enunciates the last word. 

“Choa,” he starts, shooting daggers at her. He's too exhausted to put up with this today. Or ever. She was graduating in a few months anyway. He might as well say his piece. “First of all, my name is Jake. And second of all, it makes me really uncomfortable when you say things like that.”

Choa pouts, tugging his sleeve like a toddler. “Why?” she giggles. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No.” He pulls away, not even bothering to look at her. “I just don't appreciate how you talk to me.”

She glowers, thrown off by his disposition. He's usually so sweet, so polite. What happened?

“It's ‘cause of your friend isn't it? You know she was so fucking rude to me—”

“My girlfriend,” he corrects immediately. Choa’s hands drop down to her sides. Jake pays her no mind, packing his stuff into his duffle bag instead.

“W-what?” she stutters out. “Since when?”

He shrugs, finally slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Since forever.”

“What?!” she screeches. “How come you never told—”

“Oh Jakeyyyy,” you sing out in an octave higher than your regular speaking voice. He presses his lips together to prevent the laughter that almost seeps through his mouth.

“Yeah, babe?” He calls out, looking past Choa. You're standing with your arms crossed, eyeing her down from a few meters away. A bright new necklace shining above your shirt. 

Your gaze flickers back to him, not bothering to waste your precious energy on the small, vicious girl. You tilt your head to the side, beckoning him over in a silent command. And he follows.

Your loyal little puppy.

Jake takes your hands into his just to really rub salt on Choa's wound, your matching rings clinking against each other.

“Do you remember Gaeul from the backstage crew?” you announce proudly, the bob-headed girl long-forgotten. “She wants to hang out with me tomorrow!”

Jake smiles, ruffling your hair. “That’s great!”

“She's throwing something at her apartment this weekend, too,” you slide in. “Maybe… we can go together?”

“Oh yeah, Suji told me—” And he stops himself. But it’s too late. You’re already frowning.

“Okay, so let me go ahead and take Jay instead…” And he pouts at your words.

“Not fair,” he mutters, but you see the smile he suppresses. 'What a freak,' you think to yourself.

You click your tongue, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “...I'm biting the shit out of you later.”

And if Jake had a tail, it most definitely would’ve started wagging.

“Promise?”

fin.

A/N: Don't save him, he don't wanna be saved.

Taglist: @missoxy @cutehoons02 @zohaaz @f4loveex @rianzysworld @tinastar13 @woniewonwon @starfallia @liaviva @lhspeachie @fancypeacepersona @sanasour @reasonablyminiatureandroid @tinyhrry @nyxphobia @aernx @soulskiu @shining-won @esoteric-eye @yohanabanana @jungwongfs-blog @starjoongie @yeeunlvr @gyu-luvs @ikeuster @not-aya @ppeachyttae @psyches-reid @moonxiiey @hueningsgirl @sylphjeong @mariegibeau @beaepa @jisiziu @aloveminsalade @ilovetimotheechalamet8 @vixensss @chyshiacat @chuuiehearts @heyinnnn @sparkcling @moonstrucksofie @snghon @nct-sticker-127 @fdzvie @synielve @honeyyjw @simj4k3 @petalsofink @axfyl

[mssishipi]

okay? okay. — sjy

two awkward nobodies turns tension into physical.

content tags: set in 1990's, no plot just loser!jake & loser!reader, s-stuttering? bear with them. explicit content (smut): cunnilingus, fingering, little bit of nipple play. MDNI! WC: 2.3k

It wasn't like Jake had no friends, at least not entirely. Technically, he had three people he occasionally talked to. Maybe not friends in the traditional sense, more like peripheral figures, one he sometimes exchanged notes with before class started, another who shared the same lunch table out of habit, and the third... well, Jake wasn't quite sure who the third was anymore.

When his mother found out it was his birthday, she lit up with an enthusiasm so disproportionate to the occasion that Jake felt immediately suffocated. She insisted on celebrating—went out and bought cake, plastic streamers that sagged against the living room wall, and even set out paper plates. Then she turned to him with a forced smile and said, "Invite your friends, sweetheart. All of them. It'll be fun!"

So, he'd done exactly that. Messaged the three people whose numbers sat unused in his contacts list. He waited until the very last minute, typing out a bland, uncertain invitation that he almost deleted several times before finally pressing send. Predictably, none of them replied.

Except for you.

You showed up ten minutes after the time listed on the message. Jake opened the door like he'd just been caught off guard, blinking behind his crooked glasses as if unsure whether to smile or hide.

"U-uh... H-happy b-birthd-day, J-Jake," you stammered, eyes flicking away from his.

He moved aside to let you in without saying a word, and now the two of you sat at the edge of the couch in his living room.

You kept tapping your foot against the carpet. Jake sat beside you, hunched slightly forward, hands wringing together in his lap, shoulders high. He kept adjusting his glasses even though they didn't need adjusting, the same way you kept picking at your nails or brushing invisible lint from your sleeve. Both of you mirrored each other's awkward tics without realizing it. The half-eaten cake on the coffee table sat untouched, its frosting slowly melting.

Jake finally broke the silence. "S-so... you came."

You nodded once, eyes flicking briefly toward him before darting away again. Your mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. "Y-yeah. Um. I d-didn't have anything else, so..."

The sentence trailed off, neither of you bothering to pretend it was a convincing excuse. There was no music playing. No other voices in the house. His mother had retreated to the kitchen, likely pretending to busy herself while eavesdropping.

Minutes dragged of another silence, Jake reached for a slice of cake, changed his mind, pulled his hand back. You leaned forward like you might say something, then leaned back instead.

Jake cleared his throat, “uh… want to go to my room?”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, heat rising from your collar to your ears. You adjusted your glasses with shaky fingers, blinking once, then nodding. “Y-yeah… okay.”

"R-right there, Jake… ahhh. Just like that, please."

The faint static hum of the cassette player filled the air, mixed by the breathy sound of your voice that was something Jake never imagined he’d hear.

He never thought the first time he'd taste someone—you, of all people—would feel like this.

It was like a discovery. A minute ago, it had been all small talk and the awkward thuds of your steps across his carpeted floor. Now, his mouth was buried between your legs, and his world had narrowed to the rhythm of your breath and the sweetness of your skin.

Jake seen you at school, always half-hidden under oversized jumpers and layers. You’d sit beside him sometimes at lunch, two losers orbiting the same cafeteria table in silence, sharing glances that lasted just a second too long, and yet neither of you had ever said anything

Now, he realized what he’d missed, what had been concealed beneath the quiet demeanor and deliberately plain clothes. Your body was insanely hot, sinfully curved in ways that had Jake's hands unsure of where to settle, his brain desperately trying to keep up with what his body was experiencing. His glasses were slightly askew, fogged with heat, and the tips of his ears were burning as he adjusted his angle and listened to every sound you made in response to his tongue.

He licked tentatively at first, awkward, but then you moaned his name and something in him snapped. His hands gripped your thighs with more certainty. He moved his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes, testing what made your hips twitch or your breath hitch. Each reaction you gave was a reward, and Jake chased them obsessively.

"Please… m-more."

Jake nearly lost his mind. He moaned, open-mouthed, right against your soaked folds, the sound vibrating into you as he pushed his tongue in deeper.

There was still a part of him that couldn’t believe this was real. That he was doing this. That someone was writhing beneath him, clenching at his sheets, begging him not to stop.

He remembered how grossed out he used to be, overhearing locker room talk from guys who bragged about "the best pussy of their lives." Their words always came with a smirk, with arrogance, with a tone Jake hated. He thought it was pathetic.

Now, he fucking understood. The sounds you made, the way you whined, whimpered, and gasped sent heat rushing to his groin, making his cock throb painfully in his pants. But he ignored it. You were the center of his world right now. Your pleasure. Your body. Your voice. He’d never been good at much, but if he could just make you feel like this, if he could memorize every twitch and moan, then maybe he could be good at you.

Jake glanced up through the fogged lenses of his glasses, catching a glimpse of your face. Your eyes were barely open, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. Your head was tilted back, exposing the column of your neck as your hips rolled into him, grinding your heat against his mouth.

He groaned again, involuntarily, as he looked lower—your breasts bouncing softly with every motion, round and heavy and perfect, the sight alone enough to make him dizzy.

God, you were so fucking hot.

He pulled back just enough to drag his tongue slowly across your slit, savoring the taste. Then, with shaky resolve, he let one hand slide lower.

He pressed a finger against your entrance and felt how wet you were. Tentatively, he pushed in, slowly, watching your reaction, his finger slid inside you, warm and tight, and Jake nearly whimpered at how it felt around him.

Your moan cracked sharp through the air, and he moved quickly, adjusting. He ducked his head, focusing his lips on your clit, sucking softly. Your hips twitched against his face, your moans climbing in pitch, and Jake’s eyes fluttered closed as he moved his finger in a gentle rhythm—curling, dragging, retreating before plunging in again.

"Jake!"

He added a second finger without overthinking it, pushing deeper as he sucked harder on your clit. His pace grew more confident now, still trembling slightly, but driven by the way your thighs began to clamp around his shoulders, your body helplessly responding to everything he did. He could feel the way your walls clenched around his fingers. 

He was drowning in you, and he didn’t want to come up for air.

His hand gripped your thigh harder as he thrust his fingers faster, curling them just right, chasing the way your cries rose in volume and pitch. Jake couldn’t stop moaning either. 

Jake lifted his head, pulling back just enough to speak, breathless, face glistening. His fingers never stopped moving inside you. "Am I… am I doing a good job?" he asked,  eyes wide with hunger.

You reached for him, grabbing the frame of his glasses, tugging them gently off his face and setting them aside. Then your hand cradled his jaw, pulled him up over your body, and you kissed him hard.

The moment your lips crashed into his, you both moaned into each other’s mouths. Your kiss was all teeth and tongue, sloppy and intense, spit-slicked and shameless. Jake’s hand stayed between your legs, his fingers never stopping, still thrusting and curling inside you as your hips rocked against his palm.

Your tongues tangled in a frantic rhythm, colliding like neither of you had ever kissed someone before—and in truth, maybe neither of you had quite like this.

Jake whimpered against your mouth as your teeth caught his lower lip, tugging at it before crashing into him again. He tasted you on your tongue, on your lips, everywhere. 

His free hand slid under your back, holding you tighter, pulling you against him. Your breath hitched as his fingers curled again inside you, faster now, more urgent. The wet sounds of his hand between your legs mixed with the quiet, needy gasps you both kept sharing in between kisses.

Jake groaned into your mouth, hips grinding unconsciously against the mattress, desperate for relief, but he never stopped moving his fingers inside you.

You broke the kiss first, gasping for breath, your lips swollen, eyes fluttering open with a dazed kind of bliss.

“A-are you close?” Jake asked.

You nodded frantically, whimpering louder as your hips rocked down against his hand, chasing the high he was pulling from you so perfectly.

Jake shifted, sliding behind you, pulling your body back against his chest. He wrapped an arm under your chest, his palm cupping one of your breasts. The second his fingers brushed your nipple, he moaned against your neck—actually moaned—at how soft and warm you were in his hand. His thumb began to flick over it, teasing it to a stiff peak while his other hand stayed between your legs, fingers thrusting deeper now from this new angle.

In this position, he had control.

His legs tangled with yours, spreading them open, locking you down so you couldn’t close them even if you tried. His chest pressed against your back, every shaky breath he took ghosting over your shoulder. His fingers buried inside you could now reach places that made you cry out, nearly screaming as your head fell back against his shoulder.

Jake caught the sound with his mouth again, kissing you, swallowing your cries as he worked you relentlessly.

"Say my name when you cum," he breathed, voice cracking with need. "Tell me I'm doing good. Please. Please."

His hips rocked against you from behind, his clothed cock rutting helplessly against your lower back, leaking through his boxers. His thumb kept playing with your nipple, gentle and desperate at once, trying to hold you in place while you trembled against him.

You could barely think. Your skin was burning, your stomach tight with that sharp, spiraling pleasure that was just about to break loose.

You grabbed his wrist, guiding his fingers faster, pushing yourself down on them.

“Y-You’re doing so good, Jake,” you moaned, biting your lip. “Fuck, your fingers feel so good—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”

Jake gasped behind you, clinging tighter to your body, lips trailing along your jaw, your neck, desperate to be anywhere on you. You kept whispering, choking on moans, eyes rolling back as your climax crept closer with every flick of his wrist.

“You’re making me cum, Jake,” you panted, mouth falling open, hips jerking. “God, I’m gonna cum so fucking hard on your fingers—fuck—don’t stop.” 

Jake whimpered again, rutting harder against you from behind. 

And then you came.

You screamed his name, your body convulsed in his grasp, your slick heat pulsing in wet, desperate contractions that squeezed him in a way that made his brain blank out completely.

Jake’s eyes widened in a haze of disbelief as his cock throbbed once—twice—and then spilled. Completely untouched, fully clothed, still grinding against your back, he came in his pants.  His cum soaked the front of his boxers, but the feeling that overtook him was so violently good, he couldn’t even care.

He gasped, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, body trembling as the orgasm ripped through him, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out like an idiot. His hips jerked again, trying to ride out the friction.

Jake made a girl cum.

Jake made a girl fucking cum.

His mind couldn’t process anything else. Jake slowly pulled his fingers from your soaked cunt, blinking down at them in disbelief—glossy with slick, dripping down to his knuckles. Your cum. 

His heart pounded in his ears. His glasses were gone. His pants were soaked with his own mess.

And still, a breathless, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he whispered, “I… I made you cum.”

"Y-yeah," you squeaked, still catching your breath. Your fingers reached behind you, gently brushing over his thigh. “T-thank you, Jake…”

He swallowed hard. “Did I… Was it… okay?”

You turned slightly, shifting in his lap, enough to glance back at him. His face was flushed deep red, hair sticking up in awkward angles, your lips curved into a soft, breathless smile, and you leaned back against him again hesitantly. 

Your lips curved into a soft, breathless smile. You leaned back against him again, a bit hesitant, but you wanted him close. 

“Okay?” you echoed with a light laugh, still flushed. “Jake, I couldn’t see straight. You made me forget my own name.”

Jake blinked rapidly. “U-uh, really?” His voice cracked.

You nodded, biting your lip as your gaze dropped, suddenly shy again in the aftermath. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Really.”

There was silence. You felt Jake shift behind you slightly, still holding your body.

And then, in the quietest voice, he asked:

“T-then… can I… can I keep doing this to you?”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes again. He looked scared. Like he’d already started bracing for rejection. 

You nodded, leaning in to press your lips to his jaw. “O-okay.”

His hands tightened around your waist, you could feel him harden again against you, still trapped inside soaked boxers, his body catching up fast to what his heart had just heard. 

"Okay? Okay." 

[mssishipi]

LOSER JAKE WILL NEVER EVER BE FORGOTTEN !!!!!

[yeokii]

⠀⠀LOVE ME BACK ' 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎

⠀ ❤︎ ' jake, your boyfriend didn't care enough for you. but his best friend heeseung did.

𝗖𝗛𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗦 ─── ✿ written . heavily inspired by otl ! 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 ' angst crack confrontation profanity breakups ' ( 𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 ) ♱ like and reblog ! 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽 . 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝖾

⠀ ‎‎𝐈𝐈 . O1 O2 O3 O4 O5 O6 O7 O8 O9 O10 O11 O12 O13 O14 O15 O16

여키 EDITION . bday gift from me heh hope u gais like

⠀ join the taglist 💌 perm taglist ( send and ask or comment ) ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ love me back taglist closed !

⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

[heesroses]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪꜰᴛʜ ꜰʟᴏᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇᴏʀʏ — ꜱ.ᴊʏ

⟶ part 1 of 2

─── in which jake sim, the campus golden boy and star soccer captain, isn't supposed to find anything on the fifth floor of the library except a quiet place to study. but instead? he finds you, the wallflower who refuses to treat him like everyone else does.

soccer captain!jake x wallflower fem!reader ; part 1 wc: 10.1k. MDNI. college au. smut. fluff. angst. secret relationship. jealousy. yearning. virginity loss. oral (f receiving). p in v. she fell first, he fell harder. other enha members included.

elle's thoughts :: here is part 1 of 2 for "the fifth floor theory!" this story is so incredibly dear to me, as it's the first enhypen fic i ever wrote. i've been working on it for awhile, so i really hope you enjoy it :') also, just know that part 2 has a LOT more angst. and smut. hehe.

my masterlist.

There was something about the way Jake Sim moved through the empty library that enticed you.

You were sitting at a small table, hidden behind a chemistry textbook, your eyes following his every move. He looked around, and you wondered what—or who—he was hoping to find. As he looked in your direction, you quickly diverted your eyes back to your textbook, hoping he hadn't caught you staring at him.

Jake had no idea who you were. After all, he had been the star soccer player at your university since his freshman year. Everyone knew his name, his major, and his friends. He was practically campus royalty.

You, though? You were lucky if your professors remembered your name despite being the top of your class. You kept to yourself, only moving between the library, your classes, and your dorm. You and your roommate were close, but she spent so much time at parties that you almost never saw her. You, however, spent every free moment you had in the solitude of the library, and that was the place where you first saw Jake close-up.

He had appeared for the first time a few months ago, right after you had returned from winter break, but he did not look the way you expected. Instead of his usual cocky demeanor, he seemed... timid. As if, when you removed him from the soccer field and the company of his friends, he became a different person.

You liked to think that you were the only person on campus who knew that this side of Jake existed. After all, it was only ever you two studying on the fifth floor of the library. He had never brought anyone with him, and neither had you. It felt as if the sunny space, with floor-to-ceiling windows and tables nestled amongst towering bookshelves, only belonged to the two of you.

Of course, you had seen Jake before in your years on campus. You were both juniors, and you had been to your fair share of soccer games since you were a bright-eyed freshman. You had spent years watching him from afar, and he always seemed larger than life.

That's why you had been so surprised the first time you saw Jake appear at the top of the stairs. Nobody ever made it up to the fifth floor. It had always been your secret spot—until he came along.

As you watched him disappear down the stairs, you rubbed your face with your hands and loosed a sigh. As much as you loved being able to watch Jake, he was the worst thing that had ever happened to your dedicated study schedule.

"Hey, do you have an extra pencil?"

Your eyes snapped up from your textbook, and you felt your heart drop into your stomach. Standing right in front of you was Jake Sim—you almost couldn't believe your eyes.

It had been over a week since you had last seen him in the library, but you knew that the soccer team had just traveled to play against a rivaling team. The energy on campus had been positively buzzing the whole week leading up to the game, and everywhere you went, you heard people discussing it.

"Did you hear? Jake Sim might not start because they said he strained his calf muscle during practice!"

"Really? But we can't play without him! He's the only reason we won last week."

"I hope he's okay! I was really hoping he'd be at the party my sorority is throwing when the team gets back."

"You know he has a girlfriend, right?"

You shook your head, bringing your attention back to the sunlit library you were sitting in.

"What?" you managed to choke out. You hated the adrenaline that was now coursing through your veins just from being in Jake’s presence.

"My only pencil broke, and I really don't feel like going to get another one," he said nonchalantly.

You still could not believe that he was standing right in front of you, asking you for a pencil as if he wasn't the most well-known person on campus.

"Uh, yeah," you said, managing to pull your eyes away from his enticing face for just long enough to pull a random pencil from your backpack. "Here."

Jake glanced at the pencil as you offered it to him, and a small smile spread across his lips. "Dogs. I like it."

Your cheeks reddened as you realized which pencil you had given him. It was the one your younger sister had given to you as a good luck charm the last time you visited home, and it was covered in a variety of cartoon dogs.

"Oh, sorry," you mumbled, your cheeks reddening. "I have another one if you don't like it."

"No, no, it's fine," Jake said, finally flashing his famous smile at you. "I love dogs."

You allowed yourself to smile back at him. "Me too."

Jake's eyes lingered on you for a second longer before he bowed his head and began to back away. "I'll give it back, I promise."

"Don't worry about it," you told him, waving your hand dismissively. "I've never used it anyway."

"Such a shame" he said, holding it up in the air as he turned on his heel. "It's kinda awesome."

As he disappeared behind the bookshelves that concealed his table, you buried your face in your hands. You managed to survive your first encounter with Jake Sim, and you only kinda looked like an idiot.

You should've asked for the pencil back. Then, you would have an excuse to talk to him one more time before you both returned to your separate worlds.

"Come on, y/n, why don't you come with me just once?"

It was later that night, and you looked up from the book you were reading to stare at your roommate, Sunhee. It was 10 PM on a Friday, and that always meant that Sunhee would disappear to a random sorority or fraternity house for the weekend. That also meant that you had your dorm to yourself for the weekend, and you enjoyed it more than you cared to admit. The room was small, but you and Sunhee had worked hard to make it cozy and inviting when you had first moved in. Despite your opposing personalities, you two immediately became best friends, and your dorm room was a reflection of that.

"I really want to finish my book tonight," you shrugged, turning the page and returning your eyes to the words written there.

"Can't it wait?" she whined. "We only have two months left in the school year, and you have yet to go to a single party with me. Where's your sense of adventure?"

You snorted with amusement. "My sense of adventure? I don't have one."

Sunhee stepped toward your bed, placing her hands on your knees and pouting. "Please? I promise it'll be fun, and if it isn't, then I'll never ask you again."

You sighed, glancing between her and your book. You had less than fifty pages left until you were done, and you had hoped to finally figure out what would happen to the main characters after a long week of prioritizing studying over pleasure. However, Sunhee did have a point. Your third year of college would be over in just a few months, and you had yet to do anything besides study.

"Alright, fine," you groaned, tossing your book onto your duvet. "But I reserve the right to go home whenever I want to."

"Yay!" Sunhee squealed, clapping her hands excitedly as she hopped up and down. "I promise you won't regret it! What are you going to wear?”

You shrugged, sliding off your bed and heading toward your closet. You wouldn’t exactly describe your taste in clothing as “party-ready.” You lived primarily in oversized sweaters and leggings, as that was what you felt most comfortable in. You saw the clothes that Sunhee usually wore to parties, and you could always see just how uncomfortable she looked.

“You can’t wear any of this,” she commented, taking one quick glance into your closet before bounding over to her own. “We’re probably similar sizes, so you should totally wear something of mine!”

“No way,” you mused, glancing over at the tube top Sunhee was holding up. “I think you look amazing in that stuff, but I would die if you made me wear that.”

“Okay, fine,” Sunhee sighed, pulling out a cropped, lacy black top and a pair of low-waisted jeans. “How about this?”

You stared at it for a moment, thinking, before slowly nodding your head. “Yeah, I guess that’s fine.”

After another thirty minutes of Sunhee fussing over your hair, makeup, and outfit, she finally decided that you were ready to face the world. As she pushed you out the door, the smile on her face was almost enough to make the whole experience worth it.

“I can’t believe you’re finally going to have your debut as a college girl!” Sunhee exclaimed as you stepped out into the brisk night air.

“My debut?” you asked, chuckling at her choice of words. “This isn’t Bridgerton, Sunhee.”

“Whatever! It’s still exciting!” she exclaimed, sliding her arm through the crook of your elbow. She dragged you along with her as she skipped happily to the party.

You weren’t entirely sure how long it had been since you last saw Sunhee. After you two arrived at the sorority house, she quickly pressed a cold beer into your hands before bounding off to talk to a few friends from her calculus class. However, despite being left alone almost as soon as you got there, you didn’t mind. The lights in the house were dim, and music blasted through every crevice as people danced, mingled, and drank. It was the perfect environment for you to disappear in.

It didn’t take long for you to find an isolated stool located in the corner of the room, and you sat there happily as you nursed your beer. Your favorite thing to do was people-watch, and you had the best spot to do so. Nobody paid any attention to you, so you sighed contentedly and allowed yourself to blend into the background.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, observing university students in their natural habitat, before you noticed that the noise level of the party increased dramatically. Loud cheers broke out, and you strained your neck to see what was going on.

That’s when you laid eyes on him.

A large group of boys had just entered the sorority house, with Jake at the forefront. You realized that the boys he had arrived with were all on the soccer team, and they were fresh off a victory against their rivals. You hated the way your heart immediately began to race when you laid eyes on him, but what you hated even more was the way a blonde-haired girl strutted toward him and immediately pulled him into a kiss.

More cheers erupted as the partygoers watched Jake kiss this mystery girl, and you suddenly felt as if you were going to be sick. You had heard whispers that he had a girlfriend, but you had never seen her yourself. Now, though, as you watched them make out in front of everyone to endless cheers, you felt like an idiot.

What gave you any right to be jealous? You had only ever talked to Jake once, and it was just him asking you to borrow a pencil. Who were you to resent this tall, beautiful, perfect girl for kissing him? After all, she was his girlfriend. You were no more than a wallflower whose name Jake Sim did not know.

You forced yourself to look away from the kissing couple, and you finished the rest of your beer in one gulp. You immediately stood and made your way back to the kitchen, having to shove through the throng of people surrounding the soccer team to do so. However, no one seemed to pay you any attention, so you continued on.

Once you reached the deserted kitchen, you beelined for the various types of liquor spread across the countertops. You spent a moment looking at your options before grabbing some clear alcohol that you had never seen before, uncapping the bottle, and taking a large swig.

“Damn, it’s not often you see someone knocking back Everclear like that,” a familiar voice came from behind you. You sputtered as the alcohol hit your senses, and you reddened as you coughed. Why couldn’t you get away from him?

You turned around, eyes streaming from the pungent liquor as you gazed at him. He flashed his signature smile at you and held out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Jake Sim.”

You felt another pang in your chest that made you want to take another swig from the bottle. Did Jake really not recognize you? Did he really not know that, earlier that day, he had asked you for a pencil? Had he never noticed that you were always in the library at the same time during the past few months? You figured he had never noticed you, but it stung to have it confirmed.

You wanted to say something back, but it was as if you couldn’t form any words. You shook your head and stepped past him, bottle still grasped in your hand as you headed back toward the party.

“Wait!” Jake said, reaching out to catch your arm in his large hand. “Did I do something to upset you?”

You shook your head slowly before looking up at him. “No. It’s just… we’ve already met.”

Jake squinted his eyes and looked at you. “Wait a sec, we have?”

You pursed your lips together and shrugged. “Kind of.”

“Don’t tell me,” he said, still holding your wrist. His touch felt electric, and you hated how much it affected you. “I’ll figure it out.”

He stared at you for a bit longer before it occurred to him. “Hold on, are you the girl from the library?”

You gave him a lackluster smile. “The one and only.”

“Oh my god!” he laughed. “I didn’t even recognize you. You look so different!”

You looked down at the clothes that were not your own, and you thought about the makeup and hair that Sunhee had done for you. You felt like an imposter, officially meeting Jake when you looked nothing like your usual self.

“I guess I do,” you commented. You were still acutely aware of his warm hand on your arm.

“If I'm being honest, I kinda thought you lived in the library. I didn’t expect to see you here, so I’m sorry for not recognizing you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, trying to ignore how painfully awkward the conversation felt.

He looked at a loss for words for just a moment, but then his eyes lit up. “I meant to thank you again for the pencil. I was worried that I was going to fail my quantum physics exam, but I think that pencil actually helped me pass.”

At this, you couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you sure it was the pencil and not the countless hours of studying you did?”

Jake flashed a grin at you. “Positive.”

He looked like he was about to say something else, but at that moment, a few of his teammates burst into the kitchen noisily.

“Jake, dude,” one of them said–a tall senior with red hair that you vaguely recognized. “What’s taking you so long?”

Jake quickly let go of your wrist and grabbed a few cans of the beer closest to him. “Sorry, Heeseung. Got distracted.”

“I see that,” Heeseung said, raising an eyebrow as he looked at you. “I won’t tell Lacy, I promise.”

“Tell her what?” Jake huffed, throwing a can at his friend as he made his way toward him. “I’m allowed to talk to other girls without that meaning I’m in love with them.”

“I don’t know, man,” another teammate said. You knew his name was Jay. “You remember what happened last time. She wouldn’t talk to you for a week.”

Jake cringed. “Yeah, don’t remind me.”

As his friends began to herd him out of the kitchen, he turned around and yelled to you, “Thanks again!”

And then you were alone again, the bottle of Everclear still grasped in your fingers and the warmth of his touch still lingering on your skin.

You had been in the library for four hours so far. It was the Monday following the party, and you hadn’t seen Jake since he left you alone in the kitchen that night. You had tried to not think about him—about his perfect smile, soft black hair, and his ability to make you feel like the only girl in the world when he was talking to you. However, it seemed that finally meeting Jake only deepened your crush on him, and you hated it. You knew nothing would ever happen between you, so why couldn't you just move on?

You were feeling increasingly frustrated with your unrequited feelings and the organic chemistry assignment that you were working on, so you slammed your textbook shut as you huffed a sigh.

“Are you okay?” an all-too familiar voice came. You lifted your eyes to see Jake appear from behind a bookshelf.

“Oh, it’s you,” you said, rubbing your neck with your hand. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said, taking you in. You looked frustrated, with your glasses slipping down your nose and your hair falling out of your messy braid, and his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. “What did the textbook do to deserve that?”

You looked down at your textbook and absentmindedly ran your finger across the cover. “I’m just struggling with this topic, that's all.”

“I know how that feels,” Jake said as he stepped toward your table. “Mind if I sit?”

Despite your frustration, you felt yourself redden at his question. You didn't expect to ever talk to Jake again, yet here he was, asking to sit with you at the table that had only ever been occupied by you.

You gestured to the chair and gave him a quick, pursed-lip smile. “Be my guest.”

As he sat down, you caught a whiff of his cologne, and you couldn't help but inhale deeply. You hated the effect that the woody smell had on you, as if you weren't already crushing on him more than you should've been.

“You know, I was very rude to you at the party on Friday,” he said.

This surprised you, and you had a hard time concealing it. “What?”

“I realized that I forgot to ask your name,” he said, resting his chin in his hands. “I don't know how I forgot.”

If you were being honest, it had stung a bit when it occurred to you that Jake had never asked for your name. It was as if it hadn't occurred to him that you were a person, someone who had a name and a major and a life that he knew nothing about. You supposed that, to him, you were just a nameless girl who solely existed in the library.

“Yeah, I guess you did,” you finally responded.

Jake cast a curious look at you. “So, are you gonna tell me your name? Don't make me start guessing.”

You couldn't help but allow the corner of your mouth to turn upward at this. “My name is y/n.”

“So you do have a name after all,” Jake said. “Let me reintroduce myself since a party isn't exactly the best place to meet someone. I’m Jake Sim, and it's very nice to finally meet you.”

“I already know who you are,” you responded casually, still tracing the cover of your organic chemistry textbook with your finger. Jake’s eyes lingered on the movement briefly before his eyes returned to your face.

“How do you know who I am?” he asked.

“How could I not?” you countered, crossing your arms across your chest as you leaned towards him. “Everyone knows who the infamous Jake Sim is around here.”

To your surprise, Jake’s cheeks reddened slightly in embarassment—something you didn't know he was capable of feeling. “I sorta thought that news about the soccer team didn't make it to the library.”

“I do leave the library, you know.”

“I noticed that on Friday. If I’m being honest, it surprised me,” Jake said. You felt as if he were studying you, and it almost made you squirm.

“Why would that surprise you?” you laughed in disbelief. “Do you think I just sleep under the table?”

“I actually figured that you slept on top of the table. Seems like it'd be comfier.”

“Oh, so you've thought about this before?”

Jake smiled at you. “Only when I’m tired of thinking about physics.”

“Is that your major, then? Physics?”

Jake looked down at his hands, and you noticed that he was fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “Yeah. Not many people know that, though.”

“Why?”

Jake shrugged, and his eyes failed to meet yours. “I dunno, I just… I feel like the guys would make fun of me for enjoying that stuff. That, and nobody cares about me because of my major. They only care about what I do on the soccer field.”

You studied him for a moment, taking in his sudden shift in demeanor—he went from confident to unsure of himself faster than you could blink. “That's dumb.”

Jake’s eyes finally shot up to meet yours. “Excuse me?”

“I said that's dumb,” you repeated, and from the look on his face, you knew you needed to elaborate. “I just mean, it's dumb that your friends would make fun of you for something you're passionate about. Also, if they're real friends, they'll care about every aspect of you—not just the part that benefits them.”

Jake seemed to mull over your words for a second before nodding slowly. “I guess you're right. I just… I don't want to embarrass myself in front of them, I guess.”

“And being smart is embarrassing?”

Jake placed his face in his hands and shook his head. “It sounds terrible when you say it like that. I just like the way my life is going, and I don't want anything to ruin it.”

You stared at Jake for a moment, analyzing him. You had never seen him look so unsure of himself. “I’m sorry that you think being smart is going to ruin your life.”

Jake sighed before pushing his chair back. “Well, it's been nice talking to you, but I really need to—”

“Wait, I’m sorry,” you rushed, grabbing his wrist the same way he had grabbed yours just days ago. “I didn't mean for that to sound sarcastic. I… I don't talk to people very often, so sometimes the things I say don't come across properly. Please, don't go.”

Jake stared down at you for a moment, your eyes pleading with him, before he pursed his lips and sat back down. “So what did you mean then?”

You let go of his wrist and began to absentmindedly play with your braid as you figured out the best way to word your thoughts.

“I was being genuine when I said I was sorry that you think being smart will ruin your life. To me, it just sounds like you're diminishing a part of yourself to impress people who wouldn't understand what it means to have something else in their life besides soccer. Does that still sound terrible?”

The corner of Jake’s lips turned upward slightly as he looked down at the table. “Maybe a little, but I think I know what you're trying to say.”

“That's good,” you exhaled. “I’m sorry for making you think that I was trying to discount your feelings—I know how that feels, and I would never want to make anyone else feel that way.”

Jake eyed you curiously. “You have a lot of interesting things to say, library girl.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that all I am? Library girl?”

“That's what I thought a week ago, but now I'm seeing that there may be more to you than what you show people.”

You leaned towards Jake subconsciously, his words piquing your curiosity. “And what would that be, soccer boy?”

He laughed at your words, and you noticed with a blush that he had also leaned towards you. “It’s hard to describe. You just… say things that surprise me, I guess.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“I like to think that I’m perfectly predictable. That's what makes a good team captain, after all. My boys know what to expect from me.”

“I wouldn't dream of calling you anything as boring as predictable. On the soccer field, maybe. But Jake Sim? You are full of surprises.”

Jake stared at you with a smirk, and a strange feeling stirred in your stomach at the look in his eyes.

“So maybe we can agree on the fact that neither of us are truly who we appear to be on the outside?” Jake suggested, and you noticed that his hand had inched across the table toward yours.

“I don't know, you thought being smart was bad, like, five minutes ago,” you responded.

Jake’s jaw dropped, but you could see that he was fighting a grin. “I did not! Now you're just lying.”

You flipped your textbook open again as you raised your eyebrows. “Sure, sure—whatever you say, soccer boy.”

“Why did I even bother coming over here?” Jake wondered aloud, tapping his fingers on the table. “I wouldn't have done it if I knew that you were just going to misinterpret my words and use them against me.”

“Bad day for Jake Sim,” you said casually, still not meeting his eyes as you flipped through your textbook. “Someone isn't treating him like God’s gift to soccer, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.”

“Ouch!” Jake exclaimed, grabbing his chest and leaning backwards, pretending he had been shot. “You are so mean to me, y/n!”

“And?” you asked, because you detected that there was more that he wanted to say.

“And? It's honestly really fucking refreshing.”

That was not what you had been expecting him to say. “Really? Why?”

“You're so blunt and witty—you’re not afraid to tell me what you really think even though we barely know each other. Not even my best friends do that. They all treat me like I can’t do anything wrong, and that whatever I say is right, but… I’m not infallible. And you seem like one of the only people who sees that.”

“That was very introspective of you, soccer boy,” you teased, but there was a layer of sincerity beneath your words. Jake’s intelligence was often overshadowed by his accomplishments on the soccer field and his effortless charisma, but you knew that there was so much more brewing beneath the surface that most people didn't even realize.

Jake didn't say anything for a moment, and when you finally looked up at him, you noticed that he was gazing at you with a soft smile on his face. You immediately felt as if fireworks were going off in your chest.

“You're unlike anyone I’ve ever met, y/n,” he said finally. He did not remove his eyes from your face, and you wondered if he felt the same pull to you as you felt to him. He so effortlessly engaged in banter with you, but also knew when to allow the conversation to flow into deeper topics.

“And you're a lot more than just a dumb soccer player, Jake.”

At this, a wide smile spread across his face. “I’ll be able to rest well tonight knowing that at least one person in this world thinks that about me.”

He stared at you for a bit longer, and you could've sworn that you saw his eyes flick to your lips before he pushed his chair back and stood. “Well, goodnight, y/n. You should try sleeping on top of the table instead of underneath it tonight. I feel like that'll be more comfortable.”

A genuine laugh escaped your lips, and you clamped your hand over your mouth in surprise. Jake couldn't help but smile at you, and he looked at you in a way that nobody else ever had.

“I’ll be sure to let you know how that goes. Night, soccer boy.”

Jake allowed his eyes to linger on you for just a second longer before he turned around, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “Night, library girl.”

You saw Jake in the library every day for the next two weeks. Normally, he missed a few days each week due to his busy schedule, but it seemed as if he had made sure he would be able to see you each day. He also sat at your table more often than not. At first, he came over to say hi to you on his way in and out of the library, but as the days continued, he asked to sit with you more and more until he was with you the entire time you were in the library together.

Your favorite part about sitting with Jake was that any silence between the two of you was always comfortable. You co-existed peacefully, both of you deeply focused on your assignments as you sat across the table from each other for hours each day. You spent a lot of time conversing, discussing things from the semantics of the English language in his essay to what stupid things his teammates had said during practice that morning. No matter what topic arose, though, you found it easier to talk to Jake every day. Things between you were easy in a way you had never experienced before.

Two weeks after the first time Jake had sat with you, you found yourselves in the library again on a rainy afternoon, sitting across from each other at the same table as always. His eyebrows were furrowed as he typed on his computer, and you couldn’t help but watch him. He had never typed that fast before, and you were curious what had him doing so.

“What are you working on?” you asked, your voice raspy from not being used for a few hours.

Jake continued typing, his eyes still focused on his laptop.

“Jake?”

His eyes flicked up to yours, and he gave you a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry, were you trying to get my attention?”

“Yes, but it’s okay,” you said, resting your chin in your hand. “What are you working on?”

Jake sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his face. You hadn’t even known that Jake wore glasses until he walked into the library a few days ago, when he told you that he never wore them around other people because he thought it was embarrassing.

“It’s this stupid lab report,” he said after a moment, sliding his glasses back on. “My lab partner was supposed to have his part done a few days ago, but he literally dropped off the face of the earth. I haven’t been able to contact him, and now the lab report is due tonight, so I’m doing the whole damn thing.”

“That sucks–I’m sorry,” you said. “I think group projects are the dumbest thing ever. There’s nothing you can do if the other people don’t do their work.”

“I guess I could email my professor,” he said, rubbing his neck. “But he’s kinda an asshole.”

This made you smile. “Really?”

“Yes, he’s the fucking worst.” Jake threw his head back and groaned, and you couldn’t help but stare at the muscular column of his neck. “He barely explains anything, and when he does, none of us can even understand it. I’ve just been teaching myself everything because he obviously isn’t going to do it himself.”

“Poor Jakey,” you hummed, and you noticed a hint of pink in his cheeks at the nickname. “That must be really hard on top of your packed schedule.”

Jake smiled at you as he crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. “I seriously think you only hang out with me just because you enjoy giving me shit.”

You smirked. “It’s not my fault you make it so entertaining.

“How in the world do I make it entertaining?”

“It just seems like you want someone to put you in your place.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned toward you. “What does that mean?”

You shrugged, and you knew that you had Jake waiting on your next words with baited breath. “Jake, be honest with yourself: you like having someone who doesn’t treat you like the second coming of Jesus Christ himself. I feel like there’s a reason you keep coming to sit with me, and it isn’t because I’m helping you study.”

Jake scoffed, glancing to the side before his eyes returned to your face. “What if I just like sitting with you because it gets boring studying alone all the time? That, and you looked so lonely sitting over here by yourself all the time.”

Now it was your turn to look at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jake said, gazing at you with an intensity that made your head spin. “You know I’m right. You always stared at me when I was walking by–it’s like you were practically begging me to come keep you company.”

“I was not!” You leaned forward.

“Yes, you were,” he countered, leaning towards you in return. Your faces were mere inches apart.

“Then prove it.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to prove that?” His breath was warm against your face.

“Remember, the burden of proof is yours–not mine.”

Jake’s eyes flicked to your lips, but this time, he didn’t look away.

“You’re really annoying, library girl–you know that?” he said, his voice much quieter than it had been a moment ago.

“Not as annoying as you, soccer boy,” you breathed as Jake slowly closed the gap between you.

“You’re the fucking worst,” he murmured before his lips brushed against your own.

Your eyes widened as you realized what was happening. You were alone with Jake Sim on the fifth floor of the library, the slanting rain hitting the windows beside you in heavy sheets, and his lips were now pressed to yours. Your noses brushed as your eyes fluttered closed, and you found that it was all too easy to kiss him back.

Your mouths worked together effortlessly, and part of you wondered if Jake kissed Lacy as tenderly as he kissed you. He lifted his hand to your cheek and caressed the soft skin there. You groaned softly at his touch–and that’s when he froze.

“What’s wrong?” you whispered against his lips. Jake pulled back, and your eyes flew open as he immediately began to shove his belongings into his backpack.

“Jake?” you rushed. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I have to go,” he said, shaking his head as he stood. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, taking off his glasses and shoving them into his pocket as he turned on his heel.

You stood, trying to grab his wrist, but he was moving too quickly. “Jake? Please just tell me what’s wrong.”

He shook his head as he rounded the corner, disappearing from your field of vision. And suddenly, you were alone. You sank to your chair slowly and placed your face in your hands, trying to stop the thoughts from spinning out of control. You had no idea what you had done wrong, but the thought that you had potentially ruined your friendship with Jake had tears welling up in your eyes.

“Y/n?”

You froze mid-step. You were walking through the deserted, tree-lined grounds of your university after a late-night study session in the library. You had an organic chemistry exam the next day, and you were frustrated at how difficult it had been for you to focus on your studies recently.

It had been a week since Jake had disappeared suddenly after kissing you, and you hadn’t seen him in the library since. You went to the soccer game that weekend just to see a glimpse of him on the field–to reassure yourself that he was okay, and that you hadn’t hallucinated him. You could've sworn that you saw his eyes searching the stands throughout the game, but you wondered if you had simply imagined that just to ease the ache in your heart.

Another thing you were unsure of was whether or not you had hallucinated the budding friendship and eventual kiss you and Jake had shared. From the way he disappeared from your life so quickly, you were starting to think you had dreamt it.

Once you turned around, your eyes landed on Jake, who was standing a few meters behind you.

“What do you want?” you asked, your voice revealing just how exhausted you were.

“Y/n, I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes searching your face. “I fucked up.”

You pursed your lips together and shrugged. “I mean, I get it. You kissed me, realized that wasn’t what you wanted, and left. I can’t be mad at you for that.”

“You can, and you should be,” he said. He swallowed, and you could see his throat bob as he thought about what to say next. “And I do want you, y/n. More than anything.”

You shook your head slowly as Jake finally took a step toward you. “What about Lacy?”

“I broke up with her,” he said, still slowly closing the gap between you. “That’s why I left. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a cheater, so I went straight from the library to her sorority house and ended things between us that night.”

“Why didn’t you do that before you kissed me?”

“Because I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to kiss you until that night.” He was now standing directly in front of you.

You still had a dozen questions floating around in your head. “So why did you disappear for a week?”

“Lacy is… complicated.” He paused for a moment, gazing down at you. “If I immediately came to you after breaking up with her, she would do everything in her power to make your life hell. I wanted to keep her away from you while she processed her emotions–you’re safer that way.”

“Has this happened to you before?” you asked, a hint of a smile on your lips.

“Not me, but one of my ex-teammates,” Jake said, a distant look crossing his face as he remembered. “When he broke up with her, she did everything in her power to get back at him, which included going after his new girlfriend.”

“Should I be scared?”

“Not as long as I’m around,” he murmured, lifting his hand and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m so sorry, y/n. This last week has been torture without you.”

“I thought you would be fine,” you said, noticing the longing in his eyes. “After all, we just hang out in the library together. Nothing more.”

“Is that all you want us to be? People who just hang out in the library together?”

Your breath caught in your throat at the intensity in his eyes. “No… I don't know. In what world would things work out between us?”

He cocked his head to the side, still playing with your hair. “What do you mean?”

“We come from different worlds, Jake. You're a celebrity on campus—everyone knows your name, but nobody knows mine.”

“But I know your name,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn't that count for something?”

You dropped your gaze to the ground and shook your head slightly. “Of course it does. I just… you're the best soccer player this school has ever seen. You’re the captain, for Christ’s sake. I don't want to jeopardize that for you.”

“What if I want to be more than just a soccer player?” Jake murmured. “What if I want to be yours?”

He gently grabbed your chin and tilted your face upwards so that your eyes met his again. You searched his face, and your heart began to pound even harder as you realized that there was nothing but sincerity there.

“But what if I ruin everything for you?”

“You won't.” His lips were centimeters from yours.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

That was all it took. Your lips crashed into his, all the longing and desire of the past few weeks bursting within you. Jake immediately tangled one hand in your hair as the other drew you closer to him, and the way he kissed you told you that he was in no rush. He knew you were all his, and he was going to take his time getting to know every part of you.

“Oh, Jake,” you moaned against his mouth as his tongue traced the curve of your bottom lip. You had completely forgotten where you were—the only thing you knew was the feeling of Jake pressed against you, his hardness meeting your softness in a way that made your head spin with desire.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to do this during the past week,” he said breathlessly. “I haven't been able to get you off my mind.”

And from the way he kissed you, he knew he was telling the truth. It was as if he had run out of air, and you were the breath he needed to bring him back to life. You couldn't believe just how badly he needed you.

“Jake,” you breathed. “Is now a good time to bring up the fact that I’ve never seen where you live?’

A knowing smile spread across his face. “Do you want to?”

“Yes, please.”

The walk back to Jake’s house was torturous. He only lived a few minutes from campus, but every touch and breath felt alive with unspoken want.

“Who do you live with?” you asked, trying to distract yourself from how desperately you needed Jake.

“Some of the boys from the soccer team,” he responded casually. “Heeseung, Jay, Sunghoon, and Jungwon. Heeseung and Jay share a room, but everyone else has their own.”

“Are they home right now?” you asked cautiously.

Jake cast his eyes to yours as you turned the corner into his street. “Probably not. It's pretty rare that we're all home at the same time.”

You sighed in relief, nodding slightly. “Good.”

The corner of Jake’s lip turned upward, and he gestured toward a large, white house that had ivy creeping up the sides. “Here we are.”

“It's beautiful,” you said in awe, pausing for a moment as you took it in. “I always wanted to get a house off-campus, but I always just end up living in the dorms.”

“You still live in the dorms?” he asked, leading you up the steps to the front door. “Aren't you a junior?”

You reddened slightly. “Yeah, but I don't mind it. I don't have to cook for myself, I don't have to clean my bathroom, and I really like my roommate.”

Jake opened the door of the house, pushing the door open to reveal a spacious living room decorated with plush couches and posters of the soccer team hung up around the space.

“This is cozier than I expected,” you said, looking around briefly before Jake gestured for you to follow him up the stairs.

“Were you expecting some dark, dingy basement?”

You snorted as you trekked upwards. “Kinda.”

“Well, hold your judgments. You haven't seen my room yet.”

You had never imagined what Jake’s room would look like, but you knew that what you saw behind the closed door was not what you had expected.

“Wow,” you murmured, stepping into the room before Jake and allowing him to shut the door behind you. It was not particularly large, but he had made good use of the space he did have. The bed was pressed up against the window, and there were a few different textbooks strewn across it. His desk was covered in even more textbooks, which contrasted the variety of soccer trophies adorning the shelves. The room was perfectly Jake, and you found the slight messiness of it endearing.

“What do you think?” Jake asked, and you detected a hint of shyness in his voice. As you turned around and looked at him, you realized that you were probably one of the only people who Jake had ever allowed to see this part of him.

“I love it,” you said, stepping towards him to close the gap between you. “It's very you.”

He snorted. “What does that mean?”

“It's the perfect mix of soccer boy and physics boy. Just as I expected.”

“If that's the case, then what does your dorm room look like? A library?” Yet again, your mouths were almost touching.

“You'll just have to come over sometime and find out, won't you?” you suggested, pretending your heart wasn't hammering away in your chest at being alone with Jake in his bedroom.

“I guess I will,” Jake said against your lips. You leaned forward slightly, pressing your mouth to his in a hungry kiss. His hand immediately found its way to the small of your back, drawing you closer to him so that your bodies were flush.

As much as you hated to admit it, you had no sexual experience. You liked to think that you knew more than the average 21-year-old, but you were woefully unaware of what exactly happened in situations like this. You had always been so focused on your studies that you never even considered dating, so you had no idea what to do or what to touch.

This became evident to Jake after a moment. He must have realized that you didn't know what to do with your hands or body, because he pulled back slightly and ran a hand through your hair.

“Have you ever…” he started, and you quickly shook your head.

“No,” you whispered, looking down. It occurred to you that Jake was probably very experienced in all things sexual, and here you were, only having ever kissed one boy back in high school. You felt yourself turn hot with shame.

“Y/n, you shouldn't feel embarrassed,” he whispered. “Look at me.”

You slowly gazed up at him, his eyes full of tenderness. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed your lips softly. “There is absolutely nothing to be sorry for. If you don't want to do this, we don't have to. I want you to feel comfortable. We can take this as slow as you want.”

You swallowed as you brought your hand to his cheek. “I want it—more than anything. I just have no clue what I'm doing, that's all.”

“Poor library girl,” Jake chuckled, but his eyes radiated with affection. “I guess this wasn't something you could study in a textbook, huh?”

You couldn't help but smile. “I guess not.”

“Well, luckily for you,” Jake began, placing his hands on your hips and slowly backing you toward the bed. “I happen to be an excellent teacher.”

You felt the heat crawl up your neck, an unfamiliar feeling spreading between your legs. “Guess you'll have to teach me, then. I happen to be an excellent student.”

“Guess so, library girl,” Jake said, connecting your lips. You noticed that his movements were slower, more intentional, now that he knew the weight of this moment. He would be your first, and you knew that he was going to do it right. Your heart swelled as you placed your hand low on his chest.

A low groan rumbled from his chest at this, and you felt your thighs clench. The fact that you had made Jake Sim make a noise like that seemed impossible, but here you were.

“I’m going to take your shirt off,” Jake mumbled against your lips. “Is that okay?”

You nodded, and Jake grabbed the bottom of the soft fabric and lifted it over your head, revealing the red bralette you were wearing underneath. He then slowly pulled off your bralette, leaving your top bare. He inhaled sharply as he took in the curve of your breasts and waist, and he simply stared for a moment before lifting his eyes to yours. “You're perfect.”

“Says you,” you responded. “You should take your shirt off, too. I've been aching to see what you look like without it.”

Jake gave you an amused grin. “You've really been imagining me shirtless?”

“What?” you asked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I know how hard you guys work out. Of course I’ve been imagining you shirtless.”

“Suit yourself, then,” Jake shrugged, tugging his shirt off. Your eyes widened as you took in the muscles there, each perfectly defined from his neck all the way down to where his sweatpants hugged his waist.

“Can I… touch them?” you asked, still entranced.

Jake let out a genuine laugh. “What kind of question is that, library girl?”

You pouted as your hands ghosted over the lines of his stomach. “Just wanted to make sure.”

“Fair enough,” he said, his breaths becoming slightly more shallow as your cold fingers met his skin. “You can touch whatever you want, you know.”

“Really?” you asked, trying to convey a confidence you did not feel. “Anything? Even this?”

Your hand found its way down to the bulge in his pants, and Jake groaned softly at your touch. You were intrigued by how his length felt beneath your hand.

“You're already so hard,” you observed, lightly tracing your fingers over him. You watched as his lips parted slightly, and you thoroughly enjoyed the effect you had on him.

“What else did you expect?” he breathed, moistening his lips with his tongue. “You have no fucking clue what you do to me, y/n.”

“I would love to find out,” you said, your fingers still tracing the outline of his cock.

“I’ll show you—but not yet.”

You raised an eyebrow, but Jake was already tugging your pants down your legs. You immediately felt completely exposed, and you had half a mind to cover yourself up. Nobody had ever seen this part of you, and it was the most intimate thing you had ever experienced.

“You’re so fucking hot, baby,” Jake said, his words verging on being a moan. He paused for a moment, still drinking you in. “Have you ever… touched yourself?”

Your cheeks flushed. “Yes.”

“So you know how good it can feel?”

You nodded again.

“Good, because I really want to see what you taste like, but I didn't want it to be too much.”

You felt your muscles tighten. “That sounds really fucking hot.”

“Then let me do it,” he whispered. You nodded before Jake slowly pushed you onto the bed, crouching down in front of you. Yet again, you felt utterly exposed, but you didn't mind it. Jake kept looking at you as if you were a goddess, and it helped alleviate some of the anxiety you felt from your first sexual experience.

“Spread your legs for me, y/n,” he murmured, and you obliged. Jake’s mouth neared your center slowly, and he looked into your eyes as his tongue made contact with your folds.

An intense wave of pleasure made its way through your body, and you immediately let out a moan that you had never heard before. This seemed to encourage Jake to continue, and he flicked his tongue over your clit repeatedly.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathed, immediately digging your hands into Jake’s ruffled hair. He continued sucking and licking you, and you were amazed by how long you had lived not knowing how amazing it felt to have someone worshipping you between your legs. You were almost worried that you would never let Jake do anything else after this.

“Why does it feel so f-fucking good?” you stammered, your thighs squeezing involuntarily around Jake’s head. He hummed happily against your folds before he moved downwards slightly, allowing his tongue to penetrate you. The unfamiliar sensation made you see stars, and you cried out from the intensity of it.

“H-holy fuck,” you whimpered, bucking your hips into Jake’s face. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs to keep you still as he continued to fuck you with his tongue, and it took everything in you to not lose control. “Jake, p-please. Please, baby, please—”

Jake continued to watch you as he worked on you, and you could tell from the way his fingers tightened against your thighs that he was enjoying every second of it immensely. With his tongue inside you and his nose rubbing against your clit with every movement, you could do nothing but cry out repeatedly and dig your fingers into Jake’s scalp.

After another moment, you felt as if you were going to burst. A pleasurable feeling built between your thighs before spreading to your chest and neck, and you screamed Jake’s name as you came on his tongue. He lapped up every bit of the liquid that gushed from you, and his tongue did not stop until your body stilled.

“Did it feel good?” he asked, moving so that he was now hovering over you. You wrapped your hand around the back of his head and pulled his lips toward yours, tasting the saltiness that was now on his lips.

“Better than I knew possible,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I don't know how it can get better.”

Jake flashed a mischievous grin. “Wanna find out?”

You nodded, your eyes widening as Jake stood before you and pulled his pants down, allowing his full length to spring free. You swallowed, taking in the way his toned abdominal muscles yielded to a deep-set v that led straight to the hardness you couldn't take your eyes off of.

“Jake, I—” you started, beginning to feel a familiar pang of nervousness in your stomach. “I’ve never done this before. Ever.”

“I know, baby,” he murmured, crawling onto the bed so that he was above you again. “I’ll take it slow and talk you through everything I do. If you want me to stop, just say the word and I will.”

You gave him a small smile, and you noticed how hungrily Jake scanned your body before kissing you briefly. He then pulled away.

“I’m gonna spread your legs now,” he murmured to you, using his hand to gently pull your thighs apart. “Now, I’m gonna put on a condom and line myself up.”

You craned your neck slightly to watch as Jake grasped his cock in his hand, pumping it a couple times before grabbing a condom and tearing it open with his teeth. He rolled it on before gently placing his tip against your entrance. “Are you ready?”

You nodded, not realizing that Jake was not looking at you. His eyes lifted to yours, a small smile playing on his lips. “You gotta communicate, baby.”

“Sorry,” you breathed, your body aching for Jake in a way you had never felt before. “I’m ready.”

Jake hummed before slowly parting your folds with his cock. “I’m gonna put it in now. Try to relax, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered, and you gasped sharply as Jake slowly pushed the head of his cock inside you.

“Are you okay?” he asked, pausing to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice shaky. “Just getting used to it, that's all. Keep going.”

Jake caressed your cheek as he continued to press himself into you, and you felt tears sting your eyes from the sharpness of being filled for the first time. There was pain, yes, but you could also detect the underlying pleasure that was unlike anything you had ever experienced before.

