baby, life’s crazy

loving seventeen dearly

[wonluvzu]

THE HILLS

₊˚⊹♡ A solo business trip to Lake Como sounded like the perfect escape, and after a night of bar hopping, you meet a stranger who catches your eye. Deciding to have a little fun, you spend the night with him, only to wake up the next morning in an unfamiliar luxury hotel room. Realizing you're about to miss your flight back to Singapore, you quickly write an apology note, leave some money behind, and slip out before he wakes up, convinced you'll never see him again. But the moment you get home, your father announces that, for the sake of the family business, you've been arranged to marry the heir of another powerful company. With no way to refuse, you reluctantly agree to meet him. Less than 3 weeks after leaving Lake Como behind, you're sitting at dinner with your parents, waiting for your future fiancé to arrive... until a man takes the seat across from you. It's him... the stranger you disappeared on in Lake Como. Oh, this is gonna be a fun ride... isn't it?

𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙! 𝙟𝙖𝙮 𝙭 𝙛𝙚𝙢! 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 Arranged marriage, one night stand, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, billionaire romance, slow burn, banter, jealousy, angst, fluff, luxury lifestyle, corporate politics, family drama, mature themes, happy ending. WARNINGS: Explicit Sexual Content, Strangers to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Angry Sex, Dirty Talk, Light Spanking, Hair Pulling, Light Choking, Overstimulation, Creampie, Oral Sex, Fingering, Strong Language, Alcohol Use, Family Pressure wc: 17,920 songs: The Hills- The Weeknd, Or Nah - The Weeknd, Wiz Khalifa, & Mustard, Despacito - Luis Fonsi & Daddy Yankee, There's Nothing Holdin' Me Back - Shawn Mendes, Mercy - Shawn Mendes, Here- Alessia Cara, Siren Sounds (bonus)- Tate McRae, In the Name of Love- Martin Garrix & Bebe Rexha

CHAPTER 1: LATE NIGHTS IN LAKE COMO

I didn't come to Lake Como to fall into bed with a stranger. I came because my father's company was closing a deal with an Italian textile group and someone with a Singaporean passport and a decent grasp of contract law needed to sit in on the meetings, and that someone was me. Three days of negotiations, translators, and men twice my age calling me "young lady" instead of my actual title, and by the third night I was so done being professional.

"One night," my colleague Minji had said, clinking her glass against mine while we were on a terrace that overlooked the water so still it looked like it was painted on. "One night where you're not Mr. Song's daughter. Just you."

I'd laughed her off at first. And then I'd had a second glass of wine, and a third. Somewhere between the second bar and the third… a place with string lights and a DJ who clearly thought hip hop was a personality, Minji had gone off with some guy she just met at the last bar we were at. So I'd found myself alone at the counter, spinning the handle of my glass between two fingers, when a voice beside me said, in heavily accented but confident English…

"You're doing that thing where you're thinking too hard for someone on vacation."

I'd turned, ready to deliver the practiced brush off I gave every man who tried his luck with me in a bar, but the words had evaporated somewhere in my throat.

He was… objectively, impersonally, in the most detached way I could manage while I was literally half drunk… the best looking man I'd seen in person in my entire adult life. Dark hair pushed back like he'd run a hand through it and wasn't bothered to fix it, a jaw I could've used as a straightedge, and eyes that held a kind of lazy, unbothered amusement, like he found the whole world a little bit funny and had decided I was the funniest part of it tonight.

"I'm not on vacation," I said. "I'm working."

"In a bar. At eleven at night."

"It's a very demanding job."

He'd smiled then… slow, crooked, entirely too aware of its own effect, and ordered us both something with too much rum in it, and by midnight I'd learned nothing true about him. Not his last name, not what he did, not which hotel he was staying at, only that his name was Jay, that he laughed like he meant it, and that he had a way of looking at me that made me forget I'd sworn off men in suits after my last two relationships had both ended over a damn spreadsheet.

"You're trouble," I told him, somewhere around my fourth bar, when his hand had found the small of my back and left it there like it belonged.

"I get that a lot," he said. "You gonna do something about it, or just complain?"

Somewhere between bar three and bar four, I'd made him guess my job, "finance," he'd said immediately, squinting at me like he could read a balance sheet off my face, "no, wait… something in law, you argue like someone who's used to winning," and I'd neither confirmed nor denied it, just let him keep guessing, delighted by how genuinely invested he seemed in being right. He, in turn, had refused directly to tell me what he did, only that it involved "a lot of boring meetings and even more boring men," which had made me laugh so hard I'd nearly knocked my drink into a total stranger's lap.

"You're avoiding the question," I'd told him, jabbing a finger into his chest.

"I'm creating mystery," he'd corrected. "It's a strategy."

"It's evasive."

"It's working, isn't it? You're still here."

I couldn't argue with that. By the fourth bar, the DJ had switched to something with a Latin beat that made the whole floor move as one body, and Jay had pulled me into it without asking, hand at my waist, hips finding the rhythm like it was something he did often, and I'd stopped pretending, even to myself, that I had any intention of going back to my hotel alone that night.

"For someone who does boring meetings," I'd shouted over the music, "you dance like you do this professionally."

"Hidden talents," he'd said against my ear, and I'd felt the words more than heard them, warm and low, and something in my chest had done a slow, dangerous flip that I chose, deliberately, not to examine.

I should have called it a night right there. I didn't.

The walk back to his hotel blurred into a memory I'd revisit more than I'd ever admit… the lake at my left catching the moon, his jacket over my shoulders because I'd complained once about the wind, his mouth against my temple at a red light because apparently he couldn't wait until we were inside. The lobby of his hotel was the kind of quietly obscene luxury that told me he wasn't just some backpacker with a nice face… marble floors, a chandelier that had probably cost more than my apartment, a night staff that greeted him by name with the particular deference reserved for people who paid for entire floors.

I noticed. I filed it away. I didn't ask.

Neither of us were interested in talking anymore anyway.

I didn’t even make it past the doorstep of his suite before he had me pinned against the door, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that stole every last bit of breath from my lungs.

The click of the lock was barely audible over the pounding of my heart. His body pressed flush against mine… hard chest, strong thighs, the unmistakable bulge of his erection already straining against my hip. One of his hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head exactly how he wanted while the other gripped my waist, fingers digging in like he was afraid I might disappear.

“God, you taste even better than I imagined,” he growled against my lips, tongue sweeping in to taste me deeper. The kiss was messy, urgent, all teeth and tongue and raw hunger. I moaned into his mouth, hands fisting the front of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

When he finally broke away, both of us gasping, his lips trailed hot, open mouthed kisses down my neck. He sucked hard at my pulse point, then soothed it with his tongue. “Been thinking about this since the second I saw you at that bar,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Wondering how you’d sound when I finally get my mouth on you.”

My dress was already riding up from how I wrapped my legs around him earlier on the dance floor. Jay’s hand slid under the hem, palming my ass, squeezing. “So fucking soft. I can’t wait to taste every inch.”

He lifted me effortlessly, my legs locking around his waist as he carried me toward the massive king bed. The suite’s floor to ceiling windows overlooked the moonlit lake, but neither of us spared it a glance. He laid me down gently, but the look in his eyes was anything but… dark, predatory, starving.

Jay knelt between my spread thighs, pushing my dress higher. “Let me see you.” His fingers hooked onto my lace panties, dragging them down slowly, teasingly. Once they were off, he spread my legs wider, eyes locked on my glistening pussy. “Look at you. Already so wet for me. Such a pretty little cunt.”

I whimpered at his words, hips shifting restlessly. He leaned in, blowing cool air over my heated flesh before his tongue licked a slow, broad stripe from my entrance up to my clit. The sensation made my back arch off the bed.

“Fuck—Jay—”

“Mmm, say my name again,” he demanded, then sealed his mouth over my clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicked rapidly. Two thick fingers pushed inside me without warning, curling to stroke that spongy spot that made you see stars. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the room.

He ate me out like a man possessed… long, hungry licks, tight circles around my clit, then sucking hard while his fingers pumped faster. “Tastes so fucking good,” he groaned against me, the vibrations shooting pleasure through my core. “Sweet and creamy. I could stay down here all night.”

My hands flew to his hair, gripping tight as my thighs started to tremble. He added a third finger, stretching me deliciously, scissoring them while his tongue worked my clit relentlessly.

“Come for me, baby. Let me feel this pussy squeeze my fingers.”

The orgasm hit me like a wave, crashing over me hard. I cried out his name, hips bucking against his face as he licked me through every pulse, drinking down every drop.

But he didn’t stop. He kept licking, gentler now, until the overstimulation turned back into building pleasure. Only then did he pull back, lips shiny with my arousal, and crawl up my body.

He kissed me deeply, letting me taste myself on his tongue. “See how good you taste? I’m going to make you come on my tongue again before I fuck you.”

I reached for his belt, desperate to feel him. He helped me strip him, his cock springing free… heavy, thick, veined, the head already glistening with precum. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly.

“Fuck, your hand feels amazing,” he hissed. “But I need your mouth first.”

He guided me up, sitting back against the headboard. I settled between his thighs, looking up at him as I licked up the underside of his cock. Jay’s head fell back with a groan.

“That’s it… just like that. Take your time, baby. Worship it.”

I swirled my tongue around the head, tasting the precum, then sucked him into my mouth. He was big… stretching my lips wide. I bobbed my head, taking more each time, using my hand on what I couldn’t fit.

“Shit—your mouth is perfect. So warm and wet. Suck harder—yeah, just like that.”

His hand rested lightly on my head, not forcing, just guiding. I relaxed my throat and took him deeper, humming around him. Jay cursed, hips twitching.

“Gonna come if you keep that up,” he warned, but I didn’t stop. I wanted to push him over the edge.

When he finally pulled me off, his eyes were wild. “Not yet. I want to be inside you when I come the first time.”

He rolled on a condom quickly, then positioned himself between my thighs. “Ready?”

“Yes—please, Jay.”

He pushed in slowly, letting me feel every thick inch stretching me open. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, grinding deep. “So tight. Taking me so well. This pussy was made for my cock.”

Then he started moving… long, deep strokes that built steadily. I wrapped my legs around him, nails raking down his back. He leaned down to suck on my nipples, alternating between them while he fucked me.

The pace quickened. Skin slapped against skin. He reached between me to rub my clit in tight circles.

“Come again for me. I want to feel you milking my cock.”

I shattered around him, clenching hard. Jay groaned, thrusting through my orgasm before pulling out.

“On your hands and knees,” he ordered.

I obeyed, ass up. He spread my cheeks, licking from my clit all the way up, teasing my other hole briefly with his tongue before diving back into my pussy.

“Fucking delicious,” he muttered, then slammed back inside me from behind. The new angle was devastating. He fucked me hard, one hand in my hair, the other reaching around to rub my clit.

“Tell me how much you love my cock,” he demanded between thrusts.

“I love it—fuck—so deep—don’t stop—”

He reached around and pinched my clit, sending me over again. This time he followed, burying himself deep and coming with a guttural moan of my name.

"Gosh, y/n"

We collapsed together, but the night was far from over.

After a short breather, he pulled me into the shower. Under the hot spray, he dropped to his knees again, water falling over both of us as he ate me out against the glass wall… tongue fucking into me, fingers everywhere, until I came screaming.

Then I returned the favor, sucking him off on my knees until he spilled down my throat with a hoarse shout.

Back in bed, he took me slow and deep in, whispering filthy praises the whole time, “Look at how well you take me… your pussy is so greedy for my cock… gonna fill you up again soon…”

I rode him next, grinding down, his hands guiding my hips while he sucked marks into my breasts.

By the time the sky started to lighten, I'd lost count of how many times he’d made me come… on his tongue, on his fingers, on his cock. The room smelled of sex and sweat. Jay held me close afterward, kissing my temple, both of us boneless and satisfied.

But even as sleep pulled at me, I knew I’d have to leave soon.

CHAPTER 2: THE NOTE

I woke up to sunlight shining gold across a bed that wasn't mine, in a room the size of my childhood living room, with an arm slung heavy and warm over my waist and my flight… my flight… leaving in three hours.

For one forgiving, traitorous second, I let myself lie there. Let myself feel the solid heat of him at my back, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the absolute stupidity of how good it had felt to be someone else's for one night, no expectations, no last names, no Song Corporation trailing behind me like a shadow with a balance sheet.

Then my phone, buried somewhere in my discarded clothes, buzzed with a reminder, and reality slapped me awake.

I slid out from under his arm with the sneakiness of someone who had, in a past life, definitely been a cat burglar. He stirred, murmured something impossible to understand, and rolled onto his front, and I froze mid motion for a full ten seconds before he settled again.

Dressing in the dark… or rather, dressing in far too much golden Italian sunlight while trying to be quiet about it… was its own special kind of chaos. I found my dress inside out on an armchair, one shoe by the door and the other, mysteriously, on the balcony. I did not investigate how it got there.

I should have just left. That would have been the smart thing. The clean thing. I had done this before… not this exact scenario, not a man who made my pulse skip just by saying my overthinking out loud, but the general shape of it, the one night stand that ended at sunrise with no numbers exchanged and no promises made. I was good at leaving. I'd built an entire adult life around being good at leaving before anyone got the chance to leave me first.

So why did my hand shake, just slightly, reaching for the hotel notepad.

I told myself it was the time pressure. The flight. The three hours narrowing by the minute while I stood in a stranger's hotel room debating the ethics of a goodbye note like it was a legal document requiring careful drafting. I told myself it had nothing to do with the way he'd said my name… just my first name, I realized with a small, absurd jolt, because I'd never told him last name, nothing to do with Song, just hey, you, careful, murmured against my hair sometime after midnight in a way that had felt, in the moment, more intimate than anything a stranger's name had a right to feel.

Instead I found a hotel notepad by a bowl of fruit no one had touched, and a pen with the hotel's logo engraved in gold, and I stood there chewing my lip, staring at a man whose last name I didn't know, feeling something uncomfortably close to guilt.

Had to run… flight I can't miss. Last night was fun. Sorry for ghosting, it's not you, it's timing. Left some money for the minibar since I definitely helped myself. Take care of yourself, stranger.

I looked at it, cringed, and added a folded stack of euros on top… not much, just enough to make the note read as a joke instead of what it actually was, which was panic dressed up as nonchalance. Then I slipped my shoes on in the hallway, and I left.

I did not look back at the bed. I told myself that later, on the plane, somewhere over the Arabian Sea with a complimentary champagne I didn't taste, three separate times, and I did not believe myself even once.

CHAPTER 3: THE ANNOUNCEMENT 

Jay woke up to an empty bed, a note that made his jaw tighten in a way he didn't examine too closely, and a stack of euros that felt, more than anything else that morning, like an insult.

Money for the minibar. Like he was a service she'd paid for and rated four stars. Like he was forgettable.

He wasn't used to forgettable. He wasn't used to being forgotten, not by women who'd looked at him the way she had… like he was the punchline to a joke only she knew, like she'd already decided he was fun but temporary before he'd even opened his mouth. He'd let a stranger walk into his hotel room, into his night, into apparently his head, and she'd left him folded currency like a tip.

He didn't know her last name. He didn't have her number. He had a room that still smelled like her perfume and a bruised ego he was going to pretend, for the sake of his own dignity, that he didn't have.

Fine, he thought, staring at the note until the words blurred. Fun while it lasted.

He had no idea, standing there in a hotel bathrobe at nine in the morning with wounded pride and lake view sunlight in his eyes, that the universe had already decided this was very much not over.

…

Three weeks after returning from Lake Como, I'd almost convinced myself the whole thing had been nothing more than a reckless business-trip mistake. I landed back into my routine feeling like myself again...… jet-lagged, sunburned in one uneven stripe across my shoulder, but myself, the version of me that answered emails and knew her own last name and hadn't spent a night pretending to be someone with no responsibilities. I told myself the whole flight home that Lake Como had been a bracket I was closing. Nothing that would follow me home.

My family had built Song Corporation from a single shipping route between Busan and Singapore three decades ago, back when my grandfather first left Korea with nothing but a cargo plan and a stubborn streak my father had inherited in full. I'd grown up between two languages and two sets of expectations… the quiet formality of my parents' generation, still rooted in Seoul even after thirty years abroad, and the faster, blunter world I'd built for myself in Singapore. Dinners at my parents' house still opened with a bow to my grandmother's photo on the mantel. My father still switched to Korean the second he was truly angry, which was usually the only warning I got before bad news landed.

My father was waiting for me at the dining table that evening, which was never a good sign. My father did not wait for people. People waited for him. The fact that he'd cleared his calendar to be sitting there with my mother, both of them wearing the particular stillness of people about to deliver news they'd already decided I would accept, made my stomach drop before he'd said a single word.

"Sit," he said. Not unkind. Just certain.

I sat.

"The Park deal," he began, and I already hated where this was going, because my father only used that tone… measured, deliberate, like he was reading from a contract instead of speaking to his daughter, for things he knew I wouldn't like. "Chairman Park and I have been in discussion for the last several months. Song Corporation and Park Industries merging our shipping and logistics divisions would put us in a position no one in this region could touch."

"Okay," I said slowly. "That's… good news? Why do you look like you're about to tell me someone died."

"Because," my mother said gently, reaching for my hand, "the merger comes with a condition. A marriage. Between you and Chairman Park's son."

The room tilted slightly. I laughed… an actual, disbelieving bark of a laugh, because surely, surely this was a joke, the kind my father sometimes attempted and always failed to land. "I'm sorry, what?"

"It secures the partnership for a generation," my father said, unmoved by my reaction, already reciting the argument he'd clearly rehearsed for this exact response. "It's not unusual in either of our families' histories. You know that."

"I know it's not unusual for it to happen to other people," I snapped. "I didn't think it would be me. I have a life, I have a job, I have… I don't even know this man!"

"You'll meet him tomorrow night. Dinner, here, informal. Chairman Park's son has agreed to the arrangement." My father's voice didn't so much as waver. "His name is Jay. I'm told he's reasonable. Personable. You could do far worse." Common name, right?

"And if I say no?" I hated how small my voice sounded, even to my own ears. "What happens then?"

My father set down his fork with the deliberate care of a man choosing his next words carefully. "Then the merger falls through. Ten years of negotiations, gone. Six thousand jobs across both companies put at risk over your reluctance to have dinner with a man you haven't even met." He softened, marginally, seeing something in my face he hadn't intended to put there. "I'm not asking you to marry a stranger tomorrow. I'm asking you to give this a chance. If, after time, you genuinely cannot stand him, we will find another solution. I promise you that. But I need you to try."

"That's not a real choice, father, and you know it."

"No," he admitted, quietly, which was somehow worse than if he'd simply argued. "It isn't. I'm sorry for that. But I built this company for you to inherit one day, and I need it to still exist by the time that day comes."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to slam my palms on the table and demand to know since when my entire future got decided over a boardroom handshake while I was out of the country closing a completely different deal for this same family. But I'd grown up in this house, under this roof, with this particular brand of love that came wrapped in obligation, and I knew… the way I knew the tide would come in, the way I knew the sun would set, that there was no version of tonight where I won this argument.

"Fine," I said, because it was the only word left that didn't come out as a scream. "Fine. I'll meet him. But I'm not promising anything beyond dinner."

My father, for the first time all evening, allowed himself something like a smile. "That's all I'm asking."

I went to bed that night thinking of Lake Como. Of a stranger's mouth against my temple, of a note I'd left folded on a hotel pillow, of the particular freedom of one night where nobody expected anything of me at all.

I had no idea how badly the universe was about to collapse those two lives into one.

CHAPTER 4: THE MAN ACROSS THE TABLE

I spent the following day in a fog somewhere between denial and minor panic, which was, in thinking back, an appropriate emotional state for what was coming.

My mother had chosen the restaurant… a private dining room in one of the hotels my family half owned, all dark wood and candlelight and a view of the skyline that was supposed to make everyone feel expansive and hopeful about the future. I wore the green dress my mother liked, the one that made me look, in her words, "like someone a Chairman's son would be lucky to marry," which was possibly the least comforting compliment I'd ever received.

I sat between my parents, watching the door, running through every version of this conversation in my head. Hello, nice to meet you, I hear we're being sold to each other for a logistics contract. I'd decided, somewhere around my second glass of water, that I would be polite. Cool. Unbothered. I would give this man exactly as much warmth as the situation legally required and not one degree more.

Then the door opened, and every rehearsed line I had died in my throat at once.

He walked in like he owned the room… because, I would later learn, in a very literal sense, he frequently did… dressed in a black suit that fit him with the kind of precision that only exists on men who've never had to wonder if they could afford tailoring. Dark hair, pushed back. A jaw I would recognize with my eyes closed, in a pitch black room, from memory alone, because I'd spent an embarrassing amount of a transatlantic flight trying not to think about that exact jaw.

He stopped mid stride. His eyes found mine, and for one full second, the easy, practiced charm on his face cracked straight down the middle into something like disbelief.

Him.

The stranger from Lake Como. The one I'd left a note and a stack of euros for. The one whose bed I'd slipped out of eighteen hours ago like a thief in the night, convinced… convinced… I would never see him again.

He recovered faster than I did. Of course he did. He slid into the seat across from me, straightened his jacket, and looked at me with an expression that was, if I had to name it, delighted… the specific delight of a predator that had just realized its dinner walked directly into the trap.

"Jay," my father said, standing to shake his hand, oblivious to the silent war being waged across his dining table. "This is my daughter."

"We've met," Jay said, eyes never leaving mine, mouth curling into a smile with teeth in it. "Haven't we?"

I picked up my water glass and drank the entire thing to keep from saying something that would get me disowned.

"Briefly," I managed. "In passing."

"That's not really how I'd describe it," Jay said, settling back in his chair with the unbothered ease of a man who had just been handed the single best piece of leverage of his entire life. "But sure. In passing."

My mother, blessedly, missed the hidden meaning entirely and launched into some pleasantry about the wine list. My father asked Jay about his flight in from Lake Como… of course he'd been in Lake Como, of course the business trip that ruined my life and the business trip that arranged my marriage were the exact same trip… and I sat there, spine locked straight, silently calculating how many ways I could disappear from this table without causing an international incident.

Jay answered every question my parents asked with the polished, charming ease of someone raised for exactly this kind of performance. And every few sentences, without fail, his eyes would slide back to me… amused, sharp, unmistakably promising that this conversation was very much not over.

Under the table, his knee brushed mine. Deliberately. I yanked my leg back like I'd been burned.

"So," he said, once dessert had arrived and my parents had drifted into a side conversation about the merger's logistics, low enough that only I could hear him. "Fun while it lasted, huh?"

My stomach dropped straight through the floor. "You read the note."

"I read the note." His voice was pleasant. Terrifyingly pleasant. "Money for the minibar was a nice touch. Very classy."

"I panicked," I hissed. "I had a flight to catch."

"You could've woken me up."

"I didn't want to wake you up. That was rather the point of leaving quietly."

"Right." He leaned back, studying me the way I imagine a shark studies a swimmer it hasn't decided whether to eat yet. "Because I'm just some guy you paid for room service and left behind. Except now it turns out I'm the guy your father wants you to marry. Small world, huh, Ms. Song?"

I hated how good my last name sounded coming out of his mouth like a threat. "This isn't funny."

"I think it's a little funny."

"Jay—"

"Relax." He picked up his wine glass, and something flickered behind his eyes that wasn't amusement at all… something colder, sharper, a decision being made in real time. "I'm not going to tell them. Wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your parents. But you and I—" he tilted his glass toward me, the picture of civility, "…we're going to have a lot to talk about."

I had never, in my entire adult life, wanted to disappear so badly.

"This isn't a punishment," I said. "For me. Whatever you're thinking. I don't owe you an apology for leaving."

"Didn't say you did." His smile turned into something private, something I didn't trust at all. "But you left before I got the chance to make an impression. Seems only fair I get a second shot. We're going to be married, after all." He said the word married like he was trying it out for size, testing its weight, and something about the way it landed in his mouth made my whole body go warm and furious at once. "Might as well make it interesting."

He's going to make me pay, I thought, watching him raise his glass toward my parents in a toast neither of us had agreed to. This is a man who is going to make me pay for that note for the rest of my life.

I had absolutely no idea, yet, how right I was… or how much I'd eventually come to regret ever wanting it any other way.

…

Jay walked me to my car after dinner, which I was fairly certain was less about being a gentleman and more about getting me alone long enough to finish the conversation my parents hadn't been allowed to overhear.

"You could've said something," I hissed, the second the valet was out of earshot. "At the table. You let me sit there thinking I was about to meet a total stranger."

"And what would you have preferred? Me standing up mid appetizer announcing, 'Actually, we've met, she left me for dead in a hotel room in Lake Como after we did it'? Your mother would've had a heart attack into the bread basket."

"This isn't funny, Jay."

"I told you, I think it's a little funny." He leaned against the hood of my car, entirely too relaxed for a man whose entire future had just been decided over dessert. "Here's what I don't get. You looked at me tonight like I was a problem to be managed. But less than three weeks ago you looked at me like—"

"Don't."

"…like you couldn't get enough," he finished anyway, watching my face for a reaction he clearly enjoyed getting. "What changed? Besides the small detail of our fathers turning it into a business contract."

"Everything changed," I said. "That night was supposed to be nothing. A story I'd tell at parties. Not a… a lifetime commitment."

"Scared?"

"Furious," I corrected. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" He straightened off the car, close enough now that I had to tip my chin up to hold his gaze, and something in his voice dropped, lower, more serious than the teasing he'd kept up all night. "For what it's worth, I didn't ask for this either. I found out about the arrangement two days ago, same as you probably found out today. It's not like I knew it was you either… only to discover tonight it's the lady who decided I wasn't worth a proper goodbye."

That landed harder than I expected. "I told you. I panicked."

"I know." Something in his expression softened, just slightly, before the familiar smirk slid back into place like armor. "Doesn't mean I'm not going to enjoy watching you squirm about it for a while."

"You are the worst person I have ever met."

"You said something very different 3 weeks ago," he said, opening my car door for me with an exaggerated little bow. "Goodnight, Ms. Song. See you at the engagement shoot."

"The what—"

He was already walking away, hands in his pockets, whistling something I was fairly sure was deliberately, infuriatingly cheerful, and I sat in my car for a full five minutes after he'd disappeared around the corner before I trusted myself to drive.

…

The engagement shoot, as it turned out, was very real, and very public, and scheduled for exactly six days later… a joint press release for two companies merging their shipping empires needed a photogenic couple to sell it, and apparently Jay and I were now, officially, that couple. A stylist tumbled in my apartment with three racks of clothing. A photographer with an assistant who called him "genius" without a trace of irony spent two hours arranging us against a backdrop of the harbor, murmuring instructions like closer, a little closer, now look at each other like you mean it.

"We're supposed to look like we mean it," Jay murmured, tilting my chin up with two fingers, entirely for the camera, entirely too gentle for a gesture that was supposed to be fake. "Think you can manage that?"

"I've been managing it all week," I muttered back, aware of how thin the line had become between performing something and actually feeling it.

The photos ran three days later… me in cream, Jay in navy, his hand at my waist and my head tipped back mid laugh at something he'd actually said, not scripted, a genuine reaction the photographer had caught by accident and declared "the shot." My mother framed it. Chairman Park used it for the official press release. Half my social circle sent me messages about how happy we two looked, how natural, and I sat there scrolling through the comments feeling something uncomfortably close to guilt, because the photo wasn't a lie, exactly. It just wasn't the whole truth either.

CHAPTER 5: ENGAGED, APPARENTLY 

The engagement was announced within the week, because apparently when two companies decide to merge their shipping divisions, nobody sees the point in a long engagement. There was a press release. There was a photo… me in a dress that cost more than my first car I bought for myself, Jay's hand at the small of my back in the exact same place it had been in a bar in Lake Como, except this time there were cameras, and this time it meant something entirely different.

"Smile," Jay murmured through his teeth as the photographers called for one more shot. "You look like you're being arrested."

"I am being arrested," I muttered back, teeth also gritted, smile also plastered on. "Just with better lighting."

"Careful," he said, low enough that only I could hear. "People might start thinking you don't like me."

"People would be correct."

"That hurts," he said, sounding not remotely hurt. "Especially considering how much you liked me a few week ago in a hotel room with a view of the lake. While you moaned my name—"

I stomped, discreetly, on his foot. He didn't even flinch, just smiled wider for the cameras, and I hated… hated… how much I wanted to laugh.

…

Jay and I were, by both families' decision, to move into a penthouse together ahead of the wedding… "to get comfortable with each other," my mother said, with the specific confidence of a woman who had clearly never had to share a bathroom counter with a man she was furious at. The penthouse was Park property, forty floors up, all glass and steel and a view of the harbor that would've been romantic under literally any other circumstances.

It had two bedrooms. Thank goodness…

The first month was a war led almost entirely through passive aggression and pointed silences. Jay left his shoes in the hallway specifically, I was convinced, because he knew it drove me insane. I reacted back by rearranging his entire closet by color instead of by season, which he discovered at seven in the morning while trying to find a specific navy suit and instead found himself surrounded by a rainbow of confusion.

"You're a menace," he told me over breakfast, hair still damp from a shower, tie hanging undone around his neck because he hadn't had time to finish it.

"I'm efficient," I said, not looking up from my coffee. "Color coding is a perfectly reasonable system."

"It's an act of war."

"Tie your tie, Jay, you have a board meeting."

He glared at me. I didn't look up. He tied the tie badly out of spite, and we both knew it, and neither of us said another word about it, and somehow that felt like the closest thing to a truce either of us had managed in weeks.

…

The banter was constant, and it was, if I was being honest with myself… which I tried very hard not to be… the best part of my day. He teased me about my coffee order (too complicated, he said, for someone who claimed to hate complications). I teased him about the fact that he talked to his car like it could hear him. He'd catch me smiling at something he said and immediately point it out, "Was that a laugh? Did I just make Ms. Song laugh?" and I'd immediately stop, purely on principle, which only made him laugh harder.

It would have been easy, dangerously easy, to enjoy it. I reminded myself, nightly, in the privacy of my own bedroom with the door locked, that this was a business arrangement wearing the costume of a relationship, and that the man three doors down had made it very clear, that first dinner, that he intended to make me pay for leaving him in Lake Como. I didn't trust charm that came with a motive. I'd learned that the hard way, long before Jay Park ever existed.

So I kept my walls up. Mostly.

It was easier some days than others.

…

RULES

Two weeks into this, I'd decided the situation required structure, so I'd drafted… because of course I had, I was my father's daughter whether I liked it or not… an actual list of household rules and taped it to the refrigerator.

Jay found it while looking for orange juice.

"'Rule one,'" he read aloud, deadpan, holding his glass of juice like a prop, "'No shoes in the hallway.' Sweetheart, this is a shared home, not a monastery."

"Rule one exists because you have never once, not a single time, taken your shoes off before the front door."

"'Rule two: knock before entering shared spaces if the other person is, and I quote, "visibly stressed."'" He looked up at me over the side of the paper. "How am I supposed to gauge 'visibly stressed' from outside a closed door?"

"You'll know."

"'Rule three—'" he squinted, "'… do not, under any circumstances, refer to this arrangement as "cute" in front of either family.' Why would I call this cute?"

"Because you called it cute to my mother yesterday and she looked ready to start planning nursery colors."

"It was cute. You made me a cup of coffee without me asking. That's basically a marriage proposal in this household."

"It was leftover coffee. I was being economical."

"Sure." He folded the list in half, tucked it into his back pocket like a souvenir instead of leaving it on the fridge, and I decided, very firmly, not to comment on that either.

Jay and I fell, without either of us quite agreeing to it, into a rhythm that felt almost domestic… he made appalling instant noodles at midnight and somehow always made a second bowl without being asked, I learned, against my will, the exact way he liked his coffee, dark, no sugar, one useless ice cube "for the aesthetic," his words, not mine. We argued about the thermostat. We argued about whose turn it was to deal with the dry cleaning. We argued, once, for a full twenty minutes, about whether pineapple belonged on pizza, an argument Jay won not through logic but through the sheer, relentless force of ordering one anyway and watching me eat three slices while insisting I hated it.

It didn't feel like an arrangement most days. It felt, terrifyingly, like something closer to a life.

I still wasn't ready to call it that. Not yet.

…

My mother had opinions about wedding dresses the way my father had opinions about shipping contracts… extensive, firm, delivered with total confidence regardless of whether anyone had asked. I stood on a small pedestal in a boutique that smelled like tea and money while a worker pinned fabric at my hips and my mother circled me like she was appraising livestock.

"This one," she declared, for the third dress in a row. "No… wait. The last one. Definitely the last one."

"You said that about the first one too."

"I have many opinions ." She adjusted a stray pin. "You seem distracted, darling. Everything alright with Jay?"

I hesitated a beat too long, and my mother, who missed almost nothing when it came to my moods, caught it instantly.

"Everything's fine," I said. "It's just… a lot. All of it happening so fast."

"You've been happier since Lake Como," she said gently, not unkindly, folding a swatch of lace over her arm. "Whatever's between the two of you, real or not, I've watched you smile at your phone more in the last two months than you did in the entire two years you dated that awful man from the shipping conference."

"His name was Nick, and he wasn't awful, he was just—"

"He once corrected your grammar during your own birthday toast. He was awful." My mother fixed me with a look I recognized from childhood, the one that meant she already knew the answer and simply wanted me to say it out loud. "I know this didn't start the way either of you wanted. But I've been married to your father for thirty one years, and I promise you, some of the best marriages start as arrangements. It's not how it begins that matters. It's what you both decide to make of it."

I didn't have an answer for that, not one I trusted myself to say without my voice cracking, so I just let the worker finish pinning the dress and hoped my mother would mistake the shine in my eyes for exhaustion instead of what it actually was.

CHAPTER 6: BACK TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

Six weeks before the wedding, the Park-Song merger required one final round of negotiations … in person, in Lake Como, with the same Italian business I'd first met with the night I'd met Jay. My father, delighted by what he assumed was budding chemistry between his daughter and her fiancé, insisted we both attend together.

"Absolutely not," I said, the second I found out.

"It's one trip," Jay said, entirely too pleased with himself, lounging in the penthouse's kitchen doorway with his arms crossed. "Besides, you love it there. You told me so yourself. Very memorably, actually."

"I will end you."

"Promises, promises."

…

The flight over was, against my best efforts, almost pleasant… Jay stole my armrest for the entire eleven hours and somehow made it feel less like an act of war and more like an invitation, and by the time we landed I'd watched two mediocre romantic comedies with him, argued about which one was worse, and split a truly ill advised amount of the airline's complimentary chocolate.

The negotiations themselves ran two full days, and I found myself, for the first time since this entire arrangement began, genuinely impressed by him… not by the practiced charm he displayed at dinner parties, but by the sharp, unglamorous capability he brought to a boardroom. He caught a clause in the shipping contract that would've cost both companies millions if it had gone unnoticed, argued the business's lead counsel into a corner without ever raising his voice, and did it all with the same easy confidence he'd used to talk me into a second drink the very first night I met him.

"You're staring," he murmured, leaning close under the act of reviewing a document, during a break in the second day's session.

"I'm reviewing your work," I said. "It's a legitimate business function."

"Sure it is." His mouth twitched. "For what it's worth, you're better at this than half the men in this room. Your father should let you run point on these negotiations instead of just sitting in on them."

I blinked, thrown by the sincerity of it, the total absence of teasing. "That's—" I fumbled for a second, "…actually a genuinely nice thing to say."

"Don't get used to it," he said, already back to his usual smirk, though something warmer lingered behind it that neither of us acknowledged out loud.

…

With the negotiations wrapped early that afternoon, we found ourselves with a rare, unscheduled block of hours before the celebratory dinner… no meetings, no families, no reason to be anywhere but exactly where we wanted to be. Jay suggested, with the particular casualness of a man trying very hard not to sound like he cared about the answer, that we take the hotel boat out onto the lake.

"That sounds suspiciously romantic for a business trip," I said.

"It's efficient sightseeing," he said. "You've been to Lake Como twice now and seen nothing but hotel lobbies and a boardroom. That's practically criminal."

I went. The lake in the afternoon light was almost romantic in its beauty… pastel villages stacked along the hills, the water so clear I could see straight through to the rocks below, mountains still capped faintly with snow despite the season. Jay, it turned out, was a genuinely terrible boat driver, and I spent a solid twenty minutes laughing at him trying to dock at a small café along the shore, nearly clipping a much nicer boat belonging to a very unimpressed elderly Italian man.

"In my defense," Jay said, mortified, as we both scrambled onto the dock, "boats are unreasonable vehicles."

"You almost took out a man's entire summer."

"He'll live." He handed me out of the boat with more grace than his docking had suggested he possessed, and didn't let go of my hand once I was steady on solid ground. Neither of us commented on it. Neither of us let go, either.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering a village whose name I never quite caught, eating gelato that Jay insisted, with total confidence and zero evidence, was "objectively the best in Italy," and browsing a tiny shop that sold hand painted ceramics, where Jay bought a small blue bowl for no reason he'd admit to and I caught him, later, packing it carefully into his suitcase like it mattered.

"For the penthouse," he said, when he caught me watching. "Somewhere in that place we could use a little color that isn't gray and glass."

"That sounds suspiciously like nesting, Jay."

"It's interior design. Don't read into it." He absolutely wanted me to read into it. I absolutely did.

By the time the sun started dipping toward the hills, gold spilling across the water in a way that made the whole afternoon feel like something out of a memory I hadn't made yet, I'd stopped keeping track of how many times he'd made me laugh, or how many times I'd caught myself wishing this particular afternoon didn't have to end.

That night, with the contracts finally settled and one more signing ceremony scheduled for the following week, the business's lead partner insisted on a celebratory dinner… the same terrace, coincidentally or not, where I'd first found Jay leaning against the bar with a drink in his hand and a comment about my overthinking. I wore red. He noticed. He didn't bother pretending he hadn't.

"This feels like déjà vu," I said, watching the same lake catch the same moonlight it had the night we first met, a lifetime ago, back when I still thought I'd never see this man again.

"Good déjà vu or bad déjà vu?" he asked.

"Ask me tomorrow," I said, though we both already suspected we knew the answer.

The hotel… a different one this time, a relief, at least, though not by much… had, thanks to some administrative mix up that I was fairly certain Jay had personally engineered, booked the two of us into a single suite. One suite. One bed.

I stood in the doorway, staring at it, then at Jay, who was already unbuttoning his cuffs like this was the most natural thing in the world.

"No," I said.

"There's a couch," he said, gesturing vaguely at a chaise longue that was approximately five feet long and shaped like a crescent moon, entirely unsuited to the human spine.

"You take the couch."

"I'm six foot."

"That sounds like a you problem."

He grinned, infuriatingly. "We've shared a bed before. I don't remember you complaining."

Heat crawled up my neck, fast and unwelcome. "That was different."

"How, exactly?"

"That was one night with a stranger. This is—" I gestured helplessly between the two of us, "…this. Whatever this is."

"Fiancés," he supplied, far too casually, sitting on the edge of the bed like he already owned it, which, technically, given his family's stake in the hotel chain, he might have. "That's the word you're looking for."

"I know what the word is, Jay."

"Then use it. Might make the whole thing easier." Something flickered behind his eyes when he said it… not quite a challenge, not quite something softer. I didn't examine it too closely.

I ended up sharing the bed. I told myself it was purely logistical… a strict, enforced border down the middle of the mattress, a wall of decorative pillows stacked between us like the Berlin Wall reincarnated as home decor. Jay found the entire arrangement hilarious and said so, repeatedly, until I threatened to relocate him to the crescent-moon couch by force.

I woke up at 3 a.m. tangled against his chest, his arm slung over my waist exactly the way it had been the first time, in a different hotel, a different life, and I lay there in the dark for a long, unbearable minute, listening to him breathe, hating how much it felt like coming home.

I didn't move. Not right away.

When I finally did, careful, silent, he caught my wrist in the dark.

"Stay," he said, voice thick with sleep, and there was none of the usual bite in it. Just something quiet. Something real.

I stayed. I told myself, the next morning, that it hadn't meant anything. Neither of us brought it up again.

CHAPTER 7: JEALOUSY… WAS IT?

The closing gala for the merger was held on the terrace of the same hotel where the Italian business had first courted my father's business, string lights, a jazz trio, champagne that flowed like the lake itself had been bottled and served. I wore navy. Jay wore black. We'd agreed, wordlessly, over breakfast, to be civil for the cameras, which had somehow, without either of us fully noticing, evolved into being civil in general.

For the first hour, it was almost easy. Jay kept a hand at the small of my back as he introduced me to a rotating different executives and their spouses, and I found myself falling into an easy rhythm with him… finishing his sentences when he got bored of a conversation, catching his eye across the terrace when someone said something particularly absurd, sharing the kind of silent, private laughter that made me forget, for whole stretches of time, that any of this had started as a contract instead of a courtship. My father caught the two of us mid laugh at one point and looked, for a moment, so un-embarrassingly pleased with himself that I almost forgave him for the entire arrangement on the spot.

"You're enjoying yourself," Jay murmured, refilling my glass. "Careful. Someone might think you actually like me."

"Don't get used to it," I said, echoing his own line back at him, and he grinned like I'd handed him a gift.

That lasted exactly until Karina Yu showed up.

Karina was the business's newest assistant, stunning, sharp tongued, and, I gathered within about four minutes of watching her operate, extremely aware of exactly how good she looked with her hand resting on Jay's forearm while she laughed at something he'd said. I told myself I didn't care. I told myself this several times, with increasing insincerity, while I held a glass of champagne on the other side of the terrace and watched Jay throw his head back and laugh… an actual laugh, not the polished business one… at whatever Karina had just said.

So when Yeonjun Choi, a family friend from Singapore who happened to also be at the gala for reasons that felt suspiciously well timed, walked up beside me with two fresh glasses of champagne and an easy smile, I let myself lean into it. Just a little. Just enough.

"You look like you could use better company," Yeonjun said.

"You have no idea," I said, and let him make me laugh… genuinely, loudly, at a joke that wasn't even that funny… specifically angled so it would carry across the terrace.

I felt it the second Jay noticed. The air seemed to change temperature. I didn't dare look over, but I could feel the exact moment his attention snapped away from Karina Yu and landed, heavy and distinctively, on me and Yeonjun and the two inches of space between our shoulders that Yeonjun had very deliberately closed.

Ten minutes later, Jay's hand found the small of my back.

"Having fun?" he asked, voice pleasant, smile fixed, eyes doing absolutely none of the smiling.

"Loads," I said sweetly. "Yeonjun was just telling me about his new venture. Weren't you, Yeonjun?"

"I was," Yeonjun said, entirely oblivious to the fact that he had just become a casualty in a war he didn't know was being fought. "Actually, I was going to ask if you'd want to—"

"She'd love to," Jay cut in smoothly, "catch up with you later. Right now I need to steal my fiancée for a dance."

He didn't wait for my answer. His hand slid from my back to my waist, and he was already pulling me toward the small cleared space where a few other couples swayed under the lights, and I went, because making a scene in front of half of Lake Como's business elite was not on my evening's agenda.

"That was rude," I said, once we were close enough that only he could hear.

"That was necessary."

"He was being friendly."

"He was flirting with you." Jay's jaw was tight, his hand at my waist gripping just a little too firmly to be casual. "In front of me. At our engagement gala."

"And you were doing what, exactly, with Karina Yu for the last half hour? Discussing shipping tariffs?"

"That's different."

"How is that different?"

"Because I wasn't trying to make you jealous," he said, and then, a beat too late, the muscle in his jaw ticking, "Were you? Trying to make me jealous?"

I didn't answer. Which was, in itself, an answer, and we both knew it.

"You were," he said, something dark and satisfied slipping into his voice even through the anger. "You wanted me to see that."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not flattering myself. I'm reading the room. And the room says you didn't like watching me talk to another woman any more than I liked watching you flirt with Yeonjun Choi's Rolex collection."

"I don't care who you talk to."

"Liar," he said, low, and pulled me a fraction closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him through two layers of expensive fabric. "You've been glaring at Karina Yu's dress since she walked in."

"It's a hideous dress."

"It's a Valentino."

"It's a hideous Valentino."

Something in his expression cracked then… not quite a smile, something rawer than that, something that looked almost like relief that I was finally, finally saying something true. The song ended. Neither of us stepped back.

"We're going back to the hotel," Jay said. It wasn't a question.

I didn't argue.

CHAPTER 8: CRASH… HEHE

The elevator ride back to the penthouse floor was silent in the way that meant it wasn't silent at all… every inch of space between us charged, both of us staring straight ahead at the doors like the reflection there might explain what exactly we were doing.

The second the door clicked shut behind us, it all came out at once.

"You embarrassed me out there," I said, rounding on him, heels forgotten by the door, adrenaline and champagne and something far more dangerous humming under my skin. "Pulling me away like I'm a possession you needed to reclaim—"

"I embarrassed you?" Jay's jacket was already off, tossed over the back of a chair, tie loosened like he couldn't get it off fast enough. "You spent an hour hanging off Yeonjun Choi's arm—"

"I did not hang off his arm—"

"…laughing at everything he said like it was the funniest thing you'd ever heard—"

"Because it's more fun than watching you and Karina Yu practically undress each other with your eyes across the terrace!"

"There it is." He turned to face me fully, and the look on his face wasn't the charming, lazy amusement I'd grown used to… it was something sharper, hungrier, months of banter and almost truths finally boiling over into something neither of us could pretend was just anger anymore. "That's what this is about. You don't get to be jealous of me, sweetheart. Not after Lake Como. Not after you left me a note like I was room service."

"I'm not jealous."

"You're jealous." He took a step closer. I didn't step back. "You've been jealous since the second she put her hand on my arm, and you know what? So was I. Watching Yeonjun Choi look at you like that. Like he had any right to."

"Maybe he does," I said, breathless, reckless, the words leaving my mouth before my brain could stop them. "Maybe I'm tired of being handed off to a man who's spent the last two months trying to make me pay for one night I don't even regret."

Something in his face went dangerously still. "You don't regret it."

"No," I said. "I don't. And that terrifies me. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

The distance between us disappeared.

In a crash of mouths and hands. Jay’s kiss wasn’t gentle… it was a claim, teeth clashing, tongue demanding entry as he backed me against the nearest wall with enough force that a framed picture rattled. I bit his lower lip hard enough to taste the faint metallic tang of blood, and he growled into my mouth, the sound vibrating straight down to my core.

“You think I don’t know what you were doing?” he rasped, one large hand fisting in my hair and yanking my head back so he could bite down the side of my throat. “Parading Yeonjun in front of me like I wouldn’t lose my fucking mind?”

“I wasn’t—” My words cut off in a gasp as he sucked hard on my pulse point, hard enough to leave a mark I’d have to hide tomorrow.

“Bullshit.” His other hand shoved the hem of my navy dress up roughly, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my thigh. “You wanted me jealous. Mission accomplished, baby.”

He spun me around suddenly, pressing my front to the cool wall, his chest hot and solid against my back. The zipper of my dress gave way under impatient hands, the fabric pooling at my feet in a whisper of expensive silk. I was left in nothing but lace panties and heels. Jay’s palm slapped against my ass… sharp, possessive, before he kneaded the sting away.

“Mine,” he snarled against my ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Say it.”

“Fuck you,” I shot back, even as I pushed my hips back against the hard line of his cock straining through his trousers.

He laughed, low and dangerous. “That’s the plan.”

He dropped to his knees behind me without warning, yanking my panties down my legs and tossing them aside. Strong hands spread my cheeks, and then his mouth was on me… hot, wet, relentless. His tongue dragged from my clit all the way up, circling the tight ring of my ass before diving back down to lap at my dripping pussy. I cried out, forehead pressed to the wall, fingers scrabbling for purchase.

“Jay—fuck—”

He ate me like a man starved, like he could erase every second I’d spent smiling at Yeonjun by devouring me instead. Long, broad licks that made my thighs shake, then tight, focused suction on my clit while two thick fingers plunged inside me, curling viciously against that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room… his groans vibrating against my folds, my own broken moans echoing off marble.

“You taste so fucking good when you’re jealous,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to speak before spitting on my pussy and diving back in. A third finger joined the first two, stretching me open as his tongue flicked rapidly over my clit. “Gonna make this pretty cunt remember who it belongs to.”

I came hard, suddenly, thighs clamping around his head as my walls pulsed around his fingers. He didn’t stop… kept licking me through it, gentler then rougher again, until I was whimpering and trying to twist away from the overstimulation.

He stood, spinning me to face him. His mouth was shiny with my arousal, eyes dark with lust and something fiercer. He kissed me again, letting me taste myself on his tongue while he stripped off his shirt and trousers. His cock sprang free… thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. I reached for it, but he caught my wrist.

“Not yet.” He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me to the massive bed. He dropped me onto it and followed immediately, crawling over me like a predator.

His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while his hand pinched and rolled the other. I arched into him, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks. He hissed in pleasure, grinding his cock against my thigh.

“These tits,” he groaned, switching sides, biting down gently before soothing with his tongue. “Been thinking about them all night while that asshole flirted with you.”

He worked his way down my body with single minded focus… kissing, licking, biting every inch of skin he could reach. Over my ribs, across my stomach, dipping into my navel, then lower. He settled between my thighs again, pushing them wide apart until I was completely exposed.

“Look at this greedy little pussy,” he murmured, spreading my folds with his thumbs. “Still dripping for me even after you came on my tongue.” He leaned in and licked a slow stripe up my slit, eyes locked on mine. “Tell me you don’t want anyone else tasting this.”

“I don’t,” I gasped, hips bucking. “Just you—fuck, Jay—”

He rewarded me by sucking my clit into his mouth while two fingers pumped steadily inside me. The pressure built again, fast and overwhelming. He added a third finger, scissoring them, stretching me as his tongue worked magic. When I was right on the edge, he pulled back, ignoring my whine of protest.

“Not yet. You don’t come again until I say so.”

He moved up my body and straddled my chest, knees on either side of my shoulders. His heavy cock bobbed in front of my face, glistening. He tapped the head against my lips.

“Open.”

I did, eagerly. He pushed in slowly at first, letting me swirl my tongue around the head, tasting the precum. Then he gripped my hair and thrust deeper, fucking my mouth with controlled rolls of his hips.

“Fuck, your mouth y/n…always so perfect.” He groaned as I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, relaxing my throat. “Suck it like you mean it, sweetheart. Show me how sorry you are for teasing me tonight.”

I hummed around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. Saliva dripped down my chin as he used my mouth, not rough enough to choke but deep enough that my eyes watered. I loved it… the weight of him on my tongue, the way his abs flexed above me, the filthy praises falling from his lips.

He pulled out suddenly, breathing hard, and flipped me onto my stomach. He hauled my hips up so I was on my knees, ass in the air, face pressed into the sheets.

“Gonna fuck you so deep you forget Yeonjun’s name,” he growled, lining himself up and slamming in with one brutal thrust.

I screamed into the mattress, the stretch bordering on too much after his fingers. He didn’t give me time to adjust… just pulled back and drove in again, setting a punishing rhythm. Skin slapped against skin, his balls hitting my clit with every thrust. One hand fisted my hair, the other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise.

“Whose pussy is this?” he demanded, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot.

“Yours—fuck—yours, Jay!”

“That’s right.” He reached around to rub my clit in tight, fast circles. “Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel you.”

The orgasm ripped through me, walls clenching around his thick length as I shook and moaned. He rode me through it, thrusts growing erratic, then pulled out and flipped me onto my back again.

He buried his face between my thighs once more, licking up every drop of my release with long, hungry strokes. “Can’t get enough of this taste,” he muttered against my folds. “Could eat you for hours.”

I was oversensitive, trembling, but he didn’t stop until I was whimpering and pushing at his head. Only then did he crawl up and kiss me deeply, sharing my flavor.

“On top,” he ordered, lying back and pulling me over him. “Ride me. Show me how much you need my cock.”

I straddled him, sinking down slowly, savoring the way he filled me completely. His hands gripped my ass, guiding me as I started to move… rolling my hips, grinding down so my clit rubbed against his pelvis with every motion.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, eyes hooded as he watched his cock disappear inside me. “So fucking beautiful taking every inch.”

He sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around me, mouth latching onto my breasts again as I rode him harder. I threaded my fingers through his hair, tugging as I bounced on his cock. He met me thrust for thrust, one hand sliding between us to rub my clit.

The angle was devastating. I came again, clenching around him, and he flipped us so he was on top once more, pounding into me through the aftershocks.

He pulled out and moved down my body again, this time pushing my thighs up toward my chest, folding me in half. His tongue attacked my pussy and ass with renewed passion… licking, sucking, probing, while two fingers fucked into me and his thumb pressed against my clit. I was a mess of sobs and pleas, overstimulated and desperate for more.

“Please—Jay—I need you inside me again—”

He rose up and slammed back into me in one smooth motion, the new position letting him hit impossibly deep. His hand wrapped around my throat… not squeezing hard, just holding me there, possessive.

“Mine,” he repeated with every thrust. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to make you come like this.”

I clawed at his back, legs locked around his waist as another orgasm built. He leaned down, biting my shoulder, then soothing it with his tongue. His pace became brutal, hips snapping against mine, sweat slick skin sliding together.

“Come with me,” he growled. “Now.”

We shattered together. He buried himself to the hilt, pulsing deep inside me as my walls milked him through wave after wave of pleasure. His groan of my name… raw, broken, sent fresh aftershocks through me.

"Oh gosh—y/n fuck!"

We stayed locked together for long moments, breathing hard. Then he pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip from my pussy with dark satisfaction. He gathered some on his fingers and brought them to my lips. I sucked them clean without hesitation.

But he wasn’t done.

He slid down my body again, gentle this time, and began licking me clea… soft, deep strokes of his tongue that had me twitching and sighing. He paid attention to every sensitive inch, my clit, my entrance, even pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs where faint marks from his grip were already forming.

When he finally moved back up, he pulled me into his arms, my head on his chest. His hand stroked down my back in long, soothing lines.

“I hated seeing you with him,” he admitted quietly, the roughness gone from his voice, replaced by something vulnerable. “Even knowing it was just to piss me off.”

“I hated seeing her touch you,” I whispered back, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

He tilted my chin up and kissed me… slow, deep, thorough. “No more games like that.”

“No more,” I agreed.

But even as we lay tangled together, bodies sated and hearts still racing, I knew the fire between us was far from extinguished. If anything, the jealousy had only stoked it higher.

He rolled us so I was beneath him again, already hardening against my thigh.

“Round two?” he murmured, lips brushing mine.

I smiled, wicked and wanting. “Make me forget every other name but yours.”

And he did… thoroughly, roughly, with his mouth and hands and cock worshipping every inch of me until the sky outside began to lighten and all that remained was the two of us, breathless and undeniably bound.

…

He lay awake long after I'd fallen asleep against his chest, staring at the ceiling of a hotel room in the one city on earth that seemed determined to keep rewriting the terms of his life without asking his permission first.

He'd meant what he said, in the heat of the argument, about making me pay for Lake Como… he'd meant it that first dinner, watching me go pale across the table as I recognized him, some petty, wounded part of him lighting up at the thought of finally getting to watch me squirm the way he'd squirmed reading that note. He'd built an entire plan around it, in the weeks after the engagement was announced. Charm her. Get close. Make her want him the way she'd wanted him in Lake Como, and then, at the last possible second, be the one who walked away first.

It hadn't survived the second week. It hadn't survived me falling asleep on his shoulder during a boring merger briefing, or the ridiculous, genuine way I argued about pineapple pizza like my life depended on it, or the morning I'd stayed in his bed instead of running, hand in his under the sheets, no note, no euros, no goodbye.

He looked down at me now, curled against him, and felt something settle in his chest that had nothing to do with revenge at all.

So much for making her pay, he thought, and pressed a kiss to the top of my head, careful not to wake me. Guess the joke's on me.

CHAPTER 9: THE MORNING AFTER THE MORNING AFTER

I woke up tangled in sheets that smelled like him, sunlight cutting gold across the same kind of luxury bed I'd woken up in months ago in a different hotel, in a different life, except this time there was no flight to catch, no note to write, no reason at all to leave.

Jay was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching me with an expression I didn't have a name for… something quieter than the smugness I'd come to expect, something that looked almost unguarded.

"No note this time?" he asked, but there was no real bite in it. Just a question, testing the ground.

"No note," I said. "I'm still here."

"You are." He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and the gentleness of it undid me more than anything he'd said in the heat of the night before. "I keep waiting for you to run."

"I keep waiting for you to actually let me stay," I said, quieter than I meant to. "You've spent two months telling me you were going to make me pay for Lake Como."

"I know." His jaw tightened, something like guilt flickering across his face. "I meant it, at first. I wanted to. You made me feel like—" he stopped, exhaled, started again. "You made me feel like something I wasn't used to feeling, and then you left like it didn't matter, and I didn't know what to do with that except be angry about it."

"And now?"

"Now I don't know what I'm angrier about," he admitted. "That you left. Or how much I don't want you to leave again."

"For what it's worth," I said, tracing an absent pattern against his chest, "I thought about you. After Lake Como. More than I wanted to. I told myself it was because you were a mystery I hadn't solved. Turns out it was just because I liked you, and I didn't know what to do with that, either."

"You could've texted."

"I didn't have your number. That was rather the design flaw in my whole escape plan."

He huffed a laugh, low and real, pressing it into my hair. "I looked you up, you know. After the note. Took me two days and an embarrassing amount of Google searches involving 'Singaporean businesswoman' and 'Lake Como' before I gave up entirely."

"You didn't."

"I absolutely did. My assistant thought I'd lost my mind." He tipped my chin up with two fingers, the same gesture from the engagement photoshoot, except there was no camera now, no performance, just the two of us and the quiet. "Turns out I didn't need Google. I just needed my father to have terrible timing and worse business instincts."

"Remind me to thank him," I murmured, "right after I finish being furious at him."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I didn't say anything. I just reached for his hand under the sheets and let the silence be its own answer, and for one suspended, golden morning, it was almost enough to believe none of the rest of it… the merger, the arrangement, the families watching my every move like a stock ticker… mattered at all.

It wouldn't last. It never did, not for people like me.

…

I called Minji the second I landed back in Singapore, because if I didn't say any of this out loud to someone, I was fairly certain my own head was going to implode from the sheer volume of unprocessed feelings rattling around inside it.

"So," Minji said, the second she picked up, "you disappear on a stranger in Lake Como, said stranger turns out to be your arranged fiancé, and now you're calling me at nine in the morning sounding like you just ran a marathon. Catch me up."

"I think I like him," I said, miserable. "For real. Not in the fake engagement, keep up appearances way. In the actual, terrifying, can't-stop-thinking-about-him way."

There was a pause on the other end, and then Minji, ever helpful, burst out laughing. "You're just now figuring this out? I could've told you that the second you texted me a full paragraph about the way he tied his tie badly on purpose."

"That's not… that was an observation, not a—"

"It was absolutely a symptom." I could hear Minji grinning through the phone. "So what's the problem? You like him, presumably he likes you, considering the man rearranged an entire hotel's booking system to get you both in one bed—"

"The problem," I said, "is that this whole thing started because our fathers wanted a shipping contract. What if none of this is real? What if I fall for him for real and it turns out I'm just… convenient? The easiest option? The daughter who happened to be in the right hotel room at the right time?"

"Do you actually believe that," Minji asked, gentler now, "or are you just scared?"

I didn't answer right away, because I didn't have a good one. "Both, maybe."

"For what it's worth," Minji said, "I watched that man's face when you walked into that gala in navy. He did not look like a guy fulfilling a business obligation. He looked like a guy who forgot how to use words." A beat. "Stop trying to find the exit before you even know if you want one. That's the same thing you did in Lake Como the first time, and look how well that turned out."

I hung up feeling more unsettled than before I'd called, which I supposed was the entire point of calling Minji in the first place.

CHAPTER 10: THE FIGHT THAT ACTUALLY MATTERED…

The trouble with almost truths is that they don't survive daylight for long, and by the time Jay and I were both back in Singapore, back in the penthouse, back under the weight of two families and a merger worth more than either of our lives combined, the softness of Lake Como had curdled, slowly, into something more complicated.

It wasn't any one thing at first. It was the wedding planning eating into every spare hour of both our schedules, endless calls with caterers and venue coordinators and a florist who seemed personally offended by every choice I made. It was Jay's schedule filling up with calls from the conglomerate's Singapore office as the merger moved into its implementation phase, calls that ran later and later into the evening. It was the two of us, still learning how to be honest about wanting each other without immediately following it with a joke to soften the admission, slowly running out of jokes to hide behind and not yet having anything solid to replace them with.

It started, as these things always did, over something small. A dinner Jay canceled at the last minute for a call with Karina Yu's firm… purely business, he swore, and I believed him, mostly, except believing him didn't stop the old, ugly voice in my head from whispering that I was, at the end of the day, a business arrangement he could deprioritize whenever something more important came along.

"You could have told me sooner," I said, standing in the kitchen while he shrugged his jacket back on for the second time that night.

"I told you the second I knew."

"You told me twenty minutes before we were supposed to leave, Jay."

"It's work. This merger doesn't run itself just because we had a nice morning in Lake Como."

The words landed harder than he probably meant them to. A nice morning. Like that was all it had been. Like I hadn't spent the last week turning it over in my head, wondering if it meant what I desperately, quietly hoped it meant.

"Right," I said, voice gone flat. "Of course. Wouldn't want the merger to suffer because you spent an evening with your fiancée."

"That's not what I—"

"It's fine." It wasn't fine. We both knew it wasn't fine. "Go to your call."

He didn't go, not right away. He stood there in the kitchen doorway, jacket half on, looking at me like he wanted to say something and couldn't find the shape of it. "I'm scared," he finally said, so quietly I almost missed it. "Of how much I want this to be real. And every time I get close to saying that out loud, I remember it started because our fathers wanted a shipping contract, and I don't know how to trust that any of this is actually about us."

The anger drained out of me at once, replaced by something far more exposed. "I'm scared of the exact same thing," I admitted. "That's why I left Lake Como the first time. Not because of you. Because of how much I already didn't want to."

He crossed the kitchen in three steps and kissed me like he was trying to prove something to both of us at once, and when he pulled back, forehead resting against mine, he said, "Cancel your evening. I'll cancel the call. Let's just… figure this out. Together. No merger. No fathers. Just us."

We canceled the call together. Neither of us brought up Karina or Yeonjun again.

…

It didn't stay easy. I hadn't expected it to… nothing about the two of us had ever been easy, not from the very first night in a bar with too much rum in the drinks… but the fight that came three weeks later still managed to knock the wind out of me in a way none of the others had.

It was over something stupid, in looking into the past. Jay had made a decision about the wedding venue without consulting me… a favor to both fathers, he said, a way to smooth over a disagreement about vendor contracts that had nothing to do with either of us and everything to do with two companies trying to look good in front of shareholders. I'd found out from my mother, not from him, and something about hearing it secondhand had cracked open every insecurity I'd been quietly protecting since the day this arrangement started.

"You didn't think to ask me," I said, voice tight, "because at the end of the day, this is still a business decision to you. I'm still a line item."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? You made a decision about my wedding to smooth over a contract dispute, Jay. Tell me how that's not exactly what I was afraid of from the beginning."

"I did it because I was trying to protect you from getting dragged into another negotiation," he snapped, temper flaring to match mine. "I didn't think you'd rather sit through another four-hour meeting about seating charts and vendor exclusivity clauses just to prove a point."

"I'd rather you asked me. That's it. That's the whole point. You don't get to decide what I can handle."

"Maybe I overstepped." His voice cracked, just slightly, on the word. "But don't stand there and tell me this is still just business to me, because I have spent the last four months falling in love with a woman I met in a bar and then spent every day since terrified she was going to wake up one morning and leave another note."

The room went very quiet.

"That's not fair either," I said, softer now, the fight draining out of me as fast as it had risen. "Using that against me."

"I'm not using it against you. I'm telling you the truth, because I'm so far past pretending this is manageable that I don't know what else to do except be honest and hope it doesn't scare you off." He dragged a hand through his hair, the picture of a man who had clearly rehearsed a calmer version of this speech and abandoned it entirely under pressure. "I love you. I've loved you probably since the hotel room I woke up alone in. And I am so sick of both of us treating that like a liability instead of just… saying it."

I stood there, heart hammering, every practiced defense I'd built over the last four months suddenly useless in my hands. "You've never said that before."

"I'm saying it now." He looked, for the first time since I'd met him, genuinely unguarded… no charm, no smugness, nothing performative left in him at all. "I love you. And if you walk out that door right now, I'm not going to chase you, because I'm done being someone you run from. But I'd really, really rather you stayed."

I didn't walk out the door.

I crossed the room instead, and kissed him, and neither of us brought up seating charts again for the rest of the night.

…

Two days later, I came home to find the penthouse dark except for a trail of candles leading from the front door to the balcony, which was, I thought, either the most romantic thing Jay had ever attempted or a genuine fire hazard, possibly both.

"If you set off the smoke alarm," I called out, toeing off my heels, "I will never let you live it down."

"Just come outside," his voice floated back, suspiciously nervous for a man who negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts for a living without breaking a sweat.

I found him on the balcony in the same suit he'd worn the night of the engagement announcement, the harbor spread out gold and glittering behind him, and something in his posture… hands shoved in his pockets, weight shifting like he couldn't decide where to put himself… made my chest go tight before he'd said a single word.

"We're already engaged," I said slowly, eyeing the candles, the suit, the unmistakable set dressing of a moment he'd clearly planned. "This is either extremely romantic or you're about to tell me something has gone horribly wrong with the merger."

"Neither." He huffed a laugh, more nerves than humor in it, and pulled a small velvet box from his pocket… not the ring our families had already selected together for the official engagement, the one that had been photographed and press released and worn on my hand for months now, but a different one entirely, simpler, clearly chosen by him and no one else. "The first ring was picked by a committee. Our fathers, a jeweler, a PR team who wanted something 'photogenic for the press release.' I didn't get a say in it, and I don't think you did either. This one, I picked myself."

I stared at him, throat suddenly too tight to speak.

"I know we're already getting married," he continued, dropping to one knee anyway, the picture of a man determined to do this properly no matter how backwards the order of operations had gotten. "I know the contracts are signed and the venue's booked and my father's already started planning the honeymoon like it's his own. But none of that was ever really us choosing this. So I wanted to ask you myself. Not because a merger needs it. Because I do." He opened the box… a simple band, understated, nothing like the statement piece on my hand already. "Will you Marry me, y/n? For real this time. Not because of Lake Como, or the contract, or the note, or any of the reasons this started. Just because I love you, and I'd choose you even if none of the rest of it had ever happened."

"You're an idiot," I said, laughing and crying at once, dropping to my knees on the balcony floor to be level with him because I couldn't stand to have him below me for this. "You already had me. You've had me since the boat, or the pizza argument, or possibly since the very first night, I genuinely can't tell anymore."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes." I kissed him before he could say anything else insufferably charming, and somewhere behind me, entirely unnoticed until this exact moment, I registered that he'd set up a small speaker quietly playing something slow and warm, the kind of song that made the whole ridiculous, candlelit, slightly hazardous scene feel like something out of a life I never would have predicted for myself a year ago and wouldn't trade now for anything.

"For the record," Jay said, sliding the second ring onto my finger beside the first, "I'm keeping both rings on you. One for the contract our fathers wanted. One for the choice we actually made."

"Sentimental," I accused.

"Only for you," he said, and meant it.

CHAPTER 11: FULL CIRCLE

The final signing ceremony for the merger was scheduled, fittingly, for Lake Como… the same business, the same lake, the same string light terraces where this entire impossible chain of events had started. My father called it poetic. I called it the universe having an extremely specific sense of humor.

This time, there was no confusion about the hotel booking. Jay booked the suite himself, one bed, no crescent moon couch in sight, and when I raised an eyebrow at him over the reservation confirmation, he just shrugged, entirely unbothered.

"Figured we'd save everyone the trouble of pretending," he said.

The signing went smoothly… my father practically glowing with the kind of pride that came from watching two companies and two children merge into one very profitable future. Chairman Park shook my hand with real warmth, told me Jay had been, in his words, "unbearable to live with" in the weeks after Lake Como the first time, and that he was glad to see I'd apparently cured that particular ailment. I'd laughed, genuinely, and looked over to find Jay watching me with an expression that had nothing to do with business at all.

That night, after the papers were signed and the champagne toasts made and the last of the business's executives had finally, mercifully, gone home, I found myself back on the same terrace where I'd first met him… string lights, dark water, a version of myself that had walked into this exact spot months ago convinced she'd never see this man again.

"You know," Jay said, coming to stand beside me at the railing, his tie long gone, sleeves rolled to his forearms, "I used to think about what I'd say to you. If I ever saw you again. I had this whole speech planned. Very cutting. Very devastating."

"What happened to it?"

"You showed up at my dinner table three weeks later and I forgot every word of it." He turned to face me fully, and whatever careful distance he usually kept even now, even after everything, was entirely gone from his eyes. "I don't want to make you pay for Lake Como anymore. I just want Lake Como. Again. With you. For real this time… not a stranger's name, not a note on a hotel notepad. All of it. If you'll let me."

My throat tightened. "I was so sure I'd never see you again," I admitted. "I left because staying scared me more than leaving did. I didn't know how to want something that wasn't part of a plan I'd already made for my life."

"And now?"

"Now the plan includes you," I said. "Which terrifies me a little less every day."

He reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine, and I let him pull me back toward the suite with none of the panic of that first morning, none of the urgency to run before the sun came up. This time, I wanted to stay for the sunrise.

We walked the short distance to our suite. The moment the door closed, the rest of the world fell away. Jay turned to me under the soft glow of the bedside lamps, the moonlit Lake Como sparkling beyond the windows like a painting made just for us. No rush. No games. Only the quiet weight of everything we had finally admitted.

He cupped my face with both hands and kissed me deeply… slow, soulful, like he was pouring every unsaid feeling into the press of his lips. His thumbs stroked my cheeks as his tongue gently explored my mouth, tempting soft sighs from me. I melted against him, hands sliding up his chest to loosen his tie and work open the buttons of his shirt.

“I love you,” he breathed between kisses, voice low and thick with emotion. “Not because of the merger, or our families, or Lake Como. Just you. The woman who argues with me about pineapple on pizza and rearranges my closet to drive me crazy.”

Tears pricked at my eyes as I smiled against his mouth. “I love you too. I think I have for a long time… I was just too scared to stay.”

He kissed the corner of my eye, then my temple, then the sensitive spot beneath my ear. With soft hands, he eased the zipper of my dress down my spine, following the path with his lips… pressing open mouthed kisses along my shoulders and the nape of my neck. The fabric slid to the floor in a whisper. He unclasped my bra and let it fall away, then hooked his fingers into my panties and drew them down my legs, dropping to one knee to kiss my thighs, my knees, the delicate skin just above my ankles as he helped me step out.

When I stood completely bare before him, he rose slowly, eyes dark with desire but softened by something far deeper. I finished undressing him with the same care… pushing his shirt off his broad shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle in his chest and abdomen, unbuckling his belt and sliding his trousers and boxers down until he was as bare as I was.

Jay lifted me effortlessly and laid me in the center of the large bed. He followed, covering my body with his, but keeping most of his weight on his forearms so I felt surrounded, protected, cherished. He kissed me for a long time… deep, slow kisses that left me breathless… before trailing his mouth downward.

He lavished attention on my breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth while rolling the other between his fingers, switching sides with unhurried devotion until I was arching and whimpering. Lower still, he kissed every inch of my stomach, my hips, the tops of my thighs. Then he settled between my spread legs, spreading me open with gentle hands.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice full of awe. “So beautiful. So mine.”