It took longer than you expected for him to be fully buried inside you. You let out a breath you hadn't even realized you had been holding, and you continued to stare at the part of you that Jake’s length had disappeared inside. You could barely fathom the fact that Jake Sim was inside you.

“Relax, baby,” Jake murmured, pressing another kiss to your temple. “Let me know when you're ready, and I’ll start moving.”

“Okay,” you breathed, and you noticed that Jake was taking deep breaths as he gazed at you to help you do the same. You followed his breathing pattern, feeling your muscles relax slightly, before you nodded almost imperceptibly. “I think I’m ready.”

Jake gave you a small smile before he slowly withdrew his hips from you, his cock glistening with your arousal. He then gently pushed back in, and you gasped softly at the sensation of being filled yet again. The sharpness of his presence was still there, but you found that, with each thrust, the pain lessened and morphed into something far more pleasurable.

“How does it feel?” Jake asked, his hips still slowly rocking into you. He didn't dare increase his pace until you gave the word.

“It still hurts, but it also feels really good,” you whispered, scanning his face. You expected to see some sort of impatience there, or some sort of hint that he was irritated with your lack of sexual experience, but you saw none of that. The only thing you could see was his utter devotion to you, and that allowed you to fully relax.

“Go faster,” you said. Jake kissed you briefly before nodding, easing his thrusts into a faster pace. You were embarrassed at the quiet moans that left your lips, but you couldn't stop. It seemed as if relaxing had been the key, and now that you had done so, the pain was almost all gone. Now, you were able to enjoy the sensation of Jake inside you.

“How's that, library girl?” Jake asked.

“Feels alright, soccer boy,” you said nonchalantly, but the look on your face gave away just how much you were enjoying yourself. “Could be better, though.”

“Any study tips?” he asked, still thrusting into you with every shallow breath.

“I’m not sure because I’ve never taken this class before,” you shrugged. “But I feel like going faster would help.”

Jake grinned before increasing his pace yet again, and you couldn't help but cry out with each snap of his hips into yours. You clamped a hand to your mouth to stifle the sounds, but Jake shook his head.

“I wanna hear you, Y/n,” he groaned, his eyes half-lidded from pleasure. “I wanna hear how well I fuck you.”

You removed your hand from your mouth and allowed yourself to let go. You closed your eyes briefly as the broken sounds left your lips, and you could tell from Jake’s wild movements that he was reaching his climax. His low grunts turned into high-pitched whines as he continued moving inside you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jake whimpered, leaning down to kiss you. “I’m so fucking close.”

“I want you to cum for me, Jake,” you moaned against his lips. The sound of skin hitting skin as well as Jake’s pants met your ears, and you could only watch as Jake finally found his release. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he let out a series of ungodly sounds that almost made you orgasm again. His hips slowly rolled inside you as you felt his cock twitch repeatedly, and when he was finally finished, he collapsed on top of you.

“How was it?” he asked, breathless. He lifted his head slightly and pressed a series of lazy kisses across your face and neck.

“Better than I thought possible,” you responded, wrapping your arms around his muscular back. “Can we do it again?”

Jake laughed—really laughed, and you couldn't help but join him. “Of course, but maybe give me a few minutes first.”

“The soccer captain doesn't have the stamina to go multiple rounds in a row? That's sad.”

Jake narrowed his eyes at you. “I have the stamina, but my dick doesn't. Give it a second.”

You giggled, lifting your head to press a kiss to Jake’s soft lips. “Fine. But I expect at least two more rounds tonight, got it?”

“Absolutely.”

And as many times as Jake made love to you that night, there was always one question lingering in the back of your mind that you could not shake. How many times had Jake had sex with Lacy in the exact same spot where you had just lost your virginity to him? You hoped you never found out.

©️ heesroses 2026

series taglist: @ccoristu @marghe-22 @kristynaaah @supahintohoon @k3nza @narnianqueen28 @jaeyvnsaurus @zielyous @lunac01 @hirablackcat @jakeyyyjakexoxo @cutehoons02

gen taglist: @fawnwonie @collywobblvs @lawnzzn @thatfeelingwhenn @kristynaaah @rikicoolpuma @hoonguin @ynnii @wonuziex @wonatlas @wonkiipiilled

[03jyh23]

“Ｅｍｐｔｙ Ｈｅａｄｅｄ” ── ｋ．ｈ．ｊ

── established relationship, hard dom!hongjoong x fem!reader

“The hotel room is too quiet for how hard Hongjoong is fucking you.” You thought you could handle him, but Hongjoong isn’t interested in making love tonight. He wants to break you down until you are nothing but a weeping, shaking mess in his hands. He has rules—be still, be quiet, don’t cum—and he is going to make sure you fail every single one of them just so he can punish you for it.

Genre: heavy smut, porn without plot Trigger Warnings: explicit sexual content (mdni!), daddy kink (heavy), degradation & name calling (useless, pathetic, toy, slut, hole, sleeve), rough sex: (hair pulling, biting, bruising, aggressive thrusting), oral fixation (fingers in mouth, gagging, drooling), denial, edging, impact play (spanking, slapping), objectification, dacryphilia, exhibitionism (sex against a floor-to-ceiling window), body fluids (spit, tears, sperm on face/throat), multiple orgasms, overstimulation (reader says it hurts), brat taming, mild breath play, cock warming, squirting, breeding kink, creampie, traffic light system, breast play, deep subspace, reader’s fucked stupid, aftercare??? WC: 17.7k

Mon’s Note: i honestly don’t know what happened here. title is “empty headed” because that is literally me after writing this. no thoughts. head empty.

The hotel room is too quiet for how hard Hongjoong’s fucking you.

“Da‑daddy,” you moan as he pounds into you, your arms pinned tight behind your back in one of his hands.

“Fu—fuck.” Your own sounds fill the space along with the wet slap of skin, the headboard’s dull knock against the wall, the drag of sheets burning your knees. You’re clenching around him each time he hits that spot, lights blurring at the edges. Your thighs shake, your mouth stays open, wrecked sound spilling out with every thrust.

Hongjoong adjusts your hips the barest inch and the angle turns ruthless. The stretch sharpens and the friction is obscene. You swear. His breath ghosts your ear, calm where everything else is chaos.

“That’s it. Fucking take it.” His rings are cold against your wrists where he pins them, a bite that makes you clench harder.

“Fuck Joong—”

He stops. The shift is sudden—your body still clenching around his dick, desperate for friction that’s no longer there. His hand fists in your hair and jerks you up hard, arching your spine until your back meets his chest. One arm locks around your waist, ribs pressed to his forearm. The other grips your jaw, fingers pressing into the hinge until your mouth falls open.

You can feel his pulse against your cheek.

You can feel your own everywhere.

“What did you just call me?” His voice is low, dangerous, a heat against your ear. You feel it more than hear it, vibrating through your ribs where he’s got you pinned. The air is hot and thin.

Your breath comes shallow, uneven. “I—”

“Say it again.” Hongjoong’s hips shift, just enough to make you gasp, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give you what you need. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing spit at the corner. “Go on.”

You swallow. Your pulse hammers against his palm. “Da—”

He tsks, the sound soft and cutting. His grip tightens on your jaw until your eyes sting. “Wrong answer.” His thumb pushes your chin up.

His hand slides from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing yet. “You know better.” The words are barely above a whisper, but they land heavy. He pulls out almost completely, the drag lighting every nerve, then slams back in without warning.

Your body jerks forward with the force, a broken cry tearing from your throat. The slap of skin is sharp. The mattress stutters under your knees, the headboard slams again.

“Daddy—” The word comes out garbled, desperate, exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Good girl.” His grip on your throat softens, becomes almost tender. “Again.”

“Daddy,” you gasp, the word punched out of you with another sharp thrust. Your fingers curl uselessly in his grip, your whole body wound so tight you think you might shatter. “Please—addy, I need—” Your own spit threads from your mouth to his thumb where it drags your lip and you taste metal from your bitten tongue.

Hongjoong’s laugh is dark, satisfied. “Need what, love?” The hand on your throat slides down to palm your breast, rolling your nipple between two knuckles until heat spikes. He pinches it and the pain blooms sweet and mean. “Use your words.” His breath hits damp hair stuck to your temple.

You moan uselessly, the sound ragged and broken. Words won’t come—just desperate, incoherent noise that makes him groan against your ear.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, satisfaction dripping from every word. Your knees skid an inch on the sheet and his hand leaves your breast to clamps your hip and hauls you back so you feel the blunt head punch deep again. He holds you exactly where he wants you as he starts thrusting deep inside you. “Can’t even speak anymore, can you?”

You shake your head frantically, or try to—his hold on you barely allows the movement. Everything’s gone white‑hot and overwhelming, your body trembling in his arms as he takes you apart piece by piece. Your mascara is a damp smear at your lashes; a tear salt‑burns the corner of your mouth where it meets his thumb.

“Mmpf—please—” The words break on a sob as the tension coils impossibly tighter, your walls fluttering around him. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably. The mattress squeals. Hongjoong groans when your cunt strangles him, like the sound is dragged from somewhere he doesn’t show anyone.

“I’ve been a good girl, Daddy, please—” Your voice breaks on the words, desperate and pleading. “Please let me—fuc—k—let me cum, I need—”

“Not yet. Listen to yourself—messy little thing, slobbering on my hand and still trying to think you get a say.” His pace doesn’t falter, each thrust hitting that devastating spot that has your vision blurring. He changes nothing just to prove he controls everything. “You’ll cum when I say.”

“Daddy—” It’s a sob more than a word, your body trembling violently as you fight against the edge. “Please, I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

“Yes, you can. You’re a hole when I tell you to be a hole.” His lips brush your ear, voice dropping lower, amused and cruel. “Be useful.” His teeth take the soft flesh of your shoulder, a quick bite that stings and his tongue soothes, then he bites again, harder.

A broken whimper tears from your throat as tears prick at your eyes. “Yes—yes, I’ll wait—fuck—please—” The word breaks because he drives in meaner, holding you down with his forearm across your ribs until your breaths come shallow and quick.

“That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? Taking.” The room narrows to the slick drag and the hot thud of him and the damp heat where your bodies meet. “Just a wet little thing I wreck.”

Your eyes sting, vision blurring as the first tear slips free. It tracks hot down your cheek, and Hongjoong’s rhythm stutters for just a beat like he’s savouring it. His grip on your jaw shifts, thumb catching the wetness before it falls to the sheet.

“Look at you,” he breathes, hungry. “Crying because you can’t keep up. Cock‑drunk already and I’m not even trying.” He drags the tear across your cheekbone, reverent and mean at once. “So fucking pretty when you beg with your eyes.” He licks the salt from his thumb, eyes fixed on your wrecked mouth. “Open that useless mouth and try again.”

Another tear follows, then another. A sob catches as he drives deeper. His groan vibrates against your spine. “Pathetic,” he murmurs, almost fond.

Hongjoong’s hand moves from your jaw to cup your face, fingers gentle even as his hips maintain their brutal pace. “Let me see what a mess you are.” He turns your face just enough to catch the tear‑tracks in the low light, pupils blown. “Crying so pretty on Daddy’s cock.”

The praise and the cruelty braid together and break something in you. “Please—” Your voice frays to a thread.

“So good for me,” he says, and then ruins it: “Good for nothing but this.” He catches another tear with his thumb. “My perfect little toy.” His palm slides down your belly, heat making your muscles jump. “Say it.”

“T—toy,” you gasp, shame and want tangling.

“Show Daddy how pretty you look when you break.” He hooks two fingers in the corner of your mouth, yanking it open so spit strings glitter from your lip. “There. Pretty mouth.”

His thumb presses your bottom lip then pushes past. Two fingers follow, flattening your tongue until drool pools at the corners of your mouth. “Keep it open,” he orders, voice rough. “Show me that useless tongue.”

You do, jaw slack, spit threading down your chin while he fucks you deep. He presses farther, taps the back of your throat until your eyes glass. The first gag catches wet and awful, and he groans like you handed him a gift. “There it is. Choke on my fingers while I fill you up.”

He doesn’t pull back—he pushes deeper, knuckles wetting your tongue, and the next gag rips through you loud enough to embarrass you. Tears jump your lash line and spill. Hongjoong watches them like they’re rare, hunger softening his mouth. “Cry for me,” he murmurs, delighted.

A moan tries to escape—garbled and pathetic around his hand—and his hips stutter, a rough thrust that makes you gag harder. Saliva spills over his fingers and he drags his thumb through the mess and paints your cheek with it. “Good. Make it sloppy. I like hearing you drown on me.”

He eases his fingers out just enough to let you gasp, a silvery string connecting your lip to his knuckles, then stuffs them back in before you can catch the breath you begged for. You gag immediately, eyes flooding, and his smile turns wickedly fond. His thumb catch a tear mid‑fall and he rubs it into your lower lip.

“Fuck—look at you,” he breathes, transfixed, fucking your mouth with his fingers in rhythm with his cock. Each slow thrust punches a gag or a wrecked little sob out of your throat. Each sob makes him groan like it feeds him. “Prettier when you’re full everywhere.”

Hongjoong taps your tongue twice, commanding your attention. “Open wider.” You try but you only cry harder. He laughs, pleased and cruel. “That’s my crybaby.” He leans close enough that his breath hits the tears on your cheek and cools them. “Make me wetter. Cry on it.”

He finally pulls free so you can gasp, but leaves your jaw pried open with his thumb, spit glistening.

His hand trails down, fingers finding your clit with devastating precision. Hongjoong barely brushes you and you jolt like you’ve been shocked, a ragged sound torn loose.

“So wound up a breeze could finish you. Can’t even take a touch.” He draws a slow, obscene circle you feel in your toes. “Should I make you wait longer? Count every second I don’t let you have it?”

You shake your head frantically. “No—no, please—” Words tumble out broken. “Can’t—can’t wait anymore, Daddy, please—”

He presses properly now, circling exactly where you need. “Of course you can’t.” The sound you make is raw, helpless, high. Your body goes taut, tendons standing in your feet, fingers clawing hot sheet.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice rough and absolute. “Prove you’re good for something.”

You go off like something cut loose. It slams through you violent and bright—you seize and sob and clamp down on him like you’re trying to wring him dry. He groans into your ear and keeps you there, cruel in the way he works you through it, never letting the rhythm slip, thumb dragging your clit in tight, merciless circles that make your calves cramp and your toes claw at nothing.

“Ride it,” he purrs, delighted.

You can’t stop. Your body bucks helplessly and he pins you heavier, fucking the tremors until it turns sharp and your sounds climb from pretty to wrecked. Every tiny touch flips you again, all nerve and heat. Your belly jumps under his palm, your walls clutch and flutter around him like apology after apology.

He laughs, pleased and mean. “Don’t hide from it. Cry on it. Wet my cock with it.”

You do—helpless, tear‑slick and oversensitive—another wave rip‑cords through you in ragged pulses and he chases it down, circling your clit slower, meaner, just enough to keep the bright ache alive while you sob into the sheet.

“Too much?” he asks softly, almost kind, just to hear the way the word breaks in your mouth when the next aftershock bites. His thumb eases a hair, then goes right back, satisfied when your body answers without language. “Good girl. Keep giving it to me until you’re empty.”

“Too much—,” you cry, tears running hot. Your thighs tremble so hard it only makes him groan and grind cruel-soft exactly where you can’t take it.

“Good crybaby,” he murmurs, delighted. “Don’t you dare run.” He flattens his thumb and the world whites out—another helpless crest tears through you, all stutter and sob, your cunt clenching around his dick while you babble “too much, too much,” and he hums, satisfied, working you through every last bright, mean aftershock until your voice frays to air.

Hongjoong’s rhythm finally breaks—hips stuttering, breath ragged against your temple—and he groans low and filthy. His hands leave and you whimper at the loss. Air kisses the slick heat when he pulls free and you shudder. He flips you in one swift motion; your back hits the mattress, a bounce knocking a gasp out of you. The sheets are damp under your shoulder blades and the pillow is cool under fevered skin.

“Look at me.” Jaw tight, eyes wild, control fraying. A vein jumps in his neck. He looks like sin and victory.

“Hands above your head.” You obey, wrists crossing. “Don’t move.” His palm pins your wrists; the heel of it grinds the bones together until you whine. The other drops to his cock and works himself once, twice, your slick shines on his length.

“Eyes on me.”

“Fuck—” The word breaks as his release lashes hot across your stomach and chest. Cum splashes your throat, a line streaks your collarbone. He doesn’t look away from your face while he watches it drip. Ragged breath. Shuddering shoulders.

He drags two fingers through the mess and paints your lips with it, slow. He pushes his fingers past your tongue. “Suck it up like a good little slut.” You do, cheeks hollowing, and he hums approval when you gag around his knuckles then he pulls free with a wet pop.

Hongjoong smears the rest of his cum across your cheek and jaw, then rubs what’s left into your throat.

“Hands stay.” Your wrists ache deliciously. His palm presses your sternum, shortening your breath; he lifts it just enough to give you air, like charity. Then he kisses you deep, filthy, tasting salt and himself on your tongue. He palms the back of your thigh and hikes it high to his hip. “Round two,” he says like a sentence.

“No—no—” Your thighs slam shut on instinct, trembling violently. Oversensitive doesn’t begin to cover it—every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, like touching a live wire. Your knees knock together as you try to curl away, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

Hongjoong’s hand catches your knee before you can fully close yourself off. His grip is firm but he doesn’t force—not yet. He watches you shake apart, eyes dark and assessing.

“Too much?” The question sounds almost curious, like he’s cataloging your limits for future reference.

“I can’t—” Your voice breaks on a sob. “Please, I need—just a minute—”

His thumb traces idle circles on your kneecap, a mockery of gentleness while your body still trembles from the aftershocks. “That’s not how this works, love.” He leans down, lips brushing your temple. “You don’t get to decide when we’re done.”

His hand slides up your thigh, not forcing your legs open yet, just resting there with casual ownership. “You know how we end things.” It’s not a question. His eyebrow arches, that familiar challenge, and your stomach drops because you do know. You know exactly what he’s waiting for.

The word sits on your tongue—red. Simple. Final. It would stop everything.

But it won’t come.

“No?” His thumb strokes once, twice, maddeningly gentle against your feverish skin. “Then I’ll make it easy for you.” His voice drops, taking on that edge that makes your pulse stutter. “Three seconds. Say it or I’m not stopping.”

Your breath catches. Every nerve ending screams that you can’t, that you’re too wrecked, too sensitive, too much—

“One.”

The word is right there. Red. Your lips part.

“Two.”

His fingers trail higher, barely a whisper of touch, and you tremble. Your mouth stays open, empty.

“Three.” He waits one more heartbeat, eyes locked on yours, searching. When nothing comes—when you just stare back at him, panting and wrecked and silent—something shifts in his expression. Satisfaction, dark and absolute. “That’s what I thought.”

“Let daddy in.”

Your thighs fall open slowly, a surrender that feels like defeat and relief tangled together. He drags the blunt head through your slick and slaps it against your clit—wet, obscene—once, twice, just to watch your whole body jump. When he pushes in—slow, deliberate, watching every micro-expression that crosses your face—the oversensitivity makes you keen, a broken sound that's half-sob, half-moan.

“Good girl,” Hongjoong murmurs, and doesn’t move. He stays buried to the hilt, making you feel every inch, every slow pulse. Your walls flutter around him and he hisses through his teeth. “Still.”

“Daddy—” You twitch, trying to adjust to the obscene fullness, and his hand clamps your hip hard enough to bruise.

“I said still.” His voice is steel. He shifts a mean millimeter deeper, a promise you’re going to hate loving. “You said you ‘can’t’ anymore? Cute.” He settles like a stake driven into the earth. “Then be useful.” Hongjoong’s hand lifts your thigh and hooks your knee higher, forcing the angle open until the stretch sits deep and electric. “Keep Daddy’s dick warm,” he says, bored and cruel.

Heat licks up your spine. Hongjoong doesn’t thrust. He doesn’t have to. You try to breathe around it. He shifts another millimeter—just a cruel reminder of his thickness—and the sound that leaks out of you is humiliating.

You twitch—instinct, pathetic—and his cock slides against a nerve that makes your whole body jolt. You try to chase it, hips rolling a greedy inch before you can stop yourself.

“Did I say you could move?” His voice cuts through the haze, razor-clean. His palm slams your hip back to the mattress, pinning you flat with bruising force. “Greedy little sleeve. One rule. You can’t even manage one.”

A wrecked whimper leaks out. The stillness is torture—every ridge, every vein, the obscene stretch of him pulsing inside you while your body screams to grind, to rub, to take. Your thighs tremble. Your toes curl like you’re trying to scratch at the air.

“Please—” you gasp, voice shaking. “I need—”

“You need?” He laughs, low and mean. “You need to learn to take what you’ve given.” His fingers dig into your hip, owning the flesh. “Move again and I pull out. I leave you empty and leaking with your little hole clenched around nothing. Is that what you want?”

“N—no, Daddy, please—”

“Then be fucking still.” He settles a breath deeper, a hateful inch that makes you sob, and holds you there like a knife sheathed to the hilt. “Keep me warm like I told you.” His mouth brushes your ear, the smile audible. “Stop acting like a desperate slut who can’t control herself.”

You feel the words burn through you; your walls flutter helplessly around him. You can’t stop the tiny drag of your hips—barely there, shameful—and he feels it immediately.

“Ah‑ah.” He smiles against your cheek.

“Please—” It scrapes out of you, ragged.

“Please what.” Flat as a verdict. “Use your stupid mouth.” His thumb strokes your jaw, mock‑gentle.

Your body shakes with effort. Your calves cramp. “Please—” The word fractures before it can form, dissolving into a sound that’s barely human—just need and surrender wrapped in breath.

The fullness skates the edge of too much; oversensitivity turns every slow beat into bright heat. Hongjoong only watches, pleased and dark, while you struggle to hold still around him. A whimper leaves you, broken and desperate.

“Quiet,” he says, almost bored. “Toys don’t whine.” He shifts deeper just to hear the noise you make. “Hands flat. Eyes open. Count your breaths if you need to. Don’t twitch.”

You count breaths because he told you to and lose the thread at eight, at nine, at nothing, because your body betrays you—tiny flutters you can’t control. Each one earns you a hum against your temple, a lazy squeeze at your throat that says he felt it.

“Pathetic,” he croons finally, sounding pleased.

“Daddy—” slips out again, ruined.

“What do you think you’re going to ask for? You’re full. You’re not getting more. You’re keeping me.”

“Please—”

“Please what?” His voice goes flat. “No babbling, no noise. Full sentence. Ask to be used.”

Shame burns hot. “Please use me, Daddy.”

“Mhm.” He rewards you with a single, slow grind that rolls through you like thunder, then stops dead. “Ask better.”

Your throat tightens. The words stick—humiliating—but his silence is worse, patient and hungry, like he has all night to watch you crack. “Please use me however you want, Daddy,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m yours—I’m just—please, I need you to—”

“Need me to what?” His thumb traces your bottom lip, almost tender in a way that makes you want to sob. “Say it clear or I’ll sit inside you and watch you shake until morning.”

“Please fuck me,” you gasp, shame scorching every syllable. “Please—use me like the toy I am. I can’t—Daddy, wreck me, please—”

“There it is.” His smile cuts wicked against your jaw. “See? Useless little mouth can learn.” He drags out of you slow—obscenely slow—until only the tip sits at your entrance. The loss rips a whimper out of you. “Since you asked nicely.”

He slams back in with no warning. Your toes curl hard enough to hurt. Your nails bite your palms. You don’t move. You don’t dare.

“Better,” he decides, and finally gives you motion—small, shallow, nothing like mercy. Short, ruthless strokes that never leave you, just rock deep enough to make your breath hitch on every one. “Count them.”

“One,” you whisper. “Two.” By four your voice shakes. By seven it thins to air. By ten you’ve lost the number and he has to murmur it for you against your mouth, amused.

“Ten,” he says, and nips your bottom lip. “Hopeless little counter.” He pulls out to the edge again and you whine without meaning to. He catches your chin hard. “What did I say about whining?”

“Toys don’t whine,” you breathe, panicked and obedient.

“That’s right.” He slides back in, the stretch a bright, tearing relief, and sets a new pace that is nothing like earlier—just deep and slow and devastating, like he’s proving he can keep you here forever.

You feel it rising again—desperation clawing up your throat, that helpless way your body starts chasing friction on its own. Your hips twitch forward, greedy without permission. His fingers bite down instantly.

“Stop.” Ice-cold.

But you don’t. You can’t. You’re wrecked and stupid with need, and your body rolls again—small, hungry little pulses that betray every order he’s given you. A whine slips out, high and broken.

“Daddy, please—I can’t—I need more, please—”

“You can’t?” His voice drops to something dangerous. “Or you won’t?”

“I can’t—” Another whimper. Your hips buck again, chasing the friction he’s withholding, and the sound that leaves you is pathetic. “Please, Daddy, I need—need you to move, need it harder, need—”

He goes dead still inside you. The absence of movement is worse than any punishment.

“Greedy little thing,” he says, tone flat with disappointment. “I give you my cock to keep warm and you can’t even manage that without turning into a whining, desperate mess.”

“I’m sorry—” You’re babbling now, words tripping over themselves. “I’m sorry, Daddy, please—just—please fuck me, I’ll be good—”

“You’ll be good?” He laughs—sharp, cruel, joyless. “You’re not being good now. You’re being a greedy slut who can’t follow a single fucking instruction.” His hand slides from your hip to your throat—fingers wrapping lightly. Your pulse hammers against his palm. “I don’t like you like this.”

It hits like a slap. Shame floods hot and immediate, and still your body trembles, still clenching around him, still needing.

“Please—”

“Please what? Please keep giving you what you clearly can’t handle?” He shifts just enough to make you whine, then stops again. “You’re not ready for more. You can’t even take what I’ve already given you without falling apart.”

“I can—I can take it—” Your voice breaks on a sob.

“No.” Firm. Final. “You can’t. Look at you. Shaking and whining and begging like you forgot how to be still.” His thumb strokes your throat once—almost gentle, which makes it worse. “I told you to be useful. Instead you’re being pathetic.”

The disappointment punches something open in your chest. You force yourself still—every muscle screaming—swallowing the whine clawing up your tongue. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, small and wrecked. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

He watches you for a long, measuring beat. Then, slowly, he withdraws completely. The emptiness is a knife.

“Daddy—no—please—”

“Quiet.” The word drops like a brick. He stays out of you, cock wet against your slit, heat without mercy. “You want more when you can’t even fucking hold still?” His laugh is flat and ugly.

Your chest hitches. “Daddy, I—”

“Don’t talk.” He drags the swollen head through your slick once, slow, and you gasp like a drowning thing. The emptiness screams. “You don’t get my cock. You get consequence.”

“Do you want Daddy to go find himself another hole?” His words hit like acid, eating under your skin. “A quiet one. An obedient sleeve that doesn’t twitch, doesn’t whine, doesn’t make me repeat myself like I’m training a puppy.”

“No—” It tears out of you, small and panicked. “No, Daddy, please—”

“No?” Hongjoong sounds almost curious, like he’s already halfway out the door. “Because you’re not acting like you want to keep me. You’re acting like a spoiled toy that forgot what it’s for.”

“I do—I want to keep you—” Your voice breaks. “Please don’t—I’ll be good, I promise—”

“You promised to stay still five fucking minutes ago and look where that got us.” His thumb drags across your bottom lip, cruelly tender. “Maybe I should find a hole that knows how to listen. One that doesn’t babble, doesn’t beg, and doesn’t forget every rule the second it gets full.”

The image scalds—him leaving you empty and shaking while he goes somewhere else—and the sob that rips free is ugly.

“Please, Daddy—please—I’ll do better, I swear—don’t leave, please don’t, I need you—”

“Need me?” His voice goes flat. “You need to learn to fucking behave.” He drags the head of his cock on your swollen clit like a threat and your body jerks up desperately. “See? Even now you can’t stay still.”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” Tears slip hot into your hair. “I’ll be good, I promise, please just—stay—”

“One. More. Chance.” Soft and lethal. “You twitch, you whine, you breathe wrong—and I’m done with you tonight. I’ll go find that quiet hole, and you can hump the sheet and think about why I left.”

The burn in your eyes sharpens.

“Say the rule.”

You swallow. “Keep—keep you warm.”

“At a minimum.” He taps the head against your clit again—light, mean—once. Your twitch and his hand locks your pelvis to the mattress with bruising pressure. “And you couldn’t even fucking do that.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, shaking.

“I don’t want sorry. I want silent, still, useful.” He lays the fat tip at your entrance and holds it there. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to keep me right here and not twitch. You breathe wrong, we reset. You beg wrong, we reset. You whine, you don’t get me at all.”

“Daddy—”

“Start.” His thumb presses your throat, not choking, just owning. “Five breaths.”

You count, voice wrecked and tiny. One. Two. Your body claws for friction and he hears the minuscule drag in your hips like it’s a confession.

“Reset,” he says, bored. The head lifts off you. The loss is a knife. He sets it back and you whine before you can strangle it.

“Reset.” He smiles without warmth.

Shame burns through you. “Please—” You bite it off and force your lungs to move. One. Two. Three. At four he ghosts the head forward—no entry, just stretch on the skin—and you hiccup a sound you barely recognise.

“Reset,” he repeats, almost amused now. “We’d be done by now if you weren’t such a needy fuckup.”

“I can do it.”

“Doubt it.” He pats your cheek condescendingly. “But try again.”

You count, lips trembling. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He stares down at you, unimpressed. “Now thank me for not fucking you.”

The sentence scrapes your throat raw. “Thank you for not fucking me, Daddy.”

He hums, pleased—and disappointed anyway. “Again, like you mean it.”

“Thank you for not fucking me,” you rush the words out, “For making me still. For making me useful.”

“Finally.” The head presses, a murderous inch, then stops dead inside—no thrust, just fullness that feels like a verdict. You choke on a sound; his fingers tighten on your jaw.

“Now you hold me there and you don’t move,” he says, low and lethal.

Your body locks into place, every muscle screaming against the stillness. The stretch sits there—barely inside, not enough, too much—and he doesn't move. Just watches you shake around that single cruel inch, his expression flat and clinical, like he's studying how long it takes before you break again.

He watches your thighs quiver around that single inch like he’s timing a lab experiment. “Three breaths,” he says, voice clinical. “Earn another inch.”

You breathe. One. Two. On three your belly flutters; he feels it. The head slides in a second inch and stops dead. You whimper through your teeth.

“Again. Three.”

You make it, barely—every nerve screaming—and he feeds you another inch like he’s measuring with a ruler. “See?” he murmurs, disappointed anyway. “When you shut up and follow orders you almost pass for useful.”

“Daddy—”

His palm covers your mouth, not to mute, to own.

He waits, indifferent to the shake, then seats the rest in a slow, inevitable push and locks your hips to the mattress. Utterly full. Utterly still.

“There.” His fingers tap your jaw, condescending. “Now ask me for nothing.”

You swallow hard, nod against his palm because language might ruin you. He smiles—cold, pleased—and starts the smallest motion imaginable, a cruel internal drag that never lets you chase. Your body tries anyway. He feels the microscopic reach.

“Aaand there she is,” he sighs, disgusted.

“On your fucking knees,” he says, voice flat and final. “Ass up.”

He pulls out completely—the emptiness is brutal—and you scramble to obey, limbs clumsy with need. Your knees hit the mattress, your chest drops, and you arch your back the way he likes, presenting yourself like an apology.

“Higher.” His palm cracks across your ass—sharp, unforgiving—and you gasp, lifting until your spine curves obscene. “There. Now stay exactly like that and think about why you're here instead of full of my cock.”

The air feels too cold on your exposed cunt. You hear him move behind you, deliberate and unhurried, and the anticipation is its own kind of torture. His hand smooths over the curve of your ass once—almost tender—then his palm comes down again, harder. The sound cracks through the room.

“Count.”

“One,” you breathe, shaking.

Another, lower—right on the tender hinge where ass meets thigh. You jerk, then wrench yourself back into place.

“Two—”

“Louder. Like you fucking mean it.”

The next lands before your mouth can catch up. You yelp. “Three!”

“Better.” He pauses, fingers trailing through the slick mess between your thighs, not giving you anything, just reminding you what you're not getting. The touch is featherlight—clinical, almost—and it makes you ache harder than if he'd pressed down with intent. Your clit throbs where his knuckles barely graze it, swollen and desperate, and the emptiness inside you feels like a wound. Every nerve ending screams for more.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I couldn’t stay still—couldn’t—”

“Because you’re greedy.” The slap is vicious and precise. “Four.”

“Four,” you sob.

“Because you take what I give you and immediately beg for more like it’s not enough.” His hand comes down again, twice in quick succession, and you lose count, scrambling to catch up.

“Five—six—“

“Pathetic.” He sounds disgusted and pleased at the same time. His knuckles skim the burn, then slide meanly through your slick, circle your clit once and abandon it like a test you failed. The touch makes you clench around nothing, empty and aching, every nerve ending screaming for more pressure, more contact, more of him. The abandonment feels like a punishment you can’t name—your body chasing something he’s already taken away. “Still dripping. Still desperate. Still not listening.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy—”

“You will be.” His fist knots in your hair, yanking your face off the sheet. “We keep going until your body remembers how to obey. You twitch or gasp wrong, we reset to one.”

The next strike lands; you choke the whimper into your teeth and hold. “Seven!”

“Let’s see you make it to ten without falling apart.”

Eight snaps high on the curve; nine brutal on the sit spot. You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste iron and force the numbers out steady—“Eight. Nine.”—and you don’t move.

Ten comes down perfect, right where it hurts prettiest.

“Ten.” Your voice is raw but even. Silence drops heavy around it.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, palm smoothing over the heat, reverent like he’s polishing his work. “Directions aren’t complicated when you’re not busy failing.”

His fingers trace the marks he’s left, then slide lower, through the slick mess between your thighs. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound, from pushing back into his touch.

“Don’t you dare chase,” he says softly.

You lock your hips but Hongjoong rewards you with nothing. Then—finally, cruelly—one slow circle on your clit that makes your calves charlie-horse and your lungs forget.

You wait. You hold perfectly still, thighs shaking, breathing shallow through your nose. You wait for the praise—for him to tell you you’re good, that you’ve finally done it right, that you’ve earned something. The silence stretches. His thumb stays maddeningly light, circling without pressure, and the words don't come.

They’re not coming.

The realisation settles cold in your chest even as heat coils tighter in your belly. He’s not going to give it to you.

“Please,” you whisper, a thread. “Please tell me I did good.”

Hongjoong’s hand stills. The silence stretches, and you feel the weight of his gaze on you.

“Ask properly.”

You swallow hard, forcing the words out even as shame and need tangle in your chest. “Please, Daddy. Please tell me I’m good. I need to hear it. I need to know I did well.”

His thumb resumes—tight, deliberate circles that you meet with perfect stillness because you want the words more than air. “You want praise?” he asks, almost curious. “After the shitshow you put on?”

“I made it to ten,” you rasp. “I stayed still. I didn’t move.”

“You finally did what you were told,” he concedes. Pressure sharpens and every muscle in you locks so you don’t grind into it. “Miracles.”

“Please,” you breathe. “Please, Daddy—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hongjoong says, voice flat. His thumb stops mid-circle and lifts off entirely. “I didn’t ask for begging. I asked for obedience.”

The loss of contact is devastating. You bite back a whimper, holding position even as your thighs shake.

“You think making it to ten earns you anything?” He sounds almost bored now, disgusted. “That’s the bare minimum of not being completely fucking useless.”

Your eyes burn. You keep your face pressed to the sheet, don’t move, don’t speak.

“You want praise for doing what you should’ve done the first time?” His hand comes down once more on your ass. “For finally shutting up and following a simple fucking instruction?”

Silence. You don’t answer because he didn’t ask a question you’re allowed to respond to.

“That’s what I thought.” His fingers trail back between your thighs, maddeningly light, and you hold so still you forget to breathe. “You don’t get praise for meeting expectations. You get my cock when you exceed them.” His voice drops, cruel and clinical. “And you? You’re so far below the bar I’d need a fucking shovel to find where you started. You think ten slaps and some tears make you special? You’re not even average. You’re just finally less of a disappointment than you were five minutes ago.”

His fist knots in your hair again and yanks you upright—sharp, brutal—until your spine arcs and your knees scream against the mattress. Your scalp burns; your throat opens on a gasp you can’t swallow back.

“Look at me.” His voice is low, final. You force your eyes open, vision blurred, and meet his gaze. It’s flat. Clinical. Like he’s deciding whether you’re worth the effort.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He tightens his grip until tears spring hot and immediate. “Attention. Validation. My fucking time.”

You can’t nod—his hold won’t let you—so you whisper it, wrecked. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Then stop fucking wasting it.” He drags you closer by the hair, your body folding backward, chest exposed, throat vulnerable. “Stop begging for praise you haven’t earned. Stop moving when I tell you to be still. Stop acting like you don’t know exactly what I expect from you.”

He releases your hair and you collapse forward, gasping. Before you can catch your breath, his hands are on your hips, hauling you upright and off the bed entirely. Your legs don’t work right—numb and shaking—but Hongjoong doesn't care, dragging you across the room until your palms hit cold glass.

“Hands flat,” he orders, positioning you facing the window. The city glitters below, oblivious. “Don’t you fucking move them.”

You press your palms to the glass, the chill biting into your overheated skin. The window is floor-to-ceiling, and you’re on the twentieth floor—exposed, visible if anyone bothered to look up. The thought makes your stomach drop.

“Daddy—“ you start, voice thin with panic.

“I don’t remember asking you to speak.” His hand lands between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest forward until your breasts press flat against the glass. The cold shocks through you, nipples hardening instantly, and you gasp at the contrast. “You wanted my attention? Congratulations. Now everyone down there gets a front-row seat to what happens when you finally shut the fuck up and do what you’re told.”

His breath is hot against your ear as he leans in closer, caging you against the window. “Look at them. All those people going about their boring little lives, and if even one of them glanced up right now, they’d see you—spread out, dripping, desperate. They’d see exactly what kind of slut you are. The kind who begs for cock pressed against a window twenty floors up.”

He grinds his hips forward slightly, not entering yet, just letting you feel the threat of it. “Think about it. Some guy walking his dog. Some woman coming home from work. And there you are—tits against the glass, ass out, waiting to be fucked like you’re on display. Like you’re a show I’m putting on for the whole goddamn city.”

He kicks your feet apart, wider than stable, until you’re on display—open, vulnerable. His hand trails down your spine, over the burning marks on your ass, then lower.

“Stay exactly like this,” he says, voice deadly calm. “Hands on the glass. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound."

You feel him line up behind you, the blunt pressure of his cock against your entrance. Your breath fogs the window. Every instinct screams to push back, to take what you need, but you lock your muscles and hold.

“Everyone can see you,” he says, breath hot against your ear as he leans over you, caging you between his body and the glass. “See how desperate you are.”

The angle is punishing. He bottoms out so deep you feel it in your throat then he pulls to the edge and shoves back in in one rude stroke. Your gasp splashes white on the glass. Hongjoong watches it bloom and fade and times the next thrust to erase it. He does not tease. He does not test. He just takes—hips snapping in a pace with no mercy—each impact a proof that your body belongs exactly where he’s putting it. When your thighs start to shake he only tightens his hand at your hip, grinding you into the glass so the cold bites your nipples and the heat bites everywhere else

Your reflection stares back at you—fucked out, wrecked, mouth open on silent gasps you’re not allowed to voice.

“This is what you needed,” he continues, rhythm brutal and unrelenting. “Not praise. Not softness. Just someone to put you exactly where you belong and fuck the desperation out of you until you remember how to behave.”

Your legs are shaking so hard you can barely stand, but his grip on your hips is iron, holding you in place, keeping you upright and on display as he uses you against the window.

You’re e so full. The stretch is devastating—not painful, but so complete it rewires every nerve ending, makes you hyperaware of every inch of him inside you. Your body clenches reflexively, trying to adjust, and the friction makes your breath stutter. He’s so deep you feel it in your stomach, a pressure that borders on too much but somehow isn’t enough.

The heat of him is overwhelming. You can feel every throb, every shift of his hips, the way he fills every space until there’s nothing left but him. Your walls flutter around his length, trying to accommodate, trying to hold on, and the sensation makes your head spin.

You feel owned. Claimed. Like your body was made specifically for this—for him to fill and use and shape however he wants. The thought makes you clench again, and you hear his breath catch behind you.

Hongjoong’s hand clamps your hip and drags you back onto him while his mouth finds the slope where neck becomes shoulder. He bites—hard, deliberate—until your breath splinters on the glass, then sucks wickedly slow to pull the bruise up dark and pretty. “Mine,” he says into the mark, not for you, for the mirror of your face in the window.

Rings grind into your skin as his fingers hike your waist higher, leaving crescent dents along your side. He shifts his grip to your ass and you almost hiss—the flesh is still burning from before, hypersensitive—but he doesn’t care, squeezing until your skin crests his knuckles. Then he smacks the same handprint in place—once, twice, a third time—each impact landing on already-raw skin that makes you gasp sharp and broken into the glass.

His mouth trails lower, teeth scraping the curve where your shoulder meets your throat. He sucks hard enough to sting, working the skin until you feel the heat bloom under his lips. When he pulls back, you know there's a mark—dark and obvious, a claim you'll see tomorrow and every day after until it fades.

“Everyone’s going to know,” he murmurs against your skin, moving to a new spot. His teeth catch again, sharper this time, and you whimper before you can stop yourself. He doesn’t scold you for it. Instead, he hums, pleased, and works his way across your throat, your collarbone, the top of your shoulder—each love bite deliberate, territorial. His tongue soothes over the marks before his teeth return, and the contrast makes you dizzy. Your reflection in the glass shows the trail he’s leaving. A constellation of bruises that spell out exactly who you belong to.

“Prettier when you bruise,” he murmurs, and you feel him smile against your throat. He shoves your wrists wider on the glass, laces his fingers over yours so you can’t hide the way you shake, and fucks you harder—short, piston drives that press your chest flat and stamp the rhythm into your spine. Your breath paints messy halos on the pane. Hongjoong leans forward and bites your ear, low laugh ugly against your skin.

His mouth moves to the curve of your neck, lips dragging slow over the sensitive skin just below your ear. The gentleness is unexpected—devastating. Your body doesn’t know what to do with tender after brutal, and the contrast hits like a live wire. He kisses once, soft, then again lower, and your breath catches wrong in your chest.

“Daddy—“ you try to warn him, but it comes out broken.

“Quiet,” he murmurs against your throat, and kisses you again. His lips are warm, almost reverent as they trail down to your shoulder, and the rhythm of his hips never falters—still deep, still unrelenting, but now paired with this impossible softness that’s unraveling you faster than anything brutal ever could.

It builds wrong. Too fast. You weren’t ready for it—one second you’re holding on, the next you’re free-falling, your orgasm slamming into you without warning. Your whole body locks up, spine arcing away from the glass as the pleasure rips through you in violent, uncontrollable waves. He feels the clamp coming—a greedy, panicked grab—and rips out in one brutal drag.

The world snaps wrong. Heat turns to air, slick to cold, friction to nothing. Your cry out raw and too loud, fog exploding across the glass in a white star. Your thighs slam together on instinct and find only his palm, flat and merciless, forcing your knees wide again. Everything skids, your body still pitched for impact while the impact is gone, nerves misfiring, the ache in your belly pitching higher with nowhere to go. Your clit throbs, your calves seize, your nipples spark on the pane.

“Did I say you could cum, you filthy slut?” His voice is ice and venom.

”Please-” Your voice cracks into a ragged wail you can’t swallow. The sound embarrasses you even as it keeps coming-thin, high, animal-your chest scraping the glass as you shudder.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Hongjoong’s hand clamps your jaw brutal and drags your open mouth to the window so you hear yourself against the pane-hot breath, pathetic little whimpers bouncing back. “Disgusting. Look at this mess.” Two fingers slide through the slick pouring out of you and slap your clit mean, the sting bright and metallic and your whole body jerks like a current ran through you. “Dripping like a bitch in heat. You’re fucking pathetic.”

He does it again-lighter, crueler-just enough to sharpen the ache and keep it blooming. “Greedy cunt couldn't wait, could she?” The cold on your front feels like punishment, the heat at your back feels like a dare. You can taste blood where you bit your tongue, you can feel his ring scrape your hip as he drags your pelvis higher and pins you there, open and empty and shaking. “Worthless little whore. Can’t follow one simple fucking rule.”

“Could’ve asked. Could’ve been good. But no-you had to be a desperate fucking cumslut,” he snarls at your reflection, voice dripping contempt. He paints your hipbone with your own slick like a stripe, degrading, then presses his thumb into the fresh bruise on your shoulder hard enough to make you gasp. “Now hold it and suffer.”

Your body argues in every language it has—fluttering, pleading squeezes at nothing, a pulse between your legs that hurts, a tremor you can’t stop—while he gives you exactly no motion where you need it and too much where you can’t take it. He bites the hinge of your jaw, sucks until colour swells up pretty and dark, and when your breath stutters toward that helpless climb again, he taps your clit once—just once—and the wave collapses with a sob that fogs the glass and runs. “Filthy fucking thing. This is what disobedient sluts get.”

Your body is betraying you—hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles even though he’s not inside you anymore, chasing friction that isn’t there. The orgasm he denied you earlier left everything raw and oversensitive, and now every nerve ending is screaming for release. Your clit throbs in time with your pulse, swollen and aching, and the emptiness inside you feels like a physical wound.

You can feel it building again—that terrible, inevitable climb. Your thighs are shaking so hard they might give out. Heat pools low in your belly, coiling tighter with each ragged breath. It’s different this time—sharper, more desperate, edged with something that feels dangerously close to panic because you know what happens if you fall over without permission.

“Daddy—please—” Your voice cracks on the plea. “I need—I can’t—”

The pressure builds and builds, your body pulled taut as a wire, every muscle locked in anticipation of a release you’re not allowed to have. You’re so close it hurts—that edge right there, shimmering just out of reach, and your body keeps reaching for it anyway, mindless and greedy and completely beyond your control.

His fingers barely touch your clit, just the ghost of pressure—and begin to circle with agonising slowness. Not enough to give relief, just enough to make everything worse. Each lazy pass sends sparks shooting through your nerves, stoking the fire instead of quenching it.

“You gonna try cumming again without permission?” His laugh is cruel against your ear, all sharp edges. His hand spreads over your throat, thumb under your jaw to keep your face to the window, forcing you to watch yourself fall apart. “Be still. Feel every second of what you don’t deserve. Feel it, you needy little whore.”

Your body doesn’t listen—can’t listen. The orgasm crashes through you anyway, ripping a broken cry from your throat as you clench and pulse around nothing. Your legs give out completely, only his grip on your throat keeping you upright against the glass as pleasure tears through you in waves you can’t control.

“Did I fucking say you could?” Hongjoong’s voice is ice.

Your vision blurs with tears—shame and oversensitivity and the cruel ache of cumming empty. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I couldn’t—”

“Pathetic.” He releases your throat and you crumple, legs buckling, but he catches you by the hips before you hit the floor.

Hongjoong peels you off the window by the back of your neck and walks you to the bed like he owns the hinge of every joint. The mattress hits the backs of your knees, he doesn’t guide you down so much as throw you, a bounce knocking a breathless sound out of you.

His hand cracks across your face—not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to snap your attention back to him. The sting blooms hot across your cheek, shocking you into stillness.

“Eyes on me,” he commands, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare look away.”

He slaps you again—same cheek, harder this time—and the sound that rips from your throat is pure, shameless need. A moan, broken and desperate, that makes his eyes go dark.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. His thumb traces the reddened skin, the heat of it blooming under his touch. “You like that, don’t you?”

Before you can answer, he slaps you again—lighter this time, almost playful—and watches your pupils blow wide. “Yeah,” he confirms, reading your body like a book he’s memorised. “You fucking love it.”

He’s on you a second later—knee between yours, shoving them wide—hands mean on your hips as he lines up and drives in with one brutal stroke that punches the air out of you.

“Quiet,” he snaps, palm clamping over your mouth. “Swallow it.”

Your moan dies behind his hand, trapped in your throat where it burns. No easing, no rhythm—just slam, slam, slam—his pelvis clapping your thighs, the headboard starting to complain in hard little knocks that match your pulse. The angle is obscene with your hips tipped; each drag feels like he’s stripping you to the studs and hammering you back together wrong. Every sound you want to make gets caught behind his palm, building pressure in your chest until you’re choking on your own desperation.

“Look at me,” he grits. You do—eyes glassy—and it only makes him rougher. Heat builds thick and fast in your belly again, that off‑the‑cliff drop, the ache and burn at your clit. The sounds are wet and humiliating and loud, but your moans stay trapped—swallowed down like he ordered, leaving only the whimpers that leak through your nose and the desperate way you’re breathing against his palm.

Hongjoong’s close—you can feel it in the way his breathing saws, in the vicious set of his mouth, in the way his rhythm goes intent and ugly, grinding at the end of each thrust like he’s carving his name into the spot that makes you see static. His hand stays firm over your mouth, forcing you to take it in silence, to keep every wrecked sound locked inside where only you can feel how thoroughly he’s breaking you apart. You catch the first stutter in his hips and reach for him without thinking, greedy, pleading.

“Don’t.” The word is a snarl. He stuffs you full and holds there, cock thick and pulsing inside you, then drags out slow enough to scrape sparks and snaps back in hard enough to jolt your spine. “You don’t deserve Daddy’s cum.”

The sentence lands like a slap. Heat spikes behind your eyes; your body clenches around him in panicked apology.

“Please—” you manage against his palm, the word muffled and desperate.

“You need to learn.” Another slam—deep, punishing—and the next rolls through you like thunder, heavy grind at the end that drags a high, torn sound from your throat.

Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, nails digging in, but he catches both wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. His other hand finally leaves your mouth.

“Please,” you sob, shameless now. “Please fill me—please let me have it—I’ll hold it—I’ll be good—”

He laughs—short, cruel—breath burning your cheek. “Will you?” His hand slides to your throat, thumb under your jaw to tilt your face up so he can watch you fall apart. “Say it properly.”

“Please, Daddy,” you gasp, voice breaking on the word. “Please cum inside me. I need it. I need you. I’ll keep it. I’ll—” Your voice knifes up because he grinds just right and the lights stipple again. “Please—I’ll be useful—please—”

His control frays; you feel it in the nasty little shiver that runs through him, in the way he clamps your hip like it’s the only thing stopping him from painting you from the inside. He bares his teeth, eyes sharp and dark. “Beg better.”

“Please—use me properly—mark me from the inside—please, Daddy—”

“Mhm.” The sound is a threat and a promise. He slams you deeper, deeper, harder—headboard knocking time, breath brutal at your ear—then rips out at the last second and fists himself once, twice, the wet slick of you shining his length while you wail.

“No—no, please—" The words tumble out desperate and broken. You reach for him with shaking hands, shameless now, all pride dissolved. “Please fill me up—mark me—use me—” You’re babbling, hips canting up obscenely, trying to tempt him back.

His eyes darken as he watches you fall apart, a cruel smirk playing at his lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, voice dripping with condescension. “Begging like a bitch in heat.” His fist keeps working himself, slow and deliberate, making you watch every stroke.

Your thighs spread wider without him asking, presenting yourself like an offering. “Please cum in me—I'm begging—I'll do anything—” Tears stream down your face, your voice cracking. “Need to feel you—need Daddy’s cum so bad—please don’t waste it—please use my hole.”

“Shut the fuck up.” His voice is dead calm, which makes it worse. “You think you deserve Daddy’s cum?" He laughs—short, cruel. “No. You’re going to lie there empty and watch me waste it. Watch what you don’t get to have.” His eyes are vicious, mouth twisted. “Pathetic little cumslut can’t even follow simple fucking rules. Open your eyes wider. I want you to see every drop you’re not getting.”

“Please, Daddy,” you sob, voice breaking on every word. “Please use your cumslut—please fuck me —I’ll be so good—I’ll take everything—please.”

You look at him—eyes glassed, mouth open, body clenching on nothing—while he edges himself cruelly, letting every half-breath of relief flash and die on his face. He squeezes himself hard, strangling the tremor, and lets the edge bleed away while you sob beneath him, trembling empty and open.

His hand fists in your hair, “What are you?"

“A slut,” you whimper, shame burning through you.

“A what?” He pulls harder, making you gasp.

“A pathetic slut—Daddy’s pathetic slut—”

“That’s right.” He releases your hair with a shove, letting your head fall back against the mattress. “And you love it,” he continues, voice dark with satisfaction. “Love being Daddy’s desperate fucktoy. Love being used and degraded and filled up like the greedy whore you are.”

“Yes,” you sob, because it’s true, because you can’t deny it when your body is still trembling with need.

“Tell me what you are.”

“I’m Daddy’s greedy whore,” you gasp out, shame and arousal twisting together. “I’m a desperate cumslut—I’m pathetic—I need you—”

“Fucking right you do.”

Then he flips you onto your stomach before you can process it, one hand shoving between your shoulder blades to pin you flat. The sheets are hot against your cheek, your breath trapped in the mattress.

“Stay down," Hongjoong orders, voice low and mean behind you. You feel him shift, feel the mattress dip as he repositions, and then his hands are on your hips, dragging them up, arching your back until you’re presented exactly how he wants you. You’re face-down, ass up, completely exposed with no way to see what he’s doing, no way to brace for what comes next. Your fingers twist in the sheets.

“Daddy—” you start, voice muffled.

“No,” he cuts you off. “You don’t get to look at me. You don’t get to see if I’m close. You just take what I give you and be grateful.”

He lines up and shoves in without warning, the angle deeper like this, meaner. Your cry gets swallowed by the pillow as he sets a brutal pace, hips slamming against your ass with each thrust. The sound is obscene—skin on skin, the wet slide of him inside you—and you can’t see any of it, can only feel and hear and drown in it.

“You’re lucky Daddy loves your hole,” he growls, and the words hit like a brand. His hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp crack echoing in the room. The sting blooms hot and immediate, and you whimper into the pillow.

“Lucky I don’t leave you empty and aching.” He punctuates it with another thrust, deeper, meaner, grinding at the end until you’re sobbing. “This greedy little cunt,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Always so desperate for me. Always begging so pretty.”

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re lucky.”

“I’m—I’m lucky,” you gasp out, voice wrecked and muffled. “I’m lucky Daddy loves my—”

“Louder.”

“I’m lucky Daddy loves my hole,” you sob, shame and arousal twisting together until you can’t tell them apart.

“That’s right.” His rhythm turns vicious, each thrust punching the words back into you. “Don’t you forget it.”

“Please, Daddy—please—I'll do anything—I'll be so good—please just fill me—please cum inside me—” You sob again, pushing back against him even though you know better, trying to take him deeper. His breath hitches and you chase it, sensing weakness.

His hand finds your clit immediately, two fingers pressing down with just enough pressure to make you jolt. “This what you needed?” he asks as he starts to rub tight, mean circles that have you gasping.

“Yes—fuck—yes, Daddy—” You can barely get the words out, your whole body arcing up into his touch. His fingers work your clit in ruthless little circles while he fucks into you, the dual sensation making your vision blur at the edges.

“Gonna make you cum on my cock this time,” he growls. “Gonna feel you squeeze me while you fall apart.” His fingers speed up, the pressure perfect and devastating, and you’re already so close you can taste it.

“Please—Daddy—I can't—” Your voice breaks, thighs shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up. The pressure builds too fast, too much, coiling tight in your belly until it feels like something’s going to snap.

“You can,” he snarls, “You will. Show Daddy what a good little slut you are.”

The angle shifts just enough and suddenly you’re there again—past the point of holding back, past the point of control. Your orgasm slams through you with brutal force, and this time it’s different. Wetter. Your whole body locks up as you gush around him, soaking his cock, the sheets, making a mess you can’t stop even if you wanted to. The sound that rips from your throat is inhuman.

“Fuck—” Hongjoong chokes out, and his rhythm shatters. “Fuck—that’s it—” He feels you clenching and pulsing around him, feels the hot rush of your release, and it destroys him. Three more brutal thrusts and he’s gone, slamming deep and grinding as he finally, finally fills you. You feel every pulse, every throb as he empties himself inside you, his groan low and wrecked against your spine.

His hips stutter through the aftershocks, grinding shallow like he can’t bear to pull out yet. Your body is still twitching, still clenching around him in weak little aftershocks while his cum starts to leak out around where you’re joined. He stays buried deep, breathing hard against your shoulder blade.

“Good girl,” he finally murmurs, voice hoarse. “Such a good fucking girl for me.”

He doesn't pull out. Instead, his hips roll forward again, fucking his cum deeper into you, the obscene wet sound making you whimper. “One more,” he growls against your ear, his voice rough and commanding. “Give me one more.”

“Daddy—I can’t—” Your voice breaks, oversensitive and wrecked, every nerve ending screaming. It hurts—the drag of him inside you feels like fire, too much sensation on already brutalised nerves. You try to squirm away but his grip on your hips is iron.

“You can.” His hand slides back to your clit, fingers still slick, and starts those same ruthless circles. The first touch makes you sob—it’s too much, bordering on painful, your body trying to reject the stimulation. “You’re going to cum on my cock again with my cum inside you. Going to make a bigger mess.”

The sensation is overwhelming—too much, too sensitive—and it hurts. Each thrust feels like he’s grinding against raw nerves, the wet slide obscene and filthy but painful in its intensity. You can feel his cum leaking out around him, coating your thighs, but all you can focus on is how much your body is screaming at you to stop.

“Daddy—please—it hurts—” you sob, tears streaming down your face.

Hongjoong stills immediately. Completely. His fingers freeze on your clit, his hips lock in place, and the sudden absence of movement is almost jarring after the relentless intensity.

“Colour,” he demands, voice cutting through the haze with sharp clarity. “Give me your colour right now.”

You’re gasping, trying to process the question through the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

“Green,” you manage to choke out between sobs.

“Don't lie to me.”

“Green,” you repeat, more firmly this time despite how wrecked your voice sounds. “Promise—it's green—just hurts—overwhelming— don’t stop”

“I know,” he murmur gently, his hips moving again. “I know it hurts, baby. Just breathe through it.”

You try to obey, gasping for air, and somewhere in the burning oversensitivity, something shifts. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it starts to blur at the edges, transmuting into something else. Your body adjusts to the intensity, and suddenly the hurt starts to feel good—sharp and bright and desperate.

“Feel that?” he asks, grinding deep. “Feel how full you are? That’s all Daddy’s cum, and you’re going to squeeze it out when you cum again.”

“Please—” The word comes out broken because you don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore. His fingers work your clit with practiced cruelty, and the oversensitivity that was making you sob is suddenly driving you higher. You can feel it building again—impossibly, devastatingly—your wrecked body finding another peak despite everything.

“That’s it,” he encourages, voice dark with satisfaction. “Knew you could take it. Feel you getting close again. Such a greedy little thing. Can’t get enough of daddy’s cock, can you?”

“No—no, I can't—” you gasp, pushing back against him mindlessly. The pressure builds impossibly fast, sharp and brutal and bright now instead of painful. Every nerve that was screaming in protest is now singing, driving you toward the edge with vicious intent.

“Come on,” Hongjoong growls, his fingers pressing harder, circling faster. “Give it to me. Show Daddy what a mess you can make.” His cock grinds deep, hitting that devastating angle. “Cum on Daddy’s cock right fucking now.”

Your body obeys before your mind catches up, the orgasm ripping through you with devastating force. You clench around him so hard it hurts, your walls spasming and tightening in a vice grip. The sound you make is broken and desperate, somewhere between a scream and a sob.

“Fuck—” Hongjoong chokes out, his rhythm faltering. “Fuck—you’re so tight—” His voice breaks on the last word because you’re squeezing him so hard he can barely move, your body milking him with each brutal pulse. “Gonna make me—fuck—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Your cunt clamps down on him one more time and it destroys him completely. He slams deep with a guttural groan, grinding against you as he cums again, harder this time, filling you even fuller. You feel every throb, every pulse as he empties himself inside you for the second time, his whole body shuddering against your back.

“That's my good girl,” he gasps out, voice wrecked. “Making such a pretty mess for Daddy. So fucking tight—milked it right out of me.”

You gush again—harder this time, wetter—your body wringing itself out around him in pulsing waves while his cum floods you. The release is so intense it borders on violent, liquid heat flooding between your legs, soaking everything. You feel it run down your thighs, hear it drip onto the already-ruined sheets, and the humiliation of it only makes you clench harder, forcing more of his release to leak out around where you’re joined.

“There it is,” Hongjoong breathes, reverent and filthy at once. “So fucking messy for me.” His hips keep grinding shallow, working you both through it, forcing every last drop out while you shake and sob beneath him. “Such a good little squirter. Making Daddy so proud.”

Your whole body goes limp, muscles giving out completely. You collapse face-first into the mattress, boneless and used, trembling with aftershocks. Hongjoong finally stills, cock still buried deep, and lets his weight settle against your back. His breathing is ragged against your neck.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your sweat-slick shoulder. “You did so fucking perfect, baby. Squeezed me so tight I couldn’t help it.”

You can’t move, can’t think, can barely breathe. The sheets beneath you are soaked—cum and your own release mixing in a cooling puddle. Hongjoong shifts slightly, cock still buried deep, and you whimper at the oversensitivity. You can feel how full you are, how much he’s filled you, and it leaks out in thick rivulets with even the smallest movement.

When he finally pulls out, the loss is immediate and devastating. You whine—high and broken—feeling unbearably empty after being so full. His cum starts to leak out in earnest now, thick and warm, dripping down your thighs in slow rivulets. The sensation makes you shudder.

“Shh,” Hongjoong soothes, his hand stroking down your spine. He shifts his weight, hands sliding under your shoulders as he carefully rolls you onto your back. Your body settles against the mattress, and you feel more of his cum leak out with the position change, thick and warm between your legs.

“There we go,” he murmurs, settling between your spread thighs. “Look how much Daddy filled you up. So much it can’t even stay inside.”

You whimper, hips twitching uselessly, body still trying to clench around nothing. The emptiness feels wrong after everything, like you’ve been carved hollow. More of his release spills out with each aftershock, and you can feel it cooling on your skin.

“So pretty like this,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “All fucked out and dripping. Made such a mess of you.” His thumb drags through the slickness, spreading it further, and you keen at the oversensitivity. “My perfect mess.”

You can’t form words, can only lie there trembling while he touches you with a gentleness that feels almost cruel after everything.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest despite your exhaustion. Your body is wrecked, oversensitive, every nerve ending raw and singing. But when his fingers brush over your entrance again, gathering more of the mess he’s made, you find yourself pushing back into the touch despite the sensitivity.

“Oh?” Hongjoong’s voice lifts with surprise, his fingers stilling. His eyes darken as he watches you move against his hand—mindless, instinctive—seeking more despite everything. Despite being so thoroughly fucked out that coherent thought is impossible. “Still greedy for it, baby? Even with that pretty head all empty?”

You can't answer with words—don't even fully understand the question—but your body knows. Your hips roll weakly against his palm, chasing the touch with clumsy desperation. A soft whine spills from your lips, needy and thoughtless. Parts of you crave the continued touch. The emptiness feels worse than the sting.

“Greedy thing,” he murmurs, but there’s wonder in it now, not just teasing. His fingers slide through the mess again, more deliberately this time, and you whimper. “Even after I fucked you senseless. Even after you came so hard you soaked the sheets twice. You still want Daddy’s touch.”

“Puh—please,” you manage, the word barely forming through drool-slicked lips, voice completely destroyed and slurred beyond recognition.

Hongjoong’s expression shifts—something possessive and tender at once. “Okay, baby,” he soothes. “Daddy’s got you. Always got you.” His fingers circle your entrance gently now, gathering the cum that’s still leaking out and pushing it back inside with careful pressure. The sensation makes you gasp, oversensitive but good, filling that devastating emptiness just slightly.

“There,” he whispers. “Is that what you needed? To stay full?”

You nod frantically, pushing against his hand, and he obliges—two fingers sliding in deeper, keeping his release inside you. The stretch is almost too much on your abused walls, but it’s what you want. What you need.

“Such a good girl,” he praises softly. “Taking everything Daddy gives you and still asking for more.”

His fingers work slow and steady inside you, and something in your brain just... shuts off. The constant buzz of thoughts, the ability to form coherent words—it all dissolves into nothing but sensation. Your mouth falls open, soft moans spilling out with each gentle thrust of his fingers.

“There she goes,” Hongjoong murmurs, watching your expression go slack with satisfaction. “There’s my girl. Nothing left in that pretty head but how good Daddy makes you feel, huh?”

You can’t even nod properly, just a loose movement of your head, eyes unfocused and glassy. Another moan slips out, breathy and mindless. His fingers curl slightly and your hips twitch, but there’s no urgency to it—just your body responding on pure instinct while your mind floats somewhere far away.

“Look at you,” he says softly, almost reverent. “Fucked you so good you can’t even think anymore. Just my empty-headed baby now, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” is all you can manage, the sound quiet and blissed-out. Your eyes flutter, struggling to focus on his face. Everything feels distant and warm, your body heavy and pliant beneath his touch.

“That’s right,” Hongjoong coos, his free hand stroking your cheek. “Don’t need to think. Just need to feel. Just need to let Daddy take care of you.” His fingers maintain that slow, gentle rhythm, keeping you full, keeping you floating. “Such pretty sounds you’re making. Can’t even form words anymore, can you?”

You shake your head—barely—another soft moan falling from your parted lips. The oversensitivity has melted into something dreamlike, each movement of his fingers sending lazy waves of pleasure through your wrung-out body. There’s no edge to chase anymore, no building tension—just the mindless contentment of being touched, being full, being his.

“Perfect,” he whispers. “Absolutely perfect like this.”

His hand slides up from your hip, palm warm against your ribs as it travels higher. When he cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, you keen—high and broken. The sensitivity is different here, less raw but somehow more direct, each touch shooting straight through you.

“So responsive,” Hongjoong murmurs, watching your face as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. Your back arches weakly, pushing into the touch despite your exhaustion. “Even here. Every part of you is so fucking sensitive for me.”

His fingers inside you curl slightly in time with the pinch of his other hand on your nipple, and the dual sensation makes your eyes roll back. Another mindless moan falls from your lips, your body responding without thought, without control.

“That’s it,” he coos, switching to your other breast, palm kneading gently before his fingers find that peaked bud. “Just feel it, baby. Don’t think. Just let Daddy play with you.” He tugs slightly and you whimper, hips twitching against the fingers still buried inside you. “So pretty when you make those sounds.”

His touch alternates between gentle and firm—thumbs circling your nipples, palms pressing against the soft weight of your breasts, fingers occasionally pinching just hard enough to make you gasp. Each touch keeps you floating in that mindless space, pleasure washing over you in slow, lazy waves.

“Could play with these all day,” he murmurs, dipping his head to press a kiss to the curve of your breast. “Watch you fall apart from just this.” His tongue flicks out, circling your nipple before his lips close around it, and you gasp—the wet heat of his mouth making everything sharper, more intense.

Hongjoong sucks gently, tongue working the sensitive bud while his fingers continue their slow rhythm inside you. Your hands find his hair, holding on weakly, not pulling—just needing something to anchor you. When he grazes his teeth across your nipple, your whole body jolts, a strangled sound escaping you.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “Taking everything so well. My perfect, empty-headed doll.”

Your thighs shake harder now, trembling under his attention, muscles twitching with aftershocks that won’t stop. Each suck of his mouth, each curl of his fingers inside you makes them quiver more violently, until you can’t keep them still even if you tried.

“Joong,” you whimper, his name barely coherent, your voice destroyed and small. His mouth releases your nipple with a wet pop, switching to the other side, and the attention makes your back arch off the mattress weakly. “Can’t—too much—”

“Shh, I know, baby,” he soothes, releasing your breast to press kisses along your sternum. His fingers slow inside you, gentling their rhythm as your thighs continue to tremble uncontrollably. “But you’re doing so well for me. Just a little more, okay? Let me take care of you.”

You nod weakly, unable to do anything but submit, your body no longer your own—just something for him to play with, to care for, to keep floating in this mindless space. Your thighs won’t stop shaking, trembling against his sides as he settles between them again, and you can feel more of his cum leaking out despite his fingers still working to keep it inside.

“One more, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Give Daddy one more and then I’ll let you rest.”

You manage to look at him through heavy-lidded eyes, vision blurred and unfocused. It takes effort to keep them open, each blink longer than the last. His face swims above you, features soft and concerned, and you can barely make out the dark intensity of his gaze.

“There you are,” he murmurs, his free hand cupping your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Stay with me, baby. Just a little more. Can you do that for Daddy?”

You try to nod, but your head feels impossibly heavy, movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Another weak sound escapes you as his fingers curl inside you, and your eyes threaten to slip closed.

“Eyes on me,” Hongjoong coaxes gently, tapping your cheek to keep you present. “Want to see you when you fall apart one more time. Need to watch my baby come undone.”

It takes everything you have to keep your gaze on him, eyelids fluttering with the effort. His fingers work inside you with deliberate care, coaxing your body toward that edge one more time despite your exhaustion.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises softly. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.” His thumb finds your clit, circling with barely-there pressure, and your mouth falls open on a silent cry. “Almost there, baby.”

His hand moves from your face to slide two fingers past your parted lips. The touch is unexpected, gentle but insistent as they press against your tongue. Your eyes widen slightly, trying to focus on him through the haze.

“Suck,” Hongjoong commands softly, his voice dropping lower. “Show Daddy how good that mouth can be.”

You obey automatically, lips closing around his fingers, tongue working weakly against them. The taste is clean, just skin and the faint salt of sweat, and something about the act—the fullness in your mouth matching the fullness between your legs—makes you whimper around his fingers.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, watching your lips wrap around his digits with dark satisfaction. “Such a perfect mouth. Takes everything I give you so well.” His fingers inside you curl harder and you moan around the ones in your mouth, the sound muffled and desperate.

He pushes them deeper, making you gag slightly, and your eyes water as you struggle to accommodate them. “Shh, relax,” he soothes, easing back just enough. “Just like taking my cock. You can do it.” The comparison makes you clench around his other hand, and he groans. “Feel that? Your body knows what it wants.”

His thumb on your clit presses firmer now, circling with intent, and you keen around his fingers. Drool starts to leak from the corners of your mouth as you struggle to keep sucking, your jaw slack and uncoordinated. Everything is too much—the stretch in your mouth, the fullness between your legs, the relentless pressure on your clit.

“So messy,” Hongjoong says with satisfaction, watching the spit drip down your chin. “Can’t even keep it together anymore, can you? Just my brainless little toy.” He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet sound, dragging the saliva down your neck, your chest, leaving a glistening trail. “Open.”

You obey without thought, mouth falling open, tongue out. He leans down and spits directly onto your tongue, the act filthy and possessive, and you moan at the degradation of it. “Swallow,” he commands, and you do, throat working visibly.

“Good fucking girl,” he praises darkly. His fingers push back into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, keeping your mouth open and exposed.

Your hand moves without thought, fingers wrapping weakly around his wrist. You pull it down, guiding it to your throat, settling his palm against the vulnerable column of your neck. The request is silent but unmistakable.

Hongjoong’s eyes darken immediately, understanding flickering across his face. “Yeah?” he asks, voice dropping lower. “Want Daddy’s hand around your throat while he makes you come?”

You nod as much as you can with his hand there, a desperate whimper escaping you. His fingers curl around your neck—not squeezing yet, just holding, the weight of his palm a promise.

“Please,” you manage, the word barely a whisper, and that’s all he needs.

His hand tightens around your throat, pressure building slowly, controlled. Not enough to cut off your air completely—just enough to make each breath something you have to work for, something you have to earn. The restriction sends your body into overdrive, every nerve ending lighting up as his fingers inside you curl relentlessly and his thumb grinds against your clit.

“That’s it,” Hongjoong growls, watching your face flush darker as the oxygen thins. “Give it to me. Come for Daddy one more time.” His grip shifts slightly, thumb pressing against your pulse point, and he can feel your heartbeat racing beneath his palm. “Feel how hard your heart’s pounding for me? Your body knows who it belongs to.”

Your vision starts to blur at the edges, stars dancing across your sight as the pleasure builds impossibly higher. His fingers don’t let up, working you with practiced precision, and you’re teetering right on that edge—desperate for release but unable to tip over without his permission.

“So fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe and desire. “Completely at my mercy. Taking everything I give you so perfectly.” His hand loosens slightly, letting oxygen rush back in, and the sudden clarity makes everything sharper. “You'’re doing so well, baby. So good for Daddy. Just let go—I’ve got you.”

The praise combined with the pressure returning to your throat is what breaks you. The orgasm hits different this time—slower, deeper, rolling through you like a wave pulling you under. Your mouth opens on a silent scream, no sound escaping with his hand locked around your throat, and the deprivation makes everything more intense.

“Perfect,” Hongjoong breathes, watching you fall apart beneath him. “That’s my perfect girl. Look at you—so beautiful when you come for me. Did so fucking well, baby.” His hand stays firm on your throat through every wave, controlling even this, drawing it out until you’re shaking uncontrollably.

When he finally releases your throat, you don’t even gasp for air. Your body just goes limp, every muscle surrendering at once. Your eyes slip closed despite trying to keep them on him, and the last thing you register is his voice—distant, concerned—calling your name.

“Baby? Hey—” Hongjoong’s hand immediately cups your face, patting your cheek gently. Your head lolls to the side, body completely unresponsive. You’re still breathing—he can see your chest rising and falling—but you’re utterly gone, consciousness slipping away into the exhaustion he’s wrung from you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, but there’s no panic in it. Just concern mixed with something like awe. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside you, and you don’t even twitch at the loss. More cum leaks out onto the sheets, but you’re too far gone to notice or care.

He shifts immediately into caretaker mode, moving with practiced efficiency. His hand stays on your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone as he checks you over. Your pulse is steady under his fingers when he presses them to your throat—the same throat he was just restricting. Your breathing evens out into something deeper, more peaceful.

“Did so good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Too good. Gave me everything.” There’s pride in his voice, but also guilt—he pushed you right to your absolute limit and over it.

He stays close, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, making sure you’re really okay. After a moment, he tries again, voice soft but insistent. “Hey. Baby, come on.” His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheek. “Need you to wake up for me.”

You don’t respond, body still limp and unmoving. He sighs, shifting to sit beside you, one hand sliding to your shoulder to shake you gently. “Can’t let you sleep yet. We need to get you cleaned up first.”

Still nothing. Your breathing stays deep and even, completely out of it. Hongjoong’s expression softens, guilt flickering across his features again. He really wore you out this time.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way.” He slides one arm under your shoulders, the other beneath your knees, lifting you carefully against his chest. Your head lolls against his shoulder, body pliant and unresisting.

He carries you toward the bathroom, your weight comfortable in his arms. “You’re going to be so mad at me later if I let you sleep like this,” he says quietly, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot. “All sticky and messy. You’ll complain for days.”

He sets you down carefully on the edge of the tub, one hand staying on your shoulder to keep you upright while he reaches for the faucet. Your head tips forward, chin nearly touching your chest, and he has to catch you before you slump completely.

“Baby,” he tries again, patting your cheek a bit more firmly. “Come on. Just need you awake enough for a bath. I’ll do everything else.” The water starts running, warm steam beginning to fill the small space as he tests the temperature.

Your eyelids flutter—barely, but it’s something. A soft, incoherent sound escapes you, and Hongjoong takes it as a victory.

“There you are,” he encourages, both hands cupping your face now, lifting your head. “Let’s get you in, okay?” He helps you into the tub, supporting your weight as he eases you down into the warm water. The heat envelops you immediately, and you let out a small, contented sigh.

He kneels beside the tub, one hand still steadying you, about to reach for the washcloth when your fingers weakly grasp at his wrist.

“With you,” you mumble, eyes still closed, the words barely coherent but unmistakable.

Hongjoong’s expression softens immediately, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Yeah? Want me to get in with you?” He doesn’t wait for another response—just climbs into the tub behind you, pulling you back against his chest. His arms wrap around you, steadying you in the water, and you let out a small, satisfied hum as you melt into his warmth.

“Stay still,” he murmurs against your skin, voice soft and gentle—so different from how he sounded minutes ago. His lips press to your shoulder, kissing over the marks he left there. Some are already darkening into bruises, others are just faint impressions of his teeth. He maps each one with careful attention, like he’s cataloging the evidence of what he did to you.

You lean back into him, boneless and pliant, letting him support your weight completely. The warm water laps around you both as he reaches for the washcloth, soaping it up with one hand while the other stays wrapped around your waist.

“You’re going to be so sore tomorrow,” he says quietly, dragging the cloth along your arms with gentle strokes. His lips find the curve of your neck, pressing soft kisses to the red marks his hand left on your throat. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Don’t be,” you mumble, the words thick and drowsy. “Wanted it.”

He makes a soft sound—half laugh, half sigh—and kisses the bruise at the junction of your neck and shoulder, the one from his teeth. “I know you did. Doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you after.” The washcloth moves to your chest, your stomach, washing away the sweat and evidence of everything that happened.

His other hand comes up to tilt your head to the side, giving him better access to your neck. He kisses every mark there too, lips tender against the sensitive skin. “So pretty,” he whispers. “Even covered in bruises. Especially covered in bruises.”

You hum contentedly, eyes still closed, completely surrendered to his care. His hands are so gentle now—washing you clean, touching you like something precious. The contrast makes your chest ache in the best way.

“I love you,” you murmur, barely audible.

Hongjoong's hands still for just a moment before continuing their careful work. “I love you too,” he says against your shoulder, punctuating it with another kiss. “So much. Even when I’m mean to you.”

Especially when he’s mean to you, maybe—but that’s something you both understand without saying.

He brings the cloth to your inner thighs, cleaning away the evidence of your releases, his movements are especially gentle, aware of how sensitive you must be.

“Almost done,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. The washcloth moves down your legs, over your calves, taking his time to make sure he’s gotten everything. You feel yourself drifting again, lulled by the warmth of the water and his tender care.

When he’s finished, he sets the washcloth aside and just holds you for a moment, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, steady and reassuring.

Something stirs in your chest—gratitude, affection, love.

With effort, you turn your head slightly, just enough to press your lips to his cheek. It’s a soft kiss, lazy and uncoordinated, but full of feeling.

Hongjoong goes still, then lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against him. “What was that for?” he asks quietly, though there’s a smile in his voice.

“Thank you.”

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, turning to press his own kiss to your temple. “Don’t thank me for taking care of you,” he says softly. “That’s my job. Especially after I’ve wrecked you like that.” But his voice is warm, fond, and you can hear how much your simple gesture affected him.

You shift in his arms, turning more fully despite the exhaustion weighing down your limbs. The movement sends water sloshing gently against the sides of the tub, but Hongjoong adjusts easily, his hands sliding to your waist to help stabilise you as you face him.

His eyes meet yours—dark and searching, still carrying traces of the intensity from before but softened now with concern and affection. You lift one hand, fingers trembling slightly as they trace the line of his jaw, then cup his cheek.

“Hey,” he whispers, his own hand coming up to cover yours against his face. “You okay?”

Instead of answering, you lean in and kiss him. It’s slow and deep, nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses from earlier. This one is grateful, reverent—a thank you and an I love you and an I trust you all wrapped into one. Your lips move against his with deliberate tenderness, and you feel him sigh into it, his body relaxing as he kisses you back with equal softness.

His arms wrap around you properly now, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head while the other stays secure at your waist. He angles his head to deepen the kiss just slightly, still gentle but more present, more him. When you finally pull back, it’s only enough to rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing the same air.

You catch the softness in his expression—the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious—and a small, teasing smile tugs at your lips despite your exhaustion. Your fingers trace lazy patterns on his chest.

“You know,” you murmur, voice still thick with exhaustion but laced with amusement, “for someone who just fucked me unconscious, you’re being awfully soft right now. What happened to the mean Joong from like ten minutes ago?”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow slightly, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you complaining?”

“No,” you say, still trailing your fingers down his chest lazily. “You’re just being so sweet.”

His eyes narrow slightly, though there’s amusement flickering in them. “You want him back? Because I can arrange that.”

“Mm, no,” you hum, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I like this version too. All gentle and worried about me.” Your smile turns a little wicked. “It’s cute.”

“Cute,” he repeats flatly, though you can see the way his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

“Very cute,” you confirm, your fingers walking up his chest to tap against his collarbone. “Taking care of me, kissing all the marks you left, being so—” You pause, pretending to search for the word. “—domestic.”

Hongjoong’s hand slides up to catch your wrist, his grip firm but not rough. “You’re lucky you can barely move right now,” he says, voice low, “or I’d remind you exactly how un-cute I can be.”

You laugh—soft and breathless—and let yourself collapse back against his chest. “See? Cute. You’re threatening me while holding me in a bubble bath.”

He groans, but his arms wrap around you again, pulling you close. “You’re impossible,” he mutters against your hair, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness, and maybe a little exasperation. His hand strokes down your back in slow, soothing motions. “Rest. You’ve earned the right to be a brat for a few minutes.”

“Only a few minutes?” you tease, already feeling yourself starting to drift again.

“We’ll see how long my patience lasts,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. But his tone is warm, and you know he’s not actually annoyed. If anything, he sounds relieved that you’re coherent enough to give him a hard time.

You shift again, the water rippling around you as you turn to face him fully. His hair is damp, some strands clinging to his forehead, others pushed back haphazardly. His eyes are dark and deep, watching you with that same careful attention he always has, like you’re the only thing that matters.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, close enough that your breaths mix. His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s checking you’re really here.

“Like what?” you ask while your fingers starts tracing idle circles on his chest.

His gaze narrows, suspicious. “Like you’re about to start something.”

You tilt your head, considering him with exaggerated seriousness. “Maybe I am.”

A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of him. “You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“And yet,” you say, letting your fingers trace his jaw again, feather-light, “you’re still watching me like you’re trying to figure out what I’m thinking.”

His hand closes around your wrist—not tight, not controlling. Just there. Grounding. Possessive in a way that doesn’t hurt.

“I don’t have to figure it out,” he says. “I know you.”

“Oh?” You lean in, just enough to brush your mouth against the corner of his—almost a kiss. Almost. You stop a heartbeat short, letting him feel the tease in the pause. “Then tell me.”

His eyes drop to your lips. “Don’t get cocky,” he warns, but the warning sounds thin, like it’s already losing.

You hum, pretending to think about it. “I’m not cocky.”

He gives you a look that says liar.

You meet it without flinching. “I’m just… curious.”

“About what?” he asks, voice low.

You press a soft kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, then the place under his ear where you know it makes him go quiet. You feel his breath hitch, and it makes you brave.

“About how long it takes,” you murmur against his skin, “before you stop being sweet and start being mean again.”

He exhales a laugh—one of those quiet ones that means he’s trying not to show how much you got to him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your pulse. “You’re teasing me,” he says.

You blink slowly, innocent on purpose. “Am I?”

He leans in, close enough that his nose brushes yours. “You should rest.”

You let your smile widen, just a little. “Make me.”

His gaze drops, then returns to your eyes, darker now. “Careful.”

You press a final kiss to his lips—soft, brief, unhurried—then pull back before he can deepen it.

“Or what?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long second, like he’s deciding how honest to be. Then he tucks you closer, forehead to yours, and his voice goes quieter.

“Or I’m going to stop pretending I’m patient.”

You sigh like you’re satisfied with that answer, and let your eyes fall closed, still smiling.

“Mm,” you hum. “There you are.”

His jaw ticks. You feel it more than see it—the subtle shift in his expression that says you’re walking a line.

“You’re pushing,” he says quietly.

“Am I?” you ask again, tone dripping with false innocence. Your fingers trail down his chest, nails dragging just lightly enough to make him inhale sharp. “I’m just sitting here. Being good.”

“You don’t know how to be good,” he mutters, but there’s heat creeping into his voice now, the kind that makes your pulse kick up.

You tilt your head, letting your smile turn sharper. “That’s not true. I was very good earlier. You said so yourself.”

His hand tightens on your waist—just enough to make you aware of it. “That was different.”

“How?” you challenge, leaning in until your lips brush his ear. “Because you were in charge?”

Hongjoong goes still. Dangerously still. The kind of stillness that means you’ve officially gotten under his skin.

“Baby,” he says, voice dropping into that low register that usually makes you shut up and listen. But right now, it just makes you bolder.

“What?” you ask sweetly, pulling back to look at him with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m just asking questions.”

His thumb presses into your hip—not hard, but deliberate. A warning. “You’re being a brat.”

“Me?” You press a hand to your chest in mock offence. “I would never.”

“Liar,” he says flatly.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning too wide. “Prove it.”

His eyes flash. “You really want to do this right now?”

“Do what?” you ask, all fake confusion as your fingers walk up his chest again, tracing the line of his collarbone. “I’m just sitting here in this nice bath you drew for me, being so grateful—”

“—being a pain in my ass,” he interrupts, but there’s a crack in his composure now. You can see it in the way his gaze drops to your mouth, then back up. In the way his grip on you shifts, like he’s deciding whether to pull you closer or push you away.

You lean in, close enough that your breath ghosts over his lips. “You love it,” you whisper.

He stares at you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he smiles—and it’s not the soft, fond smile. It’s the dangerous one. The one that means you’ve successfully woken up the version of him that doesn’t play nice.

“Okay,” he says simply. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You want to be a brat? Go ahead. But don’t complain when I remind you what happens to brats who push too far.”

Your stomach flips—half anticipation, half genuine thrill. You should probably back down now. You’re exhausted, barely recovered, and you know he’s serious.

But instead, you smile back at him, just as sharp. “Promises, promises.”

His eyes narrow. “Last chance.”

You press a quick, teasing kiss to his lips—there and gone. “Make me stop.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s physically restraining himself. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Maybe,” you say, trailing your fingers down his chest again, slower this time. “But that sounds like a future me problem.”

Hongjoong’s eyes sharpen. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you ask, innocent as a knife. “Use your words.”

His jaw ticks. For a second you can see the exact moment his patience runs out.

Then he moves.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, grip firm enough to make your breath catch. “You want me to use my words?” he says, voice dropping low and dangerous. “Fine. Stop teasing me before I forget I was trying to be gentle with you.”

You roll your eyes at him, the gesture slow and deliberate—practically daring him to do something about it.

His grip tightens fractionally. “Did you just—”

“What?” you interrupt, blinking up at him with exaggerated innocence. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You rolled your eyes at me.”

“Did I?” You tilt your head, playing dumb.

Hongjoong’s stare lingers, heavy and unimpressed, like he’s deciding how much patience you’re allowed to borrow before he takes it back with interest.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost thoughtful. “You did.”

Before you can respond, he shifts—slow, deliberate—until you’re pressed back against the edge of the tub, his body caging yours.

He kisses you then—deep and consuming, the kind that steals the air from your lungs and replaces it with heat. His hand tightens at the back of your neck, holding you, and you can’t do anything but take it. His mouth moves against yours like he’s proving a point, like he’s reminding you who’s in control here, and it works. God, it works.

When he finally pulls back, your eyes are half-closed, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. You feel dazed, unsteady, like the world tilted and forgot to right itself.

He’s watching you, and there’s that smirk—slow, satisfied, dangerous. “Is this what you wanted?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You nod, still catching your breath, unable to form words yet.

His smirk deepens. “Yeah,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. “That’s what I thought.”

[03jyh23]

putting this one back on your timelines ☝🏻🤓

[ariknewbetter]

The Walk Of Shame — Bangchan

summary — An embarrassing trip to the ER leaves you sitting under harsh fluorescent lights with a very specific, deep ache. While you try to stay composed under the doctor's questioning, Chan stands by, utterly smug and thoroughly proud of the literal medical proof of how well he fucked you.

Pairing — Bangchan x reader

genre — aftermath of smut, established relationship, teasing/praise, humor

cw/tags — referenced rough/deep intimacy, mild medical settings, cervix bruising (mentioned/diagnosed), strong language, smug!chan, praise, suggestive themes, no explicit acts shown.

word count - ~650 words

a/n — this is my first time posting a fic like EVER please tell me what do you guys think of it!!

Two Days Ago || Pre- Hospital Scene (the smutt)

The ER waiting room hums with sterile light and low-grade misery. Fluorescent tubes bleach the color from everything. You’re sitting in one of those awful plastic chairs, legs crossed tightly, trying to look like you have a normal, respectable ache. A UTI, maybe. Anything but the truth.

He’s beside you. He hasn’t stopped smiling for two hours. Not a big grin, but a small, persistent, utterly smug curve of his lips. His arm is draped over the back of your chair, his thumb stroking idle circles on your shoulder.

Every time you shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t send a fresh, deep twinge through your lower abdomen, his smile widens just a fraction.

A nurse calls your name. You stand up, wincing at the movement.

“Easy there, tiger,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. The heat in it is immediate and embarrassing. He stands with you, a hand hovering at the small of your back as you walk to the triage door.

In the exam room, under the harsh clinical light, it feels even more absurd. The young doctor, efficient and bored, asks about your symptoms.

“Uh… deep, aching pain. Low. Central.” You gesture vaguely.

“Any unusual discharge? Fever?”

“No. Just… sore. Really, really sore.”

The doctor nods, typing. “When did it start?”

You clear your throat. “About… yesterday morning?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him lean against the wall, arms crossed. He’s looking at the floor, but his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.

The doctor orders an ultrasound. The cold gel, the impersonal press of the wand, the black-and-white screen showing nothing ruptured, nothing torn, just… a healthy, but very angry-looking uterus.

Later, the doctor returns with the verdict. “Well, everything looks structurally fine. No signs of infection or ectopic pregnancy. But there’s some significant inflammation and what looks like a minor contusion… on your cervix.”

The words hang in the air. Contusion on your cervix.

You stare straight ahead, your face flaming.

The doctor, bless her, keeps a perfectly professional tone. “It can happen from… particularly vigorous intercourse or deep penetration. It should heal on its own in a few days. I’ll prescribe a mild anti-inflammatory. Take it easy. Maybe… use a pillow for elevation next time.”

Next time.

You mutter a thanks, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

“A contusion,” he repeats, his voice thick with pride and amusement. He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “I bruised your fucking cervix, baby. I marked you so deep the doctors can see it.”

You swat at his chest, but there’s no force behind it. “It’s not funny! It hurts!”

“I know it does,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. His laughter softens into a predatory warmth. He nuzzles your neck. “And I’d say I’m sorry, but we both know I’m not. Remember the way you were screaming? The way you clawed my back raw? You wanted it that deep. You begged for it.”

He’s right. And the memory, mixed with the throbbing ache, sends a treacherous pulse of heat between your legs. The worst part is, he sees it. He sees the flush, the quickening of your breath.

His hand slides down, over your hip, his fingers pressing gently into the sore spot low on your belly. You gasp.

“Hurts here, doesn’t it?” he whispers, his eyes locked on yours. “Every little throb is just a reminder of how good I fucked you. Of how hard you came on my cock.” He leans in, his next words a hot promise against your lips. “And the second this little bruise heals up… I’m gonna do it again.”

He helps you off the table, his arm a solid support around your waist as you walk out, prescription in hand. In the parking lot, under the yellow streetlights, he opens the car door for you.

As you sink gingerly into the passenger seat, he bends down, framing your face with his hands, and kisses you—deep, slow, and thoroughly proprietary.

“Best fuck in a hot minute?” he says, pulling back just enough to speak. “Baby, that was the best fuck ever. And we’ve got the medical bill to prove it.”

The drive home is quiet, filled with his satisfied silence and your aching, proud, thoroughly claimed body. The bruise is a secret, exquisite trophy. And his teasing is the ribbon on top.

A/n : I have no idea if layout looks good this is my first time, also lmk if you guys wanna see the scene that got us in the hospital 🫣🫣🫣

[mingigoo]

we met in june || choi san ⚽️ TWO - the encounter

⚽️ pairing -> physical therapist! (f) reader x injured soccer player! San

⚽️ genre/au -> sports romance, single parent, smut, fluff, angst

⚽️ chapter summary -> After your first encounter with San, you can't seem to stop thinking about him. He was difficult to care for, but something about him made your heart ache--and your mind race. As the days go on, you see his shell crack slowly.

⚽️ series warnings/tags -> 18+ MINORS DNI, unprotected sex, secret romance (kind of), single parent/divorcee reader, san is such a good father figure, injury warnings, ACL tear, emotional distress with recovery, breeding kink, bathtub sex, voyeurism, longing, forced proximity

⚽️ chapter word count -> 6.2k words

⚽️ series word count -> 9.0k words

series masterlist || ateez masterlist

<- previous chapter

⚽️ taglist -> @jjhmk @yukine-smx @roe-sinning @meowmeowminnie @yeritheloml @y00nzin0 @yesv01 @halesandy @shegotboreddsoo @kangyeosangelic @gayliljoong @sanshineeeeee @kodzukein @baguette-atiny @seokwoosmole @nyeatinyjunkie @juliettechokilo @pockyddalgi @justaqueerbufoin @hwaightme @likexaxdaydream @ssaboala @gtr-skyline-lover @miriamxsworld @daegale @knucklesdeepmingi @naiify @yeoyeoland @arya9111 @mdibby @8tinytings @angelicyeo @wooyoungjpg @lonewolfjinji @asjkdk @charreddonuts @mangishii @yeoyeoland @pink-hwaberry @wooyoluvrr @maru-matt @pearltinyy @loveuwoo @m3chigo @northerngalxy @silverpixiedust23 @interweab @skz1-4-3 @kikivonpoopyhead @dana-nite @sannies-tiddies @vixensss @soso59love-blog @charmgirlsblog @sheplut0 @frayatiny @tinycloudz @suminsfav @hearts4itoshi @petrasdesire

A/N: If you have trouble reading about injuries and the mental/physical things that follow an injury, please be advised. This is also purely fictional, but the emotional struggle is real. I am writing this story because I am currently going through ACL recovery myself. I just wanted to note this just in case.

The door in front of you creaked open slowly. 

It didn't open fully—the person behind the door was hesitant.

But once it fully opened, it revealed the most stunning man you have ever seen in your life.

Choi San stood tall in front of you despite the slight slouch he had over his crutches. His midnight black hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes downcast. His expression was barren of emotion, his lips chapped, the skin around his eyes red. There were shadows under his eyes, and he was sporting a massive, heavy-duty black post-op brace locked at zero degrees. He met your gaze after a few moments, the sparkle in them still present.

“Who are you?” he asked, slightly hostile. He was clearly unaware of you and your position, and you couldn't blame him for his tone. 

It was strange, though. You could say you were partially a Choi San expert—your son always had him on the TV. He was known for his charm. Extremely charismatic, lovable, funny. A bit flirty, too. You remember watching one of his interviews, watching him wink at the interviewer—you didn't admit to yourself that you swooned, too.

But now, with the look on his face, you felt a bit intimidated. 

“I uh,” you swallowed, straightening your posture. “I am y/n, your personal therapist. I was called in to make sure you are okay.”

When he didn't say anything, you cleared your throat. “You should not be alone for twenty-four hours after the procedure.”

He blinked at you, looked down at his leg, and scoffed a bit. “I’m fine. I don't need a babysitter.” he took a step back into his home. “Tell coach you were here—I don't care. Just leave me alone, please.” He is cold, blunt, dismissive. Good thing you knew this situation best—he might think he needs to be alone, but the truth is, he needs someone next to him.

Knowing that maybe you were the last person he wanted by his side—a physical therapist, a literal example of the career he has lost for the time being—you stuck your arm out, preventing him from shutting the door. “Do you…have anyone else to call? I’m sure you don't want me here, I get it, but…” You looked up to his piercing gaze, noticing the look of desperation. “You cannot do this alone. You may think so, but it's crucial to have someone next to you.”

San's jaw tightened. For a second, you thought he was going to argue with you again. Slam the door. Tell you exactly where to shove your concern.

Instead, his grip on the crutch handle shifted. Something flickered across his face.

Not anger. More like…exhaustion. Defeat. 

"I've been alone before," he said quietly. The words weren't defensive—they were matter-of-fact. A statement.

You hesitated before inquiring more. "Before surgery?" you asked.

His gaze snapped back to yours. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"No."

The answer came immediately.

You stared at him. He stared back. And then, right on cue, his face paled.

You recognized it instantly.

The nerve block—or rather, the nerve block beginning to wear off.

You'd seen it dozens of times. It was a rite of passage for injured athletes. They always thought they were fine until they weren't. You knew it best. Knew the feeling. Knew how terrified San must be at this point, despite his demeanor.

The blood drained from his face, his fingers clenched tightly around the crutch, his eyes squeezing shut.

You dropped your bag on the ground. "Oh, for the love of god—"

Before you could finish your sentence, his good knee buckled, a sign of pain, exhaustion. His entire body pitched forward towards you.

You moved quickly, steadying his large, muscular body. His weight fell into you, your arms wrapped around his waist, his forehead bumping into yours.

You were close. Too close. You felt his hot breath beat against your cheek, felt the beads of sweat transfer to your skin. One of his crutches fell to the ground around your feet, the other still tucked under his arm. You held him up with all your might, letting out a sigh of relief as he stabilized. 

He let out a moan of pain, clearly uncomfortable, and you met his gaze in the short distance.

“Are you…Are you okay?” you managed to get out, between the compressing feeling of his body on you and the tension you felt. 

“No, no.” He let out an annoyed scoff, most likely annoyed with himself. “Just peachy.”

You couldn't help but smile and took a step forward. “Let's get in there, big guy. Let’s get you better.”

To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched upward—barely, but it was there.

It vanished just as quickly as it appeared. His expression quickly shifted back to what it was before.

You walked him inside slowly, just far enough to get him to lean against the wall inside so you could grab his crutch. As soon as he had both, he maneuvered his way to the couch inside his living room and eased himself into the corner of the sectional. You watched as he lifted his leg by the bottom strap of his brace, his face contorting in pain, and settled uncomfortably.

You stood still at the entrance of his home, one foot in, one foot out, feeling as though there was a line drawn right down between you two.

“San?”

His eyes lifted. He didn't speak, though.

"Have you eaten?"

A pause. He ran a hand through his hair aggressively. "No."

You blinked. "What time did you get home?"

Another long pause. "Earlier," he said bluntly.

"San."

"What?" he basically hissed at you, grabbing a pillow and wrapping his arms around it as he sat there.

"How long ago?"

He looked away—that was answer enough.

You crossed your arms. You just met this man, but it felt natural to speak to him, even if you were a bit abrupt. "You haven't eaten at all."

He shrugged. "I'm not hungry."

"You are a professional athlete. You are absolutely hungry."

His eyebrows pinched together, but you stepped forward before he could protest again.

"Okay. New plan."

He rolled his eyes. "There is no plan."

"There is now." You pointed inside. "I'm coming in."

"No."

"I'm checking your medication schedule."

"No."

"I'm checking that you have food."

"No."

You crossed your arms. “Listen, I’m here to work. I understand that you think I'm just infiltrating your life, but this is my life, too.”

You stared at each other. Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Finally, he sighed—long, defeated, desperate—like a man losing a battle he didn't have the energy to fight.

"Fine...Five minutes." He blinked. “No more.”

Little did you know— this encounter, your fight to make sure he was taken care of—would be the start of something that neither one of you could avoid.

—

“Oh my god, he is difficult.”

You huffed into your phone, holding it in the crook of your shoulder to your head, your hands busy with getting Jun ready for daycare.

“I’m sure he's not that bad—”

You held your son’s hand as you left the apartment, shutting the door with your foot behind you. “Mingi, it took him to nearly fall over from the pain before he let me into his apartment…even after telling him I was there for work,” you scoffed, walking down the hallway. You smiled at Jun as he skipped down the hall. “Like, I don't want to be here either, but hey, this is how it is.”

Mingi paused. As you got onto the elevator, he spoke again. “I mean, I’m not giving him excuses, but…”

“But what?”

“Well… if someone like you showed up at my door when I was at my lowest, I would be hesitant, too,” he said. “Like, the poor man probably looked and felt a mess.”

You hit the ground floor button to get to the parking garage. “What do you mean, someone like me? I’m just the physical therapist.”

Mingi let out an obnoxious laugh. “Oh my god, y/n. I mean, like, you are super attractive. Pretty. He’s just a guy. Probably feels awful and embarrassed that a pretty woman is trying to take care of him when he should be looking strong and…stuff,” He paused. “Think about it.”

Your mind pondered the idea that Choi San found you attractive. You shook the thought away. “I guess I see your point.” As you trailed off, you looked at Jun, who was sporting Choi San’s jersey today for daycare. He has many different versions of the jersey. His soccer season was coming up soon, so he was all in the soccer spirit. “All right, I have to head out. I’m taking Junie to daycare, and I have to be back here asap for San.”

As soon as his name left your mouth, Jun perked up, looking at you with shining eyes.

When you ended the call, you ran a hand through your son’s hair. “Are you ready for soccer season?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes!” he fiddled with the bottom of his jersey. “What if we asked if… what if we asked San to come to my games?”

You couldn't help but chuckle. “Oh, bubs, we can try.” You knew what the outcome of that would be—a famous soccer star going to his physical therapist’s son’s youth game? His female, single physical therapist? Oh boy, lots of things wrong with that scene. He didn't even know you. Yet, Jun was so ecstatic—he’ll let go of that eventually.

After dropping him off at daycare, which was luckily only a few blocks away from your home, you were right back to where you started, standing in front of his door, heart beating a mile a minute.

You didn't let your thoughts wander, quickly lifting your arm to ring the doorbell. You felt bad that he had to get up to answer the door—with that nerve block most definitely gone, this might be one of the most painful days of his recovery.

You heard the crutches squeal on the other side of the door. He opened the door, and once again, he stood painfully beautiful in front of you. Today, his hair was pushed back, showing his gorgeous face fully. You shoved these thoughts deep inside yourself as quickly as you could, swallowing hard when you noticed that he didn't have a shirt on. 

You forced your eyes upward. “Hi,” you breathed, forcing a smile. 

God fuck, he was divine. Why did he have to look like that?

He nodded. “Hello.”

You stared at him for a second. Then another.

….And then you remembered how to function. That you had to function. This was your job, get it together.

"Okay," you cleared your throat, eyes lifting to meet his entrancing…sparkling…sexual eyes. Fuck. "Good. You answered the door. I was worried you wouldn't,” you tried to joke.

One of his eyebrows lifted—you weren't entirely sure if he was amused or offended. Maybe both. Probably both.

He stepped aside silently, allowing you into the apartment, making his way back to his couch. You watched the muscles ripple in his back as he moved. 

A man should not be allowed to look like that while recovering from surgery. It was against the law somewhere.

Had to be.

You forced yourself to focus.

Professional. You chanted in your brain, your inner thoughts in utter chaos. You were a professional.

A professional who definitely wasn't noticing the way his shoulders took up an insane amount of mass… or the way his dark hair was pushed back today…or most definitely not the way his stupidly pretty face looked without it falling into his eyes.

You didn't even notice that he was settled on the couch now. "You can stop staring now,” he mused.

Your eyes widened, immediately looking away.

"I wasn't staring." Heat crawled up your neck.

"You were."

"No, I wasn't."

There was a moment of silence between you. He sat there, head tilted slightly, looking at you.

"...You were." The smallest hint of amusement reached his expression—it felt like a victory on its own. 

Yesterday, he'd been so detached that speaking to him felt like speaking to a brick wall—today, small, tiny cracks were forming. Little glimpses of a personality underneath all that pain and frustration.

As you walked further inside, your eyes drifted toward the kitchen. Not a dish in sight—telling you that he still hadn't eaten anything. You set your bag down on the kitchen counter that separated the room from the rest of the apartment. The layout was similar to your home—however, it was clearly better funded and a more expensive unit, given the staircase that led to the second-floor loft and the gigantic, one-hundred-inch television spanning across the wall of the living room.

You looked at him, noticing the deep-seated bags under his eyes. You investigated him from where you stood, his position on the couch, his crumpled-up shirt across the room, his bare chest gloriously adorned with muscle—now you were off track again.

“You still haven't eaten?” you asked him softly, concerned.

You watched as his gaze dropped briefly toward the floor, almost as if he were shy.

The realization startled you. Shy? No. No way. That couldn't possibly be right.

This was Choi San. The Choi San.

The man who played in front of packed stadiums. The man who had thousands of screaming fans…and probably screaming women. Screaming without the s, that was probable.

Yet sitting here in his apartment, recovering, looking exhausted and irritated and painfully vulnerable...He didn't seem like that person at all.

He just seemed…young. Lonely, even.

Your chest tightened, your mind drifting back to the past. You swallowed the lump in your throat. Change the subject. "Did you sleep?" you asked gently when he didn't respond to your last question. He didn't need to, though. You knew the answer.

His expression tightened, almost as if he was embarrassed. "No."

You frowned, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "No?"

"I mean, a little." He scratched his head, eyes unable to meet yours.

"What does ‘a little’ mean?” you questioned. "How much?"

He looked away, his jaw flexed. You couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or sheer frustration with himself. You understood both.

The muscle ticked beneath his skin. "I don't know, like...two hours maybe."

You stared at him.

The first twenty-four hours after ACL reconstruction were already hell.

The swelling. The pain and inability to get comfortable. Don't even start with the complete loss of independence. You remembered every second of it. You remembered staring at your ceiling at three in the morning with tears running down your face because you couldn't figure out how to move without hurting. You remember crying and crying because no matter what you did, how you lay, how you did anything, nothing got better. 

You remember having to get yourself up to get fresh air outside; only then did you feel a little better—the only time you could stop crying. 

You remembered feeling trapped inside your own body. Terrified. Lost.

And looking at him now—you knew exactly where he was mentally, even if he refused to admit it.

Your gaze softened. "Did you take your medication?"

Silence was his response.

Immediately, your eyes narrowed. "San."

“I don't like all these damn questions.”

“San,” you said again.

He dragged a hand down his face. "Okay, fine. I don't like it."

You crossed your arms. "The medication?"

His eyes finally met yours, and for the first time all morning, genuine frustration flashed across his face. "It makes me feel weird. Like, really weird."

You groaned in frustration as well. 

And suddenly, despite everything, despite the pain and the fear and the giant brace strapped to his leg—

You found yourself smiling. “You have got to be kidding me.”

In front of you was the nation's best soccer player, but all you saw was a young man lost in a new whirlwind of a setback. 

The realization settled heavily in your chest.

People always talked about athletes like they were different from everyone else. Stronger. Tougher. Built from something that normal people simply weren't. They saw the trophies, the stadiums, the impossible performances, and convinced themselves that men like him existed outside the rules everyone else had to follow. But sitting here now, slumped against his couch with dark circles under his eyes and a brace strapped to his leg, he didn't look untouchable.

He looked exactly like you had.

"You know you have to take the medication, right?"

Immediately, his shoulders tensed. “I know, I know. I just…hate how it makes me feel.”

You pushed yourself off the counter, folding your arms as you stared at him.

"I feel..." He continued, exhaling heavily, clearly hating every second of this conversation. "Out of it. Not myself. I haven't felt like myself in a little while, though."

You nodded slowly. "Okay.” Is all you said.

His brows furrowed. "Okay?"

"Yeah.” you nodded. “Okay."

Confusion flickered across his face.

"I hope you know that if you felt normal, you would be superhuman,” you walked over to him cautiously, watching him turn away from you to look out the window behind him. “Part of getting to the finish line—wait, let me think of soccer terminology…” You paused playfully, sitting down on the couch near him. “Part of getting close enough to score a goal is taking the steps you need to achieve it. You don't just teleport to the goal and score, right?”

He still didn't look at you. However, once again, you saw the facade of his fear crack slightly. 

“You have to bust your ass to score, don't you? Beat the defenders, get back up after you get pushed down. It's all part of the game.”

He let out a sigh now, peering down at his braced-up leg.

"You know..." You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. You were doing quite a lot of talking—man, you hoped he was hearing you. "The first night after my first surgery, I cried nearly the whole night."

His eyes snapped toward yours, surprised that you could relate. 

You laughed quietly at his reaction. "I'm serious. I mean, we can get into my second surgery, too, but that would get too depressing."

His expression practically screamed disbelief. “Two?”

You smiled, looking down at your hands in your lap. "I thought my life was over. It felt over, honestly."

You were a bit hesitant to look at his expression. "I couldn't sleep. Everything hurt. I couldn't move without help. I hated needing people. I hated…being dependent when I’ve spent most of my life independent." You shook your head softly. "I remember sitting outside at three in the morning because it was the only thing that stopped me from crying."

When you looked back up, he was watching you.

Really watching you.

Not waiting for the conversation to end—listening to you. It looked as if he wished to say something with the way his eyes filtered over your face and the way his jaw tensed. He didn't speak at first, though, and you worried that you overshared. You’ve mentioned your history with previous patients—this was not your first rodeo with a grumpy ACL tear, but it was the first time you felt an immense pull to someone—enough to share your hardest moments for encouragement.

"How long?" he asked suddenly. His voice was quiet enough that you almost missed it.

You blinked, shocked. "How long, what?"

His eyes remained fixed on his leg. He pondered for a moment, as if he were fighting his thoughts.

He fiddled with his hands in his lap. "How long until you stopped feeling like…that?"

The question squeezed at your chest. You knew what he was asking—how long it took before you stopped feeling like a shell of yourself.

Your gaze softened. You picked the fuzz off your pants absentmindedly. "It wasn't all at once."

A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, and it hurt more than you expected.

You leaned back into the couch. "I wish I could tell you I woke up one morning and everything was fine again." You smiled faintly. "That would've been nice."

He hasn't spoken a lot, and this was the first actual day you were spending with him, so you couldn't ask for much. You worried if you were saying too much.

“You have to set small goals first.” You looked into his eyes for a moment, then stood up, facing him. “Like, the first time you sleep for more than a few hours. Or like the first time you walk without thinking about every single step." You shrugged lightly. "The victories are stupidly small at first. That’s what gets you to the big goal, though."

When he didn't say anything again, a breath of laughter escaped you. “Oh my god, I need to shut up,” you scoffed, irritated with yourself, slightly embarrassed. but…things felt…different with him. Oddly different. A good different. A frightening different.

“I—” he paused, sitting upright, eyes wide. “No, I—thank you. I feel better.” A smile clearly found its way through his boarded-up exterior.

The sight of it felt oddly rewarding.

You pointed immediately, gasping, unable to control your excitement. "There it is!"

"What?"

"That."

"What?"

"The smile."

It vanished, but you knew you just succeeded. "It wasn't a smile. You’re seeing things."

"It absolutely was."

"It wasn't."

A grin spread across your face. 

The corner of his mouth twitched again before disappearing completely.

You stood there for a moment, looking at him, at the exhaustion still lingering beneath his eyes and the frustration he was trying so hard to hide.

Then your gaze narrowed, realizing that things needed to be done. "Medication." Is all you said.

A groan left him—totally dramatic, like a spoiled little princess.

“Oh, it will be okay,” you whined back. “Now, where do you keep them?”

–

After a fight to get him to tell you where the medicine was, you found yourself tending to him. You got him a glass of water, gave him the meds, and even helped him put on his shirt—thankfully, as he was a terrible distraction to your work. Without even realizing it, you were there already the amount of time you needed to be.

San was sleeping soundly; the medication, despite his disapproval of it, allowed sleep to be an option. You saw this as a good time to pack up and leave him be.

When you stood up from the kitchen table and shut your computer, you heard him rustle from behind you. 

“Are you leaving?” he mumbled grogily, his voice raspy. 

When you turned around, you noticed his position. His eyes were barely open, fighting sleep. The blanket was halfway off him, and the side of his face was reddened by the pressure of sleep.

You walked over to him, reaching down to fix his blanket. “Yes, I bet you’re ecstatic, huh?” you joked, smiling at him before turning away to grab your things. “I will be back tomorrow. We have some important things to get to from now on.”

He didn't say anything, but his hazy look did things to you. You blinked, your stomach flipping, and pushed all the feelings as far away as you could. 

God, you needed to get laid. It's been a while—this had to be the only reason you were so infatuated with this man—that you've been starved of any connection since your divorce. He was also a bit younger than you, too. Injured, distressed—Jesus, there was something wrong with you.

You looked back at him one more time before leaving, and as you left, something inside you called to go back. 

--

The next several days blurred together.

Recovery had a rhythm to it—a really frustrating one. The kind that moved painfully slowly. You knew it all too well.

On the fourth day after surgery, you found San sitting on the edge of the couch with a towel draped around his shoulders.

His hair was damp.

You immediately knew what had happened.

He looked up from where he was sitting.

You looked down at the untouched basin of water on the coffee table, then back at him. You didn't even say anything—he knew what you were thinking.

"I'm fine, I got it."

You sighed. "San—"

"I said I'm fine." his words came sharper this time. You knew, despite the tone of anger, it was more embarrassing for him than anything.

"There's nothing wrong with needing help." You crouched beside the coffee table. “I mean, this is literally my job.”

His laugh was humorless. "Like it's easy to ask for help.”

The words hung heavily between you. For a second, neither of you spoke. The air was thick with tension—his breathing was heavy, his expression pained.

"I can't even wash my own hair."

You noticed the defeated expression on his face—he was trying; you knew it. It was so difficult to break out of the funk of the injury—you could only imagine how terrified he was feeling, as he probably was thinking about how he lost the only thing that gave him purpose. 

You reached for the basin.

His gaze panned over your movements. "What are you doing?"

You sighed. "You can either sit here and be miserable, or let me help."

His stare lingered on you.

Eventually, he looked away first.

That was answer enough.

—

Day five was worse.