His tongue traced a slow, broad stripe from my entrance to my clit, then circled the swollen bud with patient, loving strokes. He took his time, exploring every fold, savoring my taste with soft hums of pleasure that vibrated through me. Two thick fingers eased inside me, curling gently against that perfect spot while his mouth sealed over my clit, sucking with tender rhythm. The pleasure built gradually, like a wave rolling in from far away, growing deeper and warmer until it crashed over me in a long, shuddering orgasm. I cried out his name softly, thighs trembling around his head as he licked me through every pulse, gentle and devoted.

He kissed his way back up my body, settling between my thighs. His cock… thick, heavy, and leaking at the tip… nudged against my slick entrance. Our eyes locked as he pushed in slowly, letting me feel every inch as he stretched and filled me completely. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, buried deep, forehead pressed to mine.

“Feel us,” he whispered. “This is real.”

We moved together in a slow, rocking rhythm. Long, deep strokes that dragged pleasure through every nerve ending. His hips rolled against mine in a sensual grind, hitting that spot inside me with each thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, holding him as close as physically possible. Our breaths mingled, soft moans and whispered “I love you" filling the space between kisses.

Jay slipped a hand between us, fingers finding my clit and circling it with perfect, gentle pressure. The pace stayed tender but grew more intense… deeper, more intentional thrusts as pleasure coiled tighter inside me. I came again with a broken moan, walls fluttering and clenching around him, pulling him deeper. He followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan of my name as he spilled inside me, pulsing hot and deep.

Even after, he stayed buried within me, holding me close while we caught our breath. He rolled us onto our sides, facing each other, still connected. His hand stroked down my back in long, soothing lines, fingers tracing my spine, my hips, the curve of my waist. I pressed soft kisses to his chest, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

“No more running,” he said quietly, tilting my chin up to kiss me again… slow and sweet.

“No more notes,” I replied, smiling against his lips. “Just us. Every morning. Every night.”

We stayed like that for a long while, trading lazy kisses and touches, bodies still joined, hearts finally in perfect sync. Eventually he pulled out gently, cleaned us both with a warm cloth from the bathroom, then pulled me back into his arms. I fell asleep with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, the same lake outside the window that had once watched me slip away now witnessing me stay… willingly, completely, forever.

The universe had brought us full circle. This time, we were exactly where we belonged.

CHAPTER 12: THE HILLS, REPRISE 

Minji threw me a bachelorette dinner two nights before the wedding… small, just a handful of close friends on a rooftop bar overlooking the exact stretch of harbor I could see from the penthouse, which Minji swore was a coincidence and I was fairly sure was not.

"To the world's most chaotic love story," Minji said, raising her glass. "One night stand, arranged marriage, at least one shouting match that the building's security definitely heard—"

"That happened one time—"

"… and somehow, against every possible odd, an actual, real, sickeningly cute relationship. I still can't believe you almost didn't recognize him at that dinner."

"I recognized him immediately," I admitted. "I was just praying I was wrong."

"And now?"

I looked out at the water, dark and glittering, not so different from the lake that had started all of this, and felt something settle in my chest that had taken the better part of a year to arrive. "Now I can't imagine having prayed for anything else."

Across town, in a considerably less sentimental gathering, Jay was enduring a bachelor party that mostly consisted of his closest friends ribbing him mercilessly about the note.

"Money for the minibar," one of them said, for what had to be the fortieth time that week, raising a glass in mock tribute. "A toast… to the greatest insult ever survived by a Park heir."

"I've moved past it," Jay said, entirely unconvincingly.

"You named your dog after the hotel."

"That's… unrelated."

It was not, in fact, unrelated, and everyone at the table knew it, and Jay let them have the joke because some jokes you'd earned by now, and because in two days none of it was going to matter anyway. He was going to marry the woman who'd left that note, and somewhere between the fury and the note and the year that followed, he'd stopped thinking of it as something to make her pay for and started thinking of it as the first sentence of a story he was, against every prediction he'd have made about his own life, deeply grateful to be living.

…

The Ceremony…

The wedding, when it finally came, was nothing like the dinner where it had all started… no stiff formality, no families sizing each other up across a table like it was a negotiation. Just our two families, genuinely joined this time instead of merely merged, and Jay at the end of the aisle wearing the same crooked, unguarded smile he'd worn the night he first bought me a drink with too much rum in it and told me that I looked like I was thinking too hard for someone on vacation.

"You're doing that thing again," he murmured, when I finally reached him, voice pitched for only me to hear. "Thinking too hard."

"I'm just wondering," I whispered back, "if you're going to make me regret leaving that note for the rest of our lives."

"Every single day," he said, grinning. "But mostly because it's the reason I got to fall in love with you twice."

When it came time for vows, Jay went first, and the room, which had been politely rustling with the low murmur of two hundred guests, went entirely still.

"I had a whole speech written," he admitted, pulling a folded card from his jacket pocket and then, after a beat of consideration, tucking it away again unread. "My assistant helped me write it. It had a quote from a poet I've never actually read in it, to sound sophisticated. But I think you'd know if I was reading someone else's words instead of mine, so… here's the truth instead. I met a woman in a bar who told me she was working, at eleven at night, in a bar, and I thought that was the funniest, most transparent lie I'd ever heard, and I decided right then I wanted to know everything else she wasn't telling me. It took me a lot longer than I'd like to admit to realize that the version of myself I like best is the one that exists around you… the one that argues about pizza toppings and loses fights about thermostats and gets absurdly, embarrassingly jealous over nothing. I promise to keep choosing that version of myself, and to keep choosing you, for every single day we get, starting today and not stopping for a very long time."

My own vows came out shakier than I'd rehearsed them in the mirror that morning, but I got through them anyway. "I left you a note once," I said, and heard the ripple of laughter move through the crowd, most of whom had heard some version of that story by now. "I told you it wasn't you, it was timing. I have never told a bigger lie in my entire life. It was absolutely you. You were the first person who ever made me want to stay somewhere I hadn't planned on staying, and I've spent the year since trying to figure out how to say that without sounding as terrified as I actually was. I'm not scared anymore. I choose this… I choose you… not because of a contract, or our fathers, or a shipping deal neither of us fully understood at the time, but because somewhere between a bar in Lake Como and this exact terrace, you stopped being an arrangement and started being home."

Minji, somewhere in the crowd, would later swear she heard me laugh mid vow, which was, everyone agreed, entirely on brand.

Chairman Park gave a toast at the reception that started as a speech about shipping tariffs and ended, somewhere around his third glass of champagne, in genuine tears about how he'd never seen his son smile the way he smiled around me, contract or no contract. My father, not to be outdone, stood up next and admitted… publicly, in front of two hundred guests… that he'd fully expected me to hate the arrangement forever, and that watching me dance at my own wedding like I'd chosen this myself was the best business decision he'd ever made and he intended to take full credit for it at every future shareholder meeting.

"He's never going to let this go, is he," Jay murmured against my ear, swaying with me under string lights that looked, deliberately, unmistakably, like the ones from a terrace in Lake Como.

"Never," I agreed. "You're stuck being his favorite success story for the rest of your life."

"Worse things to be stuck with," he said, and spun me once, easy and sure, the same way he had the very first night, except this time there was no mystery left between us at all… no last name withheld, no hotel notepad, no note to write in a panic before a flight. Just the two of us, exactly where we'd both, somewhere along the way, decided we wanted to be.

Later, much later, when the guests had thinned and the band had switched to something slower, Jay pulled me toward the edge of the terrace, away from the noise, and pressed his forehead to mine the way he had the night everything finally cracked open between us.

"No regrets?" he asked. "Even with everything it took to get here?"

"None," I said. "Although I do think you owe me for two months of insufferable jealousy and a color coded closet war."

"I owe you," he agreed, "for a lot more than that. I'll be paying it off for the rest of our lives. I'm looking forward to it."

…

Years later…

Somewhere over the years that followed… the arguments that still happened, because two people that stubborn were never going to stop clashing entirely, and the jealousy that occasionally flared, more playful now than desperate, and the quiet mornings that mattered more than either of us had expected an arranged marriage to ever produce… I'd think back, sometimes, to a stranger in a bar in Lake Como who told me that I looked like trouble.

He'd been right. He usually was, though I'd never admit that to his face.

There would be more trips to Lake Como over the years… anniversaries, mostly, an unspoken tradition neither of us had planned but both of us protected fiercely, the same terrace, the same string lights, a standing reservation at a hotel that still, to this day, kept a bowl of untouched fruit in every suite because Jay had once complained, half joking, that nobody ever ate it. There would be a dog, badly named, exactly as his friends had predicted. There would be, eventually, a nursery my mother had been quietly hoping for since the night of that very first engagement announcement, though that particular chapter belonged to a different story entirely.

I wouldn't have changed a single second of it. Not the note. Not the running. Not the fights, or the jealousy, or the year it took the two of us to stop being afraid of wanting something that started as an arrangement and ended up as the realest thing either of us had ever had.

Some things, it turned out, were worth staying for.

THE END

I hope you guys like this fic! I didn't get to proofread it properly, so hopefully everything makes sense! I lowkey teared up writing the end of it. I really like this storyline so I hope I delivered it well! If you have any suggestion what who or what I can write next please drop a comment!

wonluvzu taglist ;)

@royallycraftyimp @iiunique @nishimoona @yfyftd @iriskisser @aeinthe-void

[0210sjy]

࣪ ˖ 𖦹°⋆ nishimura riki “this is so fucked."

━━ HOMEWRECKER

𑣲⋆ ⌗ (🚬) You’re the kind of girl who gets peonies for breakfast, so Riki Nishimura would really like to know why you’re buying weed from him.

西村 力 riki nishimura x cheer captain! reader ˗ˏˋ riki as a plug, i promise its not as bad as it sounds, romcom, fluff, crack, profanity, homewrecking but not really, cheating (not really) but not on riki dw, explicit content, smut, oral sex, m receiving, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dom ni-ki, size kink lowk, weed, toxic, mdni ! wc: 20 766 p: d.a.m. - fetty wap ; homewrecker - sombr ; i get lonely - drake ; lowkey - niki (fcking hilarious)

Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means possible, and even prides himself as a law-abiding citizen to the normalized standards. 

He does think some fractions of the government system can totally be tweaked, but he isn’t some reformist that would go out of his way — he actually really likes the stability of society and how it’s structured. He’s comfortable with the status quo.

That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts. 

Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed. 

He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little. 

Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.

So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.

You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him: 

you: hi you sell right

The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.

Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.

This was not how the structure worked. Nope.

He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this. 

Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.

riki: ???? is this a test loll

you: ? its a question

riki: u fr????

you: js tell me if its a no i have money

riki: 3pm behind the science building

you: ok thanks

But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.

And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.

You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.

Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”

The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.

You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”

Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.

“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“What kind.” he repeats.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”

A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says. 

You bristle. “So?”

“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”

Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”

This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.

Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“

“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”

When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.

And it makes it worse.

You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention. 

He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”

You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.

His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.

Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years. 

But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.

And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy. 

Also, he’s 6’1.

“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.” 

He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that. 

Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say too fast.

He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”

He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.

“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount. 

You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”

That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.

“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.

He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.

“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”

For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.

“Oh,” you say.

Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”

Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.

“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”

Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”

He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”

You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.

You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.

The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings. 

He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.

Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.

He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —

Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”

Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.

He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.

Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.

“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.

“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.

“Mhm.”

Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them. 

Until he bumps into someone.

For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.

But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing. 

“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.

His name on your mouth does something stupid to him. 

“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.

You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”

You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.

“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say. 

He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.

“You don’t usually look,” he says.

It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.

Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”

Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”

You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him. 

“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.

His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.

When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”

“Specific.”

“He’s with his friends.”

Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.

Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.

You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”

Riki blinks. “The stuff?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.

For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”

Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”

Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”

You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.

He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”

You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”

Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching. 

Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”

You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.

He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.

He really, really knows better.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t.

Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.

You: bathroom upstairs

The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.

“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”

He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”

You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.

He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.

“Like this?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”

You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”

“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”

You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.

You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.

“Sorry,” you say, breathless.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”

You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”

You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”

He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.

He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.

Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”

He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”

Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.

You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.

You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.

Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”

“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”

“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.

“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.

He quickly looks away, trying not to smile. 

“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.

He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”

You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.

“Is that so bad?”

The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”

“Why not?”

Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet. 

For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.” 

You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”

He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”

The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.

You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”

“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable. 

“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”

That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.

He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.

“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”

He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.

Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”

Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”

“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.

You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”

He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.

You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.

You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.

You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.

You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.

He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.

“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.

He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.

He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall. 

Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.

You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.

“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.

He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.

Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”

He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.

But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.

Riki exhales, then lifts it.

He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.

He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.

He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.

After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks. 

That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.

He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after. 

Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.

It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.

You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.

No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.

“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”

Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”

Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.

“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.

“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”

Riki blinks. “No.”

“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”

Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”

Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”

Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”

“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”

Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught. 

Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”

Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.

Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”

Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”

Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”

Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”

It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.

You’re where you’re supposed to be.

You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.

Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.

Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.

You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.

Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.

The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.

“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”

You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.

You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.

Well, you push the door open.

Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.

For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”

His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”

This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.

“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”

Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”

You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”

That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint. 

“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.

You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap. 

“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”

He tilts his head. “Should we?”

“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.” 

He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”

“Probably.”

“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”

“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.

You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.

He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.

Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”

Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”

When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s. 

You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.

-

McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.

“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.

Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.

He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.

Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”

“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.

Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”

“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.

“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.

Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”

He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all. 

Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.

Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall. 

Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.

Your boyfriend is cheating on you.

What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution. 

He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.

“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.

He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”

While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.

“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”

You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.

“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.

“Outside,” he says easily.

The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.

He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too? 

Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”

Your smile falters. “What about him?”

“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”

You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something. 

Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.

What the fuck is happening?

It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.

No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.

Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”

You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”

Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.

That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.

He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”

You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.

That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.

“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”

He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”

You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”

You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.

Because this is new information.

Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.

You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.

“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.

Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?)  cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.

It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.

So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”

“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”

He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.

You notice. You just don’t say anything.

Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low. 

The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.

“Thanks. For caring.”

He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.

Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual. 

If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.

Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.

He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”

You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”

He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”

You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.

You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”

Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.” 

You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand. 

He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”

You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”

“You tell me.”

The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts. 

You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”

“No.”

“Just me?”

His mouth twitches. “You asked.”

You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”

“I know.”

Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.

“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”

Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.

You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”

He looks at you for a moment.

Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”

He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”

“How?” he snickers.

You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”

He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”

Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.

“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”

You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.

“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. 

Your throat tightens.

“With me,” he adds.

He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.

The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out. 

You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”

“I just guessed one fucking thing.”

You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”

“With me?”

Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it. 

You huff. “You’re so annoying.”

Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.

You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat. 

He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.

For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.

So you take control of things you can handle.

You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.

You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”

Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”

You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat. 

“Are you a virgin?”

The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.

He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.

“You always ask things like that?”

“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”

He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.

“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”

Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”

Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.

You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”

He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”

“And?”

“And you look like that.”

For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”

That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.

Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”

You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”

He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.

“Not really,” you agree.

You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.

“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”

Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.

You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.

When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away. 

Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt. 

“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.

You frown. “Why not?”

He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.

“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.

You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”

He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about. 

“This is so fucked,” he mutters.

Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.

His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.

“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.

When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long. 

His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.

“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.

You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.

When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.

His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.

“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw. 

So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples. 

You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.

After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.

From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.

“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.

At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all. 

He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”

You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”

His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”

“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”

“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,” 

The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.

“You think I’d use you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”

You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Ask me when we’re not high.”

Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”

Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer. 

“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.

“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”

You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods,  agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.

Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you. 

The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.

“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”

Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.

He looks away first.

PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.

He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.

You’re already looking too.

It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.

Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”

Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”

Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”

“Okay.”

The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.

“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.

“I am.”

“You’re really not.”

Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.

He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.

Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.

You bite back a smile.

When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.

Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.

His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.

Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.

You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.

His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"

You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."

He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."

Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.

And that he’s enjoying the view.

You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."

His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."

The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.

In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board. 

You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.

You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.

This is so inconvenient.

“Babe.”

Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.

“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.

You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”

“Yeah, but where?”

You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.

“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.

Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.

He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little. 

Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.

Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).

You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.

You just feel tired, especially on the way home. 

Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.

Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.

Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth. 

Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.

you: he actually sucks so bad like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance

You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.

You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you. 

Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.

And maybe that makes you painfully average.

Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.

You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.

Until something taps three times against your window.

Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.

Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.

You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame. 

You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.

Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.

For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.

 “Hi.”

You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.

“You sounded sad.”

“Is that supposed to be an answer?”

“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”

The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.

This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.

Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.

Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”

Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”

He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.

So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.

“I got you these.”

Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.

Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.

You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.

“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”

He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”

You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”

“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.

You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.

“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.

You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”

He raises his brows. “That means yes.”

You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”

Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.

The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.

You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.

You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”

“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”

You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.

Which is not good at all.

He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.

You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.

This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.

You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.

You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume.  “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.

Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.

Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”

Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.

You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was high.”

“And what’s your excuse now?”

Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.

Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.

You are none of those things anymore.

Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses. 

Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”

Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully. 

You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text. 

Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?

You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly. 

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.

His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.

Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.

Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.

“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”

His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.

He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.” 

Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck. 

For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.

Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.

That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.

He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”

“I need to do something.”

His brows pull together. “Right now?”

You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.

Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.

He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.

The call rings twice.

Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.

Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”

There is a pause. “What?”

You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”

You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.

He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.

Your eyes widen. “Riki.”

He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”

On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone. 

Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.

That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure. 

The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.

Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.

You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours. 

“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.

His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.

You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.

Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.

Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you. 

"Words, baby," he whispers.

He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.

You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."

Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor. 

Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.

He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.

You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.

“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward. 

You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.

And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs. 

His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.

Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.

You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”

You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him. 

“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.

You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?” 

You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.

And he’s still too fucking long. 

You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.

Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”

You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths. 

Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.

“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”

He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.

“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.

“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches. 

Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”

You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt. 

“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.

Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,” 

His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”

Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.

Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears. 

“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”

The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.

“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.

He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him. 

Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you. 

“W-what are you —” 

“On your stomach.” 

You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”

You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought. 

“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.

You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.

“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.

Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.

You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm. 

Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.

You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.

Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely. 

Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”

“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.

“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder. 

You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.

Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.

Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.

“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw. 

“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.

You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”

WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.

Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful. 

He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.

You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.

He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"

He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.

“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”

You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”

Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”

Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.

Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”

He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.

“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”

You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”

He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you. 

You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.

"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.

Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.

“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.

You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.

A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.

tl: @wobblymug @s1mp4jaeyun @gyuguys @woninlove

[inked-chaconne]

to the girl who is always the lesson but never the one

pairing: non-idol!jungwon x fem!reader

warnings: angst with happy ending, fluff, y/n is an overthinker and has lots of insecurities, heartbreak, jungwon somehow giving mixed signals, slow burn, did i miss anything?? hopefully not.

premise: y/n has always been the lesson, never the one. so when jungwon, the boy who is kind to everyone, begins caring for her in ways that feel a little too intentional to ignore, she convinces herself it’s just his nature. but as her feelings grow, she reminds herself how relationships always end. now, she must decide whether believing in him is worth the risk of being temporary again.

word count: 21,660

***

dear, y/n,

in this world, there are two types of people: the one and the lesson. sad to say, you're the latter.

​there is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes with being someone’s stepping stone.

you spend months, sometimes years smoothing out their rough edges, teaching them how to love properly, how to listen, and how to stay. and then, once they’ve finally learned the lesson, they leave to go be with someone else.

at this point, you've become an expert at the curriculum. but you were never the one who got to keep the degree.

the cafe was loud, a chaotic symphony of clinking ceramic cups and the low hum of afternoon chatter, but it all faded into white noise the moment the image loaded on your feed.

​it was a simple photo. a sunlit afternoon, two matching gold rings, and a caption that felt like a quiet slap to my face: soobin, your ex, his hands on another girl’s waist while he kisses her cheek.

thank you for teaching me how to love properly, the caption said.

​two years.

​you stared at the photo, my thumb hovering over the screen. he was with you for two years and he couldn’t say those words to you, even in your anniversary. the whole time in your relationship, he was reckless, emotionally distant, and entirely unpolished. you spent a year settling for what you had because you thought it was love.

but the day he sent you a text saying it was over, he told you he just wasn't ready for commitment. now you realize he was ready, he just needed two years of your patience to learn how to be the man a girl deserved.

then there was jaemin, a senior from high school, your first…you wouldn’t say boyfriend but a fling. it was simple, you liked him and he liked you back. but only because you liked him that he liked you back.

then when he met a girl from his club where he really, really liked, your fling was over.

and even before all of them, there was the ultimate what if: park jongseong.

he was your childhood friend, the boy who lived just doors down, whose laughter was the soundtrack to your earliest memories. you had loved him since you were six years old, a silly, innocent crush that somehow managed to grow up right alongside you. as the years bled into high school, that fondness turned into something heavy and terrifying. you spent months practicing confessions in front of your bedroom mirror, your heart hammering against your ribs, only to swallow the words every time you saw him smile at you. he was your safe haven. the risk of speaking up and ruining the one steady friendship you had was a price you couldn't bear to pay.

until, he took an interest in your cousin, karina. you watched frozen as he confessed to her in the school field during lunch. he told you that day that he would confess, breaking your illusion of anything happening between the both of you. what you didn’t expect was he fell for someone you also knew for years, let alone a family member.

then months later, he admitted that he liked you back. but you were still just children then. his definition of love was too small, too cautious to risk breaking the fragile, beautiful friendship you had built. he didn’t know how to hold a girl’s hand while holding her history at the same time. but thanks to you, he knew what real love was. you gave him a lesson he’d forever treasure.

just not with you.

the worst part, you never got to tell him how you felt. you just quietly stepped aside, becoming the supportive best friend who helped him figure out what to say to her.

​"y/n? hey, are you even listening to me?"

wonhee, ​your roommate snapped the thread of my thoughts. she was sitting across you, a half-eaten plate of pasta between us, looking at me with a mixture of concern and mild annoyance.

​you locked my phone, the screen going mercifully black, and forced a practiced smile onto my face. "yeah. sorry. just... an internship notification. what were you saying?”

"i was saying about the drama I just overheard by the counter while getting our drinks."

she leaned in closer across the small table, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "you know jisu from the department next to ours? apparently, she and sunghoon just made it official on their feeds. like, matching profile pictures, public couple status, the whole nine yards."

wonhee shook her head, taking a slow sip of her drink. "everyone is losing their minds because sunghoon used to be notorious for being completely uncatchable. he’d date a girl for a month, get bored, and leave them with enough character development to write a novel. but look at him now—completely whipped. i guess some girls are just born to be the final destination, while the rest of us are just the rest stops along the highway."

you gave wonhee a weak smile, “tell me about it.”

just when you were about to mope on your feelings, your boss from your internship messaged that you interns are needed tomorrow for an urgent shoot. luckily, you had no classes tomorrow so you have time while still catching up with some tasks for school.

tomorrow has finally arrived and you came to the building of the prestige building of véra, a magazine known for its sleek minimalism and its legendary ability to turn underground creators into overnight icons. it was a place where trends didn't just get covered—they were born.

"no, absolutely not. the lighting is completely flat, and the silk looks like cardboard under these gels. look at the monitor!"

"i’m tracking the ambient light, okay? but if you want that raw, overcast mood you specifically asked for in the mood board, we need to shift the reflectors. now."

the sharp, overlapping voices echoed across the massive concrete studio space the moment you pushed past the heavy double doors. the atmosphere inside was thick with tension, a frantic ballet of production assistants rushing past with garment bags, makeup artists adjusting their kits under blinding vanity lights, and the distant, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a high-end camera shutter.

in the center of the chaos stood the creative director, kang jiah, pinching the bridge of her nose in sheer frustration, while the lead photographer, oh minseok adjusted a massive lens on his tripod.

as a makeup artist student, your brain automatically began calculating the fix before anyone even asked you to. you could see the problem from ten feet away: the model had a gorgeous, warm skin tone, but the current lighting was clashing with the undertone of her foundation, making the high-shine finish look chaotic instead of seamless.

you gripped the handles of your professional makeup train case a little tighter, swallowing down your nervousness. you were just a standby intern here to clean brushes, prep skin, or rush to the makeup artist’s bag for products they need, but the thick tension in the room made your heart hammer against your ribs.

“excuse me,” a calm, clear voice suddenly broke the thick tension in the room. "if i may offer a small suggestion? what if we change the polarization instead?"

from the shadows behind the main monitor setup, a boy who seemed to be around your age stepped forward. he was dressed simply in a loose black sweater and clean trousers, a professional light meter slung casually around his neck.

"if we drop a linear polarizer onto the lens and tilt the key light down by just five degrees, the camera should cut the greasy reflection from the strobe while keeping the model's natural skin texture completely intact. director kang gets her soft, glass-skin look on the monitor, and you won't lose your highlights, sir. It should take less than two minutes to adjust."

the studio went quiet for a beat. photographer oh peered over his shoulder, checking the math on the monitor, before a slow, appreciative nod broke across his face. he stepped up to his own rig, quickly adjusting the polarization filter to test the student's theory.

"he's right. the polarization math checks out," photographer oh announced to the room, looking thoroughly impressed. "good eye…what’s your name?”

“jungwon, sir. yang jungwon.”

“good eye, jungwon.” director kang told jungwon with her stern voice but the look of amusement on her face did not leave.

yang jungwon.

everyone at the university knew who he was. he wasn't just talented; he was the golden boy and a prodigy. he was the type of student who's friends with everyone, the student whose photography portfolios were already being archived by professors as future curriculum benchmarks.

he possessed a rare, effortless blend of sharp academic intelligence and raw artistic intuition. he was brilliant, celebrated, and completely out of reach.

a boy existing in a flawless, sunlit orbit that a guarded, cynical standby intern like you had no business crossing.

jungwon wiped a stray lock of hair from his forehead, offering a small, dimpled smile to a stressed-out production assistant who had just dropped a roll of gaffer tape near his feet. he bent down, picked it up, and handed it back to her with a gentle, "here you go. don't worry, we have plenty of time."

you swallowed hard, averting your eyes.

he was brilliant, he was elite, and he was universally kind. the ultimate hazard sign.

it would be a lie if you said you didn't find him cute the first time you saw him in the building.

​"y/n, go in and touch up the nose and jawline," the head makeup artist, hyeji called out, waving a hand toward the vanity. "matte it down just a bit so the polarization works properly."

​you blinked, snapping out of your thoughts, and quickly grabbed your powder puff and a translucent setting powder.

​walking onto a live set always felt like stepping into a spotlight. your heart did a nervous little flutter as you approached the model, consciously keeping your eyes glued to her face and away from the monitor station where jungwon was standing.

​"excuse me," you whispered politely to the model, stepping into her personal space.

​you raised your hand, your fingers stabilizing against her jaw as you gently tapped the powder puff onto her skin. this was your comfort zone. the familiar scent of cosmetics and the meticulous, rhythmic tapping usually calmed your nerves.

​until you felt a presence shift right behind you.

​"ah, wait a second please," a quiet voice murmured.

​you froze, your hand hovering inches from the model’s cheek. jungwon had stepped up right next to you, leaning in slightly to look at the model's face through the small space between you two. he was close enough that you could catch the subtle, clean scent of his fabric softener—like fresh laundry and cold winter air.

​he wasn't looking at you. his sharp, focused eyes were entirely on how the studio lights hit the model's skin finish. he raised a hand, using his thumb to gently mimic the angle of the key light.

​"if she tilts her chin up just a fraction when y/n finishes dusting the powder," jungwon said softly, addressing the photographer while subconsciously using your name, "the shadow under the jaw will clean up perfectly."

​your breath hitched in your throat. y/n. he didn't even know you, yet hearing your name leave his lips in that calm, casual tone felt like a sudden spike of electricity.

this feeling was familiar, you said.

​as soon as the thought crossed your mind, a cold wave of reality washed over you, dousing the spark before it could even catch fire. you quickly finished the last few taps of powder, stepped back, and offered a hurried, polite bow to the model and jungwon before retreating to the dark edges of the studio.

​your chest felt tight. you're doing it again, you scolded yourself, your fingers gripping the plastic handle of your powder compact so hard your knuckles turned white.

​you felt pathetic. you felt completely, utterly cursed.

​it was always like this. one soft glance, one polite gesture, a boy simply using your name and your heart was already trying to sprint ahead. you fell fast, hopelessly fast, like a script that had already been written for you a hundred times before. you were the girl who romanticized the bare minimum, the girl who mistook a photographer's technical focus for something personal.

​you closed your eyes for a brief second, forcing your breathing to steady.

​if you let yourself look at yang jungwon, you knew exactly how this story would end. he would smile, he would be kind, he would inadvertently teach you how to love a little deeper—and then he would hand his heart to someone else, leaving you behind with nothing but a notebook full of character development.

​you weren't going to be the rest stop on his highway. not this time.

​"y/n? can you clean the brushes from the morning prep?" the senior makeup artist's voice called out from the vanity room.

​"coming," you replied, your voice dropping back into its practiced, neutral tone. you pulled your shoulders back and walked away from the lit set, determined to keep yourself distracted from whatever feelings that are rising.

***

dear, y/n,

sometimes, old habits die hard. you recognized the electricity today, didn't you? it’s the exact same current that left you in the dark three times before. he is a walking hazard sign with a dimpled smile, and you are already stepping over the yellow tape. the truth is, you missed the way a single voice could make the room tilt, and for the first time in a very long time, it felt kind of beautiful to feel everything all at once again.

the train ride home was the worst part of the day. it gave you too much time to think, the rhythmic, metallic hum of the carriage matching the uneasy beat of your heart as the train rattled through the city.

​sitting crushed between tired commuters, you pulled out your phone. your thumbs moved on pure instinct, opening the app and typing his name into the search bar before your logical brain could even try to stop you.

​@jw_209

​you swallowed hard as his profile loaded. no private account lock. no gatekeeping. just a blue checkmark, a massive follower count, and a grid that looked exactly like a highly curated digital museum.

your eyes scanned his feed, and that familiar flutter settled deep in your chest.

he liked taking photos of landscapes with ethereal vibes. misty horizons, soft pastel sunrises over quiet shorelines, and ancient trees swallowed by a dreamlike haze. he captured the world in a way that made ordinary things look completely breathtaking.

​he was incredibly talented, yet his captions were entirely humble. just a single camera emoji or a word or phrases about the fleeting nature of everyday moments, or how softly a quiet afternoon can pass you by.

​then, you scrolled down a bit further and hit the real hazard zone: his tagged photos.

​there were countless pictures of him posted by other people. jungwon sitting at a university cafe surrounded by a huge group of friends, all of them leaning into him. jungwon smiling broadly, showing off those deep, clear dimples as he held up a peace sign next to girls from the dance club, the cheer squad, the student council. every single person in his tagged photos looked happy just to be standing near him.

​he was tagged in sweet birthday posts, late-night study group sessions, and celebratory dinner collages. he wasn't just liked. he was cherished by everyone who crossed his path.

though he doesn't post photos of people in his social media. you guessed he likes to keep the people in his life private or he just likes taking photos of landscapes than people.

on the way back home, you were pulled right out of your thoughts by the familiar chimes of the convenience store down the street from your dorm.

​the door swung open, and a boy stepped out into the humid night air, a small plastic bag dangling from his fingers. your footsteps completely faltered on the pavement.

​it was yang jungwon.

​he was dressed down even more than he had been at the studio, his hair slightly damp and a pair of simple slippers on his feet. he stopped under the warm, buzzing glow of the storefront sign, completely breaking the distant, untouchable image you had just been staring at on your phone. he was right here. in your neighborhood.

​before you could even think about hiding or turning around, he raised his head. his sharp eyes blinked in surprise, and then, those deep, familiar dimples cut into his cheeks as he caught sight of you.

​"oh? y/n, right?"

“j-jungwon!”

damn it, you really had to stutter and raise your voice.

“you just got home?”

​"yeah, the head artist wanted the foundation brushes sanitized tonight because the morning crew needs them fresh, and then i had to sort the sponge bins and double-check the inventory list for the next shoot since we won't even be there on friday, so it just took way longer than expected."

it felt like you couldn’t breathe after that. why did you have to overexplain? he had asked a simple four-word question, and you had handed him a full logistical breakdown of your internship duties like a nervous suspect under interrogation.

​jungwon blinked softly, taking in your breathless ramble. for a horrifying second, you thought he might find you completely weird—but then, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and that deep, gentle dimple appeared on his cheek.

​"ah, so that's why you're so late," he murmured, his voice incredibly soft in the quiet night air. "you worked really hard today.”

“t-thank you. it was just part of the job, really. i’m still just a standby intern, so i have to do my best not to get in anyone's way."

​jungwon tilted his head slightly, his gaze warm. "you didn't get in anyone's way. your skin prep made the polarization adjustment work perfectly."

the fact that he remembered that brought your heart into a sudden, breathless flutter, the erratic rhythm pounding so loud against your ribs you were terrified he could hear it in the midnight quiet. it was that exact same jolt of electricity from the studio, only this time, it felt twice as loud under the quiet streetlights. your heart was doing dangerous, hopeful flips, completely ignoring every single warning you had just given yourself.

​jungwon shifted his weight, his plastic bag rustling softly against his sweatpants. he looked down at the street for a second, a small, polite smile lingering on his lips before he looked back up at you.

​"well, it's getting pretty late," he said softly, gesturing slightly with his head toward the direction of the apartment blocks. "i should probably head back home before the ice cream i bought completely melts."

​you blinked, forcing your brain to kick back into gear. "oh! right, yeah. of course. go ahead."

​"get home safely, y/ni," he murmured, stepping past you with a gentle nod. "see you at the studio on friday."

​"goodnight," you whispered to his retreating back.

​you stood frozen on the pavement, watching his tall, relaxed figure disappear into the shadows of the street. the subtle scent of his fabric softener still lingered faintly in the humid night air, a cruel reminder that he had actually been standing right there.

​you let out a long, shaky exhale, finally allowing your shoulders to drop. you were supposed to be building walls. you were supposed to be guarding your heart against the ultimate hazard sign.

​but as you turned the key to your dorm room, your heart was still stubbornly replaying the exact way his dimples looked under the convenience store light.

the quiet hum of your desk lamp was the only sound in the room. you had been staring at your color theory assignment for the past hour, but the lines of text were starting to blur together. your brain was entirely fried.

​just a five-minute break, you promised yourself.

​it was a lie, and you knew it. your fingers moved on pure autopilot, unlocking your phone and opening the app before your conscience could stage an intervention. you had explicitly told yourself to stop looking. you had promised yourself on the train, and again at the door of your dorm, that you wouldn't feed the curse.

​but as you clicked on his profile, a little red circle illuminated his profile picture.

​new post • 2 min. ago

​your breath caught. you tapped it.

​it wasn't an ethereal landscape or a misty sunrise. it was a shot taken from a low angle, capturing the wet asphalt of the pavement reflecting the warm, buzzing neon glow of the convenience store sign down your street. in the distance, the blurry silhouette of the quiet neighborhood stretched into the dark, looking incredibly nostalgic and soft through his lens.

​it was the exact spot where you had been standing together just an hour ago.

​he had captured the ordinary street and turned it into something poetic. your heart did that dangerous, breathless stumble all over again as your eyes drifted down to the caption.

​he wrote: daylight.

***

dear y/n,

how are you supposed to know which signs are real and which ones are just the universe playing a cruel joke? when you spend your whole life guarding your heart against a curse, you start to see warnings everywhere. you read caution tape in a polite smile. you read danger in a dimple. but when a boy posts a picture of a midnight street and labels it daylight, what are you supposed to believe? is it a green light, or just another beautiful hazard sign?

​you and jungwon have the same elective of visual media color theory. though you never noticed him fully until yesterday’s studio shoot, you now vividly remember seeing his name printed right above yours on the attendance sheet every single week.

​today, you sat right in the middle of the classroom just to get a better view, since you could barely see the slides when you were seated at the sides of the room.

​what you didn't expect was looking up to see the dimpled boy sliding into the empty seat right next to you, greeting you with a soft smile.

​“hey, y/n.”

​“h-hi! jungwon.”

the syllable felt heavy on your tongue, entirely too loud for the quiet buzz of the classroom before the professor walked in. you quickly looked down at your desk, blindly organizing your highlighters just to keep your hands from shaking.

he set his laptop down on the wooden desk, the plastic convenience store bag from last night nowhere to be seen, replaced now by the clean, sharp scent of his usual cologne. out of the corner of your eye, you watched him lean back in his chair, his long legs stretching out comfortably under the desk.

"you usually sit by the windows, don't you?" he asked, his voice low and conversational as he adjusted his screen.

your hands froze on your pencil case. you turned your head to look at him, your chest tightening. "y-yes. how did you know?"

jungwon paused, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. he turned his head to meet your gaze, those deep dimples faintly tracing his cheeks as a soft, easy smile broke across his face. "i sit a few rows back. it's kind of hard not to notice when you're always dropping your pens under the chairs."

a mortified heat rushed straight to your face. you wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. all this time, you thought you were completely invisible, a nameless face in a hundred-person lecture hall. but he hadn't just seen you yesterday—he had been watching your clumsy morning routines for weeks.

"i don't drop them that often," you muttered defensively, though your voice lacked any real bite because your heart was currently trying to escape your ribs.

"hm, if you say so," he amusedly replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. he leaned in just a fraction closer, his shoulder almost brushing against yours. "but since you moved to the middle today, i figured i'd move too. the view is better here anyway."

the professor finally walked into the room, clapping his hands to start the lecture, but your brain had already completely short-circuited.

the view is better here anyway.

you didn't say it out loud, but you completely, wholeheartedly agreed.

the view from the middle of the room really was so much better, especially when it included the sharp line of his jawline and the soft way his hair fell over his forehead as he looked back down at his laptop screen. you couldn't help the small, satisfied smile that tugged at your lips. you had originally just wanted to see the lesson clearly, but sitting right next to yang jungwon was an undeniable upgrade.

as the professor finally walked in and the slides changed to color wheel harmonies, you leaned back in your chair, feeling a warm, victorious rush of giddiness settling deep in your chest.

throughout the whole lecture, jungwon noticed how you were having a hard time catching up with the professor’s fast pacing. without a word, he simply slid his notebook toward the center of the desk, his clean, neat handwriting perfectly capturing everything you had missed.

you blinked, giving him a questioning look that clearly said, what about you?

he just leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes as he murmured, “it’s okay. i have photographic memory anyway.”

a quiet laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, though you quickly clamped a hand over your mouth so the rest of the lecture hall wouldn't hear.

and when class ended, one of your elective mates came to jungwon and thanked him for lending him his notes from last week’s session.

you froze, your fingers tightening around your pen. a cold splash of reality hit you right in the face. you had almost fallen for it. you had almost convinced yourself jungwon only did that gesture for you.

but he was just like that with everyone else.

***

dear y/n,

sometimes, it would be easier to just pull back completely and build your walls so high that no dimpled smile can reach you. it is easy to tell yourself to keep your distance when you think you are just another face in his crowded room. you can convince your mind that his kindness is a warning sign, a trap designed to make you stumble.

but what are you supposed to do when the universe refuses to cooperate with your defenses? how do you run away when every detour somehow leads you straight back into his path? it feels like the world is intentionally shrinking, forcing your orbits to cross whether you are ready for it or not.

if every sudden encounter keeps pushing you closer, maybe the real danger isn't his casual charm. maybe the real hazard is how badly you want to stop running. you are standing on the edge of the hazard zone, and you are starting to realize you don't want to step back.

but the universe, it seemed, hadn't gotten the memo.

"y/n, thank goodness you're here early," the head stylist breathed, rushing past you with an armful of garment bags the moment you stepped into the studio. "the model for the second layout just called in sick, and the concept director is losing her mind. since you have the closest features to our model, could you maybe stand in for her today? don’t worry, i won’t make you add extra work. just be a model for today.”

your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around the strap of your makeup kit. "me? a model?"

"yes, please! the lighting is already set up for your skin profile anyway," she pleaded, gently nudging you toward the center of the dark studio before rushing off to coordinate with the wardrobe team.

even though you were nervous, you felt flattered by the sudden shift from being the one holding the brushes to being the one everyone was rushing to get ready.

seconds later, you were pressed into the leather chair, staring at your own reflection framed by bright, blinding vanity bulbs. as the senior makeup artist began sweeping a fluffy brush across your cheekbones, your eyes instinctively drifted to the mirror's reflection, scanning the dark background of the studio.

there he was.

jungwon was standing by the equipment table, a light meter slung around his neck as he manually adjusted a camera lens. but as you watched him through the glass, his hands suddenly slowed down. without turning his head, his gaze quietly shifted upward, his dark eyes locking onto your reflection in the mirror.

your heart did a violent, dangerous skip. for a split second, you were entirely breathless, caught in a silent, cross-room stare through a sheet of glass.

but then, jungwon blinked, casually turning away to say something to a lighting crew member as if nothing had happened.

you quickly looked down at your lap, your cheeks burning under the heavy layer of setting powder. you're tripping, you firmly told yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt. you are completely hallucinating. he was a photographer; he was probably just looking at the vanity lights or checking the ambient glare in the room. he wasn't looking at you. he couldn't be.

"all done, sweetheart! step onto the backdrop for me," the artist said, giving your shoulder a reassuring pat.

your feet felt heavy, practically glued to the floorboards as you finally stepped onto the seamless backdrop. the harsh studio lights cut through the shadows, illuminating the space and making you feel incredibly exposed.

at the center of the set, jungwon was now waiting by the tripod. when you took your place, he slowly lowered the camera body from his face. the casual, easygoing expression he always wore vanished. he didn't smile, and he didn't drop a playful comment like he did in the classroom. he just stared, his dark eyes tracking you with that exact same quiet, unreadable intensity you thought you had imagined in the mirror.

you fixed your posture, forcing your face into a neutral, professional mask. you had to remember the lesson from yesterday. you weren't special.

“whenever you're ready, jungwon,” director kang said, her voice sharp but steady as she reviewed the digital monitor from the sidelines.

jungwon blinked, the director's voice hitting him like a sudden splash of cold water, snapping him out of his trance. his jaw tightened slightly as he quickly looked away from you, slowly raising the camera back to his eye to hide his face behind the lens.

"right," his voice came out a little rougher than usual, echoing slightly in the quiet studio. "let's... let's start with the profile shots. look slightly to the left, please."

you did as he asked, turning your chin toward the shadows and focusing your eyes on a random spot on the studio wall. at first, your limbs felt stiff, every muscle in your neck tight with the lingering anxiety of being just a temporary replacement. you were acutely aware of the lens pointed at you, and even more aware of the boy behind it.

click.

the flash illuminated the dark studio for a microsecond.

"good," jungwon’s voice drifted over from the tripod, lower now, carrying a calm, steady rhythm that instantly cut through your panic. "just like that. now drop your shoulders a bit, y/n. take a deep breath in... and let it out."

you followed his voice, exhaling slowly. as your shoulders relaxed, something shifted inside you. you looked down at the structured, high-fashion wardrobe they had styled you in, felt the perfect weight of the makeup on your skin, and realized something liberating: you weren't a mistake or a technical hitch. you were a cosmetology student who understood exactly how angles, textures, and lighting worked. you knew your face. you knew your undertones.

and suddenly, you didn't feel like a hiding substitute anymore. you felt powerful.

"perfect. keep that exact expression," jungwon murmured. click. "tilt your head up just a fraction. let the key light hit the high points of your cheekbones."

his guidance was effortless. he wasn't treating you like a standard, disposable model, nor was he acting like the casual classmate who shared notes. behind the camera, yang jungwon was a complete professional. he gave commands with a quiet, grounding confidence that made you feel completely safe to move, to experiment, to own the space under the lights.

click. click.

"bring your hands up toward your collarbone," he instructed softly, the lens tracking your movements. "soft fingers. look right into the lens this time."

you didn't hesitate. you turned your head back toward the center, lifting your chin, and looked directly down the barrel of his camera lens. you locked eyes with him through the glass, no longer trying to hide behind a neutral mask. you let your confidence show—letting him see that you were completely present, commanding the set just as much as he was.

from behind the camera, you heard the faint, sharp intake of jungwon's breath. but the camera didn't stutter.

"beautiful," he whispered, the word carrying a raw, genuine weight that sent a different kind of thrill straight down your spine. click. "stay right there. don't move."

beautiful.

he just said it so casually, so effortlessly, but the word felt entirely too heavy as it hung in the space between you. he didn't lower the lens, keeping his gaze locked onto yours through the camera glass as if he were trying to capture something far deeper than just a standard lighting test.

"and... cut!" director kang's voice suddenly cut through the air, breaking the spell. "excellent work, everyone. let's check the monitor."

the blinding studio lights dimmed slightly as the crew immediately swarmed around the main digital display. you stepped off the seamless backdrop, your knees feeling a little weak now that the adrenaline was fading. you tentatively walked over to the edge of the crowd, peeking over a stylist's shoulder to look at the screen.

a small gasp escaped your lips. the images looking back at you didn't look like a nervous, last-minute substitute at all. the lighting caught the crisp edges of your jawline, the makeup looked flawless under the exposure, and your eyes held a sharp, captivating confidence.

"wow, y/n, look at your facial symmetry," one of the senior stylists praised, clapping her hands together. "the textures are so clean. you look incredible!"

"honestly, you saved us today," director kang agreed, nodding dynamic approval as she scrolled through the burst shots. "the mood is exactly what we needed for the editorial pitch. you're a natural."

your chest swelled with a warm, triumphant rush of pride. all your hours studying skin prep and facial angles had paid off, and hearing the professional crew validate your work made you feel completely on top of the world.

"i'm completely satisfied with how these turned out," a quiet, familiar voice spoke up from behind you.

you turned around to find jungwon standing there, his camera now resting against his hip. he wasn't looking at the monitor anymore; his dark eyes were fixed directly on you, a soft, genuine smile touching his lips.

"the lighting and the textures hit perfectly," he added, his voice low and private amidst the loud chatter of the crew. "i'm really glad y/n stepped in today."

your heart gave a violent, unruly thud against your ribs.

the crew was still talking loudly around you, debating layout designs and background colors, but your selective hearing had already locked the world out. i'm really glad y/n stepped in today. his words replayed in a dizzying loop, sweet and terrifyingly sincere.

he might have sounded like a good coworker but as you looked at the faint trace of his dimples, you knew your defenses were in serious trouble.

after changing your outfit from the shoot, you stopped in your tracks when you saw jungwon clearing up the equipment by himself. the heavy studio lights were mostly shut off, leaving only the dim, warm overheads casting long shadows across the empty room. he looked completely different now. his jacket discarded, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows as he reached up to untighten a massive softbox modifier from its stand.

you hesitated for a fraction of a second before setting your tote bag down on a nearby stool. you walked over, your sneakers squeaking quietly against the concrete floor.

"need a hand?" you asked, reaching out to stabilize the heavy metal base of the C-stand before it could tilt forward.

jungwon blinked, looking down at you from his height. a look of surprise crossed his face, followed quickly by that familiar, easy smile. "oh, y/n. you're still here? it's okay, i've got it. you should head home, it's getting late."

"i want to help," you replied, your voice steady despite the quiet thumping in your chest. you didn't let go of the metal stand. "besides, you're the one who did all the heavy lifting during the shoot. consider it payback for the notes."

jungwon let out a soft, breathy chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "alright. if you insist."

for the next twenty minutes, the studio was quiet except for the rustle of velcro, the clinking of metal stands, and the low, easy hum of casual conversation. you helped him coil the heavy black extension cords while he carefully packed his camera body and lenses into his padded backpack. without the pressure of the crew or the blinding lights, the stiff walls you had painstakingly built after yesterday's lecture began to feel entirely useless.

"all set," jungwon finally said, zipping his bag closed and swinging it over one shoulder. he turned off the remaining studio switch, plunging the room into darkness except for the green exit light by the door. "let's go?"

you nodded, walking out into the cool evening air together.

the walk to the transit station was surprisingly peaceful. the streets of the city were buzzing with the usual nighttime traffic, but between the two of you, there was a comfortable, easy rhythm. you talked about the concept director’s hectic energy, your favorite color theories, and how relieving it was to finally finish a long week of classes.

when you finally reached your stop, you turned to wave goodbye, but jungwon didn't stay on the platform. instead, he quietly stepped off the train right behind you.

"wait, jungwon," you blinked, looking around the familiar street corner near your neighborhood. "your place isn't around here, is it?"

jungwon adjusted the strap of his heavy camera bag, looking down at you under the warm, amber glow of the streetlamp. his dimples showed faintly as he smiled, his hands slipping into his pockets.

"it's not," he admitted casually, his voice low and incredibly grounding in the quiet night. "but it's dark out, and you worked hard today. i wanted to make sure you got home safe."

your breath hitched, your fingers tightly gripping the straps of your tote bag.

there it was again. that dangerous, dizzying rush of kilig slammed right into your chest, loud enough to drown out the distant hum of the evening traffic. i wanted to make sure you got home safe. the words hung in the space between you, illuminated by the warm, amber glow of the streetlamp.

for a terrifying second, you wanted to believe it. you wanted to believe that this detour, this long train ride out of his way, was for you.

but then the memory of the classroom flashed behind your eyes—the classmate thanking him for the notes, the realization that yang jungwon was just effortlessly, universally good. of course he was walking you home. you had stayed late to help him lift heavy equipment; he probably just felt standard, polite responsibility as a coworker to make sure you didn't walk the dark streets alone. he would have done the exact same thing for director kang, or the senior stylist, or anyone else.

he was just being a good guy. that was all.

"you really didn't have to, jungwon," you said, forcing a small, polite smile to your face as you stepped backward toward your gate, desperately trying to keep the distance between you. "but... thank you. for the walk. and for today."

jungwon didn't move, his hands still tucked into his pockets as he watched you step away. the easy smile on his lips faded into something quiet and slightly intense, his eyes tracking your defensive posture with an unreadable look.

"anytime, y/n," he murmured softly. "get some rest."

your breath hitched, your fingers tightly gripping the straps of your tote bag.

there it was again. that dangerous, dizzying rush of warmth slammed right into your chest, a sudden flutter so loud it threatened to drown out the distant hum of the evening traffic. i wanted to make sure you got home safe. the words hung in the space between you, illuminated by the warm, amber glow of the streetlamp.

for a terrifying second, you wanted to believe it. you wanted to believe that this detour, this long train ride out of his way, was for you.

but then the memory of the classroom flashed behind your eyes. the classmate thanking him for the notes, the realization that yang jungwon was just effortlessly, universally good. of course he was walking you home. you had stayed late to help him lift heavy equipment; he probably just felt standard, polite responsibility as a coworker to make sure you didn't walk the dark streets alone. he would have done the exact same thing for director kang, or the senior stylist, or anyone else.

he was just being a good guy. that was all.

"you really didn't have to, jungwon," you said, forcing a small, polite smile to your face as you stepped backward toward your gate, desperately trying to keep the distance between you. "but... thank you. for the walk. and for today."

jungwon didn't move, his hands still tucked into his pockets as he watched you step away. the easy smile on his lips faded into something quiet and slightly intense, his eyes tracking your defensive posture with an unreadable look.

"anytime, y/n," he murmured softly. "get some rest."

“thank you, jungwon.” you gave him one last polite nod, turning around to finally press the unlock button on your gate. your hands were shaking slightly, and you were desperate to get inside the safety of your house before your face completely gave you away.

“y/n?”

his voice called out, stopping you right in your tracks. your fingers froze against the cold iron of the latch. you took a quiet, steadying breath before slowly looking back over your shoulder.

“yes?”

jungwon was still standing under the amber streetlamp, his hands deeply embedded in his jacket pockets. he tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that completely bypassed your professional walls. the softest, most genuine trace of a smile appeared on his lips, causing his dimples to faintly show in the shadows.

“you looked pretty today.”

***

dear y/n,

sometimes, the universe doesn’t just nudge you; it completely corners you. you try to write off his kindness as a collective luxury, a universal trait he hands out to anyone who asks, because believing you are special is a luxury you simply cannot afford. but how do you categorize a quiet detour under an amber streetlamp? how do you rationalize a parting line that wasn't meant for a coworker, a classmate, or a crowd, but uniquely, devastatingly, for you?

you couldn’t reply.

the moment the word left his lips, your brain completely short-circuited, leaving you entirely breathless under the dim streetlamp. you practically threw yourself through the gate, shutting the iron latch behind you with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet neighborhood. your heart was hammering violently against your ribs as you sprinted up the steps, not daring to look back to see if he was still standing there watching you run.

it was only when you were locked safely inside the dark sanctuary of your bedroom that you finally collapsed against the mattress, pulling a pillow over your face to smother a helpless, frustrated groan.

you looked pretty today.

the phrase replayed in a dizzying, echoing loop, vibrating straight down to your fingertips. you tightly closed your eyes, desperately trying to summon the cold reality check from the lecture hall. he is just nice. he is just a naturally attentive guy who knows how to make people feel comfortable on a set.

but as you turned over and stared at the dark ceiling, your fingers tracing the edges of your blanket, a quiet, terrifying truth settled in your chest. no matter how high you built your walls, yang jungwon didn't even have to try and scale them.

he was effortlessly dismantling them, brick by single brick, and you were completely running out of places to hide.

the next morning brought a blinding, unapologetic sunlight that did absolutely nothing to clear the fog in your head. you woke up with your limbs tangled in your sheets, your phone still clutched tightly in your palm as if you had been guarding it in your sleep.

when you dragged yourself out of bed and walked over to the bathroom sink, you actively avoided looking at your reflection for the first five minutes. you splashed ice-cold water onto your face, hoping the shock of it would finally scrub the lingering warmth out of your cheeks and snap you back into reality.

it was just studio adrenaline, you reasoned with yourself, aggressively rubbing a fluffy towel against your skin. people say fleeting things when they’re tired after a long shoot. he was probably just riding the high of a successful layout.

but the moment you sat down at your vanity to start your morning skincare routine, your hands froze.

you picked up your daily moisturizer, but your eyes involuntarily drifted to your own reflection in the glass. suddenly, you weren't looking at your bedroom walls anymore. you were seeing the dark studio mirror. you were seeing the way his dark eyes had pierced right through the reflection, tracking your every move while the makeup brush swept across your skin.

you looked down at your hands, your chest tightening. your fingertips automatically brushed against your collarbone, tracing the exact spot where he had told you to place your hands.

"beautiful," his whispered voice echoed in your ears, so clear it made you flinch.

you let out a shaky breath, forcing your hands down into your lap. it was terrifying how a single night could completely alter the space around you. your bedroom, your vanity, your own face—everything felt entirely compromised by him. you couldn't even apply your makeup without wondering if your features really did look the way he implied.

unable to handle the loud silence of your thoughts, you decided to escape your room. you spent the rest of the morning trying to drown out his voice with mundane tasks—cleaning your desk, organizing your elective binders, and making a mental checklist of your upcoming assignments.

by saturday afternoon, your eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, your mind completely exhausted from the non-stop mental gymnastics. you had finally managed to calm your heart rate down, sitting at your desk and staring blankly at a textbook.

ding.

the sharp vibration of your phone against the wooden desk made you flinch.

your hands shook slightly as you picked it up, your breath instantly catching when you saw his name illuminated on the lock screen.

jungwon: [1 file attached]

jungwon: finished compiling the raw layouts for director kang. thought i’d send you your edit first.

you swallowed hard, your thumb hovering over the glass. you tapped the file, waiting a few agonizing seconds for the high-resolution image to clear.

when the details finally rendered, the air left your lungs completely.

it wasn’t just a well-shot photo. he hadn't used the sharp, cool commercial lighting the director usually preferred for editorial pitches. instead, the coloring was incredibly soft, almost romantic, warming up your skin profile in a way that made you look like you were glowing from the inside out.

but it was the lighting on your eyes that made your chest completely constrict. he had meticulously adjusted the shadows so that the tiny, glittering reflection of the studio lights caught the exact center of your pupils. your gaze looked impossibly deep, intense, and vulnerable.

he had spent hours looking at your face in high-definition. he had zoomed in on your features, balanced your undertones, cleaned up the lines, and perfected the exposure.

you stared at the screen, your heart racing. a normal photographer would have just dropped the files into the shared studio google drive or handed them over on monday. but yang jungwon had edited yours personally, isolated it from the rest of the layout, and sent it directly to your private inbox on a saturday afternoon.

you slowly leaned back against your chair, the cold wood pressing into your spine as you stared at the beautiful, terrifying image of yourself.

you could try to convince yourself that he was just a gentleman under the streetlamp. you could pretend he was just being polite when he called you pretty. but looking at this photo, you realized something that terrified you to your core: through the lens of his camera, yang jungwon looked at you like you were the only thing on the set that mattered.

your phone buzzed again in your palm, making you jump.

jungwon: do you like them? y/n: i love them, jungwon! you did an amazing job with the lighting and the textures. it doesn't even look like me. jungwon: it looks exactly like you. i just captured what was already there.

your phone slipped an inch in your hand. you squeezed your eyes shut, a soft, helpless groan escaping your lips as you buried your face in your arms on the desk.

he was doing it again. he was effortlessly throwing lines that completely bypassed your defenses, speaking with a terrifying sincerity that left you absolutely no room to hide.

a week later, director kang officially approved the editorial pitch, and the official shoot layouts were finally uploaded to the department's public portfolio. you felt a quiet sense of relief, thinking the excitement from that chaotic friday had finally settled down.

until later that evening, when your phone notification panel lit up with a tag.

yang_jw tagged you in a post.

your thumb practically smashed against the screen to open the app.

it was a carousel post titled simply: bts 📸

the first slide was a moody shot of an overhead key light piercing through the dark studio. the second was a close-up of a heavy black camera cable coiled neatly over a metal stand. the third was the empty grey seamless backdrop.

and then, you swiped to the fourth slide.

the breath caught in your throat.

it was you.

it wasn’t one of the polished, perfectly posed files he had sent to director kang. it was a candid, behind-the-scenes frame captured right in the middle of the shoot. you were sitting in the leather vanity chair, the bright, blinding bulbs framing your silhouette, your chin turned slightly over your shoulder. your expression wasn't a professional mask; it was soft, slightly dazed, caught in the exact microsecond you had instinctively looked into the mirror to search for his reflection in the dark background.

he had captured the exact moment you were looking for him.

you swiped to the fifth and sixth slides: more inanimate props, a discarded lens cap, the digital monitor from a distance.

you swiped back to the fourth slide, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently it felt loud in the quiet of your room.

​you stared at the screen, your eyes tracing the soft edge of your own silhouette under the bright vanity bulbs. anyone else scrolling through his feed would just see a cool, atmospheric behind-the-scenes shot of a makeup student on set. they wouldn't notice the way the light caught the exact, vulnerable curve of your shoulder. they wouldn't know that the slight daze in your eyes was because you had been looking for him in the dark studio mirrors.

​but you knew. and more terrifyingly, jungwon knew too.

​your thumb hovered over the screen, paralyzed by the sheer weight of what this meant. you could rationalize notes. you could rationalize a long walk home in the dark as standard gentlemanly politeness. you could even convince yourself that a personal photo edit was just him being a meticulous, dedicated photographer.

​but this? breaking his own years-long aesthetic grid just to drop a candid frame of your face into the world?

​there were no olympic-level mental gymnastics left to save you. you couldn't hide behind the "good classmate" excuse anymore.

​with a trembling thumb, you tapped the little heart icon below the post, watching it turn red.

​almost instantly, a new notification slid down from the top of your screen, making you gasp softly in the quiet room.

​yang_jw: you're awake?

shit, shit, shit!

you scrambled backward against your headboard, nearly dropping the device straight onto your face. you had liked the post less than thirty seconds after he uploaded it. there was absolutely no playing the "i just happened to see it on my feed" card—you were actively lurking, and your lightning-fast double-tap had completely exposed you.

​your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting three different responses while your chest squeezed with a frantic, dizzying heat.

​y/n: yeah, just finishing up some reading.

​you pressed send, holding your breath as the single gray checkmark turned blue. almost immediately, the three typing dots appeared.

​yang_jw: reading? at 1 AM?

yang_jw: or were you just waiting for my post?

​you let out a helpless, strangled sound into the empty space of your bedroom, burying your burning face straight into your pillows. he was shameless. he was entirely, utterly shameless, and the worst part was that he was exactly right.

​before you could even think of a defensive lie to protect your dignity, your phone buzzed again in your palm.

​yang_jw: do you like the fourth slide?

​your breath hitched. he wasn't dancing around it. he knew exactly what he did when he put that candid photo of you in the middle of his grid, and he was deliberately forcing you to acknowledge it.

​you sat up, biting your lower lip until it turned white. you couldn't keep running. if he was going to be this bold, you had to find a way to stabilize your own footing before you completely dissolved under his pace.

​y/n: the lighting was nice. but i thought your feed was strictly landscapes.

​you stared at the screen, your heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against your ribs as you waited. seconds ticked by like hours until the screen lit up with his reply.

yang_jw: you keep tabs on my feed?

shit.

but ​before you could even think of a lie to salvage yourself, the next bubble popped up.

​yang_jw: but yes, it is. yang_jw: but you looked too pretty in that mirror to leave you in a hidden folder.

you completely froze in your spot.

the air left your lungs, leaving you staring blankly at the glowing screen as the world around you fell entirely silent. you couldn't move. you couldn't blink. your fingers remained locked stiffly around the edges of your phone, your eyes glued to the word pretty.

when you finally found the strength to move, it was only to let out a shaky, breathless exhale. then you rolled onto your bed, your stomach flat on the mattress, and let out a muffled scream into your pillow.

***

dear, y/n,

it is a completely strange but nice feeling to realize you aren't trying to pull away anymore. you are slowly getting used to the feeling again, realizing it's okay to just let someone in without making everything so complicated.

you find yourself looking forward to see and hear from him again, no longer finding the shield to protect your composure.

the next morning arrived. you walked onto campus with a lighter step, the lingering echo of jungwon’s late-night words crawling in your mind like he planned to occupy every single corner of your head.

you spotted him almost immediately near the entrance of the lecture hall, leaning against the hallway wall with his hands casually tucked into his pockets as he chatted with a few classmates. the exact moment you stepped into view, his eyes instinctively separated from the crowd, tracking your approach with that same soft, unwavering focus that had defined the studio mirrors.

as you drew closer, the conversation around him seemed to fade into a quiet blur, leaving just the steady ground between the two of you.

"morning, y/n," jungwon murmured, his voice dropping into a softer, private register meant only for you as a genuine, dimpled smile broke across his face.

your heart gave a familiar, dangerous thump, but instead of panicking, you found yourself returning his smile. "morning, jungwon."

he stepped away from the wall, naturally falling into step right beside you as you walked through the threshold of the lecture hall. the sudden shift from the chaotic, noisy hallway to the relative quiet of the classroom felt seamless with him next to you. without even asking, he guided you toward the middle row, pulling out the chair right next to the one where his laptop and notebook were already neatly set up.

he had saved you a seat.

"you look awake for someone who was reading at 1 AM," he teased quietly, sliding into his chair and leaning his chin in his hand as he looked over at you, his eyes glinting with a familiar, playful mischief.

you felt a sudden rush of warmth in your cheeks, but you managed to look right back at him. "i told you, i had things to finish."

"right," he hummed, the corners of his lips twitching as the professor walked up to the podium and the lecture hall began to quiet down. jungwon opened his notebook, but before he focused on the board, he leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice a low, comforting murmur against the background noise of opening laptops. "we're getting dinner after this, by the way. i found a really good place nearby."

it wasn't even a question. it was an inivitation that you would spend your evening with him, and the terrifying part was that you didn't even want to object.

by the time the late-afternoon elective finally wrapped up, the sun was already dipping below the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the campus pathways. you followed jungwon through the bustling streets just outside the university gates, the humid evening air a stark contrast to the air-conditioned lecture hall.

he led you down a quieter alley, stopping in front of a small, cozy restaurant with warm, low-hanging yellow lights glowing behind a tinted glass pane. inside, the space was small and intimate, filled with the soft chatter of other students and the rich, savory aroma of hot food.

"two?" the server asked, and jungwon nodded, naturally guiding you toward a booth tucked away in the back corner, away from the main walkway.

as you slipped into the leather seat, the soft ambient lighting washed over his features, throwing the sharp angles of his jawline and the deep set of his eyes into beautiful, soft relief. it felt completely different from the high-stakes pressure of the studio or the crowded campus. here, stripped of cameras and portfolios, it was just the two of you.

"order whatever you want," jungwon said, sliding the menu across the dark wooden table toward you, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting second that left a trail of static on your skin. "my treat today. to celebrate your successful photoshoot."

you looked up from the menu, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "you give me too much credit. you did good too, you know."

jungwon let out a low, amused huff, leaning back against the leather booth as he looked at you through the warm, dim lighting of the restaurant. "is that so? i guess we make a pretty good team then."

your cheeks burned, “i guess we do.”

and as the weeks bled into a comfortable rhythm, you realized you really did.

that quiet dinner quickly transformed from a one-time celebration into a regular part of your routine. it happened so gradually that you didn't even notice the shift at first. one day you were just elective mates, then interns working on a shoot, and the next, he was naturally weaving you into every single part of his day, making it easy for you to navigate the lively, chaotic orbit of his massive social circle.

because jungwon was the type of guy who belonged to everyone, hanging out with him meant automatically being pulled into his circle. you became a familiar face at the crowded university cafeteria tables, sharing loud, overlapping conversations with his friends who welcomed you without a single second of hesitation. you watched him handle the campus attention with an easy, effortless charm, throwing bright smiles to passing students and keeping everyone laughing.

but the real magic always happened when the noise of the crowd finally thinned out. no matter how many people were vying for his attention during the day, the late evenings always distilled down to just the two of you, sitting across from each other at that same dark wooden table under the warm, low-hanging yellow lights.

"you're staring," jungwon murmured one rainy tuesday evening, a soft, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he set his chopsticks down.

you blinked, tearing your gaze away from the sharp line of his jaw to look down at your half-empty bowl. "i am not. i was just thinking."

"about what?" he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, closing the physical distance between you just enough to make the ambient chatter of the restaurant fade into the background.

"just... how you manage to keep up with everyone," you admitted honestly, gesturing vaguely toward the window where a group of students from his department had just waved at him through the glass. "you're always surrounded by people."

jungwon looked out the window for a brief second, then turned his focus back to you, his dark eyes softening into that intense, private expression he only ever used when the two of you were alone. "it's easy to talk to everyone, y/n. but that doesn't mean i want to spend my quiet hours with just anyone."

before you could even process the sudden, breathless skip of your heart, a confident, unfamiliar voice interrupted the space between you.

"hey, jungwon, right? i thought that was you."

you blinked, turning your head toward the edge of the booth. yoonchae from your class was standing there, looking effortlessly chic in a cropped leather jacket, a bright, confident smile fixed entirely on jungwon. she didn't even glance your way, completely erasing your presence from the table.

"i saw your latest photography feature on the department page," she continued smoothly, leaning slightly against the wooden partition of your booth. "it was amazing. i was actually wondering if you had time to collaborate on a editorial project next month? can i get your instagram or phone number?"

your chest tightened instantly. your mind, always looking for a reason to retreat, immediately clouded over with that familiar, suffocating insecurity. here it is, a bitter voice whispered in your head. this is his actual world. this girl was confident, stylish, and fit perfectly into the creative orbit he ran in. you were just the girl he casually helped out, the lesson he learned along the way to becoming a better photographer. you were a placeholder in his quiet hours until someone who actually belonged in his grid stepped up.

you lowered your eyes to your lap, your fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt as you prepared for him to give his usual, friendly campus smile and type his number into her phone.

"sorry, i can't," jungwon said.

his voice wasn't just polite; it was incredibly flat, completely stripped of the warm, universal charm he usually gave out so freely.

the girl blinked, caught off guard. "oh? are you too busy with the elective portfolio?"

jungwon didn't hesitate for a single second. he casually shifted in his seat, his hand moving across the table until his knuckles lightly brushed against your arm, drawing a firm, undeniable boundary in front of the stranger.

"no," jungwon said softly, his eyes dropping to you for a brief, reassuring second before he looked back up at the girl. "my girlfriend is right here. i don't take private project numbers."

your lungs completely locked up.

for a single, terrifying second, your heart fluttered so violently against your ribs it felt deafening. girlfriend. hearing the word leave his lips, spoken with such heavy, calm authority in his low voice, sent a sudden, dizzying rush of heat straight to your face.

but almost as fast as the thrill arrived, the cold weight of reality crashed right back down, pulling the warmth straight out of your chest.

yoonchae mumbled a quick, embarrassed apology and quickly retreated, but your mind had already clouded over, spiraling back into that familiar, suffocating insecurity.

you were just a prop.

the thought settled heavy and bitter in your stomach. because a guy like yang jungwon: a universally loved, constantly surrounded by people, and utterly effortless doesn't do serious relationships. he didn't need to. he was just a naturally attentive, overly nice guy who treated everyone with a baseline level of casual intimacy. he was smooth because it was his default setting, not because he was trying to win you over.

he didn't mean the word girlfriend. he had just used you as a convenient, safe shield to get out of an awkward conversation because he knew you wouldn't make a scene.

"sorry about that," jungwon murmured, turning his full attention back to you, his expression softening as if he hadn't just completely shattered your internal world. "she can be a bit persistent."

you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a small, tight smile to your lips as your walls slammed shut with a heavy, definitive thud.

"t-tell me about it," you said, forcing a small, hollow laugh as you poked at your food. "good strategy though. i make a pretty believable prop, don't i?"

you tried to look up and give him a funny, conspiratorial wink—anything to bury the suffocating weight crashing down on your chest. but your smile didn't reach your eyes, and your voice cracked just a fraction too much on the last word.

and jungwon, being the observant person he was, didn't laugh.

the easy, playful expression completely melted off his face, replaced by a quiet, piercing focus that made you want to look away. he slowly set his glass down on the table, his dark eyes tracking the slight tremor in your fingers before locking onto yours.

“you okay, y/n?” he asked softly, bending down to look at your eyes. but you quickly avoided him.

“y-yeah. just got something in my eye is all. listen, i still have some projects to finish so i need to go.”

“let me take you home–”

"no!" you quickly interrupted, scrambling to grab your bag. "i mean, wouldn't want to overstep." and just like that, you ran out of the restaurant before he could even reach for the bill.

what you didn’t know was jungwon felt his own chest tighten.

***

dear, y/n,

this is exactly why you should’ve kept your walls up.

it is a painful, heavy thing to realize how quickly you can fall back into the habit of building walls. you are slowly getting used to the feeling again, realizing that the only way to keep your heart safe from someone who belongs to the world is to completely remove yourself from the equation.

you tell yourself it’s safer to just be distant again. it’s way easier to pretend you don't care than to risk believing you actually matter to someone like him.

a week has passed since that day.

today, the morning arrived with a gray, overcast sky that seemed to match the cold numbness settling back into your chest. you walked onto campus with a heavy, deliberate step, your eyes strictly fixed on the concrete pathways to avoid scanning the crowds for a familiar shock of dark hair. you had your oversized jacket pulled tightly around you like armor, determined to slip back into the quiet anonymity of being just another student in the department.

you managed to avoid the main lecture hall entrance entirely, slipping through the side doors and taking a seat in the very last row, tucked far away from the middle rows where you had spent the last few weeks.

"y/n."

your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag at the sound of his voice.

jungwon was standing at the end of the row, looking completely exhausted. the usual easy, universal charm was entirely missing from his face, his dark eyes shadowed with a quiet, desperate intensity as he looked down at you. he didn't care that a few passing classmates were glancing over at his unusually tense posture; his focus was entirely locked onto you.

"you didn't answer my texts," he said softly, his voice dropping into that private register, though this time it sounded raw, carrying a heavy weight that made your chest ache. "i kept calling you."

you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing your expression to remain perfectly flat as you looked up at him, refusing to let him see how much you were hurting. "i told you, jungwon. i had projects to finish. you don't need to check up on me."

jungwon took a step closer into the row, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of the empty chair in front of you. "you’re not a prop. at the restaurant. i’m sorry i hurt you."

you looked down at your hands, refusing to meet his eyes because you knew your expression would crumble.