You knew the signs immediately—the way he kept looking at the television without actually watching it. He was utterly exhausted mentally. Yet, even though he was clearly in deep thought, he got through all of the heel slides and quad sets for the day—a win.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked him gently.

He sighed, meeting your gaze. "My team leaves next week."

You nodded slowly, watching his expression tighten, afraid of you seeing his emotions.

He looked down at his brace. "I should be there."

You didn't know how to respond to that—so you didn't. You allowed your presence to help him through it. You nodded, understanding where he was coming from. 

He got through the exercises of the day, and before you left, you hesitated once again. You felt like there was progress, but man, you were concerned about him more than ever—more than you've felt your whole career.

—

By the end of the first week, things were finally starting to improve. You were beginning to get a grip on understanding him and adapting your program.

His swelling had gone down a good bit, his quad was beginning to wake up, and the heel slides no longer looked like a terrible, idiotic form of medieval torture.

And most importantly—He had finally been cleared to shower.

You smiled as you reviewed the note on your computer. "Good news."

San looked up from where he was sprawled across the couch. The word good immediately made him suspicious.

You smiled widely. “You can shower now! Well, carefully.”

The silence that followed was strange.

You waited. Normally, patients were thrilled when they reached this point. This was a success for you at the time—and the best feeling ever after not being able to bathe properly.

But San looked like you had personally threatened him.

Your eyes narrowed. "...Why do you look upset?"

He scoffed, crossing his strong arms across his chest. "I'm not upset."

You watched the movement carefully, his eyes refusing to meet yours. He suddenly seemed fascinated by the coffee table—as if it were literally the most important thing in the room.

And then you noticed the way the tips of his ears had started turning red.

And then you realized.

"Oh..." you breathed, understanding him. 

His eyes closed briefly as if he knew you'd figured it out.

The street outside the apartment was bustling. The TV was loud—yet suddenly, all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

"You know," you started carefully, unsure of how to approach this. "I've helped a lot of people through this."

His laugh was quiet. "I know." His gaze remained fixed on the floor, anywhere but you. The muscles in his jaw shifted. "It's…different."

You swallowed. "Different because it's me?"

The question slipped out before you could stop it. You weren't sure what you meant by it, anyway. 

Damn Mingi and his wrong assumptions.

Immediately, his eyes lifted, as if he couldn't believe you just asked that. 

Neither had you.

Great. Fucking fantastic. How professional. You were doing great.

His stare lingered longer than usual—longer than it should. The room suddenly felt much smaller than it was.

He looked away first, which somehow made everything worse. It might have been better, actually. Well, you weren't sure. 

You weren't sure about anything, to be exact. 

You sighed, gathering yourself. "Please don't answer that."

"No, it's not… It's not just because it's you, but," he scratched the back of his neck anxiously. "But…it doesn't help, you know?"

The corner of your mouth twitched. You needed to keep your head straight. "Well, unfortunately for you, I've already seen you nearly cry over pain medication."

His head dropped into his hands immediately. "Oh, my god, please—"

"And refuse to eat."

He groaned. "y/n—"

"And fall into me because you were too stubborn to admit you were hurting."

His face disappeared completely into his hands.

"So honestly?" you continued playfully. "The shower thing doesn't even make the list."

A reluctant laugh escaped him. He let go of his guard for a moment. It was nice. 

You smiled. "You're okay, San."

His gaze held yours, and for a moment, something shifted. The silence felt less awkward, but more…dangerous. Tempting. More dangerous than anything, though.

His eyes searched your face briefly, and then he shook his head. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you? Messing with me?"

You grinned immediately. 

"Oh, immensely."

–

The bathroom was filled with steam, swirling all around you while you made sure his incisions were prepped properly. 

You were kneeling on the ground in front of him, and when you looked up after finishing the bandaging, you surprisingly saw him looking down at you, eyes lost in thought, lip tucked under his teeth. You looked at him for a moment too long, thinking impure thoughts about how delectable he looked.

He stood on his good leg in front of you, his brace off, as well as his shirt and pants. He was only left in his underwear, and by the looks of it, he was still embarrassed despite your encouragement. To be fair, you fought hard against the temptation to run your hands along the ridges of his muscles.

When he broke out of his haze and noticed you looking up at him, a blush flooded his cheeks. You were surprised—you saw him as a flirty, confident man who could have anyone he wanted, but here, you saw a nervous wreck. 

You then realized that it most definitely had to do with the position you were in—on your knees, looking up, closer to his…

You stood up abruptly, clearing your throat.

He looked over at the running water in the shower. In the middle sat a shower chair to help him comfortably get through it. However, he did not budge from his spot. 

"You know, eventually you have to get in."

“I know,” he breathed. 

You reached for his forearm gently—the touch was light. Reassuring.

Still, you felt him still beneath your hand, his eyes dropping briefly to where your fingers rested against his golden skin.

Your pulse betrayed you immediately, but the embarrassed blush across his cheeks was distracting.

He fought hard to find words. "If I fall in this shower and die, I'm haunting your pretty self."

A laugh bellowed out of you, and you forced yourself out of replaying him calling you pretty. 

"Come on," you said quietly, getting back to business.

For once, he didn't argue.

You helped steady him as he shifted his weight, guiding him toward the shower chair. Slowly. Carefully. "Come on, superstar."

His fingers wrapped around yours. "Don't call me that."

You smiled.

"Get in the shower."

—

That same night, you lay awake, mind spinning. 

You kept replaying him in your mind, images of him. His expressions, his eyes. You only just began with him as your patient—quite literally only a week. However, he felt…familiar. You knew he wasn’t; obviously, you’ve never met him in your life before. But maybe it was all the screen time he got in your house. He was always on the TV. Always on Jun’s tablet. His name was on the back of the shirts you bought for Jun. He’s always been around you. 

And now, well, he was right in front of you. 

You always thought he was stunning, but you never had the chance to understand him as a person—he was only an image, an idea. But now, he was so real. Too real. And you were spending so much time with a young, beautiful, sexy man, and you needed to literally touch grass. 

“Ugh!”

You huffed, rolling over to shove your face in your pillow, forcing yourself not to think about him. 

—

A few days later, you found yourself standing outside San’s apartment again.

This time, not because you had to. Your workday with him had ended nearly an hour ago.

The container of homemade pasta balanced in your hands was still warm, and beside you, Jun bounced his soccer ball against his leg as you waited in the hallway.

You frowned at the apartment door.

San had looked exhausted during therapy today—more than usual. When you’d asked if he’d eaten lunch, he’d mumbled something unintelligible and immediately changed the subject. Which, in therapist language, meant no.

Absolutely not.

“Okay,” you told Jun quietly, turning from the door to face him. He stood enthusiastically, holding his ball still in his hands. “I’m just dropping this off, then we’re going home.”

Jun nodded.

You rang the doorbell. When there was no response after a long moment—one longer than usual—you reached to ring the bell again. 

Your concern immediately spiked. 

Okay. He could totally be sleeping. He did have a rough time today. 

“Hold on, bubs,” you mumbled, trying hard to not show your concern. Luckily, Jun simply rolled the ball around his arms, clearly uninterested in anything else. 

You rummaged for your phone in your bag and quickly found his contact and dialed it. 

No answer. 

You weren’t sure about what to do here, but before you could even think about knocking on the door aggressively and freaking out like an idiot, the door finally opened.

San stood there wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his crutches tucked beneath his arms. His hair was messy, eyes looked heavy. And still, somehow, he looked extremely breathtaking.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” you said immediately without a single thought. 

His eyebrow lifted. “Hello to you too.” He looked down at the container in your hands. “…What’s that?”

“Dinner.”

His shoulders slumped. “…You brought me food?” 

The question sounded strangely genuine—as if nobody had done that for him in a very long time.

Your chest tightened at the thought, wondering if you shouldn’t have come over. “It’s leftovers,” you lied straight through your teeth. You made dinner and, you know, specifically made extra to make sure he had some. 

He looked unconvinced.

Behind you, Jun was patiently waiting exactly where you had told him to.

Mostly.

“Mommy.”

“One second, buddy.”

“Mom.”

“What?”

“My ball.”

You turned just in time to see the soccer ball slip from his fingers. “Oh no—”

The ball rolled straight between San’s legs, then straight through the open doorway—and of course, directly into his apartment.

The hallway fell silent.

San looked down slowly, and as he did, a tiny head peeked around your leg right in San’s view. 

Oh no. Here we go. 

Jun’s eyes landed on San and immediately widened.

The world seemed to stop, and the soccer ball sat forgotten near the couch.

San stared at your son for a moment, eyebrows knit in confusion, speculation.

The little boy’s mouth fell open, eyes growing impossibly wide. 

Jun could not hold himself back at all anymore. You were genuinely surprised by how long he lasted. “You’re HIM.”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You closed your eyes, taking in a breath. “Oh, my god.”

“Mommy,” Jun whispered loudly, still staring. “Mom!”

You pinched your nose. “... I know, Jun.”

“That’s Choi San.”

“I know.”

“THE Choi San.”

You could not meet San’s gaze. “I am painfully aware of that.”

Jun looked ready to pass out.

Meanwhile, San stood completely motionless—he looked more surprised than annoyed. He didn’t say anything, though. Just looked stunned, some other unknown emotions sparkling in his eyes. 

“You’re my favorite player,” Jun blurted out, smiling so wide you wondered if it hurt him. 

You closed your eyes. There it was.

But when you looked back at San, you noticed the gentle, soft, surprised expression on his face. 

The hard lines around his eyes eased. For the first time since meeting him, you saw him looking at someone without pain sitting behind it.

Jun looked through the doorway at the soccer ball, then back to San, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. You weren’t expecting this to happen, but to be fair, it was your fault for not preparing for it.  

San followed your son’s gaze to the ball, then you saw his eyes wander to the large jersey Jun sported—San’s team. San’s number. San’s name. 

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “You play?” San asked quietly.

Jun nodded so hard you thought his head might fall off. “Yeah!”

“What position?”

The answer exploded out of him.

And just like that, Choi San—the brooding, miserable, emotional man who barely spoke—started talking soccer with a five-year-old.

You stood there staring, completely bewildered. Interested. 

Because somehow…the little boy who could barely get a full sentence out around his hero was getting more conversation out of San than you had managed in an entire week.

And for the first time since his surgery, San looked genuinely happy.

And something told you that neither of your lives would be the same after this.

[yeokii]

⠀⠀LOVE ME BACK ' 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎

⠀ ❤︎ ' jake, your boyfriend didn't care enough for you. but his best friend heeseung did.

𝗖𝗛𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗦 ─── ✿ written . heavily inspired by otl ! 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 ' angst crack confrontation swears bumass won ' ( 𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 ) ♱ like and reblog ! 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽 . 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝖾

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⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

[mingigoo]

we met in june || choi san ⚽️

ONE: the injury

⚽️ summary -> Only a short time after signing a contract to become the new physical therapist for one of South Korea's top soccer teams, their star player, San, crumbles with a serious knee injury. You're in charge of taking care of him through his recovery process, but San is not exactly the nicest patient to deal with. Suddenly, your life takes a new direction as you get to know the grumpy player and watch him bond with your son.

⚽️ pairing -> physical therapist! (f) reader x injured soccer player! San

⚽️ genre/au -> sports romance, single parent, smut, fluff, angst

⚽️ warnings/tags -> series is 18+ MINORS DNI, sports injury, single parent, more fun warnings to come throughout the series ;)

⚽️ word count -> 3.0k (and counting)

⚽️ series status -> In progress

⚽️ taglist -> @jjhmk @yukine-smx @roe-sinning @meowmeowminnie @yeritheloml @y00nzin0 @yesv01 @halesandy @shegotboreddsoo @kangyeosangelic @gayliljoong @sanshineeeeee @kodzukein @baguette-atiny @seokwoosmole @nyeatinyjunkie @juliettechokilo @pockyddalgi @justaqueerbufoin @hwaightme @likexaxdaydream @ssaboala @gtr-skyline-lover @miriamxsworld @daegale @knucklesdeepmingi @naiify @yeoyeoland @arya9111 @mdibby @8tinytings @angelicyeo @wooyoungjpg @lonewolfjinji @asjkdk @charreddonuts @mangishii @yeoyeoland @pink-hwaberry @wooyoluvrr @maru-matt @pearltinyy @loveuwoo @m3chigo @northerngalxy @silverpixiedust23 @interweab @skz1-4-3 (if I missed you please lmk!! bold = can’t tag)

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They say an injury can really change someone. 

Ruin someone. Destroy someone.

As a person who has both lived through injuries and currently treats them, you would have to agree. 

Injuries not only change you—they shape you. No matter what the injury is, the process, the mental games, the recovery—it takes a strong mind to find light at the end of the tunnel. One wrong move, one misstep, one…second. Bam. Life is different.

From running at full speed to lying stagnant—like a forgotten body of water once full of life and movement, now still and untouched. A mind that once felt free now felt compressed, lost, overwhelmed. 

You see it, you've experienced it, you’ve worked so hard to get where you are.

And now you're here. No longer the athlete you used to be, but now using the hard-fought mind to help other athletes through their pain. 

And well, clearly your athleticism passed on to your son, Jun, who was kicking a foam soccer ball around in the living room, acting as though he was a professional soccer player. He mumbled to himself as he ran around, chanting his own name, and when he kicked the ball through two boxes, he cheered and jumped around playfully. 

“Gooooaaaaalll!” He roared, then giggled, and proceeded to grab the ball out of the “net.” The net was quite literally unpacked boxes that you left lying since you haven't found the time to break them apart. At least they had a use.

You just moved into this place about a week ago due to your new job assignment—you were placed with the most popular soccer team in the country, which is just a few blocks away. After the team kept experiencing multiple knee injuries, their management requested a specialist in the hopes of better rehabilitation. You proudly accepted the position, even if it required you to move. 

Your son was young enough, and you did not have ties to your ex-husband anymore. That was long gone, that's for sure. Who knows what he’s doing now. Probably sleeping with anything that breathes…he definitely has every single std that exists. The only good thing that came out of that asshole was Jun. 

You stood at the stove, nearly forgetting that you were making scrambled eggs. You quickly jumped back into cooking action and scraped the bottom of the pan before it burned. 

Jun was still kicking the ball around the room. Typically, you’d be telling him to take it outside—but, well, your current place did not have any outdoor space. He loved soccer so much, how could you not find a way to let him play? A foam ball is what it is for now.

“Jun, honey,” you tried to get his attention. “Come eat, I made your favorite!”

He didn't budge. This time, instead of playing around with the ball, he held it in his hands in front of him, his gaze attached strongly to the television on the wall. His mouth was agape, watching intently.

“Soccer superstar Choi San will not play today, and for further notice, after an apparent knee injury in last night’s game,” the announcer spoke with a tone of disappointment. You watched the TV, then your son, watching him smile as his favorite player appeared on the screen. You were sure that the context of the broadcast was completely disregarded on his part—his eyes only seeing his hero. 

Choi San’s photo appeared on the corner of the screen, his dark eyes glistening, his lips curled up in a smirk. He sported a nasty bruise on his cheek, probably from an elbow, but it made him look even sexier. However, the juxtaposition of the smile and the video playing behind him made you uneasy.

The commentators spoke, but you didn't hear what they were saying—all you saw was the replay of the injury, knowing exactly what happened to him. He planted his right leg, but his momentum took him too far—his knee buckles inward, he screams in pain, and he is carried off on a stretcher. Everyone in the stadium fears the worst.

The announcers took over the screen now, the video behind them, his picture there as well. 

“Well, we have word that he has undergone imaging to define the injury, but we have no word at this point about his current condition.”

Your chest tightened. This was a normal occurrence for you—to feel a sort of…pull in response to an injury. Your mind flashed with memories of your own recovery, the event, the injury, the pain. You shook it all away, turning off the stove and putting your attention back on your son.

Luckily, since Choi San was off the screen now, he gave you the time of day.

“Wow, is he more important than me?” you scoffed playfully while plating his food, adding a few cut-up strawberries. “I see how it is!”

Jun giggled and ran up to you. You scooped him up, groaning jokingly. “My goodness, you’re getting heavy.” You poked his nose. “Soon you'll be bigger than me.”

He smiled. “One day I’ll look like San! He’s so big and strong.”

You ruffled his dark hair, watching him squirm a bit. Setting him down, you grabbed his plate. “Let's eat, and then you have daycare.”

“Pfft,” he hissed, shaking his head. “No, I want to stay here.”

“You know you have to go, bubs.” You settled him at the table and gave him his fork. “It will be over before you know it.” 

He didn't respond to that. He just dug into his eggs like a madman on a mission.

After he finished up, you grabbed an apple, tossed it in your bag, clipped your hair up, and made your way to daycare.

—

Work was still fresh and new to you. You were still settling into the new program and team, learning all of their habits and training protocols. You weren't currently tasked to a specific player, but you understood how things ran at the facility and the routines.

You were setting up your office in the rehabilitation center of the sports complex, feeling as if unpacking boxes was the epitome of your life. After finishing the last box, you tossed yourself onto your office chair, causing it to spin a bit. You let out a big, dramatic sigh.

But just as you started settling in, your boss came up to you, a slight grimace on his face.

“Y/N?” he mumbled softly, knocking on your open door. He stood hesitantly, and you already knew by the look on his face what he was going to ask of you. “So, our center forward—”

“Choi San?” you asked, eyebrows raised, your body sunken in your chair.

He nodded, biting the corner of his lip. “Uh, yeah. Choi San’s MRI results came back. Not good. Not good at all.” He entered your office, reaching out to hand you a folder labeled “Choi, S.” He nodded at the folder. “Take a look.”

I already knew what was going to be inside the folder. As I read it over, I saw the words “complete rupture of the anterior cruciate ligament” and “medial meniscus tear.” It never gets easier seeing those words. Your mind flashes back again, your knee aching as you read, as if you were reading your own diagnosis. You thought about how San was feeling at this point.

You closed the folder. “Does he know?”

Your boss nodded. “Yeah, um,” he swallowed, leaning over the chair in front of him. “He didn't say much. We already scheduled him for surgery. The sooner we get him in, the quicker we can get him back on the field.”

You sat up a bit. “Yes, but, I mean… It's more important for him to heal on his own timeline,” you blinked. “Recovery isn't linear. This will be hard for him.”

To your surprise, he just waved a hand in dismissal. "I have faith in him. And you." He pointed at the folder. "Which is actually why I'm here."

Immediately, you didn't like where this was going.

"What do you mean?"

Your boss pulled out the chair across from your desk and sat down. "After surgery, San's case is going to become your responsibility."

You stared at him. "My responsibility?"

"Primary therapist," he clarified. "You'll oversee everything. His rehab plan, progress evaluations, and return-to-play assessments. The works."

You laughed once, mostly out of disbelief. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was." He leaned forward and folded his hands together. "The club wants consistency. One person handling his recovery from start to finish. Given your specialization, you're the obvious choice."

The obvious choice.

Great. You had barely finished unpacking your office.

You had finally settled into a routine that worked. The center was busy but manageable, your patient load varied enough to keep every day interesting, and for the first time in years, your life felt balanced. You could leave work at work and still make it home in time for dinner with your son.

Now they wanted you attached to one athlete around the clock.

"What exactly does 'primary therapist' mean?" you asked carefully, your mind spinning with the possibilities.

Your boss gave you an apologetic smile. "It means he'll be your number one priority."

You groaned. "Come on."

"I'm serious." He slid a paper across your desk. "He'll be coming into the center every other day once he's cleared for outpatient rehab. You'll also be conducting home visits during the early stages of recovery."

You nearly swallowed your own tongue in shock at his words. "Home visits?"

"House calls. Just until he's able to manage more independently."

You dropped your head back against the chair. You held back an aggravated groan. You didn't even know this man, but thinking about all of the time you might lose with your son, the more you want to tear your hair out.

"Look, I know it's a lot. But San's recovery is important to the organization."

Important. That was one way to put it.

The club's star center forward tearing his ACL was probably every executive's nightmare.

You glanced down at the folder again. Honestly, you couldn't even be irritated with him. An injury like this could be devastating. You knew that better than anyone.

With a sigh, you reached for the paperwork.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah, fine. It’s fine, I’ll do it."

Your boss looked visibly relieved.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah."

After he left, you sat alone in your office, staring at the thick folder.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you thought about your son. If there was one person in the world who would be excited about this, it would be him.

Maybe, if things went well, he'd get the chance to meet Choi San.

The thought made the situation slightly less annoying. 

Well, only slightly.

-

A week later, you received a phone call telling you that San’s surgery went well and he was now at home recovering. You knew firsthand how difficult the first few weeks were adjusting to life after ACL surgery. Today, though, he should be okay. The nerve block would take care of any pain…well, for a short while. 

Your best friend, Mingi, was sprawled across your couch, arms wrapped around the back of it. He sported a backwards cap and a ginormous grin as your son crawled around him like a junglegym. “Do you know that your mommy is working with Choi San?” He gasped playfully, tickling Jun. “Isn't that fun? Oh, you gotta make sure she lets you meet him—”

“Mingi,” you hissed from the table, where you were working on the protocol you received from the surgeon. “He’s recovering from a major surgery. There's no way I’d bring that up. Besides, I’m sure that's the last thing he wants to deal with.” Listen, you loved your son more than anything—but you knew damn well that a hurting, depressed athlete would much rather stay in their own head than deal with a crazed five-year-old fan.

You shut your computer, noticing Jun’s sad expression. “Oh, honey, maybe after he gets better.”

Jun blinked at you. “Is he hurting?”

You nodded. “Oh, yes. But just for now. He’ll be okay and back to playing in no time.” As you reassured Jun, Mingi gave you a knowing look. He knows that this man will not get back on that field for at least 7 months, maybe longer. 

Despite that, Mingi lifted Jun up enthusiastically, standing up from the couch and spinning him in circles. “You hear that? You’ll get to meet your favorite player!”

You couldn't help but smile at the scene. You and Mingi went to the same college. He was in a totally different program—architecture, which was pretty damn cool—but you met during a geography prerequisite during freshman year. You clicked immediately, and the rest was history. You once thought that he would be the one for you. You’ve tried it—it just didn't feel right. 

Just as you were going to join in the conversation again, your phone rang, startling you. A text message popped up on your phone from your supervisor. You had a feeling that this was going to be what greeted you today—the start of your assignment.

The text was split up into multiple messages. The first message stated that your first official visit wasn't at the rehabilitation center but at his home. You already assumed that from the conversation you had with him in your office.

You weren't a caretaker. Physical therapy was one thing. Playing nursemaid was another. But something inside you felt an intense pull to this case—there must be a reason for the home visits besides the obvious.

The next chat bubble mentioned that, according to his discharge notes, he lived alone and would need help navigating the first few days after surgery.

It was hard to believe that a man lived alone. More so, it was hard to believe that he didn't have anyone to take care of him and that he needed home visits.

Your boss then sent one more text. 

Then you froze.

You looked again. And then a third time. "No way."

Mingi looked over to you with a confused expression, an eyebrow raised as he entertained Jun.

The address was familiar…too familiar. The apartment number wasn't even far from yours.

Just a few doors down the hall. 

Of all the places in the city, Choi San apparently lived in the same building as you. You held back, blurting it out to Mingi—he had a big ass mouth and would one hundred percent blab about his location to the entirety of the community—so you replied with a thumbs up and closed your phone.

You start this journey with San tomorrow morning. Your stomach churned just thinking about it. You couldn't tell if it was nerves, irritation, or genuine empathy. Knowing that he was just down the hallway, alone, recovering from surgery, you felt a pull to make sure he was okay. Someone shouldn't be left alone after a procedure like that, right? 

As Mingi messed around with Jun, you opened your phone again to send a message to your boss.

He lives a few doors down from me. Is he alone right now? He should not be alone.

Within seconds, he responds.

He is…

Overtime pay if you go over and check on him?

You furrowed your brows. Looking up to Mingi, you hesitated. Jun would be fine if you went over since Mingi was there. Extra money, too? Why not? Also, no one should be left alone… You sent him a message back, letting him know you were going over. 

Standing up from your spot at the table, Mingi’s gaze whipped over to you. Jun was content with watching soccer highlights on the TV. “What’s wrong?”

You scratched your elbow, pausing before pushing in your chair and going to grab your bag on the kitchen island. “Oh, uh,” you ran a hand through your hair. “I was called in for work.”

Mingi frowned. “Oh, really? It’s kind of late for that.” 

You looked at the clock above the stove. It was nearing Jun’s bedtime. “I know, but I get paid overtime for it.” You nodded towards Jun. “I could get him the new cleats he’s been wanting. Could you put him to bed for me if I’m not back in time?”

You could tell that Mingi wanted to say more. He didn't, though, and nodded. “Yeah, of course. Little man and I are good here.”

You made your way over to him and gave him a smooch on the cheek. “Oh, thank you, Mingi, you’re a lifesaver.” You squeezed his bicep, totally missing the reaction he gave. His cheeks flushed, but you were zooming out of the door quickly, both excited and irritated and, to be honest, every other emotion under the sun. 

You were excited to build a relationship with him for your son. You were nervous about dealing with another ACL recovery, knowing the memories it would bring back to you. And you were irritated that you didn't get to have a glass of wine before bed like you do every Wednesday. You called it Wine Wednesday—it'll probably be ‘whine’ Wednesday today.

You gave your son a big smooch as well, told him to be good for Uncle Mingi,  stepped out into the hallway and made your way toward his apartment.

The closer you got, the more surreal it felt.

You stopped in front of the door, adjusted the strap of your bag, and knocked. A few seconds passed, then you heard slow footsteps approaching from the other side.

And the lock clicked open.

[kinkyhoon]

WGFT - Lee Heeseung part 2

Pairing: senior!heeseung x loser!fem!reader Genre: slowburn, college!au, smut MDNI, comedy, fluff, socially challenged fem!reader, misunderstanding, he fell first he fell harder, angst? (idk about it but I think you guys will understand when reading) Synopsis: The hopeless romantic you are decided to confess and give a heartfelt letter to your all time crush but fate decided otherwise and made you confess to the wrong person...the so-called womanizer of campus, Lee Heeseung. Maybe you should have just keep your feelings to yourself...or maybe it was a sign from the universe. Warnings: unprotected!sex (don't risk it), swearing, oral (fem!rec), backshots, fingering, softdom!heeseung, first time, instructional (whatever that means) WC: 26k Note: I honestly didn't want to divide it in two more parts so I just posted it as it is...it's fuck ass long I knoooow but please it's worth it :,) Like I said from now on I will try to write more often on the longer format I hope you guys will like it!!!! There’s gonna be a spicy epilogue too so stay tuned!!!!

"You're a disaster...but God help me if I don't want to be a disaster with you for the rest of my life"

🎧Mini playlist : Who knows by Daniel Caesar, Dream by Keshi, Lovers by Anna of the North, Wus Good/Curious by Partynextdoor, WGFT by Gunna

The campus café is a small, cozy establishment nestled between the student union and the art building. You have been here exactly twice before, both times with Yunjin, and both times you have spent more money on a single drink than you usually spend on an entire meal.

Today, the café is moderately busy. A few students hunch over laptops, a couple in the corner have what looks like a very intense conversation about something, and a barista with an impressive mustache wipes down the counter. The smell of espresso hangs in the air.

"Why don't you grab us a table?" Heeseung suggests, pulling out his wallet. "I'll order. What do you want?"

You blink at him. "You don't have to pay for me."

"I'm the one who invited you. It's the least I can do." He tilts his head, that curious expression settling over his features. "Consider it part of the starting slow thing. Coffee first, then maybe a meal, then eventually I'll work up to buying you a gift."

You don't know how to respond to that, so you just tell him your order: a vanilla latte, the most basic thing on the menu, and flee to a small table near the window before your face can betray you any further.

Okay, okay, okay. This is fine. This is manageable. You are just having coffee with Heeseung, the guy who thinks you confessed to him, the guy you have been actively trying to repel, the guy who starred in your extremely inappropriate dream three nights ago. This is fine. Everything is fine.

You watch him at the counter, chatting easily with the mustachioed barista like they are old friends. He laughs at something the barista says, and the sound carries across the café, warm and genuine. A group of girls at a nearby table glance over at him, then put their heads together and whisper. Heeseung doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't react, doesn't do any of the things you would expect from someone with his reputation.

It's infuriating.

A few minutes later, he walks toward your table with two cups in his hands. "One vanilla latte for the lady," he says, setting yours down with a flourish, "and one Americano for me. I got you an extra shot of vanilla. You seem like you could use it."

"I could use a lot of things," you mutter, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. "Vanilla is a start."

Heeseung settles into the chair across from you, his long legs stretching out under the table. "So," he says, "do you want to tell me why you were hiding behind a bulletin board earlier? Or should I just keep guessing? My current theory is that you're secretly a spy for a rival university and you're gathering intel on our science department."

"Your theory is wrong."

"Then what's the real reason?"

I was hiding from you, you don't say. I was hiding from you because I dreamed about you eating me out and now I can't look at your face without spontaneously combusting.

"I'm just… very committed to checking bulletin boards," you say instead. "There's a lot of important information on them. Club announcements. Study group postings. Lost and found notices. Someone lost a cat last week. Did you see that poster? Very sad. I hope they found the cat."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Rambling. You ramble when you're nervous." He takes a sip of his Americano, his eyes never leaving your face. "It's cute. But you don't have to be nervous around me, you know. I'm not going to bite."

The word "bite" should not make your stomach flip. It is a normal word. A mundane word. A word that people use in completely innocent contexts all the time. But your brain, still apparently haunted by the ghost of that dream, chooses to remind you of the part where Heeseung's lips trailed down to your collarbone, and suddenly you can't look at his mouth anymore.

"I'm not nervous," you lie. "I'm just… naturally like this. I'm a naturally weird person. This is my baseline."

"Your baseline is being weird?"

"Extremely weird. The weirdest. I once alphabetized my entire book collection by color instead of author name because I wanted to see what it would look like. It looked terrible. I kept it that way for three months."

Heeseung considers this. "That's not really weird. That's just… creative organizational choices."

"I also talk to my plants. All of them. Individually. I have a succulent named Jason and I tell him about my day."

"That's just being a good plant parent."

"I cannot snap my fingers. I've tried for nineteen years and I simply cannot do it. My fingers make no sound. It's like they're broken but specifically only for snapping purposes."

Heeseung smiles now, that same genuine smile that appeared in the cafeteria when you talked about League of Legends. "Okay, that one's a little weird. But in an endearing way."

Endearing. He called you endearing. This is not going according to plan.

"I should go get napkins," you say abruptly, pushing back your chair. "We need napkins. For the coffee. In case of spills. You can never be too prepared."

Heeseung glances at the napkin dispenser that is already sitting on the table between you. "We have napkins."

"These aren't… good napkins. I need the good ones. The thick ones. From the counter. I'll be right back."

You escape before he can protest, weaving through the tables toward the counter where the barista is busy steaming milk. You don't actually need napkins. You need a moment to breathe, to collect yourself, to remind your heart that it is supposed to be beating for Jungwon, not doing gymnastics every time Heeseung smiles at you.

The barista hands you a stack of napkins without you even having to ask. You clutch them to your chest like a shield and turn back toward your table.

Heeseung is watching you, his chin propped on his hand, his expression soft and curious and completely unguarded. The afternoon light from the window catches the angles of his face, the sweep of his hair, the slight quirk of his lips. He looks like a painting. He looks like something you would pin to a Pinterest board titled "dream boyfriend" and then immediately feel bad about because no real person should look that good while just sitting in a café.

You start walking back toward the table, your mind a whirlwind of panic and confusion and the desperate need to get through this interaction without making a bigger fool of yourself.

And then your foot catches on the leg of a chair.

It happens in slow motion. One moment you are walking, your napkins clutched to your chest, your eyes fixed on Heeseung. The next moment your toe hooks around a wrought-iron chair leg that is sticking out slightly from a nearby table, and your body pitches forward, and the napkins fly out of your hands, and the coffee, dear God, the coffee who's sitting on the table gets knocked off and sloshes out of your cup in a great wave.

Time speeds up again. You hit the floor with a thud that rattles your teeth, and the coffee hits you approximately 0.3 seconds later, soaking through your sweater and your jeans and possibly your very soul. The liquid is still warm, not scalding but definitely not pleasant, and it is everywhere, on your clothes, on your hands, dripping from the ends of your hair, pooling on the floor around you in a sad, beige puddle.

The café goes silent.

You sit there, on the floor, covered in your own vanilla latte, and stare at the puddle spreading beneath you. The napkins have scattered across the tiles like confetti, completely useless now. A drip of coffee rolls down your forehead and off the tip of your nose.

This is it. This is the moment you finally break. All the stress of the past week, the letter, the misunderstanding, the dream, the bulletin board incident has been building toward this, and now, sitting in a puddle of expensive café coffee with every eye in the establishment fixed on you, you feel the tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

You are going to cry. You are going to cry in front of Heeseung and the mustachioed barista and the couple in the corner and those girls who have been whispering about Heeseung earlier. You are going to cry, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.

But then you look down at your hands, and you realize something.

His coffee. The Americano. The cup who's been next to yours, you have managed, in the chaos of your fall, to keep it upright by holding it. Your arm lifted it above your head at the last second, some primal survival instinct kicking in to protect the beverage that isn't even yours, and the Americano is still sitting perfectly intact in its cup, not a single drop spilled.

You are covered in latte. Your sweater is ruined. Your dignity is in shambles. But his coffee is safe.

"I saved yours," you say, your voice coming out as a croak. You hold up the Americano like a trophy, your arm trembling slightly. "Look. I saved yours."

Heeseung is already out of his chair, already crouching beside you, his expression shifting from shock to concern to something else entirely, something soft and wondering and absolutely devastating.

"You saved my coffee," he repeats.

"It was a reflex. I don't know why. I don't even like you that much. I mean, I like you a normal amount. A regular amount. The amount you're supposed to like someone you accidentally-" You stop yourself before you can say more. "I saved your coffee."

Heeseung stares at you for a long moment. Then, very deliberately, he reaches out and takes the Americano from your hand. He looks at you, covered in vanilla latte, sitting in a puddle on the café floor, your glasses askew and your hair dripping.

And then he pours his own coffee over his head.

Just… tips the cup over and lets the dark liquid cascade down his hair, over his forehead, along the sharp bridge of his nose, soaking into the collar of his black hoodie and leaving trails of coffee across his skin.

You gape at him. The entire café gapes at him.

"What-" you start, but your voice has stopped working.

Heeseung sets the empty cup down with a quiet click and smiles at you, a warm, genuine, completely unhinged smile that makes your heart do a full backflip inside your chest.

"Now we match," he says.

You can't speak. You can't think. You can only stare at him, this absurd, beautiful, incomprehensible boy who has just poured coffee on himself in the middle of a crowded café for no other reason than to make you feel less alone in your humiliation.

"But… your hoodie," you manage. "Your hair. The floor. The-"

"I have other hoodies. My hair will dry. And the floor can be mopped." He reaches out and gently straightens your glasses, which have gone crooked during your fall. His fingers brush against your temple, feather-light. "You looked like you were about to cry. I couldn't let you cry alone."

"Alone?" Your voice cracks. "You couldn't let me cry alone?"

"I mean, ideally you wouldn't cry at all. But if you are going to cry, I figure I should give you company. Solidarity in humiliation, you know?" He's still smiling, still crouching in front of you, still covered in Americano like it is the most normal thing in the world. "We make a pretty good pair of disasters, don't you think?"

Your heart flips. It doesn't flutter. It doesn't skip a beat. It does a full, acrobatic, Olympic-level flip inside your chest, and you feel the sensation reverberate through your entire body.

Why is he like this?

Why is Lee Heeseung, reputed womanizer, notorious player, the guy everyone warns you about, sitting on the floor of a café covered in his own coffee just to make you feel better about spilling yours? Why is he looking at you like that, with those dark, gentle eyes, like you are something precious instead of the absolute disaster you clearly are?

You don't know. You don't understand. And the not understanding is starting to become a problem, because every time you think you have Heeseung figured out, he goes and does something like this, and your careful mental categories crumble a little more.

"We should probably…" You gesture vaguely at your coffee-soaked selves. "Clean up. Or something."

"Probably," Heeseung agrees. He stands up and offers you his hand, his coffee-stained, still-damp hand and you have no choice but to take it. His grip is warm and solid, and he pulls you to your feet with an ease that suggests you weigh nothing at all. "There's a student services office around the corner. They keep spare t-shirts for emergencies. We could both use a change of clothes."

You look down at your sweater, which is now more latte-colored than its original blue. "That's… probably a good idea."

Heeseung pulls out his wallet and drops several bills on the nearest table, far more than the cost of two coffees with a nod to the mustachioed barista. "For the mess," he says. "Sorry about the floor."

The barista nods slowly, his expression suggesting he has seen many things in his years at the café but has never quite witnessed anything like this.

And then Heeseung guides you out of the café, his hand hovering at the small of your back but not quite touching, and you walk through the student union in matching coffee-stained clothes like the world's most unfortunate pair of twins.

The student services office is a small, cluttered room tucked into a corner of the union building. It is staffed by a perpetually exhausted-looking graduate student who has clearly seen too much in his years of dealing with student emergencies. When you and Heeseung walk in, dripping coffee and smelling like a coffee explosion, he doesn't even blink.

"Coffee incident?" he asks flatly.

"Yes," Heeseung says.

"Both of you?"

"I'm told we match now."

The student stares at him for a long moment, then sighs with the weariness of someone who long ago stopped questioning the absurdities of university life. "We have spare t-shirts in the back. They're not fashionable. They have the university logo on them. You don't get to complain about the design."

"We wouldn't dream of it," Heeseung says.

The student disappears into a back room and emerges a moment later with two folded shirts. They are, as promised, aggressively unfashionable, a mustard yellow color with the university mascot printed on the front in peeling letters. Beneath the mascot are the words "Embrace the process!"

"These are incredible," Heeseung says, holding up his shirt with genuine delight. "I'm keeping this forever."

"The bathrooms are down the hall," the student says, already turning back to his computer. "Please don't track coffee into them. I just had the floors cleaned."

You and Heeseung change in separate bathrooms, and when you emerge, you are confronted with the sight of Heeseung wearing a mustard-yellow shirt that is slightly too small for him, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that is definitely not doing things to your heart. The coffee has been wiped off his face, but his hair is still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and the combination of the terrible shirt and the wet hair and the ridiculously attractive face is so absurd that you actually laugh out loud.

"What?" Heeseung asks, grinning. "Do I look as good as I think I do?"

"You look like you traded shirts with a child."

"A very fashionable child. This slogan will hype me up for my next exam." He looks you over, his eyes crinkling. "You don't look half bad yourself. Yellow's a good color on you."

You are wearing the exact same shirt. You look like a banana. But Heeseung says it like he means it, and you feel that traitorous flutter in your chest again.

"We should go," you say, because standing in a hallway with Heeseung while wearing ridiculous matching shirts is doing something strange to your brain chemistry. "I have… I need to… there's a thing…"

"The mysterious thing," Heeseung says. "Your nemesis. Your arch-enemy. The eternal obstacle to us spending more time together."

"It's a very busy thing. It takes up a lot of my schedule."

"Right." He is still smiling, still looking at you with that soft, curious expression. "Well, before you run off to your very important thing, let me walk you to-"

"There you are, Heeseung! I've been looking everywhere for-"

The voice comes from the end of the hallway, and you know that voice. You know it the way you know your own heartbeat, the way you know the lyrics to every Ariana Grande song, the way you know that vanilla lattes are now your mortal enemy.

Jungwon walks toward you, his phone in his hand and a slight frown on his face, like he has been searching for Heeseung for a while. He looks so unfairly beautiful that your heart does the thing it always does when you see him, that painful, hopeful, aching thing that feels like a bruise that won't heal.

But then his eyes land on you, and he stops walking.

"Y/N?" His gaze travels from your face to your shirt to Heeseung's matching shirt to the general air of disaster that still clings to both of you. "What… happened to you guys?"

"Coffee incident," Heeseung says, with the casual air of someone explaining something completely normal. "She spilled hers, so I spilled mine too. Now we're twins."

Jungwon blinks. "You poured coffee on yourself?"

"Matching disasters. It's a new concept. We're pioneering it."

You want to say something, anything, to salvage this situation. Jungwon is looking between you and Heeseung with an expression you can't quite read, and your brain screams at you to explain, to clarify, to make sure he doesn't get the wrong idea about what he is seeing.

"It's not… we're not-" you start, but your voice comes out squeaky and strange. "The coffee was an accident. Well, my coffee was an accident. His coffee was on purpose. But not in a romantic way. In a… solidarity way. Against the humiliation. We are fighting humiliation together."

"Fighting humiliation," Jungwon repeats slowly.

"Enemies," you say, nodding too hard. "We're humiliation enemies. Humi-nemies. It's a whole thing."

Heeseung watches you with that amused expression again, and you can tell he is biting back a smile. "Humi-nemies," he echoes. "Right. That's what we are."

Jungwon is quiet for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles, but it isn't his usual warm smile. It is something smaller, something more careful, something that makes your stomach drop even as you can't identify why.

"You guys make a cute couple," he says.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound comes out.

"We're not-" you try, but Jungwon is already stepping back, already half-turning away.

"I've got to get to class," he says. "Heeseung, I'll catch up with you later. Y/N… nice shirt."

And then he walks away, and you stand in the hallway with your heart in your stomach and Heeseung's matching shirt still warm against your skin.

"We're not a couple," you say, but it comes out as barely a whisper.

"Not yet," Heeseung says cheerfully, apparently completely oblivious to the emotional devastation that just occurred. "But we're off to a good start, don't you think? Coffee disasters, matching outfits, running into my friends, this is basically a textbook meet-cute progression."

You turn to stare at him. He is grinning, still radiating that unshakeable, inexplicable joy that seems to follow him everywhere. He has no idea. He has absolutely no idea that the boy you actually like just saw you in matching shirts with someone else and assumed you were a couple.

"Are you okay?" Heeseung asks, his smile fading slightly. "You look a little pale. Was the coffee too hot? Do you need to sit down?"

"I'm fine," you manage. "I just… I need to go. The thing. The very important thing. It's calling me."

You don't wait for him to respond. You turn and walk away, not running, because running would be too obvious, but walking very quickly, your mind a tornado of panic and regret and the image of Jungwon's smile fading as he says the words that just shattered your entire world.

You guys make a cute couple.

He thinks you are a couple. Yang Jungwon, the boy you have been pining over for four months, the boy you wrote a three-page love letter to, the boy who poked your cheek in the library and called you cute, he thinks you are dating Lee Heeseung.

You are trapped. You are so, so trapped.

By the time you reach your dorm room, you are practically vibrating with suppressed emotion. You close the door, lean your back against it, and press your hands to your face.

You guys make a cute couple.

"We're not a couple," you whisper to your empty room. "We're not a couple. We're humi-nemies. That's a real thing that I definitely didn't just make up because I can't communicate like a normal human being."

Your room does not respond.

You slide down the door until you are sitting on the floor, your legs stretched out in front of you. You look ridiculous. You feel ridiculous. Your entire life has become a comedy of errors, and you are the punchline.

But even as you sit there, drowning in self-pity and the lingering scent of vanilla latte, you can't quite forget the look on Heeseung's face when he poured his coffee over his head. The way he smiled at you, open and unguarded. The way he said I couldn't let you cry alone like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Why is he like that? Why is he so… him?

You don't have an answer. And that, more than anything else, is starting to scare you.

The library has become your second home.

Not by choice, exactly. More by necessity. The library is neutral territory, a place where you can exist without fear of coffee-related disasters, unexpected bulletin board ambushes, or tall informatics students appearing out of thin air to pour beverages on themselves in acts of solidarity. The library has rules. The library has silence. The library has mercifully dim lighting that hides the dark circles under your eyes from three consecutive nights of restless sleep.

It has been four days since the coffee incident. Four days since Jungwon looked at you in your matching shirt and said those fateful words: You guys make a cute couple. Four days of replaying that moment over and over in your head, analyzing every micro-expression on his face, every nuance in his voice, trying to determine if there was something else there, something like disappointment, or regret, or maybe even jealousy.

You have come to no conclusions. Your analytical skills, apparently, are useless when applied to matters of the heart.

So you do what any reasonable, emotionally overwhelmed STEM student would do: you throw yourself into your studies with the intensity of someone trying to forget their entire life. You have read the same paragraph about cellular respiration seventeen times. You have highlighted so many sentences that your textbook looks like a rainbow has thrown up on it. You have consumed approximately four hundred milligrams of caffeine in the past three hours alone, and your hands shake slightly as you turn another page.

It is fine. Everything is fine. You are fine.

"You're going to burn a hole through that book if you keep staring at it like that."

The voice comes from directly above you, and you jolt so hard that your highlighter goes skidding across the table and rolls onto the floor. You look up, your heart already doing that familiar, traitorous leap, and there he is.

Jungwon.

He stands beside your table with a gentle smile on his face, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly messy like he has been running his fingers through it.

"Sorry," he says, stooping to pick up your fallen highlighter. "I didn't mean to startle you. You just looked so intense. Like you were trying to intimidate the biology into making sense."

"The biology is winning," you admit, accepting the highlighter with a hand that trembles slightly. From the caffeine. Definitely from the caffeine. "I've been reading the same page for twenty minutes and I still have no idea what oxidative phosphorylation is."

"It sounds like a spell from Harry Potter."

"That's what I've been thinking! But apparently it's something about electrons and I just-" You gesture vaguely at the chaos of papers spread across your table. "I'm losing the war."

Jungwon laughs, that bright, sunny sound that never fails to make your heart flutter. "Mind if I join you? I've been looking for a quiet spot to study, and honestly, sitting next to someone who's fighting for their life against biology sounds way more entertaining than sitting alone."

Your heart, the same heart that belongs to this boy, that has belonged to him since the moment he slid gummy bears across a library table at 2 AM, screams YES with the force of a thousand suns. Your brain, the traitorous organ that got you into this mess in the first place, reminds you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

"You probably don't want to sit with me," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "I'm not very good company right now. I've been mainlining caffeine and I think I can hear colors."

"That sounds like excellent company." Jungwon pulls out the chair across from you and sits down without waiting for permission. "What colors can you hear?"

"Biology textbook beige, mostly. It sounds like despair."

He laughs again, and the sound settles into your chest like a warm blanket. This is fine. This is okay. You can study with Jungwon without making it weird. You have done it before, you have spent a whole hour in this very library, watching him take notes and push his glasses up his nose and poke your cheek with that devastating smile. You can do it again. You are a professional. You are a master of emotional compartmentalization.

For a while, you actually do study. Or at least, you both pretend to. Jungwon opens his philosophy book and starts reading, his brow furrowed in concentration, his pen tapping absently against his notebook. You stare at your biology textbook with renewed determination, willing the words to make sense.

But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you. The way the library light catches the highlights in his hair. The way he bites his lower lip when he is thinking. The way his fingers curl around his pen, elegant and deliberate.

"You're doing it again," Jungwon says, not looking up from his book.

Heat floods your cheeks. "I'm not doing anything. I'm reading about oxidative phosphorylation. It's very interesting. Lots of electrons."

"Y/N." He looks up then, and his expression is softer than you expected. Gentler. "It's okay. I told you before, right? I don't mind being looked at like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something worth looking at." He sets down his pen and folds his hands on the table, giving you his full attention. "You have a very particular way of looking at people. Did you know that? It's like you're trying to memorize them. Every detail. Like you're cataloguing things that most people wouldn't notice."

Your heart pounds so hard you are certain he can hear it. You want to say I'm only looking at you like this because it's you. But the words won't come. "That's… that's my STEM brain. I'm very analytical. I notice things. It's a curse."

"I don't think it's a curse." Jungwon's voice is quiet, thoughtful. "I think it's actually really special. Most people don't pay attention like that. Most people look at you and see what they want to see, not what's actually there." He pauses, his eyes searching your face. "You're different, Y/N. You actually see people."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning. This is it. This is the moment. The conversation has shifted into something deeper, something more intimate, and you can feel the confession building in your chest like a wave about to break.

You can tell him. Right now. You can tell him everything, the letter, the misunderstanding, the way your heart has been his since the very beginning. You can clear the air and finally, finally be free of the tangled web you have accidentally woven around yourself.

"Jungwon," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you expect. "There's something I need to tell you. About Heeseung. About the confession. About everything. It's not what you think. It's never been what you think."

Jungwon's expression flickers, surprise, confusion, something else you can't quite name. "What do you mean?"

"I mean-" You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. "The letter. The one I gave to Heeseung. It wasn't-"

"Wait." Jungwon holds up a hand, stopping you mid-sentence. "Before you say anything else, can I say something first?"

You nod, your heart hammering.

Jungwon leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving your face. "I've been watching you and Heeseung," he says slowly. "The past few weeks. Ever since he told me about the confession. And I've never seen him like this before."

Your stomach drops. "Like what?"

"Like… happy. Genuinely happy. Not the surface-level people-pleasing happiness he shows everyone else, but something real. Something that goes all the way down." Jungwon's voice is earnest, almost protective. "Heeseung is my friend. One of my best friends. And I know what people say about him, that he's a player, a womanizer, that he'll charm you and then move on. But that's not who he really is."

You don't know what to say. You don't know where this is going. But you can't seem to interrupt, can't seem to find the words to stop him.

"Heeseung is…" Jungwon pauses, searching for the right words. "He's the guy who will stay up all night helping you debug code even when he has his own assignments due. He's the guy who remembers everyone's birthday and always gets them a gift that shows he actually paid attention to what they like. He's the guy who can't say no to anyone, ever, because he's so terrified of disappointing people that he'd rather burn himself out than let someone down."

He smiles, but there is something sad in it. "Girls think he's flirting with them because he's nice to everyone. And he won't correct them because he doesn't want to hurt their feelings. So he just… lets them believe what they want to believe, and then he feels guilty when they get attached, and the whole thing becomes this cycle he can't break out of. It's not malice. It's the exact opposite of malice, it's too much kindness, too much caring, and not enough ability to set boundaries."

Your throat is dry. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think you're different." Jungwon meets your eyes, and his gaze is steady and sincere. "I think you actually see him. Not the reputation, not the rumors, but the real him. And I think he's starting to see the real you too." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost fragile. "So I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Take care of him. Please." Jungwon's smile is gentle, but there is something behind it, something that looks a lot like pain, carefully hidden, expertly concealed. "He's been alone for a long time, even when he's surrounded by people. I don't think he even realizes how lonely he is. But you… you could change that. I can see it."

The wave of emotion that crashes over you is so overwhelming that you can't speak. This isn't how this conversation is supposed to go. You are supposed to confess to Jungwon. You are supposed to clear up the misunderstanding. You are supposed to finally tell him the truth.

Who knows - Daniel Caesar playing now

But Jungwon isn't finished.

"There's something else I should tell you," he says, and his voice drops even lower, barely above a whisper. "Something I probably shouldn't say. But I think I need to, or I'll regret it forever."

"What is it?"

Jungwon looks down at his hands, folded on the table. When he speaks, his voice is steady, but you can hear the effort it takes to keep it that way.

"I like you."

The words don't make sense. They can't make sense. You hear them, understand them individually, but your brain refuses to assemble them into a coherent meaning.

"What?" you breathe.

"I like you," Jungwon repeats, and now he looks up at you, and his eyes are so full of something, regret, maybe, or longing, or both, that it makes your chest ache. "From the first day of philosophy class. You sat in the front row, near the window, and you had like eight different colored highlighters lined up on your desk, and you took notes so furiously that your pen ran out of ink halfway through the lecture. I remember you made this little frustrated noise and searched your bag for a spare, and you looked so genuinely distraught that I almost offered you mine."

The library. The philosophy lecture. The day you ran out of ink. You remember it, vaguely, distantly, a moment so mundane you never thought about it again. But Jungwon remembers. Jungwon has been watching you, just like you have been watching him.

"I noticed you after that," he continues, and his voice is achingly soft. "The way you always sat in the same spot. The way you organized your notes. The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating. I kept telling myself I'd talk to you, but I could never find the right moment. And then midterms happened, and we were both in the library at 2 AM, and I saw you looking exhausted and stressed, and I just…" He laughs, but it is a sad sound. "I gave you gummy bears because I couldn't think of anything else to do. It felt so stupid at the time. Who gives gummy bears to a stranger at 2 AM?"

"A stranger who hadn't slept in thirty-six hours and was about to cry over organic chemistry," you whisper. "It wasn't stupid. It was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

Jungwon's smile flickers. "I was working up the courage to actually talk to you. To ask you out properly. But then…" He trails off, and his expression shifts, something closing off behind his eyes. "Then Heeseung told me about the confession. And I saw the way he looked when he talked about you. And I knew… I knew I'd missed my chance."

No. No, no, no. This is wrong. This is all wrong. He hasn't missed his chance. The chance is right here, right now, sitting in front of him with a heart full of feelings that have always been meant for him.

"Jungwon," you say, and your voice cracks. "The letter… it wasn't-"

"I'm not telling you this to make things awkward," Jungwon interrupts gently. "I'm telling you because I want you to know. I like you. I really, really like you. And sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd been braver, if I'd said something sooner, if I hadn't waited until it was too late." He pauses, and his eyes meet yours, and the weight of what he says presses down on your chest like a physical force. "But I'm glad it's Heeseung. He deserves someone like you. And you deserve someone who sees you the way he does."

"You don't understand," you try, desperation creeping into your voice. "It wasn't supposed to be Heeseung. The letter was meant for-"

"Take care of him," Jungwon says again, and this time his voice is final. Resolute. Like he has already made his peace with something you haven't even realized he was struggling with. "That's all I ask."

He stands up, gathering his book and his notebook, and you watch him with a growing sense of panic. This can't be how it ends. You can't let him walk away without knowing the truth.

But then he pauses, looking down at you with that devastating smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your heart do somersaults, and he reaches out and gently pokes your cheek.

"Boop," he says softly.

The gesture that once made you giddy with joy now feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

"Liking you was never a waste of my time, Y/N," he says, and his voice is tender in a way that breaks your heart into a thousand pieces. "I don't regret it. Not even for a second."

And then he walks away, and you are left alone at your table with a biology textbook you haven't read and a heart that is shattering into so many fragments you don't know if you will ever be able to put it back together.

I like you.

I gave you gummy bears because I couldn't think of anything else to do.

Liking you was never a waste of my time.

He liked you. He liked you this whole time. All those months of pining, of yearning, of writing and rewriting that letter and he has been feeling the same thing. You have been two ships passing in the night, each carrying the same cargo of unspoken feelings, and you have missed each other by a margin so narrow it is almost laughable.

But it isn't laughable. It is devastating. It is the most devastating thing that has ever happened to you, and you are sitting in the middle of a silent library trying not to fall apart.

You don't remember packing up your things. You don't remember leaving the library. One moment you are staring at the spot where Jungwon was sitting, and the next you are walking across campus in the fading evening light, your backpack hanging heavy from your shoulders, your feet carrying you automatically toward your dorm.

And then the tears come.

They start slow, a burning sensation behind your eyes, a tightness in your throat. You try to swallow them down, try to hold them back, but they won't be contained. By the time you reach the pathway between the science building and the student union, you are crying openly, tears streaming down your cheeks in hot, relentless rivers.

This isn't a romantic cry. This isn't the kind of crying that happens in movies, where the heroine looks beautiful and tragic and a single perfect tear rolls down her cheek. This is an ugly cry. A messy, hiccuping, snotty cry that makes your nose run and your shoulders shake and your breath come in ragged gasps. You are crying because the boy you liked liked you back, and instead of ending up together like you were supposed to, everything has gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.

You stop walking. You can't keep going. Your legs won't carry you any further. You lean against the rough bark of a tree and press your hands to your face, trying to muffle the sounds that escape from your throat.

You cry for the letter you sent to the wrong person. You cry for the courage it took to write it, and the cowardice that has kept you from correcting your mistake. You cry for Jungwon, who liked you and gave up on you because he thought you wanted someone else. You cry for yourself, for the hopeless romantic who dreamed of grand gestures and perfect moments and has ended up with nothing but misunderstandings and a heavy heart that breaks into smaller and smaller pieces.

You cry until your throat is raw and your eyes are swollen and you don't think you have any tears left to shed.

And then a voice, gentle, concerned, painfully familiar, cuts through the fog of your grief.

"Y/N?"

You look up.

Lee Heeseung stands on the pathway a few feet away, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his expression shifting from casual curiosity to alarm as he takes in your tear-streaked face and trembling shoulders.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is softer than you have ever heard it. "Hey, what's wrong? What happened?"

You should make an excuse. You should say you are fine, that it's allergies, that you just got something in your eye. You should tell him to leave you alone, to give you space, to let you fall apart in private.

But the words won't come. All that comes out is another sob, and your knees buckle slightly, and then Heeseung is there, his hands on your shoulders, steadying you.

"It's okay," he says, even though he doesn't know what is wrong, even though you haven't explained anything. "It's okay. I've got you."

"No, you don't understand," you choke out. "Everything is messed up. Everything is so messed up and it's all my fault."

"Then we'll fix it." He says it with such simple certainty, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. "Whatever it is, we'll fix it."

"You can't fix this. No one can fix this."

"Maybe not." Heeseung's hands move from your shoulders to your upper arms, his grip gentle but grounding. "But I can be here. I can listen. And I can promise you that whatever it is, you don't have to deal with it alone."

Something in his voice, the steadiness, the sincerity, the complete lack of judgment, cracks through the last of your defenses. You stop trying to hold yourself together. You let the tears fall, let your shoulders shake, let yourself be exactly as broken as you feel.

And Heeseung doesn't flinch. He doesn't look uncomfortable or try to escape or offer meaningless platitudes. He just stands there, his hands warm on your arms, his presence solid and unwavering, letting you cry without asking for explanations or justifications.

After a while, you don't know how long, the tears begin to subside. Your breathing steadies. The storm inside you quiets to a dull, aching calm. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, suddenly aware of how awful you must look, how puffy and red and wrecked.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "Your jacket is probably wet."

"My jacket has survived worse." Heeseung's voice is gentle. "Come on. Let's sit down somewhere."

He guides you to a bench nearby, a small wooden bench tucked under a cluster of trees, partially hidden from the main pathway. You sit down heavily, your legs still shaky, and Heeseung sits beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body but not so close that it feels invasive.

Dream - Keshi playing now

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The evening settles around you, the sky shifting from pale blue to soft pink to deeper purple. A few stars start to appear, faint pinpricks of light against the darkening canvas overhead. The campus is quiet, most students already back in their dorms or the library, and the only sounds are the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Heeseung asks eventually.

"Not really."

"Okay." He doesn't push. He doesn't pry. He just sits there, his shoulder almost touching yours, his presence a quiet comfort in the gathering dark.

"You're not going to ask questions?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready. Or you won't. Either way, I'm not going anywhere."

The simplicity of it, the uncomplicated, undemanding kindness of it, makes your eyes sting with fresh tears. You blink them back, determined not to start crying again.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" you ask, your voice hoarse.

Heeseung turns his head to look at you, and his expression is unreadable. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because… because I'm a disaster. Because I've been weird and awkward and I ran away from you and hid behind bulletin boards and spilled coffee on myself and I can't seem to do anything right. Because you barely know me, and what you do know is mostly just me making a fool of myself."

Heeseung is quiet for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles. Not the smirk or the teasing grin, but something softer. Something realer.

"Can you guess the movie I've watched recently?"

The question is so random that you blink. "What?"

"A movie I've watched recently. Can you guess?"

"Am I supposed to?"

"No, because I've never told you." He leans back on the bench, tilting his face up toward the emerging stars. "I don't usually tell people. It's kind of embarrassing."

You sniffle, curiosity temporarily overriding your grief. "What is it?"

"To All the Boys I've Loved Before."

You stare at him. "The Netflix movie? The one with Lara Jean?"

"The very same." He doesn't look embarrassed at all. If anything, he looks almost proud. "I've watched it like eight times. Maybe nine. I lost count somewhere around the sixth viewing."

"But… that's a teen romance. That's a movie about fake dating and love letters and-" You stop. "Oh."

"Yeah." Heeseung's smile turns wry. "The parallels weren't lost on me. Girl writes love letters she never meant to send. Letters end up reaching the boys. Chaos ensues." He glances at you sideways. "Sound familiar?"

Your heart does something strange, something fluttery and uncertain. "Why did you watch it?"

"Because Lara Jean is a hopeless romantic who's terrified of actually living the romance she dreams about." Heeseung's voice is thoughtful, almost contemplative. "She's brave on paper but scared in real life. She has all these feelings and no idea what to do with them. And she's convinced that if she actually tries to be vulnerable, everything will fall apart."

He turns to look at you fully, his dark eyes catching the faint glow of the distant streetlamps. "Does any of that sound familiar to you?"

Your breath catches in your throat.

"You write beautiful letters," Heeseung continues, his voice dropping lower. "You pour your heart onto paper because it's safer than saying things out loud. You make graphs about video game balance because you're passionate and detail-oriented and you can't help but go all-in on the things you care about. You talk to your plants and name your succulents and hide behind bulletin boards because real life is scary and rejection is terrifying and it's easier to dream about love than to actually risk your heart for it."

You can't speak. You can barely breathe. He is describing you, not the surface-level you, not the "weird first-year STEM student" you, but the real you. The you that lives in daydreams and love letters and the safety of your own imagination.

"The letter you wrote wasn't just a confession," Heeseung says quietly. "It was a work of art. The calligraphy, the words, the way you talked about noticing small things and finding beauty in ordinary moments, that's not something you write to just anyone. That's something you write when you've been paying attention. When you really see someone."

He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is almost a whisper.

"You remind me of her. Lara Jean. The girl who was so busy dreaming about love that she almost missed it when it showed up in front of her. You are Lara Jean. My Lara Jean."

Your heart races. Your palms are sweaty. The evening has grown dark around you, the stars fully emerged now, and Heeseung's face is half in shadow, half illuminated by the distant campus lights.

"Why are you telling me this?" you whisper.

"Because I think you're scared," Heeseung says simply. "I think you've been scared since the moment you handed me that letter. I think you're scared of what it means, scared of being vulnerable, scared of letting someone actually see you. And I want you to know that I see you anyway. Even when you're trying to hide."

He reaches out, and his hand finds yours in the darkness. His fingers are warm, his grip gentle.

"You don't have to be scared with me," he says. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to hurt you. And I'm not going to stop being interested just because you're awkward or clumsy or you spill coffee on yourself or you ramble about League of Legends until you run out of breath." He squeezes your hand. "That's the stuff I like about you. That's the stuff that makes you real."

You stare at him, your eyes still swollen from crying, your nose still red, your heart still aching from the conversation with Jungwon. And yet, sitting here on this bench with Heeseung's hand in yours and his words echoing in your ears, something shifts. Something changes.

"I don't know what I'm doing," you admit, your voice barely audible. "I don't know what I want. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel."

"Then don't figure it out tonight." Heeseung stands up, still holding your hand, and gently pulls you to your feet. "Come on. Let's get you back to your dorm. You need rest and probably some water. Crying is dehydrating."

Despite everything, the heartbreak, the confusion, the complete emotional chaos of the past hour, you almost smile. "That's a very practical observation."

"I'm an engineering student. We're practical by nature." He falls into step beside you, your hands still joined, and begins walking you toward your dorm building. "Also, I may have done some research on crying. You know, for science."

"You researched crying for science?"

"It was for a psych elective. But also for life skills. You'd be surprised how many people don't know that emotional tears contain stress hormones that need to be flushed out of your system. Crying is literally good for you."

"You're very weird," you say, but there's no bite to it.

"Coming from the girl who named her succulent Jason, I'll take that as a compliment."

You walk in silence for a while, the campus quiet and peaceful around you. The stars are bright overhead, and the air is cool against your tear-stained cheeks, and Heeseung's hand is warm in yours, steady and reassuring.

When you reach your dorm building, he stops at the entrance, turning to face you. The light from the lobby spills through the glass doors, illuminating his features, the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his lips, the way his dark eyes fix on your face like you are something worth looking at.

"Y/N," he says.

"Yeah?"

"I meant what I said earlier. You don't have to figure everything out tonight. You don't have to have all the answers. But whatever you're going through, whatever made you cry like that… I hope you know you can talk to me. About anything. Even if it's hard. Even if it's confusing. Even if it's not what you think I want to hear."

Your throat tightens. He has no idea how relevant those words are. He has no idea that the thing that made you cry is, in part, him or at least, the situation he is unknowingly caught up in.

"Thank you," you whisper.

Heeseung smiles, that same soft smile that appeared when he poured coffee over his head, when he called you a little mouse, when he listened to you talk about video games for fifteen minutes straight. And then, before you can react, he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

It isn't romantic or it isn't supposed to be. It is brief and soft and chaste, the kind of kiss you might give a friend who is hurting. But his lips are warm against your skin, and when he pulls back, your cheek is tingling, and your heart does that traitorous flutter again.

"Goodnight, little mouse," he says. "Get some sleep."

And then he walks away, his hands in his pockets, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness of the campus night.

You stand there for a long moment, your hand pressed to your cheek where his lips have been, your heart a tangled mess of grief and confusion and something else, something warm and growing, something you don't want to name.

This is supposed to be simple. You are supposed to like Jungwon. You have liked Jungwon for four months. You wrote him a letter and dreamt about him and catalogued his habits and built an entire future around the idea of him.

But Jungwon walked away. Jungwon made his choice. Jungwon told you to take care of Heeseung and then poked your cheek one last time, a goodbye disguised as a signature gesture.

And Heeseung… Heeseung poured coffee on himself to make you feel less alone. Heeseung held your hand and told you that you were his Lara Jean. Heeseung kissed your cheek and called you little mouse and looked at you like you were something precious.

You don't know what to do anymore. You don't know what to feel. The map you have been following, the one that leads straight to Jungwon has crumbled in your hands, and now you stand in unfamiliar territory with no compass and no guide.

You push open the door to your dorm building and walk to your room in a daze, your mind still spinning. When you finally collapse onto your bed, still in your clothes, still wearing the tear tracks on your cheeks, you stare up at the ceiling and try to make sense of the chaos in your heart.

Jungwon liked you.

Jungwon gave up on you.

Heeseung said he wouldn't go anywhere.

Heeseung kissed your cheek.

You press your fingers to the spot where his lips have been and close your eyes.

"I don't know what I'm doing," you whisper to your empty room. "I really, really don't know what I'm doing."

Your room, as always, offers no answers. But somewhere in the distance, you can almost hear Heeseung's voice: You don't have to figure everything out tonight.

So you don't. You let the exhaustion pull you under, let sleep claim you, and try very hard not to think about the fact that the boy who just comforted you through your heartbreak is the same boy who might be slowly, quietly, unexpectedly stealing your heart.

The university, in its infinite and questionable wisdom, has decided that what the student body really needs is a three-day trip to a skiing station.

You received the email three weeks ago, skimmed it with the vague interest of someone who has never skied in her life and has no intention of starting now, and promptly archived it into the dark abyss of your inbox alongside seventeen other emails you will never open again. The trip is optional, after all. Attendance is not mandatory. You can simply stay on campus, enjoy the quiet emptiness of the dorms, and continue your ongoing mission of avoiding all tall informatics students while trying to piece together the shattered remnants of your romantic life.

It is a perfect plan. Flawless. Foolproof.

Until Yunjin gets involved.

"You're going," Yunjin says, standing in the doorway of your dorm room with her arms crossed and her expression one of immovable determination. She has just finished reading the email over your shoulder, and the glint in her eye is the same one she gets when she is about to bulldoze through every objection you can possibly raise.

"I'm not going," you reply, not looking up from your biology textbook. "I don't ski. I don't snowboard. I don't even own a proper winter coat. The heaviest thing I own is a cardigan, and I'm pretty sure it's made of acrylic."

"Then we'll get you a coat."

"Yunjin."

"Y/N."

"I can't go to a skiing station. I have studying to do. I have lab reports to write. I have approximately eight hundred flashcards to review before the next exam. My social life is already a disaster zone, I don't need to add frostbite and potential avalanche-related injuries to my list of problems."

Yunjin steps fully into the room, closes the door behind her, and fixes you with a look that you recognize as her "I'm about to say something brutally honest and you're not going to like it" expression. "You've been moping for two weeks."

"I haven't been moping. I've been processing."

"You've been moping. You've been staring at walls, listening to sad music, and eating instant ramen for every meal. I saw you crying over a nature documentary the other day because the baby penguin got separated from its family."

"That was emotionally manipulative editing! They set it to sad piano music! Anyone would have cried!"

"Y/N." Yunjin sits down on the edge of your bed, her voice softening. "I know about Jungwon. I know he told you he liked you and then walked away. I know you've been carrying that around like a weight on your chest. But hiding in your room isn't going to make it better. You need to get out. You need fresh air. You need to do something that isn't just staring at the same four walls and replaying the same conversation over and over in your head."

You set down your highlighter. "What if I run into Jungwon on the trip?"

"Then you'll be a normal human being about it. Or you'll be weird and awkward, which is your default state anyway, so nothing will have changed."

"Comforting."

"What if you run into Heeseung?"

The question catches you off guard. Your hand stills on your textbook, and you feel that familiar, complicated flutter in your chest, the one that has been appearing more and more frequently whenever someone mentions his name. "I don't know. I haven't really talked to him since…" Since the night he kissed your cheek. Since the night you realized that maybe, just maybe, your heart is no longer as firmly in Jungwon's camp as you always assumed.

"Exactly," Yunjin says, as if your silence has proven her point. "You need to figure things out. And you can't do that if you're hiding in your dorm room subsisting on sodium and self-pity. The ski trip is three days. Three days of fresh mountain air, hot chocolate, and the chance to actually talk to people face-to-face instead of through a fog of depression ramen."

"The ramen isn't that bad."

"The ramen is a cry for help."

You are quiet for a moment, staring at the pages of your textbook without really seeing them. Yunjin is right. You know she is right. You have been hiding from Jungwon, from Heeseung, from the tangled mess of feelings that you still haven't sorted out. The past two weeks have been a blur of avoidance and overthinking, and you are no closer to clarity than you were on that bench under the stars.

"Fine," you say finally, the word escaping before you can stop it. "I'll go."

Yunjin's face lights up. "Really?"

"But I'm not skiing. I refuse to ski. I'll sit in the lodge and drink hot chocolate and judge people from the window like a ghost."

"That's the spirit."

The morning of the trip arrives with a gray sky and a biting chill in the air. You stand outside the student union with your hastily packed duffel bag, which contains exactly zero items suitable for winter sports because your wardrobe is approximately eighty percent oversized sweaters and twenty percent academic stress, and watch your breath fog in the cold morning air.

The bus is already parked at the curb, a massive coach with the university logo emblazoned on the side. Students mill around, dragging suitcases and carrying thermoses of coffee, their chatter filling the air with a buzz of excitement. You spot a few familiar faces from your classes, a group of engineering students comparing snowboards, and your heart lurches, a flash of dark hair that might be Jungwon disappearing into the bus.

Yunjin has already boarded, abandoning you for a seat near the front because she wants to "network with the economics majors" or some other nonsense that you can't relate to. You are alone, clutching your bag and wondering if it is too late to fake a sudden illness, when a voice speaks directly behind you.

"Need help with your bag?"

You spin around so fast that your duffel bag swings in a wide arc and nearly takes out an innocent bystander. The innocent bystander, thankfully, has very good reflexes. He ducks, straightens up, and smiles at you with that familiar, devastating smile that has been haunting your dreams for weeks.

Heeseung.

He wears a black puffer jacket that makes his shoulders look even broader, a gray beanie pulled low over his hair, and a pair of snow boots that actually look like they belong on a ski trip. His cheeks are slightly pink from the cold, and his eyes are bright with that unshakeable, inexplicable cheerfulness that seems to follow him everywhere.

"Hi," you say, because your brain has apparently decided that monosyllables are all you can manage.

"Hi," he replies, his smile widening. "Fancy meeting you here. I thought you said you were photosensitive and couldn't be exposed to direct light. Is snow-light different from regular light?"

"That was a lie and you know it."

"I know." He reaches out and gently takes your duffel bag from your white-knuckled grip. "Come on. Let's find seats together. The bus is filling up."

"I… what… together?"

"Unless you already have a seatmate?"

Yunjin has abandoned you. You have no allies, no escape routes, and no valid excuses. "No," you admit. "I don't."

"Great." Heeseung starts walking toward the bus, your bag slung easily over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. "Fair warning, I'm a chronic window-seat person. I need to be able to stare dramatically at the scenery while contemplating the meaning of life."

"That's very specific."

"It's a lifestyle choice."

You follow him onto the bus, your heart doing that complicated gymnastics routine that it has perfected over the past few weeks. Heeseung navigates through the aisle with practiced ease, nodding at people who call out to him, exchanging quick greetings, but never stopping until he reaches an empty row near the middle of the bus.

"Window seat's yours," he says, gesturing for you to go first.

"I thought you said you were a chronic window-seat person."

"I am. But I'm making an exception." He stows your bag in the overhead compartment, then steps back to let you pass. "Consider it part of the whole starting slow thing. Sacrifices must be made."

You slide into the window seat, your heart hammering, and Heeseung settles in beside you. The seats are closer together than you expected. His shoulder brushes against yours, and even through the layers of your coats, you can feel the warmth of his body. You press yourself slightly closer to the window, trying to create more space, but the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has clearly designed this bus to maximize accidental physical contact.

"Comfortable?" Heeseung asks, his voice tinged with amusement.

"Extremely. Never been more comfortable in my life. This is peak comfort."

"You're pressed against the window like you're trying to phase through it."

"The window is cold. The glass is… nice. I like glass."

Heeseung laughs, that genuine, surprised laugh that you heard in the cafeteria and the café and on the bench under the stars. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"The rambling thing. The nervous rambling thing." He turns in his seat slightly, facing you. "You know you don't have to be nervous around me, right? I thought we established this. Coffee disaster solidarity. Matching shirts. The whole thing."

"I'm not nervous," you lie. "I'm just… the bus is very… bus-like. It's making me feel things."

"Bus-like feelings."

"Exactly."

Heeseung shakes his head, still smiling, and pulls a pair of earbuds from his jacket pocket. "Here. Music helps me relax on long trips. We can share if you want."

He offers you one of his earbuds, holding it out between his fingers like it is something precious. The gesture is so simple, so unexpectedly intimate, that your breath catches in your throat. Sharing earbuds means sitting close enough for the cord to reach. Sharing earbuds means listening to his music, hearing the songs he likes, experiencing something together in the quiet space between words.

"Okay," you whisper, taking the earbud.

Your fingers brush against his, just for a second, and the contact sends a spark of electricity up your arm. You quickly insert the earbud, focusing very hard on not thinking about how close he is, how warm his shoulder feels against yours, how the faint scent of his cologne fills the space between you.

"What are we listening to?" you ask.

"A playlist I made," Heeseung says, scrolling through his phone. "It's kind of all over the place. Some indie, some R&B, some stuff I found on TikTok that got stuck in my head. I'm not very organized with my music."

"That's shocking. I assumed an informatics engineering student would have their music meticulously categorized by genre, mood, and decade of release."

"You assumed wrong. My playlists are chaos. This one is literally called vibes idk."

"That's the worst playlist name I've ever heard."

"It's an accurate playlist name. You'll see."

Lovers - Anna of the North playing now

He presses play, and music fills your ear.

"We should play a game," Heeseung says after a few songs have played. "To pass the time."

"What kind of game?"

"Twenty questions. But the version where you can skip questions if you don't want to answer. No pressure, no judgment, no awkwardness."

You consider this. Twenty questions with Heeseung is a dangerous proposition. There are so many things you don't want to answer, so many topics you have been carefully avoiding, so many truths that are still tangled up in misunderstandings and misplaced letters. But there is also something disarming about the way he offers the terms, no pressure, no judgment, no awkwardness, like he genuinely cares about making you feel safe.

"Fine," you say. "But you go first."

"Okay." Heeseung leans back in his seat, his shoulder still pressed against yours, his expression thoughtful. "What's your favorite movie of all time?"

"Pride and Prejudice. The 2005 version with Keira Knightley."

"The hand flex scene?"

You turn to stare at him. "You know about the hand flex scene?"

"Every person with a functioning heart knows about the hand flex scene. It's cinema history. Mr. Darcy flexing his hand after helping Elizabeth into the carriage because he's so overwhelmed by touching her? Iconic. Revolutionary. I think about it at least once a week."

You don't know what to do with this information. Lee Heeseung, reputed womanizer, hot informatics engineering student, the guy who is currently wearing a beanie and looking unfairly attractive in bus lighting, knows about the hand flex scene from Pride and Prejudice. He thinks about it weekly.

"You're very strange," you say.

"I prefer culturally literate."

"You said you've watched To All the Boys I've Loved Before at least six times."

"That's one of my favorite modern movies. Pride and Prejudice is my favorite classic. I contain multitudes." He nudges your shoulder with his. "Ask me something else."

The questions flow back and forth as the bus winds its way out of the city and into the mountains. You learn that Heeseung has an older brother who he FaceTimes every Sunday, that he chose informatics engineering because he loves the logic of coding but secretly dreams of being a music producer, that he loves Shin ramyeon and has created his own way of eating his instant noodles. He learns that you started collecting highlighters in middle school and now own over forty different colors, that you have named every plant in your dorm room after characters from classic literature, that you once won a poetry contest in high school but never told anyone because you were embarrassed.

The landscape outside the window shifts as the bus climbs higher into the mountains. Snow begins to appear, first in patches, then in sweeping blankets that cover the trees and the slopes and the distant peaks. The sky is a pale winter blue, and the sun glints off the snow.

"Next question," Heeseung says. "What's something you're scared of?"

The question hangs in the air between you, weightier than the ones that have come before. You could give a surface-level answer, spiders, heights, the dark, but something about the quiet intimacy of the bus, the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the gentle music in your ear, makes you want to be honest.

"Being seen," you say quietly. "Really seen. By someone who matters."

Heeseung doesn't respond right away. When he does, his voice is soft. "Why?"

"Because if someone really sees you, they might not like what they find. It's easier to stay on the surface. To be the version of yourself that you can control." You pause, watching the snow-covered trees blur past the window. "I'm good at dreaming about things. Imagining them. Writing them down. But actually doing them… actually putting myself out there… that's the scary part."

"That's why you write letters," Heeseung says. It isn't a question.

"Yeah. It's safer on paper. You can edit a letter. You can cross things out and start over. You can't do that with real life."

Heeseung is quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his words are careful and measured.

"For what it's worth," he says, "I've been seeing you for a few weeks now. The real you, I mean. The one who rambles and spills coffee and hides behind bulletin boards. And I haven't found anything I don't like yet."

Your heart stutters. You don't know what to say, so you say nothing, just let the music fill the space between you and try to memorize the exact timbre of his voice saying those words.

The skiing station is everything the brochure promised and more. A sprawling complex of wooden lodges and snow-covered slopes, nestled in a valley surrounded by towering peaks. The air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke, and the snow glitteres under the afternoon sun like a carpet of crushed diamonds.

You step off the bus and immediately sink three inches into a snowdrift.

"Excellent start," Yunjin says, appearing at your elbow and grinning. "Really graceful. Ten out of ten."

"I didn't see it."

"It's snow. It's everywhere. How did you not see it?"

You extract your foot from the drift and shake the snow off your boot with as much dignity as you can muster. "I was distracted by the scenery."

"Uh-huh." Yunjin's grin widens. "And by the scenery, you mean the six-foot-tall informatics student you spent the entire bus ride cuddled up with?"

"We weren't cuddling. We were sharing earbuds. There's a difference."

"There's really not."

You grab your duffel bag from the luggage compartment and follow the crowd toward the main lodge, your cheeks burning despite the cold. The lodge is a massive timber-frame building with a soaring ceiling, a massive stone fireplace, and windows that look out over the slopes. Students are already scattered across the lobby, checking in, collecting room keys, and making plans for the afternoon.

Your room is small but cozy, with a window that faces the mountains and a bed that looks impossibly inviting. You dump your bag on the floor, plug in your phone to charge, and then immediately find yourself staring out the window at the snow-covered landscape.

Yunjin finds you an hour later, dragging you out of your room and into the lodge's main café for hot chocolate. The café is warm and bustling, filled with students comparing ski passes and swapping stories about near-misses on the slopes. You find a table near the window, and Yunjin wastes no time in grilling you about the bus ride.

"So," she says, stirring her hot chocolate with a cinnamon stick, "Heeseung."

"What about him?"

"You spent three hours cuddled up with him on a bus."

"Sharing earbuds is not cuddling."

"You let him listen to music with you. You played twenty questions. You told him about your highlighter collection and the poetry contest you never told anyone about." Yunjin fixes you with a knowing look. "Those are not casual bus acquaintance topics. Those are I'm emotionally vulnerable with this person topics."

You stare into your hot chocolate. "I don't know what I'm doing, Yunjin. Everything is so tangled up. I started this whole mess because I was too scared to confess to the right person, and now the wrong person has been nothing but kind and thoughtful and unexpectedly perfect, and the right person told me he liked me and then walked away, and I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore."

Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she reaches across the table and places her hand on yours. "Maybe there isn't a supposed to. Maybe there's just what you actually feel, when you strip away all the expectations and the plans and the ideas about how things were meant to go."

You look up at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've been so focused on the idea of Jungwon, the letter, the confession, the grand romantic gesture, that you might have missed what's been happening right in front of you." She squeezes your hand. "Heeseung poured coffee on himself so you wouldn't feel alone. He held your hand while you cried. He looked at you on that bus like you were the most interesting person he'd ever met."

"That doesn't mean-"

"Y/N." Yunjin's voice is gentle but firm. "When are you going to stop being scared and start being honest?"

The question hits you like a punch to the chest. Because she is right. Yunjin is always right, that is the infuriating thing about her. You have been scared since the moment you walked into that PC room, scared of rejection, scared of humiliation, scared of what would happen if you actually let someone see you. And that fear has led you into a labyrinth of misunderstandings and half-truths, and somewhere along the way, you have gotten so lost that you can't even see the exit anymore.

"I need to tell him," you say quietly. "Heeseung. I need to tell him the truth about the letter."

Yunjin nods. "I think that's a good idea."

"He might hate me."

"He might. But he also might not. And either way, you'll finally be able to stop carrying this around." She leans back in her chair, blowing on her hot chocolate. "Besides, from everything you've told me about him, I don't think hating you is high on his list of priorities."

"What if it ruins everything?"

"What if it fixes everything?"

You don't have an answer to that. You just sit there, watching the snow fall outside the window, and feel the weight of your decision settling onto your shoulders. Tonight. You will tell him tonight. Before dinner, maybe, or after. You will find a quiet moment, away from the crowds and the noise and the chaos of the ski trip, and you will finally, finally tell him the truth.

Finding Heeseung turns out to be easier said than done.

The ski station is massive, a maze of slopes and trails and lodges that all look exactly the same. You wander through the main lodge, check the café, peek into the game room, and even brave the equipment rental shop where a terrifyingly efficient employee tries to convince you to try snowboarding. You escape with your dignity barely intact and a pamphlet about beginner lessons that you immediately stuff into the nearest trash can.

It isn't until you step outside, squinting against the glare of the sun on the snow, that you spot him.

He is on the intermediate slope, a dark figure against the white expanse of snow, cutting down the mountain with the kind of effortless grace that makes your heart lurch into your throat. He is snowboarding, of course he is snowboarding, because apparently there is nothing Lee Heeseung can't do and he moves like he was born on a board.

You have two options. Option one: wait at the bottom of the slope like a normal person and flag him down when he finishes his run. Option two: try to reach him now, which will involve navigating the snowy terrain between you and the slope, a task for which you are woefully underprepared both in terms of footwear and basic motor coordination.

You choose option two, because you are an idiot.

The path to the slope is a gentle incline of packed snow that looks deceptively easy to traverse. You take three steps and immediately realize your mistake. The snow is slippery, not the powdery kind of snow that crunches satisfyingly underfoot, but the packed, icy kind that has been trampled by hundreds of skiers and snowboarders and now has the texture of a skating rink.

You take a fourth step. Your foot slides. You windmill your arms frantically. Your other foot slides in the opposite direction. For one glorious, suspended moment, you do something that might generously be called a split, and then gravity takes over and you go down in a tangle of limbs and snow and absolute humiliation.

"Y/N?"

The voice comes from above you. You look up, snow clinging to your hair and your eyelashes and probably places you don't want to think about, and there is Heeseung, standing over you with his snowboard tucked under his arm and an expression somewhere between concern and barely suppressed laughter.

"Hi," you say weakly. "I was looking for you."

"You found me." He kneels down beside you, brushing snow off your shoulder. "Are you okay? That looked like a pretty spectacular fall."

"I've had better. I've also had worse. This is somewhere in the middle."

"Your standards for falls must be very high."

"I'm an overachiever."

Heeseung laughs and offers you his hand. You take it, and he pulls you to your feet with the same easy strength he showed in the café, steadying you when you wobble on the slippery snow.

"Come on," he says, still holding your hand. "Let's get you somewhere less treacherous. The beginner slope is over there, it's flatter and a lot less likely to attack you."

"I don't snowboard."

"I'll teach you."

"Heeseung-"

"It'll be fun. I promise." He already guides you toward the beginner slope, his hand warm and solid around yours. "Besides, you came all this way to find me. The least I can do is give you a snowboarding lesson."

The beginner slope is, as promised, much less intimidating than the intermediate one. It is a gentle hill with a slow incline, populated by other beginners who fall over with the same frequency and enthusiasm that you anticipate for yourself. Heeseung finds a quiet spot near the edge, props his snowboard in the snow, and turns to you with an expression of exaggerated seriousness.

"Okay, lesson one: standing on the board without falling."

"That sounds fake."

"It's very real. I've done it many times."

"Show-off."

He grins and proceeds to walk you through the basics of snowboarding with the patience of a saint and the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loves sharing his hobbies. He holds your hands when you wobble, catches you when you fall, and laughs with you instead of at you when you face-plant into a snowbank for the third time in ten minutes.

"You're getting better," he says, pulling you upright after your fourth fall. Snow dusts his beanie and clings to his eyelashes, and his cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. "That time you almost made it five feet."

"Almost being the key word."

"Almost is progress. Almost is the first step toward eventually."

You look at him, really look at him and feel something shift in your chest. This is it. This is the moment. You can't put it off any longer.

"I need to tell you something," you say, your voice coming out steadier than you feel. "Can we sit down for a minute?"

Heeseung's expression flickers, curiosity, concern, something else you can't name but he nods. "Of course."

You find a bench near the edge of the slope, tucked under a pine tree whose branches are heavy with snow. The afternoon sun starts to sink lower in the sky, painting the mountains in shades of gold and pink, and the air is cold enough to make your breath fog. You sit down, and Heeseung sits beside you, close but not too close, his snowboard propped against the bench.

For a long moment, you don't say anything. You are gathering your courage, trying to find the right words, trying to figure out how to start a conversation that might change everything.

"The letter," you say finally. "The one I gave you in the PC room. There's something I need to tell you about it."

Heeseung doesn't react. He just waits, his dark eyes steady on your face.

"It wasn't meant for you," you say, and the words come out in a rush, tumbling over each other in their hurry to escape. "I wrote it for someone else. For Jungwon. I'd been planning to confess to him for weeks, and I'd written this whole letter, and I asked someone where he was and they said he was in the PC room, and I walked in and I saw someone sitting at the computer and I just assumed it was him, and I didn't look, I didn't check, I just handed over the letter and started talking, and then you looked up and it wasn't him at all, it was you and I was so embarrassed and everyone was watching and I couldn't correct you in front of all those people, and then everything spiraled and I kept trying to tell you but I couldn't find the right moment and then Jungwon found out and I couldn't correct it in front of him either and now everything is a mess and I'm so, so sorry, and I understand if you're angry, I understand if you hate me, I just… I couldn't keep lying to you anymore. You deserved to know the truth."

You stop talking. Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your temples. Your hands shake, and you press them together in your lap to keep them still. You don't look at Heeseung, you can't look at him, can't bear to see the expression on his face.

The silence stretches for what feels like an eternity.

And then Heeseung says, in the most casual voice imaginable: "I know."

Your head snaps up. "What?"

"I know the letter wasn't meant for me." He smiles, not a smirk, not a grin, but something gentle and warm and completely without judgment. "I've known since the beginning."

"But… how… since when-"

"Since I read it." Heeseung leans back on the bench, looking out at the snow-covered slope with a thoughtful expression. "The letter was beautiful. Every word of it. But it wasn't about me. It was about someone who smiles a certain way, someone who gave you gummy bears at 2 AM, someone who studies hard during free time at the library." He glances at you sideways. "I've never given anyone gummy bears. And I'm an informatics student, I don't take philosophy."

Your brain short-circuits. "You knew. This whole time. You knew."

"I knew."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Heeseung's voice is gentle. "You were so flustered and embarrassed, and I could see you panicking in front of everyone. If I called you out right there, you would have been humiliated. And then I kept waiting for you to tell me yourself, but you never did, and eventually I just…" He shrugs. "I got curious. You wrote this incredible letter, and you were so weird and skittish and interesting, and I wanted to understand you. So I kept showing up."

"You kept showing up because I was interesting?"

"At first. Then it became something else." He turns to face you fully, his expression open and earnest. "You're not like the other people who confess to me. They want the idea of me, the reputation, the image. You didn't even want the real me. You wanted someone else entirely. And that was… refreshing. You weren't trying to impress me. You were trying to get rid of me. It was the first time anyone ever hid behind a bulletin board to avoid me."

"I wasn't… I didn't…" You bury your face in your hands. "This is so humiliating."

"It's not humiliating. It's human. You made a mistake. A very entertaining, very elaborate mistake." He gently pulls your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at him. "And somewhere along the way, while you were busy trying to make me lose interest, I got to know the real you. The one who names her plants after literary characters. The one who writes passionate essays about video game balance. The one who cried over a baby penguin last week."

"Yunjin told you about that?"

"Yunjin and I have been texting. But don't worry she didn't spilled all your dirty secrets."

You gape at him. "You and Yunjin have been texting?"

"She reached out after the coffee incident. Said she wanted to make sure my intentions were good." He smiles, a little sheepishly. "I think I passed the test. She said I was less of a disaster than expected."

"I'm going to kill her. I'm going to kill both of you."

"Before you do, let me finish." Heeseung's voice softens, and he takes your hand in his, the same way he did on the bench under the stars, steady and warm and reassuring. "I knew the letter wasn't for me. But I also know that somewhere along the way, something changed. Maybe it changed for you too. Maybe it didn't. Either way, I wanted to give you the space to figure it out on your own terms."

You stare at him, your mind reeling. He knew. He has known this entire time, and instead of being angry or hurt or humiliated, he just… waited. Gave you space. Let you come to him when you were ready.

"You're not upset?" you whisper.

"I'm not upset."

"You don't feel… I don't know, betrayed? Lied to?"

"Y/N." He squeezes your hand. "You were scared. I get it. I've spent my whole life being scared of disappointing people, scared of saying no, scared of letting anyone down. I know what it's like to be trapped in a situation you didn't mean to create. I'm not going to hold that against you."

The tears threaten again, not the ugly, heartbroken tears from that night on the pathway, but something softer. Something that feels almost like relief.

"I'm sorry," you say, your voice cracking. "I'm so sorry for not telling you sooner."

"You're telling me now. That's what matters."

"I don't know what I feel," you admit. "About anything. About anyone. Everything is so confusing."

"Then don't figure it out right now." Heeseung stands up, pulling you gently to your feet. "We have three days at a ski station. There's a jacuzzi. There's hot chocolate. There's an entire mountain to explore. Let's just… enjoy it. See what happens. No pressure, no expectations, no misunderstandings."

Just like that, the weight you have been carrying for weeks, the guilt, the anxiety, the tangled knot of secrets, begins to loosen. Not disappear entirely, but loosen enough that you can breathe again.

"There's really a jacuzzi?" you ask.

Heeseung grins. "There's really a jacuzzi. I saw it on the map. Outdoor, heated, with a view of the mountains. Very romantic. Very much the kind of thing you'd put in a letter about someone."

"You're making fun of me."

"A little bit. But also, I'm serious." He picks up his snowboard and tucks it under his arm. "What do you say? After dinner? We can go check it out."

You think about it. The jacuzzi. With Heeseung. In a swimsuit. In warm water under the stars, surrounded by snow-covered mountains. It is terrifying. It is ridiculous. It is exactly the kind of thing the hopeless romantic inside you has always dreamed about.

"Okay," you say. "After dinner."

By the time dinner rolls around, you are a nervous wreck.

You have spent the rest of the afternoon in your room, alternating between staring at the ceiling and frantically texting Yunjin for advice. Yunjin has responded with a series of increasingly unhelpful messages:

Yunjin: wear the cute swimsuit

You: i don't OWN a cute swimsuit

Yunjin: wear the one you borrowed from me for the pool party last semester

You: the black one???

Yunjin: YES the black one. he won't know what hit him

You: i don't want him to be HIT i want this to be NORMAL

Yunjin: nothing about your life has been normal since the moment you walked into that PC room. embrace it. wear the swimsuit.

You wear the swimsuit.

Underneath your clothes, of course. Underneath a thick sweater, a pair of jeans, and the oversized winter coat you borrowed from Yunjin specifically for this trip. You feel like you are wearing armor, except the armor is actually a swimsuit, and the battle is against your own nervous system.

Dinner is a blur. The lodge's restaurant is packed with students, the noise level somewhere between "lively" and "chaotic," and you barely taste the food on your plate. You keep glancing toward the table where Heeseung sits with a group of his friends, and every time he catches your eye, he smiles at you, that same soft, knowing smile that makes your stomach do complicated acrobatics.

At one point, you accidentally make eye contact with Jungwon across the dining hall. He sits with a group of philosophy students, and when your gazes meet, he raises his hand in a small wave. His expression is unreadable, not sad, not angry, just… neutral. You wave back, and then you both look away, and that is it. A quiet acknowledgment of everything that has happened and everything that hasn't.

After dinner, you return to your room and proceed to have a minor meltdown.

The text from Heeseung arrives at exactly 8:47 PM.

Heeseung: jacuzzi? meet in the lobby in 10? bring a towel

You stare at the message for approximately three full minutes. Then you type out seventeen different responses, delete all of them, and finally settle on:

You: okay

Just "okay." No punctuation. No enthusiasm. Just the monosyllabic response of someone who is either incredibly chill or seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

You grab your towel and make your way to the lobby. The lodge is quieter now, most students either in the game room or in their own rooms recovering from the day's activities. The fireplace in the main lobby still crackles, and a few people gather around it with mugs of hot chocolate.

Heeseung is already there, leaning against the reception desk with a towel slung over his shoulder and that same gray beanie pulled over his hair. He has changed out of his snowboarding gear into something simpler and when he sees you approaching, his face lights up with that genuine smile that never fails to make your heart flutter.

"Ready?" he asks.

"No," you admit.

"Good. Let's go anyway."

The jacuzzi is on the outdoor deck of the spa building, a steaming oasis surrounded by snow-covered rocks and pine trees draped in lights. The mountains rise in the distance, dark silhouettes against a sky so full of stars it looks like a painting. The air is freezing, the kind of cold that makes your lungs ache, but the water is perfectly, blissfully warm, and when you finally shed your coat and your sweater and your jeans and slip into the bubbling water in your borrowed black swimsuit, you let out a breath you didn't realize you have been holding.

"This is nice," you admit, sinking down until the water reaches your chin. "This is really, really nice."

"Told you." Heeseung slides into the water across from you, his towel discarded on a nearby bench. The lights catch the angles of his face, the curve of his shoulders, the way his hair curls slightly at the ends from the steam. "Sometimes I'm right about things."

"Sometimes."

"Rarely. Occasionally. Once in a blue moon."

You laugh, and it feels good, lighter than it has in weeks. The warm water, the cold air, the stars overhead, the boy across from you who has known the truth all along and hasn't run away, it all feels like something out of a dream.

"I'm glad you told me," Heeseung says quietly. "About the letter."

"Me too."

"And I'm glad you're here. At the ski station. In the jacuzzi. With me."

Your heart flutters. "Me too."

"So what happens now?" Heeseung asks, but there is no pressure in his voice. Just curiosity. Just openness.

"I don't know," you say honestly. "But I think… I think I'd like to find out."

Heeseung smiles, soft and real and full of something you are only just beginning to recognize.

"Then let's find out," he says. "Together."

The jacuzzi is bathed in purple light.

You don't know if it is intentional or if someone just installed colored LEDs and called it a day, but the effect is undeniably, unfairly romantic. The water glows with a deep violet hue, shifting to indigo where the bubbles break the surface, and the steam rising into the cold mountain air catches the light and turns it into something almost magical. It looks like a movie.

A romance movie, specifically. The kind you have watched a hundred times in your dorm room, wrapped in a blanket, dreaming about the day something like this would happen to you.

And now it is happening. And you are absolutely, catastrophically unprepared.

Heeseung sits across from you in the bubbling water, his arms stretched out along the edge of the jacuzzi, his head tilted back slightly to look at the stars. The purple light paints shadows across the planes of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the column of his throat disappearing into the steam. Droplets of water cling to his skin, and when he tilts his head forward to look at you, his dark eyes reflect the violet glow in a way that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor.

"You're doing it again," he says, his voice low and amused.

"Doing what?"

"Staring at me like you're trying to figure me out."

"I'm not staring. I'm… observing. It's different."

"Is it?"

"It's scientific. I'm conducting research."

Heeseung's lips curve into that familiar smile, the one that is definitely a smirk's first cousin by now, maybe even its sibling. "And what has your research concluded so far?"

"That you're very annoying," you say. "And that the purple light is doing unfair things to your bone structure."

"Unfair things to my bone structure," he repeats, laughing. "That's a new one. I'll add it to the list of compliments I've received."

"You keep a list?"

"Mentally. It's not written down anywhere. I'm not that egotistical."

"Debatable."

He laughs again, and the sound echoes across the water, mixing with the gentle hum of the jacuzzi jets. You try very hard to be normal, to act like you aren't sitting in a bubbling hot tub with a boy who has known your secret all along and has still chosen to be here, in the purple light, looking at you like he wants to kiss you.

And then he reaches for your foot.

His hand closes around your ankle beneath the water, warm and gentle, and before you can process what is happening, he lifts your leg, guiding your foot toward him. Your heel presses against his chest, against the firm warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and your breath catches in your throat so abruptly that you make a small, strangled sound that is definitely not dignified. The memory of your wet dream surges instantly, and you mentally thank the purple lights for hiding the sudden flush on your face.

"What are you doing?" you manage, your voice coming out several octaves higher than normal.

"You were floating awkwardly," Heeseung says, like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. His thumb traces a slow circle against your ankle bone, feather-light and devastating. "I thought you might want something to anchor you."

"My ankle. You're anchoring my ankle."

"Ankles are very anchorable."

"That's not a word."

"It is now. I'm an engineering student. I can invent words."

Your heart pounds so hard you are certain he can feel it through the sole of your foot. His hand still wraps around your ankle, warm and steady, and the position is so unexpectedly intimate, your leg stretched across the space between you, your foot pressed against his chest, his thumb drawing lazy patterns on your skin, that you don't know where to look or what to say or how to breathe.

"You know what's funny?" Heeseung says, his voice conversational, like he isn't currently holding your foot against his heart. "The jacuzzi scene in To All the Boys I've Loved Before."

Your brain, which is already operating at approximately ten percent capacity, struggles to process the shift in topic. "The… jacuzzi scene?"

"Lara Jean and Peter. The ski trip. The hot tub." He gestures vaguely at the purple water around you. "They're in a jacuzzi together for the first time, and Lara Jean is all nervous, and Peter is trying to be cool about it, and there's all this tension because they're fake dating but they're both starting to feel real things."

"I know the scene," you say, your voice faint.

"It's kind of the turning point in the movie. The moment where the fake relationship starts becoming real." Heeseung tilts his head, and his eyes meet yours, and there is something in them, something dark and warm and knowing—that makes your skin tingle. "Funny how we ended up in a jacuzzi too. At a ski station. Just like them."

"Are you saying we're in a romance movie?"

"I'm saying the parallels are getting a little uncanny." His thumb traces another circle on your ankle, slow and deliberate. "The letter. The ski trip. The hot tub."

"Well, technically the parallels are there but it's still different…"

"You're right. At the end of the day we're not in a movie… This is real life."

"Which means…"

"Which means we're in uncharted territory now." Heeseung's voice drops, becoming something lower, something that vibrates through the water and into your bones. "No movie to reference. No script to follow. Just… whatever happens next."

Your mouth is dry. When did your mouth become so dry? You are surrounded by water, and yet every drop of moisture has apparently evaporated from your body.

"That's terrifying," you whisper.

"Is it?" His hand tightens slightly on your ankle, grounding you. "I think it's kind of exciting. Don't you?"

You don't know how to answer that. You don't know how to articulate the complicated knot of fear and anticipation and something else, something warm and fluttering that has taken up residence in your chest. So you do what you always do when you don't know what to say: you deflect.

"You're very smooth, you know that?" you say, aiming for teasing and landing somewhere closer to breathless. "Has anyone ever told you that? The ankle thing, the movie reference, the uncharted territory line, it's a lot."

Heeseung's lips twitch. "Is it working?"

"I'm not answering that."

"That's an answer in itself."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet you're still here." His eyes flicker down for just a moment, barely a second, but enough to make your skin flush. "Letting me hold your ankle."

You pull your foot back, but he doesn't let go. His grip remains gentle, steady, his palm warm against your skin. "I'm not letting you do anything. You just… did it."

"And you didn't stop me."

"I was being polite."

"Polite." Heeseung's smile widens. "Right. That's what this is. Politeness."

The purple light flickers slightly, casting new shadows across his face. The bubbles swirl around you, warm and enveloping, and the cold mountain air nips at your exposed shoulders, creating a contrast that makes every sensation feel heightened. You are acutely aware of everything, the heat of the water, the chill of the breeze, the rough texture of the jacuzzi edge beneath your fingers, the steady pressure of Heeseung's hand on your ankle.

"Can I ask you something?" Heeseung says.

"You're going to anyway."

"True." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. More curious. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Done what? Sat in a jacuzzi?"

"Been physical with someone. Intimate." He says the words without embarrassment, without leering, just genuine curiosity. "You get so flustered every time I touch you. Earlier, when I kissed your cheek, I thought you were going to combust. And I'm not trying to make fun of you, I'm genuinely asking. Is this… new for you?"

Your cheeks, already flushed from the heat of the water, burn even hotter. "That's a very personal question."

"You don't have to answer. Remember? Twenty questions rules. No pressure."

You are quiet for a moment. The bubbles churn around you. The stars glitter overhead. Heeseung's thumb continues its slow, hypnotic circles on your ankle.

"I've kissed people before," you say finally. "A few times. But it was always… quick. Awkward. Spin the bottle at parties, that kind of thing." You pause, gathering your courage. "I've never had a real relationship. I've never… you know."

"Made out with someone?"

The bluntness of the question makes you choke on air. "I… that's… yes. That. I've never done that."

"Okay," Heeseung says simply.

"Okay? That's all you have to say?"

"What else would I say?"

"I don't know. Something. Most people would say something."

Heeseung is quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he says, "I haven't either. Much, I mean. I've had my few moments but the amount you can count on your fingers. People assume I have, because of the reputation, but the truth is I've never really… connected with someone like that. I've had opportunities, I guess, but I didn't want to do it just for the sake of doing it. I wanted it to mean something."

The confession catches you off guard. You assumed, everyone assumed, that Lee Heeseung was experienced, that his womanizer reputation was built on a foundation of romantic conquests. But here he is, in the purple light of the jacuzzi, telling you that the reputation is just that: a reputation. Smoke and mirrors. Assumptions built on his inability to say no.

"We're both disasters," you say.

"Absolutely. But at least we're disasters together."

"Disaster twins."

"Matching shirts and everything."

You laugh, and it comes out lighter than you expected. The tension that has been coiling in your chest begins to ease, replaced by something warmer. Something that feels almost like comfort.

Wus Good/Curious - PARTYNEXTDOOR playing now

Somewhere in the lodge, someone has connected their phone to the outdoor speakers. The song that starts playing is slow and sensual, the timing so absurd, so perfectly, comedically timed, that you can't help but laugh. "Did you plan this?"

Heeseung laughs too, shaking his head in disbelief. "I swear I didn't. The universe is just showing off at this point."

"This is the least romantic song that could have possibly played."

"I don't know. It's got a certain vibe." His eyes meet yours, and there is a glint of mischief in them. "Very sensual. Very on-the-nose for a jacuzzi scene."

"It's about-" You stop, your face heating.

"It's about what?"

"You know what it's about."

"I want to hear you say it."

"You're the worst."

Heeseung grins, and the purple light catches the curve of his lips, the sparkle in his eyes, the way the water droplets trace paths down his neck and across his collarbone. The song continues playing, and you are suddenly very aware of how close he is, how the space between you has somehow shrunk without you noticing.

"Come here," he says softly.

"What?"

"Come here. I want to show you something."

Your heart hammers so hard you can feel it in your throat. "Show me what?"

"Trust me."

And you do. That is the terrifying thing. Despite everything, the misunderstandings, the secrets, the weeks of chaos and confusion, you trust him. You trust the boy who poured coffee on his head to make you feel less alone. You trust the boy who held your hand while you cried. You trust the boy who has known your secret all along and has never once made you feel foolish for it.

You move through the water, closer to him, and the purple light swirls around you like something out of a dream. When you are within reach, Heeseung's hands find your waist beneath the water, gentle but sure, and he guides you until you are straddling his lap, your knees on either side of his hips, your faces inches apart.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps. His hands are warm on your waist, his thumbs tracing slow circles against the curve of your hips. His face is so close you can see the individual droplets of water on his eyelashes, can count the shades of brown in his eyes, can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.

"Yes," you whisper. "This is… okay."

"You're shaking."

"I'm nervous."

"I know." His hands slide up from your waist, over your ribs, coming to rest on either side of your face. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his fingers threading gently into the wet strands of your hair. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for. We can just sit here. We can talk. We can get out and go back inside. Whatever you want."

The gentleness of his voice, the patience in his eyes, the way he holds your face like you are something precious, it makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the realization that you are in very, very deep trouble.

Because this boy, this absurd, beautiful, incomprehensible boy who stumbled into your life through a misplaced letter and a catastrophic misunderstanding, has somehow become someone you can't imagine letting go of.

"What I want," you say, your voice barely steady, "is for you to kiss me."

Heeseung's eyes darken. The purple light flickers across his features, and his thumbs trace the line of your cheekbones, and his lips part slightly, and for one suspended moment, the entire world holds its breath.

"Okay," he murmurs. "But we're going to do this right."

And then he kisses you.

His lips meet yours softly at first, gentle, exploratory, the barest brush of contact. He tastes like the mint tea he had after dinner, and his mouth is warm, and the kiss is so sweet and so tender that you feel your entire body melt into him. Your hands, hovering awkwardly at your sides, come up to rest on his shoulders, and you feel the muscles beneath his skin shift as he pulls you closer.

But then you try to deepen the kiss, and it goes wrong.

Your nose bumps against his. Your teeth clack together with an audible click. You pull back, mortified, your face burning. "I'm sorry… I didn't… I don't know what I'm doing-"

"Hey." Heeseung's voice is gentle, his hands still cupping your face. "Hey. It's okay. Look at me."

You force yourself to meet his eyes, expecting to see amusement or frustration or something worse. But all you see is patience. Warmth. Something that looks a lot like affection.

"Everyone's first real kiss is awkward," he says. "That's normal. That's how it's supposed to be."

"It wasn't supposed to be with someone who actually knows what they're doing."

"Then let me teach you." His thumb traces your lower lip, feather-light. "We'll go slow. You follow my lead. And if at any point you want to stop, just say the word. Okay?"

Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your temples. "Okay."

He leans in again, slower this time, giving you every opportunity to pull away. When his lips meet yours, the pressure is deliberate, gentle but firm, guiding you. His mouth moves against yours in a slow, languid rhythm, and you follow, mimicking his movements, learning the dance as you go.

"Tilt your head a little," he murmurs against your lips. "There. Like that."

You adjust, and suddenly the angle is better, the kiss deepening naturally. His hands slide from your face down to your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the length of his body against yours, warm and solid and very, very real.

"Now try parting your lips," he whispers. "Just a little."

You do, and the kiss changes. Becomes something deeper, more intense. His tongue brushes against your lower lip, a question rather than a demand, and when you open for him, the sensation is so overwhelming that a soft sound escapes your throat, something between a sigh and a gasp.

"Good," Heeseung breathes. "You're doing so good."

The praise sends a shiver down your spine. Your fingers curl into his shoulders, gripping him like he is the only solid thing in a world. The kiss deepens further, his mouth moving against yours with a confidence that makes your head spin, and you follow his lead, letting him guide you, letting yourself get lost in the warmth of his body and the taste of his lips and the steady, grounding pressure of his hands on your waist.

"Now," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "there's variation. You don't have to do the same thing the whole time."

"Variation," you repeat, your voice dazed.

"You can kiss here-" His lips brush the edge of your jaw. "-and here-" A kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear. "-and here." A kiss to the hollow of your throat that makes your breath catch and your fingers tighten on his shoulders.

"That's… a lot of places."

"There's more." He pulls back, and his eyes meet yours, dark and warm and full of something that makes your stomach flip. "But we can save those for later. If you want."

"If I want," you echo, still dazed.

"Only if you want." His hand comes up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"This is insane," you whisper.

"Completely insane."

"I can't believe this is happening."

"Neither can I." He presses his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "But I'm really, really glad it is."

"Can we try again?" you ask, your voice small but steady. "The kissing thing. I think I need more practice."

Heeseung laughs, and the sound vibrates through his chest and into yours. "Practice makes perfect."

"I'm a STEM student. I believe in empirical evidence."

"Then let's gather some data."

He kisses you again, and this time, you are ready. Your lips meet his with more confidence, your hands sliding from his shoulders into his hair, it is soft, damp from the steam, and the way he sighs against your mouth when your fingers thread through it makes you feel powerful in a way you have never experienced before.

This time, when you deepen the kiss, it's less clumsy. It's more natural, instinctive, the kind of kiss that feels like it has been waiting to happen for weeks and is finally making up for lost time. Heeseung's hands tighten on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, and the water swirls around you.

Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath your fingertips. Heeseung's tongue teases your lower lip, seeking entrance which you grant without hesitation. The kiss becomes hungrier, more desperate as your bodies press together in the warm water. He has been patient with you, letting you set the pace, never pushing for more than you are ready to give.

You feel something hard pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of your swimsuit. You pull back slightly, breathless, your cheeks flushed with both desire and embarrassment.

"Don't mind it," Heeseung murmurs, his voice husky with arousal. "It's just a natural reaction to kissing someone I find incredibly attractive."

But instead of shying away, something bold awakens inside you. You've been waiting for this moment, wanting to take your relationship to the next level. Taking a deep breath, you meet his gaze directly, though your words come out in a clumsy rush.

"I want to... I mean, if you want to... I think I'm ready to... do it," you stammer, feeling your face heat up even more. "With you."

Heeseung's eyes widen slightly before softening with affection. "Are you sure? Here? Your first time should be special."

"It is special because it's with you," you insist, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "I want this. I want you. I want to be honest with myself."

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Okay," he murmurs, his hands moving to cup your face. "But we need to prepare you properly. I don't want to hurt you."

His thumb brushes against your cheek as he continues, "Have you ever... touched yourself before?"

You shake your head, feeling a mix of embarrassment and excitement.

"That's okay," he assures you. "I'll teach you. I'll make sure you feel good."

WGFT - Gunna playing now

Heeseung shifts slightly, adjusting your position on his lap. One hand trails down your back, over your hip, and between your legs. Even through the fabric of your swimsuit, his touch sends sparks through your body.

"First, I need to make sure you're ready," he explains softly. His fingers find the edge of your swimsuit bottom, toying with the fabric. "May I?"

You nod, your breath catching in anticipation.

Slowly, his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding your folds. You gasp at the contact, your body tensing for a moment before relaxing into his touch.

"It's twitching," he murmurs against your ear. "That's good. It means your body wants this too."

His fingers explore gently, learning your anatomy as you bite your lip to hold back moans. He finds your clit and circles it slowly, watching your face for reactions.

"When I touch you here, it should build pleasure." he explains.

He demonstrates, applying a bit more pressure. You can't help but arch your back, a soft cry escaping your lips.

"Like that?" he asks with a knowing smile.

You can only nod, lost in the sensations he's creating.

After a few minutes of this delicious torture, he slides one finger lower, testing your entrance. "I'm going to prepare you," he warns softly. "It might feel a little strange at first, but I promise it will get better."

His finger enters you slowly, carefully. There's a slight discomfort, but as he begins to move in and out, the sensation transforms into pleasure. He watches your face intently, adjusting his movements based on your reactions.

"Does that feel good?" he asks.

You nod, your hips beginning to move in rhythm with his hand.

He adds a second finger, stretching you further. "You're so tight," he groans. "I can't wait to be inside you."

His words send another wave of desire through you. His thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in circles as his fingers continue their work inside you. The dual stimulation is overwhelming in the best way possible.

"Heeseung," you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

"I know, little mouse," he murmurs, kissing you deeply. "Let it build. Don't fight it."