"it's fine, jungwon," you whispered, trying to force your voice to sound completely detached. "it was just a joke. you don't have to apologize for something petty."

"it wasn't a joke to me," he cut in, his voice dropping even lower, thick with a frustration you had never heard from him before. he slid into the empty seat right next to you, his presence suddenly overwhelming the small space in the back row. "i didn't say it just to make her leave, y/n. i said it because... because it didn't feel entirely like a lie to me."

your breath hitched, your eyes snapping up to look at him.

jungwon was leaning in close, his usual calm demeanor completely shattered. he looked vulnerable, almost fragile, his dark eyes searching your face for any sign of the warmth you used to give him so easily.

"there's actually someone i really like right now," he murmured, the confession slipping into the quiet space between you like a heavy secret. "and seeing her stand there, asking for my number...it just made me realize how much i only want to focus on one person."

he was looking at you with so much quiet intensity, his lips slightly parted as if he was waiting for you to understand, waiting for you to realize exactly who he was talking about.

but your brain, completely clouded by a week of suffocating insecurity, didn't see the love in his eyes. it only saw a devastating confirmation of your worst fear.

he likes someone else.

the words echoed like a physical blow inside your head. you were the practice run. the lesson.

"oh," you forced out, the word tasting like lead on your tongue. you managed to pull a tight, completely empty smile onto your face, even as your chest felt like it was physically breaking. "i... i didn't know. she's really lucky, jungwon. i hope it works out for you."

before he could even react to the sudden, freezing distance in your voice, you stood up, grabbing your bag and stepping past his frozen frame into the aisle, running away before the tears blinding your vision could finally fall.

“you.”

you didn't move. you couldn't breathe. for a second, you thought you were hallucinating.

slowly, you turned around.

jungwon was already standing up. his shoulders tense as he stared straight at you.

"it's you, y/n," he said, his voice cracking slightly on your name as he closed the small distance between you in two long steps, stopping just close enough that you could feel the sudden warmth radiating off him. "the girl i like. the only person i want to focus on. it's been you this entire time."

she would feel an absolute, dizzying rush of cognitive dissonance—like the ground had suddenly been pulled out from under her boots. after a whole week of meticulously convincing herself that she was completely invisible and just a temporary "lesson" in his life, his sudden confession completely short-circuits her brain.

her walls are still up, but they are cracking violently. she is caught between a desperate, fluttering spark of hope and the terrifying urge to protect herself from a cruel joke.

"it's you, y/n," he said, his voice cracking slightly on your name as he closed the small distance between you in two long steps, stopping just close enough that you could feel the sudden warmth radiating off him. "the girl i like. the only person i want to focus on. it's been you this entire time."

your brain completely short-circuited.

you stared at him, your chest heaving as you tried to find a catch, a punchline, anything to make reality align with your insecurities again. but jungwon’s face was completely raw, his lower lip slightly trembling as he waited for you to say something.

“w-what?” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper as you took a small, panicked step back. “when? why?”

the questions tumbled out of you in a frantic, unpolished rush, stripping away all the cold, distant armor you had tried so hard to build.

"what do you mean why?" jungwon asked, a breathless, incredulous laugh escaping his lips as he took a step forward to close the gap you had just made. he reached out, his fingers gently captured your wrist, his thumb resting right over your racing pulse.

he let out a low, shaky exhale, his thumb moving in a slow, comforting circle against your skin, trying to ground you through your panic.

"i fell for you on our very first day as interns," he murmured, his dark eyes softening completely as he brought you back to the beginning. "remember that chaotic first shoot? everyone was running around, but i couldn't take my eyes off you. you were so shy, yet you were completely locked in. i loved how focused you were, how much heart you put into every single task. you were radiant, y/n. in a room full of people trying to stand out, you stood out to me just by being you."

he took a small step closer, his voice dropping into that intense, private register that belonged only to you.

"i did everything because i wanted an excuse to be near you," he whispered. "it's been you since that exact day. how could you think it was anyone else?"

“i was…i was never the one,” you whispered. “i was never the one that people think i’m worth staying for.”

jungwon let out a sharp, ragged breath, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to keep you anchored as your words physically pained him. the easy, polite campus favorite completely disappeared, replaced by a boy who looked entirely devastated that the girl he loved felt so invisible.

he didn't hesitate. he took that final step, closing the remaining distance between you until he was gently framing your face with his hands, his thumbs carefully wiping away the tears on your cheeks.

"i'm not going anywhere, y/n. i'm staying right here. with you."

***

dear, y/n,

it turns out that rewriting the script in your head is a slow, terrifying process.

for a long time, you were completely sure you were just the type of girl guys date before finding the one they actually want to settle down with. you really believed you were just a temporary phase. but now, jungwon is completely focused on you, and he isn't looking for anyone else.

you're still really anxious, though. every time your phone lights up, a part of you still expects him to text you saying he changed his mind or made a mistake. but he doesn't. instead, he just keeps showing up and proving you wrong.

nothing is official yet. you didn't suddenly become his girlfriend overnight. but even without a label, everything between you two feels completely different now.

on a tuesday morning, you didn't sit in the back row.

you had tried to, out of habit. your fingers pulling the strap of your oversized bag tight against your shoulder as you entered the side door. but jungwon was already there, sitting in the middle row right where you two used to be. the moment the door clicked, his head snapped up, his dark eyes instantly finding yours in the crowd.

he didn't wave or make a scene, but a small, private smile tugged at the corner of his lips. he casually lifted his laptop sleeve off the empty plastic chair beside him, claiming the space before anyone else could even think to take it.

your heart did that familiar, breathless flutter as you walked down the steps.

"hey," he murmured softly as you slid into the seat, his voice dropping into that private register that still made your face flush. he didn't slide his hand over yours or push your boundaries, but he reached into his jacket pocket and slid a small, familiar plastic bottle across the desk.

it was a fresh bottle of the exact soothing eye drops you always used when your eyes got tired from staring at editing screens.

"since you had something in your eye last week," jungwon said, his eyes crinkling slightly with a gentle, teasing warmth that completely lacked any judgment. "just in case."

you stared at the bottle, the lump in your throat returning, but this time it wasn't from sadness. "jungwon, you didn't have to—"

"i wanted to," he interrupted softly, leaning his elbow on the desk so he could look at you properly.

and then he did the one thing that always sent your heart into an absolute frenzy.

he leaned his elbow on the desk, tilting his head as he intentionally closed the distance between you. jungwon brought his face so close you could trace the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scent of his laundry detergent instantly filling your senses. his dark eyes locked onto yours, completely invading your personal space in that quiet, effortless way only he could pull off.

“j-jungwon?” you stammered, your voice coming out as a tiny, embarrassed squeak as you tried to press your back against the hard plastic of your chair to gain an inch of safety.

“mhm?” he murmured, not moving back even a fraction of a millimeter. instead, a tiny, knowing smirk began to pull at the corner of his lips, clearly enjoying how easily he could throw you off balance.

“y-you’re too close,” you whispered frantically, your hands gripping your desk as you looked around to see if anyone was watching. “mr. lee just entered the room.”

jungwon didn't panic. instead, his smirk widened just a fraction, his dark eyes brimming with amusement at your flustered reaction.

slowly, casually, he leaned back into his own space just as the professor set his briefcase on the podium. but right before he completely pulled away, jungwon leaned in one last inch, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper right against your ear.

"mr. lee can wait," he murmured, his tone dripping with a quiet, playful confidence. "but fine. i'll let you focus on the lecture. for now."

he straightened up in his seat, opening his notebook with perfect poise as if he hadn't just completely set your nerve endings on fire. but as he picked up his pen, he deliberately shifted his notebook just an inch closer to yours, his shoulder lightly brushing against your arm—a constant, warm reminder that he wasn't going anywhere.

now that you and jungwon are now aware of feelings towards each other, he has become flirtier each day. but with boundaries. he still asks if it’s okay to hold your hand, place his arm around your shoulder when walking, always checking in with a quiet, questioning look before stepping an inch closer into your space.

and every time he notices you second guessing if you want something, he takes the initiative of doing it. so in days that you do want to hold his hand but too shy to ask, he gently places his hand under yours and locks your fingers. and of course, it sent your heart into overdrive.

on friday afternoon, as the campus was emptying out, jungwon slung his backpack over one shoulder and leaned against the edge of your desk.

"a few of my seniors are holding a small wrap-up gallery in the department studio tonight," he said, tilting his head to catch your eyes. "then we’ll have an after party. just some music, drinks, and looking over the final print layouts. i want you to come with me."

your fingers paused on your notebook. the familiar, anxious tightening returned to your chest, your mind instantly telling you that you didn't belong in a room full of talented, confident upperclassmen who already knew him so well.

“is it alright?” you whispered, looking up at him uncertainty. “i don't want to intrude.”

jungwon’s expression softened instantly. he didn't laugh or dismiss your worry. instead, he stepped closer, blocking out the rest of the noisy hallway so it was just the two of you.

"you're not intruding, y/n," he said softly, his voice steady and completely serious as he reached down to gently tap the back of your hand. "i'm the one asking you. i want you to be there. with me."

then the night of the gallery came.

the studio was packed, filled with the low hum of indie music, the clinking of plastic cups, and the bright, warm glow of track lighting illuminating the rows of framed photographs along the walls. jungwon had been caught by a group of design seniors the moment you walked through the door. you had gently nudged his shoulder, giving him a small smile to let him know you didn't mind, before slipping away into the crowd to look around on your own.

the talent in the room was undeniable, but as you wandered down the final row of the exhibition, your steps slowed to a complete halt in front of a small, dedicated corner panel.

your breath caught in your throat.

the first frame was a candid shot from your very first day as interns. it was the chaotic studio set, cluttered with stray wires and half-assembled lighting rigs, but the camera hadn’t focused on the set. it was focused entirely on you. you sat on a crate with your face angled away, completely locked into adjusting a camera lens.

the second frame was the campus lecture hall taken from a low angle. it captured the stark, geometric lines of the plastic desks, but the focus was trained on the middle rows where you two always used to sit. a soft, natural light filtered through the gray windows, hitting the exact spot where his notebook usually brushed against yours.

and the final photograph made your heart do a sudden, breathless flip.

it was the outside of the restaurant from a week ago, taken through the glass window under a heavy, overcast sky. the frame captured the exact table where everything had boiled over, the blurry reflection of the street lights casting a quiet, moody atmosphere over the empty chairs.

the photos were the places you had been with him.

beneath the triptych of photos was a small, white card printed with a simple title:

paying attention.

"i didn't put your face on blast, i promise," a soft voice murmured right behind your ear.

​you turned around to find jungwon right behind you, his hands in his pockets as he smiled down at you.

"i asked the professor if i could keep the subject anonymous on the final prints," he explained softly, stepping a little closer into your space. "i wanted to show you how i see you, but... is this okay? if it makes you uncomfortable, i can take them down right now. seriously."

"no," you whispered, a genuine smile finally breaking through the remnants of your anxiety. "don't take them down. they're... really beautiful."

without second guessing, you threw your arms around jungwon.

you felt a deep, grounding warmth expand in your chest—the realization that you were someone worth paying attention to.

after five hours, the after-party finally started. the room was alive with everyone cheering, laughing, and clinking their beer glasses together in celebration.

​“congrats to us!” jungwon's senior, lee chan, toasted, raising his glass high into the air.

after taking a sip, chan’s eyes flicked over to you, a warm smile breaking across his face. "and thanks for coming, y/n! jungwon was practically talking about it for days.”

​your face flushed a sudden crimson, your eyes darting over to jungwon.

​jungwon just let out a soft laugh, completely unbothered by his senior exposing him. he casually slung an arm around your shoulder, bringing you securely into the circle. "ignore him," he murmured down to you, his thumb lightly rubbing against your arm. "but he's not entirely wrong."

“jungwon, hey!”

yoonchae was there again. you remembered that she was probably only around because her brother was in the same department as jungwon, a detail he had mentioned to you weeks ago.

​“yoonchae, hi.”

​“so, i heard from my brother that you and y/n aren't actually dating," she started, pulling her phone out of her bag and extending it toward him with a hopeful smile. "so… i was thinking if i can maybe, you know? come on, it's not like you're taken, right?”

​“yoonchae, i've already told you before that i am interested in someone.” jungwon didn't hesitate for a single second. he reached down, deliberately capturing your hand and locking his fingers tightly with yours. “she's right here. dating or not, y/n is the only girl i like.”

yoonchae’s jaw dropped slightly. she stared at jungwon, entirely speechless at how effortlessly and publicly he had rejected her.

​she looked at you, then back at jungwon. without uttering another syllable, she gave a stiff, embarrassed nod and quickly slipped away into the crowd.

the night continued with you and jungwon completely melting into the crowd. almost everyone couldn't help but tease him, laughing at how he looked like a total lovesick puppy and constantly joking about how he had finally found his muse.

​eventually, the party wound down, and the two of you walked home together through the quiet streets. your hand was wrapped in his, his fingers locked firmly in yours.

​“wasn't that too harsh?” you asked softly, breaking the silence as you looked down at your joined hands.

​“not if she completely ignored your presence,” jungwon replied without a shred of regret, his grip on your hand tightening just a fraction.

​you bit your inner lip, your heart doing a small flutter as you built up the courage to ask the question that had been looping in your head. “but... were you serious? about what you said?”

​jungwon looked down at you with a slow, knowing smirk. he knew exactly what you meant, but he wanted to hear you say it. “which part?”

​your eyes grew wide, but you tried your absolute best to maintain your composure. “you know... the part where you said... you like me.” the last few words came out as a quiet mumble, your face burning.

​“what's that?” he teased, tilting his head closer to yours. “didn't quite catch that.”

​“jungwon,” you whined, pulling slightly on his hand.

​“what? come on, say it clearly,” he laughed.

​“jungwon!” you whined again, hiding your face slightly behind your free hand.

​but then, the teasing look in his eyes began to shift. his laughter quieted down, replaced by a soft, intense focus that made the breath hitch in your throat. the ambient hum of the streetlights overhead suddenly felt incredibly loud as he stopped walking, causing you to pause right along with him.

​“you are,” jungwon murmured, his voice dropping into a gentle, low register. he lifted your hand, his thumb softly tracing the knuckles before he let go of the tight grip to hold just your fingertips, his skin warm against yours. “i really like you, y/n.”

​the sheer sincerity in his dark eyes stripped away all of your remaining defense mechanisms. the anxiety that usually kept you trapped in your own head completely evaporated, leaving only the honest, racing beat of your heart.

​“i-i really like you too,” you whispered back, your voice small but steady.

​jungwon took a slow step closer, completely closing the distance between you. his free hand came up, his fingers brushing light as a feather against your jawline before his thumb settled right at the corner of your cheekbone, tilting your face up just a fraction. he didn't rush. he just stood there for a breathless second, his gaze flicking down to your lips before locking back onto your wide eyes, waiting patiently for you to adjust to how close he was.

​“can i kiss you?” he asked softly, his thumb giving your cheek a reassuring, tender stroke.

​“please,” you whispered, the word leaving your lips like a breathless plea.

​a soft smile broke across jungwon’s face at your response. he didn't wait another second. his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair as he leaned down and finally pressed his lips to yours, sweet and slow.

​it made your heart do a dizzying, breathless flip. his lips were incredibly soft, parting slightly as he pulled you just a fraction closer against his chest. your fingers instinctively gripped the fabric of his jacket, your whole body melting into the touch as a warm, electric flutter rushed from your chest straight down to your toes.

as both of you pulled away from the kiss, jungwon let his hands slide down to your waist, pulling you back in for a quick, tight hug. he buried his face in the crook of your neck for a second, letting out a soft hum of satisfaction that made your heart do another dizzying flip.

​“does this mean we're… boyfriend and girlfriend?” you asked shyly, your fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his jacket.

​jungwon let out a soft giggle against your skin, the vibration tickling your neck before he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes full of warmth. “yes. yes, i'd love that.”

***

​dear y/n,

​it is a beautiful thing indeed to be able to find someone. you are incredibly, genuinely happy, and your heart doesn't feel like it's constantly bracing for impact anymore.

​but being with jungwon has also taught you that a real relationship isn't all cupcakes and rainbows. there are still days when your old insecurities and tendencies to overthink flare up out of nowhere, making you quiet and distant.

​loving someone isn't a magical cure for anxiety. it doesn't fix the pieces of you that feel broken.

you and jungwon had a date today. it's been weeks since you have been girlfriend and boyfriend. and it was the happiest you've felt in a while.

a knock startled you out of your thoughts as you checked your outfit one more time. you had opted for a classic combination: a warm cream cardigan layered over a simple tee, paired with structured wide-leg trousers that made you feel completely put-together yet comfortable.

wonhee was grinning brightly at you, stepping right into the entryway the moment the door swung open. without a word, she reached forward to gently adjust the collar of your tee and smooth down the shoulder of your cream cardigan. "there. perfect. you look so effortlessly pretty today! are you ready for your date?”

​“a bit nervous,” you admitted, feeling a sudden jolt of nervous electricity running through your system.

“hey,” wonhee placed her hand kn your shoulder, “you got this. and if jungwon doesn't see how incredibly lucky he is to have you, just let me know. i will personally make sure every single senior in his department knows he’s an absolute fool, and his pristine reputation will be completely ruined by tomorrow morning.”

“wonhee,” you taunt.

“i'm just saying.” wonhee giggled, gently grabbing your shoulders and turning you toward the door. she gave you a playful nudge forward. "now stop stalling and go. he’s probably already waiting outside, and you shouldn't keep your boyfriend waiting."

boyfriend.

on cue, a knock came again, and this time, you answered it.

​when the door swung open, jungwon was standing there, looking effortlessly handsome in a simple jacket. the moment his eyes landed on you, his breath hitched slightly, his gaze sweeping over your cream cardigan and wide-leg trousers with a look of pure, unadulterated admiration.

​“hi,” you murmured, your heart doing a familiar flutter.

​“hi,” he replied softly, a warm smile breaking across his face as if he couldn't help himself. “you look beautiful.”

​“you ready?” he asked, his voice low and comforting.

​you nodded your head, the last of your nervous jitters completely melting away. jungwon offered his arm, and you gladly looped yours through it, stepping out into the hallway as he gently pressed your arm closer to his side, making you feel completely secure before you even left the building.

jungwon takes you out to a beautiful, open-air city square where the evening breeze carries the distant chatter of people and the soft glow of fairy lights tangled in the trees. walking arm-in-arm, he effortlessly shields you from the busier walkways, pointing out little shops or laughing at the synchronized fountains, making the wide, bright world feel incredibly small and private just for the two of you.

​you smiled, the warmth in your chest blooming beautifully. but as you stepped past a brightly lit clothing storefront, the air in your lungs suddenly turned to ice.

​“jungwon, is that actually you?”

​the soft, bright voice called out from the restaurant entrance. jungwon paused, turning his head, and you felt his entire posture straighten up in surprise. walking toward your table was a girl with an effortless, radiant smile and a polished grace that made the entire room feel a little brighter.

​“minji!” jungwon’s face lit up with immediate, genuine recognition as he stood up to greet her. “wow, it’s been so long. what are you doing back here?”

​“my family just moved back to the area,” she laughed, her voice carrying a familiar, easy warmth. jungwon immediately turned to you, his hand reaching for yours to introduce you.

“minji, this is y/n. my girlfriend.”

“omg, hi! finally, jungwon has gotten himself a girlfriend.”

​she was completely lovely. she didn't do a single thing wrong. but as she chatted with jungwon for a few minutes about their old neighborhood before waving goodbye, a suffocating wave of anxiety washed over you.

​she was stunning. her hair sat perfectly, her laugh was effortless, and she possessed a kind of glowing, unbothered confidence that you felt miles away from. sitting across from jungwon again, your cream cardigan suddenly felt suffocating, and your wide-leg trousers felt like a clumsy attempt at looking put-together. the food on your plate suddenly looked unappetizing as the old, familiar voice whispered that you were completely out of your league.

​“y/n? hey, you’re getting quiet on me,” jungwon murmured softly, leaning across the table, his dark eyes full of immediate concern. “what’s going on in that head of yours?”

​you stared down at your fingers, tracing the edge of the napkin to keep your voice steady. “she’s… really pretty, jungwon.”

​“she’s an old friend,” he replied instantly, a gentle, reassuring smile breaking across his face. “i promise that's all.”

​you swallowed past the lump in your throat, the overthinking brain refusing to let go of the bone. “did anything… ever happen between you two? back then?”

​“no, never,” jungwon said easily, shaking his head. “we were just kids who grew up on the same block. we played video games and rode bikes. that was literally it.”

​you looked up, your eyes searching his face, silent and unconvinced. jungwon sighed softly, a tiny, amused but fond smile tugging at his lips as he realized he couldn't hide anything from you. he reached across the table, covering your cold hand with his warm one.

​“okay, fine,” he gave in gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. “the only thing that ever happened was that our parents used to tease us. when we were around ten, our moms joked around a lot about how we’d probably end up getting married because we were inseparable. but it was just a silly parents' joke.”

​he meant it as a reassuring confession to show how ridiculous the history was, but inside your chest, the words landed with a heavy, deafening thud.

​married.

​“baby,” jungwon murmured, his hands coming up to gently hold your fingers. he looked down at you, his eyes completely honest. “i'm sorry. i shouldn't have brought that up so carelessly. when we were kids, maybe there was a silly, innocent part of me that had a crush on her back then. but i swear to you, those feelings are completely gone. they've been gone for years.”

​when you wouldn't look at him, your eyes still trained on the ground as you tried to process the heavy spiral in your chest, jungwon didn't get frustrated or tell you that you were overreacting.

​instead, he patiently guided your cold hands up, cupping them securely against his warm cheeks and leaning his face into your soft touch. he tilted his head just enough so that you were forced to see the absolute sincerity in his gaze.

​“our parents made jokes about the past, but i'm looking at my future right now,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your wrist, his heartbeat steady and grounding beneath your palms. “it's only you, y/n. it's always just been you.”

“how sure are you about that?”

​“how sure are you about that?” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of your own mind. you hated how small you sounded, hated that even with his face leaning so trustingly into your hands, the ugly, loud voice of your anxiety was still trying to convince you that you were a second choice.

​jungwon didn't blink. he didn't sigh in frustration, and he didn't let go of your hands. instead, he just closed his eyes for a brief second, absorbing the raw vulnerability of your question, before looking right back at you with a gaze so steady it felt like an anchor.

​“because when i was ten, i didn't know what loving someone actually meant,” he said softly, his voice incredibly quiet but unshakeable. “i thought it was just sharing toys and living on the same block. but with you? i know exactly what it is.”

​he kissed the palm of your right hand, his lips warm against your cold skin.

​“i'm sure because when something good happens, you're the first person i want to call. i'm sure because even when you get quiet and distant like this, i don't want to be anywhere else in the world except right here, waiting it out with you. minji is a part of a childhood scrapbook, y/n. but you are my real life. you are my today, and you're the only one i want for tomorrow.”

you let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding, the heavy knot in your chest finally loosening under the steady, unshakeable warmth of his words. the ugly, loud whispers of your overthinking brain slowly faded into silence, replaced entirely by the sound of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

​he was right. she was the past, but you were his right now.

​“okay,” you whispered, a small, watery but genuine smile finally breaking across your lips. “i believe you.”

​jungwon smiled back, a look of pure relief crossing his handsome face. he kissed the palm of your hand one more time before lowering your hands, locking his fingers tightly with yours as the two of you began walking down the glowing, tree-lined street once again. the anxiety hadn't completely vanished from your system—it rarely ever did—but with his side pressed warmly against yours, the world felt safe again.

​but your worries did not disappear overnight.

months have passed since that evening of your first date, filled with shared laughter and a love that grew steadier with each passing day. jungwon had proven his words true over and over again, never letting you drift when the overthinking got too loud.

​yet, the mind is a stubborn thing.

jungwon was and is serious about you. every small gesture, every patient reassurance when you got quiet, and every look he gave you proved that you weren't just a passing chapter in his life. so, he decided that it was finally time for his parents to meet you. he wanted you to meet the people who mattered most to him, completely missing the way your stomach instantly dropped in panic.

“my son!”

as soon as the door opened to jungwon’s condo, his mom gave him a tight hug, immediately stepping past him to look at you with a wide, welcoming smile. jungwon laughed softly, wrapping an arm around his mom's shoulders before gently pulling you into the space alongside them.

“mom, let me breathe first,” he teased gently, though his eyes were bright with happiness as he looked between the two of you.

“but i miss my baby!”

this was the first time you can genuinely see jungwon embarrassed, but it was adorable. his cheeks flushed a faint, endearing pink as he cleared his throat, trying to regain his usual cool composure while his dad just chuckled behind them, carrying a small box of side dishes into the kitchen.

all was going well. the conversation flowed effortlessly over the sound of clinking chopsticks and quiet laughter.

“you know, y/n, jungwon has been smiling so much more lately,” his mom mentioned softly, reaching over to squeeze your wrist. “whenever we call him on the weekends, he’s always in a good mood because he’s either on his way to see you or just got back from a date. you’ve been such a wonderful influence on him.”

“thank you, mrs. yang,” you murmured softly, using the title she had warmly insisted on earlier. you felt a genuine sense of relief wash over you.

but that relief was cut short when his father set down his glass, looking between the two of you with a reflective nod. “it’s just so interesting seeing jungwon with someone so quiet and gentle,” his father noted with a thoughtful, friendly smile. “you know, his mother and i always assumed he’d end up with someone loud and full of energy, like minji. they grew up together, so we were just so used to that specific dynamic. but it’s good that he’s learning to appreciate a different kind of presence now.”

learning to appreciate.

your stomach completely dropped. they weren't trying to be mean at all. it was just a casual comment. but hearing his dad say that made your worst fear feel real. to them, minji was the standard: the girl who naturally fit into his life.

suddenly, that creeping feeling was crawling back into your system and into your head.

this option focuses on him noticing y/n's discomfort right away and stepping in to protect her peace.

jungwon, who had been watching you the entire time, saw the exact moment your face went rigid. without a second thought, his hand reached under the table, finding your ice-cold fingers and squeezing them tightly.

“that was a completely different time, dad,” jungwon cut in smoothly, his voice calm but incredibly firm as he looked directly at his father. “who i was when i was ten years old doesn't matter. y/n is my present, and she’s exactly who i like.”

his mother’s eyes widened slightly at jungwon's serious tone, her expression shifting into immediate regret. she looked at you, her face full of genuine worry.

“oh, dear, i’m so sorry,” his mom said softly, reaching across the table to gently touch your arm. “your father didn't mean it that way at all. we are so happy you’re here with him.”

“yes, please forgive an old man's clumsy words, y/n,” his dad added quickly, looking incredibly apologetic. “i only meant that we are glad to see how happy and grounded jungwon is with you. we really didn't mean to compare you.”

you managed to nod politely, offering his parents a tight, small smile. “it’s okay, mrs. yang. mr. yang, really. don’t worry about it.”

you forced yourself to get through the rest of the dinner. you chewed your food without tasting it, laughed at the right moments, and politely helped clear the plates. you didn't storm out, but your anxiety made you want to disappear.

the second the front door clicked shut and his parents finally left, the fake smile dropped from your face. your breath hitched, and the hot tears you had been holding back for the last hour finally slipped down your cheeks.

jungwon turned around immediately, his face full of pain as he stepped toward you. “y/n, baby, hey—”

“jungwon, please,” you whispered, stepping back, your hands trembling as you wrapped them around yourself. you couldn't take his comfort right now. the ugly thoughts were too loud. “i just… i think i need to go home.”

“y/n, look at me. you heard what i told them. she’s not like that to me. why are you pushing me away?”

“because they look at me and they see a lesson!” your voice finally broke, a sharp, painful sob escaping your throat. “they look at me and see someone who is helping you grow up, jungwon. what if that’s all i am to you? what if i’m just the person you’re with until you’re ready to go back to someone like her?”

jungwon flinched as if you had physically struck him. a heavy, painful silence fell over the apartment. he took a slow breath, his dark eyes brimming with a mix of deep hurt and sheer frustration that he couldn't seem to break through the walls of your anxiety.

“is that really all you think of me?” he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet, raw whisper. “after all these months, you still think i’m just using you as a placeholder?”

he stepped forward, refusing to let you shrink away this time, his hands gently but firmly capturing your trembling wrists.

“i am not your ex, i’m not your fling, and i’m not jongseong, y/n,” he said, his voice shaking slightly with emotion as he looked directly into your tear-filled eyes. “i don't need a lesson, and i don't need to practice how to love someone. i love you. i chose you, and i am pouring everything i have into us. it hurts so bad that you’re letting a careless comment throw away everything we’ve built.”

you stared at him through a blur of hot tears, his grip on your wrists feeling less like an anchor and more like a trap you desperately needed to escape. you heard his words. he loves youand he isn't your ex. but the chaotic noise inside your head was just too loud. you were completely emotionally exhausted.

“jungwon, please,” you choked out, pulling your wrists back out of his hold. you couldn't look him in the eye, unable to bear the heavy hurt radiating from him. “i can’t… i can’t do this right now. i just really need to go home.”

jungwon stood perfectly still, his hands hanging empty in the space between you. he looked at your trembling shoulders, realizing that no matter what he said right now, your mind was miles away, trapped in a past he hadn't created.

he let out a long, heavy breath, his head dropping for a second before he looked back up at you with soft, tired eyes.

“okay,” he whispered quietly, his voice thick with unvoiced exhaustion. he didn't fight you, and he didn't force you to stay. instead, he reached for his car keys on the counter. “i’ll drive you.”

“no,” you said quickly, stepping back toward the door before he could even take a step toward you. “no, jungwon, please don't.”

jungwon froze, his fingers tightening around his car keys. “y/n, it’s late. i’m not letting you go out there alone like this.”

“i’ll book a ride. i just… if i get in the car with you right now, i feel like i won't be able to breathe,” you confessed, your voice dropping to a desperate, raw whisper. you hated hurting him, but the walls of the apartment already felt like they were crashing down on you. “i need to be completely alone. please.”

the word please seemed to deflate whatever fight jungwon had left in him. he looked at you, seeing the genuine panic in your eyes, and realized that forcing himself to accompany you would only make your spiral worse. it broke his heart, but he put his car keys back down on the counter.

“okay,” he whispered softly, his voice heavy with defeat. “i won't force you. but let me book your ride. let me at least do that so i know you're in a safe car.”

you didn't have the energy to argue. you just stood by the door, hugging yourself tightly as jungwon quietly pulled out his phone, his hands trembling slightly as he booked a ride to your apartment.

when the app showed the driver was outside, he walked over and opened the door for you. he didn't try to hug you or touch you, completely respecting the distance you asked for.

“text me when you get inside your room,” jungwon said, his dark eyes brimming with so much quiet love and unspoken hurt as he watched you step out into the hallway. “even if you don't want to talk to me, just send a dot. please. just let me know you're safe.”

you nodded your head and closed the door. as you walked down the hallway and headed toward the car, you finally let your tears fall, not caring if the receptionist in the lobby or the driver saw you.

***

dear y/n,

you thought you were completely past this after all these months of quiet, steady happiness.

he is good to you, and he has done absolutely nothing wrong. your heart knows he isn't the one who hurt you, but the fear of history repeating itself is paralyzing. you ran away tonight because the walls were closing in, and you are so terrified of ruining something beautiful.

you are standing at a crossroads now, completely exhausted from fighting your own mind. you want to believe you deserve this love, but the urge to protect yourself is pulling you backward. the storm inside you is loud, but will you still find the strength to trust and give it a try?

you texted jungwon that you needed space. you told him you just needed to make sure history wasn't repeating itself.

it took a few long, agonizing minutes before your phone buzzed in your hand.

jungwon: i understand. take all the time you need, y/n. i’m not going anywhere, and i’m not letting go of us. please just rest well tonight.

staring at the glowing screen, a fresh wave of tears blurred your vision. he was giving you the exact reassurance you desperately needed, yet the heavy, unresolved space between you felt wider than ever.

days turned into weeks and the space between you only grew heavier. neither of you reached out, the silence lingering like an unspoken question that you were both too afraid to answer.

you had thought that having this time to yourself would help clear your head and make you feel safe again. instead, the endless quiet only proved that the ghost of your past wasn’t something he was creating—it was something you were still carrying all on your own. missing him had become a constant, dull ache in your chest, making you realize that the walls you built to protect yourself were only keeping you trapped in your own loneliness.

the realization hit you fully when you found yourself staring at an old photo of the two of you, his bright, genuine smile a stark contrast to the hollow ache currently sitting in your chest. you had spent so much time trying to make sure history wasn't repeating itself that you hadn't noticed you were the one sabotaging your own present. it was finally time to stop letting your fear dictate your future, even if your hands were still shaking at the thought of making things right.

but you were too scared. maybe you didn’t deserve that second chance when all he did was be so nice and gentle, giving you the love you had been searching for all along.

on cue, your phone lit up with an unexpected video call notification. you slid the button to answer, clearing your throat before speaking. “jongseong, hey!”

“hey, y/n,” jongseong replied, his face appearing on the screen. he gave you a small wave, looking totally relaxed but a bit curious. “i’m only calling because a few really sad heartbreak tweets popped up on my timeline today, and i noticed you liked one of them. it just felt a little out of character for you. are you doing okay? any problems between you and jungwon?”

you froze, the heavy silence of your room suddenly feeling magnified through the speaker. your throat felt completely tight, and your mind scrambled for a safe lie, a polite excuse, or any regular answer to cover up the mess inside your head. but looking at jongseong’s kind, expectant face on the screen, the wall you had built over the past few weeks finally crumbled.

you let out a shaky breath, looking down at your lap because you couldn't bear to hold his gaze anymore.

“do you know that there are two types of people in the world?” you murmured, your voice cracking slightly as the tears threatened to spill over again. “the lesson and the one. sadly, i’m the lesson.”

“okay…” he said slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned closer to the camera. “i’m not following. what do you mean by that, y/n?”

“i mean… some people only enter a person’s life to teach them how to love, how to grow, or how to be better for the next person,” you whispered, a single tear finally slipping down your cheek. “they’re just a temporary chapter. they're the lesson. and then there are the people who get to stay forever. they’re the one.”

you finally looked up at the screen, your eyes completely raw and vulnerable as you stared at him.

“his parents think i'm just a phase, jongseong. they think i'm just someone he's with until he's ready to go back to a blueprint that naturally fits his world. and the worst part is… i’m starting to think they’re right.”

you let out a tired, shaky sigh, pulling your knees up to your chest.

“you know my history, jongseong. you’ve seen firsthand how many times i’ve been left behind, and how much it took for me to piece myself back together,” you murmured, your voice dropping to a soft, exhausted whisper. “i already know exactly how it feels to be the lesson that helps a man grow up for someone else. i’ve been that girl my entire life, and i just… i don’t think i have the strength to go through that all over again with him.”

jongseong went completely quiet on the other end of the line, his expression softening as your words settled over him. he rubbed the back of his neck, looking down for a brief second as if carrying a quiet weight of his own before fixing his steady, grounded gaze back on you.

“y/n, look at me,” he said softly, his voice dropping into that deep, comforting tone. “i know your history. i know exactly how much you've been through, and i'm not going to sit here and tell you that your fears aren’t valid. but you are completely wrong about one thing.”

he leaned a little closer to the camera. “i don't know the guy personally, but i know you. and from everything you’ve ever told me about him, from the way your face lights up when you mention his name, he isn't the type to treat you like a phase. his parents don't get to decide who his 'one' is, y/n. he already chose you, so don't let their words choose his ending for him.”

you looked away from the screen, your bottom lip trembling as his words cut right through your defenses. you wanted so desperately to believe he was right, but the heavy weight in your chest made it so hard to breathe.

“but what if they’re right, jongseong?” you whispered, a fresh tear spilling over as you brought your knees closer to your chest. “it’s so easy to say he chose me now, but choosing someone gets a lot harder when the whole world is pulling you in the opposite direction. i'm just so tired of being the only one who ends up broken when the choice gets too heavy.”

“you told me once, he’s different. you said he was the first person who made you feel safe enough to lower your guard. don't take away his chance to be the one who stays just because everyone else before him left.”

you let out a shaky breath, wiping the dampness from your cheeks with the back of your hand. his words hit a little too close to home, reminding you of the girl who used to be so certain about the boy she loved.

“i did say that, didn't i?” you whispered, a small, incredibly tired smile touching your lips for a split second. you looked back up at the screen, trying to clear the thick emotion from your throat. “i'm sorry for dumping all of this on you out of nowhere. let's not talk about my mess anymore. how are things with you and karina?”

jongseong chuckled softly, the heavy atmosphere completely lifting as he leaned back in his desk chair. “speaking of the devil,” he murmured, just as the sound of a fridge door closing echoed through the speaker, followed by the soft padding of footsteps.

a second later, karina leaned into the frame, damp hair wrapped in a towel and a plate of sliced fruit in her hand. “tell her i say hi! and tell her you haven't washed the dishes from breakfast yet,” she teased, popping a piece of apple into her mouth before pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head and walking back to the living room.

jongseong rolled his eyes fondly, watching her leave before fixing his gaze back on you. “see? we’re surviving, even if we’re constantly stressed about finals and rent. our parents definitely had their doubts about us moving in together so early, but we just decided to figure it out as we go. it’s not perfect, but it’s real. you and jungwon can figure it out too, if you just give him the chance to try.”

“thanks, jongseong,” you murmured, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally unravelling into a sudden, desperate wave of clarity.

“anytime, buddy,” he replied with a warm, final nod.

and with that, you both ended the call.

before the fear could creep back in, you immediately grabbed a coat from the chair and shoved your feet into your crocs. you unlocked the deadbolt with trembling fingers and swung the door open, but what you didn’t expect was jungwon standing right there, catching his breath with his hair sweaty, probably from running all the way to you.

“h-hi.”

“hi.”

a breathless, fragile silence settled over the hallway. jungwon looked down, his gaze lingering on your feet tucked into your crocs, and then you looked at his messy, sweat-dampened hair. despite the heavy heartbreak that had been hovering over you both for weeks, a tiny, incredibly watery laugh slipped past your lips.

jungwon’s lips twitched into a faint, exhausted smile, though his eyes stayed completely soft and intense.

“where were you going in such a hurry?” he asked softly, his voice still a little breathless.

“i was… i was going to you,” you confessed, your voice cracking as the tears finally spilled over, blurring your vision.

jungwon’s eyes softened completely, his hand moving from your wrist to gently cup your cheek, his thumb catching the tear before it could fall. “to me? why?”

“because i’m so tired of being the girl who only exists to teach good men how to love someone else,” you choked out, your hands anchoring onto the fabric of his jacket because your knees felt weak. “i don’t want you to be my temporary chapter, jungwon. i don’t want this to be another heartbreaking lesson. i know you’re the one. i know it. and it terrifies me, but i was running to tell you that i don’t want to let you go.”

jungwon stared at you, completely frozen as his usual composure totally shattered. a glassy sheen quickly took over his sharp eyes, his bottom lip trembling just a fraction as the heavy unshed tears made him look incredibly vulnerable in the dim hallway light. he looked so profoundly undone by your confession that he couldn't even find his voice to speak.

seeing him look at you like that suddenly made a wave of intense self-consciousness rush over you.

you let out a wet, breathless laugh, instantly dropping your gaze to his chest as your cheeks flushed deep red. “oh god,” you muttered, your voice cracking as you weakly hid your face against his jacket. “i can’t believe i sound so silly saying that. it sounded so cringe, i'm sorry—”

jungwon wasted no time in closing the gap between the two of you and crashed his lips onto yours. compared to your first kiss, this one was full of pure yearning and a desperate, breathless relief that made your knees give out completely.

he kissed you until the lingering taste of your tears melted away, his hands moving up to cup your face so tightly, as if he were physically anchoring you to him. when he finally pulled back just a fraction, his forehead remained rested against yours, both of your breaths coming out in hot, uneven puffs in the quiet hallway.

“it’s not silly,” jungwon whispered fiercely, his voice raspy and thick with the tears he was trying not to spill. he blinked, a stray drop finally escaping and trailing down his flushed cheek as he looked deep into your eyes. “i ran all the way here because i felt like i was suffocating without you. i ran to tell you that i don't want to lose you. i'm not letting you go.”

you could only nod as a fresh wave of tears blurred your vision. your fingers gripping his shoulders so hard your knuckles turned white.

jungwon smiled weakly, his thumbs gently wiping away the new tears on your cheeks before leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, right at your hairline. he kept his arms securely locked around you, anchoring you against his warm chest until your breathing finally synced up with his.

“i mean it, y/n,” he murmured into your hair, his voice steadier now but still filled with that fierce determination. “no more lessons. we're figuring this out together.”

***

dear, y/n,

in this world, there are two types of people: the one and the lesson. you were the latter. but right now, you’re the first.

you spent so much time convincing yourself that you were only built to be a temporary chapter, a stepping stone for someone else's perfect blueprint. but you don't have to stay broken just to teach a good man how to love. you can be the one who gets to stay, too. and you finally found your 'the one'—the boy who ran all the way to your door in the middle of the night just to prove he was never going to let you go.

three months later.

“jungwon, if you don't turn that stove down right now, we are going to set the fire alarm off for the third time this month,” you laughed, leaning against the counter of your apartment as you watched him frantically wave a kitchen towel in front of a smoking pan.

“i have it completely under control!” he insisted, though his cheeks were flushed a soft pink and his sharp eyes were wide with adorable panic. he quickly slid the pan off the burner, letting out a dramatic sigh of relief before turning around to face you. his hair was slightly messy, a soft contrast to the structured, neat look he usually wore around his family, and he was wearing an super oversized hoodie that you were pretty sure actually belonged to you.

you walked over, entirely unable to hide the fond smile on your face as you reached up to fix a stray strand of hair falling over his forehead. “you’re supposed to be the responsible college student, remember? what happened to the planner jungwon?”

“the plan got complicated,” jungwon murmured, his tone instantly softening the second your fingers brushed against his skin. without missing a beat, his hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him with that effortless, natural familiarity that had become your favorite part of every single day. “besides, i was distracted looking at you.”

“so cringe,” you teased, echoing the exact words from the night he ran to you, but your heart still did that familiar, happy flip against your ribs.

jungwon chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated against your chest as he leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. “i told you three months ago,” he whispered against your lips, his thumbs gently rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of your shirt. “it’s not cringe if it’s real. now kiss me before the smoke alarm actually goes off.”

you didn't miss a beat. you leaned up, capturing his lips in a slow, deep kiss that carried all the quiet certainty of the past three months. the heavy anxiety, the cruel comments from his parents, and the ghosts of your past heartbreaks were completely gone. there were no more lessons left to learn. there was only jungwon, holding you tight in a smoky kitchen, proving every single day that he was here to stay.

[kissued]

END OF THE LINE ✦ 박성훈 PARK SUNGHOON [ PART 01 ]

if you're gonna break me in two ⋆ masterpost ⋆ do what you gotta do GENRE + PAIRING ⋮ college au. ice hockey player!fratboy!sunghoon x fem!reader. PART 01 WC 29.3k

SYNOPSIS ⋮ you’ve been crushing on lee heeseung for most of your college life — long enough that you were beginning to crack. one blessed night, when a girl at a party slips you his number, it feels like fate finally taking pity on you. what follows is a slow, intoxicating unraveling — late-night calls, perfect pick-ups, subtle flirts you’d expect from a charming guy like him. so why is it that when you finally wave at him on campus, he looks genuinely confused?

CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ explicit themes, includes smut so +18 only. themes of mental illness sex as a coping mechanism self esteem issues angst with happy ending miscommunication skinship physical intimacy inferiority complex featuring enhypen slowburn pining

AUTHOR'S NOTE ⋮ hi!! thank you so much for waiting on me. this fic was such an ambitious idea of mine that i had no idea if i would be able to pull it off.. but after 6 months of typing n gathering feedback from my wonderful friends (veevee, annabanana, and mona to my minju + many more) i was able to do just that <33 hoonyn have such a special place in my heart, even though i worked on other fics while fleshing out this one, this project always got me the most excited (and also the most frustrated lmfao). anyway!!!! i had to split it up into two because of the block limit... VERY SORRY about that it's like 52k ish total? i got lost in the plot and just enjoyed my time writing, so that's why...... i hope it lives up to your expectations! i love U aaallll enjoy the word vomit ++ taglist at the end of the fic <3 thank u and see u in part 2 veryy sooonnn

REBLOGS APPRECIATED ⋆ THANK YOU FOR READING

everyone always told you that you had terrible luck. this applied to most things: friendships, competitions, meeting a friend’s parents, even.

but love? oh, love was where it stung. this was somehow more painful than everything else, because while you could flaunt at least one instance where a friendship didn’t explode in your face, or a parent actually liked you, or you won a gold star—you could never say you hit it off with a guy, ever.

perhaps the men of this generation were simply too terrible for this to ever be a matter of luck. it felt more like a rigged casino: every bet placed in good faith, every hand played carefully, and still you walked away lighter, bled dry all the same.

you weren’t desperate. no. far from it. you did everything right. you waited, chose the boys who made you feel safe instead of reckless, who offered steadiness instead of the dizzy thrill everyone else swore by. you could say, with a quiet sense of pride, that you followed the rules and played it by the book. hell, even after all that, every guy’s true colours somehow emerged victorious by the end of it: they just want sex, sex, or sex.

the truth was that deep down, you didn’t want anything to do with it. even if it was indeed the sexiest, biggest, smartest guy on campus… there was only one guy you set your sights on. just one, with the light brown hair and charming smile, shooting hoops at the basketball court by the cafeteria—lee heeseung.

though, the problem was simple: you’d never actually talked to the guy. this could’ve been easily solved if you shared even one class, but of course, he’d signed up late—every elective already full, while you, being the good student you are, had locked your choices in the moment the portal opened.

the second solution, proposed by oh jiwon herself, was rejected the instant it left her mouth. you were sprawled in her dorm room on a normal saturday night—you, legs spread indecently across the tiny couch she’d smuggled past security in first year, and her, upside down on the bed, hair brushing the floor.

“why don’t you just bump into him and knock all his books down?” she muttered, teeth chomping down on a stack of (probably) expired bbq-xtra-hot chips.

oh, heeeell no. what the fuck was this? a poorly produced drama plotline?

“was he born yesterday?”

the third option, though, felt a little more… dignified. it came to you on a random thursday evening, when the rain felt a little too heavy and you were wishing that lee heeseung would swoop in and hold a $5 umbrella over your heads.

replaying the events of the day in your head as your boots sloshed in muddy puddles, kim sunoo’s annoyingly pretty face comes into view.

“the fundraiser’s gonna be so busy this year, gosh…”

yes. indeed, it will.

the annual fundraiser organised by the student relations club. you remembered being ridiculously excited for it last year—around the same time you’d first started noticing heeseung. after some careful “asking around”, you’d learned he was attending, too. and, as if the universe was personally apologising to you for your tragic love life: he was trying his luck at the blind date booth.

what a sweet guy. donating his hard-earned money to charity and putting himself out there? he had your heart in his hands, and you came to understand that his was the target of many others.

so, it was obvious what had to be done. you signed up the moment sunoo—thank the angels for him—let the information slip. it’s nothing short of fate that you shared an elective with him; it took a bit of coaxing and more than a few judgmental looks, but by that sunny wednesday afternoon, good had prevailed in the world.

it’s safe to say you did not get lee heeseung as your date. instead, you endured a miserable twenty-minute speed dinner listening to a stranger ramble about his league rank. ou’d never been more thoroughly turned off in your life.

but this year?

this year, it will be different.

─────────────────────────

the house smells like weed and alcohol, and also everything that you should not be doing on a thursday night. you got the call from jiwon in the middle of your assignment, head half buried in your hands as the glow from the laptop screen burned your retinas—it’s twelve midnight now, and you have class in eight hours, but the impending sleep deprivation still beats handing in sloppy work.

the house belongs to the frat heeseung’s in. sigma alpha eta, if you remembered correctly. it’s three stories tall, tacky, and reeks of soju and everything wrong with the male species. you’re not even sure if the place ever gets cleaned, but considering it’s full of rich mama’s boys, they’ve probably hired someone to deal with the mess for them.

“what the fuck is going on?”

oh jiwon’s staring at you like you’re the one who dragged her here. you scan the room for no one in particular (lie), and when you turn back—

she’s gone.

“who’s ready to party?!”

the dj is embarrassingly bad. like, physically painful to listen to. the bass is cranked up so high it rattles the floorboards, vibrating straight through your bones. you cringe, already picturing the culprit: some frat guy who bought a $100 mixing set off amazon last week and now calls himself “up and coming”.

everyone you know seems to be here. you’d brushed shoulders with ahn yunjin and danielle on the way in, only to watch them dart toward the porch with a joint already lit.

you snake your way through narrow hallways packed wall-to-wall—overlapping conversations, smoke blown straight into your face, bodies pressing in from every side as you aim for the kitchen. instead, you stumble into the living room. leather couches are occupied by unconscious adults—drunk, high, or some lethal combination of both—bathed in warm overhead light that all but promises brutal hangovers tomorrow.

it seems like the party started long before you got here. where the hell did your jiwon go, anyway?

your feet start to move again, carrying you mindlessly through the first floor—you cross the hallway, take a turn into another doorway, and finally stumble upon the kitchen; it’s less crowded, with fewer drunk people and comparably quiet in contrast to whatever’s waiting for you outside the threshold of that door. your eyes are hesitant, oddly enough, though you know why.

parties like this usually mean hookups. and when hookups are involved, lee heeseung is the first name that comes to mind. the guy’s practically a walking target—especially in his own frat house, swarming with every girl who’s been blessed enough to know the name.

this whole situation feels like a ticking time bomb. your chest tightens. how long before someone else gets to him? how long before you turn a corner and see his face buried in someone else’s neck? 10 minutes? 10 seconds?

“hellooooo!”

and as fast as the thoughts come, they go; head snapping toward the sound, locking onto oh fucking jiwon—standing there, smiling innocently, as if she hadn’t abandoned you to die in the crowd.

“where the fuck have you been?” you sigh, hands running through your hair, like you’d just spent a whole day looking for her. to be fair, time moves weirdly in places like this.

“refilling!” she hiccups. “see?” she tips her red cup to show a dubious mix of jack and coke.

she’s tipsy—no surprise there. jiwon’s always been a lightweight. still, she manages to wobble over and hop onto the marble island, scooting back until her legs dangle comfortably. she looks down at you with glassy, sparkly eyes.

“sooo… heeseung’s place, huh? didn’t know their frat was so fancy. they literally have wine older than my grandparents in here.”

you roll your eyes and drag a stool out from under the island. it screeches against the tile, making you wince, before you climb up onto it.

“you’ve been snooping in their alcohol?” you giggle, shaking your head in mock disapproval. you’ll have to look through it later, too. “you’re a shit guest.”

“guest is always right!” jiwon babbles, before abruptly sneezing. the action makes you flinch. “oh… sorry. anyways,”

you cross your arms, waiting. she’s halfway to blackout, but you humor her anyway.

“fundraiser!” she slurs. “heeseung’s in the pantry. think he’s lookin’ for chips. i dunno. he was with sunghoon, and then i ran into him while lookin’ for more soju—”

and it’s like the universe wants to show you how much it wants you to stay in this lifetime, as a form of divine mercy, or something similar to an apology, because lee heeseung slides the pantry door open and waltzes right out with chips tucked under his armpit, as he munches on something else. your eyes follow him, and so does everyone else’s, and naturally they trail towards the slightly shorter man behind him.

park sunghoon. the guy with the ridiculously sharp, thick eyebrows, a staring problem, and close to half of the campus’s female population wanting to lick his boots. there’s often two responses to the question ‘who’s the cutest guy on campus’, and many of your peers often utter one or the other: heeseung, or his colder counterpart, sunghoon.

you took an economics class with him last year, and thank god you didn’t hit the lottery and end up in the same group, because you’d heard… things. too many things. stories about him tearing into a girl’s work so viciously, she had to beg the professor to let her switch groups with sunoo (it’s strange, how he seemed to be in almost every class you took, now that you think about it).

you’d never talked to him, or anyone from that little group, really, aside from kim sunoo. you knew sim jaeyun was popular over in the engineering block; all brains and good looks, apparently. nishimura riki was another name you heard in passing—always surrounded by a crowd whenever he danced with his crew in some random corner with a giant mirror. as for jongseong and jungwon… you didn’t even want to think about the things people said. absolutely vile in nature.

it seems like the whole lot of them were heartthrobs, in every sense of the word.

it’s just… park sunghoon?

that guy didn’t deserve half the glowing reviews he got.

you were half convinced that if people had star ratings floating above their heads—complete with scrollable comments—he’d be inflating his own with burner emails.

park sunghoon. 5 stars. wow, this guy is sooooo hot and rich! — nothoon12345. he just looked like the kind of guy who did that kind of thing.

okay, maybe you were being a little harsh, considering you’d never actually spoken to him. still, it felt telling when even other men talked shit about him: apparently being both the most disliked and the most respected player on the ice hockey team was impressive enough to land him the captain title.

he walks a few steps behind heeseung, his own bag of chips in hand. you don’t realise you’re staring until his gaze snaps towards you as he passes—a look equal parts smug, disgusted, and painfully punchable.

“what the hell is that guy’s issue?”

“stop looking at him,” jiwon waves you off, swinging her feet. her heel accidentally thuds against the wood. “heeseung's right there.”

your eyes flick back to heeseung, now hovering near the front door, greeting the flood of people streaming in—tonight’s barely started, but somehow, you feel ten times heavier than when you walked in.

lee heeseung, leaning casually against the wall, all perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfectly charming face… and park sunghoon, just a step behind him, stiff, scanning the crowd until his gaze finally locks on you.

before you can tear your eyes away, he cocks his head and gives you a smile—all mockery, all challenge, like he just told a joke you’d never understand. you shift your weight on the stool, cross one leg over the other, but your eyes stay zeroed on him.

“i don’t like that sunghoon guy,” you mutter, dragging a hand through your hair and pretending to look elsewhere.

oh jiwon rolls her eyes, snorts, and leans her weight back on the counter. “you’d be surprised how many people wanna get in his pants—”

“don’t. talk. to. me. about. park. sunghoon’s. pants.” you snap, stabbing a finger toward her chest for emphasis—she giggles at the action, and you do, too. though your eyes flick back, just once, toward where he was.

but when you do, he’s gone. no sunghoon, no heeseung. just the occasional partygoer opening and closing doors, the sound barely registering to your ears through the shitty music.

“how have you not drank anything yet?”

“i literally just got here!”

────────────────────────

it’s one in the morning, and the party seems to be at it’s peak—there’s no one else coming through the front door, and it’s more packed than you could imagine; you’re leaning against the staircase with a cup swirling in your hands, only having taken two sips out of it. jiwon’s still next to you, chatting to a guy you’ve never seen before.

you look at him, then at her. unimpressive, if anything. you’re turning to look at your cup again and the feeling hits, sudden and sharp as it claws at your chest: you feel extremely out of place, even in a house full of people and possibility. people shove their way past you and you hold your cup tight to your chest as it happens. you barely hear anything with the laughter, chatter, and music all at once.

your eyes drift toward the window—yunjin’s with someone else; danielle must’ve left earlier. you scan the room again, half-heartedly looking for a familiar face to talk to—sunoo, maybe, even if the guy doesn’t really think you’re normal. or for park sunghoon, perhaps for some explanation as to why he’d looked at you like that earlier.

“looking for hee?”

that voice. too close. it sends shivers down your spine, every hair standing before your neck snaps to your left—jiwon’s gone, and so is that guy, instead replaced by a girl you know all too well.

she’s smiling at you with her lips curled in a way that makes your stomach drop—unsettling by its very nature. the lights strobe across her face, red and white, purple and blue, painting her in something eerie as her expression lingers, sharp and all-knowing.

“what the fuck do you want?”

she laughs softly, hands coming up to her face to cover her mouth like she’s some gentle, kind creature that’s come to save the day. kim sooha’s always been like that. ever since high school, ever since you’ve been bestowed the honour of knowing how ruthless she gets when she wants to be.

her hair falls over her face before she moves to tuck it behind her ear.

god, you want to slap her. some things never change, no matter how many years pass.

“you need to learn how to relax. you’ve been staring all night,” she sighs, leaning her back against the wall as she talks—like you two are friends, always have been—and that this is the most normal conversation ever. “you’re definitely looking for heeseung, aren’t you? i got a shortcut, if you’re interested.”

you don’t answer. you’ve learnt it’s best to shut your mouth instead of lie, because with girls like sooha, the snake always bites first.

your mind flashes, briefly, to the image of him again: light brown hair falling over his face, his genuine smile as people poured in from the front door, eyes squinting as he spots a good friend from a few feet away. your eyes had never truly left him, until you caught park sunghoon staring daggers at you right behind.

and, strangely, it’s never found him again since.

“listen, i have his number—it’ll save you a looot of trouble.”

you don’t realise you’ve turned away from her until you glance back. her smile widens as you meet her eyes—glinting with something dangerous, like this isn’t truly all there is to her offer.

kim sooha is not about goodwill and donating to charities. the charity would have to return her 110% before she could ever consider doing so; in this case, the charity seems to be you.

“what do you want?”

and it feels like you’ve just sold your soul to the damn devil with how bright her face gets. like a child on christmas morning, unwrapping a brand new toy. well—you suppose you’re a toy, too, in this.

she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, the jingle of her phone charm barely cutting through the kendrick lamar song that’s causing the floor to vibrate. you wonder how long until someone calls the cops on this place—it’s too loud, too much, and you don’t even want to think about what the second and third floor looks like right now.

“one click, and i’ll send it to you.”

you scoff, breaking the eye contact to take a sip of the peach soju in your hands. you almost roll your eyes before remembering that this was sooha you were getting in bed with—one wrong move, and she’s retracting, and you’ll be left to awkward waves and stuttered hello’s at the fundraiser three months from now.

“my jacket’s upstairs, and i need you to get it.”

if you weren’t confused before, you definitely are now.

“your fucking jacket?” you repeat, and it almost comes out as a laugh. she doesn’t think it’s funny, though, because she’s quick to fire back a response:

“i don’t want to bump into whoever you’re gonna bump into. not in the mood. consider it a gift from me,” she pokes a finger at your collarbone, “to you.”

you flinch, her sharp nail making you stumble back, just a little. her eyebrows raise as you tilt your head towards the stairs, watching you glance up and towards the flight of stairs above your heads—there’s people moving up and down, and it just doesn’t click—why not someone else?

“so… are you doing it? don’t have time to sleep on—“

you chew on the lining of your cheek. something isn’t right. she’s looking at you like she doesn’t care if her jacket actually makes it back to her—all that matters is that you fall into whatever she’s setting up.

“fine. keep your fucking word when i get back down here.”

the smile that spreads across her face makes your heart drop straight to your ass. you don’t like this—not the feeling of being a step behind, not the way it feels like she’s holding something over you.

but… like she said. it’s not as if you have a whole day to sit on your ass and think it through.

“you should know by now. i always do,” she sings, voice lilting and smug, watching as you turn away and head for the stairs. “thank you, dear [name].”

you pause at the bottom, fingers curling tighter around your cup as you glance upward. bodies move through the hallways above—laughing, stumbling, disappearing into rooms that smell like sweat, alcohol and poor decisions. the music thumps faintly through the walls, distorted here, like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to you.

your head feels light, almost dizzy, but you go anyway. one step. then another. your shoes stick slightly to the floor as you climb, each step feeling heavier than the last.

“this yours?”

your head cocks up, eyes locking onto a familiar face—park sunghoon, standing at the top of the staircase, with a leather jacket haphazardly folded into his hands. it looks expensive when it’s under this kind of light, and knowing sooha, it probably is.

“yup,” you say, the word coming out more clipped than you intend. reluctant, wary—but who the hell could blame you? the guy who’s been staring all psycho and weird, treating you like an out-of-earth entity is holding onto the one thing you need to finish this amazing deal. “thank you!”

he’s tall. towering. with you two steps below him, he’s giving himself a stiff neck just looking at you. his face gives nothing away—not surprise, barely any curiosity, perhaps slight irritation. more than anything, there’s that unreadable calm, like he’s not only three steps ahead of whatever this is, but also skies above it.

your arms reach out to grab it from him, but sunghoon’s quick to retract his hand. he dangles it in front of you, an eyebrow raised, still staring as if you were some kind of odd specimen—you blink a few times, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“i’d watch out if i were you.”

his voice is low, nearly lost beneath the bass thudding through the floor below. it’s flat enough that it barely registers as a voice at all.

but just why the hell is he telling you this? park sunghoon’s talking like he knows kim sooha personally.

really, if you had to pick between the two of you… you’d have to consider yourself the expert.

“o… kay?” you mouth, the word barely audible over the bass thrumming through the walls.

for a moment longer, he just looks at you, then lowers the jacket into your hands. you don’t manage to thank him, because you’re turning around before you can even utter another word.

nothing else matters right now. you’re praying that by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, sooha will be there—phone in hand, ready to send those digits your way, just like she promised.

though, even if she isn’t, you’re not entirely sure what you’d do about it. there’s no backup plan. you’re definitely not asking sunoo—because you’re not an idiot with a weird obsession with lee heeseung (lie), and you’re not that desperate to talk to him (lie), enough to corner one of his closest friends and expose yourself completely (truth).

well… you guess you’ve already done so by poking around about the fundraiser, but his number is crossing the line. apparently.

you square your shoulders and keep walking, clinging to the thought that this will all be worth it once lee heeseung’s finally a button away, instead of thirty meters and 6 men apart.

“you’re quick with it,” sooha yells over the song playing, now a remix of some chainsmokers single. roses, a classic, which also means people are starting to get oddly energetic despite it reaching two in the morning.

you watch her eyes flick down to her phone, the screen lighting up her face as she brings it to her chest—typing, swiping, pausing just long enough to be irritating—until your own phone vibrates against the back pocket of your shorts.

“thanks a bunch, y/n.” she says lightly. “always so obedient.”

your jaw tightens. you don’t bother responding—just thrust the jacket into her abdomen, harder than necessary. kim sooha doesn’t take it personally, she never does. the flare of your nostrils, the way your fingers curl like you’re holding yourself back—that’s more than enough to make her night.

a sweet, disingenuous smile blooms across your face, as if to say: ‘no problem, bitch.’

she slips past you, shoulders barely brushing, already headed for the front door. just before she disappears, you catch it—the smudged eyeshadow, the eyeliner dragged unevenly beneath her eyes, foundation streaked down her cheeks like she hasn’t bothered to check herself in a mirror.

for a fraction of a second, you find yourself worrying—for her, and for yourself. you’ve never once seen sooha with makeup this (for lack of a better word) bad; she’s always immaculate, flawless, even if that bruises your ego to admit out loud.

which means there are only two possibilities: she’s just fucked someone and realised, far too late, what a mistake it was—or her heart has just been torn into a million tiny, irreparable pieces.

you don’t take much time to dwell on it, before you tear your eyes away from sooha’s figure slowly fading into the distance. her boots clack against the concrete pavement before it comes to a stop, and for a moment, she just stands—until a car pulls up and she ducks her head to fit into it.

what the hell was that?

the front door slams shut from someone else pulling it closed, the sound cutting clean through the music, and your head turns instinctively toward the staircase.

park sunghoon.

the second floor is quieter, stripped of the flashing colours and strobe lights below. in that softer, warmer glow, park sunghoon comes sharply into focus.

he’s leaning over the railing, forearms bearing his weight. an empty soju bottle hangs loosely from his hand, head bowed, expression obscured by shadow—almost like he’s staring straight down at you.

he’s annoyingly gorgeous. his side profile is so lethal that you think if not for his shitty attitude and tendency to stare at everyone sideways, he’d be a model.

you catch yourself wishing he’d just fuck off and do that instead.

your breath catches in your throat. you’re not really sure why—but your body makes the decisions for you tonight, thoughts of sunghoon quickly dissolving as fast as they invaded, feet carrying you toward the front door.

sleek wood and cold metal doorknobs in all their unassuming glory. it’s an exit. a way out of the noise, the lights, and the man upstairs who feels far too aware of your existence.

you move. fluid, deliberate, like this was always the plan.

sunghoon’s gaze tracks you as you slip through the crowd, hair brushing shoulders, bodies pressing in too close. the lights repaint you with every step—pink, purple, red—until you glance back once, just for a second, and the colours smear into something unreadable.

when you finally cross the threshold of the front door, your body is hit with cold wind; unsurprisingly, there’s scattered groups of people across the front yard, smoking and drinking in their quiet bubbles. you inhale the relatively cleaner air, deep, slow, until it settles in your lungs and you’re spared from the remnants of vape flavours and fruity alcohol.

the music dulls behind you, but the vibrations still reach your feet nonetheless.

you sigh, a hand dragging through your hair, before you make your way towards a stone pillar, only to lean your weight against it. you didn’t realise how quiet it could be, after almost two hours in that god forsaken party—the quiet chatter doesn’t make your head spin out here and the occasional laugh isn’t as annoying as the screams inside.

that’s when you see him.

lee heeseung—smoking—with that guy from engineering. jake sim.

the cigarette is pinched between his fingers, and he takes slow drags like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this messy, overgrown scene. jake’s rambling beside him, hands flying as he retells some story you can’t hear, and heeseung just nods along, offering the occasional laugh that reassures his friend that he finds it equally as funny.

everything feels slowed down. time is suspended. his hair slips into his eyes, and every now and then he shakes his head, a small, unconscious motion to clear his vision.

this is kind of creepy. you’re watching lee heeseung smoke at two in the morning from his front porch. you, a year ago, wouldn’t have believed this even if someone swore on it.

okay. that’s enough. you’re leaving—immediately.

but not before you bring your phone to your face—the blue light stings, almost burns your retinas. you blink hard once, twice, until the haze clears. your thumb swipes into your messages.

kim sooha has kept her word.

sooha (do not reply): +82-xx-xxxx-xxxx 01:53

sooha (do not reply): enjoy yourself! <3 01:53

bitch.

you add the contact while lee heeseung is still laughing in your peripheral vision, smoke curling into the dark, completely unaware that—through totally legitimate and ethical means—he’s now a button away.

─────────────────────────

park sunghoon was not interested in love.

this was, somehow, a known fact across campus.

anyone could guess by that stoic look on his face and that gigantic duffle bag he drags around everywhere, that the man couldn’t be paid a million dollars to be locked down—that’s what so little time and too many (non-romantic) commitments does to you.

mondays were the gym. tuesdays, practice. wednesdays, rest. thursdays, practice again. fridays, the gym, and a night run. saturdays and sundays, practice too. he was surprised he even had time to fit kim sooha into his schedule, though, it was not as often as she preferred.

okay, he admits it was just sex—but an hour or two once or twice a week was already cutting it close.

sunghoon was an ex-figure skater turned ice hockey player, so it was clear what the future held for him: he’s talented, rich, disciplined, a genius—the world was his oyster. everyone around him was in his court.

who would he be if he let someone make the rules for him?

you see: park sunghoon couldn’t be bothered with the girls throwing themselves at him, or the ones who acted shy. in his eyes, it all ended the same.

they wanted more. he couldn’t give more. he didn’t want to give more.

kim sooha was no different. of course she wasn’t—park sunghoon couldn’t deny it, because she fit the stereotype of every girl who’d ever wanted him: bashful, a little self-deprecating, and far too clingy.

at least he had been decent enough to tell her that sex was all it would ever be, and all he could afford to give. but what do you know (park sunghoon always knows), someone ends up wanting more.

the night of the party, around ten, sunghoon found himself holed up in his bedroom trying to finish up a paper before the house had started swarming with people. one moment he’s typing, fingers mashing away at his keyboard as the words flow flawlessly, perfectly, and his mind occasionally drifts to the grade he’d get for this assignment. nothing less than 100, of course. he wouldn’t expect anything less from himself.

“hoon!”

and his genius flow is disrupted by none other than jake, peeking his head from behind the doorway, with an idiotic smile painted across his glowing face.

“what do you want?” sunghoon mutters, head turning back to the screen of his laptop. jake sim’s prsesence usually meant the message wasn’t all that important—if it was, it’d be jungwon up here instead. “i’m busy.”

“sooha’s here,” he says. “she wants to see you.”

sunghoon kisses his teeth in annoyance, solely out of instinct, an action which jake pretends not to notice. it only irritates sunghoon even more, really—he’d rather jake just be honest with him, instead of pretending to be polite just for the sake of being polite. he knows better than anyone that all of his brothers hate when kim sooha is around, and that hiding it won’t convince park sunghoon otherwise.

for varying reasons.

he recalls that one dinner two weeks ago, when jay told sunghoon to ‘do a better job at shutting sooha up’. he could barely eat the rest of his food.

“please don’t send her up here. i’ll be downstairs soon,” and jake is almost ready to turn his pretty face right around and back downstairs to help set up the speakers, before sunghoon asks: “why is she even here?”

“hey, you’re the one fucking her, man.” jake shrugs, before he turns around for the final time. sunghoon’s face morphs into one of disgust, weirdly fast, even though the statement isn’t exactly false—still, it doesn’t stop him from wanting to crawl into a hole and die.

there’s something wrong with him. he can’t deny the sex was good, and yes, kim sooha was gorgeous… but commitment? staying? forever? that was different.

he remembers when yang jungwon had a girlfriend. those were not good times. definitely. the guy refused to leave his bedroom for two days after they broke it off—and sunghoon, as much as he cared for poor jungwon, couldn’t stop thinking about how two days meant two lifetimes of missed productivity.

just how much of an asshole could he be?

so, that’s precisely why he settles for sex. a dopamine hit to get himself off edge, so he’s ready to stretch himself thin all over again.

lee heeseung says it’s not healthy, but what the hell would he know? he’s too busy drowning in love letters, home-baked cookies, and instagram requests to understand why this is the best option out of any presented to him. the golden boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about—the only reason he even bothers giving advice is because of the one, maybe two girlfriends he had in first year, which he seems to think qualifies him as an expert in sweet, innocent, and healthy love.

park sunghoon doesn’t even have instagram. it’s a waste of time.

why the fuck doesn’t he get cookies, anyway? why don’t girls approach him just to talk, instead of trying to grind on his crotch at parties? why doesn’t he have someone sweet and steady, sitting in the stands and watching his games—wiping his tears when he plays like shit, or being the first one he looks for when he scores an amazing shot?

never mind the way he takes their hand and leads them upstairs. never mind how easily he leans into a stranger’s touch and lets himself pretend it means something. never mind that he’s learned to let names slip past him, unheard, while his gaze drifts instead to the shape of their lips.

never mind all of it.

he tells himself it’s circumstantial—something inevitable, something learnt. that he would be different, could be different, if the world around him didn’t demand this version of him in return.

lee heeseung gets to commit. he gets to feel it all—the highs, the warmth, the quiet safety of having someone stay, and he makes it out unscathed, unhurt. he gets to ground himself in knowing that she won’t walk out of that door when shit hits the fan, too—fuck, he doesn’t know anything at all.

footsteps thud from the hallway, but he knows it’s just jay and riki shifting furniture around—boards scraping, chairs sliding—enough to rattle the plaster on the walls. jake’s voice cuts through the mess, yelling at heeseung to find the extra loud speakers jungwon had “borrowed” for his own use. somewhere upstairs, sunoo’s probably napping, blissfully unaware of the chaos below.

sunghoon doesn’t mind. five people are more than enough to handle party prep, and he refuses to be dragged into it. the music, the clatter, the erratic shouts—it all feels like someone else’s life, a background noise he doesn’t need to claim.

instead, up here, he can focus on what matters: finishing his paper, keeping his head down, staying untangled in this mess that’s about to spill over the entire house in about an hour.

he leans back against the leather of his chair, shoulders finally relaxing, and lets his gaze wander over the room. the house smells like air freshener, a somewhat helpful idea proposed by riki, but the sharp tang in his nose makes him grit his teeth.

for the first time that evening, he almost smiles at the absurdity of it all, the chaos of his brothers trying to pull off another last-minute party. he knows it’ll all work out fine, and that this will be the talk of campus until it fizzles out in two weeks, but it’s still ridiculous how these people never learn to plan ahead.

he remembers the last party sigma alpha eta threw—someone broke a table, then went swimming naked in the pool. safe to say, jake and him had to track the culprit down the next morning and demand the funds to get it cleaned.

“hoonie?”

a soft click from the front door snaps him out of his thoughts.

he knows exactly who it is.

kim sooha. standing by the dark frame of his door, dressed in something that would’ve had him weak in the knees if he was some random horny loser—skirt smooth, tight against her skin, a leather jacket framing her small body. it’s too bad that he doesn’t give two shits, though.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” she announces, voice sharp yet playful, as if she owns the room that sunghoon’s made his. it irks him.

she leans against the doorframe, one hip jutting out, arms crossed with a face so smug that it makes him want to flip her off. “so, i came early. just to… check in.”

he looks back at the screen of his laptop, bright blue light shining in his face, and barely moves another muscle. “you know where the rules stand. i’m busy.”

“hoonie—“

“told you to stop calling me that.” sunghoon cuts her off, “i don’t need you checking on me, thanks. party’s not starting for another hour. maybe you can help them prep?”

the words land like a slap. sooha’s jaw tightens, but she forces a smile, refusing to let him see the way it stings.

she steps closer anyway, as if proximity can wear him down, break the walls that are already hardening—or climb over whatever’s already there.

“come on. it doesn’t have to be like this.” she tilts her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, “i’ve been asking you for weeks, hoon. i’ve always wanted—”

“no.” sunghoon exhales, forcefully slow, as if that’ll help him calm down. “i’ve been saying the same shit for weeks. you’re pushing me.”

she takes two steps closer, heels tapping against the shiny wood floor. the space between them closes as she leans over his desk, shadow casting over the dark oak. he feels like slamming his head into it—the bruise would be less painful than this, the sharp smell of her fruity perfume that sunghoon never bothered to register, but hates anyway now that it finally has.

he never thought he’d have to tell her that he hates the notes of citrus. it didn’t matter if she never stayed long enough to get the words out.

“hoonie,” sooha mumbles, hands bracing the surface of his table. “i thought we were getting somewhere.”

“even after i told you we weren’t?” sunghoon shifts his chair backwards, widening the gap just so he could feel like he wasn’t going to choke at the smell of her perfume. “know what? i’m done. can’t fucking draw any lines with you—“

“that’s it? we’re just—“

sunghoon’s jaw tightens, and he leans back slightly in his chair. “i said it was just sex. nothing more. if you’re begging for a hug and some kisses, go somewhere else.”

the silence hangs in the air, thick, impenetrable. for a minute, sunghoon wonders if he’s gone too far—sooha’s face falters, her sultry smile now replaced by lips that tremble before her teeth bite down on them. she nods once, slow, looking at park sunghoon like he’s driven a ten-foot pole straight through her chest, twisted it, and ripped it back out.

his eyes flick from his laptop screen to her irises. if one thing’s admirable about park sunghoon, is that if he was going to tear you to pieces, he’ll have the decency to look you in the eye.

at least, for that final word. it’s about as much emotion as he can manage.

“get out.”

so she does—nods slow, before turning on her heel, the sharp click of her shoes echoing once, twice, until it fades down the hallway.

the door shuts behind her with a quiet finality. sunghoon doesn’t watch it close.

the smell of sooha’s perfume lingers in the air, unwanted, and he feels petty for even trying to block it out. after all, they’ve shared a bed before, even if they skipped every prerequisite to get there—but it rarely ever felt worth it to him, if at all.

he’s had his fair share of women. he’s always prided himself on being honest about what he wants—in his mind, there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as everyone’s on the same page.

no promises, no expectations, yet it always ends the same way. someone always reaches for more pieces of him than he’s willing—or able—to give. pieces that have were never there to begin with.

jake tells him he’s lucky. says it with a laugh, like sunghoon should be grateful for the attention, the bodies, the ease of it all. heeseung tries to offer half-assed couch therapy, something about “opening up” and “not shutting people out,” advice sunghoon knows was pulled straight out of his ass—or worse, his tiktok feed.

god, if he wanted someone to tell him what was wrong with him, he’d just pay someone with a degree five hundred a session to do just that.

park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not. interested. in. love.

it’s inefficient—unstructured, demanding, and prone to spilling into places it doesn’t belong. it asks for time he doesn’t have, space he’s already accounted for, pieces of him that are scheduled, measured, calculated and spent elsewhere, where it should be.

he repeats it like a mantra: no one is looking at him and realizing he’s absent more than he’s present—because sooner or later, they always want more, and he’s learnt that it’s better to draw the line early than to watch disappointment set in later.

this is mercy.

but to whom, he can’t answer.

─────────────────────────

you’re not very sure where you’re going with this.

there’s a list of problems so long it could double as a grocery store receipt:

one) how do you even explain that you got lee heeseung’s number, and

two) what excuse do you have to actually talk to him?

still, you’re laid in bed, the glow from your screen washing your face in harsh white light, painting the ceiling in sharp rectangles. your eyes squint, blinking against the burn, as if staring long enough might make this whole thing less terrifying.

it’s nearing four in the morning, and you’re fairly certain the party has been over for hours—probably everyone has stumbled home or collapsed on some couch somewhere, except for you, hovering in your room like a guilty ghost.

okay, no. these are excuses, and this is you overthinking, twisting your brain into knots. once you finally text that damn number kim sooha “gifted” you—reluctantly, no less—you’ll either regret it or… regret it. either way, there’s no turning back.

you: hiiiii

creep.

you: hi

ominous…

you: is this heeseung?

too direct.

this isn’t working. your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling slightly, and the numbers stare back at you like a puzzle you’re too tired to solve. maybe, if you stare long enough, they’ll rearrange themselves into an opening line that isn’t mortifying.

though, instead of the numbers moving, your thumb does.

“shit. shit, shit, shit—“

oh, yes, your butter fingers saved you the trouble of texting him: why don’t you just fucking call him, instead? like that’s so much better, real smooth of you.

riiing. riiing. riiing.

you barely have time to process before the line goes quiet.

the silence swallows you whole—your ears ring with it. it’s the kind of quiet that makes you question if you’ve suddenly lost all ability to hear.

oh my god. this is hell. you’re either died, or the world has ended, or some black hole just opened up in your room, because it’s too silent for it to be even remotely normal.

“hello?”

the voice on the other end of the line sounds sharp, clipped, like you’ve interrupted something important—or worse, like you’ve woken him up.

you can’t even fault him for it. it’s four in the morning, after the biggest party this term, and you’re an unknown number calling like you’ve lost your damn mind. still, it makes your heart twist a little.

“who is this?”

it’s not rude… not exactly. still, something in your chest sinks because you know what that tone usually means.

you have, roughly, three seconds to justify your existence before lee heeseung hangs up and you become another embarrassing almost in your own head.

maybe one.

“hi,” you mumble, and somehow almost stutter—if that’s even possible over the phone, with a single word—it comes out thin, fragile, and utterly useless.

the line goes quiet again, and you genuinely consider slamming your head into the wall just to feel something else other than the tiny voices evil-laughing in your head. “heeseung, right?”

more damn silence.

not the dead-line kind. it’s worse. it’s the thinking kind.

you picture him on the other end, phone held away from his ear, brow furrowed as he debates whether this is worth his time. unknown caller. 4 in the morning. zero context. and it’s some girl who can’t even say ‘hi’ right.

if you were him, you’d hang up. you’d block the number, move on, this becoming nothing but a blip in your already eventful life.

your grip tightens around your phone. “i—sorry,” you rush out, words tumbling over each other now that the dam’s broken. “this is probably really weird, i know. i wouldn’t usually call, i swear. i just—i got your number earlier and—”

“earlier?” he cuts in.

there’s something in his voice now—not annoyance. interest, maybe. a sprinkle of curiosity edged with suspicion that you weren’t exactly authorized to clear.

your pulse stutters. you should’ve consulted with jiwon before doing something as stupid as this—or sunoo. hell, even the neighbour next door. anyone would’ve been better than diving into this unprepared.

“yeah. tonight, at the party.” you say quickly, like saying it fast will make it make more sense. lee heeseung, pleaaaase be hungover. just this once. “you hosted, right? sigma alpha eta?”

“riiight,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “and who gave you my number?”

your stomach drops.

shit.

“uh,” you hesitate, immediately regretting it.

lying feels wrong. lying is wrong, actually, according to everyone ever—but the truth feels… way messier.

you weren’t going to hang kim sooha to dry—who knows what she’ll do to you? you can’t risk heeseung finding out the lengths you went to for some digits. besides, you practically played fetch with her.

“a friend,” you say finally, wearing a prideful grin on your face, as if anyone couldn’t have come up with that ridiculous excuse. “yep.”

“a friend,” he repeats, flatly, like he doesn’t believe a single thing coming out of your mouth. “what friend?”

you squeeze your eyes shut. god, this is going terribly. divert!

“look, if this is a bad time, i can hang up. i really didn’t mean to bother you, i just—”

“you already are,” he says, but there’s something off about it. his tired voice crackles, but it barely sounds angry. almost amused in nature.

you blink. “oh.”

there’s a heavy breath on the other end. you can hear it clearly, like he’s shifted positions, maybe sitting up now, or turning over in bed. definitely more awake than he was a minute ago.

gosh. you’re imagining bed-hair heeseung now. this isn’t good.

“you usually call people you don’t know at four in the morning?” he asks.

“no,” you respond immediately. “never. absolutely not. this is a first and hopefully, a last.”

that gets him—you can tell, even without seeing him. there’s a soft huff through the speaker, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your chest flutter traitorously.

“so, i’m the trial run?”

you hesitate, then answer honestly, because at this point, what do you have left to lose? your dignity that’s already been thrown out the window and run over by a car?

“i wanted to talk to you.”

another pause. this one lingers, stretching just long enough to make your fingers tingle around your phone. strangely, it comforts you, the idea that he might hang up—that this could end cleanly right here, because you’ve (smartly, or accidentally) yet to tell him your name.

he’ll never have to know if he just—

“yeah?” he says, quieter now.

“yeah,” you echo, barely above a whisper.

something shifts. you can feel it, even through the line—the way he’s genuinely listening now, leaning into every word instead of brushing you off. your heart flutters, warmth blooming from somewhere in your chest (you can’t pinpoint it), and lee heeseung seems to be at the center of it all.

“well,” he says finally, voice way smoother now, like he’s got all the time in the world to offer you. “you’ve got my attention.”

“i do?” you ask, genuinely amazed by yourself. “you’re not hanging up?”

“do you want me to?”

“no,” the word slips out before you can stop it—soft, a little too quick, and much too honest to take back.

for a beat, there’s nothing, then a breath on the other end of the line—slow, deep—followed by a low sound that might be a laugh, or might just be him exhaling tension.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i thought so.”

you roll onto your side, sheets whispering against your skin. the ceiling blurs above you, white and featureless, while the rest of the world stays asleep—unaware that something small yet irreversible is happening at four in the morning, right in this room, in your hands.

“so,” he says, “why’d you really call?”

your fingers tighten around your phone. your phone peels away from your cheek, and for a brief moment, you just stare at the glow of the screen, at his contact—*heeseung lee—*like it might blow up if you lie.

“well,” you mumble, chewing on the lining of your cheek. “i just wanted to introduce myself.”

“ah,” he says. there’s movement again, like he’s forcing himself to stay awake and hear you out. “did your… friend warn you i’m not friendly at this hour?”

you can almost picture him now. propped up against his headboard, hair a mess from sleep. his arm slipping under the hem of his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at an itch on his lower abdomen. knuckles rubbing hard at his eyes, chasing away the last stretch of drowsiness you interrupted—before you called, that is.

“i don’t think she mentioned that,” you say, a nervous smile tugging at your lips despite the fact that he can’t see it. your knees draw tighter to your chest, arms locking around them like you’re bracing for impact. it feels like there are insects beneath your skin—restless, frantic, crawling along the lining of your stomach. “she just said you wouldn’t hang up.”

“you trusted that?” his laugh filters through the speaker, low and unexpectedly warm, the sharpness from earlier dulled into something almost fond. “what if she gave you a fake?”

“then i guess i just woke up some random guy at four in the morning,” you say after a second, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. “which would be… humiliating.”

“hm.” there’s movement on his end again—fabric shifting, a quiet thud like he’s moving around the room. god, you wish you knew what his room looked like. “so, you’d just apologize and hang up?”

“…literally what else would i do?”

there’s a pause before he speaks. you can almost hear him think out loud. “don’t know. try harder?”

the words are simple, but they settle heavy in your chest. what the hell does he mean by try harder?

“try harder?” you repeat, incredulous, a little astonished that the man you’ve dreamt up is a little different from what you’re hearing.

“yeah.” his voice lowers a fraction, losing the teasing edge and gaining something steadier. “if you wanted to talk to someone that bad, i’d hope you wouldn’t give up after one wrong number.”

your fingers curl tighter around your phone. “you don’t even know why i called.”

“don’t i, though?”

okay—what the fuck? you’ve moved somewhere closer to your window by now, staring at bright windows, counting the very few amount of people walking around at this hour downstairs. anything that’ll fill the silence between his words and your reply, which your brain has yet to compute.

do not call boys you like at four in the morning. note taken.

“anyway,” his voice sends a soothing relief through your body. “what’s your name?”

the question feels strangely intimate.

“why?” you deflect, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you are. there’s no going back from this—once he knows you’re you, it’s sealed.

you might have to discuss… alternative routes tomorrow. there is no way in god’s green earth that you’ll be able to face lee heeseung in those hallways once this is done.

“because,” he say purposefully slow, like he’s explaining things to a toddler. “if you went through the trouble of getting my number, i should at least know who i’m losing sleep over.”

“y/n.”

okay—flights to antarctica. a new name. a new identity is what you need right now, in order to combat the nerves in your body going into overdrive.

he goes quiet for slightly less than ten seconds—though you’re not exactly sure why you’re counting—and the quiet literally burns. it’s embarrassing to hear his breathing on the other end of the line, because what does it mean? is he disgusted? is he shocked? is he going to block you, or fall in love with you right now?

“it’s a pretty name,” he says. “haven’t heard it before.”

you’re fighting every urge in you to scream.

this feels oddly reminiscent of that middle school crush you had back when you were 13. it’s all butterflies and shaky hands, and even sweatier palms.

lee heeseung’s voice is silky smooth at this hour. exhaustion creeps up on him like it’s claiming his sleep debt, and you hear it in the tiny yawn that sounds through your speakers. you hoped that not holding your screen to your cheek would aid in the worry that he could hear your nervous breathing.

“well, we’ve never talked directly before, so…”

he hums in response. “well, it’s almost five.”

“trying to get rid of me?” you joke, and boy, does the post-flirt-humiliation hit—your eyes screw shut as you silently mutter a ’what the fuck?’.

he scoffs, “am i?” with the faintest trace of a smile in his voice. you can hear it well enough without the need to look at him—though that would be preferable—which only sends you further into a delusional spiral.

lee heeseung finds you funny.

you bite back a grin, pressing your lips into a thin line. your cheeks ache. you’re probably flushed tomato red from this conversation alone.

you stand up just to keep yourself busy. sittig still feels dangerous, like if you let your body settle, your mind will only follow.

the fear of focusing too much on him—on the way his voice dips at the end of certain words, on how easily he fills the quiet with that strangely confident tone—could be catastrophic.

your fingers trail along the edge of your desk, feeling the shallow nicks in the wood, the uneven varnish near the corner. you latch onto the smallest details: the coolness of the surface, the faint tremor in your hand.

anything to keep yourself grounded to the earth, in the very possible case that lee heeseung sends you into orbit.

on the other end, there’s the muted shift of fabric, like he’s rolling onto his side. you picture him staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head, the phone resting against his cheek.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to be so responsible.”

“one of us has to be,” he says easily. “you don’t sound like someone who keeps track of time, no?”

us.

the word slides into your chest and sits there, heavy and bright all at once.

us, us, us.

you hook a finger through the metal ring of the keychain hanging from your backpack and start spinning it slowly, watching the small charm catch the faint light from your desk lamp. “i absolutely do,” you protest, but the retort comes out thinner than intended.

“do you?” he presses, gentle but unrelenting. “you called me at four in the morning.”

“it wasn’t exactly planned,” you mutter.

“impulsive, then.”

there’s no judgment in his tone. he talks to you like you’re something intriguing under the lens of a microscope.

you cross your room in slow, restless steps, phone held up to chest-level as if the added distance will somehow steady you. the floor is cool beneath your feet. outside your window, the sky is beginning to pale, the darkness thinning into something bluish and uncertain.

“you picked up, though. you didn’t have to.”

the counter-argument is weak. there’s a brief pause before he admits, “yeah, so?”

“so, what does that say about you?”

your fingers still against the keychain. your feet stand still across from it, refusing to move until he says something to keep this seemingly empty conversation moving. there’s a short, succinct moment of quiet that makes you swallow.

and then—a breath. a faint exhale that sounds nothing like a laugh, but more acknowledgement than anything else.

“i make bad decisions before sunrise. i need my sleep,” he answers. “i got an early morning.”

huh. okay. your eyes are narrowing in suspicion before he can get the last word out. “how early?”

“early enough.”

you let it go, though the curiosity lingers. instead, you’re turning around to lean your weight back against your desk, pressing yourself against the solid wood edge, focusing on the cadence of his breathing. “you don’t sound tired anymore."

“that’s your fault.”

your pulse stutters. “mine?”

“hard to sleep when someone’s interrogating you.”

you huff out a quiet laugh, but your grip on the phone tightens. “i’m not interrogating you.”

“right.” the sound vibrates low through the speaker. you imagine him dragging a hand down his face, sitting up now, feet touching the floor. there’s a faint creak—wood under weight—followed by the soft scrape of something being nudged aside.

“i should probably end this,” he says after a moment, words slowed. “tomorrow’s going to be brutal.”

right—he’s crazy popular. probably has a lot going on.

you straighten instinctively. the conversation has shifted into its closing act without warning. “right, yeah. of course.”

“don’t stay up,” he adds, tone a smidge lighter, yet it doesn’t quite hide the undercurrent. “you’ll blame me when you miss your alarm.”

“bold of you to assume i’d admit that.”

“you wouldn’t,” he agrees easily. “you’d just call again. wake me up for the second time to complain, yeah?”

again.

“goodnight, heeseung,” you say before you can dissect the word further. any longer and you might’ve memorised the oxford definition for it.

a beat. you can hear a snicker on the other end of the line, but before you can say much, lee heeseung beats you to it.

“goodnight.”

the line disconnects. you remain standing in the corner of your room, keychain still looped around your finger. your heart’s drumming against your ribs as the early light creeps further across your walls.

your mind’s swirling again—it’s sending you further into that rabbit hole that looks a lot like heeseung’s perfect hair and charming smile.

note to self: call lee heeseung again. tomorrow. four in the morning.

─────────────────────────

the line goes dead.

the sun is barely peeking above the trees now, as if easing it’s way into the sky. he thinks it’ll be fully up by the time he finishes brushing his shower—and there’s that faint smell of citrus. again. disgusting.

a dull, faint thudding sound comes from downstairs. the sound of glasses clinking together reaches all the way up here; echoing in the dimly lit house.

it must be sunoo. making breakfast, he guesses.

there’s sunlight diffusing into the room, divided into slits by his white blinds that’ve all but stayed drawn throughout the night. skin’s sunken in under his eyes, partially, as a result of microsoft word creeping it’s way into his routine again—he supposes he should know better by now, but still. time is short.

his hands trail under his tank, scratching at a small itch under his chest. the metal hanging on the far wall catches the widening morning light, thin ribbons casting fragile shadows against white paint. a golden trophy sits dead centre on his dark oak bookshelf, polished to an almost obnoxious shine.

“fuck…” he groans, dragging both hands through his hair, fingers pressing against his scalp like he can physically push the night out of his system.

the strands fall back obediently, barely disturbed—as if exhaustion has weighed them into submission. there’s something irritating about that, too. like even his body refuses to reflect the fact that he was up until sunrise.

the weekend usually goes like this: brush. shower. dress. breakfast. run. shower. practice. assignments fit somewhere in between.

he begins to crawl out of his duvet. it’s cold—it always is when it’s this early into dawn. the wind kisses his skin like it’s reminding him of this fact, clinging to him as he drags his feet against the wood floor: slow, lazy shuffles until he actually manages to wake up.

open the door, down the hall, to the right. he passes by rooms, involuntarily listening to the muffled snores through wood as his feet carry him to the tiled room at the end of the hallway. the light in sunoo’s room casts shadows at his feet, peeking under the door, which confirms his suspicion: the waffle smell is coming from downstairs.

the door hits the wall with a soft thud. one perk about being the first one up is that the bathroom is almost always spotless.

his toothbrush sits in a black mug, along with six others. it’s a plain white, his name written in permanent marker at the handle. just in case a repeat of five months ago happened—nishimura riki, of course, making that mistake.

toothbrush in the mouth. bristles against teeth. back and forth, left and right, circles. gums. tongue. he stares at the stupid smiski figurine that jake left on the shelf just to give himself an excuse not to look at how tired he is.

and as he spits the mint paste out of his mouth—his phone vibrates against the marble counter. there’s water on his screen from putting it face down.

we2fuckincold🥶 (informal gc)

yeonjun (vice): good morning princesses 06:01

yeonjun (vice): rink opens at 6pm 06:02

yeonjun (vice): game’s coming up. do not be late or our dear captain will not be happy! 06:05

yeonjun (vice): can we all strive for a happy hoonie today 06:05

yeonjun (vice): also send ur fucking food logs bro @nicho 06:07

for fuck’s sake.

he groans, yanking the phone closer, tilting it to shake off the water droplets. the screen lights up his tired face in brief flashes of fluorescence, each message a reminder that the world outside this house has already started without him.

shower. breakfast. run. practice. the ritual is looping in his head, mechanical, familiar—but today, each step feels like it’s being forced through molasses. it’s definitely the microsoft word.

he squints against the glare, ignoring the faint taste of toothpaste still clinging to his tongue, scrolling past the ridiculous group chat chatter to land on the pinned schedule.

2027 training schedule.pdf

and at the top—his name, in bold, for everyone to remember, as if he hasn’t spent long enough drilling it into his team’s heads.

“captain: park sunghoon/vice captain: choi yeonjun”

sunghoon leans against the counter, elbows braced, letting the faint vibrations of the phone thrum through his fingers. the early sunlight, spilling in at an angle the shitty blinds can’t fully block, makes him want to shut his eyes and go back to bed—jungwon’s interior design choices continue to do him no favors.

he stares at the phone a moment longer, thumb hovering over the text threads he knows he should respond to. teasing from his fellow teammates that they know gets under his skin. stupid morning selfies that no one asked for, because the informal group chat is run by no one but the noisiest.

he showers. he’s downstairs. he’s shoving a spoonful of oats into his mouth, gulping down a protein smoothie like it’s water, and only then is he outside and tying his laces. it’s like he’s fucking teleporting around this place.

something feels off. he almost forgets his apple watch before crossing the threshold called sigma alpha beta’s front door. forty minutes later and the morning air is still damp with dew, the neighbourhood quiet save for the distant hum of traffic that hasn’t fully reached it’s potential yet.

the door shuts behind him with a click. heart rate: 93 bpm.

sunghoon begins his run like any other morning. the stretch of his limbs feels mechanical at first, the stiffness in his bones finally relenting after hours spent hunched over his laptop. he jogs in place, letting his blood move, allowing his muscles to remember their morning rhythm.

the street around him is quiet, edges softened by dawn—a stray leaf skitters across the sidewalk and the faint smell of a house’s breakfast drifts through the wind. everything is ordinary, almost painfully so, except for the faint pull in his chest.

god knows why.

a heavy sigh leaves him, curling into vapour the second it meets the cold. his calves are warm, ready to move, muscles primed for the first push forward—

bbrrr. bbrrr. brrrr.

choi fucking yeonjun.

“the hell?” he mutters, wrist lifting automatically as he taps the flashing green icon. “what the fuck do you want?”

there’s a small, sacred list of things that can truly get under park sunghoon’s skin. missed passes. sloppy drills. people who don’t keep their word. anyone who interrupts him. and now, apparently, choi yeonjun calling him at six-fifty in the morning, on a fucking sunday.

“are you on your period or something?” yeonjun’s voice comes through crisp and far too alive. “good morning, my honey bun.”

“stop bothering me.”

“how did you sleep, huh? why do you sound so angry? you usually save it for practice, in case you don’t remembe—”

the thought interrupts him so abruptly it almost throws off his breathing.

okay, to be fair, it was the assignments first. the blinking cursor, and the way microsoft word has this sick habit of stretching minutes into hours until the sky outside starts lightening without permission. he’d told himself he’d sleep right after submitting. just one more paragraph. one more edit. one more citation.

it sounded a lot like a random girl calling his phone at four in the morning. asking about lee heeseung, no less.

gravel crunches harder beneath his shoes as he picks up his pace without meaning to, breath sharpening on the exhale.

“i slept,” sunghoon says flatly, somehow. his eyes stay fixed on the long stretch of road before him.

“no,” yeonjun replies instantly. “you sound tired. sooha kept you up?”

he doesn’t bother to address that. not worth his time. “i’m running.”

a snort crackles through the tiny speaker. “yeah, no shit. i can hear you trying to outrun your personality.”

sunghoon rolls his eyes, though there’s no one there to see it. the park path stretches ahead, thin and empty, washed in early gold. right foot over the left, his stride perfect, pace never faltering. “why are you psychoanalysing me at seven in the morning?”

“it’s six fifty,” yeonjun corrects. he keeps running. “and it’s only cause you sound like you died yesterday.”

and just what the hell am i supposed to do about that, he thinks—it’s not his fault someone rang him in the middle of the night, asked for his best friend like it was urgent, like it mattered at all. it’s not his fault she ate up the remaining hours of sleep he’d planned to ration carefully. it’s not his fault she sounded so intent—so utterly determined—to talk to lee heeseung.

his jaw tightens slightly.

it’s also not his fault that she doesn’t know anything—who she was actually talking to. how easily she let the conversation stretch. how readily she laughed. how she filled silences that would’ve seemed suspicious to anyone else.

you’re so fucking naive. it makes him sick.

“are you trying to break a record right now?”

sunghoon glances down at his watch. his pace has increased by almost thirty seconds per kilometre.

what exactly was he supposed to do, anyway? interrupt her mid-laugh and tell her she’d reached the wrong person? tell her she’d misdialed and should try again? hand her off like a misplaced package?

park sunghoon tells himself he only kept the call going because it was easier, and that it was late—and most of all, it’ll only happen once.

that’s all.

“sunghoon.”

“what?”

“did you hit your head or something?”

sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose, pace steady, shoulders squared like they always are when he runs. unshakeable. “focus on your own head.”

yeonjun laughs. “wow. so cold. captain, your bedside manner is terrible.”

“goodbye, yeonjun.”

he ends the call before the vice captain can squeeze in another comment. silence rushes back in, thick and uninterrupted, save for the steady impact of rubber against pavement. sunghoon’s eyebrows knit together as he continues down the path, watching windows flicker to life in real time—one square of yellow, then another, then three in a row. the campus is waking up, unaware of the private absurdities that unfolded at the expense of park sunghoon’s rest.

and he wonders, briefly, if you slept soundly after that call.

if you rolled onto your side with a faint smile, phone still warm in your palm, thinking about lee heeseung.

or if he were the one you believed you were talking to, would it have sounded the same?

would you have laughed like that—would you have fallen for every word?

the thought is almost amusing.

perfect lee heeseung, who forgets half his deadlines. who shows up five minutes late with an apology grin that fixes everything. who doesn’t have to hold a locker room together or pretend his moods don’t exist. who can afford to be charming because nothing rests on his shoulders long enough to bruise. and still, you never fucking noticed the difference.

but the thing is this: park sunghoon might as well have his face plastered on billboards, because everyone around him knows—or thinks they do. they all see him. they’re all watching him.

a slightly clipped tone. a delayed response in the group chat. half a second too long between reps at practice. they notice. they always notice.

if he’s irritated, the team feels it. if he’s distracted, the drills get sloppy. if he’s quiet, the locker room gets tense. his mood isn’t just his—it’s contagious. spreading like hazardous, passionate wildfire. a fucking plague that everyone’s afraid to upset.

heeseung doesn’t need to think about that, does he?

heeseung doesn’t have thirty pairs of eyes scanning his expression the second he walks into the rink. doesn’t have rookies straightening their posture when he passes. he doesn’t have to calculate the weight of every word because one careless comment could echo for weeks.

how pathetic. sunghoon really has to stop throwing himself into self-deprecating chains of thought in the middle of his morning runs.

─────────────────────────

you move through the day like you’re on autopilot.

your alarming lack of errands feels like the source of your misery—nothing fills the time well enough. the clock drags its feet out of spite, each minute stretching thinner than the last, and there are simply not enough tiktoks in the world to scroll through until four in the morning.

…does it even have to be four in the morning?

you’re sprawled across the couch in your apartment, limbs loose, attention even looser. jiwon’s out tonight—dinner with that guy she met at sigma alpha eta—and you waved her off earlier with a distracted nod after sitting through a solid hour of her spiralling about how she’s “not sure if he’s the one.”

your fingers tapped impatiently against your phone while she twirled in front of you, once, twice, the fabric of her dress catching in the stale air of the living room. you were slumped against the backrest, head heavy in your palms, fighting sleep that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with boredom.

“i literally told you my opinion,” it escapes as a groan, your lashes fluttering shut before your head lands against the cushions. “if you’re just gonna keep going back to this dress, just wear this one.”

jiwon looked at you like you’d shot her in the chest. “you’re just so patient, aren’t you?”

your arm drifted lazily toward the glass table, fingers stretching for your phone like a dying man reaching for water. it’s barely out of reach, but somehow still too far.

you hook it toward you at last. the screen lights up: nothing. of course.

and then she continues to talk—something about silhouettes, about first impressions, about how boys apparently notice everything—but her voice dissolves into background noise. you nod when it feels appropriate. hum when she pauses, look over when she calls your name.

sorry, oh jiwon. you do not have the capacity to give a fuck right now—lee heeseung’s name is sitting on the top of your call log like a secret, ready to be shown off to the world.

“fine. i’ll just wear this—“

she leaves with her keys jingling down the hallway. you chew your lip like the short-lived guilt might manifest into an apology and hunt her down that corridor, but between you and literally anyone else?

it will be forgiven and forgotten when she returns tomorrow morning, you assume, only because there’s smuggled condoms in her purse—like she’s starring in some coming-of-age film.

the rest of the evening passes in a strange, slippery blur.

you’re cooking dinner at one point, staring absently at the stove while oil crackles in the pan, nearly burning the garlic because you drifted too far into your own head. later, you’re in the shower, steam clinging to your skin while you tilt your face away from the showerhead, replaying last night’s conversation in fragments—the way he laughed. the pause before he answered certain questions. the tone of his voice when he teased you.

you’re checking your phone again. this is definitely worse than that crush you had when you were thirteen.

─────────────────────────

a few miles away on campus soil, practice runs longer than it should. park sunghoon has sweat clinging to his skin, darkening the collar of his shirt, tracing the lines of muscle that took years to carve into something worth respecting. every movement feels marginally heavier than usual despite the near-flawless precision of his drills. his turns are clean. his stops sharp. his passes calculated.

still, there’s just something about today.

he pushes the team harder than usual. he tells himself it has nothing to do with your voice bouncing around in his head like an insufferable little ping-pong ball. absolutely nothing to do with the way you laughed at something he said at four in the morning.

it’s discipline. that’s all.

there’s hesitation in the juniors’ movements. it’s especially obvious in the way they avoid him—questions rerouted to choi yeonjun instead, who is currently preoccupied with his self-assigned duty of shooting nicholas with two pucks at once for reasons known only to him. sunghoon watches it unfold with a faint twitch of annoyance—he has to take off his helmet just to breathe right. sometimes, he genuinely wonders how yeonjun managed to snag vice captain.

eventually, though, the confusion climbs its way back to him like it always does. a hesitant shuffle. a cough. a poorly disguised glance in his direction.

“captain—”

his voice cuts through the rink’s cold air with surgical clarity. he explains every movement, every angle, every adjustment with mechanical perfection. there is no room for misunderstanding when he speaks. there rarely ever is when he’s this worked up.

by the time he gets back to sigma alpha eta, his muscles ache and his head feels heavier than it should—his skull weighing on his spine, every knot tightening in a body that was already rigid to begin with. even if he swears he warmed up enough, his gait still comes out stiff.

he heads straight for the bathroom after tossing his bag onto the floor, haphazardly by the doorframe of his room. the tiled floor is slightly slippery from someone else’s shower, much to his dismay.

he peels his clothes off, the overhead light catching the sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. his gaze lingers, unintentional, over the familiar outline of his body—something he built, piece by piece, over years of repetition and restraint.

it’s taken him so long to get here.

park sunghoon turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder. his eyes squint at the subtle tints of blue and purple, an occasional yellow and familiar reds.

a faint bruise blooms along his back—noticeable enough to catch his attention, but still subtle enough to ignore. his thumb presses into it briefly. it doesn’t hurt much, sitting in a valley between his shoulder blade and the deep impression of his spine.

he doesn’t dwell. no time. there’s roughly ten minutes before his eyes have to shut and his cells get to work at repairing the strain he never fails to put himself through.

the shower is quick. burning hot water pelts his shoulders, steam gathering thick against the tiles as the tension in his body dulls into something manageable. afterward, he downs another protein shake, the grainy texture catching in his throat like it’s meant to fill more than just hunger.

then, the sheets rustle as he settles in. tonight feels cooler than usual, though that might have more to do with the window he left wide open—jake sim always made the habit of reminding him to, otherwise, it’d be too stuffy. the blinds sway with the wind, wood tapping lightly against the glass in a steady, hollow rhythm.

no assignments. class begins early tomorrow. park sunghoon needs all the energy he can get if he wants to maintain that stellar gpa of his—it’s reason enough to shut his screen off and reach for the charger without hesitation.

this is what most nights look like. the temperature shifts by a degree or two. the sounds outside change. the air moves differently. but if he squints, it’s all the same, really. park sunghoon—the captain, the leader, the one everyone watches—falls asleep the same way every night, staring at what he’s built.

his gaze drifts back, almost involuntarily, to his now-dimmed phone. the last item on his mental checklist has been crossed off, but the weight on his shoulders doesn’t lift. if anything, it settles deeper, heavier, as the thought of monday presses in.

there will be mondays for the rest of his life. obviously.

it’s sunday nights like this—quiet, cold, stretching endlessly before them—that serve as meaningless prologues that do nothing but make park sunghoon feel like the loneliest man in the world, at the top of the chain that he’s tried so desperately to scale.

his eyes shift to the wall instead. an attempt at distracting himself.

medals, trophies, certificates. plaques stacked where there’s no space left for more.

there’s boxes shoved beneath his bed, too. filled with the rest of it, or rather, everything that didn’t make the cut. almost all of it’s in there—wrinkled homework from the when he first learned how to write his name coherently, all the way to the year he left his hometown.

it’s taped shut with cheap, barely-there adhesive, the kind that curls at the edges if you look at it for too long. he’s almost certain his mother shoved it in the car, insisted he bring it with him to college—something about keeping memories close, about not forgetting where he came from. he can’t recall how else it would’ve ended up here, with him, haunting his conscience like a guilty ghost.

sunghoon plugs the cord in, the battery icon flashing obediently on the corner of his screen. that should be the end—

ding!

his jaw tightens. his tooth almost cracks from how hard he’s gritting them. it’s even more annoying, because his arm’s already bent over the table, ready to drop the device on his small night stand.

so god help him, if it’s choi yeonjun asking for the practice footage again, or sending another half-coherent voice note about formations he absolutely should have memorised by now—

ding!

sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose and retracts his hand. the attention-aware feature on his phone causes his screen to light up almost immediately, and despite the fact that he was just staring at it moments ago, it burns all the same.

unknown contact.

he doesn’t even need to see the name. sunghoon sees the call log from last night, ending at five in the morning, and immediately knows.

y/n l/n: day went great btw 01:21

y/n l/n: not a single yawn 01:21

he’s going to bed. he’s tired, and he’s not definitely past dealing with a girl who doesn’t even care that he doesn’t sound like lee heeseung—or at the very least, not enough to verify that it is indeed park sunghoon on the other end of the line.

y/n l/n: i know you said 4am but i have class at 8 tmr sooo 01:21

absolutely. fucking. not.

riiiiing. riiiing.

park sunghoon is not picking up the phone.

─────────────────────────

“and then?”

he lied.

there are a few things park sunghoon would never admit to anyone else. firstly, that he’s terrible at making his own coffee and still gets riki to do it for him. secondly, that he needs to hug his ridiculously large, sausage-shaped pillow to fall asleep, or he wakes up worse than usual.

and third—

that he’s genuinely listening to a random girl on the phone, without slipping in a quiet, so are you coming over or not? somewhere between her sentences.

it doesn’t feel like a decision. there’s something settling into place, clicking in his chest before he has a real chance to question his own intentions. the words come out easily, slipping off his tongue and past his lips like water, because that’s what this is—natural, for reasons beyond him.

sunghoon lies back with one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone loosely against his cheek. moonlight spills into the room through the half-open blinds, stretching across his ceiling like it has nowhere else to go. he knows he should’ve closed them earlier, but the thought passes without consequence, dissolving somewhere between the moment your name lit up his screen and now.

his hair falls in soft streaks across his forehead, long since dried from the aggressive towel action he’d put himself through not even half an hour ago—something he refuses to think about too meticulously, especially not in relation to the notification that had pulled him back to his phone.

incoming call from y/n l/n.

there’s a dull ache pressing at his temples, insistent, like it’s trying to remind him of something he’s choosing to ignore. he knows better than this, he really does. in the same way he knows that you think he’s someone else entirely.

he breathes, slow and deep like it’ll undo all the knots in his muscles. it’s strange that it’s working now, compared to all the times where he got a sports massage after practice with no real effect, and he wonders—no matter how absurd it is—that if it’s your voice that’s making him so, so sleepy.

on the other end, you never hesitate. you answer him with a kind of ease he isn’t used to, words flowing like there’s nothing in the world worth holding back. there’s something almost intimate in it—not intentional, barely meaningful, but there all the same. like two people who have already decided, somewhere along the way, that they belong in each other’s space.

the thought comes uninvited.

is this what couples do?

it makes him want to shut his eyes and forget he ever had it.

your voice carries through the line with the same unfiltered simplicity that he’s already starting to recognize—light, animated despite the hour, spilling from one thought to the next with barely any pause. there’s a lack of calculation in the way you speak, a clear absence of consideration in what words were okay to say, and what details were appropriate to omit—in which there were none. you even told him about your ten minute doomscroll session on the toilet midway through biochemistry.

it fills the silence before it can exist. it’s not like he’s not used to the noise—he’s surrounded by idiots who can’t keep their mouth shut, and god, has he wished for years that everyone around him would just be quiet for at least ten minutes—but when your soft, sweet voice rings in his ears, he’s not even sure what he’s feeling.

the realistic part of him, however useless he may be now, knows that everything is a lie. there’s you, rambling to him solely because you think he is the man you have that miserable crush on, and then there’s him: feeding your delusions, for his own selfish intents, as if that makes him any less dumber than you.

you’re talking to him because you think he’s someone else. because you’ve attached yourself to a version of a person that doesn’t exist on this end of the line.

he lets it happen, anyway.

sunghoon shifts against his pillows and the mattress dips slightly beneath his weight. the room remains dim, lit faintly by the fluorescent lighting radiating from his screen, probably killing off all his melatonin receptors by now—the dull wash of streetlight slips in, occasionally cut off by a passing car through half-open blinds. the air moves lazily, wind brushing past his skin, cooling what little heat still lingers from his shower.

his responses lag. he lets you talk. it’s intentional at first, an easy excuse for something he can fall back on. you seemed like the type who didn’t need much prompting, anyway—your words come in soft bursts of laughter, half-finished thoughts and tangents that circle back around before he can fully follow them. it should be difficult to keep up with, but as with everything that’s occuring, it’s unknown to him why it isn’t.

somewhere along the way, it stops being passive. there’s things that he’s noticing that he doesn’t want to notice. hearing things that he never means to. it’s lodged into his brain that’s already fighting for more storage space—your tone that shifts when you’re about to say something embarrassing, or how you rush through it a little faster, before doubling back as if to justify it. there’s pauses that aren’t quite pauses, just brief breaths where he can almost picture you thinking, deciding whether to keep going or jump to the next part of your day.

he remembers that party. he remembers how your hair fell on your face, and in the moment, sunghoon thought you’d just be passing in his already busy life—he finds it extremely irritating that he can recall almost every mundane feature on your face as if you were the most beautiful girl he’d seen. that dress that you probably found deep in your dresser and didn’t bother to smooth out, or that cup in your hand that’s barely holding any liquor. you were there for someone, after all.

he stood at that stairwell, watching, as if you were someone he couldn’t approach. please—if lee heeseung wasn’t the one you already set your sights on, he bets he could have you in his bed that very night.

if only he hadn’t froze.

you’re not anyone meaningful to him. you’re not supposed to take up what precious space he has for himself, and yet, here you are, barging into his life like you demand his attention.

it’s not like he’s any better, honestly. he knows that much.

“i was wondering if i should call, y’know,” you mumble through his phone’s speaker. he raises an eyebrow, as if you could see it. “it’s really late. don’t you have class tomorrow, too?”

“i do,” sunghoon sighs. he makes a conscious effort to stop himself from sharing which. “all day.”

unknown to park sunghoon, you’re lying upside down on your pink duvet, hair falling over the edge of your bed. you’re acting like you have no real responsibilities or hour long classes tomorrow morning, and that energy is somehow infecting him, too.

his grip around the phone shifts, thumb brushing absentmindedly along the edge of his thick case. the thought of telling you who he really is comes and goes without fully forming, though the feeling that claws at his ribs is quieter than guilt. it’s not sharp enough for him to address just yet.

you say something. he doesn’t catch all of it, only the way your laughter follows right after. sunghoon almost thinks you must love hearing your own voice with how giggly you are.

nevertheless, it pulls something out of him before it can be stopped. a response—low and tired in nature, slipping into the conversation as if he didn’t spend the past ten minutes wondering if anything he’ll say will give him away.

and still, you respond, picking it up without hesitation, folding his words into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i didn’t even realise the time until i checked my phone,” you lie. “i’m sorry if you were just kidding yesterday… and didn’t want me to actually call. i wasn’t sure.”

“it’s fine, really.” sunghoon murmurs, voice low and threaded with sleep. “but you really should’ve called earlier. i’m about to knock out.”

there’s a soft scoff on your end, fabric shifting faintly. sunghoon’s ears pick that up, too. “you picked up anyway, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t respond to that, and the silence continues. it’s not empty or uncomfortable, filled with something else that simmers under his skin. he lets it stay.

you don’t push, instead humming like you’ve already moved on. you talk more about your day, admitting to things that you probably shouldn’t, voice drifting back into that easy rhythm that makes him want to turn over and shut his eyes for the night. “i kept checking my phone like something interesting would happen today, but…”

“nothing did?” he asks, eyes half-lidded—his eyelashes feel heavier now.

“wellll…” you drag out the word slightly, a hint of a smile tucked into it, like sunghoon couldn’t already hear the teeth in your voice. “i’m telling you about my day now, so i guess it all worked out.”

he exhales softly. his finger comes up to his face to rub at his nose, and he sniffles before responding, “that’s a really low bar.”

“i’m being honest,” you admit, voice dipping just slightly, unaware of the cliff you’re driving yourself off of. “you seem like someone who’s always busy.”

he supposes, in a sense, he is. just not in a lee heeseung way. “i’m not that busy.”

there’s a hint of disbelief in your laugh that fades quickly. it gives way to something more curious, and all it does is ease the conversation into something quieter and more fluid. your voice lowers as words blend together, and sunghoon finds his shoulders caving into his chest.

he shifts against the pillows, letting the weight of the night settle into his tired limbs. you wrap around him like a thread pulling taut—he doesn’t need to respond immediately; the words coming from you are enough to fill spaces he’s left behind.

sunghoon blinks slowly. “you’ve got me wrong.”

“yeah, now that i think about it,” you whisper. “i don’t think i know enough to be right.”

park sunghoon rarely gets nervous, if ever. there were a few times in fifth grade that he’d gotten a tummy ache before going up on stage, or in middle school when he had to give a presentation on the cultural history of korean calligraphy. he supposes the habit just vanished, because by the time he turned sixteen and played in his first hockey match, it never manifested again.

there’s a relief that comes with finding your coping mechanism. sunghoon never really examined why he would feel like throwing up before getting in front of a bunch of strangers, but he understood, even if on a very basic level, that hockey took that away from him—it’s the smooth slide of his skates against ice that tends to narrow down the world to just him, where nothing and no one else matters.

he’s not exactly sure why that is; reflection wasn’t really his thing. he knew it when his teacher would set him aside from other kids and ask ’how are things at home?’, to which he had no answers.

as long as it works, right?

still, it’s here now. that feeling of his heart dropping straight through his mattress, and his stomach churning something that refuses to let him speak.

“i feel like i’ve just been yapping,” you say. you aren’t wrong. it’s barely your fault, though he can’t really tell you that.

sunghoon swallows, throat dry and constricting around nothing. the grip he has on his phone tightens momentarily before easing again, his gaze darting around the room like he’s searching desperately for answers that’ll magically manifest.

he could say something. he should. something vague would be good. easy to follow up with, or be mysterious about. slightly personal so you don’t pry too much, that doesn’t let this tip any further than it already has.

and yet—the words don’t come. it barely makes it past his throat.

sunghoon exhales and the sound is almost lost against the line. “it’s getting late.”

it’s been ’getting late’ for the past two hours. his voice sounds worn, and he blames no one but himself—for letting his schedule fall apart like this, and still picking up the phone anyway.

and you, being the unsuspecting, naive girl you are—humming softly as if to tell him you understand. “yeah, i guess so.”

park sunghoon tears his screen away from the warmth of his cheek. only now does he realise how long it’s truly been; the absence of his warm device and the presence of cold wind hitting his face helps him remember how absurd this is.

he looks at the duration of the call, now barely over two hours.

the number sits there, steady and indifferent, as if it doesn’t account for the way time had slipped past him without resistance. as if it doesn’t mean anything at all.

for a moment, he just stares at it, his thoughts lagging behind the reality of it. two hours of listening, of responding, of letting himself exist in something that shouldn’t have been this easy.

this should end here.

sunghoon brings the phone back to his ear, the warmth returning in a way that feels almost deceptive now. he blinks once, twice, before clearing his throat. “goodnight, y/n.”

“goodnight, heeseung.”

the line cuts. sunghoon lies still in his white sheets, the duvet crinkling softly beneath his weight—though it feels heavier than it should, like it’s dragging him deeper into the earth. he stares blankly into the space above him, eyes fixed on nothing, as if he can’t quite register the way the room seems to close in, inch by inch.

outside, the world goes on, completely unaware.

cars pass. lights flicker somewhere beyond his window. time moves the way it always does—steady, indifferent to him, and for a fleeting moment, he wishes he wasn’t in this body.

the thought comes quietly, almost absurd in its simplicity. the thought that he could step out of himself and into someone else—someone forgettable, someone ordinary—someone who doesn’t carry the weight of expectation so tightly wound around his chest. he imagines it briefly, the ease of it: letting tomorrow belong to someone else.

letting the responsibilities, the precision, the constant awareness slip from his grasp for just a day.

just once where he doesn’t have to move like he knows exactly what he’s doing, or carry himself like someone people look up to—like someone who has everything under control, when the truth is that he’s no different from anyone else. just one fucking day is all he asks.

it was nice—the two hours sunghoon got to pretend like he wasn’t sunghoon. he could say it was almost natural, which only unsettles him even more.

he shifts slightly against his sheets, and the loud rustle only anchors him further into the reality he’s in. he blinks slowly before letting his eyelids shut, and almost as if to say ‘you’re never living this down’, your face appears right behind them.

here you are, reconstructed behind his shut eyes like you’re something worth remembering—it's your perfect hair. your eyes that dulled the lights strobing in your face. that dress that looked weirdly good on you.

this is so fucking frustrating.

─────────────────────────

you only see kim sunoo once a week. there’s careful planning that goes behind the days leading up to psychology of mass media—it’s the only hour you can get any intel, if at all, due to the convenient fact that sunoo likes to be the first to leave and last to arrive.

in reality, it’s just you showing up earlier than necessary, and lingering a little longer than you should in hopes that you’ll catch sunoo again.

you have one question. just one. he won’t mind, would he?

the lecture hall is still half-empty when you slip in, and the fluorescent lights actually burn—rows of seats stretching out in that familiar, uninspired gradient of grey and black. there are a few scattered groups that have already settled in, most of them slumped over their desks with jackets thrown over their heads. the sound of keyboard clicking echoes, bouncing off the sterile walls, and you do your best to tune it out.

it takes two minutes for kim sunoo to walk in, beige tote slung over his shoulder, stride light and easy—he always looked put together despite the hour. there were times you considered if he was a vampire, considering how he never looks tired, but the thought never sticks long enough to matter.

he slides into his usual seat without much ceremony, setting his bag beside him before pulling out his macbook. there’s a faint glow of white casts over his face, highlighting the smoothness of his skin, and it feels ridiculous—that split second when you feel a little jealous of him.

fifty five minutes left.

you move before you can think too hard about it, because you already know how that ends. your sneakers thud softly against the carpeted floor as you make your way down the steps, gaze flickering briefly around the room—not because there’s anything to actually be wary of, but because it feels like there should be.

as if anyone here could read your mind, and as if they’d even care enough to judge you for it. the thought lingers in the back of your mind all the same.

you slow just a fraction as you near his row, like the sensible part of your brain’s giving you one last chance to turn around and act like the normal girl who doesn’t care that much. there’d be some grace in taking that empty seat behind him and pretending like the thought of snooping around lee heeseung’s love life never crossed your mind at all—but it has to happen, and unless the gift of time travel is suddenly bestowed upon you, your ass is about to meet the plastic chair beneath you.

the chair creaks softly under your weight, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the low hum of the room. everyone’s blissfully unaware of the humiliation you’re about to put yourself through, though it somehow makes your courage muster a little easier.

“you’re staring at me.”

sunoo’s voice is monotonous. he doesn’t bother to spare you a look, because in truth, he doesn’t need to turn his head to see the way you’re burning holes through his.

“i’m not.”

he scoffs, though he means nothing spiteful of it. as much as he hates to admit, you were one of the nicer seatmates he had this year. “you are.”

“okay, well,” you begin, hands coming up from under the long, laminated wooden desk in front of you. you press them together, like that’d make things less awkward—your fingers fidget just for the sake of doing something other than staring at sunoo. “i was thinking—”

“about me?” kim sunoo smiles, still not looking at you. the corner of his lip is lifted up in something similar to genuine amusement, but it does nothing to help the embarrassment that’s stabbing at your nerves. “you’re blunt, [name].”

“ha ha,” you mock. sunoo can’t help but giggle at that. “the posters. outside. i saw them.”

ah. he sees what this is about.

soul searching ✦ booth 35, level 1, outside block A friday, 10th september 2026, 1pm-8pm ❤︎ love life in shambles? wanna meet new people? come visit our booth to find your perfect match! ❤︎ a quick questionnaire, a curated pairing—one conversation might change everything. rumour has it that the first person you meet… might just be the one. for early bird tickets, scan here!

the promotional poster that you stumbled upon was one of many pasted across campus. there were a few that jiwon mumbled to you about this morning, over the phone, and while you can’t exactly recall the exact details of the conversation, you just know it made her reconsider attending. it was obvious in the way she kept asking, ‘should i?’ followed by ‘i don’t know, maybe i should’, circled back with ‘i’ll think about it’.

it was for, roughly, five seconds that you wondered just how many girls would be lining up for it as well. you remember standing there a little longer than necessary, eyes skimming over the bold lettering like it was supposed to mean more than it did. the paper had been slightly wrinkled at the edges, tape barely holding it against the wall like it had been put up in a rush—but it was bright, unapologetically pink, and you almost grimaced at the thought of other people stopping to stare at it the same way you did.

you’d already decided you were going to go.

scanned the qr code right then and there, shamelessly, in the middle of the hallway on the way here—thumb hovering for less than a second before pressing submit, like hesitation would somehow make it worse.

the soulmate part, though—that stuck, unfortunately. it clung in a way that was irritatingly persistent, like gum pressed into the grooves of your thoughts. not because you believed it, necessarily, but because it was the kind of idea that refused to leave once it had somewhere to sit.

“so…. details?” you ask, a bright and inviting smile plastered onto your cheeks. “is heeseung going for sure? how does it even work?”

kim sunoo shrugs, typing briefly into his laptop before looking at you. “it’s a fundraiser booth. students sign up and get paired at random. i think, like, five seniors found their husbands here a few years back, and it’s been a myth ever since.”

you blink. “wait—so the first person you meet thing, that’s real? the soulmate shit?”

“yeah. haven’t you seen how many campus couples made it because of us? it’s really weird.”

soulmates. it’s all bullshit.

people talked about fate like it was something clean and predictable, like they didn’t sit behind the steering wheel of their own life. it’s as if someone or something invisible was guiding them—like there was a line drawn somewhere out there with your name on it, waiting for you to follow it without question until it led you to the right person.

you’ve never experienced it that way. if anything, your history with relationships feels like the opposite: bad timing, poor judgement, moments that almost worked until they didn’t. near misses are dressed up as something meaningful, but conversations fizzle out just when they start to feel like they might matter.

nothing stayed. nothing was ever meant to. you, having a soulmate—in that sense—it felt extremely unlikely.

it isn’t in a dramatic, self-pitying way—it’s the same way you understand that most things in life don’t fall neatly into place without sustained effort and consistency. relationships aren’t something pre-built that you stumble into, perfectly right and accommodating despite yourself, and they’re definitely not something you keep just because the universe decided you should.

couples will look you in the eye and tell you they’re meant to be, like it was written somewhere long before they ever met, but they barely talk about the parts where they almost walked away, or the moments where instinct told them to leave and they didn’t. the hesitation. the doubt. the very real option of not choosing each other.

fate, soul ties, forever. there are a lot of excuses people make when they don’t want to admit their own fault in something. it’s easier to dress things up as something inevitable than to acknowledge the effort it took to keep it going—or the moments where it almost didn’t.

do people just like pretending that they don’t have a say in what they do?

sunoo pauses, shifting his dark hair from his eyes before glancing at you. “do you think it’s cringey? saeri told me to remove that part of the poster… but i didn’t. it’s the charm of our booth, i think.”

“i don’t think so,” you lie, adrenaline humming through your veins. it is kind of corny, but who would admit that to him—kim sunoo probably doesn’t need more people hating on his poor slogan choices, and the more you act like it was a wise move, the better the chance you get paired with heeseung once he realizes you signed up. “i think it’s… uhm, plausible.”

anything but asking him directly, though.

“anyway,” sunoo glances back at his screen. microsoft word fills the entire monitor with graphs and figures you’re sure are from jiwon’s econ class. “i think everyone’s coming, except sunghoon. that guy…”

you raise an eyebrow. this is the first you’ve heard of him since that party two weeks ago—at this point, he almost feels like a hallucination. “sunghoon? what’s his deal?”

“he’s not a relationship guy. i think he knows it’d be a waste of time to sign up and make the girl feel like shit for five minutes straight,” sunoo sighs, leaning into his palm as if this were the harsh reality he’s learned to accept. “he cares, but has no idea how to show it. he’s like a three year old.”

you nod slowly, like you understand. you don’t.

though, something’s happening in your body that’s reminiscent of sunday night. it’s that odd, simmering sensation—proof. it flickers at the edge of your mind like a fuzzy memory, echoing that same low, lingering pull that sat right in the centre of your sternum.

sunoo’s cheek leans back into his palm, his eyes following professor choi’s figure that’s just strolled in. it’s your queue to shut the hell up and start preparing your materials for class, but it sets something else off.

you try, briefly, to chase it. to trace it back, to link it to something tangible and real and concrete. a face, a voice, a moment that would justify the way it settles into you so easily, but it slips through your fingers just as quickly, dissolving before it can really take shape.

“i see,” you hum. “well, i’ll come. don’t worr—”

“i wasn’t worried.”

“okay, then.”

─────────────────────────

the text comes while he’s brushing his teeth. his hair’s a mess as he stares into himself, eyes flicking down to the sink where some of his toothpaste’s fallen off his toothbrush—your voice is replaying in his head like a sick alarm, though he knows that it’s only because he’d hung up the phone only two hours ago.

sunghoon found himself silently praying that practice was cancelled. it was unlike him; the way he lingered in his sheets and had to take a deep breath before getting up. he dragged himself to the bathroom, hand swiping at the towel rack outside the door—hoping that he didn’t take jake’s by mistake, and begging (to whom?) that he wouldn’t need to use it.

snu hockey boys ’26 ⛸️🏒

yeonjun: practice is cancelled 06:32

yeonjun: coach has an emergency but pls send your food logs by 2200. whoever misses = double ur distance tmr 06:32

yeonjun: rink is still open tho 06:32

he took one good look at his to-do list this morning and resolved that he was going to the library. he’s fully convinced that if he lets his assignments pile up any more, his professors will start to think he’s slipping. god forbid—as if the boy hasn’t gotten less than a a in years.

we2fuckincold🥶 (informal gc)

nicho: guys pls stop eating by the benches too the janitors r gonna beat us :( 06:45

yeonjun: u guys cant fucking control yourselves can you 06:56

park sunghoon moves through the early dawn like he usually does, except that he walks right past the folded jersey and duffle bag already sitting on his desk. he lets himself slouch a little as he walks downstairs; the tiredness is already seeping in despite the constant self-correction.

it’s going to be a long day of cramming if he wants to get anything done, clearly—so he decides on unplugging his laptop charger, folding it neatly into the small zipper of his backpack, and leaving the house without his running shoes packed.

he’s still stretching when he hears the shuffle of footsteps outside. it’s too early for any one of his brothers to be up—on weekdays like this, park sunghoon was always the first to get moving, followed by jay in another hour.

it’s only six. nobody else gets up at six.

sunghoon reaches for the strap of his backpack as he makes his way towards the door—slightly ajar, swaying faintly with the draft, about to shut itself. it’s only when he’s a step away from the frame that he catches sight of lee heeseung walking past.

lee heeseung doesn’t get up until eleven.

reaching for the metal knob, sunghoon pulls back the door with more force than he’d like to admit, only to see heeseung—already at the top of the stairs, leaning lazily against the railing like the early hour means nothing—plaid boxers slung low on his hips, hair flattened in odd directions, and the faint imprint of wrinkled sheets still pressed into his back.

he just watches. doesn’t want to ask. the answer is already written across heeseung’s body in fading purples and reds, scattered along his neck and arms, threaded between the pale, healed superficiality of old scars.

instead, park sunghoon makes his way towards the stairs as well, with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an undeniable tiredness in his bones. he passes his dear friend before making his way down the flight of wood steps, feet thudding against the floor, eyes occasionally glancing towards the big entryway before him.

there’s a girl by the front door, half-crouched as she slips her shoes back on. her hair is messy in an unmistakable way, fingers combing through it as she balances herself against the wall using her other hand. she doesn’t look up, too preoccupied with fixing herself—it’s the last thing on her mind, and all she wants is to fit her heel into the mary janes she’s got sitting outside.

she pulls the metal handle, and looks back up at lee heeseung. nothing else is said, not even a wave, nor does he dismiss her presence—he just watches her warm smile curve up.

it feels like he’s walked in on something intimate. heeseung has a faint smirk that sunghoon was never able to wear when sooha was around, no matter how satisfied she made him feel, and he’s wearing that look of comfortable, guilt-free laziness that he recognises in the mirror every morning, after he hangs up on you.

─────────────────────────

sunghoon walks into the library like he owns it. professional poker face and all, heading straight for that seat by the windows that aren’t facing east, so the sun doesn’t burn his face off. just how he likes it.

the air-conditioning hits his skin and the lights above him are bright enough to sting. it’s enough to keep him awake for the next few hours, combined with the warm black coffee swishing around in his tumbler as he takes his time setting his stuff down.

a few stares and silent whispers are expected as he passes by the busier sections. he takes his usual seat—not many people know about it, due to the fact that it’s shoved so far away in isolation, miles from the bathroom and entrance, but park sunghoon appreciates this fact. nobody is around to stare at him sideways while he does his work, and there won’t be any eyes that refuse to leave his when he finally looks up.

the large, wood-laminate six-seat table was completely empty, and spotless. no coffee stains or broken sockets, and completely cut off from student civilization.

he settles into a bright orange chair by the window, where his face is obstructed by a large pillar—the sun warms his hands up as they pull his laptop out, already booted up from the night before, on the microsoft word home screen.

he groans when he sees at least three empty documents, all of which he meant to start yesterday. of course, that was the plan prior to your call, and sunghoon swore he’d at least try to multitask, if only not to feel the guilt later on. it’s obvious that he can’t do that anymore.

his slender fingers slide over the touchpad, navigating to his most urgent assignment for economics.

the cursor blinks at the top of his toolbar—it’s waiting for him to click something, anything, and he almost does. it circles around the add text box and darts away again, to open chrome. park sunghoon is staring at his screen like it’s a foreign, alien-sent object.

once upon a time, this would’ve sufficed. a quiet corner, an uninterrupted day, and his laptop on full-charge. work and productivity comes easily to someone as hard-working as him, and when there’s nothing else competing for his attention. compartmentalization is an incredibly common skill, but sunghoon is different, in the sense that he could live two separate lives in a single day, if need be.

though, these days, concentration feels far rarer than he’d like to admit.

the sound of soft, carpeted footsteps approaching barely registers in his ears. he’s too focused reading over the same one line he’s written—his name and student id number—to shift his eyes elsewhere.

his peers pass through this section all the time. not many, but enough for it not to be alarming. this was still a public space, after all.

his eyes remain fixed on the screen as he reaches for his tumbler, taking a slow sip of coffee. outside, the sky is finally brightening into that familiar golden, instead of a depressing, cold blue. few students pass by the large glass panels, some in clusters and others alone.

this is simple enough. all he has to do is write. sunghoon has the brains for this, the attention span, and overall capability to complete this useless assignment—so he adjusts himself further into the chair and begins skimming through the brief for what feels like the tenth time since it’s released. it’s all market trends, consumer psychology, something about forecasting models by the time the words begin to blur together.

the caffeine isn’t circulating fast enough. he reaches, sips again, and draws a deep breath in through his nose. halfway through his second paragraph, a chair thuds quietly against the carpeted floor, before the faintest “shit” is heard.

libraries are full of idiots. nobody can even drag a chair out properly anymore, apparently. now that the sound has derailed his train of thought, sunghoon can’t help but to flick his dark brown irises up, locking right onto you.

for a second, he genuinely wonders if his sleep deprivation has evolved into hallucinations.

of all the tables and empty seats scattered across four. fucking. floors.

park sunghoon’s grip tightens slightly around his black, metal rimmed tumbler, an action you thankfully do not notice. this corner of the library is so damn meaningless to him—but now that you’re here, it’s like this is all he’ll ever remember, all he’ll ever associate with the place.

the moment of recognition doesn’t last very long. surprisingly, it doesn’t send panic through his bloodstream, nor does it get his heart bursting out of his chest—though, he can still feel it pounding a little harder—instead, it’s just vague acknowledgement written all over that pretty face of yours, reserved for familiar faces.

park sunghoon. hockey captain guy. heeseung’s friend, the one who unintentionally stared at you sideways that one friday night (that he’ll never forget).

“oh.”

the tension binding his shoulders tight is loosened, just a fraction. the tiny sound leaves your mouth quietly, though it sounds nothing like shock, and it’s more to yourself than to him.

“hope you don’t mind if i—”

sunghoon’s response comes out rougher than intended. “no.”

you smile in response, and god, sunghoon wants to fucking drive a ten foot pole into his chest at the sight of your cheeks puffing up. there’s a faint flush on your cheeks from walking in the morning sun, and he notices a few blemishes on your skin as the sun almost blinds you—he can tell it’s getting into your eyes because you’re squinting. “you can sit here.”

you almost choke by the time sunghoon realises what he’s just said. “what?”

“it’s hot on that side.”

there’s three chairs on his side of the long, dark side of the table. it’s oddly poetic how he’s sat in the dark and you’re standing across from him, bathed in that golden sun like it’s your rightful place, and how he can’t help but have you next to him, even now, even selfishly.

fortunately, you save him the humiliation of walking away or just planting your ass down in the sun. you circle around the table, keychains on your backpack jingling as you do, and pull out the plastic chair two seats away from him.

perfect. it’s enough distance for him to pretend like you’re not even there. your gaze flickers between him in the corner of your eye, to the span of other empty seats in front of you. why the hell are you even here?

there’s a moment where he thinks you’re going to change your mind, get up, and walk away without looking back. it’s mostly due to the fact that you haven’t even set your things down yet, organised your stationery or even took out your sleek, plastic-shielded macbook. sitting next to park sunghoon when there was an entire eight-seat table like, ten feet away made most people nervous.

and still, when he turns (or merely pretends to by reaching for his tumbler again), he realises you’re far from nervous, and instead very confused.

your eyebrows are still raised in slight confusion, and you’re scrambling to find a pen you lost somewhere deep in your bag. flecks of dust float in the air, and one lands right on the top of your head—shining so beautifully in this terribly congested space, warmth bouncing off the dull carpet and reflecting back onto your face, dusting your skin like it knows how exactly to make him weak.

you don’t notice, but he does. park sunghoon is noticing everything, and for suddenly, painfully, and very unpredictably, he realises why people write songs about these kinds of feelings.

“do you need something?”

god, you’re so pretty. your eyebrows lift slightly, out of genuine curiosity (or perhaps concern, with the way sunghoon is staring at you… he can’t find a fault), and those lips of yours look so effortlessly perfect, soft, a faint sheen veiling it thanks to the lip-balm chained to your backpack zipper.

“no.”

and it’s like he’s slammed the door on you again.

again?

you’re not sure why you dwell on it too much, actually. most of the evening is spent staring at blank documents, because this module unfortunately included math, and for some odd reason, lee heeseung was always good at math despite being an arts major. he’d know what to do, and for a good minute you wonder if you should just call him right now.

you pause for a moment before your attention slips away from him again. turning back to your bag, hands still searching for something you apparently cannot find, your fingers moving with growing frustration through compartments that seem to hold everything except what you actually want.

sunghoon should probably mind his own business now, yet instead, he’s glancing over your shoulder and at your empty document.

he turns back to his laptop, slightly, or pretends to, lifting his tumbler just enough to give himself something to look at that isn’t you. in doing so he finally catches the full spread of your movement as you settle in, pulling your laptop out, then your charger, then your pencil case, then a small pouch that seems to contain an entire separate ecosystem of items, all of which you organise with a kind of quiet determination that feels oddly intimate to witness.

your brow furrows as you dig deeper into your bag, hand disappearing and reappearing empty more than once, and he notices the way your mouth presses into a line of mild frustration that never fully escalates into anything outright upset, just plastered there as an expression of someone mildly inconvenienced by their own decisions.

somewhere between your second and third attempt at finding whatever it is you’re looking for, your phone appears in your hand, screen lighting up briefly before you unlock it. sunghoon’s attention shifts almost against his will because the movement is too familiar now, even to him, with something he shouldn’t be aware of.

your thumb hesitates over the contacts screen. lee heeseung.

god, please don’t call. please, please, please, please, please.

his eyes are beginning to strain with how hard he’s trying to make himself appear unsuspicious. you hover over his contact, before looking back up at your empty document, and then down again. hesitantly you settle for resting your phone atop the mahogany, letting the screen darken on the words ‘lee heeseung’, then typing your very first words.

the mistake on your screen comes predictably. that’s not to say sunghoon thought you were stupid—it’s only honest for him to say many people messed up the way you did. careless, happens when you haven’t spent the days prior drilling these kinds of theorems into your head. his eyes were starting to hurt, squinting, trying to see how to help you.

the guilt creeps up on him, unexpectedly. he just can’t.

it’s unfortunate that sunghoon already knows exactly what he’d do if he were sitting right next to you, looking over your shoulder properly instead of pretending not to while still catching every mistake you make.

unfortunate that the assignment in front of him is something he could finish in less than an hour if he actually tried, something so mindless it doesn’t even deserve the amount of attention he’s currently refusing to give it, and yet he keeps sitting there anyway as if the decision is more complicated than it actually is.

“swap your x and y values.”

sunghoon has never in his life packed his things so quickly. he’s already moving before he fully processes what he’s done.

his chair scrapes back lightly against the carpet as he gathers his things in motions so quick it almost feels automatic—laptop closing before his assignment is anywhere near complete, tumbler shoved into his bag without care for whether it spills or not.

you’re still looking at him when he straightens, your brows drawn together slightly as you glance down at your screen again, scrolling back to where you left off.

your expression only changes the moment you realise what he said was correct. the mistake is exactly what he pointed out, sitting there so obviously wrong now that it feels almost insulting that you didn’t see it earlier.

sunghoon slings his bag over his shoulder too quickly, the strap wrong-side up, before he quickly settles it in place. he doesn’t look at you directly again, even though he can feel your attention still on him.

there is no explanation he can give that wouldn’t make it worse. no version of this situation exists where staying longer feels safer than leaving immediately, because the longer he sits here, the more likely it becomes that something small will slip.

you will notice. it may be something in the way he speaks or pauses or breathes that does not belong to heeseung at all. he knows you will put it together, because these are things he notices about you, unwillingly.

so, he leaves.

sunghoon’s footsteps are steady as he moves between tables, fiddling with his car keys between his slender fingers—until he reaches the aisle where the library opens up toward the exit.

only then does he allow himself one brief glance back.

you’re looking at him, still. like you haven’t decided whether you’re supposed to stop or keep watching, eyes slightly wider than they were a moment ago, as if you’re still catching up to the fact that he actually spoke, actually stood up, and actually left without giving you anything close to an explanation.

it’s not like he owed you one, anyway. right?

there’s a faint crease between your brows now, nothing like frustration, instead softened into something that makes his heart twist and do all sorts of things against his ribs. it’s not an exaggeration to say that he’s never felt such a feeling, and it’s even more of an understatement when he says it scares him.

he almost trips over his jeans when he crosses the threshold of the library, out into the pavement and in front of the carpark.

sunghoon needs to go home. he needs to get his shit together and go to practice, like how he’s always done in the months before this, and how he’ll continue to do—and yet, god knows why he can’t even drive out of the lot, instead he’s glued to his seat with his feet planted on the mat like it’ll kill him if he stepped on the gas pedal.

sunghoon is already outside the library by the time he’s back in his own body, aware that he’s moving.

the air hits him colder than expected. sharp against skin still warmed by the inside of the building, and for a moment he just stands there, half between steps, like his body has forgotten what it was supposed to do next. the carpark stretches out in front of him in clean, repetitive lines, familiar enough that it should be automatic, but nothing about his movements feels familiar anymore.