The pleasure intensifies, coiling in your stomach like a spring. Your movements become more erratic as you chase the feeling building within you.

"That's it," he encourages. "Good girl"

With a cry, you shatter, waves of pleasure washing over you. Heeseung continues his movements, drawing out your orgasm until you collapse against his chest, trembling and breathless.

"You're so beautiful when you come," he whispers, kissing your forehead. "Can you do more?"

You can only nod, still recovering from the intensity of your first orgasm with someone else.

He slides down his shorts slightly just to reveal his already hard cock and slides your swimsuit to the side. His hands move to your hips, and you begin to grind against him instinctively. The water sloshes around you as you move, his lenght sliding between your folds, creating a delicious friction under the water. Lost in the moment, you shift your hips, trying to get closer, to feel more of him.

Suddenly, you both freeze as you feel him slip inside you. There's a sharp pain, followed by a sense of fullness that takes your breath away. Your eyes widen in shock as you look at Heeseung, whose expression mirrors your surprise.

"Oh my god," he gasps, his hands tightening on your hips. "I... I didn't mean for that to happen. Are you okay?"

You nod, still processing what just happened. The initial pain is already fading, replaced by a strange mix of discomfort and pleasure.

"I'm so sorry," Heeseung continues, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I should have been more careful. I didn't..."

As he stammers through an apology, you can't help but let out a small laugh. The absurdity of the situation , your first time happening so accidentally, so clumsily, suddenly strikes you as hilarious.

Heeseung looks at you in confusion before a smile breaks across his face. "You're laughing?"

"We're so clumsy," you giggle, the tension breaking between you. "All that careful preparation and then..."

He joins in your laughter, the moment transforming from awkward to intimate. "Well," he says once the laughter subsides, "since we're already here... are you okay to continue? We can stop if you want."

You shake your head, a new determination filling you. "No, I want to continue. Show me what to do."

Heeseung's expression softens with affection. "Okay," he murmurs, his hands guiding your hips. "Just relax and let me do the work. Move with me, but let me lead."

He begins to move slowly, guiding you in a gentle rhythm. The water sloshes around you as you find a pace together. With each thrust, pleasure builds, different from before but just as intense.

"You feel so good," Heeseung groans, his control beginning to slip. "So tight around me."

His praise only heightens your arousal. You try to meet his movements with your own, but your motions are awkward and uncoordinated. You feel clumsy, unsure of exactly how to move to maximize pleasure for both of you.

"Don't worry about doing it perfectly," Heeseung reassures you, noticing your frustration. "Just feel. Let your body respond naturally."

He adjusts your position slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts. A gasp escapes your lips as he hits a particularly sensitive spot.

"There," he murmurs, repeating the movement. "How does that feel?"

"Amazing," you breathe, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

Heeseung's hands roam your body, caressing your breasts, your back, your hips. His mouth finds your neck, sucking gently at your pulse point. Marking you as his.

"I've wanted this since the moment we got in the jacuzzi," he admits between kisses. "But I was too scared you would run away if I decided to act up."

"I want it," you assure him, your voice breathy with pleasure. "I want all of you. I'm not scared anymore."

Your words seem to unleash something in him. His movements become more deliberate, more purposeful as he chases his own release. One hand moves between your legs again, finding your clit and rubbing in time with his thrusts.

The dual stimulation quickly pushes you toward another orgasm. "Heeseung," you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"I know," he groans. "Come with me this time."

His words are all it takes to push you over the edge. As you clench around him, Heeseung finds his own release, burying his face in your neck with a guttural moan.

For a moment, you stay connected, catching your breath as the water continues to bubble around you. Heeseung presses soft kisses to your shoulders, your neck, your cheeks.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly, pulling back to look at you.

You nod, a contented smile spreading across your face. "Better than okay. That was..."

"Incredible," he finishes for you, returning your smile. "You're incredible."

As you slowly separate, Heeseung adjusts your swimsuit back into place before

As you both recover in the warm bubbling water, you notice something pressing against your thigh again. You glance down and see that Heeseung is already getting hard once more. A blush spreads across your cheeks as you meet his eyes.

"Already?" you ask with a small laugh.

Heeseung grins, a hint of embarrassment in his expression. "I can't help it," he admits. "You feel so good, and I've wanted this for so long. My body seems to have a mind of its own around you."

A boldness takes hold of you, spurred by the confidence your first time gave you. "If you want to do it again... your way this time... I don't mind," you say, trying to sound casual despite the flutter in your stomach.

Heeseung's eyes darken with desire at your words. Without warning, he pounces, lifting you effortlessly from his lap. He carries you to the edge of the jacuzzi and gently sets you down on the edge. The contrast between the warm water and the cool air sends a shiver through your body.

"My way?" he asks, his voice husky with arousal. "I like the sound of that."

He kneels in the water between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs apart. His eyes never leave yours as he leans forward, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh. You watch, mesmerized, as he works his way upward, leaving a trail of fire on your skin.

When he reaches your core, he pauses, his breath warm against your most sensitive flesh. "I've wanted to taste you since the first time I saw you in that swimsuit," he confesses, his voice low and intimate.

Then he dives in, his tongue exploring your folds. You gasp, your hands flying to his hair as waves of pleasure wash over you. Heeseung maintains eye contact as he eats you out, his dark eyes watching your every reaction, learning what makes you moan, what makes you arch your back.

"You taste so sweet," he murmurs against you before returning to his task, his tongue circling your clit before dipping inside you.

The sensations are overwhelming, building quickly toward another orgasm. Heeseung seems to sense your approaching release and redoubles his efforts, adding his fingers to the mix, curling them inside you as he continues to lavish attention on your clit.

"Heeseung," you cry out, your hips bucking against his face. "Please don't stop."

He doesn't. Instead, he increases his pace, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony until you shatter, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash over you. He continues his ministrations, drawing out your orgasm until you're trembling and breathless.

Only then does he pull back, a triumphant grin on his face as he licks his lips. "Delicious," he declares, rising from the water.

He kisses his way up your body, over your stomach, between your breasts, along your collarbone, up your neck, until finally his lips claim yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue as the kiss deepens, passionate and hungry.

Without breaking the kiss, Heeseung positions himself at your entrance. This time, there's no accidental slip, he enters you deliberately, slowly, filling you completely. You moan into his mouth at the exquisite stretch and fullness.

He begins to move, his hips thrusting in a deep, slow rhythm that drives you wild. Each stroke is measured and controlled, hitting all the right spots. His movements are faster and harder than before, but still gentle, still considerate of your inexperience.

"You feel incredible," he groans, his voice thick with pleasure. "You're taking it well."

His hands roam your body as he moves, caressing your breasts, your hips, your thighs. His mouth finds your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine as he whispers praises and encouragements.

"You're doing so well," he murmurs. "Taking me so deep. You feel amazing wrapped around me."

His words only heighten your arousal, pushing you closer to another peak. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, matching his rhythm as best you can despite your inexperience.

After a few minutes, Heeseung pulls out gently. "Turn around," he commands softly.

You obey, positioning hands at the edge of the jacuzzi. He enters you from behind, this new angle allowing him to reach even deeper inside you. You cry out at the intensity of the sensation.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice strained with restraint.

"More than okay," you manage to gasp. "Don't stop."

He resumes his movements, his hands gripping your hips as he thrusts into you. The water sloshes with each movement, adding to the sensory experience. Heeseung's pace increases, his thrusts becoming more urgent as he chases his release.

His moans fill the night air, raw and uninhibited. "I'm getting close," he warns. "Where do you want me?"

"Inside me," you answer without hesitation.

Heeseung hesitates for a moment. "Are you sure? We didn't use anything."

Your mind races for a second before you respond, "I'm on the pill. It's okay."

With a groan of relief, Heeseung continues his movements, his pace becoming erratic as he approaches his climax. With one final deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, his body trembling as he finds his release.

For a moment, he stays inside you. Then he pulls out gently and helps you turn back over. He leans to slowly kiss you while stroking himself a few times before releasing again onto your stomach, warm and sticky.

You look at him in surprise.

"I couldn't," he explains, noticing your confusion. "I couldn't resist, I wanted to see you covered of me."

He reaches for a nearby towel, gently cleaning your stomach before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Next time," he promises, "I'll be more gentle. We'll take our time, explore everything properly."

"There's going to be a next time?" you ask with a smile.

Heeseung grins, pulling you into his arms. "Oh, there's definitely going to be a next time. And a time after that, and after that... I'm never getting enough of you."

The walk back to your room feels like floating.

Not literally, of course, your feet are very much on the ground, leaving wet footprints on the wooden floorboards of the lodge hallway, but your mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere purple-lit and steaming, somewhere filled with the taste of mint tea and the feeling of warm hands on your waist and the sound of Heeseung's voice murmuring instructions against your lips.

You have had sex. In a jacuzzi. Under the stars. With Lee Heeseung.

The hopeless romantic inside you does cartwheels. The realistic part of your brain is still buffering, stuck on a loading screen that says "please wait while we process what just happened." Your body is somewhere in between, pleasantly warm despite the cold air, tingling in places you hadn't known could tingle, wrapped in your borrowed coat and your towel and the lingering sensation of his skin against yours.

Heeseung walks beside you, his hand intertwined with yours. He hums softly, and when he catches you looking at him, he smiles that devastating smile and squeezes your hand.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. Just… processing."

"Processing what?"

"Everything." You gesture vaguely with your free hand. "The conversation. The jacuzzi. The… everything after the conversation."

"The everything after the conversation," he repeats, his smile widening. "Very descriptive."

"I'm a STEM student, not a poet."

"You wrote a three-page love letter with calligraphy. You're absolutely a poet."

"That was a one-time thing. A fluke. I've since retired from poetry."

"Tragic. The literary world has lost a great talent."

You reach your door, and Heeseung stops, turning to face you.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and his voice is gentle. "Really okay? That was… a lot. I know it was a lot. And I want to make sure you're not freaking out."

"I am absolutely freaking out," you admit. "But in a good way. I think. It's hard to tell. My brain is still catching up."

"Good freak-out or bad freak-out?"

"Good. Definitely good. Just… overwhelming." You pause, searching for the right words. "It wasn't how I imagined my first time would be. It was awkward and clumsy and it accidentally went in, and I'm pretty sure I made some very weird sounds, and-"

"It was perfect," Heeseung interrupts softly. "It was real. It was you. That's all I want."

Your heart, which has already been through approximately seventeen different emotional states in the past hour, does another complicated flip. "You're very good at saying the right thing."

"I'm not trying to say the right thing. I'm just telling you the truth." He reaches up and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your temple. "You're amazing, Y/N. And I'm not saying that because of what just happened. I'm saying it because it's been true since the moment you walked into that PC room and handed me a letter that wasn't meant for me."

"You're going to make me cry again."

"Please don't. I've seen you cry twice now, and both times it made me want to fight whoever made you sad. I can't fight myself. That's a conflict of interest."

You laugh, and it comes out a little watery. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm aware." He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft, gentle, lingering. "Goodnight, little mouse. Get some sleep."

"Goodnight, Heeseung."

He pulls back, his hand slipping from yours, and walks backward down the hallway for a few steps, still smiling at you. "Dream about me."

"I make no promises."

"I'll take that as confirmation."

He turns the corner and disappears, and you are left standing in front of your door with the lingering warmth of the best night of your life.

The moment you step into your room, Yunjin is on you like a hawk on a field mouse.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"

You close the door behind you, leaning against it with a dazed expression. Yunjin sits cross-legged on her bed, her phone in her hand, a half-eaten bag of chips on the nightstand. Her eyes are wide, her expression a mixture of curiosity and accusation.

"The jacuzzi," you say faintly.

"For three hours?"

"Was it three hours? It doesn't feel like three hours."

"Y/N." Yunjin shuts her laptop with a decisive click. "You're wearing a towel. Your hair is wet. You have that look on your face, the one that says I just did something and I don't know how to process it. Spill. Now. Every detail."

You push yourself off the door and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"We had sex," you say.

"What?!"

"We had sex, don't make me repeat it please or I'm gonna die…"

Yunjin is silent for exactly two seconds. Then: "YOU GUYS FUCKED?"

"Yeah…"

"IN THE JACUZZI?"

"There aren't exactly a lot of alternative locations. The water is warm. There's purple lighting. It's very atmospheric."

Yunjin scrambles off her bed and crosses the room in three steps, grabbing your shoulders and pulling you upright. "I need details. I need all the details. How did it happen? Who initiated it? Was it good? Was he good? Did he-"

"Yunjin!" You press your hands to your burning cheeks. "I can't just… I don't know how to-"

"Start from the beginning. The jacuzzi. What happened?"

You take a deep breath, gathering your scattered thoughts, and then the words start tumbling out of you as you tell her everything.

Yunjin is quiet for a moment, processing. Then she lets out a long breath. "So your first time was in a jacuzzi, under the stars, with a hot informatics engineering student who knew you'd accidentally confessed to the wrong person and liked you anyway."

"That's… yeah. That's basically the summary."

"And you're telling me you're still worried this is some kind of disaster?"

"I'm not worried," you say slowly. "I'm just… confused. About what we are. We don't exactly have the what are we conversation. We just kind of… had sex. And now I don't know if we're dating, or if it was a one-time thing, or if he's going to wake up tomorrow and realize he made a huge mistake and-"

"Stop." Yunjin holds up a hand. "Just stop. I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to actually hear it."

"I'm listening."

"Lee Heeseung has known your secret for weeks. He's seen you at your absolute worst, hiding behind bulletin boards, choking on lettuce, spilling coffee all over yourself, crying on a bench in the middle of the night. He's seen you ramble about video games until you run out of breath, and he's seen you face-plant in the snow eight times in one afternoon. And after all of that, he still chooses to spend three hours in a jacuzzi with you and make sure your first time is special and safe and good."

Yunjin leans forward, her expression intense. "That's not the behavior of a guy who's going to wake up tomorrow and change his mind. That's the behavior of a guy who is completely, thoroughly, absolutely gone for you."

The words settle into your chest. "You really think so?"

"I know so. And I think you know so too. You're just scared to admit it because admitting it means this is real, and real is scary."

"When did you get so wise about relationships?"

"I've been watching you be a disaster for months. I've picked up a few things."

You laugh, and it comes out lighter than you expected. "So what do I do?"

"Tomorrow, you go find him. You see how he acts. And if he acts like nothing's changed except that he's even happier to see you than usual, then you'll have your answer."

"And if he acts weird?"

"Then I'll key his snowboard."

"Yunjin!"

"Kidding. Mostly." She grins and flops back onto her bed. "Now go to sleep. You've had a big night. You need rest. And honestly, I need time to process the fact that my best friend had a romantic jacuzzi rendezvous while I was sitting here eating chips and doomscrolling on TikTok."

"You could have come to the jacuzzi."

"And interrupt whatever is happening between you two? I'm a good friend, not a saint. I'd be third-wheeling so hard I'd need a snowplow to get out."

You laugh again, and for the first time in weeks, you feel light. Unburdened. Like the weight you've been carrying since the moment you walked into that PC room has finally been lifted.

"Goodnight, Yunjin."

"Goodnight, you absolute disaster of a human being. Dream about your hot engineer boy."

"He's not my-"

"Yet. He's not your boy yet. But I give it twenty-four hours."

You throw a pillow at her. She catches it and tucks it under her head with a satisfied grin.

The next morning, you wake up with a start, your heart racing. Dreams of purple light and warm water and hands on your waist and a voice murmuring good girl, you're doing so good against your lips haunt your memory.

You press your face into your pillow and scream.

It is a happy scream, mostly. A disbelieving, giddy scream. But it is also a nervous scream, because in approximately one hour, you are going to have to go downstairs and face Heeseung in the cold light of day, and you have absolutely no idea how that is going to go.

Would he be awkward? Would he be distant? Would he pretend nothing happened? Would he-

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Heeseung: good morning little mouse. breakfast in 30?

You stare at the message for a solid ten seconds. Then you type back:

You: okay

Heeseung: you're very eloquent in the morning

You: i haven't had caffeine yet

Heeseung: i'll have a vanilla latte waiting for you. extra shot of vanilla. just like last time

Heeseung: hopefully with less spilling this time

You: no promises

You get dressed in a daze, pulling on approximately four layers of clothing because you still don't own proper winter gear and the borrowed coat can only do so much. Yunjin is already gone, she has left a note on the nightstand that says went to find the economics majors. don't do anything I wouldn't do. (do everything I wouldn't do), so you are alone with your thoughts as you make your way down to the lodge's dining hall.

You spot Heeseung immediately. He sits at a table near the window, two cups of coffee in front of him, his hair still slightly messy from sleep. When he sees you approaching, his entire face lights up.

"There you are," he says, standing up and pulling out a chair for you. "I was starting to think you'd bailed."

"On breakfast?"

"On me. On this. On everything." He says it lightly, but there is a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, a tiny crack in his usual confident demeanor. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to see me this morning, or if you'd need space, or-"

"Hey." You reach out and touch his hand, just briefly. "I'm here. I want to see you."

The relief that washes over his face is so genuine, so unguarded, that your heart clenches. "Okay. Good. That's… good."

You sit down, and he slides the vanilla latte toward you. Your fingers brush as you take the cup, and the contact sends a spark of electricity up your arm. You both pretend not to notice, but the way Heeseung's ears turn slightly pink suggests he feels it too.

"So," you say, taking a sip of your latte to give yourself something to do with your hands. "Breakfast."

"Breakfast," he agrees. "Eggs. Bacon. Possibly a pastry if we're feeling adventurous."

"Very adventurous."

"I'm a risk-taker."

You try to eat normally. You really do. But every time you look up from your plate, Heeseung looks at you with that soft, wondering expression, and you forget how to chew, and you end up staring at him with a piece of toast halfway to your mouth like you've been frozen in time.

"You're doing it again," he says.

"Doing what?"

"The staring thing. The I'm trying to figure you out thing."

"I'm not trying to figure you out. I already figured you out. You're a people-pleaser who can't say no and you have a secret soft spot for romantic comedies."

"Then what are you thinking about?"

You set down your toast. "I'm thinking about last night. And what it means. And what we are now."

Heeseung's expression shifts, becoming more serious. "Do you want to have that conversation? The what are we conversation?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"I asked you first."

"That's very mature."

"I have my moments." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Look, I know we did things kind of backwards. Most people start with coffee and work their way up to jacuzzis. We started with a misplaced love letter and somehow ended up in a hot tub under the stars. It's not exactly a conventional timeline."

"When has anything about us been conventional?"

"Fair point." He reaches across the table and takes your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "I don't know what we are. Labels feel… complicated. But I know what I want us to be."

"What's that?"

"Something real. Something that isn't built on misunderstandings or accidents or letters that weren't meant for me. Something that's just… us. Figuring it out together."

Your heart does that fluttering thing again. "That sounds terrifying."

"I know. But you've been scared this whole time, and you've still kept showing up. That's the bravest thing I've ever seen."

"I haven't felt brave. I've felt like a disaster."

"Disasters can be brave. The two aren't mutually exclusive." He squeezes your hand. "So what do you say? Want to be brave together?"

You look at him, really look at him, and see the boy who poured coffee on his head, the boy who held you while you cried, the boy who knew your secret and waited for you to tell him in your own time. And you feel the fear, familiar and insistent, coiling in your stomach.

But beneath the fear, there is something else. Something warmer. Something that feels a lot like hope.

"Okay," you say. "Let's be brave together."

Heeseung smiles, real and open and devastating. "Okay."

The afternoon finds you back on the beginner slope, strapped into a snowboard and wondering how you let Heeseung talk you into this again.

"You said you wanted to practice," he reminds you, tightening the bindings on your boots. "Snowboarding, I mean. Not… other things."

"My entire body is sore from yesterday. Both from the snowboarding and from the… other things."

"Then we'll take it slow. No jumps, no tricks, just a gentle run down the beginner hill." He stands up and offers you his hand. "I'll be right there the whole time."

"You said that yesterday, and I still fell eight times."

"And you got up eight times. That's the important part."

You take his hand and let him pull you to your feet. The beginner slope stretches out before you, populated by other beginners who fall over with roughly the same frequency as you.

"Okay," you say, taking a deep breath. "Okay. I can do this. I'm a capable human being. I understand physics. Snowboarding is just physics with extra steps."

"That's the spirit."

"I'm going to fall."

"Probably."

"And you're going to catch me?"

"Always."

The word hangs in the air between you, heavier than it should be. Always. Not just on the ski slope, but everywhere. Always.

"Okay," you whisper. "Let's go."

You push off.

The first few seconds are wobbly, your balance shifts, your arms flail slightly, your heart pounds in your ears. But then something clicks. Your body remembers the lessons from yesterday, the way Heeseung taught you to lean into the turns, to keep your weight centered, to trust the board beneath your feet.

You pick up speed, and instead of panicking, you lean into it. The wind rushes past your face, cold and exhilarating.

And then, miraculously, impossibly, you reach the bottom of the slope without falling.

"I DID IT!" you scream, your voice echoing across the mountain. "I DID IT! I SNOWBOARDED!"

You are laughing, giddy with adrenaline and triumph, and you turn around to find Heeseung, to share this moment with him, to see the proud expression on his face.

But Heeseung isn't at the bottom of the slope.

He is still at the top.

And he is shouting something.

"Y/N! Y/N L/N!"

The entire slope seems to go quiet. Other skiers and snowboarders slow down, turning to look at the boy standing at the top of the beginner hill, his hands cupped around his mouth, his voice carrying across the snow with startling clarity.

"I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY!"

Your heart stops. Then starts again, twice as fast.

"I'VE BEEN TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO SAY THIS FOR WEEKS!" Heeseung shouts. "AND I REALIZED THAT THE BEST WAY TO TELL YOU IS THE SAME WAY YOU TOLD ME, WITH WORDS THAT I CAN'T TAKE BACK!"

People are staring. Everyone is staring.

"LEE HEESEUNG, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" you shout back, your voice cracking.

"I'M CONFESSING!" he yells. "PROPERLY! IN FRONT OF EVERYONE! BECAUSE YOU DESERVE A CONFESSION THAT'S JUST FOR YOU! YOU DESERVE THE LOVE YOU'VE DREAMED ABOUT!"

"THE FIRST LETTER WASN'T FOR ME!" Heeseung continues, his voice ringing across the snow. "BUT I WANT TO WRITE YOU ONE! I WANT TO WRITE YOU A HUNDRED LETTERS! I WANT TO LEARN YOUR FAVORITE HIGHLIGHTER COLORS AND THE NAMES OF ALL YOUR PLANTS AND THE EXACT WAY YOU LIKE YOUR VANILLA LATTES!"

Someone in the crowd lets out a wolf whistle. Someone else starts recording on their phone. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stand at the bottom of the slope and stare up at the boy who shouts his heart out for everyone to hear.

"YOU'RE A DISASTER!" Heeseung yells, and his voice is full of joy, full of affection, full of something that looks a lot like love. "YOU'RE A HOPELESS ROMANTIC WHO'S TOO SCARED TO LIVE THE ROMANCE YOU DREAM ABOUT! YOU HIDE BEHIND BULLETIN BOARDS AND YOU CHOKE ON LETTUCE AND YOU SPILL COFFEE ON YOURSELF AND YOU MAKE GRAPHS ABOUT VIDEO GAME BALANCE AND YOU CRIED OVER A BABY PENGUIN IN A NATURE DOCUMENTARY!"

"This is the worst confession I've ever heard!" you shout back, but you are laughing, tears streaming down your face, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

"I'M NOT FINISHED!" Heeseung takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, still loud enough to carry, but more intimate, more vulnerable. "YOU'RE A DISASTER, Y/N L/N! AND I'M A DISASTER TOO! I'M A PEOPLE-PLEASER WHO CAN'T SAY NO, I HAVE A REPUTATION THAT DOESN'T REFLECT WHO I ACTUALLY AM, AND I POURED COFFEE ON MY HEAD BECAUSE I COULDN'T STAND TO SEE YOU CRY ALONE!"

He starts walking down the slope toward you, his snowboard forgotten at the top, his boots crunching through the snow.

"AND I THINK, NO, I KNOW THAT I'VE BEEN FALLING FOR YOU SINCE THE MOMENT YOU WALKED INTO THAT PC ROOM AND LOOKED AT ME LIKE I WAS THE WORST THING THAT HAD EVER HAPPENED TO YOU!"

He gets closer now, close enough that you can see the nervousness in his eyes, the vulnerability beneath the bravado, the way his hands shake slightly despite his confident posture.

"SO I'M ASKING YOU, IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE, ON THIS VERY EMBARRASSING SKI SLOPE, IF YOU'LL BE MY DISASTER. OFFICIALLY. NO MORE MISUNDERSTANDINGS. NO MORE LETTERS MEANT FOR OTHER PEOPLE. JUST US."

He stops a few feet away from you, his breath fogging in the cold air, his dark eyes fixed on your face.

"WHAT DO YOU SAY, LITTLE MOUSE?"

The silence that follows is deafening. Every person on the slope watches you, waiting for your answer.

And you, you, the hopeless romantic who has always been too scared to live the romance you dream about, you take a deep breath, throw your arms out wide, and shout at the top of your lungs:

"I LIKE YOU TOO, YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT! I'VE LIKED YOU FOR WEEKS AND I DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO SAY IT AND YOU JUST SHOUTED IT FROM A MOUNTAINTOP LIKE A CHARACTER IN A KDRAMA!"

Heeseung's face breaks into the biggest smile you have ever seen. "IS THAT A YES?"

"THAT'S A YES! THAT'S A THOUSAND TIMES YES! NOW COME HERE AND KISS ME BEFORE I PASS OUT FROM THE EMBARRASSMENT OF HAVING THIS CONVERSATION IN FRONT OF LITERALLY EVERYONE!"

He doesn't need to be told twice. He crosses the distance between you in three long strides, catches your face in his hands, and kisses you, deep and thorough and joyful, right there at the bottom of the beginner slope, with the snow sparkling around you and the crowd erupting into cheers and someone's phone recording what will undoubtedly become the most-watched video on the university's social media for the next month.

When he pulls back, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm against your lips, he grins like he has just won the lottery.

"You shouted your feelings from a mountaintop," he murmurs. "You, the girl who was too scared to even correct a misunderstanding, just shouted your feelings from a mountaintop."

"You started it."

"I did. And you finished it." He kisses the tip of your nose. "I'm so proud of you."

You have never been more embarrassed in your entire life, and you have never been happier.

"We're still disasters," you say.

"Absolutely. But now we're disasters who are dating."

"Are we dating? Is that what this is?"

"This is me, shouting from a mountaintop that I want to be with you. I'm pretty sure that counts as dating." He pauses, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Unless you don't want-"

"I want." You grab the front of his jacket and pull him closer. "I want everything. The letters and the coffee disasters and the matching shirts and the snowboarding lessons and the jacuzzi conversations and the ridiculous mountaintop confessions. I want all of it."

Heeseung kisses you again, and this time it is softer, sweeter, full of promise.

"You know what this means," he says against your lips.

"What?"

"We're going to have to tell Jungwon."

You groan. "Can we wait until after the trip? I need at least twenty-four hours to recover from this before I have another emotionally complicated conversation."

"Deal." He pulls back, taking your hand in his. "Come on. Let's get out of here before someone asks us for an interview."

And hand in hand, laughing like fools, you run away from the crowd and the chaos.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

🏷️ @kristynaaah @karinablue00 @hii01mii @mssishipi @fallwinterr @ikeufied @yamzz67 @shaiimuraaa @bingka @ateez-atiny380 @jakeyyyjakexoxo @luucortis @cupidiorr @jayjw16enxp @voucearse @scoupsonlycherry @ellushic @yummysummerberry @enhaholicfan @chanchamm @xocandypoo @enhapagluuuuu @lelo-o @tboboee @xyvzvee @imnotyizhuo @loveydoveyez @ily6968 @nct-sticker-127 @neonpinkbabylonglegs @psychicdazestrawberry @marigold55 @v1-xo @kkkkkiiiiaaaaaiiii @enhaholicfan @kemkem33 @arelyvn @noturresponsibility @iverrr

[madaboutminho]

One Day You Gon' Love Me Right

TWO YEARS PART THREE [PART TWO]

Pairings: idol!lee felix x gn!reader

Summary: You find out what really happened when Felix disappeared. Can you forgive him?

Warnings: angst, but happy ending. References to heavy drinking and poor mental health.

Word count: 7.4k.

a/n: never have I ever... written so much dialogue UGH. Anyways, enjoy my darlings, Seungmin is up next!

a/n2: SURPRISE! Early post bcos you guys are the best and I’ve already reached my next follower milestone ily👉🏻👈🏻

The confusion on his face lasted approximately two seconds before it disappeared, replaced by something closer to annoyance.

"What?"

"The letters." You folded your arms. "What letters?"

Now it was his turn to stare.

"You know what letters."

"No, Felix." Your voice rose. "I very clearly do not."

A frown appeared on his face, annoyance building at your denial. "The letters I sent you."

The words hit like a physical blow. Neither of you moved as you tried to process what he was saying. You were sure there was no way he could have sent you letters, because you would definitely have received them.

He continued, unaware of your inner turmoil. “I sent you one every month, Y/N."

You blinked. "What?"

"For a year."

Your stomach dropped. "No."

His expression hardened. "Yes."

"No."

"I did."

The certainty in his voice made your pulse quicken. "No, you didn't."

His jaw clenched. "I did."

"You're lying."

The words escaped before you could stop them, and your stomach dropped at the look on his face. Genuine hurt flashed across his face, but he held eye contact as he answered you, refusing to shy away from your words.

"I'm not lying."

The alley suddenly felt too small. Too narrow. Too quiet. You stared at him as he stared back, and slowly, a horrible realisation began to creep into both your expressions.

Your voice came out quieter this time. "...I never got any letters, Felix."

Felix froze - actually froze – and you saw the colour drain from his face as he stared at you in disbelief. "What?"

You shook your head, repeating yourself. "I never got anything."

The silence that followed was deafening, and for several seconds, neither of you spoke. You couldn’t believe what he was saying. You could understand one missed letter – accidents happen all the time – but more than that? How was that even possible?

Felix’s voice brought you out of your thoughts when he asked, "What do you mean you never got anything?"

The question came out almost breathless, and you shrugged your shoulders helplessly in response, unsure of what more you could tell him.

"I mean exactly what I said."

His eyes searched yours desperately, like he was trying to determine whether you were joking or whether this was some elaborate attempt to hurt him. When he found nothing but confusion staring back, his expression slowly crumbled.

"I sent twelve."

Your heart stopped at the heartbreak in his voice. "What?"

His voice grew distant as he continued, stuck in the past, thinking about it. "Twelve letters. One every month."

You felt sick at his words, hand coming up to cover your mouth.

A year.

A whole year.

A year of letters you'd never seen. A year of words you'd never read. A year of explanations you'd never received.

"I never got a single one of them, Felix."

Felix looked away first, running both hands through his hair. For the first time since Paris, he looked genuinely shaken. Long gone was the guilt, the sadness. It was replaced by sheer disbelief – at the situation, at how different things could have been had you received even one of them. He looked as though the ground beneath him had suddenly disappeared when the next words came out of his mouth.

"I thought you were ignoring me."

The confession was so quiet you almost missed it, and you were taken aback by what he said.

“Ignoring you? Felix… I was too busy missing you.”

His laugh was humourless, broken. His eyes started watering as he continued, "I thought you hated me."

The words landed heavily between you, but he wasn’t finished. It was as if you had reached inside him and uncapped years’ worth of bottled emotions.

"After the first few months, I thought maybe you were angry." His eyes met yours again. "Then after six months... I thought you never wanted to hear from me again."

You couldn't speak, because suddenly pieces of the puzzle were rearranging themselves. Pieces that had never fit before, that you'd spent years trying to understand.

Then anger surged back.

"What kind of idiot sends letters?" you snapped.

Felix blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You had a phone."

"I got a Korean number."

"So?"

His frustration matched yours immediately. "So I couldn't just hand it out!"

You threw your arms into the air. "You couldn't text me?"

"No."

"Email?"

"No."

"Social media?"

His laugh this time was genuinely disbelieving. "Y/N, I was a trainee."

You opened your mouth, but he continued, ranting now.

"I barely had access to my own accounts. I wasn't allowed to share my private number. I was already risking things by sending you so many letters! Letters you didn’t even get."

By the end of it, his voice had risen to bounce off the walls of the dark alley around you. To some, it might have been intimidating, but to you, it was refreshing. Felix had always said more when he was angry.

You were still confused, though, because out of all the things he could have done-

"Letters?"

"What else was I supposed to do?"

The question echoed through the alley, joining the rest of his annoyance. And frustratingly... You didn't actually have an answer. Because when you thought about it, letters did make sense. They were definitely old-fashioned and annoying, but possible. If he genuinely couldn't contact you another way.

You hated the whole situation because it made everything more complicated. And complicated was the last thing you wanted. Your chest felt tight, and your head hurt. Nothing made sense anymore. You had spent years missing him, trying to get over him. Years convinced that he had left without a word. And now, you were learning that those years spent in silence had possibly been a lie.

Finally, you looked at him. "If you were trying so hard to contact me..."

Your voice cracked slightly, but you had to carry on. You had to know.

"Why did you leave?"

The question you'd carried for two years. The question at the centre of everything.

Felix immediately went still, and the tension between you shifted. Changed. It became something heavier, more suffocating. His eyes dropped briefly, then returned to yours. He looked terrified suddenly. But not of your anger, you thought, but rather the answer.

"You still don't know?"

A chill ran down your spine. "Know what?"

Felix stared at you for several seconds, refusing to answer. He looked away, and you could see the fight behind his eyes about whether he should tell you the truth or not.

“Felix… Please. Tell me.”

He sighed, a slow exhale, before he cleared his throat and spoke. "The night before I left."

You frowned. "What about it?"

His expression twisted into a mixture of pain and regret and instantly, your heart was racing.

"I came to your house."

Your heart skipped. "No."

"I came to tell you."

The world tilted. "No."

"I did."

"No, you didn't."

"I did." His voice was firm now, certain. "I packed my bags. I went to your house."

You stared. Every instinct told you he was telling the truth, and you started to pace, unsure of what to do with yourself.

He carried on regardless. "I spoke to your mum."

Everything inside you stopped and you froze in your tracks, staring at the wall opposite you. You couldn’t breathe, and with each new piece of information, it only got worse.

"I told her about Korea. I told her about the opportunity."

The alley seemed to spin slightly.

Your mum.

Your mum knew?

"No."

His eyes filled with something resembling heartbreak. "She knew."

The words shattered something inside your chest. You took a step backwards, trying to process, to understand. Trying to make it make sense.

"What did she say?"

The question came out sharp - dangerously sharp – and Felix hesitated for a moment before breaking your heart all over again.

"She told me to leave."

"No. No, she wouldn’t-"

His gaze remained locked on yours, desperate for you to understand. "She told me that if I stayed..."

His voice cracked.

"...you'd never follow your own dreams."

Your entire body went numb.

No. No. No.

That wasn't possible.

Your mother would never—

Would she?

Suddenly, memories resurfaced. Conversations you’d once considered unimportant filled with comments you'd never thought twice about. The way your mum had pushed you towards opportunities after Felix left. The way she'd insisted you move forward. The way she'd always changed the subject whenever his name came up.

Your stomach lurched, and you grabbed the nearest surface to remain standing.

Felix looked miserable. "I thought she was right."

The words barely registered because fury was already rising. The response was fast. Violent. Uncontrollable. Only this time, it wasn’t directed at Felix. It was directed at the person who had apparently made a decision about your life without ever asking what you wanted.

Your hands clenched into fists, and your voice trembled as you spoke. "You're telling me... that my mother decided what was best for me?"

Felix immediately looked alarmed. "Y/N—"

"And you listened?"

His expression collapsed. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"The right thing?" Your laugh was sharp, disbelieving. "You left me!"

"I know."

"You let me think you abandoned me."

"I know."

"You let me spend two years believing I wasn't worth an explanation."

The guilt on his face was immediate, devastating in its intensity. Yet somehow, in this moment, it wasn't enough. Because right now, all you could think about was the fact that somebody had stolen your choice, your future, and your relationship. But the thing that hurt the most?

They’d taken your chance to decide for yourself.

Suddenly, for the first time in two years, your anger wasn't pointed entirely at Felix anymore. It was somehow the most terrifying revelation of all.

The moment Felix had finished speaking, you’d turned and walked away. Not because you were done with the conversation, or because you believed him and suddenly forgave him. You walked away because if you stayed in that alley for another thirty seconds, you genuinely thought your head might explode.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Nothing.

For two years, you'd carried a very specific version of events. Felix had left. Felix had disappeared. Felix had chosen his dreams over you and never looked back. Whilst they were painful, they were also simple. Understandable at your strongest. Now, in the space of ten minutes, that entire narrative had been shattered.

Letters. Twelve letters. A visit to your house. A conversation with your mother. A decision supposedly made without your knowledge.

The ground beneath everything you thought you knew was shifting, and you hated it.

You pushed back through the side door and re-entered the club, and music immediately hit you. People were still laughing, still celebrating. They were still living in a reality that made sense. You marched through the crowd with single-minded determination. Behind you, you could hear Felix following, calling your name. You ignored him, though.

Your bag was exactly where you'd left it, and you grabbed it so quickly you nearly knocked over a chair. You immediately pulled out your phone. One call – one answer – was all you needed. Your mother's contact appeared on the screen, and you pressed call without hesitation. Your temper flared when it rang out to voicemail. You ended the call and immediately tried again, and again. When you noticed the time, you realised. It was one o'clock in the morning, and most normal people were asleep. Unfortunately, normality felt completely irrelevant right now. You lowered the phone, your heart hammering. Your thoughts were racing so fast you could barely keep up with them.

"I need to go home."

The words escaped before you'd fully processed them. Felix was standing a few feet away, watching you carefully.

"Y/N—"

"I need answers." Your voice shook, thinking out loud. "I need to know if he's telling the truth."

He flinched slightly at the word he, but you didn't care.

"I'm driving there.”

The decision had already been made. Your childhood home was only a couple of hours away. You could be there before sunrise, wake your mother up and finally get some answers.

You turned towards the exit but paused when you felt gentle fingers close around your wrist. Slowly, you looked down, and then up into Felix’s worried gaze.

He released you, stating with certainty, "I'll drive."

"No."

"I'll drive."

"I can get a car."

"Y/N."

You shook your head. "No."

His expression softened, but the stubbornness remained. Your heart unhelpfully skipped a beat when you noticed how concerned he looked, too.

"Please."

Just one word. That’s all it took to break your resistance. Not an argument or an explanation, just please. If you were honest with yourself, your thoughts were a complete mess right now, and you probably shouldn't be behind the wheel, but you hated that he was right.

Eventually, you exhaled – once, slowly - then nodded.

The drive was strange, but surprisingly not awkward. After everything you'd learned, awkwardness felt far too small a word. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, thoughtful. Tense. The sort of silence that existed because both people were trying to process something too large to put into words.

Streetlights passed rhythmically outside the windows, and the motorway stretched endlessly ahead. Occasionally, Felix glanced at you, but most of the time, he didn't. Most of the time, he simply focused on driving. You, on the other hand, stared out of the window, your thoughts spinning endlessly.

Your mother knew.

The sentence repeated over and over. Your mother had known that he was leaving – why he was leaving – and where he was going. Known he'd come to say goodbye. If Felix was telling the truth... The thought made your stomach twist. You couldn't think like that yet. Not until you heard it from her, until she confirmed it herself.

The hours slipped by, and at some point, exhaustion finally began catching up with you. You hadn't slept properly since Paris, and then there had been the concert, followed by the party and the argument with its revelations. Your body was running on fumes, and you desperately tried to fight it at first, but eventually your eyes began drifting shut.

When Felix glanced across a few minutes later, you were asleep. You were curled against the passenger door, one hand loosely wrapped around your phone. Your expression had finally relaxed for the first time all evening, and all the anger, frustration and confusion was finally gone. He knew it was only temporary, but he was glad of the break that sleep provided for your mind.

He swallowed hard before tearing his eyes away, back to the road. Seeing you like that hurt, he thought. He didn’t think that you looked vulnerable, but you definitely looked exhausted, and he knew exactly why.

By the time he pulled up outside your childhood home, it was after three in the morning. The house sat in darkness, every window black, and everyone inside asleep. Felix killed the engine, and silence settled around the car. You didn't even stir, completely at rest in his passenger seat. For several seconds, he simply sat there, watching the house whilst he listened to your soft breathing.

Eventually, he reached into the back seat slowly and retrieved his jacket, afraid of disturbing you. He draped it over you, the oversized material immediately swallowing half your frame. You shifted slightly, and his breath hitched for a second. He smiled sadly to himself when you just snuggled deeper into his jacket.

He settled back into his seat to wait.

When you woke, it took several seconds to remember where you were.

The first thing you noticed was the sunlight - soft golden morning light filtering through the windscreen. The second thing you noticed was the jacket. The third—

Everything.

The letters.

The conversation.

Your mother.

The house.

The revelation hit like a train, and you sat upright immediately. Beside you, Felix was still there, exactly where you'd left him. He was sitting in the driver's seat, awake. His eyes looked tired. The sort of tired that came from not sleeping at all, you realised.

"Did you sleep?"

A small smile appeared. "Not really."

You looked at the dashboard clock.

6:03am.

Your stomach dropped. "You stayed awake?"

He shrugged, as though sitting in a parked car for three hours wasn't remotely unusual. You opened your mouth to say something before closing it again, because suddenly, none of that mattered.

The house and the answers. That was what mattered.

You shoved his jacket into his arms, unbuckled your seatbelt, and climbed out quickly. The cool, sharp morning air hit your face immediately, wiping away any lingering fatigue. Behind you, Felix emerged from the car, but he didn't say anything or try to stop you. You marched straight up the path, past the flower beds and the familiar windows. Past every memory you'd ever made in this house. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you felt the weight of years of unanswered questions sit heavily in your chest.

Finally.

Finally.

You reached the front door, hand raised to knock.

For the first time in two years, you were about to hear the truth from the person who owed it to you most.

The door opened almost immediately. Your mother had always been an early riser, so you weren’t surprised.

What was surprising was how quickly her expression changed.

One second, she was opening the door with sleepy confusion. Next, she was staring at you. You watched her eyes drift past you, towards the driveway, towards Felix. He was standing beside the car with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, looking just as tense as you felt. For a moment, nobody spoke, but you saw the look of anxiety on your mother’s face. In that instant, before a single word had been said, you knew.

She knew exactly why you were here.

A long silence stretched between the three of you before your mother closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, she looked tired. Not sleepy, but the kind of tired that came from carrying something for a very long time.

"Come inside."

You walked past her without speaking, Felix following several seconds later. The familiar scent of your childhood home hit you immediately, and for a brief moment, memories threatened to surface. Christmas mornings, school mornings, family dinners. The countless evenings you'd spent sitting in this kitchen. You shoved all of it away, though, because right now, nostalgia felt like the last thing you needed.

Your mother led you through to the kitchen. It was the same kitchen with the same table and worn wooden chairs, but everything felt different now. You sat automatically, and across from you, Felix hesitated before lowering himself into the seat beside you. Exactly where he used to sit years ago.

The familiarity of it made your chest ache.

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. Now that you were here, you weren’t sure whether you should let your mother start or say something yourself. You didn’t know whether to mention your argument with Felix or how angry you were.

Your mother stood before you had to decide, disappearing from the room with a simple "I'll be right back."

A cupboard opened somewhere, then another. You heard drawers slide open, followed by something shifting. Beside you, Felix remained completely silent, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, his eyes fixed on the table as he waited. Eventually, your mother returned, and in her hands was a bundle of envelopes.

Your breath caught.

The room suddenly felt smaller as she placed them carefully on the table between you. For a moment, nobody moved. You stared until your vision went blurry. Even from where you sat, you recognised the handwriting. Your heart dropped. There were twelve letters, maybe more, all tied together with a faded ribbon. All unopened. All untouched. The sight made you feel physically sick.

Slowly, your gaze lifted towards your mother. She looked older than she had thirty minutes ago, smaller somehow.

"I kept them."

The words sounded fragile, and you felt your face twist in anger.

"Why?"

Her eyes filled immediately, but it only made you angrier. Why was she upset when you were the one who had suffered for years? When both you and Felix had suffered?

Your voice rose. "Why, Mum?"

"Because I thought I was doing the right thing."

A bitter laugh escaped you. The sound surprised everyone, including yourself.

"The right thing?"

She swallowed. "I knew what would happen."

You folded your arms. "Oh, I'd love to hear this."

Beside you, Felix shifted slightly but remained silent.

Your mother looked at both of you, then down at the letters. "When he came here that night... I saw the way you looked at him."

The room fell silent.

"I knew what you would do."

You arched an eyebrow. "What I would do?"

"You would've followed him."

"No."

"You would've tried." Her voice strengthened. "You would've put your life on hold."

"I wouldn't have."

"Yes, you would have." The certainty in her tone hit like a slap. "You loved him. I knew you'd try long distance."

You looked away, away from her and away from Felix, because part of you hated how accurate that sounded.

Your mother continued. "I knew you'd spend every day waiting for him."

Felix's head dropped slightly, pained by your mother’s words.

"And I knew that every dream you'd ever talked about would become secondary. I didn't want that for you. I wanted you to have your own life."

The kitchen felt suffocating by the time she was finished, and you couldn’t stop the frustrated years from welling up in your eyes.

"Really?"

Her expression faltered. "Y/N—"

"No." You shook your head. "No." The years of hurt suddenly surged forward. Every sleepless night, every unanswered question, every lonely moment. Every piece of yourself you'd spent years rebuilding. "You thought that was what was best? Was it for the best when I spent months wondering why I wasn't enough?"

Your mother's face crumpled, but you had to finish now, you had to say everything that was on your mind whilst you had the chance.

"Was it for the best when I couldn't sleep? Was it for the best when I drank myself unconscious just so I wouldn't think about him?"

The words echoed through the kitchen, and you realised your mistake a second later because Felix had gone completely still. The room seemed to freeze with him. You hadn't meant to say it. Not like that, and not in front of him. But it was too late now because the words were out, and Felix had heard every single one.

Slowly, you turned your head to face him. His face had gone white, and the devastation there was raw, unfiltered.

"What?"

The word barely emerged from him above a whisper. You immediately regretted it because you'd never wanted him to know. Those months had belonged to the version of you that you'd worked so hard to leave behind. The version that couldn't function, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep.

The version that couldn't understand why she hadn't been enough.

Felix looked like he couldn't breathe, voice cracking as he asked:

 "You were drinking?”

You looked away, unable to meet his eyes. The silence answered for you.

"Oh, my God."

The horror in his voice made your stomach twist. Beside you, Felix dragged a hand across his face, looking completely shattered. This was clearly news to him, but it obviously would be. You hadn’t had any contact because of your mother, who was looking equally horrified.

"I didn't know it was that bad."

You laughed sharply. "Of course you didn't."

"Y/N—"

"No."

You stood so abruptly that your chair scraped loudly across the floor, the sound echoing through the kitchen. Your mother stood, too.

"I was trying to protect you!"

The words snapped something inside you, and the tears broke free, rushing down your cheeks. "Protect me? Protect me? You took away my choice! You decided what my future should look like!"

Your mother winced, trying to explain. "I thought—"

"Exactly." Your voice broke. "You thought."

The room fell silent. Your mother looked heartbroken, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care right now. Not when the hurt was still burning so fiercely, and not when two years of your life suddenly looked completely different.

Your gaze dropped to the letters. The bundle was sitting untouched on the table, waiting. You grabbed them, and the ribbon dug into your fingers, somewhat grounding you. Your mother opened her mouth, but you didn’t want to hear it. You didn’t want to hear her explanations, her apologies, or her defence. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

Without another word, you turned and rushed out of your childhood home, the front door slamming behind you. You barely noticed the cold morning air anymore. Your vision was blurred, your hands shaking. The letters felt impossibly heavy in your hands, the weight of years of silence trapped in a simple bundle of paper.

The front door opened behind you, but you didn’t need to look because you already knew who it was. Even after all this time, you still recognised the sound of his footfall on the paving slabs outside your home. For several seconds, neither of you spoke, simply existing side by side in the early morning sunlight. Birds chirped somewhere nearby, and the world carried on as though nothing had happened. As though everything hadn't just changed.

You stared down at the bundle of letters clutched against your chest. Twelve months of words, twelve months of explanations, twelve months of him trying to reach you, stolen from you by the one person in this world who was meant to protect you and your happiness. Beside you, Felix was silent. Neither of you knew what to say exactly, because after everything you'd just learned, there weren't really any words left.

Only the truth.

And the wreckage it had left behind.

The drive back to your hotel was quiet. Not the comfortable sort of quiet that settled naturally between two people who knew each other well, and not even the angry silence that follows an argument. This felt different, loaded. As though neither of you quite knew how to exist in the aftermath of what had happened.

Your mother's confession sat between you, and the letters sat on your lap. Twelve unopened envelopes that somehow felt heavier than anything you'd ever carried. You spent most of the journey staring at them, at Felix's handwriting and the dates carefully written in the corners. Month after month, year after year. Proof that the story you'd spent two years believing wasn't the whole truth. Beside you, Felix kept his eyes fixed on the road. Neither of you attempted a conversation. What was there left to say? Every time you thought about speaking, another memory surfaced. Every time you looked at the letters, another piece of your anger shifted.

By the time the hotel came into view, you felt emotionally exhausted, the sort of exhaustion that settled deep into your bones. Felix pulled into the car park and switched off the engine. You sat there for a few seconds, dredging up the energy to move before slowly reaching for the door handle.

"Thank you."

Your voice sounded small, rough from disuse and the tears you’d shed.

Felix nodded. "Of course."

You swallowed, then pushed the door open and turned to step out. Warm fingers wrapped gently around your hand, and you froze, eyes dropping to where his hand held yours. You didn’t say anything as you met his gaze, heart breaking at what you saw. Felix was, and always would be, beautiful, but right now he looked awful.  The sleepless night mixed with the drive and everything you’d both learnt was written all over his face. There was something in his eyes, though. You weren’t sure if it was hope, fear, desperation or a mixture of everything, but you knew what he wanted. He wanted reassurance, a sign that you weren’t about to disappear on him.

Your chest tightened painfully at the sight, because despite everything, despite what the letters might contain, despite what you'd learned, you couldn't do this right now.

"Felix."

His expression softened immediately, and you hated just how much more difficult it made things.

"I need space."

The words hurt coming out. You saw the disappointment immediately in the way his shoulders dropped slightly, but you had to say this.

"I need time." Your voice cracked. "Please."

The silence stretched as his eyes took you in before slowly – very slowly – his fingers loosened, letting you go. You knew that it wasn’t because he wanted to, but because he was respecting what you'd asked, the same way he had for the past month.

His jaw tightened, but eventually he nodded. "Okay."

The word sounded reluctant, painful even, yet sincere. You managed a small nod in return, then turned and walked away.

This time, he didn't follow.

The second you entered your hotel room, the carefully maintained composure you'd been clinging to finally shattered.

You didn't bother turning on the lights, didn't bother unpacking or changing clothes. You kicked off your shoes and crawled straight into bed fully dressed, still clutching the letters. The curtains remained closed, the room remaining dark. And for the first time in years, you allowed yourself to fall apart. Quietly. The way heartbreak always seemed to happen when nobody was watching.

Hours passed, and your phone buzzed repeatedly, but you ignored it. Food arrived outside your door at some point, and you ignored that, too. The world continued turning whilst you remained curled beneath the covers, thinking and remembering. Trying desperately to make sense of everything. Eventually, sometime late that afternoon, your gaze drifted towards the bundle of letters resting on the bedside table.

Suddenly, you couldn't avoid them anymore.

Your heart immediately started racing because part of you wasn't sure you wanted to know. For two years, those letters had been trapped in limbo. They were left unopened, frozen in time with their unread words. The version of Felix who wrote them no longer existed, and neither did the version of you they were intended for. Somehow, they still felt terrifying.

Slowly, you sat up, reached for the ribbon and untied it. The paper felt fragile beneath your fingers, and you noticed that the first envelope was dated only weeks after he'd left. Your hands trembled as you opened it, then you began to read.

Y/N,

I miss you already.

The first line alone was enough to make your eyes burn, but you continued anyway. Letter after letter, month after month, you watched a year of Felix's life unfold through ink and paper. He told you about training, about being lonely, about missing home and missing you.

Always you.

Every letter carried the same thread running through it. There were stories about terrible meals, about exhausting schedules, about sleeping on buses. Stories about moments he'd wished you were there to see. The details changed, but the feelings never did.

You read until your vision blurred, then kept reading, because you couldn't stop. Not anymore. One letter described seeing something that reminded him of you in a shop window. Another described hearing a song he'd immediately wanted to send you. One talked about dreaming he'd come home and found you waiting for him. Your tears landed on the paper, but you barely noticed.

It was one of the final letters that broke your heart completely.

Y/N,

I don't know if you're reading these anymore. Maybe you're angry, or maybe you've moved on. Maybe you never want to hear from me again. I wouldn't blame you, but I still need to write this.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to stop the sob building in your throat. It didn't work.

I love you. I think I always will. And maybe that's selfish, maybe it's unfair, but I can't imagine a future where I don't.

The tears came harder, faster, but you kept reading.

I know people say long distance never works, and I know everyone thinks we're too young. But I don't. I still think we're meant to find our way back to each other.

Your chest ached from the hurt because this wasn't the Felix you'd imagined. This wasn't the selfish boy you'd spent years resenting. This was someone who had been writing into silence, someone who genuinely believed you were ignoring him. Someone who had continued loving you anyway.

And the worst part – the absolute worst part - was what wasn't there in any of his letters. He never once even alluded to the conversation he’d had with your mother. He never hinted at her asking him to leave. There was no attempt to use it against her or to excuse himself by making you blame anyone else. He could have. One sentence would have changed everything, and you would have known the truth years ago. Instead, he'd protected her, respected her, even when it meant letting you hate him. Even when it meant carrying the blame alone.

Your vision blurred completely, and the final letter slipped from your fingers. You were crying harder than you had in years. For the first time, it wasn’t because Felix had left, and it wasn’t even because of your mother or the letters. It was because, for the first time, you realised how alone he'd been and how convinced he'd been that you were choosing silence. Yet he'd kept writing anyway, month after month, letter after letter, holding onto hope long after most people would have given up.

The thought shattered what remained of your heart.

Curled beneath the covers with twelve letters scattered around you, you finally allowed yourself to mourn everything that had been stolen from both of you. Not just the relationship, or the years, but the future you might have had if someone had simply trusted you enough to choose it for yourself.

By the time evening arrived, your eyes ached from crying. The letters were scattered across the bed around you. Some lay folded neatly, whilst others had clearly been reread multiple times. You had spent hours working through them, tracing familiar handwriting with trembling fingers and mourning a version of the past that neither of you had ever been allowed to have.

At some point, your phone began vibrating. You ignored it and then ignored it three more times before you grabbed it, groaning.

It was your best friend, and the second you answered, she immediately said, "You're crying."

You sighed. "Hello to you too."

"You've been crying for hours."

"I hate that you can tell."

"I've known you for a while now. We talk every day. You cry a lot."

And okay, fair.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. For a few moments, neither of you spoke before you quietly told her everything, from the letters to your mother and the conversation to the drive. You explained that Felix had been writing to you for an entire year while believing you wanted nothing to do with him.

Your voice cracked more than once, but your best friend listened, for once not interrupting or joking. She simply listened.

When you finally finished, silence filled the line before-

"Oh, sweetheart."

You closed your eyes, the sympathy almost making you cry again.

"I know."

"No." Her voice softened. "I mean it."

You swallowed hard. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

"No."

"It wasn't."

You knew when she paused this time that she wanted to say something that she knew you wouldn’t like to hear. The thing you loved most about your best friend was that she’d go on and say it anyway.

"You need to talk to him."

You groaned immediately. "There it is."

"There it is."

"I knew you were going to say that."

"Because I'm right."

You covered your face with one hand. "He left."

"Yes."

"He listened to my mum."

"Yes."

"He made a terrible decision."

"Yes."

You sat up, huffing in frustration. "Then why am I the one who has to go and talk to him?"

Your best friend didn’t even hesitate. "Because he was twenty."

You frowned in confusion. "So was I?"

"Exactly." The answer caught you off guard, but she continued before you could interrupt. "He was twenty, in love, terrified, halfway across the world and being told by your mother that leaving was the best thing for you."

You stared at the wall. "He should've fought harder."

"He should have."

"He should've told me."

"He should have." You sighed heavily, and when your friend spoke again, her voice was softer. "But people don't always make the right decisions when they're young."

The words settled heavily. You knew she was right, and you hated it.

"You've spent years imagining that he stopped loving you." Your throat tightened at her words. "And now you know he never did." When she was met with silence, she continued gently, "You don't have to forgive him today."