“fuck—“

sunghoon almost trips when he steps down the last curb, not because he isn’t paying attention, but because his body is slightly ahead of his thoughts and neither of them are aligned with anything resembling control. he corrects himself quickly, hand tightening briefly around the strap of his bag, and continues forward in a way that would look normal to anyone watching from a distance.

sunghoon’s car is where it always is. he gets in, sits his ass down, and doesn’t move.

the engine is not on yet, keys resting in his hand without being inserted, and his foot stays planted on the mat as if there is some unspoken rule that says starting the car will make something irreversible happen. he stares at the steering wheel for a long time without really seeing it, jaw set in a way that suggests focus but is really just restraint.

that look on your face is so easy to remember. park sunghoon knows he has to tell you, if there’s any chance—any at all—that he gets to look at you like that again.

a curse, truly, because now he knows what it feels like to be so close to you, to have such a feeling strike him so deep, lodging itself in his chest; whenever your face pops up uninvited in his peripheral, or in his daydreams, or on his cell. almost humiliating and actively consuming his sick brain.

the honesty might not even make you stay, and it probably will not make the confession noble—it feels ridiculous to him, almost absurd, because the only thing keeping him tethered to his car mat is the replay of your face in his mind: so painfully uncomplicated that he can’t stand the thought of touching it with borrowed hands and stolen time.

he can still picture the way you looked at him across that table, brows faintly drawn together in confusion, not because you were intimidated or nervous or trying to figure out if sunghoon was really as the rumours say, but because you genuinely did not understand why he had stood up and left.

no expectant eyes, no carefulness, barely any fear. frowned when you were confused and smiled when something amused you, all with the kind of ease that feels so natural on you that he doubts you even notice it yourself. it is the sort of thing most people take for granted, he thinks. the sort of thing people are lucky enough to have for so long that they stop recognizing it as freedom.

sunghoon only notices because he does not have it.

hockey captain, top student, dependable, intimidating, disciplined, the guy could make his own dictionary with the obnoxious amount of adverbs attached to his image. almost every room he walks into seems to demand something from him before he even opens his mouth, and somewhere along the way he stopped questioning it. teammates watch his reactions before deciding how to react themselves. juniors reroute questions through other people because they are too nervous to ask him directly. professors talk to him like they actually have expectations—classmates wait for him to know the answer. even the fraternity treats him like a fixed object, something solid and predictable that will always be exactly where it is supposed to be.

then, there’s you. all perfect hair and soft lips and weirdly adorable frustration carved onto your face, sitting beside him with a pen between your fingers with the other hand on your keyboard. your entire life is on the verge of spilling out your mouth whenever you talk, completely unaware of how rare it looks from where he stands, saying things because you want to say them—because it’s funny, even if it’s meaningless, even if it contributes nothing of value to the conversation.

you call when you miss him, you laugh at his unintentionally self-deprecating humour, you ask questions when you don’t know. you get sad, you cry on the phone, and you get so ridiculously angry about such trivial matters, that he can’t help but smile at his screen.

for one brief, stupid, and careless moment in that library, sunghoon thinks he wanted to stay because you were pretty.

the thought survives all of five seconds. pretty girls are not exactly rare, but the feeling stirring in his chest and the warmth spreading through his body definitely is.

barely any of it has to do with the curve of your smile or the sunlight caught in your hair. instead, it had everything to do with the feeling of being around you, the uncomplicated nature of it all, and the subtle identity crisis where he did not have to be a captain, student, impressive or disciplined.

you will probably leave him, he thinks. the only other option seemed much too cruel, even for him, stripping that choice from you.

You: can we meet up? 12:34

─────────────────────────

ever since you moved into your apartment, you’ve been trying to build a routine—something efficient and optimal, taking up the least amount of time and effort, while maximizing the amount of tasks done.

the first few weeks were horrible—every small decision felt disproportionate and too time-consuming. there’s ten minutes you could’ve used to get ready for bed that you spent cooking dinner, which you should’ve made prior to leaving the house, bla bla bla. you knew it was bad when the sequence after unlocking your door alone was enough to irritate you: whether to eat first or shower, how long to wait before brushing your teeth so you wouldn’t scrub your enamel off. it was stupid, the amount of thought you poured into things that were supposed to be automatic, but you couldn’t help it. everything had to fall into place in this busy life of yours and serve it’s rightful purpose.

there were too many small decisions like that. too many things to get right.

maybe that’s why this feels so off. because there’s nothing to figure out, and no reason for it to happen so often.

there’s no adjustment period, no careful slotting of time or reshuffling of habits. he just fits into the spaces you’ve already made. it’s incredibly mundane and underwhelming in the way it happens.

for now, heeseung calls you almost every damn night, and you feel weirdly normal about it.

it starts on a random thursday. then it’s saturday, then monday, then tuesday. somewhere along the way, it stops being a coincidence or convenience.

by wednesday, you’re calling him to help you pick out an outfit for a department event, holding up different tops to your mirror like he can somehow see through the line. you’re describing the colours, the cut, every minute detail, assuming his imagination could keep up with your rambling.

on thursday, you’re complaining about how much you hate psych, words spilling faster than you can filter them. by the time friday rolls around, he’s the one calling—something about needing help with an assignment, though it diverges quickly into him venting about a useless groupmate in his behavioural economics class.

it morphs into something consistent, though, still strange regardless.

you could’ve sworn lee heeseung took his electives in art culture this year. yet, with the way he’s talking about stock markets and all rationality being lost on the modern day consumer, it sounds like he’s well-versed with the contents.

“you ate an entire block of cheese for dinner?” he repeats back to you. now that you’ve retold the entire process of cooking dinner, down to the amount of parmesan cheese you used, hearing it repeated back to you makes it sound a little insane. “you couldn’t just salt it?”

“are you judging me?” you giggle, turning over in your sheets. the fabric twists with you, cool against your skin and your joints protest almost immediately—your right shoulder’s starting to cramp from how long you’ve been hunched over on your side.

you let out a quiet sigh into the air. “it was a better choice. tasted good, so… i don’t see any problem.”

there’s a pause on his end. you fidget as you wait—picking at your cuticles, long overgrown and in desperate need of a maintenance check, even cracking your knuckles just to fill the silence.

“i think that’s the issue,” he huffs. your shoulders finally relax at the sound of him—lacking any true judgment despite his words.

there’s faint rustling that crackles through your device, and for a minute, you imagine how he must look like right now: laid up in bed in some old jersey, shorts barely hanging onto his hips from how lazy he is to tie the drawstrings tighter. the night’s winding down and you’re still here, with him, like this is an absolute must-do before your eyes shut.

and the routine must repeat tomorrow, of course. not that you’re complaining.

the rest of the conversation flows without much resistance. lee heeseung talks about his afternoon run that seemed to piss him off a great deal, because he got a call from choi yeonjun—something about being five minutes late to the gym and how he’s clearly not committed.

“oh. you’re friends with him? isn’t he in a completely different department from you, though?” you mumble, hoping that it doesn’t come off as blunt—you very well could have missed this detail in your earlier conversations. *“*how do you guys get to the point of going to the gym together?”

“he’s been bothering me ever since freshman year.” heeseung responds, “seriously. i don’t know how i haven’t strangled him yet.”

you chew on your bottom lip, searching for a response. the silence stretches just a little too long, and something about it starts to itch—like you’ve asked the wrong question and you’re pushing somewhere you shouldn’t.

“ah,” you say finally. “i see… he’s really popular, so i’m not surprised.”

“yeah, he is. it gets annoying as fuck when he brings his girls to lunch…” heeseung mutters under his breath—you’re toying with the string of your hoodie, if only to make yourself feel less awkward. there’s another long and excruciating pause before you finally decide to push the conversation in another direction:

“are you going to that fundraiser?” your voice comes out softer than intended. you can only hope that heeseung doesn’t make you repeat yourself. “sunoo’s… one. you know.”

“sunoo’s one…” he repeats back to you, slower. the concept almost sounds abstract to him. “no. not my thing.”

not his thing.

you’re back to fiddling with your fingers again. suddenly, the drawstring of your sweats seems more interesting than anything else you can hear from the other end of the line.

his voice fizzles out. you hear him, yes—his tired, monotonous voice crackling through the speaker reaches your ears and lands straight in your stomach. between short breaths and awkward pauses, you hyperfocus on the wind howling past your thin curtains.

“oh,” you manage after a moment. the word escapes weakly, scratching at your throat before you clear it up. “thought you were. my bad.”

you don’t realise how sweat-slicked your palms are until your phone almost slips from your hand. you turn over in bed, just to save your eyeballs from the sting of streetlights hanging outside your window—it’s almost three in the morning, and despite that dreadful fact, cars are still honking like they own the neighbourhood.

“are you?” heeseung asks. “probably, huh?”

“shut up,” you laugh. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

a quiet huff escapes through the line. your free hand traces the hem of your blanket, now tangled between your legs, serving no real purpose.

“it just sounds like something you’d be into.” heeseung states without a hint of laughter or a smile. “trying new things, even if they’re childish and embarrassing.”

“well—”

“it’s not a bad thing.”

you don’t respond immediately. a soft hum of acknowledgment is heard through the device—it’s barely triumphant or teasing—like he understands the reasoning behind why you’re throwing yourself out there, unknowingly, to him.

you roll onto your back again, tucking your arm over your belly. the cotton’s cold from the absence of your body against it, pillows still damp from your wet hair and impatient self; phone pressed awkwardly against your cheek, the heat almost battles that of sunday mornings.

speaking of, you haven’t experienced in it’s entirety for the past few weeks.

“why don’t you try it, then? it could be fun.” you murmur, eyes screwing shut at the instant the words rolled off your tongue. “sorry. you don’t have to… if you find it weird.”

his laugh makes your heart rate stutter, then spike.

it’s sweet. genuine. warm and unrehearsed in it’s charm, filling the dimness of your room and settling right under your ribs. your face burns up like you’ve just swallowed something hot, and the heat blooms right in your abdomen and crawls up your neck ridiculously fast.

“relationships aren’t my thing.”

lee heeseung says it like it’s already been decided—something fixed and immovable, written in bold or carved into a rock somewhere far beyond him. existing outside of his control, predetermined, and he’s made peace with it—it’s simply the way things are—though the heavy sigh that follows betrays him, outlined faintly with something that sounds nothing like acceptance.

the past few weeks have unfolded into something more than they should’ve. conversations stretching deeper than expected, softening and melting into quiet teasing that feels almost familiar, like you’ve known each other your entire lives.

“really?” your lips can’t help but to curl slightly upward. “you’ve never dated?”

“never had time for that. i’m not the best with affection. people talk to me like they’re scared of me, that kind of thing. even at that stupid party, i just drank by myself upstairs.”

perhaps your memory is failing you, then.

it’s strange, in hindsight, how most of your attention that night had never really stayed where it was supposed to. you remember the first few times you saw lee heeseung—his best friend following shortly after—and your gaze always seemed to lag behind who you claimed to like.

just how did those two end up together?

your seniors used to tell you to look forward to college. new place, new faces, new prospects—like the world finally opens up and hands you options you didn’t know you had. one day, you’re trapped in a classroom from seven to six; the next, you’re weaving through a campus that doesn’t know you yet, trying to decide who you get to be in it.

lee heeseung made it easy to know. he was the kind of person people noticed without trying. effortless in a way that felt almost unfair—hair falling exactly how it should, skin catching the light like it was always meant to. you’d pass by his friend group and hear him before you saw him, laughter loud and uncontained, a basketball tucked under his arm like it never knew how else to store itself. he fit into everything so naturally that it almost felt like the world was his and his alone.

it made sense to like him. and even then, your attention seemed to stray—slipping quietly and slowly just past him.

sunghoon hangs behind like it pained him to be around other people. always a little removed and distant enough to not involve himself in the conversation but not to turn around and walk away unnoticed; broad shoulders angling themselves slightly away, eyes flicking over other people like it physically pained him to see other humans.

it’s small, useless things. the way he’d shift his weight from one foot to the other when conversations dragged on and he was tired of it. his hands would stay tucked into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise. watching more than he spoke, like he was just slightly out of sync with everyone else.

you’ve only ever seen him laugh once*.* it was weirdly off-timed and the rest of his friends laughed only three seconds later. you wondered if all of heeseung’s friends were as strange as that, or if it was just him.

it’s weird, actually. thinking about it now, you realise you remember more about park sunghoon than you should for someone you never consciously paid attention to. his name seemed to be the last piece to his mysterious identity, no thanks to oh jiwon.

“i’m sure that’s not true.”

“it is,” he says. “i try to stay, but things don’t work out. rarely ever do.”

you raise an eyebrow. “work out? so you almost dated?”

“i show up. i do what i’m supposed to. it just stops feeling like something i want to be in after a while.”

“so you just dip?” you question.

“not all at once. i get scared. i pull back and i cancel things that i already fought to fit into my schedule,” he pauses. “i say it’s nothing. they don’t press much after that.”

you hum. the line goes quiet for a few seconds. you’re trying hard not to bombard him with every invasive question on your mind: who’s your most recent girlfriend? how long ago was the relationship? why do you run away?

he continues regardless.

“people get frustrated with me,” he mutters. “i can’t even handle my own emotions. i run from my issues and go on pre-workout to deal with my baggage. nobody sane does that shit.”

“heeseung—”

the name slips from your tongue like a mistake. you bite down on your bottom lip as if that would stop the words from echoing into his ears, somewhere, miles away.

“you’re the only girl that doesn’t treat me like that. i still don’t get it.”

just where did all these thoughts come from? there's weeks of conversations that stretched until midnight. unfiltered words that you silently agreed to keep between you two. your heart’s begun to match the rhythm of his voice, unintentionally, from the moment he picks up the phone to the second he cuts the line. somewhere between your first call to now, you’ve gotten to know him—it’s exactly why you can’t blame the confusion bubbling in your head or the pit in your stomach that only seems to sink deeper.

“aren’t you scared of me, too?”

and here you were, thinking that the answer was abundantly clear. he cuts himself off when you want to start rambling. he finishes your sentences when you’re falling asleep. he asks what ridiculous, unhealthy dish you cook up for dinner every single day without fail—so why does he still sound like that?

you shift slightly against your sheets, phone pressed a little tighter to your ear as if proximity could make sense of it. “i don’t get it,” you admit quietly. “why would anyone be scared of you?”

there’s a pause on the other end. it doesn’t feel empty. things rarely ever do when you’re on the phone with him; it feels more like he’s weighing whether to answer honestly, soften the blow or leave it alone entirely. “this is what i mean, [name].”

you frown. there’s a shuffle of feet upstairs, thudding against your ceiling, which momentarily distracts you. it’s almost four in the morning and nothing feels any clearer than it did ten minutes ago. “what?”

“you don’t care,” he continues. “simple.”

he doesn’t bother to explain further. he hasn’t bothered to say much at all, actually—not in a way that should make sense to you or anyone that knows the name heeseung. still, you understand it anyway, in that vague, unspoken way that two people manage to do, where language feels slightly too slow for what’s already being felt, and too shallow to tell the other person what you really mean.

there’s a hollow kind of discomfort sitting low in your stomach. you’ve learned by now that this is usually a warning sign, even if you don’t always know what it’s warning you about.

you’ve never had particularly good luck with these things, anyway. whatever invisible logic governs timing, people, attachment—it has never seemed especially fond of you.

you exhale softly, pulling your blanket higher over your shoulder, as if that might settle something internally. your gaze drifts to the empty space beside you, unoccupied, waiting in a way that feels louder than it should at this hour.

“what don’t i care about?”

your voice comes out as a whisper, unintentionally. the sound barely makes it past your lips, weak and soft like it’s embarrassing that you even thought about saying it and just plain humiliating that you let it out. either way, heeseung’s answering it seconds later.

“what people say about me,” he sighs, “i like it better like that.”

you don’t really know what he means by that—your hair scratches against the cold, crisp pillowcase under your head as you turn over anxiously. lee heeseung was very known, yes, but the way the words land just feels so… odd.

sniffling when he speaks again, the responses that follow never reaches your ears.

─────────────────────────

finals week has made you it’s bitch.

there’s something almost childish in how irritable you get in the days leading up to exams. you’ve never learnt to move past it, and soon enough, the people around you eventually adapted to the sensitive storm that is you, minimally three days before a major paper.

three rules:

one) do not disrupt y/n l/n’s naps;

two) do not text, call, or approach first, and

do not ask how studying is going. the answer is never changing: it’s bad, i’m going to fail, my life is over.

okay, to be fair, these rules were not as strict as they sound. most of the time, people are already cooped up in study rooms and occupied with their own revision—clearly much too busy to talk to anyone else, much less you. so, when your entire friend group goes awol, you do nothing but let it happen.

though, there is just one person that remains.

lee heeseung, sounding entirely too relaxed over the phone with a blender going somewhere in the background, because he’s making his second protein shake of the day. he doesn’t sound very… worried about the approaching three-hour exam.

your feet are folded together, criss-cross on your office chair as you hunch over your desk. your room is pitch dark, save for the bright, white light radiating from your study lamp—sprawled over the surface of your cheap table is rewritten notes, scribbled equations and the occasional bible verse (for good measure).

“you sound upset,” he says.

“oh, do i, now?”

you almost drop your phone at that. you’ve been silently panicking for the last forty minutes without realising you’ve been breathing like that, and talking like this. you’ve spent even more time, close to five hours on this laptop that’s crying for you to shut it down, on lectures that you should’ve watched weeks back.

there’s a pause on his end, something shifting in the background—cupboard, blender stopping, maybe him leaning against the counter—and when he speaks again, it’s slower. “which one are you on?”

“twenty,” you say.

“how many left?”

“twelve,” you admit, already hating how it sounds when spoken out loud. somehow, all hope seems lost when you utter that forsaken number, despite it being (very) obviously displayed on the top left of your screen for the past few hours. “…fuck.”

this morning felt like hell. you’re sure your eye-bags have magically darkened themselves in the past few hours, and for a minute, you grimace at the thought of having to show up to school like that every damn day, all because you’re too tired to seem put together. breakfast was skipped, which was unfortunate, cause the guilt of preparing a heavy lunch only made the stress worse. heavy eyelids blinking open, slow, regretful for every delayed hour of sleep—limbs still tangled in cold sheets like it physically pained you to leave.

the sun bled through your blinds, warm over your ankles and blinding you through your eyelashes. you walked around the house in nothing but your underwear, even forgetting your slippers under the bedframe; there was only one thing on your mind. that much stayed consistent today, with the only variable factor being lee heeseung on the phone.

you didn’t think he’d call. schedules do that.

“it’s manageable,” his voice crackles through the speaker, and then there’s the sound of a cupboard slamming shut, along with the soft shuffling of… something. you actually consider hanging up on him, just for a brief moment. “how many topics?”

to be honest, you’d half-expected heeseung to tease you. laugh, even. maybe even tell you to stop being so dramatic, to answer his texts, and that he doesn’t understand why you’re freaking out over a dumb test—but here you are, and here he is, telling you that you have it figured out.

“four. it’s over,” you answer flatly, staring at the lecture list like if you looked hard enough another topic might spontaneously disappear. “it’s actually so over.”

“it’s not, y/n.”

heeseung’s voice stays annoyingly level. the speaker crackles with something that sounds like a spoon scraping against plastic and the jealousy almost gives you whiplash. he’s making a fucking protein shake while you’re stuck here memorising lecture slides on two-times speed and slowly developing permanent neck damage.

“you said your paper’s next tuesday. if there’s four topics left and you stop rewriting things you already know, you’ll finish tonight and still have time to revise.”

your head hits the table before you even realize you’ve moved. forehead pressed into paper, warm skin sticking slightly against cheap ink and printer sheets, you let yourself rot there dramatically. with your phone right beside your face, his voice sounds clearer than before—too clear, actually—and it feels vaguely humiliating, how quickly your chest warms when he talks like this.

you let out a long breath instead of responding, eyes drifting downward toward the floor beneath your desk. there’s crumpled paper scattered near your chair. a few sticky notes had missed the bin entirely and ended up attached to the outside of it instead, clinging there stubbornly like even they didn’t want to commit to failure.

he’s talking like he knows you.

“how’d you know—”

heeseung cuts you off with little trouble. “you’ve told me. pretty sure you can cut some lectures out, since you’ve been learning them for the past few weeks.”

you don’t answer. you narrow your eyes at his response, because who the hell is that observant? he doesn’t even need to confirm your schedule anymore—he just talks and cuts you off, knowing he’s completely right, because he listens that intently—but god.

he has no idea how warm that makes you feel.

on the other end of the line, heeseung walks back upstairs with his phone trapped awkwardly between his cheek and shoulder, head tilted enough that his neck would probably hurt later. his laptop balances in one hand, tumbler in the other, and his steps slow unconsciously as your breathing filters through the speaker.

his room looks exactly the same as always.

his duffel is already packed for practice tonight despite being excused for finals week. the afternoon sun catches against the medals mounted along his wall and reflects across his desk in strips of gold, schedule taped beside his wardrobe. his calendar is updated three weeks in advance, with a single day blocked out for the day you end your exams.

his eyes drift over the reminders stuck to his wall, and he’s reminded of it—the reason why he decided he was still going to practice today.

studying isn’t enough, clearly, if he’s still on the phone with you.

he already decided that he’d wait. finals week meant distance. finals week meant no showing up unexpectedly and no making this worse than he already has. finals week meant letting you breathe and not letting himself confuse temporary loneliness for something else, and finals week also meant not sinking deeper into you.

it’s just two weeks.

two weeks, and then, he’ll tell you.

“do you think i’ll do okay?” you mumble, so soft that you almost don’t hear yourself. it’s so quiet that you can hear the exact moment his fingers stop clicking against his keyboard, and so intense that the second he answers, your heart begins to pound.

“yeah. i know you will.”

─────────────────────────

you don’t think much of it when you tell heeseung where you’ll be tomorrow, or rather, today. truthfully, you haven’t been thinking much at all lately—unless you count the thirty-second ponder about lunch options earlier this morning.

finals week does something deeply unfortunate to people. everybody becomes uglier in small, socially acceptable ways, because everyone around you just… gets it. hair goes unwashed for an extra day, clothes repeat twice, thrice in a row, and eyebags sink further in with no substantial effort to conceal them. entire friend groups, including yours, quickly dissolve into delayed replies and weak promises to hang out after exams, because who the hell wants a mass social gathering after four all-nighters?

your room starts becoming unbearable by day four. there’s something fundamentally wrong with spending twelve hours in one place—any longer and you might’ve begun associating your digital lock chime with impending doom.

the second you sit at your desk, your chest tightens automatically. it’sm like your brain immediately morphs the cute wallpaper around you into blank rows of seats, and your ears only hear mindless scribbling, despite the cheerful music blasting through your headphones.

by the time noon comes around, you’ve scarfed down every grain of rice from your takeout container—dragging your feet and will to live through your apartment, searching for your purse before leaving.

it’s wednesday. the sun is shining on you, warm and consequentially irritating as the sweat begins to pill on your temples. they roll down your cheek in fat beads, and it almost serves as motivation for you to get your ass into that library as soon as possible.

your macbook is pressed against your side, tote slipping down your shoulders every few minutes, only to be caught by the crevice of your elbow. there’s an iced coffee from last night, standing in for your mid-day snack; and, as if you hadn’t eaten just an hour ago, your stomach rumbles in defeat.

the library doors open as you stomp against the carpeted sensors. the cold air hits your face hard enough that you nearly stop walking, but you settle for a deep, relieving sigh before turning left and speed-walking down those winding corridors built out of metal shelving.

your body already knows where to go now—past the noisier floors, up the stairs, away from printers and bathrooms and groups of students pretending to study while giggling about their situationships at full volume. roughly fifty-six seconds later, your consciousness kicks back in full gear, and you’re dumping your things down onto a familiar table before immediately realizing that you forgot your fucking charger.

“are you fucking—”

oh, well. problem for future you. worse comes to worst, you’ll scare some freshman away with your horrendous, sleepless eyes and unusually wide smile and steal theirs.

libraries distort time as well as they force you to keep track of it. hours behave well in the quieter corners, but if you’re somehow in urgent need of completing an assignment, they start speeding themselves up. it’s exactly why you’re chanting mantras to yourself now: studying isn’t urgent at all. this exam will not kill me! yes! i already know everything there is to know!

afternoon becomes evening rather quickly. suddenly, your water bottle is empty, your iced coffee splits into two separate layers of cloudy water and room temperature caffeine, and the light crawls across the carpet so much that your chair is no longer in the same patch of sun you sat down in.

you stopped checking the time thirty minutes ago. notes multiply, hair becomes tangled at the back of your neck, and your spine hurts. you spent forty minutes writing notes on a lecture, not realizing it’s a replay.

sometime later, when your legs are beginning to feel like tv static, movement catches in your peripheral and your eyes lift automatically before your brain even has a chance to catch up.

“sunghoon?”

my god. just stand up and run into his arms, why don’t you?

his reaction comes a fraction of a second later. despite the prior brain lag, you’re suddenly thinking about his face—sunghoon looks different outside of wherever you usually see him. less assembled, with a ridiculously large hoodie hanging loose around his frame, which only makes him look even bigger from where you’re sitting; there’s shadows beneath his eyes that soften his face unexpectedly.

his hair looks horrible. his sweatpants are dragging against the floor, too. sunghoon looks exhausted, and his gaze hangs low, until you call out for him, that is.

the corners of your lips curl upward before you even realise it’s happening. his expression doesn’t change much, but the faint raise of his thick eyebrows tells you enough. his eyes flick toward the empty chairs around you, and you almost assume that you weirded him out—great, he’ll walk away now—but all sunghoon does is return a soft, supposedly meaningless smile in your direction.

there’s that brief moment, where people who know each other silently debate whether acknowledging the other’s presence is necessary in public—and then he gives you a small nod, right before he takes his laptop out and sits right in front of it.

two seats away from you. like last week. if you hadn’t met the man before, you would’ve thought he wanted to kill you with a face like that. eyebrows knit together in frustration, typing furiously at his keyboard like it owed him twenty bands, tapping his foot against the carpet like he was thinking about something deathly important.

cute—wait, what the fuck, said you, around fifteen times over in the past two hours.

you become aware of him in entirely useless ways. he drinks water without looking away from his screen, sometimes even types with one hand as the other holds that tumbler to his lips. he cracks his knuckles at every given opportunity, and his fingers hover over the keyboard occasionally when he thinks. you leave for more coffee, come back, go to the bathroom, and he’s literally still there.

at one point, you look up because your neck hurts, and caught yourself stretching. fucking stretching, left to right, just for an excuse to get a full view of his side profile. in that tiny, meaningless moment, you witnessed him rub his eyes and immediately return back to typing his unfinished methods section.

it’s strangely comforting that park sunghoon is there for you to look at. oddly. it helps with the whole ‘i’m the only one in this universe, it’s all a simulation’ delirium.

regardless, at around six, the words on your screen are beginning to morph into one big demonic face, and every letter on your keyboard just resembles an egyptian hieroglyphic. words are decorative, english is just a bunch of made up gibberish, and you need to get out of this plastic seat before you melt into it—so after rereading the same paragraph four times, absorbing nothing (shocker), your eyes begin to ache and decide: changing tasks will fix all these worldly pains you have.

the ‘changing tasks’ arrives in the form of a reference nook your professor mentioned. standing, stretching, you’re doing it all before disappearing into the shelves.

it’s warmer here than it is at the tables, somehow. perhaps it’s the way the sun is setting now, and it’s getting all in your eyes and in your hair, just like it did this morning. though, when you turn towards the closest, wide-set window, your breath almost gets taken away at the blend of pinks and oranges that colour the sky.

you see this sunset almost every day. still, it doesn’t take any of the beauty away.

dust catches in the overhead light, paling in comparison to the golden hue that the light is bathing the room in—the smell of old books penetrates your nose in a way that makes you think about middle school. you drag your fingers across rows of spines, reading titles under your breath, stepping slower in each aisle because your brain refuses to remember the author’s name. you bet sunghoon doesn’t struggle with things like that.

“behavioural psychology… where the fuck even is that?”

─────────────────────────

following a mini mental breakdown, park sunghoon’s brain decides not to accomodate a single molecule of information until he gets up and got his blood moving.

there was only so much economics and statistics a person could consume before words stopped behaving like language and started looking like numbers flipped around. his screen brightness had been lowered twice, and his coffee had gone cold sometime around four—the sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up his forearms and there was a faint imprint from resting his cheek against his knuckles for too long, which he finds immensely humiliating.

he closes the document, opens it again, reads the same words over and over, and realises he won’t get anything done like this; so his eyes leave the screen for the first time in twenty minutes and settle automatically on the empty seat in his peripheral.

his head back turns so fast that he almost curses at himself.

and, to make things extra embarrassing, his mind starts to weigh the odds of whether you’re about to leave, or if you’re just gone for another break. scanning your side of the desk, taking in your untouched water bottle, open laptop and tangled wired headphones—you’re somewhere nearby, a conclusion he unwillingly comes to.

sunghoon’s fingers drum once against the tumbler before he remembers there was a book he wanted earlier. or needed. something vaguely related to an assignment he’d been putting off. either way, he stands, pushes in his chair halfway, and makes his way into the shelves.

it really does feel different in here. the high-pitched clacking of mechanical keyboards is muffled, almost muted behind these thick walls of books, where light filters in through strips and catches every speck of dust floating around. he turns once, twice, passing business ethics—until he finally reaches behavioural psychology, and stops dead in his tracks.

it’s not even about the book. if he remembered correctly, the one he was looking for’s two floors down, but this—here, in front of him, on this floor, was you.

sunghoon ducks into the next aisle like he’s guilty. he presses his back lightly against the endcap of the shelf, as though the solid structure might help him reset whatever just short-circuited in his brain.

this is ridiculous. he’s in a library. on a weekday. trying to study. and yet, somehow, his entire nervous system has decided that walking in a straight line is suddenly the most difficult thing in the world.

he exhales, before trying to occupy himself by looking for something similar to what he’s studying for another module. he stands still for a second longer than necessary, fingertips running against this one book which he can’t bother to know the name of, and all it does is feel like a weak alibi.

business psychology is a popular section. lots of students with sunghoon’s major share modules, hence, explaining why the other book he’s pretending to need isn’t even here. it also explains why the fuck his eyes keep gravitating towards you, through tall-enough gaps, locked on your concentrated face and frustrated pout.

every interruption in his life, somehow, becomes framed with you. a horizontal slit between two rows of books, a deliberate architectural hesitation, tall enough to fit even the thickest and tallest of publications out there—and you, existing between it.

it’s closer than before, not in distance but in clarity. the kind of proximity that does not require physical reduction to feel intimate. the light falls differently here, angled through a window he cannot fully see, softening the edge of everything it touches—your tip of your nose, the ends of your hair, and the faint movement of your hand as you adjust your page.

you look so beautiful. nothing has changed. he knew it when he saw you sitting in front of him today, he knew it when you walked into this place last week, and he knew it when he saw you at that party, wearing a dress that seemed so inclined to his attention and a smile that made all the flashing colours pale in comparison.

and, most of all, he knows it now. a fool he is, for thinking that these feelings would fade.

sunghoon tries to locate himself properly in the task he came for—something about organisational theory, a phenomenon he can usually reduce into clean frameworks and exam-ready structure. his hand has been resting against the spine of the book for the past twenty seconds, fingers curled just enough to suggest intent, but nothing in him is actually compelling the pull.

the thought arrives with a sharpness that feels almost physical, like pressure behind the ribs.

park sunghoon wishes he could redo college from the start. not in the abstract, as nostalgia or regret type thing, instead with specificity—clean edits to timing, tone, and presence. a revision pass on himself. one that would let him stand a few steps closer to you now, without feeling like the distance between yourselves is self-inflicted.

his thumb shifts minutely along the book’s spine. the motion is absent-minded, almost mechanical.

once you know who he really is—strip away whatever version of him you’ve only seen in passing corridors and half-glances at the long oak table—will you stop looking for him?

fuck. he doesn’t even care enough to stop looking at you. hair falling over your face, your lips blowing air to get the tiny, annoying strands to stop itching your nose.

selfish. selfish, selfish, selfish. that’s all he is.

─────────────────────────

─────────────────────────

august meant summer.

the sun is unforgiving, blazing hot rays beating down on your back as sweat trickles down your shoulder blades—everything about today seemed relentless, exam included. around you, people are already decomposing the paper in clusters: comparing answers, laughing too loudly, swearing they’re finished in voices that sound almost celebratory. someone says question 47 was impossible. someone else says it was free marks. you keep walking.

there’s that feeling when you finally press submit on a paper. not relief exactly—more like your body forgetting what to do after operating at full capacity for too long. to be truthful, there were multiple times where you thought you were fucked throughout the exam, and then you’d look at the bottom of your screen and see: 21 out of 80 questions saved.

you really, sincerely thought handing in that empty thing was better than typing whatever you studied. no matter how hard you worked these past few weeks, there was always that irritating, sly little voice whispering into your ear that it was for nothing. that all those late nights, colour-coded notes, skipped breaks and panic-induced productivity spurts would collapse into one single, defining moment that you were never going to catch up.

somewhere around the second hour—after your eyes started blurring and the timer at the corner of the screen felt less like a clock and more like a countdown to execution—you broke. quietly, of course. you had enough tact not to lose your shit in front of a hundred other students in the same venue.

you understood less than you thought. you should’ve started earlier. you’re embarrassing yourself.

you just stared at question 22 for three minutes straight and felt your throat tighten because suddenly, everything became impossible at once. reading felt impossible. thinking felt impossible. even moving your cursor felt weirdly impossible. you literally just bought it yesterday, because you were convinced the one you always use would die.

fuck everything, you thought, until some other voice started talking to you—in that calm, gentle demeanour that you’ve gotten used to over months. low and amused in tone when he said, “why’re you so hard on yourself, y/n?”

last night, he was on the phone with you. you remember lying flat on your bed with your notes open but untouched, your lamp the only thing still awake in your room. coffee wasn’t doing it, or maybe it was just the fact that it was your sixth cup today; he’d called later than usual, and somehow the conversation drifted away from exams, and shifted more toward your incessant need to be perfect, despite and in spite of the circumstances.

“what do you mean?”

moonlight spilling in through thin curtains, the thrum of public transport and dogs taking late-night walks with owners who talk too loud on the phone. no one knew where you were, no one cared what you were doing, but it didn’t matter. he knew. he cared.

you don’t even remember how the conversation got there, either. was it some joke about failing? one too many of those were made, now that you think about it. it wasn’t even self-pitying, either—all casual in the way that people talk, repeating the same thing enough times that it sounds like truth—but then he went quiet and said, “you talk like you’ve already decided on fucking it up.”

you remember laughing. whatever, because what do you do when someone says something so accurate? what the hell do you say when someone sees right **through you?

“i just have bad luck in these things.”

he laughed. fucking laughed. it was this short, incredulous breath through his nose like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. “you study all day, every day, and act surprised when you know the material.”

you frowned automatically. “well—”

“no,” he interrupted. “you’re smart. hard working. you’re trying, and i don’t think you should dismiss those efforts.”

“but—”

“i have to get back to work,” he breathed into the phone. his voice dropped slightly at the end, words softened by distance and whatever position he’d shifted into. you could hear movement through the phone—the subtle crackle of fabric, the hollow acoustics of a room that sounded emptier than yours. “get some sleep before your exam. goodnight.”

no good-lucks, no you’ll-do-wells, no last minute reassurance that would only soothe your nerves for ten minutes before you’d spiral again. last night, it had seemed cruel. not in the obvious sense—he wasn’t mean nor dismissive—but there was something irritatingly unsympathetic about the way he refused to give in to you. you’d left that call mildly offended, convinced he was sick of hearing you talk like that. sick of your catastrophizing, sick of your weird habit of turning every achievement into an exception and every mistake into evidence. sick of you.

yet, now, walking towards your car with the heat sitting heavy against your skin and your student id still peeking out the pocket of your jeans, it seemed more like belief.

in you, that is. almost as if that you doing terribly had never come across his mind, occurring as a possibility.

you recall staring at your ceiling, phone falling face flat to your mattress, face flushed with embarassment and annoyance that only seemed to erupt when it came to late replies and slightly off-sounding tones. it’s almost exclusive to him—you were never that great at reading rooms, after all.

your car keys twirl around your index finger, a different spring in your step now that the bitter taste of last night has dissolved completely. you’ll call him tonight, later, maybe once your foot crosses the threshold known as your front door, or once you step into the car. you’ll tell him about the exam, about how there was a moment where you genuinely considered submitting half a paper because, somehow, failing after trying felt more humiliating than failing without trying.

you’ll tell him that his stupidly calm voice somehow survived twelve hours and a three-hour exam. that while you were sitting there spiralling and preparing to abandon the entire thing, you remembered the way he said it—like he knew, understood, and reached for you when you abandoned yourself.

you’re already halfway through mentally composing the conversation when movement ahead catches your attention. someone’s walking towards you from the opposite direction, feet dragging against concrete in a way that would usually annoy, but instead of diverting your attention to the phone in your pocket—you look up.

you recognize him immediately. lee heeseung.

weirdly enough, you haven’t seen him up close around campus for the past three months. you assumed it was probably because he was just that busy—you’d seen his figure in the distance, but by the time you caught up, he’d be gone. there were tons of excuses that he made up on the phone, too, earlier into your relationship: personal projects, mostly, though the details were always lacking.

perfect hair. perfect face. perfect stride. even now, people notice him as he walks past. conversations soften for half a second, eyes lifting instinctively and following his pace before returning to wherever they were before. heeseung moves through it without acknowledging anything, shoulders relaxed, expression neutral, looking exactly like someone who’s long stopped recognizing attention as something unusual.

you straighten automatically, lifting your hand, almost waving, but not quite yet. heeseung doesn’t even need to see it in motion for him to look right into your eyes.

his expression shifts—something adjacent to confusion, an eyebrow raised as if to say, where do i know you from?

what. the. fuck.

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

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[soulenha]

𝓥𝓸𝔀 ✴︎ 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓰 𝓙𝓾𝓷𝓰𝔀𝓸𝓷

𑣲⋆ 양정원 ❤︎ Fem!reader ✴︎ cute fluffy angst age gap [Jungwon is 11 and reader is 6 in the first part of the story] romance royal au knight Jungwon princess reader blood war fight happy ending mentions of Heeseung semi proofread

💭 𓂃 𓈒𓏸 8.6k ⋆˚࿔ ꒰ long fic ꒱ 💌

𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑰𝑵 ✶ Jungwon who has been taught to fight and protect, meets you at a young age where innocent friendship blossoms. But as you both grown up, somewhere along the lines, you both fall for each other despite knowing your circumstances and must fight against all odds to stay together.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ ✶ 🪽 Haze' notes : My first ever long fic is here! I really wanted to write a long fic and I finally did it after months of not trusting myself and giving up half way. I really really hope you enjoy this!!

Jungwon's whole life has been made up of only two elements, 1. Learning how to fight and protect,  2. Protecting the princess he is assigned for life. Ever since he was a child, he has been taught how to hold a sword before, how to play. How to bow before he could recite the alphabet and how to combat before he started schooling. 

The teacher was his own father, the knight to the queen and her protector who swore to protect the queen until his last breath. And when Jungwon was born, he was raised to not play with toys but wield a sword. He was raised to obey commands and put his life on the line for the person he is assigned to protect. 

A perfect knight. 

A shield. 

When the princess was born, Jungwon was about six years old. Sharp and witty, having wits at the ripe age of eleven. He was one of the brightest for his age, easily passing the others in skills of combat. Jungwon was invited by the queen herself to see the princess after trusting his father to have taught Jungwon well. 

It was one of fate's many games to bring the knight and the princess closer. 

Little Jungwon was very curious to see the princess for himself. He had heard how his father praised the princess's charms and beauty, calling her the moon's child. And when his father told him about being invited, he was delighted with the hopes of seeing the princess for himself. 

“Jungwon-ah, the princess is very delicate, ok?” His father warned him, walking inside the palace towards the royal nursery where the queen and the king resided in waiting for the invitees. Little Jungwon couldn’t express his excitement and joy when they reached the gates of the nursery. The princess was just a door away and he would see if the princess was worthy of such high praise.

“Remember Jungwon, bow to his highness and her highness, do not seem extremely eager and maintain the calm I taught you.” 

It may seem as if Jungwon doesn’t fully understand what his father conveys to him but despite him only being eleven years old, he has been trained and taught many things that even peasants do not possess. Naturally making him much more capable and mature at a child’s age. “Yes, father.” Jungwon took deep breaths and fixed his attire, a knight’s robe to match the one of his father. 

“Here we go.” The older man gave a nod to the guard nearest to him, watching intensely as the door opened slowly. The natural rays from the sun passed through the huge windows in the room, making Jungwon squint and his heart raced at the anticipation of him finally facing the royals along with the princess. “Come Jungwon.” Jungwon obediently followed his father as he led the way into the royal nursery.

To say that the room was beautiful was an understatement. White carpets, floral designs, soft lighting from the sun along with a small chandelier on the ceiling, toys and dolls scattered everywhere on the floor, and a small bed in the center of all, leaning on the wall of the huge glass pane.

The king and the queen sat in the left corner of the room, smiling softly and watching as a small child played near the empty fireplace with her plush toys. The princess. “My lord. My lady.” Jungwon watched his father bow his head in respect while his torso stayed upright. “Ahh, my knight. Welcome.” The queen smiled while the king huffed pleasantly. 

Jungwon bowed down just like his father, showing deep respect to the royals. “I am Yang Jungwon.” He voiced, standing erect and cautious. It wasn't that he needed to be cautious, it was just his upbringing. “Welcome, young knight.” The queen gracefully waved and the king smiled at the young boy, impressed by this mature behaviour. 

“You may see the princess. For I wish Yang Jungwon to be her knight.” 

Jungwon's heart froze, knuckles turning white from the shock. He didn't even show them his training yet, and he was already chosen? “My lady—Jungwon hasn't completed his training—” 

“I agree with the queen, Yang. Your boy seems ready and he will continue to train with you and also other mentors but he will remain in the castle. With princess Y/N” 

The five year old girl, you, looked up at being called a princess, standing up and running up to Jungwon and hugged his waist. “You will be my friend?” Jungwon's heart thumped rapidly inside his chest, face turning red for the nervousness and embarrassment. He was a really shy person and physical affection wasn't his thing.

“Appa! Will he be my friend?” The little you turned to your father, the king and questioned with a huge smile on your face with your eyes sparkling with hope. When Jungwon had first walked in, your eyes had sparkled up in pure joy to meet another friend, someone other than the caretaker. Seeing the young handsome boy, you instantly dropped everything and started staring at him in awe. 

“Yes, princess, He is your friend now.” Your father smiled at you lovingly. You jumped in place at the excitement and hugged him again, nudging your face in his stomach and grinning widely at making a new friend. Jungwon? His heart thumped faster than the time when he ran the fastest. His emotions were all over the place but one thing was sure, you were pretty. Very pretty. And that was the first time he understood the duties of being a knight. Protect you and destroy the danger. 

It has been two weeks since you were under Jungwon’s care and eyes. The caretaker was always there in the nursery but whenever you ran out, Jungwon would drop everything he was doing and run after you to make sure you don’t trip and break your nose, or scrape your soft knee. He used to train in the chamber which was right beside the nursery, always keeping an eye out even when he was in the middle of training and you were taking a nap. 

But today? It was different. It was your birthday and you had not stopped bothering Jungwon since the second you opened your eyes. “Won! Bring me some water!”, “Won! Can you pick me up and swing?”, “Won! Help me pick a dress, I don’t like what she gives me.”, and so much more. Jungwon felt as if he was on a rollercoaster, running around managing you while his father stayed near the royals and finished work there. 

As much as Jungwon cared about you from the past 4 months, he was starting to get annoyed by how frequently you were bothering him during his training for insignificant chores. He didn’t want to get mad at you today, heck he didn’t want to get mad at you ever, but especially today since it was a special day for you but—”Y/N can you not?! Stop bothering me!” 

That was it. He snapped at you while you sneaked him a little piece of cake from the kitchen, wanting to share the first birthday together with him. The problem was that Jungwon snapped at you without even knowing the reason for why he did so. He just snapped when you entered his chambers for the first time with your hands holding a small slice of cake, dirty from the cream. 

The entire world froze, Jungwon froze too after realizing what he had done. He just snapped at you, the one person he has to protect and give up his life for, the one who he will stay by the side of, no matter the age. The one who thought of him as her first friend and deep down he considered her a friend too. The princess. His princess. 

Jungwon turned around to see you standing just inside his chambers, holding a slice of cake in your little hands with frosting dripping and messing up everything. He saw the pretty yellow dress you wore, a soft pastel gown with floral designs which were now messed up with the frosting melting. He saw your lips tremble, soft peach colour popping out as your lips forming a pout. He saw your hair which enhanced your entire innocence, a little ribbon on your hair, soft curls, looking like the perfect princess. 

At last, he saw your eyes, beautiful brown eyes that he always wanted to keep tears away from always, the eyes he never wanted to show any pain, now filled to the brim because of his stupidity. The realization struck him hard. All you wanted was a friend you could laugh with, have fun with on your special day. You could have gone to anyone. The neighbouring kingdom’s daughter who was the same age as you, your cousins who ran around you the whole day to make sure you don’t get hurt.

And even after having so many more individuals who you could be with, you still chose him. You chose him to be the first person to share a special moment with. Not your parents, who birth you. Not your caretaker who has been by your side the second you were born. No, you chose him. A friend you made 4 months ago who now you love. Who you die to see the second you wake up and the one you hug every night before going to your chambers to sleep. And he snapped at you. 

A silent sob escaped your mouth, a single tear dropped. Jungwon’s heart ripped open from his chest at the sight. No. No. Not because of him. Not his princess. “Prin—” You were out his chambers before he could even finish a word. You run wherever your little legs take you, the cake leaving trails behind you on the floor. You were heartbroken. All you wanted to do was have the first celebration with your special friend but he doesn’t care. 

Jungwon stood frozen as you crossed his threshold, sprinting away from his chambers while he stayed frozen on the spot. It wasn’t his fault, right? He did the right thing by finally snapping at you right? Because you were annoying him. He was busy training since the morning and you were bothering him continuously even though you knew he was training. But those thoughts were gone as quick as they arrived when his eyes flashed with your teary eyes. 

No, he wasn’t right. Even if he wanted to snap at you, he could have done it later. He could have stopped himself because he knows it's your special day. No, he needed to find you. He needed to get to you.

“Princess! Wait!” Jungwon ran behind you in full speed as you sprinted towards the ballroom with almost everyone there. Jungwon almost reached you, trying to save you from slamming into someone and hurting yourself or getting your pretty dress dirty. He didn’t want this day for you to be sad. This was your special day and he didn’t want to ever ruin your special day. 

But he was a little late. Before he could grasp your hand and pull you into him, you had slammed into a tall rough leg, the thighs of a soldier who was guarding the place. Your head slams into his thigh and the force pushes you to fall back on the floor with a loud thud. The entire ballroom freezes. The people stop everything they were doing, other kids in the room stop running around and Jungwon froze two steps behind you. 

THUD 

You drop on the floor and flare your arms at the side to steady yourself, the cake smashing pathetically under your fingers, having the soft texture smush and stick to your fingers.

One tear. Two tears. And then you burst out crying. The cake falls from your hand onto your pretty dress, making it dirty which just makes you sob louder. Everyone ran to you in an instant, grabbing you and cradling you in their arms, wiping your tears softly and whispering sweetly in your ears that everything will be alright. That your pretty yellow dress will be cleaned and the birthday will be wonderful. But how could you explain that you weren’t upset because of the dress. You weren’t upset that you bumped into a soldier and fell on your bum. 

You were upset that your only friend yelled at you when all you wanted was to celebrate the special day with him first. That you wanted to eat the cake with him first before you did with anyone else. But, he chose to yell at you. He chose to make you cry. Jungwon couldn’t do anything because you were in the arms of grown ups who were clearly taller than an eleven year old. 

He wanted to hug you, apologize to you and even let you hit him for ever making you cry on your birthday but how could he? Tears filled his little eyes too and his lips trembled. You were crying because of him. He was the one to make you cry. The heartbreak was too much for him to bear too. He looked down and harshly wiped his tears, trying to appear strong but at the end of the day, he was a child too. At the cry of the princess, the king and the queen appeared, the queen taking her in her arms while the king furiously demanded to know who made his princess cry. 

Jungwon flinched, looking up at the furious king before stepping forward with his head bowed. “It was me, your majesty.” Jungwon stammered out, feeling extremely embarrassed and angered by his own actions. The king's expression switched from anger to shock, not believing that Jungwon could make you cry because of how well he treated you. “What did you do, son?” 

Jungwon's eyes stinged with tears at the endearment. He couldn't voice out what actually had happened. That he was being stupid and snapped at you just because you had been annoying him the whole time. How could he say that to the king? 

“Jungwon?” The voice of his father broke the silence. He came over to Jungwon, looking at his son with confusion. “You made her cry?” That's when his dam broke. Jungwon let everything out like a dam gushing out water into an empty path. He explained how he had been practicing but you kept bothering him and he never intended to make you cry or snap at you but in the heat of the moment, he couldn't stop himself and snapped at you and made you cry. 

The room was silent while Jungwon was speaking, the only other sound was of you sobbing softly. You heard everything he said, every word and sucked on your fingers with regret. You saw him cry and that made you sad. You didn't like that feeling. You didn't like feeling sad and seeing your friend sad. Jungwon wiped his eyes and looked at the king with regret, begging for forgiveness and also begging for forgiveness from you. 

He thought he had messed up now, that could never be friends with you the same way again. He thought about how he would miss you calling for him at every minor inconvenience yet he would happily come to your services just to see your sweet smile. He didn't want to lose any of that. Just when Jungwon lost all hopes and thought he would never be her knight again, the entire hall burst out laughing. 

The king and his father too were on the ground, laughing like they have heard the most uproarious thought ever. It was just a little banter with two kids who care about each other a lot and had their first fight. It was the cutest sight. Jungwon and you couldn't understand why the adults were laughing while you both just cried your hearts out, like it was something hilarious. 

You wiggled out the arms of your mother who was holding you and ran to Jungwon, wrapping your hands around him while looking at the crowd. “I forgive you, wonnie.” You whispered and looked up to him with a smile, your hair framing your face so beautifully that Jungwon felt as if his heart had short circuited. The adults' laughter died down as they saw the two of you in each other's arms, smiling and giggling like old friends again after Jungwon had cried and begged for forgiveness. And since you had forgiven him, the king too had no reason to punish you, knowing it was just a children's banter. 

But the bond between the two of you? Grew stronger and the both of you grew closer to each other.

The both of you grew up beautifully in harmony with each other. You were now a beautiful young lady, a princess who was nicknamed, the moon's child, because of your beauty. You were now at the age eighteen where you learned about various things like the court, the committee, the ministers and other royals like the head of soldiers, the nobles and the relations with your neighbouring kingdom. 

Jungwon, now at the age of twenty four, grew up to be a dashing handsome gent. He was appointed to be your personal knight three years ago and since then, he has never left your side for even a second. Friendship apart, he would always take care of you no matter what. It didn't matter to him if he was sick, in pain or just extremely tired. He was wherever you were. 

The relationship between the two of you grew beautifully too. The bond that the both of you share grew stronger and deeper with such extraordinary connections where every peasant admired your pair too. You were the playful one of the duo, the jolly and the happy soul, the free butterfly who slept on flowers with no tension in her mind. Jungwon was quite the opposite. 

If you were the people's lover, he hated people. You would roam around the palace, looking at flowers, wearing a  flowy dress, open hair and a huge smile on your face to light up a world. Jungwon would be two steps right behind you. He would watch you carefully, wearing a sword on his hips at all times whenever he is on duty. He wasn't going to slack off while you were all happy and let that get ruined by some peasant or an arrogant prince who can't take no for an answer. 

But there was something that stung you everyday even though you prided yourself of being his first friend, the one he truly cares about. His sword. The sword that he always carried like it was a part of his own body. He would wake up and wear that sword till the day ended and the cycle would repeat.

The sword was his first wife. The one who grew up with him even before you had ever come into his life and sometimes it made you jealous. You would catch him in his chambers, tending to his sword with such ease and gentleness in his fingers, sharpening the edges and cleaning the rust. His eyes held a certain glint whenever he took care of his sword. Like that sword was his. Sometimes so delicate yet strong, so fierce yet beautiful. His weapon. 

Your heart ached watching him smother his sword with love when you wanted the same, perhaps more.

Ever since you were eleven and he was seventeen, you had developed a terrible crush on your friend. Whenever he was near you, your breaths fumbled, your mind turned to white noise and your eyes scanned for him at all times. Sneaking glances, smiling shyly at him while he was dining with the other guards, your heart raced thinking that maybe one day he would like you too. 

Maybe one day he would see you like a woman and take care of you like he does with his sword, like he gently cradles it and sharpens it beautifully. 

But what you never knew was how you made his heart stop with every shy you would give him. You thought he never noticed you just because he was looking at the guards and having a talk while dining but he noticed. He always noticed anything in relation to you. The soft glances, the stolen moments, the teasing touches, his mind screamed at him to make you his but he couldn't. 

There were two things stopping him and he would never betray his morals. 

1.  You were too young. He was seventeen, an adolescent while you were only eleven. A child. He would never ever view a child with the eyes of a man. You were a child for him, not a woman. A person to protect and die for, not to love and cherish. 

2.  You were a princess. He was a knight. Those two are never meant to be together under any circumstances. He was a commoner while you were a royal. The bloodline will carry on with you and he was not going to be the one to taint it. Your kingdom was the purest of the royals with absolutely no illegitimate children and no other blood other than the royals. 

He was never going to harm that line. So when he understood what you were planning to do, he locked his heart up, threw the key blindly, and forced himself to never ever look at you in such a manner. 

But feelings don't disappear just because a heart is locked up and the mind takes control. The feels are pushed down, forgotten but never lost. Unknowingly, the feelings Jungwon had for you only grew deeper and deeper. And now when he had to keep his feelings out the most, that's when it started to rise back up. To bite him right on his ass. 

“Jungwon, you mustn’t disturb the princess while she is being called upon.” Jungwon’s jaw clenched hard after hearing his fellow guard warn him. Today was the start of the day where you would start allowing suitors from all around the world to try and swoon you for marriage. Having your eighteenth birthday yesterday, Jungwon had been secretly dreading this. 

“I won't disturb her unless the noble tries something first.” He replied, looking straight ahead with a blank face but the pop of veins on his neck told another story. “I'm her knight.” The line of suitors start lining up outside the common hall, having to go through Jungwon before they step inside to meet you. 

Jungwon's mind was going crazy. Seeing the line of handsome and capable men drove him crazy because he didn't want to lose you. His feelings kept rising up without his permission making him get extremely possessive of you, but he shoved all those feelings down and let the nobles in one by one, letting them try to swoon you when all he wanted was just to walk in and hide you from the world and the eyes of other men. 

One by one, they all walked out with failure and the pride in Jungwon rose slowly. That's right. No one deserved you. You deserved the best of the best, the one who can protect you, cherish you, love you.. die for you. “Won! Aish, it was so tiring,” Your voice hits his ears like sweet music when you whine like that. You were finally free after the last suitor had gotten rejected for the day. Jungwon’s head turned in your direction at your voice, seeing you yawn and stretch in the royal gown uncomfortably.

He cleared his throat before quickly looking away. How could you look so good? “Princess, time for lunch.” Jungwon's heart thumped harder at your whine, you pouting so cutely in front of him, looking so adorable. “Won! Are you even listening to me rant?!” You poke his bicep, trying to draw his attention back to your rants but he just looked straight ahead and fixed his sword which was already placed neatly on his waist. “I am, princess.” He said, trying to keep his voice even and calm like he has always been taught. “Liar!” You pouted and turned away from him, walking away faster. 

Fine, if he wants to be difficult, then you can always be difficult. You rejected all of them because they couldn't come close to Jungwon, having love in your heart only for him but even after that, he chose to not look at you while you were dressed up for him, then alright, you can play hard to get too. Jungwon’s eyebrow flutters in amusement as you walk faster than him, crossing your arms above your chest and moving away to your chambers to get ready for the royal lunch. He couldn’t help but smirk a little in amusement at your behaviour. 

“Princess, trying to run away from your own guard?” Jungwon caught up to you in an instant. His legs were obviously much longer and faster than yours plus your huge gown restricted you from walking too fast. His breath hit the back of your ear, like he was teasing you for acting like you don’t care. “Did I get my princess upset?” Jungwon knows this is wrong. He knows he shouldn't speak like this with the princess and that doing this may open his heart unknowingly, hurting him and perhaps hurting you in the process but he just couldn’t stop himself when you looked so cute and mad at him. 

“Go away, Jungwon! I have Heeseu—” 

‘No you don’t. He is with your sister.” Heeseung was the royal knight for your younger sister but you were also close to him because Jungwon was one of his best friends. You knew Jungwon did get a little possessive when you mentioned Heeseung, not liking how you smile while you talk about heeseung to him so this was one of your ways to make him jealous but turns out, he is a step ahead of you. 

“Talk to me, princess.” He smiled gently, the smile that one you know. He has never smiled at anyone, not even his own father. This smile is reserved for you only. He knows your heart melts when you watch his little dimple pop out when he gives you that smile, and it definitely does melt you. It melts you like butter. “You didn't listen to me rant..” You pout, looking at him with doe eyes. And Jungwon? Gone. Heart skipped a beat, face going red and his entire being crumbled. 

He can never maintain the tough knight personality when he is with you. 

“I was, my princess. But, I'm also worried about your dining—” 

“Don't be worried!” You interrupted, “I dine quite well, knight.” You roll your eyes playfully, turning your head away from him in fake annoyance. Jungwon's heart raced at your cuteness, his mind blurring everything around them to only focus on you. This was horrible for him. You were a princess, he was a knight. Not made for each other yet he can never seem to move away from you. 

“I beg for your forgiveness, princess..” Jungwon breathes into your ears, his fingers itching to just let go and grab you by the waist, tugging  you into his chest. God, he was obsessed but he shouldn’t be. Especially when he knows you are too. “Beg properly, knight!” You stop him and turn to face him, arms crossed over your chest as you look at with a playful glare. Jungwon grinned knowingly. You wanted him to kneel and bow his head in utter submission. 

“Will you go that far princess?” He tilted his head and raised a single eyebrow, cocking his head to see behind him. “There is no one here and yes, I will go that far!” You huff, not believing if he would actually do it or not. If you wanted it, then Jungwon would do it. Heck, he would lay his life in front of you without a second thought so what's so shameful about kneeling?

Without wasting another second, Jungwon dropped to his knees and looked up with a smile, “Forgive me, princess. I vow to never ignore you ever again.” He smiled, bowing his head in submission. Your mouth dropped open at his immediate submission, he didn't waste a single second and just went on his knees. Heat bloomed in your body as blush creeped up on your rosy cheeks. You liked it a lot, you liked the sight in front. 

“That's my good knight.” You smile teasingly, trying to hide how much it affected you to see him on his knees for you. A strong man, enough to crack skulls and break bones without breaking a sweat, kneeling before you and giving you all the power. You loved him. You had realized it long ago but never had the courage to admit it because you weren't sure of his feelings but now you know. 

“I forgive you, but on one condition.” Jungwon looked up with amusement and slight confusion on his face. You didn't let him speak and just sprinted towards the grand staircase, making him snap out and chase after you. “Princess! You aren't supposed to—” 

“Just follow me, Won!” Jungwon hears you yell and sprints after you. You run down the staircase, listening to his boots clicking the marble floor as he runs behind you. Your heart raced with nervousness and excitement, your mind buzzing with only one thought. You want to confess today, you want him to accept you as his wife. You didn't care what the laws said, what the kingdom obeyed, you wanted him for yourself and wanted to serve him, love him. 

You sprint outside the castle while giggling, snatching a small rose as you enter the garden. Your yellow gown flowing and fluttering around the bushes. You turn back to glance at Jungwon, smiling widely with innocence and love written in your eyes. 

You turn around completely when you reach the secret spot in the royal garden, the same place you and Jungwon found years ago and it became your secret safe spot where you could just be.. normal people. Not princess and the knight, just a boy and a girl who love each other a lot despite the entire universe gushing in another direction. 

Jungwon caught your waist and pulled you into his chest, panting from running as you laugh whole heartedly and steady yourself on his chest, looking up at him from his chest to find him already looking at you with adoration in his eyes with something else.. something deeper. “Really, Y/N?” He whispered, his arms tightening around your waist. You slowly calm down from your giggles, blushing as you realise the closeness between the two of you.

His face was inches away from yours, his breath hitting your lips, his eyes locked onto yours. Jungwon's heart was going crazy, thumping out his chest. His mind screamed at him to kiss you, to close the gap and forget about the world. Forget about his world and yours, close the gap and kiss. 

No. No, he couldn't. He shouldn't. “What's the condition, Y/N?” He steadied you on your feet and pulled away as if your touch burned him. A whine almost escaped your lips as he pulled back. You had seen his eyes change to raw need before his mind took over again. You wanted him to lose control, to lose himself, forget about the world and just take you like you were his. 

And you were. 

“Hmm, sit down first~” You hide your disappointment and sit on the stone bench carved there, pushing your hair away from your face. Jungwon cleared his throat, taking long steps towards the bench and sat beside you, placing his sword beside him. You scoff at the look of his sword, grabbing it to keep it beside you before he could stop you. “What are you doing?” He asked in surprise. You had never touched his sword, knowing how much it matters to him but for the first time, you took it away from his side? 

“I can't have you distracted by your wife!” You pout, looking at him trying to lighten the air so he doesn't take it as an insult. And he didn't, he found it extremely cute seeing you get jealous over a sword like he cared more about the sword than you. “The sword isn't my wife, darling.” Your breath hitched at his nickname for you, blush creeping up your neck as your heart thumped in your ear. 

“You care more about that sword! I see you taking care of it more than you take care of yourself!” 

“So you are worried about me, princess?” He leaned in smirking, his eyes darting to your lips. Jungwon's adam's apple bob, his mind screaming at him to just let go, his heart begging him to take charge. “Yes, I'm worried about you! Who else will protect me?” You snap, turning away. He chuckled at your behaviour, his hands coming up to grasp your jaw gently, turning you towards him. 

“Don't look away from me, Y/N.” That’s it.

“Can a princess and a knight be together, Jungwon?” Jungwon froze, his blood ran cold and his heart stopped. No, no, you were not asking this question. You weren't. This is a dream. A horrible dream. But it wasn't, you were right in front of him, staring at him with wide eyes. When you see him not answering and just staring, you panic and ramble on, talking about how much you care for him, love him, and are jealous of his sword because his fingers always find his sword before you, how his gaze always sees his sword first and not you, how you wish it was you he would look at first. 

Jungwon's mind was spinning, the world spinning around him. No, no, this isn't happening. He knows you like him, he knows your deep feelings for him because the two of you were never secretive about it. But what he never wanted was any one of you conveying the feelings. No, no he couldn't bear it. The both of you cannot be together. The law forbids it. He forbade it. He forbade you to love him, marry him and maybe one day realize that perhaps you should have chosen a prince. 

Or worse, he would regret choosing you selfishly because you don't belong to a commoner. You belonged to a prince. A royal blood to continue your bloodline and one day take the throne.

“And that's why I want to be your wi—” 

“No.” 

Shivers went down your shine, your mouth sealed shut, eyes widening and snapping up to him only to find anger in them. “No, Y/N.” Your heart shattered, breaking into a million little pieces. No? What did he mean? Did he not like you back? No, he did. “A princess and a knight cannot be together.” Jungwon felt like he was ripping his heart open. He couldn’t look at you when he said no, fearing that he might break down in tears.

 “What? Jungw—” He stood up, looking anywhere but you and reached out to grab his sword, “You are meant for a prince, princess—” 

You yanked his sword away from his reach, tears welling up in your eyes but your blood boiled more. “You do not have any say in who I am meant for!” 

How dare he say that? How dare he say you had no right of choosing who you want to be with? You weren't an object with zero emotions, you were a human. “Give me the sword, princess.” Jungwon looked down, to the side, anywhere but your eyes which he knew were teary by the shake in your voice. “No!” You threw his sword down on the grass and moved back. “You cannot tell me that you don’t feel the same, knight! I know you do!” Your voice cracked at the end, tears softly sliding off your cheeks and onto the grass beneath. He heard it, he heard all of it and it drove him crazy that you were crying because of him. 

Again. 

“Appa! Will he be my friend?” 

No, no, why is that memory coming up again? Stop it. Stop it! Jungwon’s head spun rapidly as he tried to erase the past memories flashing back up, closing his eyes to erase all those.

”Y/N can you not?! Stop bothering me!” 

He clenched his head, his own voice echoing back at him mockingly while he heard you screaming at him for an explanation. “Talk to me, Won! Look at me and tell me you don’t feel the same!”

“That's my good knight.”

“Beg properly, knight!”

Stop it! Stop it Jungwon. Get your mind under control. 

“I forgive you, wonnie.” 

“Look at me, wonnie!” 

Screw the law.

Before you could even process what was happening, his lips were onto yours. He listened, he finally listened to his heart. His lips moved against yours, molding perfectly. This is happening, it's happening. Your fingers twitched, reaching to grab his shoulders to steady yourself as his hands trailed to your waist, molding you into him perfectly. “I love you, dammit.. I love you so much princess, how could you think otherwise?” 

Your mind felt dizzy as he whispered into your mouth, the raw need and love pouring into you. Your eyes flutter open as you look at him after he broke the kiss, seeing your own reflection into his eyes. “I have loved you since the day you hugged me, asking the king if I would be your friend.” He pressed his forehead against yours, his heart thumping out of his chest as he breathed deepened,hitting your swollen lips and rosy cheeks.

“I do feel the same, Y/N.. More than you can imagine.” His finger trailed your jaw, leaving a line of fire erupting under his fingertips on your skin. You leaned into his touch, tears of joy and relief falling into his palm as his eyes turned teary too. “Don’t cry, my princess.. What will I answer to His Majesty?” You chuckled, blinking your tears away as you pushed his chest gently, wiping your tears. “Your eyes are teary too!” He chuckled, nodding before softly grasping your hand and interlocking your fingers, “Well, wipe them for me, princess.” 

“Ahem..”

Both of you flinched. You pushed at his chest hard, separating the two of you but it was too late. 

“Father—”

“Your Majesty—”

You both blush, not daring to look at each other after you both spoke at the same time, syncing unintentionally in front of the king. Jungwon gulped, kneeling on the ground and grabbing his sword before standing up straight, clearing his throat to speak but was cut off by the king, “No need to explain, knight.” The both of you stiffened at his tone, your palm turned sweaty with your heart racing with fear. What will he do? Take Jungwon away? Force you to an incompetent prince against your will? 

“I had suspected this. Afterall, I saw both of you grow up together.” 

Your entire body was heating up in fear, mind feeling dizzy and anxious. Jungwon felt the same, but he wasn’t worried about himself, he was worried about you. “Father, I-I can explain—” He just raised his hand, silencing you in an instant. “I’m not mad, daughter. In fact, we were already preparing for it.” 

…

What? Preparing for it? They knew the both of you had feelings for each other? Were you that obvious? “ The message has been sent to all the kingdoms that you, my daughter, have been engaged to, Prince Yang Jungwon.” 

The day of the wedding arrived. You were dressed in a beautiful white gown with a trail of at least five meters. It was your royal wedding, the day you had been waiting for. You were getting married to your Knight.. Or now promoted to the Prince, Yang Jungwon. That day, you couldn’t believe the words coming out of your father’s mouth. Jungwon? A prince? That's when he explained that there was a secret ritual that your kingdom followed. If there was no prince born or the prince wasn’t worthy of being the ruler, then the title would be passed to the next worthy soul, regardless of their blood.  

And since you never had a brother or found any prince worthy of being your husband, your parents decided to promote Jungwon to the title of Prince. And because Jungwon wasn’t your brother and had no blood connection to your family, he would be an eligible suitor, being made a prince of a small 5part of your kingdom. 

And just like that, Jungwon was now a prince. 

The day you heard the news in the garden, tears burst from your eyes and Jungwon went on his knees, breaking down and bowing his head to the king, thanking the heavens while you felt as if it was all a dream. It wasn’t. It was all real. You were now getting married to your best friend, your knight, your prince. The one who vowed to stay by your side and protect you till death. 

“It’s time, my lady.” One of your ladies-in-waiting speaks, bowing her head gracefully and parting to make space for you. This is it. You were walking down the royal carpet, listening to the soft orchestra as you walked down with your father’s hand tugged with yours. You were finally getting married to the man you love. The man you care for and cherish. You look up from the floor, smiling with joy and your eyes sparking with love and hope.

Yang Jungwon. Standing before you in a royal blue dress shirt, gold cufflinks and white pants. You smile as you see the tears in his eyes, which he was trying his hardest to hold back. “Take care of my princess, Yang Jungwon.” Your father smiled, nodding his head towards Jungwon as he bowed deeply, paying all the respects to the king. “I will, Your Majesty.” 

The two of you stood in front of each other. Your parents sat on the right and his parents on the left. A proud smile on everyone's face as you both shared vows, promising to cherish, love and protect each other until your last breaths. Jungwon picked up the ring box from the golden cushion provided by the priest, taking the diamond ring and locking eyes with you. 

“My princess.. I love you.” He smiled, a single tear dropping from his eye as your eyes teared up too. 

BANG

“Y/N!” 

What.. What happened? Why did everything suddenly slow down? Why are your parents getting up..? Why are his parents getting up..? Why is everyone screaming? 

Why is Jungwon frozen? 

Blood..? Warm blood? On me? Pain? 

“Y/N! No princess, stay with me!” Jungwon snapped out of his trance and immediately jumped to catch you, cradling you in his arms while he screamed your name to keep you conscious. You were shot with an arrow. Right before he slid the ring in your finger, a shot of an arrow hit you straight from the back, piercing through your stomach. 

“Darling, please!” 

“Jungwon, take her away now!” 

Jungwon wasted no time, picking you up in his arms, he sprinted away through the secret canal made in the grand chapel for easy escape. Your gelt your heart beat slowing down, blood oozing from your mouth, “Won..” 

“You are ok, baby. I promise, my princess.” He burst through a secret room which you recognised as the first room you sneaked into while you both were little, playing a game of hide and seek where you ran away and hid so well that Jungwon had actually gotten worried about where you went.

“Princess stay here, I must go back—” 

“No. No, won, stay with me.” You gasped out, clenching his sleeves before he could even take a step out. You didn’t want him to get hurt, you didn’t want him to fight, You wanted him to stay with you in safety, let the soldiers and the military take care of it. But Jungwon couldn’t just stay there and do nothing when someone dared to hurt his princess. All Jungwon saw was red in his eyes, his mind screaming for death. 

“I must go, princess. I am your knight first—”

“No, you aren’t my knight anymore! You are my husband and a prince!” 

Jungwon was going insane. Part of him just wanted to yank his hand away, grab his sword and slay every soul who dared hurt his princess. Wanted to avenge your honour but the other half of him was worried for you. Though a doctor arrived a second later he brought you to hiding, he couldn’t bear to leave you here all alone and hurting. 

Worst case scenarios flashed in his mind. What if you close your eyes forever? What if you take your last breath while he wasn’t there to save you?

“You want to fight for me, won..?” Your soft whisper pulled him out of his trance, his entire focus on you, “Yes, princess.. Please let me.” You smile, struggling to breathe as the doctor gently cut the arrow for a smooth removal. “You must come back to me, knight. You must come back to me safe and sound, wonnie..” 

“I promise.” 

Taking his sword, Jungwon had only one thing in his mind. Destroy. He will destroy anyone who was in part with this scheme of hurting his princess. He will spare no one. Absolutely no one dared to harm you. “Jungwon! It’s Prince Kanju!” A voice echoed from the crowd of people screaming and blood splatters. Heeseung. “Get him!” He turned his head towards the direction of the voice to see Heeseung, his best friend and fellow knight who was covering your sister under his arms.

Prince Kang. The prince you rejected last on the day of your meeting with suitors. He liked you immensely, was perhaps even obsessed with you and didn’t take the rejection nicely. Now, perhaps seeing you get tied to a knight was something he took as an insult. But it was the wrong move to harm you. Jungwon immediately scanned the room, everything slowing down in his eyes. 

Jungwon was thirsty for blood. His heart wounded and mind furious. 

Where is he hiding?

Where will he run off too?

How far? 

There he is. Jungwon spotted him hiding his face behind a black cape, running from the back entrance of the chapel and taking advantage of the chaos. Too late, Jungwon had already seen him.

Prince Kanju will die today. 

He wasted no time and sprinted in that direction. His heart raced with anger and revenge, the blood of his princess stuck to his clothes, a sign of the injury caused to you by him and he will pay for it. Jungwon followed him till he reached the garden of roses, calling out to him to challenge him. “Running away after your crimes, Kangju?” He saw the man pause, freezing in one spot. No one dared to mess with Jungwon and everyone knew to respect him. He was one of the greatest knights of all time. And he had the nerve to hurt his beloved? 

The criminal turned around, plastering a fake smile on his face which seemed much more like a smirk, “Ahh, the husband of the injured, here out in the garden while his wife is suffering alone.” 

Calm down, Jungwon.

“A little birdie told me, it was you who attacked my wife.” Jungwon took a step forward towards the prince, toying with the blade of his sword. “M-Me? You must be mista—”

“Then why are you out in the gardens instead of helping the civilians, moreover, why are you wearing a black cloak, hiding your—oh so handsome face?” He saw the prince’s jaw tick. Satisfaction bloomed Jungwon’s chest at seeing his face scrunched up at being mocked.

“So? What will you do if it was me who planned the attack? Do you have the guts to kill, kid?” 

Not yet, Jungwon.

He took another step forward towards the criminal, his eyes turning black. “You say that as if you have an army behind you to serve you, prince. Forgot that you have nothing?” Jungwon growled, his jaw tightening as he kept taking steps and pushing the prince into a corner. 

Just a little more.

“You ca-can’t kill me! I am a noble while you are just a co-commoner!” Jungwon smiled, tilting his head to the side. “Oh? I can’t? Too bad, I will.” 

Now

A snap of a twig broke the restraints that held Jungwon back. He had cornered the prince into the fence and launched himself towards him. Kangju reached inside his pocket and pulled out a dagger, ducking down skillfully and slashed a huge gash on Jungwon’s chest, ripping the threads of his suit. The knight screamed in pain but lunged the sword straight at the prince’s heart, missing by an inch. 

The prince dashed to the side, making a run for a small opening in the fence for an escape but Jungwon was faster. He swung his sword  in front of him, slicing the prince’s back with ease as he falls down onto the grass with a loud cry, cursing out the knight. “You cannot kill me! My country will wage a war!” 

Jungwon crawled over to the fallen man on the grass, dragging his legs and his blade across the grass to stop over the prince. “Your country will only defend you when it has the resources to fight.” 

Jungwon held the sword with both his hands, raising it right above the chest of the criminal, “See you in hell.” He thrust the blade down right into his heart, piercing through his chest and impaled his blade right into his heart. Finally, he closed his eyes to hear the pain-filled screams of the prince as the blood oozed out in huge spurts, covering both in flesh and blood before silence filled the air. His revenge is done. The threat has been dealt with. 

“Princess you must stay cal—” 

“How can I stay calm when my husband is at war!”

“Your wounds must rest—” 

“Y/N..” 

You whip around at the sound of your name being called, freezing in spot to see the man in front of you. Jungwon. Your husband. Yang Jungwon. Wounded. Bleeding. Dying. At the sight of you safe and sound, Jungwon’s blade drops from his hands and his knees give up beneath him. You watch Jungwon burst into tears and fall on the ground, crying in relief and thanking the heavens that you are ok. 

You escape the clutches of the nurse and run towards your knight, falling onto your knees which shot pain right to your stomach, opening the wounds again but you didn’t care. All you cared about was that he was safe. He was ok and not dead. “Wonnie!” You cup his face and bury your face into his chest as you sob. His blood seeping into your bandages, painting your hair red but you didn’t care. All you cared for was his heart thumping in your ears. All you cared was his chest rising and falling as he gasped into you, sobbing pitifully. 

“You came back. You are ok.” 

“I’m sorry I broke my vow, princess.. I couldn’t come back uninjured.” He buried his face in his hair and pressed kisses all over it. “It doesn’t matter. You are back. That’s all that matters to me.” 

“I love you, my knight..” 

“I love you too, my princess..”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ ✶ 🪽 Haze' note : I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing this and this is dedicated to my beloved @wooyoungmybelovedhusband for always believing in me and supporting me when I doubted my own abilities. Thank you my love!! <33

🏷️Gen taglist : @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @en-injang @h-eva-n @rikisdiheater @heelvcr @heeddungi @boundlesselixirflux @kristynaaah @mybeloveddiary [9/50] , Join?

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[nisc0]

⤷ 𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 : Meet Me Beyond The Crown

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : husband!heeseung 𝓍 f!reader 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : modern royal AU, fluff, married couple 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : swearing, use of nickname : my love, heeseung is soooo gentle, a little bit of comedy, he’s the real dada fr 𝐰𝐜 : 4.6k

Everything could’ve never been so perfect since the wedding. The sun hit the glass window of the palace solarium, keeping the room warm despite the frost on the gardens outside. Four months had passed and the tense political atmosphere had finally morphed into a routine.

"I'm going to lose my fucking mind, it's only been the fourth trade contract for spring and my eyes are already burning," Ni-ki said, leaning back in his chair and tossing a piece of a pastry into his mouth.

"You barely read the ones we gave you last week," Sunoo said, pouring himself more tea. He looked over at you, his eyes brightening. "Anyway, we need to plan the April Equinox festival. Y/N, are we doing the traditional Northern colors again, or can we bring some life to the pavilion for the first time this year?"

"Don't let Heeseung hear you say that," Jay muttered, cutting into his breakfast. "He’s already coordinating a full security detail for a spring parade. The man thinks every season change requires more soldiers."

Jake laughed, leaning his elbows on the table. "To be fair, the North does get beautiful in the spring. But maybe less armor this time."

Sunghoon sat beside him, quietly stirring his coffee with a small smirk. "It's gonna be hard to convince him. He's already reviewing the route."

Jungwon let out a loud sigh, looking at the group. "In total honesty, between managing the schedules and keeping you guys from starting a diplomatic argument, I feel less like a cousin and more like an exhausted uncle running a daycare."

"An uncle?" Ni-ki snorted, poking Jungwon's shoulder. "You're younger than half of the room. If anyone’s the grumpy uncle here, it's Jay."

"Watch it," Jay said, pointing his fork at him without any real anger.

"No, Jungwon has a point," Sunoo said, leaning in. "We spend all our time checking up on you guys. We're basically legal guardians at his point."

You watched them back-and-forth, a sudden warmth settling in your stomach. You set your teacup down, your fingers lightly brushing against the fabric of your dress right over your lap. "Well," you said, keeping your voice casual as if throwing out a quick punchline. "You guys might want to get used to the uncle thing for real. Because if the spring schedule doesn't break me, the little positive line on my test this morning definitely will."

The table went utterly quiet.

Ni-ki stopped mid-chew, giving you an involuntary side-eye. Sunoo’s teapot hovered in the air, a single drop of tea splashing onto his saucer. Jay’s fork clattered against his plate, while Jake and Sunghoon both looked up instantly, their eyes locking onto you. Jungwon slowly lowered his cup.

"Wait, what?" Jungwon said, his administrative voice gone.

You let out an amused laugh, waving your hand dismissively to break the tension. "Oh my god, look at your faces. I'm kidding. You really think I’d let my kid anywhere near you guys? You'd teach them how to sneak out of the palace by age two."

Sunoo let out a loud gasp of relief, pressing his hand to his chest. "Y/N! You can't just drop a joke like that over brunch. My heart almost stopped."

"For real," Jake laughed, shaking his head as he leaned back. "Don't mess with us like that. Jay looked like he was about to faint."

"I did not," Jay muttered, though he kept a suspicious eye on you, trying to read your expression.

Sunghoon quietly observed you from across the table, noticing how your hand lingered just a second too long near your waist before you moved it. He only hid a knowing smile behind his coffee cup as you perfectly shifted the conversation back to spring fashion trends, keeping your real secret safe for just a little longer.

The six of them crowded around you as everyone left the solarium, their footsteps echoing down the long marble hallway. The initial relief from your joke had quickly turned into a wave of suspicion, and now they weren't letting it drop.

"Be for real though, Y/N, you looked way too comfortable saying that," Jake said, walking backward in front of you so he could watch your face. "If you're lying, your eyes always twitch."

"They do not," you said, keeping your smile unmovable while you walked.

"They definitely do," Sunghoon countered from your left, his hands buried in his pockets. "And you didn't even deny it. You called us bad influences and changed the subject."

Jungwon looked at you over his shoulder. "If you're keeping something from us, my scheduling for the spring is going to be a disaster. I need to know if I have to clear a month for palace security overlays."

"Can you guys stop interrogating her?" Ni-ki complained, though he was grinning. "If she is, I'm the one teaching the kid how to drive. Jay is too old for that."

"I am still right here, by the way." Jay flatly noted from the back of the group.

You just laughed, shaking your head and refusing to give them anything. "You guys are reading way too much into a bad joke. Drop it."

"We'll drop it when Heeseung confirms it," Sunoo said, raising an eyebrow. "Because you know he can't keep a secret from his face to save his life."

As if on cue, the double doors at the end of the corridor opened. Heeseung walked out, flanked by two Northern guards. He held a tablet in one hand, his brow furrowed as he listened to a report, but the moment he caught sight of the loud and messy group approaching him, he dismissed his men with a quick nod. He stopped in front of you, his eyes scanning the crowd. "What is going on here? I could hear you all from the briefing room."

"Your wife is messing with our brains, My Lord," Jake joked, clapping Heeseung on the shoulder and he walked past him.

"Be ready to handle all of it," Sunghoon added with a smirk, giving Heeseung a knowing look that made him narrow his eyes in confusion. Jay simply shook his head as he bypassed them both. "If you need a babysitter, don't call Ni-ki."

One by one, the guys filed past, throwing out vague jokes and teasing nudges until the hallway went entirely silent again. Heeseung watched them leave, entirely bewildered, before he turned his full attention back to you. He stepped closer, the stiff military posture melting away as he looked down at you, a soft and amused smile tugging at his lips. "Alright. What did you tell them?"

You looked up at him, taking a slow breath as your heart gave a nervous but excited flutter. You reached out, slipping your hand into his. "Take a walk with me," you said softly. "I'll tell you outside."

PLAYING NOW : Pretty Boy - The Neighbourhood

Heeseung let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping as he guided you toward the snow-covered terrace. The cold air was sharp, but the walkway had been cleared of ice. "They’re pushing again," he said, staring out at the frozen gardens. "My mother called this morning. It turned into another argument about how much time I’m spending in the capital. She thinks I'm neglecting the northern estates."

You squeezed his hand, pulling him a bit closer. "You're balancing two provinces, Heeseung. It's not like you're just sitting around."

"She doesn't care about anything I do," he muttered, his voice rough. "She cares about the appearance of control. It’s just...every conversation feels like an audit. If they're always this fed up with how I handle my life, I honestly don't understand why they even had me."

The harsh bitterness in his voice made you stop walking. You stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at you. You reached up, your palms resting flat against his coat, feeling the tight tension in his chest. "They don't dictate your worth, okay?" you said softly, your voice calm and grounding. "You are more than the title they gave you, and you’re doing a good job. You're here because you choose to be, for us."

He looked down at you, his sharp eyes softening as he placed his large hands over yours. He took a deep breath, the tension slowly leaving his jaw. "I know. It just gets hard sometimes."

You smiled up at him, deciding it was time to pull him entirely out of his head. You leaned your head against his chest for a second before looking back up with a thoughtful expression. "Let me ask you something," you said, your tone shifting to something lighter. "If you had to have a baby...would you want a girl or a boy first?"

He blinked, his brow furrowing as he stared down at you. The transition from his family drama to baby preferences totally stalled his brain. "What?" he asked, a small confused laugh escaping him. "Where is this coming from?"

You chuckled at the blank expression on his face, poking his chest gently. "Just answer the question. If you had to choose, which one first?"

"Y/N, we were just talking about my mother and—" he reasoned, a subtle smile was finally breaking through his confusion.

"And now we're talking about this. Come on, give me an answer," you insisted, leaning back slightly to look at him.

Heeseung let out a soft huff, looking down at you for a long moment as his hands slid around your waist to keep you close in the winter chill. He shook his head, his eyes turning warm. "To be honest? It doesn't matter to me. A boy, a girl...as long as they look exactly like you."

A wave of shyness hit you, your cheeks warming up regardless the crisp air. You looked away, faking a frown to cover it up, and batted his hand off your waist. "Oh, stop. That is such an avoidant answer. Be serious and tell the truth."

"I am being serious," he laughed, pulling you right back against him before you could actually step away. "Why would I want a kid who looks like me? Then you'd have to deal with two stubborn and brooding Northerners in the house. One is already enough for you."

"Clearly," you teased, looking back up at him with a smirk. "But at least a mini-Heeseung would probably follow my security protocols without arguing."

"Of course they would," he murmured, leaning down to press his forehead against yours, his deep laugh vibrating against your chest. "They'd definitely take your side in every argument."

Your laughter bounced off the stone walls of the terrace, cutting through the silence of a winter morning. Heeseung held you tight against his chest, his shoulders shaking as he finally let go of the stress from his mother's call.

Slowly, the laughter faded, without him pulling away. He stayed right there, his forehead still resting gently against yours. His expression shifted, the playful smirk melting away into a grounded, yet intense expression. He reached up, his warm hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. He looked down at you with a fierce devotion, his eyes locking onto yours as if he were looking straight into your soul.

"I really mean it, Y/N," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low promise. "No matter what my parents say, or what the council expects...this is what matters to me. I would take care of you, and any child we have, until my last breath. You two would be my only priority."

You looked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. The secret you had been keeping all morning suddenly felt too big, too beautiful to hold in any longer. "Heeseung," you whispered, your hand finding his wrist, your fingers tightening against his skin. "You might do that sooner than you think."

He let out a quick laugh, shaking his head. "What do you mean, do it sooner than—"

He stopped. The words died in his throat.

His forehead drifted away from yours while he stared down at your face, his eyebrows drawing together. He looked at your wide eyes, then his gaze dropped down to your hand, which was now resting flat against your stomach.

You just stood there in the cold, giving him a slow nod.

Heeseung’s hands instantly flew off your waist as if he’d been shocked. His eyes went incredibly wide, his chest rising and falling in a sharp panic. "Wait. No. Hold on. Y/N? Are you...is this what I think it is? You're joking, right?"

You didn't say anything and kept smiling as a tear of pure excitement hit your eye.

"Wait, wait," he stammered, stepping back a foot, his hands hovering in the air between you like he didn't know what to do with his own limbs. "The medical appointment this morning? The guys—did you tell them? Is that why Sunghoon looked at me like that? Are you actually pregnant?"

You couldn't even have time to answer to all of his questions. The panic in his brain practically derailed, shifting gears as weeks of random details completely clicked into place.

"Oh my god," he breathed, pressing a palm to his forehead, his jaw literally dropped. "The nausea. The past three weeks, you've been skipping breakfast because you said the kitchen’s coffee smelled like burning plastic. And Tuesday—Tuesday you cried for twenty minutes because your dress looked too yellow."

He stared at you, the terrifying truth washing over him. "You’re not sick. You’re...we’re having a baby."

"You're right," you laughed, the sound breaking through the tense panic in his voice. You reached out, grabbing his hovering hands and pulling them back toward you. "You're going to be a dad."

He stood frozen for a split second, the words finally settling in. His lower lip gave a tiny, uncontrollable twitch. He instantly pressed his lips together, his jaw tightening as he tried to use every ounce of his military discipline to suppress a cry.

He failed completely.

A choked, breathless sob escaped his throat, and he collapsed forward, burying his face directly into the crook of your neck. His broad shoulders shook violently while the tears came, wet and hot against your skin. He wrapped his large arms around your back, pulling you against him with a desperate force, holding you so tightly it knocked the air right out of your lungs.

Then, just as quickly, he stiffened.

His brain hit the panic button again. Realizing exactly how hard he was squeezing you, he practically threw his hands up, loosening his grip entirely and scrambling backward. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed as he stared at your stomach. "I—sorry. Did I squeeze too hard? Did I hurt you?"

You burst into a bright laugh at his expression, wiping a stray tear from your own eye. "I'm fine, and the baby is perfectly fine," you teased, stepping right back into his space and wrapping your arms around his waist. You looked up at his tear-stained face, a smirk returning to your lips. "Who knew you were such a crybaby? Wait until I tell Sunghoon and the others."

"Don't you dare," he sniffled, a wet laugh breaking through his tears as he finally relaxed, placing his hands gently—incredibly gently this time—over yours.

The corridor outside the delivery suite had turned into a pacing ground. Ni-ki was basically wearing a hole in the rug, walking back and forth with his hands clamped over his ears every time the doors muffled a sharp sound from inside.

"Is it supposed to take this long?" Ni-ki demanded, turning to the rest of the group. "It’s been eight hours. Why is it taking eight hours?"

"Calm down," Jay said, even though his own fingers were tight around the edge of his jacket. He sat stiffly on a velvet bench next to Jungwon, who was aggressively checking his digital watch every thirty seconds, wholly abandoning his usual calm behavior.

"She’s fine, Ni-ki. Her vitals are stable," Jake added, he was leaning against the wall right by the door, trying to catch any update from the passing medical staff.

Sunghoon sat in the corner, his long legs stretched out, his eyes locked on the floor. He looked up at Sunoo, who was pacing a tighter, more rapid circle nearby. "You're making me dizzy, Sunoo. Sit down."

"I can't freaking sit down!" Sunoo hissed, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. "We don't even know if we need to order blue or pink silk for the nursery announcement! The palace press office is counting on me, and my nerves are shot."

Inside the room, the panic of the hallway transformed into a full silence. The curtains were drawn against the bright afternoon light, leaving the room warm and peaceful. You leaned back against the raised pillows of the bed, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. Another crushing contraction began to tighten across your abdomen, and you let out a ragged breath, your eyes squeezing shut as the pain peaked.

Instantly, a large hand slipped into yours.

Heeseung was sitting on the very edge of the mattress, wrapped in your space. He had discarded his formal commander's coat hours ago; his sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was pushed back in a careless style.

"Right here," he murmured, his voice unimaginably light and comforting against the sounds of the medical monitors. He let you clamp down on his fingers with all your strength, his thumb gently smoothing over the back of your wrist to soothe your racing pulse.

As the contraction slowly ebbed away, you let out a shuddering sigh, your muscles going limp upon the sheets. Your eyelids fluttered open, looking up at him through a haze of exhaustion. He leaned over you, taking a cool damp cloth from the bedside table. With immense tenderness, he wiped the sweat from your forehead and the baseline of your hair. His gaze filled with devotion.

"You're doing so well," he whispered, pressing his forehead gently against yours for a brief second. "You're almost there, Y/N."

"It hurts," you breathed, a tired smile touching your lips as you looked at the worry hidden behind his calm face. "But I want to see them."

"We will. In just a little bit," he said, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek, his fingers lingering against your skin. "Boy or girl, they're already going to be so loved. Just focus on me. Breathe, slowly, okay?"

He leaned in closer, his thumb sweeping back and forth across your knuckles. "Do you want anything?" he asked in a whisper. "Some water? Another warm compress for your back?"

"Just a little water," you breathed, your throat feeling dry from the hours of controlled breathing.

He moved instantly but without any rush, careful not to break the calm atmosphere of the room. He poured a small amount of cool water into a cup, holding the straw to your lips with a steady hand. Once you had enough, he set it down and immediately returned to your side, sliding his arm gently behind your shoulders to help you adjust your position against the pillows.

The pain was longing just below the surface, a dull ache waiting to strike again. Sensing the tension lingering in your shoulders, Heeseung shifted to sit right behind you on the wide bed. He pulled you back against his chest, letting you lean your full weight into him. His large hands moved to your lower back, applying a firm pressure right where the ache was heaviest.

"Better?" he murmured against your hair, his breath warm.

"Yeah," you sighed, letting your head drop back against his shoulder. Your eyes drifted closed, the rhythmic motion of his hands eased the tightness in your spine.

"The doctors said we still have a little time before the final stretch," he said softly, his chest vibrating against your back as he spoke. "I’ve got you. And I’m so excited to see the baby."

Outside the door, your cousins were probably still pacing the floors and driving each other crazy, yet inside the circle of Heeseung's arms, everything felt entirely still. You let your hand rest over his on your stomach, waiting together for the real work to begin.

The quietness in the room fractured, a wave of pressure hit, making you realize that the final stretch had arrived. The head nurse quickly moved into position, and the soft ambient lighting was switched over to a bright white glow.

"Alright, Your Highness, it's time," the doctor said, her voice calm but commanding. "On the next contraction, I need a deep breath and a strong push."

The intensity caught you off guard. You gripped the edge of the sheets, your head rolling back as a white-hot wave of pain ripped through your lower abdomen. You pushed, but the exhaustion of the last nine hours caught up to you all at once. Your breath caught, a frustrated sob escaping your throat as you collapsed back against the pillows, trembling and out of breath.

"I can't," you whispered, your vision blurring with tired tears. "I'm too tired."

The nurse looked up, noticing the look of defeat on your face, and then glanced at Heeseung, who was leaning over you with a look of protective focus. "My Lord, do you want to help support her? Sit up behind her and hold her right shoulder."

"Yes," Heeseung said without a second of hesitation. He shifted immediately, moving up the bed to wedge himself securely behind your back, providing a solid wall for you to lean against. He slid his left arm around your shoulder, pulling you up, while his right hand found yours, intertwining his long fingers with yours.

He leaned his head right next to yours, his breath warm against your damp cheek. "It’s okay, my love. You're completely fine. We're doing this together."

You squeezed his hand, your knuckles turning white as another contraction began to build, stronger than the last. Seeing the fear in your eyes when the pain tightened, Heeseung let out a soft chuckle right in your ear. "Hey. You can crush my hand. Break the bones if you have to, I don't care. If it makes you feel better, take it out on me."

A breathless chuckle caught in your throat at his ridiculous timing, breaking the grip of the panic.

"Deep breath, Y/N! Push!" the doctor called out.

This time, you didn't hold back. You braced yourself against Heeseung's solid frame, closing your eyes and channeling every remaining ounce of energy into the push. You clamped down on his hand with strength, squeezing his fingers until they went numb. He held you steady, his voice a constant low murmur against your ear, counting down the seconds and breathing right alongside you.

"One more, Y/N! The head is clearing, just one more big push!"

You took a ragged gulp of air, your body working on pure instinct now. You pushed through the burning pressure, throwing everything you had left into the final seconds.

Suddenly, the intense pressure disappeared, incredible lightness washed over your body. A high-pitched wail pierced through the room, echoing off the walls. The doctor smiled, lifting a tiny, squirming bundle up into the light. "It's a girl, Your Highness. A beautiful, healthy baby girl."

The breath you had been holding rushed out of you all at once. Your grip on Heeseung's hand finally loosened, your arms going limp, you sank completely back against his chest. Heeseung stayed still behind you, his entire body going rigid as the sound of his daughter's cry filled the space. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his chest heaving with a deep shaky breath while he stared at the tiny flailing arms across the room, a tear finally slipping down his cheek and catching on your skin.

The doors had barely clicked shut behind the medical staff before a rushed synchronized rustling echoed from the threshold. The door nudged open an inch. Ni-ki’s eyes appeared in the gap, blinking rapidly as he scanned the room. Seeing you awake and propped up against the pillows, he threw the door wide, and the entire vanguard spilled inside like a dam breaking.

"Is it safe? Are we allowed in?" Sunoo whispered loudly, despite that he was already halfway across the rug, his arms loaded with an absurdly large basket of pastel-colored blankets.

"Shh, keep it the fuck down," Jake hissed, elbowing him in the ribs, he was grinning so wide his eyes were crinkled shut. "You’re going to wake her up before we even get a look."

Without moving from his spot on the edge of the mattress, Heeseung was holding the tiny wrapped bundle securely against his chest, his large hands looking massive compared to her small frame. He shot the group a warning glare that had absolutely zero authority behind it, considering his eyes were still completely bloodshot and his nose was slightly pink.

"Keep your voices down," Heeseung murmured, his voice a low rasp. "She just went to sleep."

Jungwon stepped up to the side of the bed first, leaning over to look at the tiny baby resting in Heeseung's arms. A soft smile broke across his face, erasing the stressed expression he’d been wearing all afternoon. "She’s perfect, Princess. Congratulations."

"She really is," Jay agreed, standing just behind him with his arms crossed, an incredibly soft look in his eyes. He leaned down slightly, squinting at the baby's resting face. "But wait...look at that jawline. Oh no. She actually has Heeseung’s nose."

"Don't curse the poor girl, Jay," Sunghoon chimed in from the back of the group, a massive smirk on his face. He walked over to the other side of the bed, leaning his hip against the frame as he looked down at Heeseung. "Though, to be fair, I think she inherited his dramatic timing, too. Nine hours?"

"Hey," Heeseung warned, his voice cracked slightly, betraying how raw his emotions still were.

Ni-ki crowded in next, carefully poking one of the baby's curled-up fingers with his index finger. The baby made a faint snuffling noise, and Ni-ki instantly froze, looking terrified that he’d broken her. "She’s so small. How am I supposed to teach her how to drive a hover-bike if she's the size of a loaf of bread?"

"You are not letting her anywhere near a bike," you laughed softly, your voice tired but full of warmth as you watched them all crowd around.

"Told you," Jake laughed, nudging Ni-ki out of the way so he could get a closer look. He looked between you and Heeseung, his eyes dropping to Heeseung's slightly damp collar. "Wait a minute...My Lord, did you cry? Are those tear stains on your shirt?"

Sunoo gasped, instantly leaning in to inspect Heeseung's face. "Oh gosh, he did. Look at his eyelashes! They're still wet."

"I didn't cry," Heeseung muttered, shifting the baby slightly closer to his chest as if using her as a shield against the teasing chatter. "The room is just warm. The humidity—"

"Yeah yeah, the humidity," Sunghoon mocked, laughing quietly as he clapped Heeseung on his bare shoulder. "Thank you for making us the best uncles of her life though. We’re going to teach her everything she needs to know."

Heeseung looked over at you, outnumbered and exhausted, yet the look of pure happiness on his face was unmistakable. He didn't even try to fight them off anymore. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the side of the baby's temple, before reaching out to find your hand under the blankets, squeezing it tight, the room filled with the comforting noise of your family.

@kookieterry @wonderikii @rikisloverrr @icryforenhypen @hyyhwriter @nodoubtily @teddyberryy @genienha @simjakeyjake @2dolcee @heartheejake @amiiq7 @only4nrkkiii @meowieshibal @ily4hoonity @d1m-cataclysm @blaisehazey @not--christ @svtenfate @ilofflee @imtiredofthisbsstuff @megamatt43 @whoshoonie @ni-kichromeheartzz @kristynaaah @charlotee8

[stllmnstr]

boys like you (m)

pairing: yang jungwon x reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, smut, university-ish au

word count: 23.0k

warnings: smut (mndi), swearing, alcohol consumption, post graduation existentialism, the horrors of the modern job market, jealousy, insecurity, itty bitty age gap (reader is one year older), he’s obsessed he’s possessive he’s jealous but in a very jungwon way

note: I in fact did not keep it under 20k #oops. But I had lots of you in my comments and inbox telling me that you prefer longer fics anyway, so I hope you enjoy all 23k words of jungwon who years and pines over his childhood bestie <3

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

One year your junior and a constant fixture in your life since before you lost your baby teeth, Yang Jungwon has always existed in a category of his own. You don’t see him as a brother, but you don’t see him as a man. He’s just… Jungwon. Steady, reliable, consistent Jungwon who’s always there when you need him.

It’s why you feel comfortable admitting to him the latest addition to your list of post-graduation anxieties: dating. Namely, the fact that no matter what you try, you just can’t seem to make it work. To make a connection stick. But Jungwon, despite all of his typical predictability, doesn’t take your complaints quite the way you expect him to.

or, you tell Jungwon that you think boys just don’t like you and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything quite so ridiculous.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

If you look at it from a distance and squint, there really isn’t anything wrong with Park Sunghoon. 

In fact, if anything, he might be a little bit out of your league. With full lips, an easy smile, and long, dark hair that dusts over the angular planes of his cheekbones, he’s a sight for sore eyes. Especially since they are rather sore. Your eyes, that is.

You’ve spent the last week fine tuning your resume for all thirty-six job applications you fired off with crossed fingers and a silent prayer. Your daily screen time is reaching dangerous levels, and you doubt the blue light blocking glasses you picked up from the dollar store are doing much to mitigate the effects of it.

Life post-graduation has been like this, more or less. Six months ago, officially earning your university diploma felt like victory, like the end of a hard earned battle.

But now, you aren’t so sure. Not when the last one hundred eighty days have been nearly identical copies of monotonous despair, one rejected job application after another. 

A cover letter here, a mission statement there, a detailed history of your personal opinion on the role of social media in modern society — that one had been for a marketing gig that you weren’t even interested in, not if the advertised salary were as low as the posting claimed. But at this point, you were starting to get desperate.

And still, it’s all been to no avail. Rejection after rejection. Ghosting after ghosting. Ridiculous, you think. These are hiring departments after all, not some frat boy you hooked up with last Friday after one too many shots of tequila. All your effort surely warrants at the very least a response.

But forty-seven of the eighty-nine jobs you’ve applied to in the last month seem to disagree.

And it’s not like you hate the part time gig you picked up at the flower shop a few blocks away from your apartment, but you didn’t work your ass off for four years, earning your degree in a specialized field, just to spend the rest of your life explaining the differences between roses and dahlias to men that piss off their girlfriends. 

It’s disheartening, to say the least. Demoralizing. A rinse and repeat cycle that becomes more exhausting with each passing day, each unreturned email. 

Most days, you feel a little bit like a shell of yourself. Hollowed from the inside out, just waiting for a scrap of decent news. 

It’s why you only said no three times when Sophia suggested that maybe you break up the monotony with a little good, old-fashioned romance. 

And not just romance. Dating, blind dating, because she swore the mystery of it all would make it more fun.

The first three times she suggested it, you waved her off easily with some half-witted excuse and a roll of your eyes. 

But the fourth time, your friend caught you in a weak spot. 

“Come on,” she’d insisted over an overpriced latte. She didn’t mind shelling out for a soy milk substitute, even. She was one of the lucky ones that managed to line up a job immediately after graduation, one she got from the third-year internship she had. 

So Sophia had her big girl job and her big girl salary. You, on the other hand, were wincing at the bitter taste of drip coffee straight from the machine. 

“I don’t know…” You’d trailed off, unsure. That morning, you’d received a rejection notice from a company you were genuinely excited about. The position matched your qualifications and professional interests to a T. You weren’t one to make premature bets, but when you clicked submit on the official application three weeks prior, part of you had felt like it was fate. A sure thing. 

The email this morning proved you wrong. 

Dear Candidate, it had started. Because of course, even after all the time you spent tailoring your resume to their standards, you weren’t even worth the effort of typing your name. 

Thank you for your interest in joining our team. We regret to inform you that we have decided to move forward with other candidates at this time. If, in the future, other positions become available, please do not hesitate to apply again. 

Rejection wasn’t anything new at this point, but this one stung. It felt personal. 

You were tired of constantly hearing no, of always having every path blocked the second you worked up the courage to venture down it. You were desperate for something to take your mind off of it all. 

You wanted to do something fun. And more than that, you needed a reminder that you weren’t a failure. That at least in some capacity, your time and your presence and your efforts were worth something.

If the only available context for that was a date, even a blind one, so be it. 

“It’ll be fun,” Sophia insisted. “I promise. Besides, the guy I have in mind is really cool. He’s been at my company for a couple of years now, and he’s really friendly, even to the new hires. Comes off a little cold at first maybe, but I think he’s just a little shy. You’d like him.”

You still weren’t sold. You took another long sip of black coffee and winced at the taste of burnt beans. 

“What was his name again?” you asked. 

Sophia grinned, knowing she’d finally won. “Sunghoon,” she told you, smile entirely too smug for your liking. “Park Sunghoon.”

Now, a week later, you can’t help but curse yourself for caving. After all, blind dates are a far cry from romance, and the only thing that your time with Sunghoon is doing, lovely as he may be, is giving you a different source for your headaches. 

Across from you, Sunghoon takes a slow sip of red wine. His eyes stay where they should. You can at least appreciate that Sophia didn’t set you up with a total sleaze. If anything, you think he looks a bit unsure when he meets your gaze.

After another moment of stilted silence, he asks, “What do you like to do for fun?” You watch as Sunghoon swirls his half full glass before setting it back down on the table. Aerating it, probably. He strikes you as the kind of person that isn’t entirely bullshitting when they say they know their wines. 

It’s a perfectly normal question, run-of-the-mill for a first date. And yet, your mind can’t seem to do anything but come up completely blank. 

What do you like to do for fun? Even privately, you're beginning to wonder. It’s as if the job search has taken any joy you used to find in your free time and turned it into existential dread.

You like to go for walks, but it’s been extra rainy these days and you hate how the late autumn air makes your skin feel sticky after just a few minutes. Not to mention the end of season mosquitoes. You swear they’re bigger than any other time of year.

You like to read, but the last time you opened a book for pleasure was half a year ago. You’re pretty sure that same exact novel is still sitting half-finished beneath your bedside table.

Cooking is nice for stress relief, you suppose, but your meals are more for function than show. You doubt Sunghoon wants to hear about the frozen spinach you sautéed last night. 

You have been catching up on the latest season of a ridiculously staged reality TV show lately, but you can hardly own up to that. If an hour’s worth of catty drama and hair pulling every Sunday night is the first hobby you think of, Sunghoon will no doubt think you’re the most vapid person he’s ever met. 

So instead you say, “Oh, you know.” You try a laugh, hoping it will make you seem easy going instead of cagey. “Things.”

Sunghoon just arches a brow. He doesn’t know. That’s why he asked. 

And it’s not like it’s a crime to be awkward on first dates, but you’re starting to feel like you’d be given a life sentence without parole if it was. 

Desperate to get his gaze off of you, you return the question. “What about you?”

Maybe the universe will spare you and Sunghoon will be equally bad at condensing his life into bite-sized pieces easily digestible on first dates. Maybe his good luck starts and ends with his face and he’ll be equally tight-lipped about his own interests.

But then, after a pause to gather his thoughts, he starts talking. Your hope for equal footing starts to circle the drain with more urgency.

“I’ve been really into exercising lately,” he tells you. “I grew up figure skating, so it’s been nice to get back to doing something more physical. It’s been great, too, trying out some new protein-focused recipes and getting out for runs when the weather allows it. I really miss the ice, but it just isn’t feasible with work and everything else these days. It’s been fun to try out some new hobbies that are somewhat similar.”

“Oh,” you flounder for a moment. It’s truly pathetic, you think. Maybe talking about yourself is difficult, but how are you so unable to even respond to his answers? “That’s nice.”

Sunghoon, to both his credit and Sophia’s, really does seem to be a nice guy. He’s trying. Doing his best to keep the conversation going. 

“Do you like to exercise?” he asks.

You wonder distantly if following a YouTube video at home on yoga for stress relief once in a while counts. 

Deciding it doesn’t, at least not to a former figure skater, you shrug. “Not really.”

“Oh,” he nods. After a moment of awkward silence, he asks, “What do you think about the wine?”

It’s a simple question, an easy question, but it’s hard to get momentum once you’ve lost it. To you, this date already feels a bit like a sinking ship and even a question as simple as this feels like a test you’ll inevitably fail. 

“It’s nice,” you say. “Goes well with the food.” And unfortunately does very little to soothe your frayed nerves.

“I agree,” Sunghoon nods. “Apparently it’s made from grapes grown in a specific region of southern France. They get more sunlight than the average vineyard, and the soil is fertilized in some special way that makes the flavor more intense.”

He smiles at you, and it’s objectively gorgeous. The kind of look that you feel like you should be fawning over, that you should go home dreaming about. 

Park Sunghoon is the kind of guy that feels made for fantasies. Thinking about it now, you’re not really sure how he could even be single, or how Sophia managed to convince him to see you tonight. 

But no matter how long you wait for the butterflies to come, they just… don’t. 

It’s not because you don’t like him, but the idea of getting to know him, of letting him get to know you, is suddenly exhausting. 

You’re afraid that whatever parts of yourself you reveal will come up short, will inevitably be found lacking. Your hobbies aren’t interesting enough for a guy like him. You’re not particularly well-traveled or well-read, and you did well in your degree but not enough for it to be part of a dinner conversation. 

You just… you don’t feel interesting. Not in the kind of way that guys like him are attracted to. So when you go home after another half hour of stilted conversation and too-long lulls of silence, you’re not daydreaming about his smile or his dimples or the second date he definitely won’t ask you on. 

Instead, you wait until you’re out of eyesight to let the smile you’ve been keeping plastered to your lips fall from your face. 

Looking out at the sky, the sun that’s beginning to set on the horizon doesn’t feel like an omen or a fresh start. It just feels like a sunset. The end of another day full of nothing special. Unremarkable. Ordinary.

You’re not giddy or excited or particularly moved at all. You’re not angry either, though. Not disappointed. If anything, you feel a strange sense of hollowness, one with a glare that’s especially apparent under the street lights that are just beginning to glow. 

You miss the days when things felt exciting, when you would meet the eye of someone cute across a lecture hall and go home daydreaming about it. Spinning around your room, kicking your feet like a schoolgirl with a crush.

It’s not Sophia’s fault. It’s not even Park Sunghoon’s. But when you finally get back home to your apartment and flick on the lights of your empty bedroom, all you do is sigh. 

…..

You thought that when you walked across your university stage six long months ago and were officially given your diploma, you’d be done drowning your post-midterm stress with cheap beer. 

But you forgot to account for one small detail — Jungwon.

You suppose your friendship with him might look a little strange from the outside, but he’s been a constant in your life since before you even knew how to tie your own shoes. 

Like most childhood friendships, it wasn’t forged of your own volition. Your mother decided the summer before you started kindergarten that her new favorite hobby was going to be gardening. Which was fine and all, except for the fact that she knew literally nothing about gardening and had killed just about every houseplant she ever owned. 

To her credit, she tried. She asked the kind elderly lady working the till at the garden supply store for advice and bought the overpriced gloves and trowel she suggested. She scoured blogs and Wikipedia articles and online forums for all the best and latest in flower cultivation. 

But your mother simply did not have a green thumb, and after months of watching from her window in silent pity, Mrs. Yang decided to do something about it.

She took one look at your mother’s wilted tiger lilies and sighed. Gently, because even in her exasperation she managed to be kind, a trait she passed onto her son.

You weren’t so interested in whatever she told your mom about fertilizer and shearing, though. Nor were you really interested in the garden at all. 

But you did find the boy currently hiding behind Mrs. Yang’s practical work pants far more fascinating than anything you’d seen in months. 

Before school started, finding another kid your age was like striking gold. An only child, you were doted on by your parents but only rarely had the opportunity to play with other kids. This one, even if he was determined to hide out of sight, felt like a gift, a friend you were determined to make yours. 

Back then, he was a shy kid. 

It had taken a fair amount of coaxing from his mother, but he finally found the courage to meet your eye. To come out from his hiding spot and introduce himself.

Jungwon, he said his name was, and you gave him yours in return. 

You asked about his birthday and could hardly contain the smug smile that spread across your lips when you realized he was younger than you. A whole ten months. Practically a baby. Nowhere near ready to start kindergarten, like you were. He’d have to wait a whole nother year. 

Other than the bragging rights it afforded you, you didn’t mind so much. 

That summer, Mrs. Yang helped your mother turn her misshapen, weed-addled, overgrown mess of a flower bed into something truly beautiful. 

And nearly every time she came over, she brought Jungwon in tow. The two of you weren’t trusted to wander far yet, but he made your afternoons far more interesting, even under the watchful gaze of your mothers.

He was excited about the same things you were — searching for bugs in the flower bed, digging in the dirt with the plastic shovel set you’d been given for your last birthday, and building homes for the fairies you convinced him really existed using fallen leaves and twigs. 

Your friendship might have begun as one of convenience, but the long, sunny afternoons you spent together ensured that none of it was forced.

Your mothers were thrilled too. Both of you were overly curious only children, and it was nice to have your attention occupied elsewhere, to share private smiles at how sweet your little friendship was becoming. 

They sighed when you came back from an afternoon of playing with dirt smudged across your clothes and cheeks and cooed when you fell asleep after washing up, sprawled out across your living room floor with pillows you’d pulled off the couch. 

Even though you’d been anticipating it for months, the beginning of kindergarten was something you started to dread. And the further you got in your academic journey, the one-year gap between you started to feel less like victory and more like a curse.

You still remember the failed math quiz you brought home from second grade one afternoon, a big, red F written across the top even though you were usually excellent with times tables. 

It had taken a fair amount of coaxing, but your mother finally got the truth from you. How you were thinking that if you managed to do poorly enough to fail the second grade, you could just do it again next year. With Jungwon. 

Of course she explained to you how terrible of an idea it was, and you didn’t try it again, but for the next few months, every aced exam still felt a little bit like defeat.

Until the seventh-grade, that is, when you decided to fully embrace your role as his elder. 

Jungwon was just starting middle school, after all. He was brand new to the world of lockers and passing periods and so much axe body spray it seemed to permanently hover outside the boy’s locker room like a rain cloud. 

You made him pinky promise you not to buy any, and all he did was scrunch his nose in distaste, insisting that he never would, that he didn’t like strong smells anyway.

Jungwon might have been new to it all, but you, however, had already been this whole middle school thing for a year. You were one year older and wiser and could help him navigate all of the pitfalls with your hard earned expertise.

You thought it was the best idea ever, an example of your commendable generosity and kindness, until one Wednesday afternoon proved you entirely wrong.

You were hovering just behind him as he worked through his locker combination, weight shifted to one hip as you balanced your science textbook against the other. 

Still a couple inches taller than him thanks to the growth spurt that had hit you early, you didn’t have to crane your neck too hard to see over his shoulder. To provide any assistance he might need.

Finally, after getting the combination right, his locker clicked open.

Jungwon sighed. Glancing back at you, he mumbled, “Why are you here? Don’t you have science right now?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, gesturing to the textbook in your hands. “But that’s okay. I don’t mind waiting for you.”

“I have math next,” he pointed out, as if you didn’t already know. As if you didn’t have his schedule memorized before he did. “Which is in the opposite direction. Just go. You don’t want to be late again.”

It’s true. You don’t. Your mom said she’d shave an hour off of your allotted Saturday cartoon-watching time if it happened again. 

But it was okay. It was a sacrifice you were willing to make. You told him as much.

“That’s okay,” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine. Besides, Mr. Lee usually isn’t too strict about tardies, so—“

“Just go,” he interrupted, back still turned to you. This time, his voice was sharper than usual. It cut through the air like an accusation, leaving you more than a little shocked. “You don’t have to follow me around everywhere.”

You frowned at that. But still, you thought that maybe he was just worried about you, about whatever punishment your mother had promised. So, to ease his worries, you insisted, “I don’t mind. I’m a year older, so I should—“

“Ten months,” he corrected, voice like ice. And he still wouldn’t look at you. “You’re ten months older.”

Your frown deepened. “Thats the same thing.”

“No it’s not,” Jungwon shook his head, voice rising. His anger, his annoyance, were apparent now. “Stop treating me like a baby.”

“I don’t—” You tried to protest. 

But he wasn’t having it. “You do.” He insisted. “You treat me like I’m a little kid and it’s driving me insane. The other boys on the taekwondo team think so, too. They’re starting to say things—“

“What kinds of things? Who?” It didn’t matter if he was angry or annoyed at you. As far as you were concerned, if anyone was giving Jungwon a hard time, it was your business too. You didn’t know the boys on the taekwondo team very well, but you were suddenly feeling very violent, a bad idea given that the boys in question were trained in martial arts and you’d spent no time on a training mat in all twelve years of your life.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jungwon shook his head. He still wouldn't turn around and look at you. “Just leave me alone.”

You’d had fights before. Little tiffs that started nearly the same day you’d met. But they were always small, just bouts of bickering that may have left you pouting but never with any truly hurt feelings.

This was different. This… this stung. 

Just like the tears that started to gather against your lash line without your permission, pressing dangerously against the inner corner of your eyes.

Still, you couldn’t help but ask, a little pathetically, “You don’t want me to walk with you?”

“I don’t need you to follow me around everywhere,” he repeated, crueler than he had to be, “fussing over me like you’re my mom or something.”

“Fine,” was all you said. Suddenly, you were grateful that he wouldn’t look at you. If he saw how affected you were, that you were on the verge of crying, it would be more humiliating than you could handle. “Just walk by yourself then.”

Turning, you only paused once you were a few steps away. “And here,” you’d reached into your pockets, pulling out the coupons you’d cut out of the newspaper earlier this week, the surprise you were planning to show him after school. “You can just have these. Give them to your taekwondo friends, since you care what they think so much.” 

Jungwon waited until you were around the corner to turn around, to see what you’d thrown at his feet. Bending, he picked them up, guilt swirling deep in his gut as he tucked the coupons for half price ice cream from the nearby shop, the one that you knew always had his favorite flavor, into his pocket.

You didn’t talk to Jungwon for a week. 

You were late to class that day, partly because of Jungwon and partly because you had to spend the next ten minutes calming down in the bathroom stall while you wiped evidence of your tears away.

True to her word, your mom didn’t let you watch cartoons Saturday morning. And you spent all your extra time thinking about where exactly you went so wrong.

The silent treatment didn’t last long. You and Jungwon were like that — you’d spent so much time together that you’d learned how to get over things quickly. 

Grudges never held for long, and time didn't need to pass too far for both of you to forget what you were mad about in the first place. 

But this time, even after the dust had settled, things between you didn’t go entirely back to normal. For starters, you didn’t wait for him by his locker anymore, didn’t offer to walk him to math or science or P.E. or any of his other classes. 

Even though the two of you shared a school, the only time you really saw him anymore was on the bus ride home. And that was only on the days he didn’t have taekwondo practice. 

But with Jungwon, things had a way of coming back around. It wasn’t long before he was seeking you out intentionally again, before your friendship felt less like walking on eggshells and more like something comfortable.

But you had learned two valuable lessons that day by his locker.

One, Jungwon was sensitive. More so than you ever realized. In ways you didn’t always fully understand.

And two, the gap between your ages may have been small, but he really, truly resented any attention you brought to it. In his own words, he hated it when you made him feel like a kid. 

So you learned. You adjusted. And by the time high school came around, you were practically a pro at ignoring the ten months that separated you. 

There were still times that you wanted to guide him, to help him, but you did your best to hold yourself back. You tried to empathize, too. To see things from his point of view. It made sense, you supposed. Jungwon didn’t want a second mother. He just wanted a friend. 

One that wouldn’t dote on him too much or smother him or embarrass him in front of his teammates. That’s not to say he didn’t use your age to his advantage on occasion, though. 

When you got your driver’s license a whole year before him, he wasn’t shy about asking for rides. And when junior year chemistry proved to be harder than he thought, he accepted your journal full of meticulously taken notes with little more than a sigh of relief. 

You didn’t mind so much. Besides, it wasn’t like you were the only generous one in your relationship. Friendship with Jungwon never felt like a burden, never felt like a debt to settle. 

For all of your age-afforded privileges, he more than made up for them just by being there. Because Jungwon grew up in the way few boys do—he learned to observe, to listen before he spoke. To treat words like something precious and use them only when he really meant them. 

Jungwon was your confidant, your most trusted source of advice. You went to him with things that you felt like you couldn’t tell anyone else, and he received it all with open arms and a thoughtful furrow of his brow. 

Jungwon wasn’t the type to pass judgment. He just listened, contemplated, and then gave the best, most logical answer he could think of. 

He talked you down from your spiral of self-hate after you convinced yourself a failed physics test was the end of your life junior year and helped you analyze the pros and cons of your top university choices when your high school graduation date started approaching with alarming speed. 

Affection came easy between the two of you, because it didn’t feel complicated. It felt natural, just like the day he introduced himself amongst the ruins of your mother’s failed garden. 

So when you told him, senior year, that you agreed with his advice, that you had decided to attend university in your hometown, a mere thirty-minute drive from the high school you were graduating from, all he did was smile. 

He hugged you after you accepted your diploma from your principal and handed you a bouquet of flowers. He complained about having to stick around in high school for another year, and you assured him that senior year was different from the others. It was better. 

Your year apart was difficult, but it also gave you space for things you hadn’t considered before. Things like other friends. You met Sophia at freshman orientation, and the two of you became inseparable. 

You still saw Jungwon, of course. Weekends, holidays, and even the occasional weeknight dinner meant he was still very much a part of your life. And when you couldn’t meet in person, you talked. Texted. Called. 

Which is exactly how you broke the news of your first ever boyfriend. 

There had been crushes in high school, but they were fleeting. Insignificant. This was different. Jay was different, and just as you always had, you spared Jungwon none of the gory details. 

You told him all about the flowers he bought you, all about how romantic it was when he asked you on a proper date. How sweet it was when he picked you up and opened the passenger door of his car for you and how special you felt when he picked up the dinner check without so much as a sideways glance at you.

But Jungwon, steady, reliable Jungwon, seemed to become uncharacteristically terse whenever Jay came up. His texts got shorter, his responses further and fewer between. 

The calls that used to drag on for hours started ending suddenly whenever you brought up your boyfriend. Jungwon always had an excuse ready—he had homework to do or a project to finish or an errand to run for his mom. 

But you’d have to be stupid not to notice the common denominator in it all. Jay. 

For a while, the choice was easy. Jay was here, with you. He wanted your attention and your time. He liked hearing about your day and telling you about his and spending as much time with you as your schedules allowed. 

Jungwon, on the other hand, was becoming more difficult to reach the longer your relationship went on. 

Slowly, but steadily, Jay started to become the person you went to for advice. The contact name you searched for whenever you had something to say. The boy you spent your weekends with, making new memories, laughing about nothing. 

You trusted him. You were new to it, the feelings, the rush of it all, but after a few months, you were pretty sure you loved him. 

Jay was your first relationship, your first real boyfriend, and eventually, the person you trusted enough to lose your virginity to. 

Which made it all the more devastating when he told you, sometime in the middle of spring semester, that he didn’t want to see you anymore. That he enjoyed your time together, but he didn’t feel the same spark you did. The same level of connection. 

You cried until you were numb, and you were numb until one by one, your feelings started to come back in overwhelming waves. And every time they did, the only person you really wanted to see was your best friend. 

The boy you barely even spoke to anymore. 

You weren’t sure if he would even answer, the night you drove all the way to his house in the pouring rain. You stood there on his porch, pathetic, soaked from just the short walk from your car, when he opened the door and found you like that. 

“Jungwon,” you breathed. 

He hadn’t said anything, just pulled you inside. Checked the warmth of his shower until it was the perfect temperature and left a towel and a clean pair of clothes on the bathroom counter for you. Waited outside, on the edge of his bed until you emerged twenty minutes later. 

Clean, dry, but with eyes so red he knew you must have been crying. 

He didn’t ask you what happened. He just scooted back until he was sitting against his pillows, patted the space next to him in invitation. Pulled you tight to his chest as you sobbed, long heartbreaking sounds that tore from somewhere deep in you.

You eventually told him everything—your breakup, your heartbreak, the sudden loneliness it had left in its wake. 

Jungwon just held you through it, wiping your tears and soothing your cries as you laid against his chest. 

And you talked. For hours, about nothing, about everything. All the little things you hadn’t been able to tell him for months, all the parts of your life that you’d wished you could share with him.

As it turns out, you’d missed important updates from his life, too. For starters, he’d chosen a university. The same one you were currently attending. You were so excited that you’d be together again, but part of you hated it, the way you’d missed out on such important news.

That night, things shifted again. It didn’t matter what your relationship status was or what distance separated you—the two of you promised not to ever go so long without talking again. 

The following September, Jungwon officially started university at the same school as you, and it was the most excited you’d been in months. You loved showing him around all of your favorite places, pointing out the secret study spots you’d found in the library, introducing him to all of your friends and the coffee shop you loved just off campus. 

It felt natural, felt right to have him in your life again. Even when things got busy, when you were so bogged down with assignments and projects and internships, you did your best to make time for one another. 

You didn’t date again, and if he did, you never heard about it. When friends asked, you always gave the same excuse. You were too busy. You were focusing on yourself. School was more important to you than a relationship right now. 

But if you were honest with yourself, your relationship with Jay had left you with a unique set of scars. You were scared of falling in love again only to be met with rejection, of course, but you were also terrified of losing Jungwon. Of the way letting someone new into your life could mean pushing him away, despite what you’d promised each other that night in his bed. 

It’s why you haven’t mentioned Sunghoon to him yet. It’s not a secret, exactly, but it’s also not something you’re dying to share. 

Now that you’ve graduated, you can hardly believe you’re standing outside Jungwon’s apartment with a six pack of cheap beer dangling from your fingertips. But something about all of your recent failures has you desperate for a bit of release, and you’re sure he could use some relaxation after midterms, too. 

If anything, you’re hoping it will come as a nice surprise. 

You knock on the door to his apartment,  beer dangling loosely from your other hand. But when the door pulls open, it’s not Jungwon who greets you on the other side. 

“Hi,” Jake grins, leaning against the doorframe. “Long time no see.” Jungwon’s roommate of two years now, he glances down at the beer. “And you brought presents.”

“Not for you, Sim,” you shake your head. “Is Jungwon home?”

“Depends.” Jake grins. “Are you just gonna leave if he’s not?”

You sigh, do your best not to roll your eyes. You’ve been subject to Jake’s antics long enough to know not to take any of it to heart. A golden retriever in every sense of the word, flirting comes as natural to him as breathing. 

You’d be more worried if he suddenly started talking to you like a normal person. 

“Can you tell me when he’ll be back?” You really should have checked to make sure Jungwon was home before driving all the way, but you’d only decided to come last minute. Besides, you remember what midterms were like. You wanted it to be a surprise. 

“What’s the rush?” Jake asks. When you don’t bother to dignify that with a response, he pivots, “What are you up to these days?”

“Just working,” you shrug.

“Yeah?” he asks. “How’s post grad life treating you? Is the grass really greener after graduation?” Like Jungwon, he’s still a semester and a half away from it.

You laugh, but it sounds forced even to your own ears. “Something like that.”

“You’re still working at that flower shop over in your area, right? I was over there the other day, and I almost stopped by to say hi, but I couldn’t remember for sure. Is it—”

“I thought you said you were on your way out,” a voice interrupts from behind him. Jungwon’s. You’d know it anywhere. “Who are you talking to?”

That little shit. He lied to you. Or at least heavily implied it. 

Jake at least has the decency to look sheepish when he glances at you. Opening the door wider, he reveals your best friend. Dressed in a pair of grey sweats and an oversized long sleeve white t-shirt, his hair is still slightly damp. Recently showered, if you had to guess. 

“Surprise,” you grin weakly, holding up the pack of beer. 

“___,” he breathes your name, surprise flickering across his features. His gaze falls to your feet for a moment before dragging back up to your face. “What are you doing here?”

“Is it a bad time?” The beer falls back down to your side. You really should have checked with him first before driving all the way here. “Sorry, I just wanted to surprise you.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Not a bad time at all. Come in.” Side-eyeing Jake, he looks almost surprised to see him, as if he forgot he was even there. Then, he confirms, “You’re leaving, right?”

“Yep,” Jake nods, a trace of amusement flashing through his eyes. “I won’t be back until late.” He glances between the two of you. “Like, really late, probably. Enjoy… whatever this is.” Turning to you, he adds, “And it was good to see you again. Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

“Sure, Jake,” you agree. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” he smiles. “Have fun.” Pausing for a moment, he considers, “Not too much fun, though—”

“Goodbye, Jake,” Jungwon interrupts, something unreadable crossing his features. 

Jake takes the cue well enough. Stepping past the two of you, he leaves the apartment. The door closes behind him with a silent click. 

And then it’s just you and Jungwon. 

“You brought beer,” he reaches to take the drinks from you, passing them from your hand to his. “And yourself. What’s the occasion?”

“Midterms,” you explain. “I thought you could use a night off after all that studying. Besides, it’s been too long. The last time I saw you was when we got coffee, and that was already—”

“Two weeks ago,” he finishes for you. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to drink?” you ask, suddenly afraid you’ve placed your bets all wrong. Maybe midterms weren’t exhausting in the way that makes him want to drown his sorrows in cheap beer. Maybe they were just exhausting in the way that makes him want to crawl into bed. “I can come back a diff—”

Jungwon shakes his head. “It’s exactly what I need.” He smiles at you. It’s tired, but it’s genuine. “I’m glad you’re here.”

And that’s all it takes, all the reassurance you need to slip off your shoes and find a spot next to him on the living room sofa that’s seen better days. 

It’s quiet at first, the two of you taking long sips as you ask the standard questions. 

You ask how he thinks he did on midterms, and he says he’d rather talk about anything else. 

He asks about your job search, and a shadow crosses your features as you also request a change in topic. 

One bottle turns to two, and before long, your limbs are feeling heavier, your lips looser. 

Jungwon looks at you, already flushed from the alcohol. He parts his reddened lips like he wants to say something. Closes them again. 

Then, finally, “I heard something,” he says. 

“Mm?” you hum. There’s a pleasant haze in your mind. One that makes it difficult to give much of a response at all. 

A beat of silence passes. Another. You glance over at him, a question in your eyes, only to find his gaze already trained on your face. 

Eventually, he gets it out. “You’re going on dates again.”

The tension in your shoulders is immediate. You’re not sure if he heard it from Sophia or somewhere else along the grapevine, but you suppose it doesn’t matter much either way. You shrug, feigning nonchalance.  You have nothing to hide, you tell yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong. “I went on one.”

Jungwon takes a long sip of beer, the foam settling heavy when he sets it back down on the table. “How was it?” he asks. His voice is infuriatingly neutral. You can’t get a read on him. 

“I don’t know,” you shake your head. “Fine.”

Jungwon’s palm splays against his knee, flexes. “Are you seeing him again?”

You feel a humorless laugh rising in your throat, one you barely manage to contain. “Probably not.”

You can feel his eyes boring into the side of your face when he asks, “Why?”

You sigh. This time, it’s you that takes a long sip of your drink. “I don’t know,” you shrug. Pulling your knees in towards your chest, you suddenly feel smaller than before. “It just wasn’t…” your words die as you try to find a way to explain the feeling you’d left the date with. Coming up blank, you decide instead on, “I don’t think he wants to see me again, anyway.”

You swear you feel a fraction of tension ease from the air. Still, Jungwon’s curiosity doesn’t seem to be sated. “Why not?” More to make you laugh than to actually guess at Sunghoon’s intentions, he asks, “Did you spill something on him?”

Wincing, you remember every one-word answer you gave. “I don’t think I spilled enough.”

Jungwon frowns, the turn of phrase not landing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” you repeat. “Sometimes, I just…” You lean your head back, letting it loll against the back of the couch. “I just feel like boys don’t really like me, you know?”

If you were looking, you’d see the way Jungwon goes completely still. A moment of silence passes before he breaks it, voice lower, less airy than before. “What did you just say?”

Head against the couch, you let out a small sound, breathless, a little pathetic. “Don’t make me repeat it,” you beg.

But Jungwon isn’t quite ready to let it go. You see his silhouette in your periphery, turning to face you fully. Leaning in, his attention is on you and nowhere else. His voice has an edge to it that you aren’t quite sure what to do with when he asks, “What do you mean, ‘boys don’t like you?’”

All you can do is sigh again. “I’m just… I’m not really charming or cute or good at small talk and things like that. I always say something weird or put my foot in my mouth, and it’s like I can see them losing interest in real time.”

Jungwon blows a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. Glances at you. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“Jungwon,” you deadpan, “he asked me what my hobbies are, and I told him, verbatim, things.”

“Oh.” He pauses for a minute. Then points out, “Well, to be fair, that’s a horrible question.”

You frown. “It’s a standard first date question.”

“Yeah,” Jungwon agrees, “which is exactly why it’s horrible. No one wants to go on a first date and be asked all of the standard first date questions.” 

You know that he’s only trying to comfort you, but something about him twisting the narrative so far in your favor just makes you want to sigh. You’re grateful for his defense, but it also feels a bit misplaced.

“How would you even know?” You try not to sound too mean, but the question comes out flat. “I bet you go on dates with those dimples and that…” you trail off, waving your hands noncommittally in his general direction. 

Jungwon’s brows furrow. “You just gestured to all of me.”

“Exactly,” you nod. “You have that whole boy-next-door, easy going charm thing about you.” It’s true, and right now, you can’t help but think that it’s awfully unfair. “I bet you could ask whatever stupid standard first date questions you want and girls would still be falling at your feet.”

At face value, it’s a compliment. But there’s something about your tone, the trace remnants of sarcasm, of bitterness, that make him think otherwise.

“I’m not quite sure how to take that,” Jungwon finally tells you.

You sigh. You didn’t come here to project your insecurities on him. There might be layers of truth to it, but this isn’t his fault. You’re not being fair, and you know it. 

“All I mean is that boys like you don’t have to try very hard. I feel like it all just comes so naturally to you. I wish I was like that, too. That’s all I’m saying.”

And Jungwon could protest, could launch into some speech about how you’ll find your person eventually, about how there’s someone out there for everyone.

But he knows you, is well-acquainted with that contemplative, overly self-critical look on your face. Can read all of your frustration and insecurity in the way you bite at your bottom lip. 

You’re not looking for a lecture or false hope and certainly not empty words.

You came here with a case of beer and the intention to surprise him, to congratulate him for work well done. 

He was the one that brought up the date, anyway. He knows that you’re not looking for advice. You’re looking for a friend.

So Jungwon waits for a moment before he says anything at all. 

Then, he picks up your abandoned beer off the coffee table in front of you and holds it up to you. “C’mon,” he encourages gently, “join me.” He takes a sip of his own for good measure. “It isn’t going to drink itself.”

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “I already feel kind of—”

“I think I bombed econ,” he offers. You can’t tell if it’s true or not, but that’s not the point. He needs you out of your head. “Don’t make me drown my sorrows alone.”

You can’t help but think that for all the fuss he used to put up about you being older, he certainly doesn’t mind appealing to it when it’s to his advantage. 

But even lukewarm beer looks tempting when it’s him that’s offering it to you. And you’ve never been good at saying no, at least not to Jungwon. 

He knows it, too. Jungwon isn’t surprised when you accept the bottle from his hands with nothing more than a halfhearted grumble under your breath. 

There’s no trace of shock in his eyes when you bring it straight to your lips despite your earlier protests. 

He just grins before leaning back against his side of the couch, smile still stretching across his lips as he brings his own bottle up to join you.

…..

Thursday afternoons are your favorite time in the flower shop. Run by a kind woman in her late sixties, she takes advantage of the day to attend her weekly Zumba class at the senior center, which means you have the shop all to yourself, save for the occasional customer. 

Usually, you’d savor the stillness. Use it to catch up on inventory or fulfill the handful or edible arrangement requests for tomorrow.

But today, the silence is making you jittery. Mostly because your mind won’t give you a moment of peace no matter how much you beg it too.

Despite the prediction you gave Jungwon three days ago in his apartment, Sunghoon did reach out to you again.

The message still sits at the top of your text threads like a curse.

I enjoyed our time together, he said. Succinct, straightforward, and all things considered, surprising. Are you free this weekend? I’d love to see you again.

And it’s flattering, so much so that you nearly find yourself agreeing without taking so much as a moment to think about it.

Sophia will be thrilled, you’re sure. And you won’t have to burden Jungwon again with tipsy confessions of your own insecurities. 

But alone in the flower shop, another thought starts to creep in, just as your fingers hover above the keyboard. A feeling.

The same one you left from your last date with. That strange, hollow emptiness that had you spiraling for days, convinced there must be something deeply, fundamentally off about you. 

Again, you start to wonder why you can’t just do it. Can’t enjoy a date and a free meal and the pleasant company of a handsome stranger. Why all of your answers always come out stilted, cagey, so terribly awkward. 

Why you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop, convinced that any scraps of attention that come your way must be part of some elaborate prank that the universe is playing on you. 

Why even a barely-there, trace amount of vulnerability feels like nails on a chalkboard. Why you haven’t been able to form a real, meaningful connection with anyone since Jay. A relationship that ended nearly four years ago. It’s enough to make you feel a little pathetic.

Logically, you know that this is how it goes. You can’t form connections or welcome new things into your life without a leap of faith.

But the potential fallout is terrifying. The thought of trying, really trying, and still being found lacking is enough to sober even the most romantic of your fantasies. 

Something about the status quo, no matter how boring or tiresome or monotonous, feels safe. Like a cage you’ve settled into and made comfortable. 

Your fingers hesitate, then fall away completely. Locking the screen of your phone, you tuck it back into your pocket with a sigh.

Busying yourself with the arrangement orders, you do your best to push Sunghoon and his unanswered invitation from your mind. 

For a while at least, you’re successful. The afternoon passes slowly.

A woman in her thirties comes, looking for a bouquet for her sister who just had a baby. 

A man in his fifties wants to send flowers to his daughter’s office to wish her a happy birthday.

A couple comes in, hands intertwined, asking if your shop would be able to accommodate enough flowers for their wedding to be held at the end of the month. 

You greet them, you smile, you answer their questions with patience. 

And all the while, you leave Sunghoon’s question hanging.

As your shift draws to an end, late afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows, your phone buzzes in your pocket once more. 

Half expecting to see a string of curses from Sunghoon, angry you ignored him, convinced you’ve wronged him, you're surprised when it’s Jungwon’s name that lights up your screen instead. 

His short string of messages reads,

It was nice to see you again

Missed my favorite girl

Movie night this weekend at mine? Popcorn on me

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you can hardly stifle the smile that threatens to overtake your entire face. 

Unlike Sunghoon’s, Jungwon’s message doesn’t fill you with dread, doesn’t leave you with a sudden flurry of doubts and questions clouding your mind.

And, unlike his, it’s easy to say yes to.

You wait only a fraction of a second before sending your reply.

I’ll be there

…..

The left side cushion of Jungwon’s living room couch is starting to feel familiar at this point. It’s been less than a week since you were last here, and it already feels routine sinking down into it. 

When Jake steps out from his room minutes after you settle in, he doesn’t comment on his roommate’s company. Just arches a brow. 

“You two drinking again?” he asks. 

Apparently, he gave Jungwon shit for forgetting to clean up one of the bottles after last time. Ironic, considering it’s Jake’s dinner dishes that are gathering dust in the sink. 

“No,” Jungwon shakes his head. Remote in hand, he flicks through streaming service options until he lands on the one he’s looking for. “Just watching a movie.”

Jake pauses, eyes flickering towards the screen. “Which one?”

“Not sure.” Jungwon shrugs. “___ chose it.”

You turn over your shoulder, telling him the title. It’s some rom com that’s been terrorizing your twitter feed for weeks now. And then you offer, “You can join us if you want.”

You’re not sure if there’s enough space on the couch for the three of you, but you are the one crashing into their space. You’ll make it work if you have to. 

“That’s alright.” Jake shakes his head. “I’m heading out.”

“Alright,” Jungwon waves him off without so much as a second glance. 

“See you later,” you offer, still turned around. 

Jake grins, looking at you before he makes his way to the door. “Enjoy your movie. And nice to see you again so soon, ___. I was worried you’d make me wait again.”

Next to you, Jungwon’s jaw clenches. He mutters something under his breath about making popcorn before standing up from his seat on the couch. 

Jake leaves before he can rile Jungwon up any further, and the smell of popcorn begins to fill the room just as the opening credits begin to roll. An overzealous pop song plays in the background, one you recognize from the playlist your boss makes you put on shuffle, insisting the corny, upbeat lyrics will convince people to buy more flowers. 

Jungwon comes back to the couch, sets the popcorn bowl on the table in front of you. He adjusts, moving closer. His knee brushes against yours. Both of you pretend not to notice. Intimacy and closeness is nothing new between the two of you. Hell, you grew up practically attached at the hip, sleeping in the same bed until you were in middle school. 

But there was always practicality to it, a purpose. You held hands at the amusement park because you didn’t want to lose each other in the crowd. You let him put his head in your lap when you had a picnic in the park because the only other pillow available was the ant-filled grass. 

This feels different. Intentional. Especially since there’s still plenty of space to his left. 

You lean forward, reaching for the popcorn. The fabric of your pants rustles against his. Settling back into your seat, Jungwon takes his turn to reach forward. But instead of grabbing a fistful, he takes the whole bowl, bringing it to his lap. 

“Here,” he nudges you. “It’s closer this way.”

You nod. Right. Closer. 

In front of you, the movie begins to unfold. Saturated color grading, wardrobe choices that already look slightly dated despite the recent release date, and a female lead that first impressions paint as adorably quirky, it has all the makings of a brainless plot. The perfect way to waste a Friday night. 

And Jungwon, who usually insists on holding his tongue until after the credits have rolled, leans a little closer to you just past the twenty-minute mark. Unnecessary, given how close the two of you are already sitting. His arm, bare from the short-sleeve shirt he wears, brushes against yours. 

And his lips nearly touch the shell of your ear when he whispers, “This is ridiculous.”

You frown. “What is?”

“The premise,” he hums. “I mean, why would they pretend to date each other? It doesn’t make sense. There are plenty of other things he could do to get back at his ex.”

You roll your eyes. Leave it to him to analyze the storyline like it was designed for anything other than mindless entertainment. “It’s the oldest cliche in the book,” you explain. “It’s for the plot.”

“It’s obvious,” he shakes his head. “They’re going to fall in love with each other.”

“Of course they are,” you agree. “But not every movie has to have a million twists and turns. Sometimes it’s just nice to know how things will end and enjoy seeing how they get there.”

“You like that?” he asks, voice low. “When things fall into place exactly the way you expect them to?”

“Sometimes,” you breathe. “It’s nice to not always have to guess.”

“Would you ever do that?”

Your eyebrows raise. “Fake date someone?”

Jungwon nods. 

“No,” you scoff. “I can barely handle a real date, remember?”

You’re not sure what it is, but something in your answer must satisfy his curiosity, at least for now. Next to you, Jungwon is quiet once again. In front of you, the characters on screen continue to tiptoe around each other, dancing around the obvious. 

The onscreen tension builds and builds and builds, all the way until it breaks. With a heated confession in the rain and the one aspect of a rom com you forgot to account for before choosing your movie for the evening. 

You’re a grown woman. You have the degree and the age on your driver’s license to prove it. But the flush on your cheeks is undeniable as the two characters on screen begin to kiss. 

And kiss they do. Jesus christ, you think, just how much of the budget was allotted to close up shots of their mouths? 

As the scene begins to heat, so does the temperature of your skin. You’re half afraid Jungwon will feel it, scalding him through the layers of fabric between your legs that still touch. Part of you wants to screw your eyes shut, to reach for the remote and click fast forward just to end the agony, but you’re pretty sure that would be even more humiliating. 

Instead, you keep your eyes glued to the screen. Watch unmoving, trying to appear unaffected, as the male lead tangles his fingers through her hair, tugging slightly as she stifles a moan against his lips. It’s so raw, so intimate, that you’re tempted to pull out your phone and confirm the PG-13 rating you swear it had. 

It’s involuntary, the way you squirm against the couch cushions. The movement is no help. All it does is make you brush further against the one person you’re suddenly desperately trying to ignore. 

The man on screen brushes his fingers under the hemline of her shirt, drags the fitted material upwards. 