You looked down at the letters, the first one sat open on your lap.

"But I think you owe it to yourself to hear everything."

Two hours later, you found yourself standing outside Felix's hotel room. You had changed clothes, brushed your hair, and washed your face. Not because you cared what you looked like, obviously! Definitely not.

Your best friend would have laughed herself unconscious at that lie.

For several seconds, you simply stared at the door before you took a deep, calming breath and knocked before you could change your mind. A few moments later, the door opened, and there he was.

Felix.

The second he saw you, his eyes widened. "Hi."

Your chest tightened. "Hi."

His expression immediately softened, as though simply seeing you there was enough.

"Do you want to come in?"

You nodded.

The conversation lasted hours. Longer than either of you realised.

At first, it was awkward, and not because there was nothing to say but because there was too much. There was years' worth of mess to sort through. Eventually, though, the walls began falling away one at a time until suddenly it wasn't awkward anymore. It was just honest in the way it used to be. The way it had always been before everything went wrong.

You sat cross-legged on the sofa while Felix occupied the armchair opposite. The letters rested on the coffee table between you - evidence. Proof. History. He looked at them for a long moment, then laughed softly.

"I can't believe she actually kept them."

Your chest tightened. "I can."

The smile faded, and silence followed for a minute before he spoke again.

"I missed you."

The words were simple, uncomplicated, yet still painful. You looked down as he continued. "There wasn't a day I didn't think about you. I looked for you everywhere." A small laugh escaped him. "You'd probably find that creepy."

You smiled despite yourself. "It is a little creepy."

His grin appeared briefly, then disappeared. The honesty in his voice when he spoke again made your throat tighten.

"I always thought I'd see you again. I didn't know how, but I knew I would."

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. He glanced towards the letters.

"You?"

The question hung between you. You knew what he was asking, and you knew he deserved the truth, no matter how messy or painful that truth would be. You told him about the loneliness, the sleepless nights, and the months spent feeling like you weren't enough. His expression slowly fell apart when you told him about the drinking. The words felt ugly and embarrassing, but you forced them out anyway. You told him how it started and how it became easier to sleep after a few drinks. How eventually it became easier to do everything after a few drinks. How you stopped recognising yourself.

By the end, the room had gone completely silent. Felix looked devastated, as if every word had physically hurt.

"You should've hated me."

The sentence emerged quietly, broken, and you looked up in surprise.

"What?"

His eyes were shining now. "I would've."

Your chest tightened. "Felix—"

"I would've hated me."

The honesty nearly broke your heart, and for a few brief moments, you simply sat watching the man across from you battle with his own inner demons.

"I missed you, too."

The confession seemed to steal the air from the room. His eyes closed briefly, like hearing those words meant more than he could explain. When he looked at you again, he seemed younger somehow, more vulnerable. More like the boy you'd fallen in love with.

Suddenly, you realised something. You weren't angry anymore. You were still hurt and confused, but not angry. At least, not the way you'd been after everything you'd learned.

You looked down at your hands. "I don't know what happens now."

The admission felt terrifying, because it was true. The future suddenly looked completely unfamiliar.

Felix was quiet for a moment before hesitantly saying, "We try again."

You looked up, but his gaze never wavered.

"Please."

The vulnerability in that single word almost undid you. "Felix..."

"Please." His voice wobbled. "I know I messed up."

You smiled weakly. "That's one way of putting it."

A surprised laugh escaped him, and the sound filled the room with familiar warmth.

God.

You'd missed that laugh.

"I know." His smile faded again. "But if there's even the smallest chance... I'll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve it."

Your chest hadn’t felt this full in years, but there was one thing still bothering you. One thing you'd never gotten an answer about.

You tilted your head. "What about that idol?"

Felix blinked. "What idol?"

"The article."

Realisation hit immediately. Then - to your complete surprise - he started giggling. Actually giggling.

You stared, frowning. "What?"

His laughter only worsened. "Y/N."

"What?"

"Oh, my God."

You folded your arms. "What?"

Finally, he managed to compose himself, barely.

"She's a lesbian."

You blinked. Once. Twice.

"...what?"

That immediately set him off again. "She's literally a lesbian."

The sheer relief that flooded through you was so immediate that it was embarrassing – and apparently obvious - because Felix noticed. The grin that spread across his face was impossible to ignore.

"Oh."

"Don't."

"Oh, that's interesting."

"Felix."

"You were jealous."

"I was not."

"You absolutely were."

You threw a cushion at him, and he caught it, still laughing. Suddenly, just for a moment, everything felt normal. Not perfect or fixed, but… normal. The way it used to be before life complicated everything. Looking at him across the room, laughing at his own terrible jokes, you felt something settle inside your chest. You realised that you hadn't just missed your boyfriend. You'd missed your best friend. He was the person who understood you better than anyone and could make you laugh when you least wanted to. The person you'd spent years convincing yourself you didn't need.  Maybe that was why this felt different now. Not because everything was magically okay, but because for the first time in years, you weren't imagining a memory. You were sitting across from him, and he was still there.

Eventually, the laughter faded, but the smiles remained. Felix looked nervous, suddenly, almost boyish.

"Can I ask you something?"

You immediately became suspicious. "That's usually dangerous."

He smiled, then took a breath. "Would you go on a date with me?"

The question hung between you. It was simple, hopeful, yet terrifying. You stared at him for a long moment before a soft, genuine smile slowly spread across your face.

"Yeah."

The relief that crossed his face was almost comical. "Yeah?"

You laughed. "Yeah."

For a moment, he looked completely overwhelmed. Then he smiled, too, and somehow, for the first time in a very long time, the future didn't seem quite so frightening. You didn't know what would happen next or whether things would be easy. You didn't know how long it would take to rebuild trust, or whether either of you would get everything right. But as you looked at Felix sitting across from you, smiling like he'd just been handed the entire world, you realised something.

For the first time in years, you wanted to find out.

And whatever the future held, you found yourself hoping it held him, too.

a/n: phew! That became a lot more complex than I was originally planning. The majority of you wanted a happy ending and I tried to deliver! What do you all think? Lmk in the comments! xo

Taglist: @hanniesbubuwife @skrach84 @felixstarz @starrynightviper @mrsleeknowsaurus @2minracha @cchapssaltteok @barbie-girl84 @hannieslovebot @nzzzzzzzzzzzz @mongmongsworld @sparklybunnygirl @lunr-eclipsee @jeonginsfavglazer @stolasisyourparent

[dazedinadream]

P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing) ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

Niki never really wanted to learn how to surf. He never understood why his brother and cousin liked it so much, being at the beach all day, having to wear those ridiculous suits and getting sunburns nonetheless. He also never thought that he would ever be as interested in sea urchins as he was right now. He truly wasn’t. He didn’t care for surfing or for the spawning process of sea urchins; he actually thought that was kind of weird, but what he did care for was you. He didn't mind listening to you talk about your sea urchins for hours, even though he understood only half of it, nor did he mind your hands on him as you were teaching him his way around the water. There was just a small problem: you weren't dating younger.

💿 SOUNDTRACK 〢🖇 MY MASTERLIST 〢 WORDCOUNT 23,546

ᵎ!ᵎ WARNINGS ──── SFW, homesickness, intentional grammar mistakes, Niki is a huge loser but tries to deny it, age gap (reader is 3 years older, but both are adults!), very internal monologue heavy, mentions of gayness and homophobia, Niki is afraid of the ocean, for story purposes the reader is described to have blond curls like 3a-3c (shes a surfer and has surfer blond hair!) # TAGS ──── older reader x younger niki, set in 1987 Australia, small coastal town vibes, fluff fluff fluff, brother’s older friend, summer romance, language barrier, he hates everything except her, he's kinda obsessed with her hair

reblogs are welcome ⭑.ᐟ

The sand under his feet was hot and stung against the skin when he adjusted his position on the surfboard he was sitting on. It was a small one, maybe half his size.

Riki wasn’t a big fan of the beach or the heat, but there was no way he would be getting into the water. The waves were gently rocking back and forth, coming dangerously close to one of the sandcastles he had watched two children build a while ago. 

His family moved to Australia almost a full month ago now. 

Jay had been overjoyed to move back into his childhood home, to reconnect with his old friends and rebuild his life back in Australia, while Riki hated it.

He hated the heat, the language, the food, the people. 

Just everything. 

Sure, he could have stayed in Japan and finished his degree, but the mere thought of his mom and his stepdad moving away, Jay following along and leaving him alone in Korea was worse than moving to Australia. 

His grandmother had died last year, and with that, had his mother's desire to stay in Korea. She had always loved change. She loved experiencing new things, seeing new places, meeting new people, so when his stepdad mentioned wanting to move back to Australia, his mom immediately agreed. 

They had offered him to stay in Korea, to help him find an apartment near his university, send him money every month, so he wouldn’t have to get a job, but Riki had declined. 

A long shadow appeared in his view, covering the blistering heat of the sun. 

“Riki, don’t you want to at least get your feet into the water for a bit?” 

His gaze flickered upwards to Jay. He was looking at him expectantly, his hair dripping with water, thick drops darkening the otherwise light sand.

Riki shook his head. “No, I’m good.” 

His brother took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled it loudly before letting himself drop onto the surfboard next to Riki. “Is there a particular reason why you’re moping around outside today and not in your room?”

Riki hummed, his gaze wandering back to the shallow water, where you were helping a boy back onto his surfboard. He had come to watch the bustling people around the beach, eat an absurd amount of ice cream and relax a bit. 

That was one thing he really liked about Australia. 

Everything was more relaxed, more balanced, than in Korea or even in Japan. Kids had time to be kids, and college students were using their summer break to do nothing.

Growing up in Korea meant he went to school when the sun was rising and he went home long after it had gone down again, sometimes even during summer breaks, and if he had time to himself, he spent it in the dance studio a few streets from his apartment. 

“Mom was annoying me,” he answered, burying his toes deeper in the sand while shrugging. “She said I should go out and make some friends here at the beach or something.” 

Jay furrowed his eyebrows and looked around on the beach. It was pretty empty for a hot summer day, and most of the people who actually came were either in groups or definitely not in Riki’s age range. 

“You could always come into the water with Jake and me?” his brother asked, looking back at where Jake 

was sitting on his surfboard, seemingly waiting for Jay to return. 

“I don’t want to get wet,” Riki shrugged again and immediately regretted it. He was behaving like a moody teenager, and he knew it was annoying. 

It annoyed him as well, but he didn’t really know what to do with himself. 

“Maybe you could go to the city for a bit? You wanted to go to that one LP store last week. I’m sure it has the album you wanted.”

Riki pursed his lips but nodded lightly. “Maybe tomorrow. I still have to unpack my LPs before I buy a new one. I left so many at home and gave them to Heeseung and Jungwon, I don’t even know what I still have with me.” 

He paused for a second, but didn’t correct himself when he realised that he had called Seoul his home. 

It should be Melmair, right? 

That was his home now. 

His gaze wandered back to you and the group of elementary school kids. You weren’t wearing your wetsuit, so he had a good view of the tattoo running along your spine. He had meant to ask you where you had gotten it a while ago, but he hasn’t worked up the courage yet. 

You’ve been nothing but nice and welcoming to him for the past month, inviting him to get-togethers, trying your best to involve him in conversation, and introducing him to some of your friends. 

But he hasn’t been the most forthcoming. 

He wished he had been. 

He had been stuck up in his head, unhappy with the change, somehow unhappy with his decision and entirely unhappy about the fact that he wasn’t able to speak English fluently. 

Jay and Jake always did their best translating for him, yet it was clear to everyone that he had to start getting his shit together and study the language properly.

Technically, the best way to learn a language was to use it. 

The biggest problem here was that Riki hated using it. 

It was so hard with all of its letters and its complicated grammar. He should have paid more attention back in High School; maybe he wouldn’t be at the level of a kindergarten student when using English. 

His mom wasn’t fluent in English either, but Hyeongyu, his stepfather, had started speaking only in English to her and also to Riki, hoping they would get used to it. 

His mom did, she also quickly found a group of friends, consisting of his aunt, your mother and two other women. 

Riki didn’t understand how his mother did it.

How she could just arrive somewhere new and… fit. 

Jay followed his line of sight. “You know she’s not gonna bite, right? You can ask her if she could teach you as well.”

Riki frowned. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? At least you’d have something to do and wouldn't mope around at home,” Jay leaned back, stretching his legs out. “I know you’d be stuck in the water until you’d perfected it.”

Riki rolled his eyes, shifting on the board again. 

The sand stuck to his damp skin. 

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be embarrassing? I’m twenty, and she’s teaching kids half my age right now. I just don’t want to be… weird,” he muttered after a second.

Jay glanced at him, something softer crossing his face. “You’re not.”

Riki didn’t answer. He wasn’t convinced.

The two of them sat there for a few minutes, just staring out into the ocean, before Jay hummed and stood up, careful not to jostle the surfboard too much. 

“I’m gonna go into the water for a bit more,” he turned towards Riki. “Will you be alright here?”

Riki nodded and gave his brother a small smile. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.” 

“Okay.”

He watched his Jay walk back to the ocean, paddling towards Jake, who had just come to a halt after riding another wave. 

It looked fun, surfing. 

He never really considered trying it. Jay had been excited, talking about coming back and jumping onto a board the second he could, but Riki was a bit more cautious. He had taken a swimming course as a child, and he was sure it would return to him if he actually tried, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to go surfing if he didn’t even know how to swim properly. 

Out in the water, you and the children were making your way back to shore now, boards tucked under your arms. The sun hit the water behind you, turning everything into something too bright to look at for too long.

Riki looked anyway.

You shook your head, pushing wet hair out of your face, saying something to one of the girls in your class that made her laugh. When you reached the sand, you dropped your board carelessly, stretching your arms over your head before your gaze landed on him.

For a second, you just smiled before wrapping up the class with the kids. 

He tried his best not to watch you too obviously, but it was hard to look away. 

It was embarrassing how quickly he had developed a crush, almost an obsession, with you. From the day he was introduced to you as Jay’s baby brother, he had not been able to take his eyes off of you whenever he saw you somewhere. It was as if he were compelled to do so. 

Sometimes he wondered if it was because you were so different from the girls he knew from home. 

When he met you, it was the first time in his life that he saw someone with natural blond hair and natural curls. Sure, many of the girls back home had gotten perms and bleached their hair, especially after it got popular in the West, but he didn’t know anyone who had this kind of hair naturally. He’d love to touch it, to see if it felt different from the perm his mom had last year, if it was softer. 

“Hey,” you suddenly called out, ripping him out of his thoughts. 

He blinked at you while you were walking over. 

“Hi Riki!”

“Hi,” he smiled at you, or at least tried his best to give you a sincere smile.

You seemed to light up even more at that. “Would you like to get some ice cream? I don’t think the others are gonna come out of the water for a while, and I’m sure you’re hot.” 

Riki straightened a little without meaning to, brushing his hands over his shorts. “Yeah,” he said, a bit too quickly. Then, correcting himself, slower, “Yeah, I come.”

You didn’t react to the phrasing, just nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Cool.”

With that, you turned around and started walking through the hot sand.

Riki hesitated for half a second, then nodded, falling into step next to you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. 

The noise of the beach faded a little as you walked further up, replaced by quieter sounds, wind, distant voices, and the hum of a car passing somewhere beyond the dunes.

Then you glanced at him. “So…what did you do today?”

Riki exhaled quietly, already running through words in his head, trying to piece them together in the right order.

“Uh…” He frowned slightly, eyes dropping to the sand as he walked. “I… slept long. Until noon.”

Your expression lit up a little. “That’s so nice,” you said. “I wish I could do that.”

Riki blinked, a bit thrown off by the enthusiasm. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling. “I’ve been up since five thirty.”

He let out a small, surprised sound. “Why?”

“Early lesson,” you said, gesturing vaguely back toward the water. “Many adults come to the beach before work to surf a bit. Or learn how to surf.”

Riki huffed softly at that, the corner of his mouth twitching before he could stop it. He liked that you tried to speak without your usual accent, damping it down a bit so he could understand you better.

There was another small pause.

“I come here,” he added after a moment, a bit more quietly. “For… the sun.” He gestured vaguely upward, then toward the beach. “And… watching.”

Your gaze flickered to him again, a hint of something curious in your expression. “Watching?”

He nodded, then immediately felt the need to explain. “People. Surfing. You.”

The last word slipped out before he could stop it.

He stiffened slightly.

But instead of making fun of him, your smile softened, just a little. “Me?” you echoed, like you were genuinely surprised.

Riki shrugged, trying to play it off, even if his ears felt warm. “You are… good at it. Surfing and teaching.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Thanks.”

For a second, neither of you looked away.

Then you nudged his arm gently with your elbow. “Maybe you should try it then. If I’m such a good teacher.”

Riki scoffed, shaking his head. “I think… I watch better.”

“We’ll see about that,” you said, already turning your attention toward the ice cream stand ahead.

It was small, tucked just off the path, painted in faded pastel colours that had probably looked brighter years ago. A striped awning hung low over the counter, and somewhere behind it, a radio crackled softly.

You stepped up to the counter as if you had done that a hundred times already. You probably had. He learned a few weeks ago that you grew up here, that your family rarely left the area, your mother being the mayor of the town.

“What do you want?” you asked, turning to him.

Riki glanced at the menu. By now, he could decipher most letters into actual sounds and words after a few seconds, but there were too many words he didn’t fully recognise. 

He hesitated, then looked back at you. “You choose.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “For you?”

He nodded. “Best one.”

A small smile pulled at your lips. “Okay,” you said, turning back to the vendor. 

You ordered without asking anything else, pointing at a few options, speaking fast enough that Riki lost track halfway through. A moment later, he looked down at an ice cream cone in his hands. You had gotten him two scoops, one white, one a soft pink. He tilted his head slightly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Just try it,” you said, shrugging. 

Riki took a cautious bite.

And then paused.

It was tangy and sour. 

His face scrunched together in surprise, but he kept eating. 

“Good?” you asked, watching him.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah… good.”

“See?” you said, satisfied.

“They’re all different,” he said, trying the second flavour on his cone. It was a strawberry.

“Different from what?” you asked.

He shrugged slightly, licking his lips. “From… home.”

You hummed, like you understood more than he had actually said.

Behind you, the music shifted a little louder as someone adjusted the radio. The melody was bright, with layered voices blending together.

You perked up immediately. “Oh, I love this one.”

Riki glanced at you. “What is it?”

“The Beach Boys,” you said, like it should be obvious. “They’re my favourite.”

He listened a bit more carefully this time, nodding after a second. “Yeah… It’s good.”

You looked at him again, curious. “What about you? Do you have a favourite singer?”

Riki opened his mouth, then hesitated for a split second.

“Michael Jackson,” he said finally.

Your eyes lit up. “Oh, I know him.”

“I really like her–no, his?– dancing.” Riki frowned a bit, but you nodded. 

“Yeah, his,” you took another bite of your ice cream. “I’ve seen one of his music videos on MTV recently. Bad?” 

Riki hummed. “Yes. It’s newest. I really like it.”

“His newest song?”

“Yes,” Riki nodded again. 

“You also dance, right? I think Jay mentioned that you were looking for a studio here?”

Riki blinked, processing the words clicking into place a second too late.

“Oh,” he said and felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “It’s not–I just–” He huffed quietly, shaking his head. “Yes, I am dancing. It’s my major.”

“Really?” You seemed surprised at that, your gaze flickering back to him. “I didn’t know that. That’s so cool. Are you taking it up here at uni? I know they have a renowned dance program at MVU.”

Riki didn’t know what the word renowned meant, but nodded regardless. “Yes. I’m doing a Bachelor of Creative Arts in Dancing.” 

“That’s so cool. One of my mom's friends' sons, James, is doing that too. He should be your age. Maybe you’d be in the same classes.” 

Riki hummed again and shrugged. “Maybe?”

“He’s really fun. I think you’d get along well,” you smiled up at him again before you looked back to the sea. “Looks like Jay and Jake are done with surfing for today.” 

He followed your line of sight and noticed that both his brother and his cousin were sitting next to where they had dumped their bags, towelling off their hair. 

The two of you reached the two of them a few minutes later, Rikis' ice cream now dripping down the cone, leaving his hand a bit sticky.

Jay was sitting half sprawled on a towel, one arm propped behind him, looking up first and immediately grinning.

“There you are,” he said, like Riki had taken hours instead of minutes, when he let himself drop down next to his brother.

Before Riki could answer, Jay reached over and stole a bite from his cone. He stared at him. “Hey.”

Jay just chewed, entirely unbothered. “What? I wanted to know if it was good.”

“You could have asked.”

“And risked you saying no?”

Riki frowned, but he couldn’t really find the energy to argue when Jay looked so pleased with himself. 

A few years back, Riki would have been furious, probably screaming at Jay for doing so. 

It was weird, really, how he struggled being the younger sibling two times in his lifetime. His dad remarried shortly after his mom divorced him, and suddenly, Riki wasn’t an only child anymore but had an older and a younger sister. 

He liked being around Misora; being a big brother was cool. Even when he was cringe and weird, she always looked up at him, while Konon struggled just as much with the new changes within her family as Riki did, causing the of them to fight. 

Both of them had been unfair and had said things that hurt, knowing it would, but neither would back down until either his dad or his wife stopped them. 

It was one of the reasons why he preferred staying with his mom and limiting his visits to his dad's house to a minimum if he could. 

Jay, on the other hand, had been nothing short of amazing. 

He was caring, gentle, and considerate of his feelings, even when he was an angry teen. He had taken the time to study Japanese more intensely, going to an additional cram school, just to understand Riki better, had looked into his hobbies, and had been supportive. 

All in all, he was the perfect big brother. 

Riki needed a few years to understand that, but now he couldn’t imagine life without Jay. 

That was most likely the reason why Riki decided to move to Australia with his family. 

Jake stretched and ripped him from his thoughts. “How is it Sunday already? I don’t want to work.”

Jay let out a short laugh. “Dude, I have my first day tomorrow. I have to make a good impression and be all proper all day.”

You tipped your head slightly and handed Jake the rest of your ice cream. “You’ve been all proper since childhood.”

Jay looked offended. “I have not.”

“You have,” you said, smiling now. “I bet teen Jay was getting all the girls with your gentleman thing.” 

Jay stole another bite of Riki's ice cream, shaking his head. “You have no idea what I was like as a teen. I definitely didn’t get any girls.”

“You got no girls ever, because you’ve been in a one-sided relationship with one of my friends since you first met,” Riki mumbled in Korean, ignoring the way his brother shoved him hard enough to almost slide off the surfboard.

Jake barked out a laugh at that. “Jesus, Riki.”

You gave him a look, raising one eyebrow, before looking back at Jay. “I got to see enough of adult Jay that I think I can say with confidence you’ll be fine. Also, you sent me letters for the last ten years that gave me the impression that you were a proper guy. How many internships did you do again? How many of those insane cram schools did you go to? I am sure you’re fine tomorrow.”

Jay stared at you for a second, then huffed. “That is not how that works.”

“It is exactly how that works.”

“He still did not get girlfriends,” Riki shrugged and avoided Jay, hitting him again. 

Jake snorted again, and even you seemed to think that was funny, grinning at Jay. 

Jay groaned and dropped his head back. “Whatever.” He turned to Jake with a dramatic sigh. “Anyway. If I have to go be professional tomorrow, I’m blaming you if I embarrass myself.”

Jake pointed at himself. “Why would that be my fault?”

“Because you’re making me nervous.”

“You’re making yourself nervous,” Jake said.

Jay ignored him and leaned back on his hands again. “You know, I’m actually offended. I thought I had more composure than this.”

You laughed. “You do. Barely.”

Jay looked at you incredulously. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side,” you said. “I’m just being honest.”

Riki listened to the three of you bicker and turned the part of his brain that understood English off for a second. He had loads of older friends, but somehow he always ended up being one of the youngest around, probably because when he came to Korea, the situation was similar. Jay had introduced him to his friends, and Riki just ran with it. 

But sitting here with the three of you, being noticeably more… adult, having real adult people problems and not just moping around because you were too stubborn to go out and socialise made him feel a bit…stupid. 

He usually didn’t mind still being a student while Heeseung, Jay or even Sunghoon had graduated ages ago and were doing a master's or working. 

But here with Jake and you, it felt different. 

He already felt stupid for not knowing english but somehow the two of you being in actually hard fields made him feel a bit…unimpressive.

Riki looked down at his ice cream and took a slow bite, suddenly wishing he had ignored his mom's nagging.

Jake glanced at him after a second, like he was just noticing Riki had been quiet for longer than usual. “You got plans tomorrow, kid?”

Riki blinked, looking up. “No.”

Jake huffed out a small laugh. “You’re gonna be alone when Jay’s at work, then? Is there anything you’re doing while he’s gone?”

Riki hesitated, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “I… don’t know yet.”

Jake glanced between them, then back to Riki. “So you’re saying you’re just going to sit around?”

Riki opened his mouth, then closed it.

Beside him, you tilted your head a little. “You wanna come surfing tomorrow?”

He looked at you.

You were half smiling. “I can for sure play babysitter for a day,” you added, winking at him. “Maybe I could even get you to surf with me. It’s not that hard.” 

Riki’s mouth opened again, then closed. He really was just that, apparently, a moody kid that needed a babysitter.

“I…” He paused, frowning slightly, searching for something he could say to get out of this, of not having to be ‘babysat’. “I can’t even swim.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, what?”

You looked at him in surprise. “Riki can’t swim?” you asked, like you were telling Jay and Jake instead of him.

Jay opened his mouth, then shut it. “I thought he had learned it in Japan?”

Jake looked at Riki like he had just confessed to a crime. “How old are you?”

Riki shrugged, feeling slightly embarrassed even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jake shook his head. “That matters.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Jay said, but it sounded defensive even to Riki.

You looked at Riki directly now, your expression softening. “It isn’t,” you said. “If you want to, I could show you. I’m sure it’s gonna come in handy, if you know how to swim.”

He shrugged at that, trying to seem nonchalant about it. 

But his chest tightened anyway.

He thought about the water, the waves, the way people just disappeared into them like it was nothing.

“I…” He hesitated, then looked down at his ice cream. “I don’t want to. I don’t like the sea.”

It came out quieter than he meant.

You tilted your head again, thinking. “I have to go to the lab first,” you said casually. “My sea urchins need a check-up.”

Riki looked up at you and frowned, wondering what sea urins had to do with him not being able to swim.

“After that,” you continued, “you could come over to my house? Or I come to yours? We could swim in one of our pools. I’ll teach you.”

Riki’s throat tightened.

He wanted to say no.

He wanted to say he was fine, that he didn’t need to learn, that he didn’t need to do anything new.

But Jay nudged his shoulder lightly, quick and firm, and he could feel the words slipping out before he could stop them.

“Okay,” he said.

You nodded and gave him a big smile. 

“Good,” you said.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

He woke up earlier than usual the next day. It was barely 8 am, but he didn’t know when you wanted to come over, and he wanted to be ready. 

There technically wasn’t much for him to do but brush his teeth, comb his hair once or twice and then put on his swimming trunks. That was it.

But Riki was somehow stuck in the bathroom for a while now.

It was warm and sticky and smelled like Jay's expensive perfume, but he couldn’t get himself to open a window.

He was just standing there, looking at his reflection in the mirror. 

He looked fine.

He looked fine.

He looked–

He turned on the shower, then turned the water off again almost immediately. He had showered yesterday after coming home from the beach. He didn’t need another one.

Riki stepped in anyway, letting the water wash over him, then got out quickly after a few minutes. By the time he wrapped the towel around his waist, his skin was pruned from the heat, and his hair was dripping into his face.  

He looked at himself again.

He didn’t have much body hair. He never had. 

He had seen so many men and young adults his age, proudly displaying what he had learned to call a “bush of hair” here in Australia. In Japan, men also prided themselves on their hair, though they had way less than the people he saw here. 

Riki had spent some time flipping through the magazines his mom had ordered to study English. Apparently, for surfers and swimmers, it was a thing to shave their bodies for practical reasons, and less aesthetic ones. He also remembered reading an interview with Arnold Schwarzenegger where he talked about how many bodybuilders were starting to shave and even wax for aesthetics, and Riki had put a lot of work into his body recently. He might not be on body building levels yet, but he had started seeing significant growth in muscle mass all over his body.  

He ran the razor over his legs, careful, methodical. His arms. His chest. Everywhere.

It actually felt really nice, his skin soft under his palms. 

When he was done, he dried off quickly and pulled on a pair of clean shorts, one of his old dance T-shirts, and a fresh pair of socks. He ruffled his hair a little, then stopped, then ruffled it again, then stopped again.

He was being ridiculous.

The floorboards creaked outside the door.

“Riki,” his mom called through the door. “What are you doing up so early?”

He froze.

“Nothing,” he called back in Japanese, not having the mental capability to speak English right now.

He opened the door a crack.

His mom was standing in the hallway, one hand on her hip, the other one holding up a basket full of laundry. Her eyes flicked down to his legs, then back up to his face.

“Did you shave?” she asked, seeming as surprised at his decision as he was.

“Yes,” he said after a second.

She looked at him for a moment longer, then passed him when she walked into the bathroom. “Why?”

He blinked. “Because I thought it would look good.”

“You thought it would look good?”

“Yes?”

She tilted her head, unimpressed, switching to Japanese. “Are you trying to impress a girl, Riki?”

“Huh?” His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he caught himself quickly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shaking his head. “No? No, I'm not trying to impress anyone. Why would you think that, Mom?”

His voice trailed off into a whine at the end of his sentence, and she studied him for a moment, then sighed. “What is going on?”

He hesitated, then gave in. “Y/N is coming over later,” he said, biting his lip and averting his mother's eyes for a second. “She’s going to teach me how to swim.”

His mom’s eyebrows lifted. “You already know how to swim.”

Riki exhaled loudly, running a hand through his damp hair. “I know I lied.”

He knew it was stupid, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

“Why did you lie?” she asked, switching back to English while she set the laundry basket down.

“Because I didn’t want to surf,” he said, the words coming out faster than intended, more defensive than he wanted. “I didn’t want to go in the water. I didn’t want to look stupid in front of everyone. So I said I can’t swim.”

His mom stared at him.

He stared back.

Then she let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“What?” he said immediately.

She shook her head slightly, still smiling, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You lied because you didn’t want to tell them you’re scared of the ocean?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him for a second, then shook her head again. “You’re ridiculous.”

He frowned. “I’m what?”

“Ridiculous,” she repeated in Japanese.

He crossed his arms. “I’m not ridiculous.”

She stepped closer, reaching out to fix his hair with a small, almost automatic gesture. “You are. And you're nervous about Y/N coming over.”

He looked away. “I’m not nervous.”

She smiled, small and knowing. “You’re nervous.”

She dropped her hand, then turned toward the door. “You’re going to be fine,” she said over her shoulder. “She’s a clever girl, I’m sure she’ll figure out you lied.”

“Mom.”

“What?”

He bit his lip. “Don’t say that.”

She turned back, smiling again. “What? I’m being honest.”

He groaned, shaking his head.

His mother laughed softly, then walked away, leaving him alone with the mirror again.

Riki looked at himself one more time.

He felt ridiculous.

He felt nervous.

He also felt… kind of terrible about lying.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

You arrived at one thirty sharp. 

He was helping his mom wash the dishes when the doorbell rang, and his hands froze in the soapy water. Next to him, his mother looked up at him with a telling look. “Go get the door.” 

He nodded and dried his hands off on the towel he had slung over his shoulder. 

For a long second, he just stood in the hallway, staring at the door, then at his mom, then back at the door.

Riki took a deep breath.

Then another.

Then he crossed the hallway and opened the door.

You were standing there with a bag slung over your shoulder, with your hair pulled up into a loose bun, a few strands escaping around your face. It made him think of the way angles were portrayed here, pale, with blond curly hair and flowy dresses.

You looked…

You looked good.

He knew he was staring, but you didn’t seem to mind, smiling up at him. 

“Hi.”

He blinked, then realised he hadn’t said anything back.

“Hi,” he managed, awkwardly stepping back. “Come… in.”

He held the door open for you, and you stepped inside, ducking under the frame slightly like you were used to it.

“Thanks,” you said, dropping your bag by the door.

He closed the door behind you and turned around, suddenly very aware of how quiet the house was.

His mom was watching the two of you from the kitchen, one hand on her hip, a small smile on her face.

Riki ignored her.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked, the words coming out faster than he meant them to. “Water? Tea? I think… we have tea.”

You looked at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Water is fine.”

He nodded quickly. “Okay. Water.”

He turned toward the kitchen, then stopped, then turned back to you again. “Wait.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “Your bag. You can… put it there.”

He pointed at the coat rack, then realised that was a stupid thing to say.

You smiled, picking up your bag. “It’s okay, I’ll put it here.”

You set it down beside his, and suddenly they were both standing in the hallway, just looking at each other for a second.

He felt ridiculous.

He felt like he was fifteen again.

Having a crush on that one pretty girl in his class, whom he ended up never talking to after all. 

But he was talking to you, wasn’t he?

You laughed softly, breaking the silence. “You’re nervous.”

He frowned. “I’m not nervous.”

You were smiling now, like you knew he was lying.

“Sure,” you said, nodding, raising your eyebrow.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just turned and walked toward the kitchen instead, where his mom winked at him, then turned to you.

“Y/N,” she said warmly in English. “Hello.”

You turned immediately, your expression lighting up. 

“Hi, Mrs Park!” you said, stepping forward with that same easy energy you always had. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” she replied, her accent still thick when she was talking in English. “You look nice today.”

“Thank you,” you beamed at her.

She looked at you, then at Riki, then back at you. “Why are you here?”

“I’m trying to teach Riki how to swim.”

Riki felt his face go hot.

His mom’s eyebrows lifted. She turned to look at him, one eyebrow higher than the other. “Well,” she chuckled, “we did teach him when he was a kid. It apparently didn’t stick.”

Riki didn’t say anything to that; he just looked at you, then at his mom, then at the door to his parents' garden, wanting to escape this situation as fast as he could.

“Come on,” he muttered, already moving toward the hallway. “We should go.”

You laughed, following him outside. 

Once you were out the door and he had closed it behind you, he let out a quiet breath.

You laughed again, softer this time. “At least you have a base to go off of then,” you said. “I’m sure we are going to get you to swim in no time.”

He looked at you. “Are you sure?”

You smiled, nudging his arm lightly. “Of course, swimming is like riding a bike.”

He shook his head, but he couldn’t stop the small, reluctant smile from forming anyway.

The tiles were hot under Riki's bare feet as you were walking towards the pool.

Riki set the dish towel down and looked at you, then at the water again.

You started unbuttoning your dress, revealing a simple swimsuit underneath. Your hair came down from the bun, falling around your shoulders in loose waves. He had to swallow and avert his gaze for a second, his face growing warm once again. 

Instead of thinking about how the blue fabric was working really well with the tanned colour of your skin, he started undressing as well, pulling off his t-shirt and slipping into the water first, the cold sending a shock through his skin, when he sank down onto one of the stairs.

You followed him, stepping in slowly, the water lapping at your feet.

He took a breath, then blurted out the first thing his mind could come up with. “How are your sea urins?”

You blinked, then laughed. “What?”

He tried again, slower. “Your… sea urins? How are they?”

You smiled, shaking your head. “My sea urchins! They’re good.”

“Did they… swam?” he asked, the word coming out wrong again, and he willed the floor to open up and swallow him on the spot.

You laughed again, softer this time, and his heart swelled a bit. “Spawn,” you corrected gently. 

“Spawn,” he repeated.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He looked at you, then at the water. “Did they… spawn?”

You shrugged, smiling. “Not yet. But they will soon.”

He nodded, not knowing what else to say for a second, but he didn’t have to. You began moving, sliding from the stair the two of you were sitting on into the water. 

“Should we try getting a bit more comfortable with the water? Jay said he might think you’re scared of the water, and that’s why you don’t want to swim?” Riki nodded and hummed; it sounded rather unhappy even to his own ears, but he started moving as well, the water coming up to his waist. 

“Are you?” You asked, already having walked even deeper into the water, but smiling at you. 

“I’m not scared of the pool,” he shrugged, but stopped moving. “I’m scared of the sea.” 

“Because of the animals?” You swam closer to him again. 

He nodded and watched your movements. You seemed so comfortable in the water.

“The waves? I don’t like the waves,” he said, gently bending his knees to get his upper body under water. 

You hummed and came to a stop in front of him, your legs bent as well, so the two of you were suddenly the same height. He felt your eyes studying his posture, his face, and after a second, you gently moved your hand towards him. “Let’s try floating.”

He looked at you.

“With me,” you added quickly. “I’ll hold you. I promise it’s not as scary as it sounds.”

He hesitated.

Then he nodded.

“Okay,” he said and gently put his hand into yours.

You gave it a small squeeze and pulled him a bit deeper into the pool. He let you guide him towards the middle of the shallow end, the water now coming up to your chest when you stood up. He stayed crouched down in the water, watching you move. 

“Floating is pretty easy,” you said, putting your hands to your hips. “I love floating on my back, and I think it’s really relaxing, and you’ve been kinda floating forward since we've come in anyway.”

He didn’t answer, just kept his eyes on you while the water gently lapped against his collar bones.

“Can I get you into a floating position? I promise I won’t let go of you.”

Riki hummed in agreement, moving closer to you. 

You reached out, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his lower back. “Lean backwards,” you said gently. “Just a little.”

He hesitated, then did as you asked.

The moment your hands touched him, goosebumps broke out across his skin. Not from the cold this time.

He didn’t understand why your touch felt like that. You were just… touching him. 

You didn’t seem to notice, or if you did, you didn’t say anything. Instead, you carefully guided him into position, your hands firm but gentle.

“See?” you said. “You’re floating.”

You were a lot stronger than you looked. He could feel it in the way you held him up, steady and sure. He knew he was heavy; his shoulders were broad, his chest solid from all the hours he had spent at the gym. 

“You’re shaking,” you said, grinning. “Are you cold?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, taking a deep breath while you moved around his body, your hands not leaving his skin.

“From the water?”

“Yeah.”

You laughed. “You’re so dramatic.”

He scowled, but he didn’t move away from your hands.

The feelings of them against the back of his neck caused another wave of goosebumps to build on his skin. You adjusted your grip, guiding him into a better position. “Okay, now just relax your arms. Let them float. I’m gonna hold your head up.”

He did, slowly, letting his arms drift out to the sides.

“Okay, big boy,” you moved backwards slowly, dragging him with you. “Now put some tension in your body, stretch your stomach and back as if you were arching up to the sky.”

He did as you said, tightening up the muscles in his back and stomach, while one of your hands wandered in between his shoulder blades, slightly pushing him upwards. 

You laughed a bit, the sound being distorted by the water in his ears. “Breath, Riki, you have to breathe.” 

He didn’t realise he had closed his eyes, but they shot open the second he did take a breath, and it somehow threw him off enough to move forward, slightly out of your reach, and suddenly he was unsupported. 

The water surged under him, and he panicked.

His arms flailed, his feet kicked, and he went under for a moment before he breached the surface, coughing, water in his nose and ears, his heart hammering in his chest.

You were laughing.

He was laughing too, even as he gasped for air.

Your hand shot forward and grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward stability.

“Okay,” you said between laughs. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. No breathing while you are floating.”

He coughed again, wiping water from his face. “You–” he started, then stopped, then laughed harder.

You were still grinning, your eyes bright with amusement. “I’m sorry,” you said again, though you didn’t sound very sorry at all.

He shook his head, still laughing. “You almost drown me.”

You snorted. “I drowned you? You suddenly jerked forward when I told you to breathe, Riki!”

“Yes!” He grinned at you and shrugged. “You have to hold me!”

“I was!” You laughed again, and Riki splashed some water at you, which made you shriek and cover your face for a second.

“Hey!” 

“Sorry,” Riki said, grinning, taking a few steps backwards in the water in case you wanted to splash water back at him. 

You opened your mouth, looked away, and laughed again. “You’re not, shit head.” 

Riki pretended to be offended, putting one of his hands against his naked chest before doing a small, almost mocking bow, which caused you to press your lips onto each other while you chuckled. “I am very sorry.” 

“Mhm, right,” you swam in his direction. “Let’s go again before I decide to actually let you drown in the shallow end of your parents' pool.”

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

An hour and a few more successful tries at floating later, you both settled into the shallow end of the pool, the water lapping gently around Riki’s waist as the sun dipped lower and lower. 

It was slowly cooling down, a slight breeze making the water seem warmer than the world outside. 

Riki leaned back against the edge, resting his arms on the concrete.

“So,” you turned to him, tilting your head slightly, “do you like Australia so far?”

He thought a moment about the question. He wanted to answer with a yes, but he knew that wasn’t the truth.

He didn’t know if he liked Australia. 

Sure, there wasn’t something he particularly disliked, but also nothing he had really come to like.

Riki opened his mouth, then closed it, then tried again. 

“I… don’t know,” he said finally. “I haven’t really… done anything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

He searched for the words in English, fishing around for something that made sense. “I… don’t know how to say it.”

You waited.

He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “I miss… my friends,” he said slowly. “My routine. I… always struggle with change.”

After a second, he continued. “I was just… hanging out with Jay.”

You nodded, giving him a small smile. Then you tilted your head again. “Is it weird? Having a stepdad and a stepbrother?”

“No,” he said after a moment. “I like… Jay.” He paused, then added, “But I don’t… like my stepmom. Or my stepsister.”

You made a small, understanding noise. “Oh,” you said softly. “Don’t you miss your dad?”

He thought about that for a second. It was complicated. Has always been complicated. His dad was…his dad after all, so he did love and miss him to some degree, but he still…didn’t.

“Not really,” he settled on, not wanting to go into more detail.

You just nodded again, only to grow silent for a second before smiling faintly. “I’m an only child,” you said. “I always dreamed of having a brother.”

He looked at you.

You shrugged, stretching your feet in the water. “I’m close enough to Jake that he actually counts as one.”

Riki huffed out a small laugh. “I thought… You two were a couple.”

You blinked, then laughed. “Oh, my god.”

He felt his face go hot. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “No, no, that’s… that’s actually kind of funny.”

He didn’t understand why it would be funny, so he hoped you would just elaborate on that.

You glanced at him, smiling. “We tried,” you said casually, like it was no big deal. “But we realised quickly it wasn’t a good idea.”

Riki blinked. “Oh.”

You grinned. “Yeah. Just… friends.”

A seagull flew over your heads, screeching loud enough to make Riki flinch at the sudden sound. 

With a sigh, you leaned back against the edge beside him, the water rippling slightly between you. “So,” you said, “you like Jay, but not your stepmom or stepsister.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

The two of you grew silent for a moment, the only sound coming from inside, his mother listening to one of her favourite LPs, the Japanese city pop so loud that he could hear the lyrics clearly even through the closed doors and windows. 

“You know what,” you pushed yourself off the edge and swam to the middle of the pool, where the water was deeper, before you turned around, grinning at him. “Let’s do another round before we go out.”

He hesitated for a second, then pushed off the edge too, swimming after you.

When he came to a stop just a few feet away from you, you looked up at him with a teasing grin. 

He realized belatedly that his feet were touching the floor while your arms were floating loosely at your sides, your feet were paddling in the water to keep you above the waterline. 

He straightened up, water dripping from his hair, his shoulders, his chest. “You’re so small.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I am not.”

“You are,” he chuckled, shaking his head, lowering down to your level. 

You splashed water on his face this time, the chlorine stinging his eyes slightly.

He blinked, wiping water from his face. “Hey.”

You were smiling, entirely unrepentant. “I’m not small.”

He splashed you back.

You yelped, pushing water away from your face. 

“Oh, it’s on.”

You tried to swim away, but he was quicker. He caught up to you easily, his longer legs giving him an advantage, and hovered just behind you.

“I can walk more fast than you swim,” he said, turning to face you with a grin.

You just laughed, and then you did something he didn’t expect: you hooked your arms around his neck and pulled him under.

The water surged over him, sudden and cold, and he came up a few seconds later, gasping, water dripping from his eyelashes.

You were laughing, completely breathless, just as drenched as he was, your hair now hanging down from your head, the strands almost brown now.

He stared at you for a second, then his hands shot forward, wrapping around your shoulders, and he tipped you back, trying to dunk you into the water again.

You laughed harder, gripping his wrists in a futile attempt to stop him before he could go through with it. The second he got your head under water again, your legs came around his waist, and he was again pulled down with you. 

He bent up, and when you came to a standstill, you dropped your legs but didn’t move backwards. Both of you were heaving, almost chest to chest, water lapping between you. You were still laughing, your hand pressing against his shoulder to stop him from moving closer.

He definitely saw the way your eyes raked over his upper body, the way your gaze flicked across his chest and shoulders before snapping back up to his face.

Your cheeks flushed, just slightly.

He didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you, his chest rising and falling, water dripping from his hair.

You were so close he could see the freckles on your nose, the way the light caught the streaks in your eyes, the way your hair clung to your cheeks.

And for a second, neither of you moved.

“I’m going to let you drown the next time you get scared of breathing," you rolled your eyes in faux annoyance.

He grinned. “Okay, sure.”

You looked at him, then at the water.

Then back at him.

“Let's call it a truce for today and get out of the water. I think we both spent enough time out here today,” and with that, you let go of his shoulder and swam backwards a few stripes before turning around.  

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Jake had a new favourite restaurant: Betty’s Burgers, a small diner just down the pier, where one of his friends worked. 

Riki was pretty sure that that very platonic girl friend was the reason why he was on the way to eat another hamburger and fries with extra mayo on the side. He had fallen in love with Mayonnaise here in Australia. It was so different from home, but so good, especially with those crispy and salty fries that Betty made. 

A bead of sweat ran down Riki's back, and he sighed. 

The heat had been unbearable the past couple of days, and being outside, the sun blazing onto his skin didn’t make things better. 

You were walking next to him, your shoulder brushing his every few steps.

He liked that, you being this close to him. 

He liked that you were this tall. He didn’t have to bend down when wanting to talk to you or when he hugged you. Sure, you were still a good bit smaller than him, but not as much as the girls back home…back in Korea. 

The thought made his stomach clench. 

Home. 

He wasn’t sure what home was at the moment. 

Even Jay didn’t know what to answer when he asked him. He shrugged and told Riki that Melmair will feel like home as soon as life had fallen into a rhythm, after he had found friends, started uni. 

Riki looked out at the water, his throat suddenly tight.

You were talking next to him, but he barely caught it.

“It’s actually really good,” you were saying, your voice lighter now. “Even if it might sound weird to you. We should try it sometimes, I am–” 

“How tall are you?” He interrupted you before he could stop himself.

You stopped, turning to look at him. “What?”

He gestured vaguely at you. “Your…height? How tall are you?”

You tilted your head, like you were trying to figure out why he was asking. “One point seven-five.”

“Over average,” you added after a second.

Riki nodded slowly. “Oh. That’s really tall for a girl.”

You looked at him, your expression unreadable.

“And?” you said.

He blinked. “Oh. Nothing.”

You stared at him for a second longer, then smirked. “You’re weird.”

He felt his face go hot. “I’m not.”

You nudged his arm lightly, still smiling. “You are.”

He just shrugged, and you went back to talking about toasties, having all of Riki's attention this time.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Jake led the way inside, Betty’s Burger already waving to his friend while Jay followed him, holding the door open for you.

Riki watched the way his cousin's face lit up when he caught a glimpse of the brunette girl, whom Jake had introduced as Cleo to him a few weeks back. He would have made fun of him if it weren’t for the similarity of their situations. Riki just hoped that he didn’t look as excited as Jake did whenever you were close to him. 

It was kinda embarrassing how he was talking to Cleo, his voice a little too loud, his hands moving too much. He looked like he was trying way too hard to be cool.

You laughed lowly behind Riki, and he turned his head slightly to see what was funny, only to realise that you were also watching Jake being hopeless. 

“Jake should just give up,” you whispered, your voice right next to his ear.

Riki felt his face get warm. "Give up?"

You chuckled, glancing at him. "She's like three years older than him. And she’s way out of his league. The boyfriends I know of were all on a supermodel level, and Jake is…Jake.” 

Riki's stomach dropped.

"Jake is pretty and charming," Riki said, the words coming out a little faster than he wanted. "And dating older is not problem if he likes it."

You looked at him, surprised. "Oh. I would never date someone younger."

Riki blinked. "Why?"

You shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Most younger guys are idiots. And not mature."

Riki frowned, trying to find the right translation for what you have just said, giving in before silence could develop between the two of you. "What is mature?"

“Mature?” You glanced at him, pursing your lips and humming. "It means… You think about other people. You don't just do whatever you want. You're responsible. Like a mom? Or a dad? Most women are a lot more mature than men their age, so it's more common to date older men."

Riki thought about that for a second.

Then he looked at you, trying to sound like he was joking. "So… am I also not mature?"

You chuckled before you brushed past him, following the other two to your usual table.

“I guess you can be, Riki,” you said, slowly nodding, still smiling. "I mean, you’re still young, right? At twenty, I was high at the beach if I wasn’t at work or at school, so it’s cool if you’re not super mature yet.”

Riki frowned at that. He didn’t think he was immature or irresponsible. He had loads of responsibilities and was very reliable.

“I prefer to date older, though," you added while you slid into the booth. “It’s just easier. They are usually a bit more upfront about what they want and feel more emotionally stable. Most of my friends who have boyfriends also like to date older.”

He nodded slowly, giving you a small smile, before sliding in next to you. 

You were older.

You were older, and he was younger, and you thought he was immature.

"Hey. I mean, it’s totally cool if you like older girls, right? It’s just my personal preference,” you reached out, nudging his arm lightly, your voice softer now. 

Riki scrunched his nose, grinning at you, doing his best to hide the hurt. “I’m not.” 

You studied him for a second, then smiled, small and careful. "Cool?"

“Yeah,” he nodded again. “Cool.” 

Nothing was cool. 

He didn’t like older girls or women or whatever. 

He had never liked someone older than him, aside from you. 

And he didn’t know what it was, why he was liking you the way he did, why he felt obsessed with you, wanting your attention, your time. 

Cleo left your booth after everyone had placed their order, the same one you had given her the last three times, and you leaned forward, nudging Jake. 

Riki used that opportunity and turned to his brother. 

"Is it weird that Cleo is older than Jake?" he asked, his voice low, having switched to Japanese so neither you nor Jake could understand what he was saying.

"Why would you think that?" Jay frowned, but lowered his voice as well.

Riki hesitated, then answered. "I don’t know. Y/N said it is not really a thing, that most younger guys aren't mature enough to date. And you know,” he paused for a second, “Jake is younger?”

Jay's eyes shot from Riki to you and back again, and then he was silent for a long second.

Riki pressed his lips together. He shouldn’t have asked that. He knew Jay wasn’t stupid; he probably put one and one together and knew that this wasn’t about Jake at all. 

His brother took a deep breath.

"It's not weird," he said carefully. "It's just… her personal preference. Maybe."

Riki frowned. "You think so?"

"Yeah," Jay said. "She just… doesn't like younger guys. It doesn't mean that it’s weird at all, Riki."

Riki looked down at the table.

"Don't you think it's weird for me to like her?" Riki asked quietly, the words coming out slower than he wanted.

Jay hummed, thinking for a second.

"No," he said finally. "Y/N is pretty and outgoing and fun. And maybe not what I thought you would go for, but she's great nonetheless."

Riki glanced at him, then smirked slightly. "It sounds like you have a crush on her."

Jay rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile on his face. "We both know that that won't happen." He leaned in slightly, his voice quieter. "But I would have Y/N all on my own if I wanted her."

Riki huffed out a quiet laugh. "Right."

Jay grinned, but then his expression softened again.

"Riki," he said. "You should try."

Riki shook his head. "She sees me as someone to babysit. I don't think she'll ever see me romantically."

Jay studied him for a second, then sighed.

"You're right," he said finally. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't try anyway. You are an amazing young man, Riki. And I am sure she knows that as well. Just…you know, get to know her better, give her the chance to get to know you better. Developing feelings and admitting to them takes time, especially if it’s something you don’t want to admit to yourself at first. Believe me, I'd know."

Riki didn't answer; he didn’t know what to say. 

Being gay, especially being gay in Korea, was something really scary. It was a dangerous thing to say out loud, to love loudly. 

Jay had to hide himself, had to hide who he loved, while Riki was here moping around because he was crushing on a slightly older woman. He would never get shunned because he loved, he would never have to fear being verbally or physically assaulted because he loved a woman. 

Jay couldn't just… like someone.

He couldn't just… try.

He had to be careful.

He had to hide.

He had to live with the fear that someone would find out.

Riki didn't have that.

He could like someone.

He could try.

He could fail.

But he could try.

And Jay couldn't.

It made him feel guilty.

And it made him feel angry.

“Thank you, Jay,” Riki said, looking directly into Jay’s eyes, trying to convey just with his face alone how much his brother trying to cheer him up meant to him.

Jay winked. “It’s alright. And just so you know. I think you’re not as hopeless as Jake. Y/N does seem interested in you.”

Riki opened his mouth, but you interrupted him before he could answer his brother. “Hey, that was my name, are you two talking shit about me?” 

He felt his face go hot in embarrassment. “We weren’t–I–”

“We were talking about how maybe he could try coming to the beach with us,” Jay interjected, kicking Riki's foot under the table. “He doesn’t look like a drowning dog while he is swimming anymore, so I thought he could come along?”

“Yes,” Riki nodded. “Maybe.” 

“Oh!” You lit up at that, turning to him, and Riki had to blink, while he tried to hide his surprise.

“For sure! Are you feeling up to going into the ocean?” You asked, bumping his shoulder. “I promise the three of us won’t let you drown!” 

Riki’s gaze flickered to Jay for a second, but his brother hit him again, harder this time, so he just nodded, croaking out a small. "Yeah." 

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Riki got up with Jay the next morning, but he didn’t go with him into the city.

He waited until Jay had left, until the front door clicked shut and the house was quiet again. 

The printed map of the city, with the bus stops written out in both English and Japanese, just in case, was almost glaring at him from his desk.

When he had gotten home from the diner yesterday, he had sat down and actually started unpacking the rest of his room, had done his best at tidying everything up and realised that he most likely needed another closet or something else to stuff the vast amount of clothing he apparently owned into. Using the sudden sprout of motivation, called immature and being someone who had to be babysat, made him also tackle the immense list of tasks he had to wrap up before the semester would start in two months. 

The first and most important part was to hand in his academic reports at the university. 

He still had to figure out if he had enough credits to join in on classes or if he had to start over. Considering he had already done four out of the six semesters he had to do for his bachelor's, he prayed that he could get his Korean courses and grades credited.

Riki took a deep breath and got up from his bed, his knees cracking under his weight. 

The bus ride felt longer than it was supposed to. 

The twenty-five minutes felt more like an hour when he finally heard the name of his stop, the map carefully folded within his hands.

The university was a lot bigger than he expected it to be. 

If he were honest, he didn’t know what to expect. His aunt had sent him leaflets for different universities all over Australia, but for Riki, there wasn’t really much of a choice. He wanted to stay with his family, so he only applied for the one in Melmair. 

Most of his professors had agreed to send letters of recommendation, and his university handled the rest, sending over most of his documents. All he had to do was take a written test to prove his level of English. He still wondered how he passed that one, seeing how much he was currently struggling with the language. But writing and reading were much easier than speaking. 

The building was modern, all brick and glass, with students still hanging around the campus despite summer break having started. 

He followed two girls who seemed to be around college student age into the first building.  Riki tried to keep his distance, to not seem like a creep, but at some point, he just gave up and stopped. It would be no use following them around if they were not going to the department of arts, which he was currently searching for.  The signs hung above him were in English, obviously, some of them with words he had simply never seen before. After a few minutes of mindlessly walking around, he found a map of the campus. Riki cheered to himself and came to a halt in front of it. Faculty of creative arts, building B.

He tried to memorise the map, the shapes of the buildings, their names, before turning around and moving in the opposite direction from where he came from. 

He found his department and the secretary’s office after a few wrong turns. Relief flooded him when he knocked on the door and heard a response coming from inside. 

The woman behind the desk looked up, smiling.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?”

He nodded, trying to make his English sound steady. “I need to… hand in my documents and sign something? I transferred from Korea?”

He reached into his bag and pulled out the folder, handing it to her.

She looked through it, then looked up at him. “What’s your name?”

“Riki,” he said. “Nishimura Riki.”

“Mr Nishimura,” she repeated, smiling at him. “What’s your major?”

“Dance?”

“Okay, let me take a look, and we’ll get it sorted.”

He smiled back at her, nodding slightly. 

“Take a seat, take a seat,” the lady gestured towards the chair in front of her desk, before she turned around and opened the door to one of the filing cabinets behind her.  The chair scraped along the floor when Riki pulled him out. He winced at the sound but sat down anyway, folding his hands over his lap, watching the secretary rummage through a folder. 