Without even really meaning to, you dare a glance at Jungwon. 

And find him already looking at you. Staring at you, lips parted, eyes locked on the flush spreading over your cheekbones.

Quickly, your eyes drop to your lap, but the image stays burned behind your eyelids. You don’t dare to look at him again, not even once the scene has ended, when the plot becomes ridiculous again instead of heated. 

Even once the ending credits start to roll, you keep your eyes trained on the screen, as if the list of assistant directors is something you find fascinating. But Jungwon has other plans. 

He shifts against you, knee nudging yours. You hear his exhale, heavier than before. 

A moment passes. Another. 

Then, he finally tells you, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Immediately your mind starts to swim. Thinking about what? The unbelievability of the premise? The questionable casting choices? Or, worst of all, the kiss?

Out loud, you do your best to school your question into something neutral. “Thinking about what?”

“What you said,” he tells you. It soothes exactly none of your frayed nerves.

What have you said? You suddenly can’t remember. You search for a list of recent statements you’ve made and come up completely blank. 

It feels like a conversation that’s going nowhere when you ask, “What did I say?”

Jungwon doesn’t spare a moment. “That you think boys don’t like you.”

Oh. Oh. Nearly a week ago now, your tipsy, self-berating rambling must have stuck with him. Well, that’s fine, you suppose. That’s something you can explain away now. Sober, even if your mind is still spinning a bit. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you try to explain. “I was drunk and my words weren’t coming out right. I just meant that it was frustrating going on a date and leaving feeling like something was wrong with me, you know?”

Only after he’s quiet for a full thirty seconds do you dare a glance at him. Jungwon’s brow is furrowed, his lips pulled tight in contemplation. He parts his lips like he wants to say something, closes them again as if he’s thought better of it.  

When he finally finds a statement to commit to, he says, “Maybe you’re going on dates with the wrong people.”

“Oh, definitely,” you agree. “But that’s the hard part, isn’t it?” In retrospect, it’s a big part of why you were so hesitant to accept Sophia’s offer in the first place, why she had to ask you, to insist, four times. “I feel like I have to go on so many terrible dates that make me feel like shit just to maybe eventually find someone I want to spend more time with. It’s not like I think there’s actually anything wrong with me, but I do feel like I have a harder time than other people. You know, making friends, going on dates, finding people I actually want to be around of my own volition.”

After already feeling so rejected from your job search, your headspace has been even more fragile. Dating doesn’t feel like stress relief for you. It feels like a reminder of all the things you wish were different about yourself. 

Jungwon’s gentle when he shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with keeping your circle small.”

“No,” you agree, “but sometimes it feels like it isn’t really my choice. Like, even if I wanted to have more friends or go on more dates, it wouldn't pan out the way I want it to. Sometimes it’s just easier to keep to myself, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t times I wish I could be more outgoing.”

After another momentary lapse, another beat of silence, he asks, “What about me?”

A flicker of surprise crosses your features. “What about you?”

“You have an easy time talking to me,” Jungwon points out. “And I feel the same about you. We’ve been hanging out since we were kids, and I’ve never felt uncomfortable with you.”

“Really?” Your brow arches. “Even when I forced you to go down that waterslide in third grade?”

Even his mom had been surprised. He’d been terrified of that thing, apparently kicking and screaming against anyone else that tried to drag him down it. But when you, in all of your fourth-grade glory, insisted that he joined you, he just tucked his hand in yours, let you lead him all the way up the ladder even as his legs shook beneath him.

Jungwon smiles at the memory, a soft thing. But his eyes are still serious, his gaze still weighted. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, “but that’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because…” you trail off, searching for an explanation. “Because you’re Jungwon.”

“Yeah.” The heat in his eyes doesn’t settle. “And?”

“And I’ve never had to think about it,” you shrug. “We became friends before I was even fully self-aware. You’ve always just been Jungwon.”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering. And then, “Can I ask you something?”

“I feel like you’re going to anyway.” It’s meant to be lighthearted, to distract from that strange bit of tension that still simmers. 

Jungwon’s eyes don’t lose their edge. “Why did you start going on dates again?”

“What do you mean?” His question surprises you. “I just graduated from university. I’m young and unattached and all that. Isn’t this the time that everyone’s going on dates?”

“I suppose,” he concedes, “But I feel like that’s why you’re so frustrated.”

You frown, and he clarifies, “You’re going on dates because you feel like you should. Not because you want to.” 

He pauses for a moment, gauging your reaction. Deciding your silence is permission enough, he presses on, “You’re not even sure what you want out of them or what an ideal relationship looks like for you right now. You’re just going and hoping something will stick, like throwing darts with a blindfold. Then you get upset with yourself when it doesn’t live up to your fantasy, even though you haven’t decided what your fantasy even is yet. I mean, why did you even meet Sunghoon? Because you really wanted to, or because you wanted to get Sophia off of your back about it?”

You feel exposed all of a sudden. Seen right down to your bones in a way you were prepared for. “I…” There’s a maturity to his question that you weren’t expecting, an edge you can’t quite decipher. You turn the question back to him instead of answering. “Since when did you get so observant?”

“I’ve always noticed you.”

“Jungwon…”

“So I can help you figure this out, too,” he insists. “Really,” he adds when you still look unsure. “Who knows you better than me?”

You can’t quite meet his gaze, and it’s all the confirmation he needs. 

“Exactly,” Jungwon nods. “So I’ll ask you again, why did you agree to go on a date with Sunghoon?”

It would be easy to deflect, to blame Sophia’s insistence. Or to double down on your earlier statement, that this is the time in your life to try new things, to meet new people. That it felt natural to say yes. 

But when you really think about it, the cold, honest truth is just that—

“I think I was just tired of hearing no all the time.”

Jungwon’s brow furrows. “Who’s telling you no?”

You sigh, try to let out an airy laugh that comes out choked, a little pathetic. “Only every hiring manager in the country, apparently. You know, I’ve been sending out job applications like crazy since graduation, but it's been six months now and the only thing I have to show for it is a stack of rejection letters cluttering my inbox.”

A flicker of understanding passes through his gaze. “So you’re compensating, then.”

You glare. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” he shakes his head. With the same tone you’ve heard him use to soothe a skittish kitten, he adds, “That must have been so frustrating. Putting in all that effort and not getting the result you wanted.” He knee brushes yours as he leans in closer, something unbearably earnest in his gaze. “You’ve been working too hard.”

“I haven’t been working hard enough,” you argue. “If I had, then something would have panned out at this point. I just need to—”

“There you go again,” he interrupts, shaking his head gently. “Assuming that it’s all your fault. Maybe the hiring manager was just an idiot, or you caught them on a bad day.”

“Yeah.” Your words drip with self-effacing sarcasm. “I’d believe that if it were one or two. But I don’t think over a hundred of them just happened to wake up on the wrong side of the bed the day they reviewed my application.”

It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Settles into the air a bit uncomfortably. 

Jungwon takes a moment to respond. When he does, he just sighs your name. 

“I know,” you scramble for something a little lighter, “like, the economy is shit and all, and one day I’ll look back at this and laugh or whatever. But it just sucks right now, you know? I’m so sick of it. I really just wanted to hear someone say—”

“Yes,” Jungwon finishes for you. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Exactly.” 

“Okay,” he nods, resolve tightening as if he’s made his mind up about something. “Then ask me.”

“What?”

Jungwon doubles down. “You can ask me,” he insists again, that same damn earnestness in his eyes, “anything you want me to do.” Meeting your gaze, he adds, “I’ll say yes. I promise.”

Against your will, you feel warmth starting to rise on your cheeks again. There’s something weighted in his promise, something desperate that simmers just behind it. Something that you have absolutely no idea what to do with. 

Suddenly desperate for a reprieve, you do your best to break the tension. “That seems like a terrible idea.” You curse the strange breathlessness in your voice. Why are you like this? It’s just Jungwon. “What if I ask you to jump off a bridge?”

Jungwon just grins. “I’ll take my chances. Besides, I know I’m safe. You’d miss me too much.”

“You know,” you start, “for someone who thinks fake dating is ridiculous, this feels even more absurd.”

Jungwon doesn’t budge. “Just try it,” he encourages. “Ask me something.”

You sigh. “Jungwon…”

“C’mon.” He’s relentless. “Just once.”

“Fine.” You glance towards the bowl still sitting in his lap. “Hand me the popcorn.”

Picking it up, he ignores your outstretched hands in favor of learning forward, all the way until he settles it in your lap. His fingers remain against the edges of the bowl until he’s sure the balance is steady. Only then does he lean back into his own space. 

“Easy.” He grins. Then his brow furrows, considering. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “I could make you some real food, if—”

“No,” you shake your head. Picking up a single piece of popcorn, you add, “Just wanted to do this.” 

Throwing it square at his face, it bounces off of his nose harmlessly before falling to the carpet below. Jungwon’s nose scrunches in a knee-jerk reaction, eyes screwing shut before he opens them again. 

“Maybe I was wrong,” his eyes are heavy-lidded, voice lower than you expect. “You are going to use it for evil.” 

“Of course.” You reach for another kernel. “So maybe you should reconsider—”

Jungwon doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give you a moment to prepare for the way he wraps his fingers around your raised wrist, locking it into place before you can toss another piece of popcorn in his direction. 

His grip is warm against your skin. Tight, something you’re not sure you’d be able to break out of even if you tried. 

Still, you attempt to fling the popcorn at him. With the restricted motion of your wrist, it doesn’t make it far. It flies through the air for only a split second before falling uselessly down to your own lap, just in front of the bowl it came from. 

“Nice try,” Jungwon breathes, your wrist still encased in his grip. 

Your eyes narrow. “I do my best.”

“I’m sure you do,” he allows, “but you’re trapped now.”

There’s something strange in his gaze. Something heavy, weighted that you can’t quite place. Something that feels entirely too real. 

You test it, the strength of his grip on you. True to his word, your wrist hardly makes it an inch, his fingers a vice around them. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you breathe, voice airier than you mean for it to be.

“Maybe,” he agrees. A breath passes between you. Another. His eyes are still locked on yours, searching, like he’s desperate to find something. Another moment passes, and he releases his grip. Your wrist falls slowly back to your lap. “But I meant it.”

“I know you did.” You can’t quite make eye contact, but his sincerity is evident even as you place your gaze elsewhere. “Thank you.”

“Seriously,” he insists. “My schedule is a lot lighter now that midterms are done. If you ever want to do something or go somewhere or you just wanna crash for a night on my couch, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Did you get Jake’s approval for that?” You arch an eyebrow. 

Jungwon’s voice is tighter than before, just slightly. “Jake will be fine." And then, still strained but a bit softer, “If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know. Don’t make me wait two weeks to see you.”

Here, in the quiet of his living room, movie forgotten on the TV, it’s easy to agree to. 

“Okay,” you whisper, regular speech suddenly feeling too loud, too abrasive. And then again, because you really do mean it, “Thank you, Jungwon.”

“Of course,” he insists, voice equally low. 

For a moment, the two of you sit like that, legs brushing, you avoiding the eye contact he tries to maintain. 

Then, Jungwon sighs, faces the TV again as he reaches for the remote. “Should we watch something else?” he asks. 

You nod. “Something scary this time.” 

Jungwon arches a brow. “You hate horror movies.”

Shrugging, you insist. “I’m in the mood for one now.” 

He still doesn’t look like he quite believes you, but he doesn’t argue any further as he scrolls down, searching for the genre. 

At his side, you’re quiet. It’s true. You do hate horror. But you’d take zombies and ghosts and jumpscares any day over the off chance of having to sit through another kissing scene tonight. 

This time, Jungwon picks the movie. Learning back against the cushions, he reaches for a handful of popcorn. 

The movie hasn’t started yet. There’s nothing on the screen to be scared of, but your heart thumps traitorously against your ribcage anyway.

…..

Two days later, you’re back at your favorite coffee shop. This time, though, it’s not Jungwon who sits across from you.

“So,” Sophia starts, and you already recognize that tone. Uh-oh, you think. “Sunghoon asked about you.”

“Why?” you ask, memories of your rather terrible date coming back unbidden. “To see if I’ve checked myself into an insane asylum yet?”

“No,” she glares. “Just to see how you’re doing.” She takes a sip of her drink, eyeing you over the rim. “Why didn’t you go on another date? He told me he texted you.”

That explains it then, you think. Him reaching out to you probably didn’t come from genuine interest. Maybe spending time with you felt like nothing more than a favor to his coworker. Maybe he was secretly relieved when you’d ignored his message. Maybe he only brought it up to Sophia to be polite. 

Your eyes narrow. “Why are you so involved, anyway? You know, this is exactly why they say you shouldn’t shit where you eat.”

“I’m not dating him,” she points out. “And you two don’t work together.” It’s true. You’d applied for an open position a couple months back, actually. And, of course, had been promptly rejected. “That doesn’t apply.”

“Close enough,” you mutter. 

“Why are you so against it?” she asks. “Did he suck or something?” Considering it, she’s quick to apologize. “Sorry. He always seemed so nice at work. A little shy, like I told you, but when he mentioned he was single, you were the first person I thought of. Did he say something weird to you or try to make you split the bill—”

“No,” you shake your head. “Nothing like that. He was perfectly nice. And polite.”

Her confusion returns. “So what gives? I didn’t expect the two of you to get married, but I thought you’d at least last a little longer than one date. Besides,” she leans in, voice lower but still not nearly quiet enough for what she’s about to ask you, “aren’t you practically shriveled up at this point? Did you take a vow of celibacy without telling me? When’s the last time you even had se—”

Eyes widening in panic, you interrupt her with an entirely too loud, too bright, “Hi, Jungwon!”

Frowning, Sophia turns back to look over her shoulder. Because there he is, the man in question. A surprising coincidence, perhaps, if you weren’t the one that introduced both of your friends to this cafe. 

“Hey,” he grins, glancing between the both of you with his takeout cup in hand. “I thought that was you I saw over here.” Turning to your friend, he nods, “Hi, Sophia.”

“Jungwon,” she returns. Her gaze follows his, all the way from his eyes to yours. Settling back into her seat, she gestures towards the empty chair at your table. “Grab a seat,” she offers. “Join us.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” you glance at him apologetically. “I’m sure Jungwon has other—”

But he slides down into the chair without a hint of protest, your words dying on your lips. 

“Sorry for interrupting,” he says. “What were you two talking about?”

You force a smile that looks anything but easy. “Nothing,” you insist, just as Sophia explains, 

“____’s desperate need to get laid.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flashing daggers at Sophia with your eyes as you pointedly avoid looking to where Jungwon sits on your right. “I did not say that.”

“So what?” she asks, either oblivious to your suffering or relishing in it. “You’re planning to be a nun forever?”

“I’m busy,” you deflect. “I have other priorities right now.”

“Busy people have sex,” she argues. “All that stress isn’t good for you. Like I said, you’ll shrivel up and—”

“Can we talk about literally anything else?” She has to know how embarrassed you are from the increasingly red shade of your face, how horrified you are that Jungwon can hear everything she’s saying. There aren’t many secrets left between the two of you, but the gory details of your nonexistent sex life isn’t something you’re exactly dying for him to be privy to. 

Sophia leans back, some of the urgency of her insistence fading. Still, she’s not quite done. “I’m just confused,” she explains. “I mean, Sunghoon was kind and a gentleman and more than willing, if the way he keeps hounding me about you is anything to go by. I just don’t get it.”

Slowly, you brave a glance at Jungwon, who’s kept quiet this whole time. Maybe, at least, he shares some of your embarrassment, avoiding your gaze just as pointedly as you avoided his. 

But when you turn towards him hesitantly, Jungwon is already looking at you. There’s nothing shy or avoidant as his eyes rake over you. And there’s no sign of embarrassment, no telltale flush, no fidgety shifting. 

Jungwon’s just looking at you. With a cool, steady stare. Like he’s assessing you, clicking puzzle pieces into place. 

When he finally breaks eye contact, it’s to look at Sophia. “Leave her alone,” he defends. His tone is light, teasing. But there’s an edge there. Something that doesn’t leave space for an argument. “She’ll find someone when she’s ready. Park Sunghoon isn’t the end all be all of men.”

“No,” Sophia agrees, “but surely he’s better than your left hand and the vib—”

“Oh my god,” you’re begging this time. “Stop.”

“What about you?” Jungwon asks, and both of you turn to him in surprise. When your eyes land on him, he’s looking at Sophia, not at you. “How’s your love life looking these days?”

“Love life…” She trails off, shrugging. “Nothing to report. But I haven’t joined your girl here,” she nods towards you, “at the convent yet. In that regard,” she grins. “I’m perfectly healthy.”

“Good for you,” Jungwon nods. “And the job is still going well?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “It’s not confirmed yet, but there’s a rumor that I might be in talks for a promotion next quarter. I’m…”

Her words trail off as you zone out, some of the adrenaline fading, the tension draining from your shoulders. 

Not for the first time, you feel extremely grateful for Jungwon. It’s subtle, but it’s enough. And to you, it’s obvious. The way he maneuvered the conversation away from you. You’re sure that your discomfort wasn’t difficult to pick up on, but the way he handled it makes you appreciate him that much more. 

Morbidly, you wonder what he thinks of your glaring lack of a sex life. Ever since Jay, you’ve kept the details of your relationships, or rather, lack thereof, close to the chest where he’s concerned. And even when you were with Jay, intimacy was never a topic you breached with Jungwon. 

The thought has a flush starting anew on your cheekbones. You do your best to dismiss it. 

Next to you, Jungwon keeps his eyes on Sophia, nodding at the appropriate times, commenting in a way that proves he’s listening. 

But beneath the table, the warmth on his palm finds your knee. Without breaking conversation or giving even the slightest outward hint that his mind is anywhere besides your friend’s story about her boss’ most recent rampage, he squeezes. 

Once, gently. Just to let you know that he’s there. 

You fidget, and he does it again. This time, he can’t quite help the grin that spreads across his lips. 

…..

Despite everything, you can’t shake the feeling of Jungwon’s hand on your knee beneath the table. Days pass, and in quiet moments, if you give your brain enough leeway, it always wanders back there. 

To his easy, subtle defense of you. To the way it seemed so natural for him to soothe you silently with his touch. 

To the way he looked at you, considering, evaluative, while Sophia laid out the gory details of your fruitless sex life on the table. 

And maybe she was right to question you so thoroughly. Maybe it really has been too long, because that’s the only feasible explanation for the thoughts you’re having now. 

It’s only natural, you suppose. Jungwon has been a constant in your life, a steady presence, for nearly as long as your memory extends. He’s been there through it all, your worst moments, your best memories. He’s seen all of it, knows you like the back of his hand, and he’s stuck around for it all. 

For someone with an intense fear of rejection, it means more than you can say. You can’t think of anyone in this world that you trust more than him. 

And intimacy… Intimacy is just an extension of that, you suppose. Being close with someone in that way is the ultimate act of trust. 

Maybe that’s why things felt so stilted, so disjointed with Sunghoon. You had nothing against him, but you also didn’t know him at all. Trust is something that takes time, effort. How could you let your guard down with someone you had just met?

It’s just nerves, you’re sure. You’ve been out of practice since Jay, and with each passing day, that relationship just feels further and further away. A distant memory that you can’t recall well enough to guide you now. 

Maybe if there was someone you really trusted, someone that you could just practice with, then—

No. You shake your head, dropping the thought as quick as it comes. It’s insane. It’s the exact opposite of everything your relationship with Jungwon has been for the last eighteen years of your life. 

Still, when a message from him lights up your phone screen a handful of hours later, it takes you a full minute and a string of deep breaths to convince yourself to open it. 

And when you reread the text, an invitation to drive out to a lesser known lookout where the two of you used to go to watch the sunset in high school, you agree easily. If your heart is beating a little too fast in your chest, well, you suppose no one ever has to know about it. 

Years ago, you were the one that discovered the outlook. After a particularly awful day, due mostly to your terrible junior year biology teacher, you’d put your newly acquired driver’s license to good use. You had no destination in mind. You were still new to driving and liked the way that it felt, liked the way it seemed like you could outrun any problem if you just drove far enough. 

A series of wrong turns led you straight to a forested area not too far from the highway. Jutting high out over a nearby valley, the scene you found sprawled out in front of you was gorgeous.

It was early spring, then. Flowers were just beginning to bloom, glowing in the late afternoon sun. You shifted the car into park, shutting off the engine. And then you sat, for hours, just looking out at all of it. 

As the sun faded on the horizon, so did the most pressing of your worries. Looking around you, biology class had begun to feel a lifetime ago. 

You realized that day that you found somewhere special, somewhere that you wouldn’t be willing to show to just anyone. Even then, there was only one person you thought you’d ever share the view with, that you’d ever let into your private little sanctuary. 

So, one month later, when Jungwon came to your house after school with a crease between his eyebrows that usual methods couldn’t seem to soothe, you offered him the passenger seat of your car and the view you’d been keeping all to yourself. 

That day, it became his too. And a tradition of sorts began to form. Whenever either of you was stressed or upset or just needed to get away from it all, you had a shared place to escape to. Somewhere that felt out of reach from everyone else. Somewhere for just the two of you. 

You haven’t been back there with Jungwon for the better part of a year. Part of you is a bit worried as you see his car pull up from your apartment window—this time, he’ll be the one driving—that something happened. 

After all, the two of you usually saved the outlook for difficult times. 

But as you slide into Jungwon’s passenger seat, the only thing he greets you with is an easy smile. 

“Good day?” he asks, handing you his phone so you can pick the playlist for the drive. 

“Fine,” you nod, settling for an R&B album you know you both like. “What about you?” you ask, still wanting to dissuade your earlier concerns. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods, craning his neck as he checks for cross-traffic before pulling onto the main street. “I just wanted to see you. Thought it might be nice to go somewhere quiet. And it’s a beautiful day.” He looks towards the cloudless sky. “I thought the sunset would be nice.”

The drive goes quickly as you pass familiar streets, reminiscing as memories coming back at every turn. 

“Oh my god,” you say as one comes back suddenly. “Remember that time we drove out here because James rejected me at junior prom?”

Jungwon frowns. “James was an idiot.”

It rings true in hindsight. “Yeah, but I was devastated. I cried so hard I got snot on my dress.” It’s easy to laugh at now, even if the sting was unbearable in the moment. “No wonder he said no.”

“He said no because he was a dumbass,” Jungwon argues. “Besides, it can’t be worse than the time we came here because I didn’t make the taekwondo competition team.”

Something about the memory, even now, makes your heart clench a little. “That was just sad,” you tell him softly. “You were so disappointed.”

“I got over it,” he shrugs. “The dartboard you made of my coach’s face helped.”

“Oh my god,” your eyes widen. “I forgot about that.”

Jungwon smiles like it’s a fond memory. “You were so violent.”

You shake your head. “Only for you. I don’t think I’d ever wanted to hit someone more.”

Trading memories like secrets, the two of you eventually reach the right exit. Pulling off the highway, the air around you immediately feels more still. Calmer. 

And when Jungwon pulls right up to the overlook, shifting his car into park and shutting off the ignition, things feel just like you left them. 

The sun is getting close to the horizon now. The valley that stretches out beneath you as far as the eye can see glows in the last rays of daylight. 

Your gaze stretches out too, welcoming that sense of familiarity. “It looks the same,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” Jungwon agrees. “It does.”

Returning here now makes times feel sharper, more obvious. 

“We’ve been coming here for what, six years now?” You shake your head. “I can’t believe it’s been that long. I can’t believe I graduated. Like, I’m just done with university now. I still remember when it felt so far away.”

“Yeah.” Jungwon nods, eyes on the horizon. “Me too.” 

For a moment, the space between you is silent, the air filled with nothing but the sound of your quiet breaths. 

You weren’t the one who asked him here, but if there was ever a place to admit the worries in your mind, you suppose it would be now. 

Quietly, you say, “Can I ask you something?”

Jungwon turns to you, attuned to the serious tone of your voice. “Of course.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me,” you promise. “I know we don’t really talk about this kind of stuff usually, and—”

“___,” he interrupts, “Ask me.”

You take a breath. You can feel his gaze on you, but you can’t quite look him in the eye when you ask, “Do you think Sophia was right?”

“About what?” His shoulders stiffen. “Sunghoon?”

“No,” you shake your head, and the tension loosens, but only slightly. “About me.”

“What about you?” he breathes.

“That I…” you trail off, searching for the right words. “That it’s been too long since I was with someone.” 

Even now, you can’t bring yourself to say it. To call a spade a spade. Jungwon reads between the lines easily enough. 

He shakes his head. “It’s your choice to make. Yours and no one else’s, for whatever reasons you want. Don’t let Sophia make you feel bad just because her choice is different from yours.”

“I know,” you sigh. “But sometimes I think she’s right. That the longer I wait, the more difficult I’m making things for myself, like I’m just making the hurdle in my mind bigger and bigger. I mean, the last time I was with someone, you know, like that, was with Jay, and that was already—”

Jungwon’s inhale is sharp. “It was?” 

“See?” you frown, mistaking his surprise for confirmation of your fears. “It’s been so long. Too long. Even you think so.”

“I don’t—” he tries, shaking his head. Now Jungwon’s the one scrambling for words. “I don’t think it’s been too long. I was just surprised,” he says. “That’s all.”

“Yeah, surprised because of how long it’s been.” You laugh humorlessly. “Now even you think I’m a nun.”

“I don’t think that,” he shakes his head. “Like I said, it’s your choice.” 

“Is it though?” you ask. “The more time passes, the more I start to think that the cards just aren’t stacked in my favor.”

Jungwon frowns. “What do you mean?”

Your palms splay against your lap. The last rays of sun stretch over the valley, and your words are spilling out before you can stop them. “Maybe Sunghoon only acted interested because of Sophia. Maybe every time anyone has expressed interest, it hasn’t been genuine.” You sigh. “It’s like, logically I know that’s just the insecurity talking, but the more time passes, the harder those thoughts are to shake.”

For a moment, Jungwon is quiet. When he speaks again, his voice is low, serious. Pleading for your understanding. “___,” he says, “you’re beautiful. Truly. Any man would be lucky for even the smallest piece of your time or attention. I know that it’s hard sometimes, and that those voices and doubts can feel so loud, but I really wish you could see yourself the way other people do. The way I do.”

“Jungwon…”

“If you decide to have a relationship with someone, one of any nature, then it should be because you want to, not because you feel like you have to or because you’re trying to prove something.”

“What if I never get over it?” you ask, voice small, hardly a whisper. “What if I never get past this fear?”

“You will,” Jungwon promises. “It might not happen as fast as you want it to or in the way you expect it to, but you will.”

It’s so him, you think. So Jungwon to have more faith in you than even you ever could. He’s been here since the beginning, and he’s not going anywhere. He’s seen you face obstacles and challenges before, and he’s always done everything in his power to help you overcome them. 

Maybe this is no different. Maybe the only thing you ever needed was some help from Jungwon. 

Maybe…

No. Even with your logic twisting things to your favor, you know that this is different. This is different from asking for a favor or some moral support. If you ask Jungwon to do this for you, you’re crossing a line. One that you’re not sure you’d be able to come back from. 

The friendship you have isn’t just something you’re unwilling to risk. It has quite literally become something you don’t know how to live without. You’ve never had to try, never even had to imagine a life without Jungwon at your side. 

The only time that came close was during your first year of university, during your relationship with Jay, and that had been nearly enough to wreck you. The potential fallout from this could be worse, so much worse. You won’t risk it. 

But then, unbidden, your mind supplies a memory. One from his couch, little more than a week ago. 

“You can ask me,” he’d told you, earnest in his delivery, “anything you want me to do.” He said it himself. He promised you. “I’ll say yes.”

So, before you can lose your grip on the last remnants of courage you have, you ask, “Would you ever…”

It’s as far as you get before your bravery fails you, words trailing off into nothingness. 

You wish you could take them back when Jungwon asks, a little breathless. “Would I ever what?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. Just forget I said anything.”

But he won’t let you get away so easily. “Ask me.”

And you swear, it’s like he knows. His gaze bores into yours, searching, pleading, desperate, like he can see you all the way down to your bones. Like even the most secret of your thoughts have been laid bare before him. 

“___,” he whispers your name. “Ask me,” he repeats. 

“I just…” Your eyes screw shut. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. “What if we…”

“What if we what?”

You open your eyes, but only to look down towards your lap. “I trust you,” you whisper. In the silence of his car, it feels like you’re shouting. “More than anyone. Maybe I’ll be able to get over that hurdle in my mind if I just let you—”

“Let me what?” he asks. “Touch you?”

The breath you draw is ragged, shallow, as he hits the bullseye with little effort. Your fingers find a loose thread on the sleeve of your sweater. You know better, but you pull anyway. “Yeah,” you exhale. “If you…” You can’t look him in the eye, even now. It’s hardly a whisper, but you can’t bring yourself to say it any louder. “If I let you touch me.”

Jungwon’s inhale is sharp, his shudder involuntary. He leans across the center console, closer to you. Closer, closer, closer, until he stops, lips parting, face inches from yours.

He takes a deep breath in, holding it as his eyes search your face even as you keep yours turned down. Your heart hammers in your chest so violently you think it must be trying to escape. You still can’t look at him. 

Jungwon’s breath escapes him in a shallow huff, dusting across your cheekbone. He lingers there for a second, like he can’t stand the thought of distance. 

Then, without a warning, he sits back in his seat, knuckles white against the fabric of his jeans.

“I can’t,” he tells you.

You look up, eyes widening in surprise. “What?”

“I can’t,” he repeats. This time, he’s the one avoiding eye contact. You search his features for anything, any kind of explanation, but all you find is the tense set of his jaw, the heat that still simmers in his gaze. The restraint holding him back. 

And suddenly, shame flashes through you. White hot humiliation that stings all the way down to your bones. It was one thing to imagine rejection from faceless men. But feeling it now, from him, from Jungwon, is so much worse than anything your mind ever conjured. 

Trying not to let accusation sit too heavy in your tone, you whisper, “You promised.” It’s so pathetic, but there’s nothing left of your pride at that point. “You told me you’d say yes to anything.”

Jungwon flinches. “And I’m trying,” he tells you, an edge to his voice that sings with desperation. “Believe me, I am. I’m doing my best to make this about you, but…”

“But what?” You scoff. “You changed your mind? The thought of me like that is so repulsive you have to—”

“No.” He won’t let you finish. “But you’re sitting here, looking at me like you’d do anything for it, like you need it, and I can’t just say yes and give it to you because I do too.”

Your anger subsides, replaced with confusion. “What do you—”

“I need it too.” Only then does he meet your eye. Wide in the dying glow of lingering daylight, he’s begging for a bit of your understanding. “I’m trying to be selfless, but if I touch you, that won’t be just for you.”

Your brow creases. You still don’t get it. “I don’t—”

Jungwon releases a shaky exhale. “I’ve been thinking about getting my hands on you since I was old enough to know what it meant. Since I was old enough to want things like that at all.”

It’s all too much, too sudden. “Jungwon, what—”

“I know that you still think of me as the kid you grew up next to, and I’ve been doing my best not to shatter the illusion because you like me like that. But you come home from a date telling me it didn’t work out, telling me that boys don’t like you, and all I can think is good.” His hand curls into a fist, knuckles white. “I could do it so much better anyway.”

“I didn’t…” You shake your head. It doesn’t make sense. “You never—”

But Jungwon isn’t done yet. “You’re sitting here asking me to touch you, but I— fuck, ___. I can’t. Not when you’re only asking because you think it doesn’t mean anything to me. That it won’t change anything for me. You tell me that you trust me, and it’s the sweetest thing about you. I can’t take advantage of that.” His breath is practically heaving now, like he’s just finished running. “I can’t use your trust and break it like this.”

The sun dips past the horizon. The only lingering remnants of daylight cast his face into a gentle glow. Even as shadows begin to trace his features, he’s still Jungwon. Your Jungwon. But no matter how many times you spin his words through your mind, you can’t form them into something you understand. Something you have any idea what to do with. 

“I…” It’s so confusing. It’s entirely too much. All you can think is, “Why did you never say anything?”

Jungwon laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Would it have changed anything? I know you. You run when you get scared. You like me like this, your harmless little friend. You said it yourself, you think you know everything about boys like me. And you needed a friend. So that’s what I’ll be. Your friend. But I can’t say yes, not to this.”

“What if—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off. “I know you think I can handle anything, but don’t tell me things you don’t mean.”

“Jungwon,” you try softly. 

His fingers wrap around his steering wheel, knuckles turning white. “Just let me drive you home,” he pleads.

“But—”

“Please,” he whispers, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so broken. “I know it was too much, that it’s not fair to you, but I can’t… I don’t think I can look at you right now and see all that confusion. So just,” he begs again, “please. Let me take you home.”

You want to press the issue, want to keep going until you have even a small fragment of understanding to call yours, but Jungwon is no stranger to making sacrifices for you. It seems he’s been making even more than you ever realized. 

Tonight, right now, you can do the same for him. 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

The drive home passes in silence. Heavy, thick, uncomfortable like a blanket on a sweltering summer night. Neither of you bother to turn on the music this time. The only company to the quiet are the thoughts spinning through your mind, the moon that begins to shine as dusk turns to night. 

Still, as he eases into the driveway just in front of your apartment, you can’t help but whisper, “Good night, Jungwon” as you step out of the passenger seat. 

Whatever has passed between you, whatever terrible precipice the two of you have just fallen from, he doesn’t seem to be able to either. 

“Good night, ____.”

By the time you make it inside, he’s gone. You know it will be, even before you check for his car from your bedroom window.

…..

“Um,” you begin, entirely unsure how to start the conversation. Across from you, Sophia sits on her favorite kitchen stool, scrolling through her Instagram feed while you wait for the pasta water to boil. “Something happened.”

“Mm?” She hums halfheartedly, eyes still trained on her phone screen. 

Your words come out too fast, like you’re in a rush to have them over with as quickly as you can. “I was with Jungwon a few nights ago, and—”

“Oh my god,” she interrupts as she finally looks up, phone forgotten as she sets in on the counter. “You two finally hooked up?”

“What?” Your face pales at just how close she is to the truth. “Why would you even ask that? We’ve never even come close.” Well, of course, except for the incident you’re currently trying to explain. That you’ve been tiptoeing around for the better part of a minute. 

“Are you kidding?” Sophia deadpans. “That boy looks at you like he wants to eat you.”

You splutter. “He does not.”

Sophia rolls her eyes. “He wouldn’t look at me for a week after I set you up with Sunghoon. And I thought he was gonna kill me that day he saw us at the cafe. All I did was mention the possibility of you having sex with someone that wasn’t him, and it’s like he was writing my name on some imaginary death note.”

“You don’t even watch anime,” you point out. 

“I know the reference,” she argues. 

Then, something more pressing draws your attention. “You did it on purpose,” you accuse, realization dawning. “You kept pushing the subject that day to see how he’d react.”

“No,” she denies, shaking her head. “I really do think you should put yourself out there more. Whether it’s Sunghoon or him or someone entirely different. Although,” she considers, “it is always kind of fun to see him get like that. Jungwon’s one of those people you don’t really expect it from, you know? He’s always so calm and collected. But I don’t know if I’ll try it again,” she looks at you, faking a shudder. “He’s scary when it comes to you.”

Any other day, in any other situation, you’d protest. You’d insist that Jungwon is entirely unaffected by you and your romantic choices. That Sophia must have been imagining things that day. 

But Jungwon has already basically confirmed every last one of her claims, whispered them to you himself from the secrecy of his driver’s seat.

It’s the reason you invited her over today. To talk. To get a different perspective. To help you work through what happened. 

Now, though, you just have a question. 

“Why…” You still can’t wrap your mind around it. “Why did no one ever say anything?”

Sophia senses the shift, the way you go from defense to acceptance. From arguing to spiraling. 

“Oh, ___,” she pouts. “My poor, sweet, oblivious ____.”

“I’m not oblivious,” you argue. 

“Not usually,” she agrees. “But it’s like you have this blind spot when it comes to him. He’ll be in the middle of undressing you with his eyes and you’ll start telling some story about the matching diapers your moms bought when you were babies.”

“They were pajamas,” you correct.

“Whatever,” Sophia waves it off. “The point still stands. That boy wants you. Like, biblically.”

It’s consistent. It’s as much as Jungwon himself told you himself. But something about it makes you feel so terribly defeated, so completely unaware of everything you thought you knew about your friendship. About him. About yourself. 

A bit helplessly, you ask, “What am I supposed to do?”

Sophia takes one look at you, at the dejection clouding your features, and sighs. “Can I be honest with you?”

You nod. 

“I think you’re asking the wrong question. It’s not about what you’re supposed to do. It’s not about what Jungwon wants or what I think about your weird, sexually charged friendship.” Then, she asks the million dollar question, “What do you want to do?”

But that’s exactly the problem, you think, because, “I don’t know,” you admit. “I mean, I’ve never thought about it. He’s always just been Jungwon to me.” Pausing for a moment, you suppose you have little pride left to lose. You might as well be honest. “But the other night, when I was with him. I started thinking about… things.”

“Things,” Sophia repeats. She leans in closer, resting her chin against her palm as she asks, “What kinds of things? Feel free to be graphic, by the way.”

“Sophia.”

She pouts sympathetically. “You might not know right away. You’ve spent your entire life thinking of him as some untouchable, sexless entity. Which is kind of crazy, by the way. Like, have you seen the guy?”

You sigh. “Sophia—”

“I’m just saying, it might not happen overnight.” She looks at you, and you feel a sudden surge of gratitude for your friend. She may be wildly different from you in more ways than one, but she means it when she says, “It’s okay. Jungwon will understand, too. If you need some more time to decide if you want to jump his bones or not. He’s probably already been waiting since, like, junior prom. What’s a little longer?”

A little longer, you think. Part of you already spins with doubt, waiting for someone else to supply exact answers. How long is a little longer? When should you make your decision? How long is it supposed to take for you to know if your best friend of eighteen years is meant to stay as just that, or if the relationship between you has been building, slowly, surely, undeniably, into something else this whole time?

But you suppose that’s what Sophia means when she says it’s okay. What Jungwon meant when he told you it was alright to do things at your own pace, on your own time. You don’t need someone else to decide for you. 

The difficulty isn’t a flaw—it’s a sign that this decision is one that matters to you, one that’s worth taking your time with. 

So you do. 

You think about it while you fine tune your resume for yet another job application. You think about it while you snip thorns off of roses at the flower shop, humming along absentmindedly to the playlist in the background. 

You think about it in the shower and while you dinner. When your mom calls you and tells you about the new bulbs she just bought for her garden, the one that time and experience have allowed her to grow into something beautiful and thriving. 

You think about it when you reach into the bottom drawer of your dresser one evening, pulling out the gift Jungwon gave you when you graduated high school nearly five long years ago. 

A photobook, full of all your favorite memories together. Something to remember him by, he’d told you, so you wouldn’t miss him too much when you went off to university one whole year ahead of him. 

In every picture, you’re smiling, grinning so wide you think your face must be in danger of splitting in two. And you’re so lucky, you think, to have someone to share all of these memories with. To have someone who’s been in your life for so long, who’s always been exactly what you needed. 

And then, staring at a picture of the two of you in high school, his arm around your shoulders as the two of you laugh into the camera, you think it’s obvious. 

You don’t have to make a choice between the Jungwon you know and the one you’re afraid to discover. Jungwon has been, and always will be, Jungwon. The way he smiles at you, because of you, isn’t an illusion, and the love he offers you isn’t conditional. 

He’s been your friend for as long as you can remember, and he will be for the rest of your life. Your feelings and hopes and desires may have shifted, but he isn’t going anywhere. 

He’s not scared of the truth, you realize. He never was. But he knew that you would be. 

So he fed it to you slowly until it was too prominent to deny anymore. And even then, he gave you space. Time. Let you come to your own conclusions. 

And somehow, that makes all the difference. 

You think of the game you used to play as kids, the one where you put on your best dress and let him pick wildflowers for you from his back yard. The one where you used the welcome mat from his porch as a makeshift aisle. The one where every time you walked down it, he was the one waiting for you at the end. 

You smile, nearly identical to the picture still splayed open across your lap, and you think that maybe there was never really a choice at all. 

…..

Your knuckles barely rap against the door three times before you hear shuffling on the other side. Footsteps drawing closer until the latch opens, until the door draws back and you see him standing there. Jungwon. 

If he’s surprised to see you, he doesn’t show it. Dressed in gray sweatpants and a plain, fitted black t-shirt, you don’t think he was expecting company. 

“Hi,” you breathe. “Can we talk?”

Jungwon still says nothing, but he opens the door a bit wider, gives you space to walk in. Standing in the entry, you take your shoes off, setting them neatly with the others before drawing back up to full height. Prolonging the inevitable as if it makes any part of what you’re about to do easier. 

You finally drag your eyes back to Jungwon. He’s already looking at you, expression unreadable. His hands are loose at his sides, but his posture is just slightly unnatural. Just a little too stiff. You know him. He’s nervous. 

Finally, you break the silence building between you. “I’ve been thinking,” you tell him. 

“About what?” he asks.

“You,” you admit. “Us.” A string somewhere pulls taught. A thread loosens. 

Jungwon sighs, his exhale shaky. His hand curls to a loose fist before he tucks it into his pocket. “And?”

“I—” Your decision is still solid, not something you’ll back away from. But the words are harder to work out than you expected. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had in my life.”

Jungwon nods. “I know.”

“So,” you try, “it feels weird to suddenly have these thoughts about…”

He won’t let you leave things unsaid, not this time. “About what?”

“You know,” you try to deflect.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but I’m gonna make you say it.”

You fidget a bit, eyes dropping, but you didn’t come all the way here because you weren’t sure. You know exactly what you want to tell him. 

So you explain, “I just… you asked me, after my date with Sunghoon, what I was looking for.” It feels like a long time ago now, like a distant memory. “And I always felt like I didn’t know, but when I think about it, I always think about…”

“What?” Jungwon breathes.

“You.” Your eyes meet his. This time, neither of you looks away. “I think about you. I don’t have to try and come up with the best answer to my favorite hobbies because you already know. You know me better than anyone and you make me feel good about myself and all the things I usually don’t like. I don’t feel awkward or uncomfortable around you, and I don’t feel like I have to explain myself to you.”

Jungwon’s breath is coming heavier now. He takes half a step towards you, almost subconsciously, as if distance is something he’s finding more difficult to tolerate. But he knows you aren’t done, so he lets you continue. 

“And then,” you add, “I was thinking about the difference between our friendship as it’s always been and the kind of relationship I think I want. And the only thing that’s really different is, you know, the sex.” Your words are spilling now, faster than even you can keep up with. “But even then, when I was trying to think of someone who I trusted enough to be with like that, the only person I thought of was—” 

“Me,” Jungwon finishes, gaze unreadable. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “You. I don’t want to go on blind dates with Sophia’s coworkers or find random guys to hook up with. I just want you. It’s always been you. I want all of it to be you.”

Jungwon’s eyes shutter, brows going slack as he takes a deep inhale. 

But you want to give him the same courtesy he’s been extending towards you this entire time. The decision, you want him to know, will always be his to make. “I know it might seem weird or sudden or out of the blue,” you tell him, “but I just needed you to know.” Thinking of his earlier promise you clarify, “You don’t have to say yes. I don’t even know if I’m really asking you anything—”

“You think about me?” he interrupts. “When you think about what you want in a relationship?”

The bluntness of it all still makes you want to squirm. But you hold steady. “Yeah,” you tell him.

“And when you think about having sex,” He’s so direct. It makes you want to hide your face behind your hands. “That’s me too?”

You can’t quite manage words this time, but your nod is confirmation enough. 

Jungwon exhales, even harsher than before. “Are you just curious?” he asks. “It’s fine if you are, but I can’t— we can’t do this if you’re just trying to scratch an itch. If you’re just doing it to move on, to get over a fear.”

“I…” you’re trying to read between the lines, to make sure that you understand what he’s saying. It seems obvious, but there’s a strange haze in your mind that has you doubting everything, including your own judgement. “If we do…”

Jungwon doesn’t seem to have the same reservations for spelling it out. “If we have sex.”

“Oh,” you breathe. And then, “No.” You shake your head. 

“No?” He echoes. 

“I…” You trail off, trying to find the right words to explain. “I’m not—There’s no fear when it comes to you. I’m not trying to get over anything. And there’s no one else that I even want to be with like that, so…” You trail off, searching for the words. “You told me it was my choice, and I guess I just want you to know that it’s yours, too. You don’t have to agree to anything, because you’re afraid of disappointing me or hurting my feelings or—”

“___,” he whispers your name, the sound nearly broken on his lips. You look up at him, eyes wide. “Come here,” he begs. 

It only takes two tiny steps for you to stand just before him, for your chests to nearly brush. For a moment, Jungwon does nothing. Then, his arms come up, one circling around your shoulders, the other against the small of your back as he pulls you flush to him. 

The side of your face rests against his chest, his heartbeat erratic under your cheek. You hear him sigh and feel the way his breath flutters through your hair. 

He leans back, just slightly, and you follow the movement, chin tilting upwards as your eyes meet his. The hand wrapped around your shoulders slowly unravels itself. He brings his hand up to your temple, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. 

His other hand stays steady against the small of your back. 

Jungwon’s fingertips linger against the shell of your ear for a moment. You suppress a shudder as he begins to drag them down, tracing the line of your jaw until they come to settle just beneath your chin. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers.

You nod, the movement making his fingers press more firmly into your skin. 

Then, slowly, he begins to lean towards you. His nose brushes against yours, once, twice, a third time. 

“I’ve thought about this,” he admits. “More times than I can count.”

He’s told you as much before, but now, with his hands on you and his lips just inches away, it feels different. It feels real. 

“I imagined you looking at me,” he hums, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “with those big, wide eyes.” Another kiss, this time to the curve of your cheekbone. “Clinging to me,” a kiss to your eyelid as it flutters shut. “Sighing.” The tip of your nose. “And I’d try to hold back, but—”

“You don’t have to,” you shake your head. It comes out quieter than you mean for it too. It’s ridiculous, maybe, but even now, you feel shy. 

“You mean that?” he asks, lips hovering so close you can feel their warmth. 

You nod, nose brushing against his. 

Jungwon sighs, takes a deep breath. And then he presses forward, just enough, until his lips finally brush against yours. 

His grip tightens against you, fingers bunching the fabric of your shirt that rests against the small of your back. 

He’s gentle, so impossibly sweet as his lips find yours. Upper lip slotting between both of yours, he tugs slightly against your bottom lip. Releases it with a soft, wet sound. Smiles against you as you giggle into him. 

When his lips find yours again, it’s with renowned fervency. The pressure is more insistent this time, more demanding as he uses the hand beneath your jaw to angle you his liking. 

Jungwon takes the lead, pausing, soothing his touch against your skin while you adjust to his pace. 

Your hands find his hair, tangling in the strands near his neck. You tug, an involuntary response when you feel his teeth against your bottom lip, and he groans, shuddering against you. 

Without breaking connection, he moves, walking backwards, leading blindly, until he sits down on the same couch you’ve been sharing moments on for weeks now. This time, he tugs you down with him, pulling you flush against his lap. 

You feel it then, the evidence of just how affected he is. As if the drunk flush on his cheeks and swollen, red tint of his lips weren’t enough. 

Jungwon wraps both hands around your waist now, pulling you tighter to him as your fingers cup his jaw, tracing, gripping. 

You feel it then, his tongue against the seam of your lips, and you part them without a second thought. 

Jungwon waits until you’re breathless above him to decide that he’s had enough of this position. Using the leverage of his hands around you, he maneuvers your body until you're flat against the cushions, head propped against the pillow that sits by the armrest. 

Hovering over you now, he uses his hands to brace himself on either side of your head. Eyes trained on your features, on the evidence of his ministrations. His gaze gets darker, heavier, as he takes in the sight of you beneath him. Skin flushed, lips swollen and parted in anticipation, in permission. 

Jungwon’s had his fantasies. Has kept them close to his chest and in the back of his mind for longer than he’d be willing to admit. But the sight of you now. Under him, reaching for him, begging for him, is enough to shatter every wet dream he’s had since he was a teenager. 

Jungwon doesn’t maintain distance for long. Leaning down, he invades all of your senses. All you can see, even with your eyes screwed shut, is him. All you can feel is his lips, warm and insistent against your, the press of his hands on you, hovering just above the sliver of skin where your shirt had ridden up over your waistband. Every sound, every scent, every taste—it’s all him. Something warm and familiar and entirely new all at once. 

His hand plays with the fabric of your hem for a moment, testing the waters. When all you do is kiss him back—harder—he decides to press his luck. Fingertips dancing against the bare skin of your lower stomach, he starts to drag your shirt upwards. 

The air of his apartment is cool, even if his touch is anything but. It makes every inch of exposed skin that much more sensitive, goosebumps rising as his fingertips trace patterns against you. 

His lips press against yours, a new angle, as a sound loosens itself from your chest. He swallows it, tongue pressing against you like he wants to savor it, like he’d do anything to hear it again. 

He has your shirt nearly to your ribcage now, fingers tracing against the bottom seam of your bra, nerves singing with something new as you arch up against him. You need more. 

Friction, pressure, touch, it doesn’t matter. You’ll take whatever he gives you. 

Then, suddenly, you remember. Pulling back slightly, his lips chase yours. 

“Wait,” you pant, the syllable muffled as he presses another kiss against you. 

Once your request registers, he stops, mouth still brushing against yours. Leaning back slightly, he frowns. His chest still heaves when he asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, breathless. “But what about Jake?”

“What?” Jungwon asks above you. You don’t seem to be the only one struggling with coherent thought.

“Jake,” you repeat. “What if he comes in?”

He wouldn’t see anything, not really. Even the expanse of your bare torso is covered by Jungwon’s body on yours. But still, something in you hesitates. This, all of it, is for you and him. No one else. 

Jungwon shakes his head. “He’s not home.”

“What if he comes back?”

“He won’t,” Jungwon insists. “He’s visiting his family for the weekend. He won’t be back until Monday.”

Still breathing hard, it’s as if your interruption knocked sense back into him. Palm still splayed against your ribs, he rubs gentle strokes with the pad of his thumb. 

Looking down at you, his eyes crinkle slightly at the way you look so sweet under him, so shy despite what you’d been doing only moments earlier. 

“Hey,” he leans down, nudging his nose against yours, “You doing okay?”

You nod, but you still don’t match his gaze. 

“Yeah?” he confirms, “Then look at me.”

It takes a moment, but you do. Your cheeks only redden further, flush more apparent than he’s ever seen it before when you finally meet his eye. 

Something in his chest swells. You might be a year older, but fuck if it doesn’t make him feel like such a man knowing that he’s the reason you look like this, that he’s the one who did this to you. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, grinning when you look away again. He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. A chaste peck against the seam of your lips. “My beautiful, perfect girl.”

“Jungwon,” you whine. 

“What?” he asks. “It’s true.”

“I thought you wanted to kiss me.”

“I can take a break to compliment you?”

You flush again, hands coming up to cover your face. 

“Ah, ah,” Jungwon tsks, fingers wrapping around your wrists. “I asked you to look at me.” He pulls, gentle but insistent, until your hands fall away. Until he can once again look you in the eye. 

“How long are you just gonna stare at me?” you ask.

“As long as you’ll let me,” he grins. 

“Jungwon,” you whine again. 

“Why?” he asks, practically cooing at you now. “Is my baby shy?”

You shudder at the pet name, and it awakens something devious in him. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “I see. You’re getting impatient. Need me to touch you. Is that it?”

All you do is whine, but it’s a good enough answer for him. 

“C’mon,” he urges, leaning back. “Up.” 

You frown at the sudden distance, a furrow creasing your brow. 

“The first time we have sex is not going to be on my living room couch,” he explains. Taking your hand in his, he guides you instead towards his bedroom. 

And it’s not like you’ve never been here before, but something about the low light, the weight of what you’re about to do, makes it feel like uncharted territory. 

You step into the room, even further than Jungwon, eyes trained on the queen size bed pressed up under the window on the far side of the room. 

Your back to him, you hear Jungwon pull the door shut. It latches into place with a quiet click. And then, behind you, he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” you admit, turning to face him as you sit on the edge of his bed. “Us. I never thought…” you trail off, palm smoothing against the top of his sheets. “I never thought we’d be here.”

“I did,” Jungwon tells you. 

“Really?” Your eyes widen when you look at him. 

“Maybe thought is the wrong word,” he amends. “But I hoped.” He’s quiet for a moment, emotions playing out across his features. “Now that you’re here, I…” he hesitates, trying to find the words. “I don’t want to do anything wrong,” he admits. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t.” You shake your head. “I told you. I trust you. That includes this, too.”

Jungwon looks at you, gaze open. “You mean that?”

“Of course,” you nod. 

Some of the tension drains from his broad shoulders, but he stays where he is, silhouette shrouded in the dim light of his bedroom.

This time, it’s you who takes charge. 

“Jungwon,” you whisper, an echo of your earlier embrace in his entry way. “Come here.” 

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His footsteps are even, steady, as he makes his way towards you. All the way until he stands just before you, looking down at where you sit on his sheets. 

His hand comes to your cheek, thumb tracing patterns against your skin as you lean into his touch. 

“Up,” he instructs. “Back against the pillows.” His hand falls from your face, trails down until his fingers interlace with yours. He follows in your wake as you move according to his instructions, all the way until you’re in a ghost of the position from his couch. 

His body hovers over yours, breath warm as it fans against your cheekbone. 

Again, his fingers find the hem of your shirt. This time, he’s less shy about pressing it upwards, all the way until it sits against the band of your bra. 

Plain, black, built more for comfort than arousal. But you know Jungwon. He’ll take you as you are. 

“Jungwon,” you breathe, just as his fingertip slips beneath the band. It takes him a moment to tear his eyes away, to look up and meet your gaze. “Kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Lips meeting yours, the slow build from before is gone. He knows what he’s searching for now, has already learned what rhythm makes you breathless fastest, palms splaying against his chest like you’d do anything to be closer. 

His hand comes to your hip, then slides to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You shudder as he guides it open, pliant to his touch. Jungwon uses the newly created space to slot his leg in between yours. 

The shift has him brushing against you where tension is beginning to gather, exactly where you’re beginning to ache. 

It feels good, but there’s something frustrating about it. The way sensation builds and falls in the same maddening ebb and flow, like the sea of an uncharacteristically quiet day. 

You already know it’s not enough. Against his lips, you whine. A pathetic little sound that stays half trapped in your throat. But Jungwon understands. 

Sees the way your hips are starting to roll against him, the way your brow creases in concentration as you try to find a better angle. 

Leg still between yours, he lets his fingertips ghost over the planes of your bare stomach, dragging downwards until he’s exactly where you want him. 

You whine against his lips and he shudders. “Is this what you need?” 

You can hardly respond, can hardly think as his fingers dip below your waistband. Far more precise, it doesn’t take long to have you seeing stars. 

He’s still kissing you, and you do your best to return it, but the sensations he levels you with are more than a little maddening. Lips parted against his, your mouth is practically slack as he works against you. 

“Feels—good,” you sigh, eyes screwing shut. 

“I can tell,” he whispers, some kind of awe in his voice. “Look at you.”

You’re so close. Jungwon can tell, too. He’s frantic now, movements tighter, faster as he watches the way your face twists in pleasure. 

Your hand closes around his wrist, stopping him. “Jungwon,” you pant, the sound of his name hardly coherent. “Wait.”

Immediately, his hand stills. He doesn’t pull away though, just leaves it there, against you. 

The sensation sends a fresh, aching throb pulsing from somewhere deep within you. Jungwon feels it too, against his fingertips, and groans. 

Remembering himself, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. “I just… I’m ready.”

Jungwon thinks he knows what you mean. He’s imagined those same words from you before. A million times, in a million different contexts. But the sight of you beneath him, eyes wide, lips parted, so terribly sweet, is so much better than he ever dreamed. 

“I want you,” you whisper, tugging at his wrist. “Please.”

Jungwon won’t make you wait. Fingers still hidden beneath your waistband, he slides them towards the top now, pulling, all the way until you’re bare beneath him. 

He presses a kiss against your hip, just shy of where he was moments before.

He helps you slide your shirt over your head and shudders when your bra follows in its wake. He marvels at the feeling of your hands, smaller than his, tugging at his shirt, his jeans, until the two of you are in an equal state of undress. 

Again, because it’s true and because he can’t help himself, he whispers, “You’re beautiful.”

You’re still shy, even more so with the weight of his gaze on you, but you manage, “So are you.” It’s his turn to flush.

Hands pressing against your shoulders, he guides you to lay down again. Hair fanning out against his pillows, he thinks you look a bit like an angel here, tangled in his sheets. 

He’d tell you, if he weren’t so distracted by the sudden feeling of your leg coming to wrap around his waist. 

Skin against skin, it feels even closer than before. Warmer, Softer. 

“Jungwon,” your brows pull downward, eyes fluttering shut as you chase the sensations that have begun to drown you. “Please.”

He moves slowly, not from hesitation. Jungwon doesn’t think he’s ever been so sure of anything in his life. But he knows what this means to you, to him. He wants to take his time, wants to let every part of you adjust to him until you feel like an extension of one another, until your bodies can’t quite tell where one ends and the other begins. 

He swallows your gasp as he presses into you. Brows furrowed, lips parted, he drops his head into the crook of your neck, scattering soothing kisses down the length of your throat. 

“Feels so good,” he encourages as you whimper, adjusting. “Perfect, like you were made for me.” 

The sentiment rings true, now and later, when he feels you relax around him, when he starts to move. 

Slowly, reverently, at a pace that lets him press as deep as possible. 

He brings his hand from your hip to the space just beneath your navel, palm splaying over your lower stomach, just above where he presses inside of you. Pushing down slightly, the added pressure makes you whine, tightening around him. 

Jungwon groans, a long, deep sound that vibrates between your bodies. 

“Jungwon,” you whisper, when the ache starts to sing, when the pressure starts to build. When you close your eyes and see stars behind them. 

“I know,” he pants, like he feels it too. “It’s okay,” he assures. “I have you.”

It’s a reminder of what brought you here in the first place. And the sound of his voice is all you need. 

Keening high in your throat, every muscle, every nerve, every fiber in your body goes taut. Tightens, pulls, before it releases. Jungwon leans down, lips parted against your collarbone as he groans, falling over the same edge only moments after you. 

The shower he runs for you is warm, the touch he washes your hair with soothing as he rinses soap from your scalp. 

The sheets are soft as you crawl between them, Jungwon’s chest firm as he pulls you tight against him. 

“Sleep,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against your temple. 

Body exhausted, mind sated, it doesn’t take long for you to do as he says. In his arms, the rest that finds you is deep and dreamless. 

…..

“Name?” Across from you, the secretary that sits at the front desk looks bored out of her mind. As if she’s seen one too many potential new hires and doesn’t think they’re worth remembering at this point. 

You give her your name, and she types a brief note into her computer. Doesn’t bother memorizing it, but you won’t let that get to you, not today. 

“You can sit over there.” She gestures towards the row of chairs against the far wall of the reception area. With a smile so tight you think her jaw must hurt, she adds, “I’ll call you when they’re ready.”

It’s not much. It’s barely even polite, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not when this is the first real company you’ve stepped foot in in months. When this is the first time you’ve gotten a string of congratulations in the subject line of your email inbox instead of rejections.  

Still, it isn’t a sure thing. A test run, the hiring manager had called it. A week of in-person work at the company to see if you’ll be a good fit, if they’re willing to formally offer you a position. 

An extension of the already lengthy interview process you’ve been subjected to for the last six weeks. But it’s far more than you’ve gotten from anywhere else. 

It’s enough to have hope soaring in your chest, even at the prospect of a week of what is essentially unpaid labor.

Sliding down into the chair, you tug at the sleeve of your blazer, smooth the collar over one final time. 

In your mind, you rehearse the answers you gave during your interviews. You’re not sure if you’ll be asked again, but you figure it’s better to be safe than sorry. 

You’re interested in the position, because the company’s mission statement excites you. You think it aligns well with your experience and your hopes for a future career. 

Are you good with deadlines? Better than nearly everyone you know. Do you work well under pressure? Absolutely. Where do you see yourself in five years? Advancing in your career as a young professional in the same field you earned your degree in. The same field a position at this company would put you in. 

As the minutes pass, you remind yourself to breathe, to relax. The butterflies taking flight in your stomach won’t help you now, so you do your best to banish them. 

And, minutes later, just as the secretary calls your name, you feel your phone buzz. 

Glancing down, you grin at the message that comes through. 

You got this, Jungwon says, the small heart next to his contact name shining like a reminder. Knock em dead

And then, beneath it, 

Can’t wait to see you tonight beautiful 

So, you stand up a little straighter. Shoulders square, chin high. You’re okay, even as your nerves threaten to send your heart beating out of your chest. 

No matter what the results of this so-called trial run are, or every single attempt you’ll surely make after it, you’ll be fine. And if you fail, you’ll try again. 

Whether this ends in an official offer letter or a bold-faced rejection, no matter what, you have Jungwon—rooting for you, thinking of you, waiting for you to come back and tell him all about it. 

Jungwon, your best friend, your favorite person, and probably, if the feelings you’re starting to get whenever he’s near are anything to go by, the love of your life. 

You meet the secretary’s gaze, smiling even as all she does is arch a brow. And then you tell her, “I’m ready.”

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

[yeokii]

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여키 EDITION . mj picked up his pen to write pyt after seeing park jongseong

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

[en-ternity]

When a friendship comes with too much history, rules become necessary. It’s easier to stay safe when you can name the lines you refuse to cross. That’s why Jaeyun has always been so strict about his secret little guide, or at least, he was, until the moment you asked him to sleep with you, and everything started to shatter in his hands like it was never real at all.

a friends to lovers oneshot｜27.7K

PAIRING: Jaeyun x fem!reader

WARNINGS: university au, Jaeyun is an electronic engineer student, kinda nerdy, and too down bad for the reader even though she is a bit of a brat, i am not sure if there’s a plot aside from the smut, nipple play, fingering and oral (f. receiving), handjob, virginity loss, protected and unprotected sex, there’s a fwb situation within, one fight between Jaeyun and reader’s ex, and Jayhoon being the most chaotic roommates ever

PINTEREST MOODBOARD

RULE ZERO: DO NOT RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP

When you were twelve, Jaeyun got you both grounded.

He had the brilliant idea of bringing a bottle of whiskey home — something one of his soccer teammates had stolen from his father’s cabinet and hadn’t known how to get away with now that it had been opened and already had a swig taken from it.

Jaeyun didn’t know why he decided to take charge of it, much less bring it home — he could have just let his teammate deal with it alone, for God’s sake. But perhaps because he liked the thrill of secretly carrying it and the astonishment in your eyes when he took it out of his backpack, he did bring it home. 

But the fact was — neither of you drank any of it, yet his brother — the Mr. Perfect, as you used to whisper in each other’s ears — had caught you with your hands on it, and in the end it didn’t matter.

You were grounded for four weeks. No phones, video games, or allowances. You were only allowed to go to school and straight back to your homes — Jaeyun having only the small detour of dropping you off before going to his. 

It made you miss the Seoul Annual International Book Fair. A major literary gathering with author events, book markets, and cultural programs that you had been looking forward to. 

Nerdy, he had told you, which only made your tears flow even harder, and he felt so bad about it that he gave you a voucher the next morning, a handmade thing that got you laughing when he handed it to you.

Jaeyun had never been much of an artsy type. The voucher was irregular, and his handwriting was so bad you could barely decipher the words free wish — but it was his way of trying, and so, you took it, promising you would use it well.

That was probably when it started: the first page of a guide he would never mean to write, on how not to ruin a friendship that felt bigger than him because as he watched you folding the paper and tucking it into the front pocket of your sweater like a keepsake, he had a sudden clarity that he would do anything not to lose you.

You never really used the voucher.

Eleven years into your friendship, you never once brought it up. 

Perhaps because Jaeyun always did everything for you, the voucher seemed useless. 

When you got asked for a date for the first time in your life, Jaeyun agreed to go shopping with you without much fanfare, although he despised every second of it. And when you called him afterwards, telling him to come over so you could rant about it, he once again was there without the voucher having even passed through your minds. He simply came and stayed there, listening to you, your backs side to side on the hardwood floor of your bedroom until the walls had turned orange and pink with the sunrise.

When you crashed your father’s car and called him crying, he asked where it had happened with his jacket already on and searching for his keys.

And when you moved out of the university dorms somewhere around your second semester, Jaeyun was carrying your boxes and luggage without you even glancing at his side. 

So it felt a bit weird now, seeing you pushing the little thing through the counter — its edges turned so yellow with the advance of the years that he could see it even in the bar’s reddish light — and especially with the words that followed: 

“Sleep with me,” you said. 

RULE #1: DO NOT ACCEPT RECKLESS REQUESTS

Don’t answer requests she makes when she’s drunk, mad, or sad — that’s when she turns reckless. I’m supposed to get her home, get her water, and let time take the sharp edges off whatever she thought she wanted. If I do my job right, she’ll wake up with a headache — maybe puffy eyes — but no regrets. At least not the kind that have my name on them.

Arcano wasn’t as fierce as the name made it seem.

If Jaeyun were being honest, it was, in fact, a terrible bar. Awful, actually.

The seats were constantly sticky, and the tables were permanently stained with something spilled too long ago. The restrooms always smelled like weed and sex, and there was writing on the walls telling you who to call for a good time — but, awful as it was, it was the only bar on the outskirts of the university, and the drinks were cheap, which made it a reasonable choice for anyone who wanted to get drunk in the middle of a weekday. 

Which, apparently, was what you were doing. 

You had called him, your voice softened and a little slurred at the edges, even as you tried to keep it brief — trusting him to hear the truth between your words, as he always did  — and his body went tight, that low instinct already moving beneath his skin with the need to make it better.

Jaeyun came in without question, his eyes scanning through the dim room. Tables first, booths next, then the bar counter, because putting things in order always helped him keep control — but then he saw you, and his heart hitched hard enough to make his hands unreliable.

Arcano was nearly dark, red bulbs offering more irritation than light, and yet whatever sheen clung to its corners now seemed to gather around you; the glint of bottles, the thin neon humming above the bar. Even the noise shifted, bending your way subtly, as if the room itself couldn’t help but want to be near you. 

Or perhaps it was only him — caught on you like gravity, a quiet flaw built into his body that only ever showed itself in your presence.

Across the bar, the music shifted, and someone laughed too loudly as a glass hit the counter with a wet little sound, but none of it reached him the right way, not while you were there, bent toward the counter with your hair falling forward and your shoulders loose with drink and something sharper underneath it.

Jaeyun swallowed and pushed his hair back off his forehead — the gesture automatic in the way habits were — as he closed the last steps in.

You shifted on your stool as he stopped behind you, small and unthinking, leaning back into him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to put your weight onto his chest merely because you trusted him to catch it without ever asking. And he did, his body reacting before his mind did, his arms raising and settling just enough to keep you upright.

He didn’t understand how you did it — how you could recognize him without looking. If your bones had memorized the shape of him and refused to forget even here, in a terrible bar, with alcohol in the air and the whole world pretending not to watch, or if you merely felt the same gravity as him, because you, too, had been built with some quiet flaw that only ever showed itself in his presence.

“Hello,” you said, tipping your head back to look at him.

“Hello, Princess,” he said, leaning in just to drop a kiss on your forehead. But you smelled like vanilla and white flowers — the kind of soft sweetness you always insisted on having threaded through every perfume you owned — and he allowed himself to breathe you for a second more before he let go, sliding onto the stool beside you. 

His jeans brushed your bare thigh, and when you turned toward him, he had no other option than to spread his legs further apart, opening space so your knees fit between his; and for a second, Jaeyun’s brain focused on the image, slowly and cruelly, taking the stark line of your skin against denim, the heat of you seeping through a fabric barrier that suddenly felt too thin to be decent. Your knees fit perfectly between his, and the placement was so intimate it might’ve been accidental if he hadn’t felt how quickly his body registered it as right.

He went still.

Not because he didn’t want more contact, but because he did. Because he wanted it in a way that made him feel juvenile, and his restraint could turn into nothing but a costume you’d just tugged at the seam.

So he forced himself to look up, his gaze finding your face like it was the only safe thing left, but it only turned to be worse. 

You were flushed from the alcohol, color blooming across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose as if you’d been kissed too many times already. And your eyes were bright in that unfocused way that made his whole body ache with protectiveness and something he refused to name. 

Jaeyun swallowed, dropping his gaze before he could stop it — but that was when he saw the dress. 

Low-cut, and reckless in the quietest way, exposing your skin in a soft curve that made his throat tighten, not because it wasn’t vulgar or blaring, but merely because it was you — warm, real, and too close. 

And resting there, right in the center of it all, was the necklace he’d given you on your fifteenth birthday, the thin chain catching what little light Arcano offered and holding it like a secret. Jaeyun felt something in his chest twist — sharp and familiar. A gift, a promise, a piece of him you’d kept on your skin for years without making a thing of it.

He blinked, dragging his eyes back up, back to your face, as though that could undo what he’d seen. As though looking anywhere else could turn his thoughts into something normal again, but it didn’t.

“You called me,” he said in the end, voice light on purpose, aiming his gaze at the safe edge of your hairline instead of your eyes. 

“Is there a question in this statement?” you asked, your head tipping to the side the way it always did when you were teasing him, letting a strand of hair slip loose and rest against your cheek.

Jaeyun huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something that almost counted as a laugh if anyone else had been listening. The bar noise swelled and dipped around you — ice clinking in glasses, a burst of laughter from a booth, the bass thudding like a distant heartbeat — and for a second it made the moment feel ordinary. Like this was just the two of you, playing the same game you’d played a hundred times.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re the linguistics genius among us.”

His hand lifted without thinking and brushed the strand away — quick, familiar, and thoughtless — the kind of gesture that belonged to years of friendship, not whatever else was crouched under tonight. He didn’t linger. He didn’t let it become a thing. He just tucked it back like he’d done it before and would do it again. Still, you felt the contact anyway, blinking at him, and it took you a moment to speak again.

“I think there was,” you said, your voice more serious than he expected. “I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

You turned halfway on your stool to reach into your purse, and Jaeyun took the moment to breathe — really breathe, looking across the room as his hands found and pushed at his hair, steadying himself. 

Overhead, a red bulb faltered, and the neon hissed in — thin, stubborn light clinging on.

“Yun,” you called.

He turned to you again, catching as you slipped the voucher toward him, the piece yellowed into something that didn’t belong to the present. His own handwriting stared up at him, crooked and absurd in the way only a teenage promise could be.

Jaeyun’s lips parted around a question, but the words slipped before they could reach his mouth.

“I’m using it,” you announced, slurring just enough for the words to snag on each other — but not enough to take the weight of the words that followed:

“Sleep with me.”

Jaeyun inhaled too fast and choked on the air, like the sentence had gone straight for his throat and his body refused to swallow it. He coughed once, twice, eyes watering, and hated himself for how obvious it was.

“Drink,” you said, lifting your glass toward him — offering it with the careless kindness of someone who had no understanding of the damage they were capable of causing.

Jaeyun pictured you rummaging through your drawers for the voucher, trying to guess when the decision had formed. Whether it had been planned. Whether it had been impulsive. Whether the dress had been chosen with him in mind—

He didn’t get to finish the thought.

He took the glass too fast, his thumb grazed your knuckle — more an echo of a touch than a touch itself — but his whole body registered it like a confession. And he forced himself to bring it to his mouth and swallow it. The liquor burned his throat, cheap and harsh and useless, and then — for one horrifying second — he tasted you there, sweet and faint beneath the sting.

He set it down.

“What—” he tried, and his voice came out wrong. He cleared his throat. “Where’s Baekhyeon?”

Because it felt reasonable to ask where your boyfriend was when you were asking him to sleep with you.