“Ah, look at that, yes, here it is,” she pulled out a few sheets of paper, putting them down onto the desk in front of him. “We are just missing your signature here,” she flipped the page, “and here, to confirm that you agree with taking the required courses within our program that are necessary to graduate. Your university in Korea did not have enough credits in a few subjects we focus more on.” 

Riki blinked at her for a second and opened his mouth, before closing it and nodding, humming out a “okay.”

She handed him a pen and gestured for him to sign the documents. 

Riki felt his face grow hot. He struggled a bit with understanding her accent from the get-go, but she had talked so quickly that most of it went over his head. “Could you…Could you repeat that? It was fast.” 

“Oh sure!” She looked back at the document, then back at him. “We just need you to say yes, that you don’t mind having to retake a few courses you might have done already.”

Riki nodded again and moved forward to sign. He paused for a second after he had done so, his hand automatically having signed the document with his Korean signature, so he just did his English signature next to it. 

“I’m sorry…it is Korean and English?", he said slowly. “That’s okay,” the secretary said, reaching for the papers, taking a look at his signatures. “Mr Nisimura, will you also be taking one of the English courses? We offer the course for international as well as transferring students to make sure you will understand your classes well.” 

“I-” Riki blinked, his face growing even hotter. “No? I don’t know? Is it good?” “Yes, I usually recommend, especially those who aren’t fluent yet, to visit one of them. There is one starting in two weeks. It is a four-week programme with classes starting at 8 am and going on until two. At the end, you will receive a language certificate,” she smiled apologetically at him before she opened one of the drawers of her desk, pulling out a colourful flyer and handing it to him. “If you’d like, I can get the documents ready to get you enrolled in it.”

Riki took the flyer and skimmed over the words, his eyes getting stuck at the price of the course. 

800 AUSD.

He knew his dad wouldn’t mind paying that, but Riki still felt like he should ask him before he agreed to be enrolled in the course. 

“Can I ask my parents?” Riki asked hesitantly. 

“Of course, of course!” She nodded enthusiastically and handed him his folder and a few additional sheets of paper. “Please just be sure to hand in your application as soon as possible.” 

“Okay.”

“Perfect, then we are finished here, Mr Nishimura,” the secretary gave him another dazzling smile, which Riki tried to return before he turned around and walked out as fast as he could without running.  

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Somehow, he couldn’t get himself to go home. 

He knew that enrolling in that course would be a pretty good idea, considering he was indeed struggling with English and nowhere near an academic level of speaking or understanding the language, but he still felt…stupid. 

When he first came to Korea, he was a middle school student, and he was thrown into classes right away, even though he wasn’t fluent in Korean either. But somehow that was much easier than this was right here. He had met Junwon and Sunoo; somehow, the two of them ‘adopted’ him, and suddenly he had two friends who were talking nonstop in Korean, helping him study and correct him. Riki suspected that the two of them were the sole reason why he picked up Korean as quickly as he did. Maybe it was also the similarity of the two languages. 

English was just…harder. The sounds were different, the grammar was just unnecessarily hard, and sometimes the way words were pronounced made absolutely no sense. 

Riki wandered off the main path, walking without really thinking, letting his feet take him around the campus.

He had found the cafeteria already, and just by the smell alone decided to bring food from home instead of eating here. He had also stumbled into your faculty, the department of Marine Biology. It was a nice building, next to the sea and with whales and other sea creatures painted along the walls. 

A smile made its way onto his face. He could see you studying here, with your weird sea urins.

…urchins.

Maybe that English course wasn’t a bad idea at all. 

Riki kept walking, passing a few more buildings, when he suddenly heard music. 

Very familiar music. 

He slowed when he realised that he was standing in front of the building he would most likely spend a lot of time in as soon as the semester started again.

The windows to the dance studio were wide open, and the music was loud enough to be heard across the whole yard. 

He chuckled and moved closer, so he could see inside. 

A guy was dancing inside, his body moving in the rhythm to ‘Bad’. His movements were precise and powerful, very similar to Riki’s style. 

He nodded along to the beat, honestly impressed. 

Riki himself had studied the choreography in his parents' living room, pushing their rug and sofa out of the way to make space in front of the TV. His mom had scolded him for scratching up the floor, but Riki had been careful, so her claims were unfounded, and she just let him do his thing. 

He had been yearning to dance properly since he came here, and now there it was, right in front of him.

Riki could barely feel his feet before he was already moving towards the door to the studio, pushing it open.

The studio was bright and empty except for the guy in the middle of the floor, moving through the choreography. Sweat clung to his shirt, his hair damp at the temples, but his movements were sharp, clean, and confident.

Riki stopped just inside the door.

He watched for a few seconds, completely pulled in.

When the song ended, the other guy turned and finally noticed him.

“That was good,” he said immediately, and the smile on his face was honest. “Really good.”

The guy looked at him, a little surprised, then smiled back.

“Thanks,” he said, shaking out his sweaty hair.

Riki nodded once. “No, seriously. Your rhythm is good. Very good.”

That earned him a wider grin.

The guy tilted his head. “You dance?”

“Yeah,” Riki mirrored his grin.

That seemed to catch the guy’s attention.

Riki hooked a thumb toward himself. “I’m Riki. I’m a transfer student. I’m in Major Bachelor of Creative Arts in Dancing.”

The other guy blinked.

Then his face changed.

“Oh,” he said, pointing at him a little. “You’re the guy Y/N told me about.”

Riki paused for half a second, then smiled despite himself. “She did?”

“Yeah,” the guy said, clearly amused now. “Nice to meet you. I’m James.”

Riki gave a small nod. “Nice to meet you.”

James looked him over again. “You know ‘Bad’?”

“Yes,” Riki said, and there was no hesitation in it. “I can do the dance full…ly?”

James gestured at the floor. “Let’s go then, Riki, dude Y/N is teaching you how to swim.”

Riki let out a snort at that, dropping his bag next to the entrance. “She told you that?” 

“Hell yeah,” James nodded, fanning himself with his shirt. “She was actually so excited to finally put her life guard course to good use when you almost drowned after she told you to breathe.”

“Oh my god,” Riki felt his face grow warm, and he clicked his tongue in embarrassment. “She start–no starteleded?– me?”

“Startled,” James corrected him. 

“Thanks,” Riki nodded. “She startled me.” 

“And then had to save you from drowning in water that wasn’t even as high as an elementary school kid is tall. Nice one, Riki,” James snorted, but moved towards the boom box standing under one of the opened windows. “Can you do it from top to bottom?”

“Top to bottom?” 

“Like from the beginning to the end?” James explained. 

Riki nodded. “Yeah. I can do bottom to top.” 

“Top to bottom.”

“Whatever,” Riki rolled his eyes and exhaled. “I hate English.” “Oh yeah, it’s shit,” the other agreed, squatting down to rewind the tape in the boom box. “One of my friends, JJ–he is also in this major, but a year under me, or us? Whatever– he came here when we were teens, and he has been struggling so badly back then.”

“I’m doing a…english summer course,” Riki sighed. “Next week?”

“Oh man, school during summer. I’m so sorry,” James snorted again. 

“It’s okay. I have to study,” Riki shrugged and walked further into the studio. 

James pressed play, and the first beats of bad vibrated through the room. 

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

The sand under Riki’s feet was hot, almost painfully so, but he couldn’t get himself to step into the water. 

The sun was high, the sky clear, the water turning a deep, bright blue under the light. 

You were sitting in the shallow water, legs stretched out in front of you, the tide lapping at your thighs. 

The waves were bigger here than in the pool, rolling in with a steady rhythm that made Riki feel uneasy just watching them.

"Come on," you said, smiling, looking up at him when he hesitated at the edge of the water. "You've been swimming in the pool for two weeks. You're good enough now to try the ocean."

Riki didn't move; he watched a few of the surfers further in, how they fell and resurfaced.

"I don't know," he said finally.

You tilted your head, still smiling. "Yes, you do."

He shook his head. "No."

You stood up, brushing sand off your legs, and walked over to him. "I'm gonna be there with you," you said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "I won't let you drown."

He looked at you, then at the water, then back at you.

"I know," he said quietly.

You nudged his arm lightly, taking a step back towards the water, holding both hands out for him to grab. "Then come on.”

Riki hesitated for a second longer before he took your hands and let you slowly pull him towards the water.

He felt stupid for being as afraid of the ocean as he was; he had spent his whole childhood living on an island for fucks sake. But he had heard and seen too many horror stories of people, young and old, succumbing to the force the ocean had within it.

The first wave moved over his shins, and goosebumps spread across his whole body. His hands gripped yours more tightly. 

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, moving backwards slowly. "You're good.” 

Riki pressed his lips onto each other but let you guide him deeper, until the water came up to almost his knees. It was much colder than he expected it to be. 

“Do you want to sit down and get used to the waves?” You asked, squeezing his hands for a second. 

“Yeah,” Riki mumbled, and you pulled him down.

The waves lapping at your waists, not even touching his ribs yet.

He watched the way the water moved, the way the waves rolled in and out. 

He felt ridiculous sitting there, but he didn't want to move further in. This was already as bad as it could get; it didn't matter that he knew how to swim now. 

You glanced at him, then at the water. "You’re doing well," you said. "Just… let it happen."

He nodded and tried his best to relax.

But his body didn’t want to let go of the tension.

It was getting embarrassing.

He opened his mouth to say something, to tell you he wanted to move, to tell you he wanted to go back to the shore.

But before he could do that, a wave knocked him out.

It wasn't big, but it was enough to knock him off balance. He went under for a second or so, the water surging over him, the cold hitting him all at once.

He panicked. For a second, he didn’t know what to do; water was stinging his eyes, filling his ears and nose. He quickly got up, his feet finding the sand, and when he heaved himself upwards. Your hand shot forward, pulling him up with you as he got up on his own.

He reached for you, grabbing your shoulder for stability, heaving. “Shit.”

“You’re alright. It’s fine. Nothing happened,” he felt your fingers on his face, brushing his drenched hair out of his face. 

He tried to blink at you, but his eyes were still stinging from the salt. 

You took a step closer, one of your hands now wrapping around his biceps. 

It was only a moment later that he realised how close they were.

His chest was almost pressed to yours, his arm still wrapped around your shoulder, and he could feel the warmth of your body through the wet fabric of your swimsuit. Your hand was still on his face, brushing water from his cheeks, and he could feel the heat of your palm against his skin.

Riki moved backwards, pulling you out of the water with him.

You said nothing for a second, just letting him calm down before you gave him a soft smile. 

"Okay," you said, your voice soft. "That was a bad demonstration of the ocean not being scary."

He chuckled dryly, still gripping your shoulder. "Yeah."

You smiled, your thumb still brushing water from his cheek. "I'm sorry."

He didn't say anything.

He just moved towards the beach, not letting go of your shoulders.

He felt ridiculous.

He felt like a kid.

He felt scared.

But he also couldn’t let go of your shoulder until he was back on land.

When he deemed the two of you safe, he let go of your shoulder, wiping the water from his eyes and face, trying to get his racing heart to calm down. 

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

The two of you ended up going to his house, which was closer to the beach than yours, and you would have come over later anyway. You, Jay, Jake and Riki wanted to watch a movie today, Jake begging you to finally watch Village in the Mist. His brother had immediately agreed, and Riki didn’t really care; he had seen the movie in the cinema and then plenty of times after Jay had bought the VHS. He was just wondering why you agreed. The movie was in Korean, and as far as he knew, you couldn’t understand Korean.

The Rubik's Cube he had been playing with since you had started to shower had a few of its colourful stickers lifting off from the plastic. He would have to buy a new one soon, but he didn’t know what else to do while he waited for his turn. 

„Hey Riki!“ Your voice startled him. „Could I borrow pants and a shirt from you? I don’t wanna wear a dress later.“

„Oh,“ he got up, looking around his room for a second before he got going. „Yes! I‘ll bring you some.“

He rummaged around his closet, searching for something that would fit you and then decided that you probably wouldn’t care. „Is long pants okay?“

„Sure thing!“ your voice drifted through the closed door. 

The pants he ended up choosing were some he had worn so many times, the black colour had faded to a dark sort of grey from being washed one too many times. They were soft and a bit too short for Riki’s liking now, but he had loved them when he was younger, so he couldn’t get himself to leave them in Korea. 

He knocked on the door to the bathroom, and it opened a few seconds later. Your hair was still dripping wet, and the towel he had given you was wrapped tightly around your upper body, stopping just over the swell of your breast, revealing enough that he could see the lighter skin that the sun rarely got to touch. He quickly averted his gaze and focused on your face, your hair. 

“Thanks,” you said, and he could feel his smile widening.

“No problem.” He handed you the clothes, his fingers brushing yours on purpose. “Do you need a hair dryer? Your hair is very full of…water? There is a word for that,” he frowned. “Its ‘wet’ in Korean, but I don’t remember the English word.”

You nodded and scrunched your nose. “Wet?” 

“Wet,” Riki repeated and watched droplets falling from your hair against your skin and the tiles in the bathroom. “Your hair is wet. So do you need hair dryer?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll let it air dry. Do you have gel, though?” You scrunched your hair slightly, and your usually so bouncy curls just straightened out again. 

“Gel?” He tilted his head. “Like hair gel?”

You nodded, and he hummed. “Yes. It smells weird.” 

“That’s fine,” you grinned at him and opened the door a bit further to let him into the room. The bathroom was small, steam hanging in the air. He never understood how some people could take hot showers even in the summer, but you apparently liked it. Riki opened the middle drawer of the bathroom cabinet, rummaging to find Jay’s hair gel. He rarely styled his own hair at the moment, mostly leaving it flopping around his face, or stealing one of his mom's headbands when it was annoying him. 

“Here,” he handed you the tube and let you go to the mirror again. 

“Thank you!” 

Instead of walking out and leaving you to do your thing, he just stayed and watched your reflection work the gel into your hair. Your fingers worked almost methodically, squeezing gel out of the tube and then spreading it throughout one part of your curls, scrunching it and recurling singular stands.

He frowned a bit. “Isn’t your hair going to turn hard?” 

You glanced at him in the mirror. “Not really. It’ll be scrunched out later.”

He stepped closer, just enough to invade your space without actually touching you. His eyes followed the way your fingers moved through your hair, then dropped to your neck, then back up to your eyes. Before his head could catch up with what his hands were doing, he had already reached forward, taking one of the wet stands in between his own fingers. He was careful, slow, twirling it around his finger with deliberate tenderness.

Your eyes followed the movement in the mirror, but you didn’t do anything to stop him.

“It feels weird,” he mumbled, taking another stand, your hair wet and slimy at the same time. It felt heavy against his fingers.

“Yeah,” you agreed and resumed styling the other side of your hair. 

Riki slightly tugged on your hair, wanting to see your reaction. 

Your eyes narrowed a bit and flickered from your hands back to his reflection. “Riki, if you do that again, I will let you drown the next time a wave hits you.”

He pulled the strand again, then grinned like a cat that had just caught a bird. “You like me too much to do that.”

You turned around and leaned your hip against the sink, crossing your arms, raising your eyebrows. “Watch me, Park.”

He twirled the strand back into a curl, letting it fall against your bare shoulder, his knuckles grazing your skin.

“Nishimura,” he corrected, his voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “My last name is Nishimura.”

You looked up at him, seemingly confused at that. “You didn’t take Jay’s dad’s family name?”

“No.” He took another strand, his fingers lingering near your neck. “I wanted to keep my dad’s.”

“Nishimura Riki,” you repeated his full name, still looking up at him, and Riki felt bold enough to get even closer to you, almost caging you against the sink.

“Yeah,” he nodded and crooked his head to the side. “My Korean name is Oh Cheol-soo. But I really hate that name.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, your eyes flicking to the side, as if you were thinking about something. “Jake is Jaeyun, right? Why didn’t you choose one that was closer to your original name?”

Riki shrugged. “My mom chose it for me.”

“Oh, well then, why didn’t she?”

“My dad chose my Japanese name,” Riki shrugged. “My parents weren’t on good terms when they got separated. I think she wanted to finally give her only son a name she chose, you know?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to go by Cheol-soo here in Australia? Riki Nishimura is a mouthful,” your gaze followed his finger as he wrapped strand after strand around them. 

He grinned and pulled on one of them when he noticed what you had said. “Oh yeah, it is.”

You laughed and hit his chest lightly, but he caught your wrist before you could pull away, holding it there for a second too long. His thumb brushed over your pulse point, slow and deliberate.

“How the hell do you know dick jokes but forget how to use proper grammar sometimes?” you asked. “What’s wrong with you?”

He only gave you a crooked, infuriating grin and shrugged again.

“I’m just built fun,” he said, then leaned in a little closer. 

You blinked.

His fingers were still on your wrist, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin.

“And you,” he added, eyes flicking to your lips and back up to your eyes, “are just too old to be fun, apparently.”

You exhaled with an exhausted laugh and shook your head. “Get your head out of the gutter, Nishimura. I might be older, but I’m still capable of being fun.”

“Right,” Riki winked at you and pulled back, letting your hair fall against your shoulder. “I’ll let you alone. Call me when you’re done.” 

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

The stairs creaked under his weight when Riki walked downstairs after his shower. You had already made your way downstairs, standing in the kitchen together with Jake and Riki's mother, while Jay was sitting on the sofa, his head resting on the backrest with his eyes closed. Riki almost pounced on his older brother, genuinely excited to see him. 

It was weird how empty the house felt with his parents and his brother at work. Riki hated how he had missed Jay three days in a row, sleeping when Jay left and coming home from the dance studio or hanging out with James and his group of friends when Jay was already sleeping. He had almost yearned to see his brother, to tell him about his day, to tell him how he was finally having fun.

Jay groaned when Riki landed on him. “Riki, you are heavy.” 

“Am not,” he retorted, but let go of Jay, only to box into his side. “I’m just excited to see you, and you don’t even appreciate my love.” 

“I appreciate your love if it doesn’t include you throwing yourself onto my poor, fragile body,” Jay huffed, but a smile grew on his face while he pushed at Riki’s arm. He gave up after a second and let Riki squeeze himself next to him on the sofa, half on top of him, half dangling off the armrest. “You had a good day?”

“No,” Riki answered, both of them switching to English. “I got drowned by a wave and will never get close to the ocean again.” 

“You didn’t drown, Riki.” Your voice drifted in from the kitchen, and you appeared behind the sofa, a bowl of popcorn in your hands, while Jake carried a pitcher of what looked like very cloudy lemonade. 

“I did,” Riki assured, raising his eyebrows. “She convinced me to try swimming in the ocean, and a wave came and drowned me.” 

“We were sitting in the shallow end, and there was one, one, wave with a bit more force, and Riki lost balance for like a second,” you clarified, when you saw Jay’s questioning facial expression. “I promise, Jay, I didn’t let your baby brother drown.” 

Jake set down the pitcher and let himself drop onto Riki in a very similar fashion to how he had done with his brother before. “Move Riki, if you didn’t drown, that means I get a sofa space, and you go on the floor. I actually had to work today. I’m exhausted.”

“Hey, I had English classes, I also exhausted. Am. I am also exhausted!” Riki tried his best to shove Jake off him, but his cousin just wedged himself in between him and his brother. 

“I don’t care, go to the floor,” Jake insisted. 

“Sit on the floor, Riki,” Jay said in Korean. “She is also gonna sit on the floor.” 

His head shot up, and Riki caught his brother's eye. “What?”

“Actually, no, stay here,” Jake tried to get up from the sofa. “I do not want to see you hopelessly flirting with Y/N all evening.” 

Riki felt heat rush to his face, and he blinked at Jake. “I’m not-”

“Jake, shut up.” Jay hit his cousin's head and pulled him closer, holding him so Riki could escape to the floor. 

“With how much you’re talking in Korean, I should be taking a Korean course instead of Riki doing the English one,” you said, your hands on your hips while you watched the three of them wrangle around on the sofa. 

“Yes!” Riki said and let himself drop to the floor, sitting between his brother's legs. “Korean is easy.” 

“It’s not,” Jake shook his head, but let Riki take the space on the floor. “It’s shit to learn.” 

“You, Jaehyun Sim,” you pointed at him, “should not be saying that. Your parents only talk to you in Korean, and you went to a Korean church, so it’s not shit for you to learn if you know most of the stuff.”

Jake shrugged. “It’s still shit.”

“Whatever,” you shrugged and let yourself drop to the floor next to Riki, sitting similarly to him, in between Jake's legs.

Riki always thought it was so interesting how the two of you were this close, but weren’t dating. Jake had told him that it was just like this, that the two of you were friends since day one and how he loved you in the way he loved his brother. Riki had just nodded and changed the topic, hoping Jake didn’t catch on.

“Riki,” Jay nudged his head with his knee. “Can you put in the tape?”

He groaned but got up, searching for the VHS tape before pushing it into the TV and rewinding it back, before hitting play. 

Riki made himself comfortable between Jay’s legs, Jay’s hands automatically finding their way into his hair out of habit, and you seemed to do the same, but instead of watching the TV, you turned towards him, opening a book he hadn’t noticed before. 

“Are you going to read?” he tilted his head at you.

You pursed your lips. “I wanted to spend time with Jake, and he wanted to spend time with the two of you watching a ‘very cool movie’ that I won’t understand, so yeah, I’m gonna read.”

Riki just nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. 

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Around the middle of the movie, his stomach gave a quiet but very audible rumble. He pressed his hand against it, willing the grumbling to stop, but it didn’t help, and a minute later the sound came again.

You looked up from your book. “Are you hungry?” 

“Yeah, a bit,” Riki hummed. 

“Do you wanna cook something? We only ate fries at the beach,” you put your book down, giving him all his attention. 

“Not really?” Riki pursed his lips and leaned back, nudging Jay’s thigh with his head. “Hyung, do we still have sushi?” 

“Sushi?” Jay asked. “I think, yeah?”

“Okay, cool,” Riki shrugged and nodded at you. “Do you want sushi?”

“Sure?”

“Okay,” he got up, using Jay to push himself up, and lending you a hand to pull you up. “Come on, then.”

You followed him into the kitchen, the house quiet now except for the faint sound of the movie drifting from the living room.

Riki opened the fridge, scanning the insides for the sushi he knew his mom had made for dinner yesterday. He found the container buried underneath an unhealthy amount of cream cheese, which he decided not to question.

“Did you eat sushi before?” He asked while he cracked the lid open, peering inside the box. 

“I don’t know,” you said, settling against the counter behind him, watching him as he unboxed the uncut rolls. “I think I ate something similar at Jake’s? His mom packed kimpap for school a lot. Is it similar?”

Riki hummed and nodded, stepping beside you to get a cutting board and a knife. 

“Gimbap,” he corrected your pronunciation and cut into the first roll. The seaweed was a bit soft, now that it had been wrapped around the rice for hours. “It’s the Korean version? Maybe? Sushi is fish and gimbap with meat, and eggs and vegetables.” 

“Oh,” you shrugged. “I don’t really like the green thing on the outside, or at least as a child I didn't, and I gotta be honest, I haven't eaten it in a while.”

“Do you want to try now?” Riki asked, holding a piece he just cut up for you. 

You nodded and reached forward, taking it from his fingers and putting it into your mouth. He watched you chew and popped the end of the roll into his mouth. 

You shrugged and hummed. “I’m not sure if I like it.” 

“Wait,” Riki turned around to the fridge, pulling out soy sauce and wasabi. “Try together.” 

“Try it together,” you repeated the sentence, but obediently did as told, blinking rapidly, your face scrunching together as soon as you chewed it once. “Fuck”

Riki belatedly realised that he had given you the amount of wasabi he liked, which might have been a lot for you if you’d never had it before. “Is it spicy?”

“Yeah?” You nodded, rubbing your nose. “Okay, I think I’ll stick to the normal one.” 

“I’m sorry,” Riki apologised and handed you another piece.

You sniffed and shook your head. “It’s fine. I’m just horrible with spice. Your aunt always cooks a very, very mild version of whatever dish she’s making for me.”

Riki laughed at that and gave you another piece, before plopping one into his own mouth.  

You leaned back into the counter, holding a hand in front of your mouth while you yawned. Your hair caught his attention. It was different now, crunchy from the gel, stiff where it had been soft and wet before.

His fingers twitched. He wanted to touch it again.

“What’s the movie about?” you asked, leaning back on your hands.

Riki shrugged, taking your dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. “It’s about a village that gets fog, and people start disappearing. Some ghosts, some weird stuff.”

You nodded, watching him. “Have you seen it before?”

“Yeah,” he crossed the room again, settling against the counter, so he could look at you. “Many times. With my friends. With my brother.” 

“Do you like it?” Your eyes stayed on him, mustering his figure. 

“It’s okay,” Riki made a ‘so-so’ gesture with his hand. “Is your hair dry now?”

“My hair?” You asked, surprised, one of your hands wandering to your hair, as if you had to check if there was still any moisture within the strands. “Almost?”

He reached forward, his fingers finding a strand of your hair. He curled it around his index finger slowly, watching your reaction, waiting to see if you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

The strand was crunchy now, stiff from the gel, and he could feel it clearly against his skin. He gently tugged on it, watching as your hair jumped back to a curl. “It’s hard now.” 

“A bit,” you said, scrunching your nose. “It’s gonna be scrunched out later. Then it’ll be fluffy.”

He curled the strand around his finger again, slower, deliberate. “I’ve never seen hair like this before. In Asia.”

His eyes were on your face, watching the way your lips moved, the way your gaze flicked to him and then away. “Do you like it?”

He pulled the strand slightly again, letting it bounce to a curl, before straightening it again. “Very much.”

You sighed, but there was a smile tugging at your mouth. “I wanted to get a perm soon. I really like the fluffy hair. But it would damage it even more. My hair is already in a bad shape from all the sun and the salt water.”

He pursed his lips, his fingers stopping in your hair. “Then don’t. You’re already pretty.”

You clicked your tongue, narrowing your eyes at him. “Are you flirting with me?”

He pretended not to know the word, tilting his head like he was genuinely confused. “Flirting? What’s that?”

You opened your mouth, before closing it again, leaning forward a bit, coming closer to him. “Well, Nisihmura,” you said, like you were about to explain something obvious. “It’s when someone is being all suggestive and annoying on purpose because they want attention.”

He hummed, slow and teasing, like he was really thinking about it. Then his mouth curved.

“Ah,” he said. “Then yes.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

“Yes, I am flirting. Thank you for noticing.”

You looked almost scandalised, but there was amusement in your eyes. “That’s too sad for you, honestly.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Why?”

“Because your tries are useless.”

He put a hand to his chest as if you had wounded him. “Useless?”

You nodded, looking far too pleased with yourself. “I’m not dating younger.”

He blinked once, then leaned a little closer, just to annoy you. “Oh? Are you sure?”

You didn’t move away.

Instead, you leaned forward too, your voice dropping as you looked right at him.

“Yeah, Nishimura Riki. I am.”

The way you said his full name made something in his chest flip, stupid and warm and way too fast.

Then you leaned back, turning away from him.

He stared after you for a second, a small exasperated laugh escaping him. 

You were halfway out of the kitchen when you paused in the doorway, turned back, and looked at him over your shoulder.

“Are you coming?”

He grinned immediately, slipping off the counter.

“Obviously.”

In the living room, the two of you settled back onto the floor, but this time you were closer than before, close enough that Riki could feel the warmth of you even without touching. You rested your head against Jake’s leg in a similar fashion as he was to Jay’s, opening up your book again. 

Riki watched you.

He didn’t even try to hide it. 

He just stared at the way your hair caught the light, the way your fingers moved over the pages, the way you kept glancing up at the screen even while you read.

Jay nudged his head, breaking his focus.

“Creepy,” he muttered in Korean, voice low.

Riki just shrugged, lips still curved, and finally looked away from you. He was pretty sure that you were not so sure about what you had said before, considering the small smile on your face. 

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Riki’s backpack felt heavier than it usually did. His feet felt like they were made out of concrete, every step requiring more energy than usual. He was looking forward to falling into his bed, sleeping for a couple of hours and then annoying Jay into cooking curry for him. James had convinced him to go to the gym yesterday, and Riki might have overdone it a bit, his body sore in places he didn’t know he had muscles.

He was halfway home when he spotted you sitting on his front porch.

You were tucked into the shade, one leg bent, a magazine open in your lap like you had been waiting there for a while. He slowed down, then stopped completely, eyebrows lifting as he looked at you.

“What are you doing here?”

You glanced up, not seeming half as surprised as he was. 

“Riki!” Your face lit up. “You got picked to go grocery shopping with me.”

He blinked. “I did?”

You nodded like this was the most obvious thing in the world, then folded the magazine shut and stood, holding it under one arm. “My mom’s birthday is tomorrow, so I’m in charge of groceries. Dad won’t let me cook, and Mom has very specific ideas for the decorations, so I’m the official shopper.”

Riki stared at you for a second, trying to take in what you just said. He was aware that your mother was going to celebrate her birthday, but he didn’t understand why he was involved. 

“And I’m… helping?”

You hesitated just a second, pressing your lips onto each other, your gaze flipping to the side for a second before you gave him a look that was almost shy. “I knew you were free, and we haven’t had time to hang out for like two weeks. So, I was wondering–”,  you shrugged, pretending like he couldn’t see your cheeks flush slightly. “if you wanna… come along?”

He felt his mouth twitch. 

Right, his tries were useless. 

It wasn’t a coincidence that the two of you hadn’t seen each other; he wanted to see if his feelings were wronging him, if you were really uninterested, or if it was like Jay said, just a hard pill to swallow that you were having a more or less…unconventional crush. 

“Sure,” he said slowly, nodding.

You looked relieved, and he only grinned wider at that. “Give me a second, I’ll drop my bag inside.”

“Okay, yeah, do that,” you bit your lower lip and smiled,d and Riki had to physically stop himself from cooing. He didn’t know where his sudden boldness came from but he loved it, the way you seemed to finally carve in.

After getting rid of his bag and changing into shoes that did not reek from sweat, after dancing in them for hours, he followed you towards your car.

“Oh no,” he said, frowning with exaggerated suspicion as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Do I have to fear for my life now?”

You shot him a glance. “I am a very reliable driver.”

“Sure,” he said, reaching for the grab handle and holding on with mock seriousness. “Whatever you say, Y/N.”

You started the car, and the two of you pulled out of the driveway with the afternoon sun warm through the windshield.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Riki’s new favourite thing was going to be watching you drive. 

You were slightly bobbing your head with the rhythm of the music coming from the radio, your hair flying around your face with the wind, one of your hands loose on the wheel as you glanced at him. 

“How are your English classes?” you asked, seeming genuinely curious. It had been almost a full three weeks since his classes started, and he had to admit that they were a lot more useful than he had originally thought they were going to be. He actually enjoyed the routine, going to class, meeting with James and JJ and the rest of their friends. It felt good, as if he finally started to find his place here.  

“Good?” He tilted his head. “They’re really helpful.”

You nodded, smiling. “Your English does sound a lot better.”

“Man, don’t overexaggerate.”

“I’m not!” You sounded genuinely offended. “Look, you’re just doing the grammar more naturally now. Which is so nice.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. He did, and he was very pleased with himself that he did, and hearing that you’ve noticed as well made something like pride swell up in his chest. 

Before he could say anything else, maybe even thank you, you gasped and startled him, your hand almost darting forward, turning the volume up. Riki recognised the familiar melody of your favourite song.

“The Beach Boys!” You exclaimed excitedly, and your voice immediately joined in.

Riki grinned. He had listened to this song so much that he knew the lyrics by heart. He sang along with you, hitting the harmonies on “Surfing, U.S.A.”, not taking his eyes off you. It was as if he was hypnotised, enthralled to just take you in whenever he had the chance to. He knew he was fully and totally infuriated by you, and it should be worrying him, but he also didn’t care. He loved this, being around you, making you laugh, teasing you, blatantly and shamelessly flirting with you. 

You were still singing when he suddenly noticed something, laughing before he grinned at you. “You’re surfing Australia.”

“Yeah,” you said, not even pausing. “And I have a blond updo.”

His eyes flicked to your hair for a second. “I like it.”

You laughed, a little amused, and then it clicked. “I know you like my hair, you told me so.”

He didn’t even try to deny it and shrugged. “It is pretty.”

Your smirk widened. “You’ve mentioned that.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and easy. “Because it is pretty. I love the blond, it fits you.”

You rolled your eyes, but it seemed almost affectionate. “It’s just blonde because I’m in the sun and in salt water a lot. My natural hair is a lot darker.”

He didn’t stop looking at you. He was just watching, the way your hair caught the light, the way your mouth moved when you spoke, the way you kept glancing at him even when you were trying to focus on the road.

“Stop staring,” you said, though there was no real heat in it.

He turned more toward her, crossing his arms on the seat. “Why should I? I’m trying to imagine you with dark hair.”

You laughed in disbelief, but there was a smile on your face. “You’re risking me driving us into a ditch by accident. You’re distracting me.”

He leaned closer, putting his arm on the middle console, his voice dropping to something softer, more deliberate. “Oh, do I distract you, Y/N?”

“Yeah,” you said, and you pushed his face away with one hand, still laughing.

He leaned back again, grinning wickedly at you.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

The grocery store was a lot colder than it was in your car, and Riki had to suppress a shudder as you walked down the refrigerated section.

He was pushing the trolley, leaning onto his forearms, following you around. The dress you were wearing gave him a good view of the top part of your tattoo. He felt a bit like a creep staring at it, but he also couldn’t stop; his fingers had been itching to trace the curved lines, the small flourishes that ran along your spine. Every time he saw it, he couldn’t take his eyes off it. 

You were scanning the shelves, murmuring the names of things as you checked them off, your finger tapping the paper as you moved from item to item. “Riki, do you think we should just get one more can?” Your voice snapped him out of his daydreams as you held up a can of tomatoes. “I mean, three should be enough, but just in case?” He blinked at you. “What?” “For the layered taco salad. Do you think three cans are enough? We’re making a huge batch after all,” your voice trailed off as you read over the list in your hand again. “Maybe,” Riki shrugged and came closer to you, peeking over your shoulder to pretend to be helpful, but the handwriting of your mother looked like chicken scratch to him and even if he wanted to, he couldn’t read what was written there. “How many bowls will we make?” “Three? Four?” You glanced up, pursing your lips. “I don’t know.” “Okay, well four bowls,” Riki reached over your shoulder to grab another can, “four cans.” You hummed and shrugged. “Then we should get another can of beans. Can you go and grab one?” His eyes flickered to the already full cart, searching for the cans of beans you had already put in there before nodding and walking down the aisle to grab another one. You kept moving, and he kept following you, always a half-step behind. After a while, you came to a halt in front of the snack display and even before you could reach for anything, Riki had already tossed three bags of his favourite chips, tossing them onto the never-ending pile in your cart. 

When you turned around, a look of surprise on your face he just shrugged. “They are my favorite.” 

“Well, but shouldn’t we get some variation?” You grabbed a pack of onions and sour cream. “Maybe we should also get those. They are popular, right?” Riki wrinkled his nose. He had tried those once and never again, the taste being disgusting enough that he had to get a chaser afterwards. “No,” he said, reaching past you for another packet of salted chips. “This one’s better.”

You frowned. “But this is popular, too.” Riki just shook his head, dropping the pack he was holding before wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him and away from the shelf. He was honestly a bit surprised at how easy it was, how you just let him do it and didn’t stop him or make any indications of pulling away. “Riki,” you rolled your eyes. “Not everyone has the same taste as you.” “Yeah,” he said, grinning. “But I’m right. Everyone would hate it.” “They would not. And you’re not right.” “I am.” “No.” “Yes.” You shoved his chest lightly. “Dick.” “I do have a dick, yeah,” he said, and his grin grew even bigger on his face. 

You rolled your eyes again, but you didn’t push him away, pushing the cart while his arm stayed wrapped around your shoulder. It was a bit awkward, but he wouldn’t dream of moving away.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

The next day, Riki came over to help with the preparations for the party. He didn’t have much of a choice, his mom waking both Jay and him at the crack of dawn, informing them that they would be helping your mom. Not that Riki was complaining. Your mom had greeted the three of them enthusiastically and immediately gave everyone a respective task. Riki had been chosen to help prepare the taco salad, together with no one else but you. The kitchen was already a little chaotic when he got there. Bowls were all over the place, something was shimmering on the oven, and you were standing at the counter, dumping a can of beans into a sieve over the sink. He stopped in his tracks. Your hair was straight. The stands were longer than usual, coming down to your waist, curling up slightly at the bottom. It was swaying with the rhythm of your body. Riki realised belatedly that you were dancing and singing along to the music coming from the living room. He shook his head and came up behind you, doing his best to walk as quietly as possible. 

“Those look disgusting,” Riki said close to your ear. You flinched, almost dropping the sieve, your eyes widened when you turned around. “Riki!” “Hi,” he grinned like a cat, tilting his head to the side. “You good, Y/N?” “I-” you blinked at him, before swallowing and shaking your head, looking back at your hands. “Yeah, I am good. What about you?” “Yeah, also good, even better now that I’m here,” he hummed, his eyes not leaving your figure even as he settled against the counter next to you. “How’s your experiment going? Everything still alive?” You glanced up from the sink, giving the beans one last shake. “Everything is still alive and looking great. Pass me that bowl?” Riki hummed and reached behind him, passing you the bowl. You moved to unceremoniously dump the contents of the sieve inside. “I thought the anemones would react more strongly to the chemicals, but they didn’t, and they were doing well,” you said, already moving to the next can, popping it open with practised ease. “But then I checked the pH levels, and they were off, like, way off, so I had to recalibrate everything.” “Is it an issue for your thesis?” Riki asked, frowning slightly. You had been stressing over the experiment for weeks now, not receiving the results you anticipated and redoing it twice already. He felt bad for you, and at the same time, he felt a little bit stupid for only having to worry about his English course, but he had come to the conclusion that he hated your job, and Jake’s and Jay’s. He hated being in offices or having to do research. Riki belonged in the studio, on the stage, dancing, singing, performing. It was what made him…him. You shrugged and dumped the can into the sieve, letting the water drip down. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll see.” He passed you the second bowl before you could even ask, setting it down in front of you. 

“I’m a bit worried about the coral samples,” you continued, “they were supposed to show a decrease in growth rate, but they didn’t, so I think the chemical concentration was too low, or maybe the water temp was too stable, which is weird because I changed it, but then I checked the logs and–” you paused, finally looking at him. “I don’t know. It's whatever, I just want it to be over.” He felt a smile growing on his face; despite the fact that you seemed genuinely upset, he couldn’t stop himself. “You’re so cute when you talk about that,” he chuckled. You huffed immediately, rolling your eyes, while washing your hands and drying them on the back of your pants. “I’d rather be a mad scientist than cute, to be honest. Maybe then my experiments would finally work.” He tilted his head, grin widening. “Well, I don’t really see you being mad while rambling about weird glibbery corals.” Riki scrunched his nose and wiggled his eyebrows. “You do look really cute, Miss crazy mad scientist.” You made an offended noise and moved to the kitchen island with one of the bowls of salad in your hands. “I’m not cute,” you muttered, your lips coming out in a little pout, and Riki nodded indulgently, laughing under his breath. “Obviously very serious and not pouting like a little child.” “Riki,” you whined again, huffing in annoyance as you turned around again. He grinned at you and handed you the other two bowls. “Y/N,” he tilted his head to the side mockingly, letting you set down the bowls before stepping away from the sink, right into your personal bubble. He reached for your hair, his fingers sliding through the straightened strands. It was rougher than he expected. He tugged lightly on one piece, just to see your reaction, and your jaw tightened, but you didn’t stop him.

Turning toward him, you leaned against the kitchen island, crossing your arms over your chest. “Stop it.” “Stop what?” He pulled again. “I thought you were here to help me, not annoy me,” you clicked your tongue. “Am I not?” He let go of the strand, twirling another one around his finger like he usually did, a bit disappointed when it just fell back straight against your shoulder. “Why did you straighten it?” Your eyes flickered to his hands, and you hummed. “I wanted to look a bit more put together and elegant.” He hummed, low and thoughtful, and then took a step closer. You had to tilt your head slightly to keep looking at him. “Are your curls not professional?” You huffed and shrugged. “I don’t know. Since mine are natural and not a perm, maybe?” “I love your curls,” he muttered, and his hand came up to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly along your jaw. For a second, he thought you might stop him, pull away or make him pull away, but you just took a deep breath and grinned up at him, raising your eyebrows. “I didn’t know, wow such a surprise, Nishimura.” “You know,” he dipped his head forward a bit, “it’s cute that you’re always using my last name when you’re flirting, Y/L/N.” Your eyes flickered from his eyes to his lips and back. “Who says I’m flirting?”

He tilted his head to the side and pretended to think. “What did you say is flirting again? Being all suggestive and annoying on purpose because they want attention.” He hummed and tangled your face up a bit. “I think you’re flirting.”

Your breathing changed, coming out heavier, deeper against his skin. He could feel your pulse jump under his thumb, the way your body shifted slightly toward him. You weren’t the only one affected by the proximity; his heart was going haywire in his ribcage, loud and fast and completely unhelpful. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to embarrass himself. He wanted to see if you’d let him. He could feel your fight slipping, the way your eyes kept dropping to his mouth before flicking back up again. Then you whispered, “Riki, we can’t.” “Why?” he asked, voice low. You looked at him, then away, and back at him again, and when you answered, it was against his mouth, so quiet he almost didn’t catch it. “Because you’re twenty and I’m twenty-three. We can’t do that.” His mouth curved a little, not because he was amused, exactly, but because the way you said it sounded a lot more like a warning to yourself than to him. He tilted his head mockingly. “I’m not mature enough?” Your eyes narrowed, but you didn’t move away, staying just a breath away from him. “Y/N,” he whined playfully, letting your name stretch out. “Is that the issue?”

You didn’t answer right away. His thumb was still on your cheek. He could feel your breath, uneven now, could see the way your chest rose a little faster than before. He smiled, small and calm. “I can assure you I am very reliable and responsible. There is nothing to worry about.” You let out the tiniest breath of a laugh, but didn’t move away, and Riki took that as a good sign. He leaned forward. The second he did– The kitchen door swung open. Jake stumbled in carrying one of the food warmers, looking completely unbothered until he saw the two of you standing there, way too close, frozen in the middle of whatever this had been. “Oh,” he said, blinking once. “Hey.” Riki straightened so fast it was almost embarrassing. You stepped back just as quickly. “I–uhm–hi Jakey.” His eyes flickered between the two of you, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh. “I’ll go and see if my mom needs help,” you turned to Riki. “You’re good with the salads, right?” He blinked at you, but before he could even think of an answer, you had nodded and patted his arm. “Perfect, thank you!”

And with that, you squeezed past his cousin and disappeared out of the kitchen. Jake burst out laughing the second you were gone. Riki turned on him, his face scrunched up in annoyance. “You ruined it.” Jake laughed harder. “Sorry, Ki. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Riki made a noise of pure frustration. “Jake.” “What?” Jake asked, already grinning now. Riki dragged a hand down his face. “Why did you have to come in right then?” Jake lifted the warmer slightly. “Because I am supposed to wear this thing? Maybe don’t try making out in a public space, and there will be no interruptions.” “I was not about to make out with Y/N.” “You absolutely were.” Riki groaned, covering his face with both hands. “I hate you.”

Jake just kept laughing, and Riki stared after where you had vanished.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

The party had officially started a few hours later, and the backyard was alive with music and laughter. People were spilling out of the house, groups forming around the pool, the food table, the drinks. Riki stood near the edge of it all, helping his mom with the drinks, a plastic cup in one hand, a ladle in his other. The punch your mom had made was sticky and smelled so strongly of alcohol that he had decided to skip it totally, nursing a beer in between filling and refilling guests' cups. He was slowly getting sick of smiling and pretending not to be annoyed by all of this, having to have small talk with random people his mom introduced him to. Riki was busy staring at you. You hadn’t come up once to get some of the punch or anything else to drink. You were busy being everywhere else. Laughing near the snack table. Talking to a group by the pool. Grinning up at a boy he vaguely recognised as James’s brother, stealing his cup from time to time. It felt like you were ignoring him. It wasn’t obvious. But you stayed as far away as you possibly could, when you usually stayed around him, even in bigger settings like this, occasionally checking in with him. Riki knew it was foolish and childish to want your attention when this was your mother's birthday and half of the town was invited, but he was annoyed and frustrated and had to do his best to cover it up with a smile every time someone approached him.

When he couldn’t, he just gave Jake the death stare. “What happened to you that made you look this pissed?” His brother's voice startled him enough that Riki dropped the ladle into the fruit punch. “Jake happened,” Riki grumbled. Jay followed his gaze across the yard, then let out a quiet laugh. “And what did Jake do, aside from getting piss drunk right now?” Jay raised his eyebrows. “Jake,” Riki said, taking a deep breath, “came in the kitchen and ruined my chances with Y/N.” Jay raised his eyebrows even higher and then turned around towards their mother.

“Mom, can Riki and I grab something to eat? Are you good here for a while? Some of my friends just came, and I want to introduce him.” His mother swivelled around, and Riki realised that he might have stayed away from the punch, but she had had plenty of it. Her cheeks were a bit flushed, and her grin stretched over her whole face. “Jay, my son!” She wrapped her hands around his shoulders and pulled him down into a hug, causing Jay to stumble a bit. Riki's hand shot forward to stabilise the two while he snorted. “Mom, how much did you drink?” Before Riki could react, her arm wrapped around him as well, and he pulled him into the hug, low enough that she could press her face between them. “I love you so much,” she said, and they both laughed, a little surprised. “I am so proud of you. Look at you, finding your place here in Australia, finding friends, working a proper job.” Riki laughed again and patted his mom's back. “Mom, are you okay?” 

“Yes, Riki,” she let the two of them go and nodded. “Go and eat, have fun, I will make your father help me.” Jay leaned down and ripped one of the water bottles from the six-pack he had just brought. “Mom, drink some water first, huh? You seem a bit drunk.” “Oh Jongseong!” She pulled him into another hug, suddenly switching to Korean, and Riki snorted, laughing openly at the state his mom was in. “You’re such a good son, even if I didn't birth you, you’re my son. Understood?” Jay helplessly looked up at Riki while he patted his mother’s back. “Yes, Mom. I love you, too.” “Drink some water,” Jay said, again, taking a step back, grabbing Riki’s arm, who was busy trying to stop laughing. “Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving them away.

Jay did his best to pull Riki towards the food tables, escaping another potential crushing hug, before he slung his arm around his brother's shoulders. “So what did Jake do to deserve you looking at him like that?” Riki shrugged and told Jay just why Jake was deserving of that, with his voice low. “Y/N and I almost kissed, but Jake got in between, and now she’s ignoring me.” Jay seemed genuinely surprised for a second. He looked at Riki, then at the sky and laughed. Riki whined, voice lower than before. “Why did Jake have to come in? I was so close.” He pouted, and Jay laughed harder at him. “Jake probably thought it was just as awkward as you did,” Jay said. “And he was embarrassed afterwards.” Riki’s eyes narrowed. “He did not. Y/N was, she basically running away. And now she isn’t even looking at me. What if I read this all wrong?”

Jay’s head turned in your direction. He watched you for a second, then looked back at Riki and laughed again. “Maybe,” he said. “But she didn’t push you away, right?” Riki whined again, louder this time. “But now she’s ignoring me.” Jay shoved him a bit, still laughing. “Bro,” he said. “She’s not ignoring you. She’s just… thinking.” Riki made a noise that was half frustration, half disbelief. Jay laughed again, shoving him one more time. “Just wait,” he said. “She’ll come back.”

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

The fire on the beach was low but warm, the orange light flickering against the dark water and the sand. The house was still visible up the slope, a small group of people his age clustered near the steps, music drifting down from the party. The fire crackled softly, sparks rising in thin spirals before vanishing into the night. He was sitting close to it, close enough that the heat pressed against his skin, but not enough to make him sweat. Martin was talking loudly about something, his voice carrying over the low hum of conversation and the distant slap of water against the shore. Riki wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even pretending to. His shoulder was angled toward the fire, his gaze half-lidded and unfocused, a beer bottle cold in his hand. The condensation made his fingers slick. He was leaning back on one arm, his palm flat on the blanket, his body angled slightly toward the edge of the group, so when he heard laughter coming from the path to the beach, he didn’t even have to move his head to see who was coming. If he were honest, he didn’t have to look at all. He knew it was you, as pathetic as he thought it was, he would recognize your voice everywhere. He still did and caught a glimpse of you and Jake coming towards the small bonfire, drinks and a few snacks in hand. When you were close enough that he could actually make out some of your features, he turned his head back to the fire, willing his head to listen to his friend's story. He tried his best to ignore how you handed out the bowls of salt chips and gummy bears, biting the inside of his cheek. It was embarrassing how much he hated all of this right now, the fact that he couldn’t even look you in the face because he did something so stupid. 

He should have just taken you seriously. You had told him several times to just give up, but he had to be stubborn, and now he potentially destroyed a friendship because he couldn’t keep his feelings in check. Much to his surprise, you ended your snack round with Jay, who was sitting next to Riki and let yourself fall onto the blanket next to Riki. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Hey Y/N, sorry that I tried to kiss you and have been continuously flirting with you, can we just forget that? Thank you.’ Riki shook his head and took another sip of his beer when he suddenly felt your hand brushing his. It happened so softly he almost didn’t notice it at first. Just the light press of your fingers against his, the warmth of your palm sliding over his skin. He turned to you slightly, looking down. You didn’t look at him.

You just closed your hand over his, fingers warm, steady, deliberate. 

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was confused. What were you doing?He shifted his posture slightly so he wasn’t leaning on that hand anymore, wanting to pull away, but your fingers curled around his. He didn’t move away. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if anything inside of him was moving, his chest, his heart, anything. 

You were facing the fire, your profile against the low light, the orange glow catching the edges of your face, the curve of your jaw, the line of your neck. The firelight made your skin look softer, warmer, and his eyes flickered over your face without him realising it. He watched the way your breath moved, the way your hair fell against your shoulder, the way your hand stayed on his. He could feel the heat of your hand on his skin. He could feel the weight of it. He could feel the way your fingers tightened, just a little, when you squeezed. He wanted to say something. He wanted to ask what this meant. He wanted to ask if you were done ignoring him. But you didn’t look at him. You just squeezed his hand, a quiet, firm pressure, and he looked away, right into James’s face. James’s eyebrows were raised. His eyes flickered between the two of you, then landed on Riki with an accusing look that made Riki’s mouth open. He paused. He closed it again. James frowned for a second and just kept watching, his expression shifting from suspicion to something more like amusement. Riki looked back at you. You still weren’t looking at him.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Niki was in his parents’ pool, sunk into the shallow part with his eyes closed, letting the cool water take the heat out of the afternoon. The house was quiet. Everyone else was at work. There was only the soft slap of water against tile and the distant hum of traffic. He had just come home from his classes, spent from just going there and having to use his full brain capacity to even take part in the conversation and slipped into the pool. The silence was broken by the creak of the garden gate opening. He sat up at once, water sliding down his arms, his heart giving one sharp jump before he even looked over. For a second, he thought maybe it was Jay or Jake, maybe they had wrapped up work earlier today. Then he saw you. “Y/N?” You stood by the gate for a beat, almost tentative, and then you smiled at him. Not the big, easy smile you usually had on your face, but a soft, almost tentative one. 

“Hey.” He watched you come closer, watched you slip off your flip-flops, and then the dress you were wearing. You folded it carefully before sitting down on the edge of the pool, across from him, your feet dipping into the water. The surface trembled around your ankles. For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then, at the same time: “Why are you here?” “How was your day?” You blinked at each other. He frowned a little, still trying to catch up. “Good. But why are you here, Y/N? Did we have something scheduled?” You looked away, biting your lip before shaking your head. “No. Do we have to?” He shook his head too, still blinking at you in confusion. “No.” You hummed and slid into the pool, swimming towards him, the water parting around your body, and by the time you stopped in front of him, you were close enough that he could feel your warmth even through the cold water. Riki swallowed, his breathing growing a bit faster at the proximity and his heart racing. He didn’t know what to do, what to think. You had been avoiding him, ignoring him almost for the last week. So he thought he had gotten the message, but now with you being here, being this close to him, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He stayed quiet, watching you carefully, waiting. You looked shy in a way he hadn’t seen much of before. Not nervous exactly. Just… careful. 

Then you asked, “Have you come to like Australia more now that you’ve been here longer?” He let out a short laugh. “You already asked me that.” You spluttered a little, embarrassed. “Yeah, but now it’s been a while, and you found the studio and James and–” He cut you off, not unkindly. “Yeah. I do like Australia.” Your expression softened immediately. “I’m glad.”

The two of you went silent again. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but weird. He hated this, hated how he had not been able to stop thinking about the party. About your hand in his at the beach. About the way you had almost let him kiss you, and then about the way you hadn’t looked at him after. About the way you had ignored him all week. Riki looked at you, really looked at you, and felt his confusion turn into something else he couldn’t place. Anger, disappointment, maybe. He didn’t know if you had come here to talk. He didn’t know why you were being so tentative now after being so bold at the beach. He didn’t want things to go back to just being friends with you, but it seemed like you wanted to pretend nothing had happened.  You pushed yourself off the wall, floating a few meters away from him, and asked, "You think you're good at swimming now?" He blinked. "What?" "You know swimming," you said, and he heard the tease in your voice, that little edge of challenge. "Do you think you're good at it now?" He shook his head in exasperation. "Yeah, you know that."

"I know that you're able to not die in the water," you said, and he could see the smirk forming even before you said the next part. "I broke my personal best at the water gym today. I was wondering if you'd be quicker." He laughed. "You wanna race?" "I never said that," you shrugged, feigning innocence.

Niki clicked his tongue and nodded. Seemed like he was wrong. 

There was no pretending Saturday hadn't happened. He pushed off the wall, coming close to you, towering over you a bit, the water shifting around you both. "Okay, let's see if I'm quicker," he said, and then he started swimming. He laughed and dived into the water first, fast and clean. You were right behind him, but he was faster, his arms pulling harder, his legs kicking with more power. You hit the end of the pool a second later, breathless. “Shit,” you said, shaking water from your hair. “I didn’t think you’d actually be faster than me.” He floated back, smug. “I’m just better.” “You cheated.” “I didn’t cheat.” “You started before I did.” He grinned wider. “Yeah. I did.”

You shoved his chest, but he didn’t move. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah,” he said, and he was still smiling. “But I’m fast.” You rolled your eyes again. “I had to get up early. I was already in the water before you even woke up.” “No,” he said, and he was laughing now. “I have English classes today.” You frowned. “Yeah, but what could you have done that was so hard in English class today?” He reached forward, fingers finding your wet hair, and twisted a strand around his finger, slow and deliberate. He loved your hair. “We were reading short stories. Some of them were horrible. I had to put all of my head into it because they were from Shakespeare.” You hummed, looking up at him, your eyes half-lidded. “Because that pretty head of yours can’t comprehend the art Shakespeare is.” He laughed, loud and bright. “Can yours?” You tilted your head. “It can. I love love stories, even if Shakespeare wrote them.” He raised his eyebrows, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, pretty mistress, I bethought thee didn’t date.” You hit his chest, hard enough to make him grunt. “I’m just not dating younger.” He came closer, his voice dropping, his eyes dark. “Are you sure about that?” Your eyes flickered between his eyes and his mouth, and you hummed, a soft, unsure yeah. He hummed back, a mhm right at you, and then he reached out, pulling your hair again, leaning forward so close he could feel your breath on his face. “I think you’re lying, Y/N. And we both know it.”

Your breath hitched. You clicked your tongue, and your hand came around his waist, pulling him even closer. He was actually a bit caught off guard, his chest tightening, his pulse jumping, but before he could do anything else, you had pressed your lips against his, and you were – you were kissing him. For half a second, Riki just froze, his brain not registering what was happening, until your hand buried itself in his hair and pulled slightly. A groan escaped Riki’s mouth, and he was finally spurred into movement. His arms wrap around your waist, pressing you closer against his body, the water around you sloshing against your upper bodies as he walked you backwards against the pool wall. You gasped into his mouth when your back hit the rough material of the stone, but Riki didn’t care. He kept moving his lips against yours, keeping you as close as possible, feeling your heat coming off you in waves. You separated from him, trying to get a breath of air before he was back at your lips. “An exception, Nisihimura,” you leaned up again, pressing your lips against his. “You’re an exception.”

Thank you so much for reading! Lots of Love, Patty

❝ YAP! ❞ ──── for this fic, I tried to work on my writing a bit more, for some it might be very inner monologue heavy, but I do like how it turned out! It's inspired by Jenny Han and Emily Henry, hihi! Feel free to tell me if you enjoyed this, I'm curious!

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