Your eyes gleamed at the name and then cleared just as quickly. Whatever that feeling was, it was banished with a blink before you reached for your glass again, considering the few drops he’d left.

“We broke up,” you said.

“When?”

“Today — or yesterday.” Your brow creased. “I’m not sure. What time is it?”

“But why?”

You shuddered, already turning toward the bartender for another drink, but Jaeyun reached for your wrist and drew you back in. His hands were cold against your warm skin, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.

He let go.

“Princess, talk to me,” he said. “What happened?”

And so you told him, your words coming rushed and messed up, one long stream being pulled out of you because now that you’d started, you couldn’t afford to stop. You told him how Baekhyeon had gotten quieter ever since he started his internship. How he’d been thinking, whatever that meant. How he wasn’t so sure anymore, like your relationship was a class he could drop mid-semester. And when you’d asked where it put you, all you got were half-answers and that look people had when they were already gone but didn’t want to be the villain.

“And it is so humiliating, Yun,” you said, your hands dragging down your face, hiding it as you folded forward and rested on him again — forehead against his shoulder, your whole body fitting into the space between his thighs like it had always known where to go.

Jaeyun reached out without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back as the other slid into your hair, fingers tangling gently there — holding you together in the only way he knew how.

“It’s not like I thought he was going to be my forever one,” you said. “But I thought that — God, I’m — I’m a virgin in university, Jaeyun. Do you know how insane that sounds? Especially after having a boyfriend? It’s like I’m — defective.”

The whole sentence hit and sank in with a dull ache, shifting a fault line in him so sharply his whole body twitched. His fingers flexed against you, tightening at your back before he could stop himself, because this was simply his first instinct: pull you in, hold you tighter, so perhaps he could keep you from breaking by sheer force of his will.

But then he hated himself for it — for the greedy relief that came with the feeling of you against him, for the way wanting and protecting acquired the same face in his body — and he loosened his grip immediately, forcing his touch back into something safer, something that could still pass as friendship.

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m feeling terrible,” you muttered. “Like I might have done something wrong in my life.”

“Princess,” he said again, the nickname rolling softly through the air, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like a joke at all. “Look at me.”

You shook your head, stubborn even like this, forehead still pressed where you’d chosen to hide. And Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, trying to sand the edge off himself before it could cut you.

“You’re drunk,” he told you. “And you’re not thinking straight.”

You didn’t react this time — which somehow made it worse.

“Come on,” he said, his hands slipping away only so they could find you again, but this time, somewhere safer. His palms spread on the bare skin of your arms to guide you up. “I’m taking you home.”

“But—” you began, your gaze sliding to the voucher.

Jaeyun reached for it and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, taking it out of your sight like he could make the exchange never happen — like merely hiding it could erase the fact that something had moved inside his chest with your ask, and now refused to calm down.

“I’ll keep it safe,” he said, and the promise tasted older than tonight.

He helped you off the stool with one hand at your waist as the other caught your purse, looping it around his wrist before he returned it to your elbow — steadying and guiding, making sure your feet landed where they were supposed to.

You swayed into him, coming so close that when you spoke, he not only heard you, but felt it through his skin.

“You always do.”

Jaeyun’s fingers flexed once again at your side.

“Yeah,” he said, looking ahead as he led you through the mess of bodies and sticky tables. “I know.” 

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Outside, it was already spring in theory, but in practice, Arcano’s door swung shut behind you, and the night folded over — winter still pressing into April nights, and making it chilly.

The sidewalk out in front was uneven in that neglected-university-outskirts way, broken slabs and hairline cracks waiting for someone careless, and tonight, that someone was you. 

Jaeyun watched as you made it three steps before you stumbled. It had been nothing significant, just your ankle rolling in a way that could have passed unnoticed — but he was watching, and before you could pretend that it hadn’t happened, his hand had already closed around your forearm, firm and quickly, holding you.

He brought you closer to him on instinct, the lines of your bodies collapsing and melting under the same yellow wash of streetlight, and when you looked up at him, it gathered in your eyes in tiny gold flashes, softening you at the edges, and making you look heartbreakingly close; the tiny gasp you released warming his mouth.

“Easy,” he muttered. 

“I am being easy,” you argued, but you made no effort to disengage yourself from him, and so, neither did he — letting you both stay in the dim hush of the night for a moment more before he finally eased back, shrugging out of his jacket and easing you into it, one sleeve first and then the other. 

Jaeyun gave your purse back, and only when your fingers closed around it did he turn and drop into a crouch in front of you — shoulders broad and steady on purpose.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Taking you home,” he replied. “Get on.”

“I can walk.”

“You can barely negotiate a curb,” he argued. “Get on.”

Jaeyun waited then, bracing himself for another surge of protest, but instead, you leaned forward, your arms sliding around his shoulders, automatic, and with the kind of trust that never failed to set a quiet ache behind his ribs.

But if anything, he hooked his hands under your thighs and stood, letting your weight settle against him and your cheek to press into the side of his neck, warm and familiar.

“This is a bit embarrassing.”

“This is practical,” Jaeyun said. “Better than having to take you to the hospital over an ankle you refuse to admit you could break.”

You hummed, and he huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, tightening his hold as if you could slip out of his hands.

As if he would let you.

“Princess,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “you’re going to be the death of me someday.”

You didn’t react this time — either because you didn’t hear it, or because your hazy mind had already filed it somewhere dangerous for tomorrow — but in any case, Jaeyun kept walking.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Jaeyun’s apartment building greeted you in the same failing way it always did. The hallway light flickered with stubborn inconsistency, always seeming one second away from burning out, and the front door still refused to open unless someone met it with a shoulder and a certain amount of conviction.  

He did it one-handed, you still on his back and refusing to let go even when he had to fumble for the key, his free hand going to his pockets once, twice, while the other kept you anchored against him, steadying you with the same absent care, as though you were simply part of the equation.  

Inside, the living room looked exactly the way it always did — dim, cramped, familiar in the ugly way cheap rent always was. Sneakers lay abandoned near the entrance like they’d given up halfway through the day. A laundry basket sat in the corner with the quiet menace of something that had been ignored too long.

And a few steps in, Sunghoon was there — barefoot, hair damp, skin still carrying that clean, just-showered warmth, as if he’d stepped out of steam and decided the world could handle itself for a while.  

His gaze flicked to you, draped over Jaeyun, then back to him, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“She really can do whatever she wants to you,” he said, flat as anything.

At the sound of his roommate’s voice, Jaeyun felt you shift against him, lifting your head just enough for the night’s air to slip into the space you’d made.

“Hello, Hoon,” you said.

“Hello, Princess.”

The hallway light blinked out, wiping your shadows clean for a quiet beat before Sunghoon shifted, and the sensor caught it, coaxing the bulb back to life. Jaeyun adjusted his grip like it meant nothing, like you weren’t warm against him in all the places he worked hardest not to think about. You shifted at his back once more, settling and slipping, and his shoulders tightened on reflex — prepared to steady you, prepared for anything — except your next words.

“If Yun doesn’t, would you do it with me, Hoon?”

“Do wh—”

“Nothing,” Jaeyun snapped. “She’s drunk, and I’m taking her to my room.”

Sunghoon’s brows rose at his roommate’s urgency, his mouth twitching deeper, but he didn’t push. If anything, he stepped back, clearing the way like Jaeyun needed permission at all.

“Tell me tomorrow, Princess,” Sunghoon called after you, loud enough to be heard down the hall. “Though I’m pretty sure Jaeyun will do it for you.”

Jaeyun didn’t give you the chance to answer.

He was already moving, turning down the hall. And when he reached his room, he shifted your weight higher with a small, efficient jerk of his arms, then shoved the door open with his shoulder.

The motion-sensor light in the hallway faltered again behind you, a brief blink of dark, and then the room swallowed you whole — quieter, warmer, smelling faintly of detergent, old cologne and whatever Jaeyun used to pretend he didn’t care about.

He stepped into his room and kicked the door shut with his heel, shutting the rest of the apartment out — Sunghoon’s smugness, the hallway’s flicker, all of it cut off as if it had never happened.

Yet still, he didn’t set you down. Jaeyun carried you the last few steps to his bed, and when he finally tried to set you down, you clung tighter — arms locking around his shoulders as your thighs pressed against his sides. 

“No,” you said, and there was no explanation required. It didn’t matter that it had been six months since you last shared a bed. He knew your rules just as much as he knew his: you didn’t do beds before a shower — much less in outside clothes. You didn’t even sit on them in anything that had been out in public.

“Princess,” he sighed. “It’s my bed. I don’t have that rule.”

“Your bed is contaminated,” you decided.

Jaeyun went still for a second, like sheer willpower might make you reasonable. But it didn’t. You stayed latched onto him, stubborn as a vow, and he realized — again — how useless he’d always been at saying no to you.

He sighed again.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine — let’s take a shower first.”

He tried to lower you, shifting his hands to set you down properly, but the moment your heels brushed the floor, you stiffened in protest, clinging harder.

“No shoes inside,” you reminded him, as if he were the one being difficult.

Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a brief beat — his surrender arriving the way it always did with you, tender and doomed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

He crouched carefully, still keeping one arm hooked around your legs so you wouldn’t tip, and reached for the thin strap of your heel. His fingers worked quickly and practiced, undoing what he could without looking like he was paying attention. 

Only when both heels had slipped free did he straighten again — and only then did you finally loosen, sliding down from his back. Jaeyun kept his hands on you the whole time, steadying you through the transfer, guiding you down until your bare feet found the floor without a stumble.

“There,” he said. “Now cooperate.”

Jaeyun went to his drawer and pulled out a t-shirt so old it had softened past saving, turned into the kind of thing that should’ve been discarded a long time ago. But it was the one you always chose when you slept over, and so it stayed — stupidly and hopefully, waiting for you.  

He pushed his hair back off his forehead, his hand lingering there for a beat before he reached for a towel and stood up.  

“Come,” he said then, placing his hand behind his back to encourage you to catch up and grab it.

You held hands across the apartment and into the bathroom, letting go only when Jaeyun reached for the switch and snapped the light on — white and harsh in a way that suddenly made the night tangible.  

“The lock is broken,” Jaeyun said.  

“Wasn’t Jongseong going to fix it months ago?” you asked.  

Jongseong had, but it broke again and again, and by the fourth time, the three of them had decided it was what it was and left it to its habits.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said. “Can you handle yourself?”

You leaned against the sink, head tipping to the side. Your necklace sparkled with the movement, catching the bathroom light in thin, bright flickers, and all at once, he regretted asking.  

It all felt too real, too reckless. What if you asked him to stay and help you, as it had happened a dozen times before Baekhyeon?

He couldn’t trust himself to make good decisions — couldn’t trust himself to help you out of your dress without looking. Not with the voucher still in the pocket of his jeans and your words coiling through his mind, slowly displacing all his other thoughts.

He was suddenly wild under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom.

“I’ll be right outside,” he said, reaching past you to set the towel on the counter, then the shirt beside it — lining them up like order could keep the night under control. “Take your time.”  

“Okay.”  

Jaeyun didn’t say anything as he stepped out. He merely pulled the door shut and folded himself down in front of it — knees up, forearms crossed above them, and his fingers tightening against the sides of his jeans for a quiet moment before he let go. 

From inside the bathroom came the soft shift of fabric. Then the small, telltale clink of something against porcelain — your necklace, surely your necklace — before the water finally started to run. And Jaeyun let out a slow breath he couldn’t quite believe in.

It wasn’t the first time he’d guarded a door for you, and he should’ve known how to breathe through it by now.

But tonight had reached in and rearranged all the defenses he’d built, and now he was back at the beginning with nothing solid to brace against. His fingers flexed once again, anchoring himself to the pressure and the bone, and making him almost miss the complaint of a floorboard down the hall.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jongseong’s voice carried from the hallway. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”

“The lock doesn’t work,” Jaeyun said.

“It never worked.”

“She’s inside.”

“Who?” Jongseong asked — more reflex than curiosity — because the moment his gaze landed on Jaeyun, the question dissolved on its own, understanding settling without needing a name.

“Oh, it’s been a while,” he said, and Jaeyun’s mouth tightened, the words pressing an old bruise.

It had been six months since you last slept there, to be exact — the same amount of time you’d been with Baekhyeon, and the same amount of time Jaeyun had been pretending the distance was natural. Reasonable. Maybe even healthy.

It wasn’t as if Baekhyeon had forbidden your friendship with him, or your sleepovers at this apartment. Baekhyeon was—

Jaeyun’s mind halted.

For a second, he tried to call him nice, the word rising up like it wanted to be fair, but then he recoiled from the generosity of it.

Nice didn’t matter. Nice didn’t change what it meant to watch you choose someone else. Nice didn’t stop the humiliating clarity of memory: the shape of you curled into his bed like you belonged there, the way you’d mutter his name half-asleep when you couldn’t find the edge of the blanket — then the way he’d learned, almost overnight, how to live without it. And so, he said nothing, merely breathing out, real slow, between barely parted lips, which ended up being louder than anything he could have said.

Jongseong leaned back against the opposite wall and crossed his arms, staking out the space without saying a word because that was how he always did. He didn’t press — never that. Jongseong just stayed, letting the world breathe between them until it started to feel like an invitation people never knew how to refuse.

Jaeyun looked away.

“She called,” he said. “She was at Arcano. Drunk — not falling-over drunk — but enough.”

“Baekhyeon?” Jongseong asked, not because he was looking for gossip, but because it was logistics. It was the obvious missing piece.

“They broke up — he broke up with her,” he said. “Something about not being sure anymore now that he met someone else.”

“Damn.”

Jaeyun hummed in agreement, and because he didn’t know how to bring up the topic, he merely said: “She asked me to sleep with her.”

Jongseong blinked — actually blinked, like his brain had dropped a piece on the floor.

“She asked you,” he repeated.

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

“To sleep with her.”

The words hung there between them, obscene in how plainly they fit the shape of the night. Jaeyun breathed out slowly through his nose, like the air itself didn’t want to make room for them.

“And you said?” Jongseong asked, though his tone already suggested he knew the answer. Everyone knew Jaeyun’s reputation. Everyone knew he didn’t say no to much — especially not to you.

“I said no,” Jaeyun replied. 

Jongseong stared at him, then let out a low whistle like he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or concerned.

“Don’t make it weird,” Jaeyun muttered.

“I’m not making it weird,” Jongseong said. “I’m just—” He paused, pondering what his next words should be. “You’re kind of famous for not being the guy who says no. Not to her.”

Jaeyun’s lips parted, his tongue already rolling in to say something, but the words stuttered and stammered, refusing to leave immediately, and Jongseong shifted his weight, glancing down the hallway once as if checking whether Sunghoon would appear and make this worse. But when he didn’t, he looked back at Jaeyun and waited again.

Of course he did.

Behind the door, the shower shifted pitch — water on tile instead of skin, the soft scrape of movement as you’d turned under the stream — and Jaeyun’s shoulders tightened at the sound, reflexive and stupid, like his body wanted to go in there and steady you with his hands.

He forced himself to stay where he was.

“You know what the problem is?” Jaeyun asked.

“Tell me.”

“I know her,” he said, and he hated himself for how quickly it came out, like a confession that had been waiting all night. “I know she meant it.”

Jongseong’s expression softened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“But what if it changes something?” he asked. “I could say yes, and for one night I’d get—”

He cut himself off, shoving his hair back as if he could physically push the thought out of his head.

“Fuck — I’d get something I’ve wanted for a long time.”

“And then?”

“And then she’d wake up, and something could flick.” Jaeyun said. “Like she’d look at me and realize she made a mistake. Like she’d hate me for letting her.” His grip tightened once, then loosened. “Like I’d lose the only part of her I’m allowed to have.”

The hallway seemed to draw in around him, the air thickening as if it could listen. And Jaeyun lowered his voice in response.

“I’d rather have just a part of her forever than have her entirely for a night and lose her in the morning.”

“That’s — that’s more honest than I expected.”

Jaeyun let out a humorless breath. “Thank you.”

“I’m not done,” Jongseong said, because of course he wasn’t. “You’re treating having her like it’s one thing.”

Jaeyun frowned, irritation returning on instinct because it was safer than admitting Jongseong was right. 

“It’s either you stay in the safe version of your friendship forever — half-measures, unsaid things — or you sleep with her and blow it up.”

“But it could happen.”

“But it also couldn’t — not if you do it in the right way.”

“In the right way,” Jaeyun scoffed. “That clears everything up.”

“When she’s sober,” Jongseong continued, ignoring the sarcasm like it was a symptom. “You tell her the truth she can use.”

“Like what?”

“You tell her you said no because she was drunk.”

“Obviously.”

“And you tell her you care about her too much to risk the friendship over a night.”

Jaeyun’s stomach tightened. The sentence was too clean — neat edges, no mess, nothing anyone could accuse him of — and it sounded like something he was allowed to say. But it wasn’t the real reason, though. The real reason lived lower in him, hot and humiliating because of the selfishness of it. 

Jaeyun cared too much to let you choose him with alcohol blurring the corners, too much to wake up and find your eyes clear and horrified — he cared too much to have his name become the sharpest part of your regret.

He didn’t want a night he’d have to defend. He wanted a tomorrow that didn’t require forgiveness.

He couldn’t lose you.

“And if she guarantees nothing will change?” he asked, and his voice sounded small there, drowned out by the fantasy of it.

“You decide,” Jongseong said. “You do it, or you don’t. But don’t lie to yourself that you can keep something by freezing it.”

“I can keep it by not touching it.”

“And you can lose it that way too,” Jongseong said, immediately and all at once making Jaeyun halt. “You’re already changing. She’s already changing. Baekhyeon happened. Tonight happened.” 

“So what?” Jaeyun asked. “You think I should accept?”

“I think you should accept the conversation,” Jongseong corrected. “Not the drunk proposal. Not the chaos. Not the one-night disaster you’re picturing.”

He paused, just long enough for Jaeyun to swallow.

“It’s the best way,” Jongseong added. “Because it’s the only way she gets to choose you with a clear head — and you get to be chosen without feeling like you stole it.”

“Fine,” he said. “I will talk to her tomorrow — when she’s sober.”

“Good.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, but then Jongseong nodded toward the bathroom door with a faint grimace that tried to pass for humor. “Rap on my door when she’s done, yeah? I need to use the bathroom, and I don’t feel like getting murdered for walking in on — whatever this is.”

Jaeyun shot him a look, he wasn’t going to, but if anything, Jongseong’s mouth quirked, teasing and mean, as he turned and started back toward his room, leaving Jaeyun alone with the thin shaft of light coming from under the door, the broken lock, and the sound of you moving on the other side — alive, breathing, and close enough to ruin him if he let himself reach.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

The bathroom door opened with a tiny complaint from its hinges. Your figure momentarily silhouetted against the spill of light before he blinked and put you into focus, barefoot, hair slicked back and tucked behind your ears, cheeks still flushed from the shower, alcohol, and something that didn’t belong to soap or steam. His old shirt hung off you all wrong and yet perfectly: too big in the shoulders, too long in the hem, but familiar in a way that made Jaeyun’s chest tighten.

Perhaps he was dreaming this night.

“I thought I heard someone,” you whispered.

“It was Jongseong,” he replied, smoothing his tone into something casual, in the hope that you wouldn’t notice the way Jongseong’s appearance now sat warm and heavy beneath his ribs, pulsing each time he breathed, threatening to spill.

“Did we wake him up?”

Jaeyun shook his head and pushed himself up, his joints protesting with stiffness from the position and from the sheer act of not moving every time his instincts had told him to go in and make sure you were okay. “No. He just needed the bathroom.”

You nodded at him, and Jaeyun reached his hand to you, the gesture so unconscious, he didn’t notice he had done it until you reached back to him, fingers finding the slots between his, and intertwining your hands.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, already turning and guiding you down the short stretch of hall.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, but when he opened the door to his room, the world outside seemed vivid in comparison, a mist of light blue and purple coming through his open window, and spilling across the rumpled sheets and the scatter of things that made the space undeniably his: a jacket draped over the chair like it had been forgotten mid-thought, a half-open book, and a glass of water caught a thin slice of shine. The air was warmer in here, carrying the faint, familiar mix of laundry soap and skin and something clean underneath everything that had happened.

“Lie down,” Jaeyun said, swinging your interlaced hands toward the bed even though he expected you to refuse, saying something about contamination or demanding clean sheets, and forcing him into the familiar rhythm of your rules because that was how it always went — he was already halfway bracing for it, already planning how to humor you through it without letting his hands linger where they shouldn’t — but you moved then, slipping from his touch and laying on the mattress without protest. And it was somehow worse than anything.

“Princess,” he called, not really sure what the rest of the phrase was supposed to be, and the nickname hung in the air longer than it was necessary.

“Aren’t you coming?” you asked, and he was caught by the simplicity of it.

“Close your eyes,” Jaeyun said. “I’m going to get changed first.”

You made a small sound that almost counted as a snort, like the idea of him needing you not to look was ridiculous. But you did it anyway — eyes shut, face turned into his pillow, going still with the kind of obedience you only ever gave him when you didn’t want to argue.

Jaeyun changed quickly, like speed could make him safer. Jeans off. Sweatpants on. Shirt pulled over his head and tossed it somewhere he refused to look at. He kept his movements efficient, controlled — all about angles and purpose — because he couldn’t afford softness. Couldn’t afford the way tenderness turned reckless when it had nowhere to go.

By the time he finished, you hadn’t moved, and for a moment, he thought you’d fallen asleep, your body finally ceasing. But when he stepped closer, you opened your eyes, the dim light catching in them like a held secret, glazing along your lashes, turning your gaze into something soft and deep, as if whatever remained of the light had found a way to live inside you.

And Jaeyun hovered at the edge, forgetting for a beat how to be anything but pulled in.

He sat on the bed, and you shifted closer, cheek pressing deeper into his pillow like it belonged there — like you belonged there.

And the fact that you were smelling like him didn’t help. His shampoo was tangled in your damp hair. His soap clinging to your skin. The boring smell of him with something sweet underneath — vanilla and white flowers — threaded through it all. Like the night had taken the parts of him that were supposed to be private and braided them through you.

He wouldn’t sleep tonight.

“Yun,” you called. “About what I said—”

“Just sleep,” he cut in. “We can talk tomorrow.”

Your mouth parted as if you wanted to argue on principle. But your body betrayed you in the softest way: your breathing deepened, your fingers loosened on the sheet, your forehead sank into his pillow as if it was the only safe thing left in the world.

Jaeyun lay down beside you before he could think too hard about it, keeping the space between your bodies like a rule — a boundary he could hold — but you drifted closer inch by inch, pulled by some instinct that had never learned to be afraid of him. Your knee brushed his leg. Your hand settled near his, warm and lax, fingers curved like they might reach if you dreamed the right dream.

Jaeyun didn’t move. He only stared at the ceiling and listened to you breathe — slow and even — trying not to count it.

Tomorrow, he told himself.

Tomorrow, he would be brave. Tomorrow he would say the right things — the usable truth, as Jongseong had called — the truth you could hold without cutting yourself on it. 

Tomorrow, he would not ruin you, or the fragile shape of a friendship he’d carried for years like a glass of water.

But tonight—

He turned his head just enough to look at you, and stayed awake anyway — guarding the morning like it was the most dangerous thing he’d ever faced.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Jaeyun woke up to the morning sunlight filtering through the still-open window of his bedroom, and you curled into him, cheek on his shoulder, as your hand rested on his chest.

He didn’t move — he couldn’t bring himself to move — he didn’t even let his breath deepen because his first thought was the same one it had always been, old as instinct and just as merciless: don’t wake you. Don’t jolt you out of whatever gentle, thoughtless trust had guided you here in the dark and kept you here in the light. He merely stared at your hand on his chest.

Your fingers were loose, resting over his heartbeat like they’d found it by memory. Like your body had reached for the most familiar thing in the room and settled before your mind could intervene.

He swallowed.

The sunlight was falling in slow stripes across the sheets and across the line of your shoulder beneath his shirt, turning the old cotton into something almost translucent, and catching on your necklace. Dust drifted through the brightness like the morning was innocent — like the world hadn’t heard what you’d asked for last night, hadn’t seen the way his restraint had shaken under the skin.

He’d stayed the whole night trying to remain as far as he could tell. And still, here you were — curled into him like this was allowed. Like this was fine. Like you belonged in the hollow of his shoulder with your palm over his heart, claiming the one part of him he’d never learned how to hide.

You made a small sound in your throat, barely more than a breath, and nudged closer, your knee tucking nearer, your fingers flexing once against his shirt, and the heat of you spread through him like something inevitable.

His gaze drifted to your face.

Sleep had unmade you cruel in its sweetness; your lashes cast a faint shadow under your eyes; your mouth was parted just slightly, softened by the quiet. There was no teasing there, no armor, no bright deflection — only you, unguarded, and breathing against his shoulder like you trusted him to hold.

Because he would — he always would.

Jaeyun swallowed and very carefully — so carefully it bordered on absurd — slid his arm out from beneath your head, immediately receiving a small sound of protest from you, brows drawing together, and for one panicked second, he thought you’d wake.

But if anything, you only turned your face further into his pillow, drifting your hand from his chest to the sheet between you.

Jaeyun sat up slowly, pushing his hair back off his forehead as if he could physically push the feeling out, and looked at you once more.

Then he reached for the blanket and pulled it higher, covering you with a tenderness that felt dangerously close to a confession — tucking the edge beneath your arm, smoothing it down over your ribs, restoring order because order was the only thing that kept him from doing something reckless — before he stood up, crossing the room barefoot.

Jaeyun left the room, pulling the door nearly shut behind him, careful not to let the latch click.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

The kitchen met him as it always did on weekdays.

The sink was crowded with his roommate’s morning small evasions — a cup abandoned to the drying rack, a plate left half-rinsed as if someone had set it down and decided they couldn’t be bothered to finish. Old coffee grounds sat in the filter, gone cold and sour, and the air held that faint, stubborn bitterness like it had seeped into the walls.

Jaeyun stood in the middle of it all for a moment, then two — trying to make his brain behave.

Tomorrow, he had said, and it was tomorrow.

He exhaled through his nose and opened the fridge, scanning the shelves as if the answer to what to do with his hands might be hiding behind the milk, but not even this they had. There were eggs, half a loaf of bread, butter, something green that had once been vegetables in a kinder timeline, and the strawberries he bought weekly and kept in the back, pretending it wasn’t for you.

He closed the door on impulse, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he reopened it and grabbed the eggs.

Jaeyun had never been a breakfast person, but he needed something to do with his hands that morning, and so, he warmed the pan, melting the butter as he had seen you do a dozen times. 

He cracked the first egg too hard, and a piece of shell fell in, forcing him to fish it out with the edge of a fork with a curse under his breath. The second one cracked clean. And he caught himself staring at it for a second, mildly offended by success.

He scrambled the eggs like he was negotiating with them — low heat, constant movement, refusing to let them burn. The toast popped up too dark on one side, and he had scraped it with a knife.

He got strawberries in the back of the fridge, rinsed them, and set them on a plate.

And by the time it started to look like something someone might eat, he heard you, softly coming down the hall and making the air shift, the apartment itself holding its breath.

Jaeyun turned, and there you were in the doorway — his shirt hanging off you, hair a mess, eyes brighter than they had any right to be.

Your gaze landed on the plates — on the counter, catching the eggshells still on it, the crumbs of his burned toast, and the strawberry tops before it moved to him.

“You made breakfast,” you said, the corner of your lips shifting into a smile.

“I’m aware.”

You padded toward him, bare feet on the kitchen tile, and suddenly you were so close, he could smell you, his soap still clinging to your skin. Your eyes were puffy, your cheeks still a little flushed, but the embarrassment had already arrived; Jaeyun could see it in the way you held your shoulders, in the way your gaze didn’t stay on his for too long.

“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly.

Jaeyun leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossing because if he didn’t put his body in order, his face might betray him. “You were drunk. You called me. I picked you up. That’s not like it never happened.”

“I remember what I said.”

Jaeyun went still.

“I’m not going to pretend I don’t,” you said. “Or that I said it only because I was drunk — I mean, I was drunk.” 

You paused, heat creeping up to your cheeks and making it a tone warmer.

“Jaeyun, I’m—” You pressed your palm to your forehead briefly, as if you could push the shame back inside. “I’m in university. I’m still a virgin. And it’s not even because I’m some — saint. It’s because I kept waiting for the right moment.”

Your voice dropped. “But now it just feels like I’ve been standing still while everyone else moved.”

Something moved in Jaeyun’s chest then — sharp, protective, and making him push himself off the counter before he meant to, closing the space between you in a step he didn’t ask permission for.

“Princess,” he called, his voice as soft as the way his arms eased apart, but he didn’t touch you. Didn’t put his hands on your shoulders or tuck your hair back or do any of the things his body begged him to do on autopilot — because this was morning, and you were sober, and this mattered.

“You don’t owe anyone a timeline,” he said. “And you don’t have to make it some performance to prove something.”

“I know, Yun, it’s just that—” Your mouth tightened, lips pressing as you searched for the shape of the truth. “When I think about it, I keep coming to the conclusion that it would be safe if it were with you.”

“Do you remember that party at Seoyeon’s where they did that stupid bottle game, and we both had our first kisses in her parents’ closet?” you asked. Jaeyun blinked at the sudden turn of topic, but nodded anyway. “It was awful and so awkward. The guy made it so awkward. And the whole time I remember — the whole time I remember wishing it had been you on the other side of the bottle, because it would’ve been easier if it were you.” You swallowed. “If it were you, I’d be safe — and it’s still true, I know it would be okay with you,”

“You’re the person I trust the most in this world.”

The whole sentence went straight through his ribs and sank there, spreading through the parts of Jaeyun that had learned to stay careful until his restraint loosened another notch, and his chest went tender with it, so sudden it almost hurt.

In his mind, he was back at Seoyeon’s party, you laughing and brushing the situation off in front of him, cheeks flushed even in the low light with what he thought was shyness. And perhaps it had been. Perhaps he hadn’t been completely wrong: you’d been shy there, but not because you’d just had your first kiss, but because you’d wished he was the one there. He, your best friend — and the thought came so suddenly he couldn’t prevent it — he wanted it to be him, too. He wanted to be your first in every way that counted.

And that was exactly what you were offering to him.

Jaeyun swallowed, his fingers flexing on the counter.

“Do you truly want it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“But nothing can change between us,” Jaeyun said. “We start as best friends. And even if this — if this thing doesn’t work and we turn out to be awkward, we end as that. Best friends. No matter what.”

You stared at him for a second.

“Are you afraid of losing me?” you asked, teasing like you could make this lighter if you tried hard enough.

Jaeyun could hear the invitation in it. The offer to laugh. To dissolve the moment back into something safe. But when he looked at you, his eyes were solemn. So solemn that whatever retort you’d been about to throw at him got stuck somewhere between your lips and your courage.

“Yes,” Jaeyun said, and the teasing fell away.

Your breath caught for a moment before you exhaled, your face softening into something older than jokes.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed.

Your gaze flicked to the counter again, to the two plates resting there, and he felt like it was some type of evidence. Proof this wasn’t only shame and late-night chaos, but morning too. Domestic, ordinary, real.

“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, “we’re doing this?”

Jaeyun’s mouth twitched. “Eat.”

“That was not an answer.”

He reached past you, grabbing a fork, and placing it in your hand with exaggerated seriousness.

“Eat,” he repeated. “Then we talk.”

“Jaeyun.”

He held your gaze, and the air between you tightened with something that had nothing to do with breakfast.

“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. “We’re doing it.”

“Good,” you said, and then, because you were you, because you couldn’t help yourself: “When are we doing it?”

Jaeyun stared at you.

“Are you—” he began. “Are you trying to schedule sex?”

“Seems reasonable.” You shuddered. “Or do you want us to do it now—”

“No,” he cut in, eyes narrowing, but the fondness in it betrayed him. “Tonight.”

“Don’t you have classes?”

“Are you having second thoughts?” he countered.

“Tonight,” you agreed. “My place?”

“That makes more sense,” he said, not only because he didn’t want his roommates hovering around, but because if he kept you here, if he kept you in his bed again, he didn’t trust the part of him that wanted to pretend you didn’t already belong.

“Okay,” you said.

“Okay,” he echoed.

Jaeyun straightened, grabbed his own plate, and turned away from the counter as if he hadn’t just scheduled the end of the life he’d been carefully maintaining like a lie. As if he’d invited you to the movies instead of into the most dangerous part of him.

“Eat,” he said again, voice rough. “Before I change my mind.”

You took a bite of eggs, crunching your nose. “These are terrible.”

“They’re edible,” he argued.

You smiled around your bite, and in the brilliance of it, Jaeyun noticed with sudden clarity that you might not be drunk, you might not be mad, but it had been a reckless request.

And he had just said yes.

He should’ve panicked.

He should’ve backed out and clung to his rules until they cut him open.

But he only watched you — standing in his kitchen with his shirt draped around you, alive and real and trusting him with clear eyes, and he couldn’t make himself care about the danger.

RULE #2: DO NOT TOUCH HER IMPROPERLY  

Some touches are allowed because they keep her safe — elbow, shoulder, wrist, maybe her waist; small steadying things I can explain without it sounding like a lie. Improper is anything I do for myself. Improper is touching her like I’m owed something just because I’ve been here a long time.

Jaeyun liked electrical engineering — he really liked it — perhaps more than he’d ever admitted out loud.

There was something about how he could take a mess of a problem — wires crossing like arguments, values that looked meaningless until he stopped panicking and actually looked — and reduce it to rules that held. KCL. KVL. The calm mathematics of not lying to himself. Find the reference. Label the nodes. Define the direction. Solve.

If he couldn’t control other things — timing, people’s feelings, the way you could laugh like nothing was wrong while something in him quietly broke — then at least he could control this.

At least here, the world had edges. Here, the answer existed, and he found some calmness in it.

But not tonight.

Jaeyun sat in the last row with his book open and his pen in hand, trying to make his body obey.

But the professor’s voice moved through the room, muffled by the low hum of the projector and the whisper of AC that never quite cooled the lecture hall. Something about the transient response. Something about step inputs and settling time. Jaeyun stared at the diagram on the slide until it started to blur, because all he could see was you in his kitchen, barefoot on his tile. His shirt on your body. Your mouth around the word tonight like it was a dare and a promise and a joke all at once.

He wrote a line of notes, realizing a moment too late that it didn’t make sense; it was just a string of symbols that meant nothing. His jaw tightened. He scratched it out so hard the paper tore, then froze, breathing through his nose like he could sand himself back into something normal.

He tried to listen again, forcing his gaze to the board, and his brain into the shape of equations.

But the truth was: he wasn’t there anymore.

He was already walking to your studio apartment. He was already at your door, pressing the code of your keypad as he had done a thousand times. 

He was already hearing your voice say his name the way you always did when you wanted something — and he hated that the wanting in him answered like a trained dog.

His leg bounced under the desk as his eyes moved to the clock.

The second hand dragged itself forward like it was doing it on purpose, like time had decided to become cruel just to prove it could. Jaeyun forced himself to look back down at the board. Forced his jaw to unclench. Forced his foot to stop bouncing.

It didn’t work.

He dragged a hand through his hair, knuckles scraping his scalp, and stared at the open page like he could threaten it into giving him peace.

Step response.

Damping ratio.

Overshoot — his chest felt like overshoot.

Jaeyun exhaled slowly, then made a decision, closing his book with a sound sharper than it should’ve been in the lecture hall, a final clap that made the person in front of him glance back, but Jaeyun didn’t care. If anything, he slid the book into his bag, capped his pen, and stood.

Outside, the late afternoon air hit him with a faint bite — winter pretending it hadn’t left yet. And the campus was loud in the way it always got near the end of the day: students spilling out of buildings, scooters whining by, laughter too bright, life too easy.

Jaeyun walked straight through it, taking the quickest route off campus, cutting between two buildings, and down the narrow street that always smelled like fried food and stale cigarette smoke.

He didn’t stop to think — didn’t even breathe; he only followed the line to your apartment complex, pushing the door open and taking the stairs, two at a time.

At your door, the keypad was there, small and impersonal, a little square of plastic and numbers that shouldn’t mean anything. But Jaeyun had always been stupidly good at remembering what mattered, and your passcode was one of those things he picked up without asking, without naming it as intimacy — the way he learned strawberry was your favorite fruit when you were both twelve, the way he memorized the sound of your laugh before he realized he was paying attention. Four digits. He knew it — he had used it a dozen times, but as his finger found the first digit, he froze because him knowing it all too well, suddenly felt like trespassing.

Jaeyun stared at the numbers. His hand still in the air, suspended, and ridiculously caught between two versions of himself. The one that had always been allowed inside your life, the one that had walked into your space carrying groceries and textbooks and your bad moods like they were part of his schedule, and the one standing here now, with the taste of tonight still sharp in his mouth, and the knowledge that tonight is not errands or emergencies.

He exhaled, slowly, trying to make his body act normal — trying to make his hand stop trembling with the sheer idiocy of wanting.

But couldn’t, and when he raised his hand again, he only knocked at the door and waited, hearing his own pulse in his ears, a stupid, loyal metronome that refused to slow down. 

And then — movement.

The smallest sound from inside. Footsteps. A shift of air through the crack of the frame, like your apartment exhaled before the door even opened.

Jaeyun straightened without meaning to, shoulders going back like he’s bracing for impact. His hand dropped to his sides, finding his pockets because he refused to be caught halfway through panic.

Warm light spilled through the gap, and the scent of your place followed it — something clean and faintly floral, the trace of whatever you always used that made you smell like comfort when you hugged him goodbye. And there you were, framed in the doorway as if you’d been waiting in the exact spot where he would have to see you all at once.

For half a second, Jaeyun couldn’t breathe, his lungs catching, devastated by you.

“Hi,” you said. It was the same word you’d always used, yet it didn’t sound the same. “Did you forget the code?” 

Jaeyun swallowed, forcing his face into something neutral.

“No,” he managed, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. But if anything, you hummed at him, requiring no further explanation, as you opened the door a little wider so he could come in.

Jaeyun had molded the moment when he would step into your place in his mind enough times to believe he would be prepared when it finally came into reality. 

Yet it didn’t.

He tried to don a neutral aspect, tried to speak — make some joke — but the words stayed in, hooked into years, and yanked, allowing nothing but air to pass through his lips.

Your apartment was small in the way studios always were — everything close enough to touch from the same spot, everything bearing the faint imprint of your routines. A blanket was folded too neatly on the end of the bed. A mug sat on the counter that looked like it had been rinsed and set down without being fully put away. A stack of books with their spines cracked in the middle like they’d been loved, not displayed.

And there was you — too close, too real.

You’d changed since he’d last been here, but at the same time, you were the same girl he had known his whole life, and the combination of both made something in him tighten until it felt sharp.

Jaeyun shut the door behind him with his foot, careful not to let it slam, yet the click of the latch sounded louder than it should’ve, and he stood there for a beat too long, backpack strap still across his shoulder, hands in his pockets.

“Shoes,” you remembered, because you couldn’t help yourself, and a laugh escaped through him, familiar enough to settle him.

Jaeyun bent, unlaced his sneakers, slipped them off with quick, efficient motions before he lined them near the door and dropped his backpack.

When he straightened, you were still watching him, draped in a dress that didn’t try to be subtle.

It hugged you way too prettily, clinging to your waist and hips like it had been made with the sole purpose of making him forget he’d ever learned how to breathe. The neckline dipped just enough to show skin, and right there — resting against it like a quiet, years-old claim — was the necklace he’d given you. 

“Jaeyun,” you called. And he knew this tone — he knew it so damn well. It was your do something. 

And so he did, striding in your direction, his hands already reaching for your face, cradling it on his palms before he looked down at you with a small question that he couldn’t come to pronounce because you were already replying by closing your eyes, tipping your head up so he didn’t need to do much to catch your top lip within his.

It was your first kiss. Jaeyun had known you for his whole life, but it was the first time he had come to know your mouth, and it felt almost like a travesty of the universe.

You tasted like strawberries, sugar, and something so familiar that his chest ached, threatening to break open and groan escaped him when you parted your lips, allowing him to dip his tongue inside, pressing against yours until he couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t you.

You and the way your hands found the front of his t-shirt and curled on it.

You and the way you pulled him along with you as you stepped back — and back, until the back of your knees had hit the mattress, and you had no other option but to fall on it, his hands bracing around your face, one knee bent and pressed where the skirts of your dress had pooled in too high.

You didn’t say anything as you reached for him, rushing your hands beneath the blue shirt and pushing it over his shoulders.

“Wait, Princess, wait,” he asked. “Slow down.” 

“Is this how you always do it?”

And he could have lied, could have merely said yes, that was how he took all the other girls, but he didn’t.

“No,” he said. “It’s because it’s you and me.”

You stared at him, and suddenly the room felt too small for your heartbeats, too quiet for how loud everything inside of him turned.

But then, you leaned in and kissed him again — slower this time — giving him space to meet you properly. 

His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his thumb pressing and feeling your pulse through the tip of it as his other hand followed the line of your shoulders, moving further and further until his palm had found your waist, his fingers spreading on you the way he always did to anchor you — except that now it was less anchoring than keeping you.

You shifted beneath him, your leg sliding close enough to brush the inside of his thigh, and Jaeyun felt it like a jolt — small, accidental, and devastating — traveling straight through his length, and making his breath catch.

He forced himself to hinder — force himself to keep his head clear. But his body was already answering you, heat gathering with every centimeter of contact, the novelty of it turning molten and bright in his blood — wanting to move, to press in, to take what you were offering without thinking. 

“Tell me if—” he started, then stopped, trying to rearrange his thoughts. 

“If what?”

“If you want me to stop,” he managed. “Say it if you—”

“I won’t,” you said, and the certainty in it hit him like a punch.

Jaeyun exhaled, pressing his forehead to yours — not kissing, not moving — just breathing the sweet scent of you, vanilla and white flowers, the same he always had as he counted the seconds like he could make them behave through the sheer force of his want.

“You’re sure?” he asked — because he had to — because he knew that this was the line where everything became real, and everything before this was going to feel small in comparison.

“Yes, Sim Jaeyun,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Okay.”

Jaeyun’s fingers found the strap of your dress, sliding it with a gentleness that didn’t match the way his pulse was climbing, easing it down through your shoulder slow enough that it felt like a question you could stop without words — yet you didn’t — and the dress shifted with a soft whisper through your body. 

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the skin he’s uncovered — one brief kiss, then another — until the dress loosened and pooled lower, until he could guide it away and reveal your lingerie set, pinkish in a way that only made your skin warmer under the lights of your apartment. 

His breath hitched.  

You were beautiful in a way he’d always known, but also in a way he’d never allowed himself to study — never this close, never with permission. Never with the soft spill of your skin under his hands, much less with the heat of you turning every familiar detail into something obscene and new. 

His hand splayed over your belly, the tips of his fingers skimming the lower edge of your bra before he slid down, finding the band of your panties and hooking it lightly.

“You’re—” he began.

“Don’t get too full of yourself, Jaeyun,” you murmured. “I dress like this because I just happen to have no bad sets.”

The laugh that left him was helpless, more air than sound, relief threading through it because you were still you, even here, even now, just in your lingerie set and with skin turning reddish because of his kisses, and it truly didn’t matter that you interpreted him wrongly this time. 

“Right,” he managed. He couldn’t argue with anything you said — not right now — not never. “Of course.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt, pulling him closer — not frantic, not desperate — just needy, and Jaeyun went still for one beat to let himself feel it: the pull, the permission, the way your hands on him turned his years of restraint into something soft and breakable.

“Of course,” he whispered again, bending down and kissing you, your temples first, and then your cheeks — his lips pestering over your face with soft pecks before he moved lower, discovering that one sensitive spot underneath your jaw, and when you gasped, he took it as an incentive to move to the column of your neck, his mouth parting as his tongue slipped out in a tiny tease that got you gasping softly — almost silently, hands closing at the shoulders of his shirt as if you couldn’t help yourself.

“You’re sensitive,” he murmured, tucking his discovery carefully alongside all the other details he’d collected about you over the years.

You called for him, but if it had been a warning or a submission, you lost interest in the rest of your thought as he kissed you again, open mouth and tongue rolling against your skin, surely leaving a mark, and making a moan to rumble through your lips instead. 

Jaeyun’s eyes flicked up to your face, and he didn’t let go — not even when his hands slipped to your back, the tips of his fingers finding and curling on the clasps of your bra. Not even as he opened it and slid further into you, kissing the tip of your breast and sending goosebumps through your skin. 

He never let go.

And when his lips parted, tipping his tongue out, and making your hands move to the back of his head, fisting at his hair almost bitterly, he only smiled against you, the movement adding another coating to the sensation and making your arch against him.

He licked you softly, licked you hard, covered the areola with his lips and pulled the tip into his mouth, pulled more and harder, until your back arched even more and created a gap between the mattress that his hands took no time to fill, his fingers spraying through your skin and holding you still as his mouth moved, leaving your nipple just to create a path through your body, trailing down to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.

Jaeyun lifted his head then, just enough to look at your face properly, catching the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips had parted because your breath had turned pant, your chest moving too fast and allowing your necklace to sparkle.

The room was suddenly too small for how loud his blood had gotten. 

For a moment, he didn’t kiss, didn’t lick, didn’t give either of you the mercy of motion; he only held still and watched, like he needed to see what he was doing to you before he let himself do more.

“Princess,” he breathed, the word slipping out before he could decide on anything else. 

You looked at him, and your gazes locked as they had done a dozen times across the existence of you, yet the moment acquired that dream quality because you were here, bare in a way he’d only imagined in the abstract — late at night, in the quietness of his room, in the version of his imagination he kept locked away like contraband — and the distance between wanting and having had narrowed to a single breath.

Jaeyun swallowed, trying to steady himself, before let the moment break by degrees — his palm slid down the slope of your stomach, slow enough to feel like asking, fingertips grazing your skin as if he were relearning it; as if touching you like this rewired something in him that had always been too careful until his fingers finally found the band and paused there, hooked lightly under the elastic.

He looked back up at you then, thumb stroking once along your hip as his other hand held you steady at the small of your back, refusing to let you drift away from him — from this.

“You okay?” he murmured, and it sounded like he meant all of it.

You nodded at him, and he moved — quietly relentless — his knuckles brushed your thighs on the way, accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all, and the sound you made hit him physically. 

He had never been so hard in his whole life.

He guided the panties lower, and lower, until they slipped free; and for a beat, he just held them, as though the simplest thing in his hand had become proof that the night had finally crossed into real.

Then he set them aside without looking, his attention snapping back to you immediately — hand returning to your inner thigh with a firmer hold than before. 

“If I do anything you don’t like — you tell me, okay? We have to communicate.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed. 

His thumb drew one more slow line along your inner thigh, watching the way you answered it before he allowed himself to lower his head again, kissing the inside of your knee this time — soft — almost innocent, if the moment hadn’t been burning at the edges. Then another kiss, slower, lingering, his mouth warming you as his hands guided you open with a care that felt reverent. 

“You are just — beautiful,” he heard himself say.

You let out a small sound that wasn’t quite a breath and wasn’t quite a laugh, startled by how earnest he was being. Your cheeks warmed, and you turned your face just slightly, like you could hide behind the angle.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, aiming for teasing, but it came out too soft for anything but shyness.

And Jaeyun’s mouth twitched, a helpless curve that didn’t reach humor so much as relief. And his hand tightened once at your thigh, then gentled, thumb stroking a quiet line as if to soothe the flush he’d put in you.

“Yeah?” he said. “But is it okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, the word threaded through the quiet laugh that escaped you. You didn’t dress it up, didn’t offer an explanation, didn’t hand him the because — you just let the answer be simple. But it wasn’t simple at all, not to him because he heard the rest in the way your gaze found his and held: yeah, you said, because it’s you.

The first touch of his mouth against your folds was light enough that he didn’t even taste you, but your body still reacted: a sharp inhale, a pull through your spine, the instinctive arch that made his own breath break low in his throat.

And when you tipped your hips to him, he mouthed you again, his hands sliding further into you, thumbs finding the tender flesh of your hood and lifting it — leaving your clit in full exposure for him to lean in, the tip of his tongue kneading the sensitive flesh around, slightly rubbing before he pressed it, unable to prevent the sound that escaped his throat then — something between reverence and desperation. 

It took your smile away — your lips parting in a gasp as your fingers met and wove through his hair, pulling him in a demand that he had no second thoughts before obeying, giving you another lick — a harder one.

His tongue twirled all around the edge, then he pressed a kiss over it — a long, tender wet kiss before he lowered his head and licked at the entrance of your body because you were clenching around nothing, and it suddenly felt too evil, and Jaeyun would never be evil to you.

He pushed his tongue against your hole, and then, he pushed again until his tip went inside it, and he had to control his will to roll his eyes back.

Even his boldest fantasy hadn’t come close to how sweet you actually were. And the thought landed too tender to survive, cracking him open into something darker because being careful had started to feel like another kind of denial, and he couldn’t come to continue to restrain himself when you had given him all the permission. Jaeyun lifted his head just long enough to look at you, eyes blown wide and honest, as if he was giving you one last chance to pull him back. To tell him to stop. To make him good again.

Yet you didn’t. And something within him shifted. His hands held you firmer, spreading you open as he went back to you no longer soft-edged, and decided to stop hovering at the threshold, giving you what you were asking for.

Jaeyun’s grip tightened as he worked on you, alternating between broad strokes and precise licks on that one spot that never failed to make you cry out his name.  

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

Your response came almost immediately — a broken moan that seemed to come from somewhere so deeply inside of you, Jaeyun felt your own desperation reverberating through his entire body.

You were getting closer, he could tell by the way your thighs kept quivering under his hands, your breathing becoming more and more ragged with each pass of his tongue, but it wasn’t enough — he needed to see it: the moment pleasure turned undeniable, the moment he could stop wondering if he was reading you wrong.

Jaeyun retreated with a torturous care, pressing a final kiss to your folds as he pushed himself back onto his knees and earned a protest from you.

“Jaeyun—”

“Not yet,” he said. “For now, I need you to hold yourself open for me. Can you do that, Princess?”

You nodded despite yourself, spreading your legs further apart — pushing the soles of your feet against your sheets for some leverage and fuck.

The sight of you like this — glistening with your fluids and remnants of his saliva — the sight of you so ready for him.

He could hardly breathe.

He brought one hand down through your thigh, his thumb resuming the circular motions on your clit while his other hand moved to your seam, teasingly brushing the tips of his fingers through before he slid a single one inside.

You were so wet already, he slipped with no resistance, and it was so dizzying — everything about it was so dizzying — he hardly heard you panting as he began to move his finger in and out, your stomach tightening and giving a small convulsion, but you kept your legs apart as he had asked you to.

It was a false deed, honestly — as if Jaeyun could command anything when both of you knew — he was the one to always follow. 

But he really didn’t care.

When Jaeyun felt you opening up to him, he added a second finger in, curling them slightly to discover that one spot that soon enough got you into a mess — squeezing him with your release as your hands grabbed at your sheets. Your lips parted around his name, and your hair turned wilder as your head pushed against your pillows, arching your back in that one beautiful bow before you melted again.

“Princess,” he called, and you clenched at the endearing name, a velvet heat that he felt in his very soul.

You hadn’t done anything to him, but Jaeyun felt utterly undone by you. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps just by watching you.

God — he could come just by watching you.

You were so wet. His hand was coated with you, white slick dribble coming out of your cunt, making each of his moves obscenely loud in the quiet night, yet — all he could think was how stunning you were like this, so lovely and so his.

He wanted to keep looking — to hold the moment still, to learn it by heart, and make it something real enough to survive the morning. But he wanted to look away, too, all at once — startled by the sheer size of his wanting.

You had so much power over him, it was terrifying even to examine the way you owned his soul. When your gazes caught, his heart seemed to burst in his chest.

Was he doing it for you, or doing it for him? He couldn’t tell anymore.

He curled his fingers deeper inside of you, making you mumble something unintelligible, a sob ripping through your chest and already threatening to turn into a release. Jaeyun couldn’t help but grin at the sound, reveling in the way your body trembled and arched underneath his touch.

You thrashed and thrashed as he still tended you the way you needed, stroking the spots inside that made you shudder and rubbing at your clit until he heard you panting, his own name falling from your lips in a breathless moan before it turned into whimpers, and when you came around him, he leaned in to kiss you.

Jaeyun stayed close through the last shiver, like he didn’t trust the world not to startle you out of it. He kissed you again — slower now, softer — catching your mouth as your breathing stuttered, and pretending that he could take the edge off the intensity just by holding you there. His hand eased from its grip into a gentler touch, smoothing along your thigh.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

His forehead brushed against yours as his hands smoothed over your body, taking you through until he could cup your face, and his thumb could reach for the corner of your mouth, wiping away the evidence of his kiss with a tenderness that didn’t match how wrecked he looked. He swallowed, chest rising and falling too fast, and forced himself to slow his breathing until yours started to follow.

“Still okay?” he asked again, softer, as if the question mattered more now than it had before.

You nodded at him, managing a flimsy sound that might’ve been yes, and Jaeyun pressed another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried, almost devotional, as if he needed to apologize for his own intensity.

“You did so well,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need. Water? A minute? Do you want me to hold you, or-?”

“Jaeyun,” you cut.

“Yes, Princess?”

Your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers curling and weaving through his hair, holding him still.

“I need you.”

It might have been the words, the small plea that took Jaeyun anew because he would never refuse anything you asked him, or perhaps it was the way you said them, a bit flimsy because you couldn’t control it still, but either way, he gave in, slipping from your hold only so he could take his t-shirt off. 

He almost choked when you stood with him, your hands reaching for his lower abdomen, nails scraping his skin slightly before you took his belt and unbuckled it. 

“Princess,” he called, the questions already on his tongue, shaped by habit, and the need to do this right.

But you didn’t give him time.

Your hands moved for his jeans, unzipping them as if you’d decided you were done waiting, easing them down in one smooth, impatient motion. The room seemed to go hushed around the sound of it — denim shifting, breath catching — until the only thing left was the sudden, helpless awareness of his length slapping against his abdomen.

Your hand found him, fingers curling around him almost beautifully, closing and molding with a care that didn’t match, and making his whole body go taut, breath pulling tight in his chest like it had nowhere to go. Not because he didn’t want it — God, he wanted it — but because he did, too much, too fast, the kind of wanting that threatened to ruin the rest of the night by sheer impatience.

He caught your wrist gently, holding you as his forehead dipped toward yours again, his eyes shutting.

“If you do that,” he began. “I’m not going to last.”

The honesty of it landed between you, sharp with embarrassment. And when he opened his eyes again, there was something almost pleading in the way he looked at you — like he was asking you not to laugh, not to make him feel small for how quickly you could undo him.

“Another time,” he promised, realizing the implications of his words a fraction too late. Not just later tonight. Not just when you feel like it. But again. As if he’d already decided that there was going to be a future where he got to learn you — and be learned — without rushing.

But you didn’t tease him. When you looked at him, your gaze holding his until the heat in his face had nowhere to hide, you merely nodded.

“Okay,” you said.

You were no warmer than Jaeyun was, but when he touched your waist, your skin shivered, a fine tremor running under his fingertips.

“Okay,” he echoed.

You let him ease you down onto the sheets, smoothing you into place as he followed you down, bracing himself over you without crushing you, and kissed you — slow, mouth soft, reverent in a way that made the moment feel almost holy.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he whispered. “Tell me if—”

“I know,” you breathed, and the words sounded so much like trust — Jaeyun’s throat worked, and he kissed you again and again and again, only letting go to reach down beside the bed for his jeans, fingers finding the pocket by feel — clumsy in a way he never remembered being. His breath caught when you made the smallest sound behind him, and he hurried to get his wallet free, forcing it out with a practical shuffle before the faint and quick tear of foil came in the hush.

He slid it on with shaky hands that he hoped you wouldn’t notice.

But you did — of course you did. 

When he climbed back over you, you reached for his arms, your fingers brushing down until you found his hands.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered, your brows knitted, and searching his face like you were afraid you’d pushed him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

Jaeyun went still.

“Because it’s you,” he replied, not giving himself time to consider how much he had exposed with this mere phrase. 

Of course he was shaking. He’d wanted you for so long it had grown into something foundational, something he’d learned to live around and never touch. And now you were here beneath him, looking at him like he was allowed — like he was chosen — and his wanting hadn’t been foolish after all.

His throat worked. He tightened his fingers around yours, trying to make the shaking stop by force.

“If I mess this up, you won’t ever let me hear the end of this,” he smoothed.

You laughed at him — familiar in a way that loosened something in his chest, easing everything inside him as if the sound of you had always known where to press to make him breathe again.

“Don’t worry,” you said. “I’ll keep it all as another of our secrets.” 

“What other secrets do we have?”

“What you had under your bed when we were teenagers,” you began. “That you couldn’t sleep without a lampshade until you were twelve. Where we were on your eighteenth birthday. That you cried watching The Notebook—”

“Everyone cried watching The Notebook at least once.”

“Baekhyeon didn’t—”

“Did you watch it with him?”

“It’s my favorite movie, of course I did,” you said. “But don’t worry, it was just once — it’s funnier with you anyway.”

“Obviously,” he said. “Everything is funnier with me — and we are about to have a lot of fun.”

You laughed again, softer and only because he was allowed to — he kissed you again, his hands smoothing your thighs, your calves, his fingers moving and curling around your ankles and pulling you to him, lifting your legs to his hips.

You stiffened as his tip made contact, your body going taut beneath him and he stopped like he’d been trained for it, like every instinct he had rewired itself around not hurting you. His grip shifted back from your ankles to your thighs — his thumbs stroking small, steady circles as if he could coax your muscles out of panic.

“Princess, look at me,” he murmured. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shook your head, a little bit too frantically as if you were afraid he would really stop it, and Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, a sound that stood somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. He kissed you once, slow and grounding, then another at the corner of your mouth.

“Okay,” he said. “Then we go slow. I’m right here.”

He shifted — barely enough to change the angle, but you seemed to feel it and his thumb reached for you seam, wetting the tip of it with your fluids, and finding your clitoris, rubbing it in slow and deliberate circles that got you closing your eyes, moving your hips, and welcoming whatever he was giving.

Jaeyun made himself still enough to read you, his eyes tracking your face with the kind of focus that might’ve felt clinical, if it hadn’t been so tender. He watched your breathing first, then your mouth, then the tiny shifts in your shoulders before he slowed and it eased again.

He moved in careful increments, pausing whenever your breath changed. Waiting whenever your brows pinched. His hands steadied you — firm at your thighs, gentle at your waist, and holding you through the newness of it.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Is it okay?”

You nodded and he lowered his forehead toward yours.

It was slow at first, all about him discovering the new shape of you, but soon enough, it was confident and knowing. When he drew back, he knew exactly how to move back in, how to make you tighten around him, and his name to escape from your lips a little bit more frantically as his rhythm increased.

Your fingers spread through the back of his neck, fingers twisting at the hair at his nape and bringing him closer and closer, as if you couldn’t help it. And when your breath turned ragged and your fingers tightened, Jaeyun pressed his mouth to your temple, whispering your name like a promise he could finally keep.

Even if only temporarily.

“Yun, I’m going—”

“It’s okay, Princess,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

And this time he meant it in every way.

“Come for me, babe.”

You twisted under his body, even as he kept you pinned in place with his hands on your hips, squirming and whimpering your way through it, finishing with an almighty shudder as you came a second time, and it was so beautiful, and overwhelming — he tried to stay careful. He tried to keep his breathing even. But you said his name like you needed him, and something in him cracked clean through.

He buried his face against your neck, a shaky sound trapped in his throat. “Princess—”

He didn’t have room for anything except you.

No thought. No control. Just the force of feeling, cresting too high and too fast, until it dragged a groan from him with your name inside it — like that was the only thing he could say when he finally lost himself — and with a final, deep thrust, his body tensed and spilled inside of you — groaning your name. The echo of it carved into your skin as he buried himself, his fingers molding into your skin with an intensity that left behind indentations as the waves of his pleasure washed over.

Jaeyun hadn’t realized how noisy you both had been, but the room felt suddenly too quiet after. 

And for a beat, he only stayed still — his forehead tucked against the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of the air between you, the feeling of your pulse under his mouth, your fingers still lost in his hair, and your bodies so tangled, he couldn’t quite tell where he ended and you began — his whole soul afraid that the moment would slip away the second he admitted it had happened.

But then, you made a small sound, and it made him force his head up — just enough to look at you.

He brushed his knuckles along your cheek, then paused, thumb hovering at your lips because he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you like this now that the moment was gone. 

“You okay?” he asked, the question already worn thin by the number of times he had used it through the night, but it felt heavier somehow, meaning more than any of the earlier ones ever had.

But if anything, you only nodded — leaning into his touch as your lashes fluttered shut.

“Just stay,” you whispered.

And so, he stayed — rolling you both through your bed, his back sinking into the mattress as he drew you to his chest, giving you a place to rest as if it was any other night and you were merely best friends falling asleep together. He stayed until your heartbeat evened out against him and the room turned orange and pink with sunrise, dust motes catching in the full light like glittering hush, and the night had inevitably bent itself into morning.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Jaeyun lay on your bed, holding a breath in his chest as if it could keep the morning from happening. The sun slipped through your parted curtains and spilled across the room — patient and indisputable — turning everything into proof.  

Your dress was still pooled on the hardwood, your panties right above it, and his jeans were so close it could’ve been one thing. Your bra was still at the edge of the bed, pink, half-tucked into the sheets he couldn’t remember tangling.  

He let the breath go, and the mattress answered, making you stir — just a little — your head rolling off his chest until your chin found him again.  

When your eyes opened, the light caught and held — as if it had nowhere else to be.  

Jaeyun felt the instinct to speak. Something practical. Something safe. Something that could be filed under morning conversation and good friend behavior.  

Are you okay? he thought. Do you need water? 

Do you want me to make breakfast again and pretend I don’t care when you mock me for it?

But you didn’t give him time.  

You lifted your head — sleepy as it was certain — brushing your nose against his before you caught his lower lip between yours and kissed him in a way that made teasing feel like a promise.

Jaeyun went utterly still, his hands hovering, useless with hesitation. He had spent years learning which parts of you he was allowed to hold — elbow, shoulder, wrist; the small, steadying touches that could be explained without telling on himself.  

But this was your room.  

Your bed.  

Your morning.  

And you were kissing him like you’d never once needed an explanation, catching his lower lip — so gentle it hardly counted as a bite — holding it for one heartbeat longer before you let him go and eased back.

Jaeyun blinked, and the muted morning light dazed him — your room pressing in with a kind of hush that made it feel like a dream: sun-warm sheets, the sound of breath, the closeness of you like something he hadn’t earned but had been given anyway. He let it hold him for a suspended moment before he leaned in and kissed you again, this time with more feeling than thought — one hand found your waist, as the other slid behind your neck, tilting you up to him.

Your breath caught at that, and for a moment, Jaeyun feared he had gone too far — too fast. He’d finally slipped enough to not be able to lie and pretend he hadn’t broken his second rule, but then you shifted, sliding a leg over his hips, straddling him like it was the most natural place in the world to be, and something in him went quiet with the rightness of it.

He didn’t move first. He didn’t take. He only held where you’d placed him.

And when you parted — pulling back just enough for you to breathe — it carried the kind of practicality that had always been your shared language. 

“I need a shower,” you said.

For a beat, Jaeyun blinked at you, incapable of understanding the words. But then, his brain latched onto it, and he felt thankful. A shower meant tiles. Water. Soap. Clean lines. A task that could be completed. A thing he could do without interpreting your mouth, your eyes, the way your kiss had said stay.

“Okay,” he heard himself say. “Okay, yeah.”

Jaeyun shifted carefully, guiding you off him with hands that tried to remember what permitted felt like — waist, ribs, shoulder — anywhere that could still pass as gentle logistics instead of want. His gaze skated away from your face on instinct, as if looking at it too directly might pull him back under, and slipped out of the bed.

You followed, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, slightly swaying — more due to sleepiness than weakness, but Jaeyun’s body reacted anyway. He reached for you, his hands steady on your arms.

He helped you up. Guided you through your studio: past the small table with the stack of books, past the mug you never fully put away, and into the narrow bathroom where the tiles were warm and the mirror caught the gold of morning and gave it back to him as evidence.

Your skin carried so many marks from the night before that his breath caught.

He looked away so fast it felt like a flinch.

Jaeyun moved like he was trying to fix the world.

He turned on the light first. Then the fan. Then the tap — hot first, then cold, adjusting in small increments until the water felt right because putting things in order always helped him keep control. 

He watched the water steam faintly as it ran, watched it like it was a system he could calibrate.

He set a towel within your reach. Folded it once, then unfolded it because the fold looked too neat and he didn’t want you to notice how nervous he was. Then he reached for your shampoo and put it back where it already was, because he suddenly ran out of things to do, but his hands still sought for something.

You leaned your hip against the sink and watched him with that quiet softness that made his chest feel too full. The bathroom was suddenly too bright for how careful he was trying to be.

“Yun,” you called, and he turned to you like a man answering a question in class — focused, braced, trying to keep his face neutral.

“Yeah?”

You tilted your head, gaze flicking once before you merely stepped past him, your hands brushing and taking his, pulling him to the shower with you.

The steam gathered immediately, beading on his skin, blurring the sharp edges of the morning until the world became smaller and quieter.

“Sometimes, I can hear you thinking,” you said. “Did you know that?”

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

You laughed at that, but didn’t say anything. You merely turned around, reaching for the shampoo bottle he had previously rummaged and gave it to him. 

“Wash my hair,” you said. 

And so, he did.

Jaeyun took the bottle, pouring shampoo into his palm — more than he needed, because his hands were unsteady — and rubbed it between them until it warmed and foamed. Then his fingers slid into your hair, working the suds in small circles at the crown of your head, careful and thorough, moving outward as the steam gathered and the water ran down your spine. His knuckles grazed your ear once. An accident, maybe. But you let out a sound — more a sigh than anything, and something in Jaeyun tightened anyway, a flare that made his chest feel too warm. His jaw flexed at it, and he forced his hands to stay where they belonged — his attention to stay on the sequence, because sequence meant control: lather, rinse, repeat.

He rinsed you with his palm shielding your forehead, water sluicing through your hair in clear sheets. The gesture was intimate in the most domestic way — protective, practiced — as if he’d been doing it for years.

And maybe that was why it did him in.

You must have felt the pause in him, the way his body went too still behind you, because when he finally finished, you turned to him, reaching for the bottle, and pouring shampoo into your own palm as you stepped closer — the warm line of you almost meeting the warm line of him, and slid your fingers into his hair.

Jaeyun didn’t know what to do with himself.

He merely bent a little so you could reach, letting your hands take over with a quiet competence that made his throat work. Water ran down his temples, traced the line of his jaw, caught at his lashes. He kept his eyes on the tile like a prayer — like if he looked at you, he’d lose the last clean edge of himself.

You rinsed him, and only when you tapped his hands — did he straighten again.

Then you smoothed soap over his bare skin, starting at his shoulders, your palms unhurried and warm. Down his collarbones. Over his chest.

Jaeyun’s breath broke when you reached his lower abdomen, your fingertips hovering dangerously close to the ache he’d been holding back, and making a sound slip from him — low, involuntary — rushing before he could trap it.

“Princess,” he said, but the word carried no warning at all, and you merely allowed your fingers to rest there, steady as the way your gaze met his.

“You said another time,” you remembered. 

Jaeyun froze.

Not because he didn’t understand. Because he did. Because the memory arrived with humiliating clarity: your hand curled on him in a way that made his honesty slip out raw and breathless last night.

He dragged in a slow breath through his nose. Steam beaded along his lashes; water traced the line of his jaw. He still didn’t look at you — not fully — like eye contact might knock the last brace out from under him while he was still negotiating with himself. Like he was trying to find the border between permitted and improper and realizing you’d moved it with one sentence.

“Are you asking me?” he began. “Or—”

“I’m asking,” you said.

His gaze found yours.

“Okay,” he said, and this time the word didn’t sound like procedure, but like agreement. Like trust.

He took your wrist and guided your hand, not down, not yet, but to his jaw, to his throat, to a place he could handle without losing himself.

“Slow,” he said, and you nodded at him, letting your fingers linger.

Your thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw first — testing, almost absent — before your hand slid lower and lower, following the line of his throat, his collar bones. Water ran between your knuckles and his skin, warm and constant, making every touch feel softened at the edges, as if the steam had filed down the danger until it could pass for tenderness, but Jaeyun’s pulse changed immediately, his heart racing as though it too wanted to reach for you through his skin, meeting where your fingers brushed against his chest.

Jaeyun’s lips parted in a soft gasp as you reached for him, tentatively brushing through his extension. Starting from the already flushed tip and moving to the prominent veins all over him and then, all the way back, receiving an almost imperceptible buck of his hips in response.

“Okay?” you asked, and he nodded, but it wasn’t an answer so much as a reflex — his body trying to behave when his mind had gone helpless and searched for something to say — something small enough to fit inside a bathroom, inside steam, inside the ordinary noise of water hitting tile.

But there was no small word that fit because how could he say that anything you did with him would be okay?

How could he say that if you asked for his heart, he would open his ribs for you? If you reached in and took it, he would hold still and even tender you if you faltered.

Jaeyun swallowed, throat tight, breath catching on the way out as he reached for you, his fingers splaying over your cheek as his thumb reached for where a drop had taken place on your skin. 

“I’m okay,”  he said then, the closest answer he could give for what he meant. If you could feel the shape of the unspoken right alongside the spoken, you didn’t show it. 

Your hand merely closed around his length, fingertips tracing the same places his mind had traced a thousand times in private, and every pass of your hand felt like it rewrote him — like your touch didn’t just touch, but claimed a truth he’d been denying for years.

Jaeyun’s breath hitched as you guided him closer, his eyes shutting as his forehead tipped to the curve of your neck.

“Princess,” he whispered, not really sure if he intended to say something, but the sudden call made you pause, your hand motionless enough to make his breath hitch again, his hips bucking and chasing for the friction still. 

“Don’t stop,” he said, and perhaps it had been the words, perhaps it had been the way he said it, more like a plea than a request. But you didn’t — even when his grip tightened on you, his finger shaping bruises on your hips, and his lips parted, leaving a matching one at your neck.

You didn’t stop, even when he came into your hand. You merely gentled him, moving to his stomach, his chest, smoothing him down until his breath wasn’t so ragged and his heart had come into peace beneath your touch.

“Yun,” you called, and he hummed at you, still pressed close, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted like he’d forgotten what to do with the air. Water clung to his lashes. Steam softened the hard lines of him into something boyish, something undone. For once, he wasn’t braced for impact — he was simply there, breathing, and letting you see him, and it was strange how it made your kiss just even better.

How he could simply melt into you.

You smiled at that — small, warm — kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then a place beneath his jaw that made Jaeyun’s eyes flutter shut, his head tipping just slightly to give you access, like his body wanted to cooperate even when his mind still tried to keep score.

“Princess,” he breathed again, and this time it sounded less like a plea and more like disbelief.

Your hands found him at your hips, guiding it down through your body, the swell of your ass, giving him enough time to grow on it, and take the lead, brushing over warm skin, following curves with a care that made it feel devotional rather than desperate. 

“Okay?” he murmured, because he couldn’t help — he couldn’t ease — not until you had nodded, brushing your noses and making something within settle with the gentleness of it.

Jaeyun exhaled and stepped closer. One hand halted at your waist while the other slid down and around, his fingers tightening briefly against your skin before he shifted, and lifted one of your legs — guiding it up to rest against his hip.

His tip brushed against your seam with the new position, barely anything, but you drew in a breath that didn’t quite make it back out to you, and a faint, trembling noise escaped through your lips instead, and he couldn’t help the soft, almost-gentle smugness that warmed his smile.

He rolled his hips against yours, and your head tipped back, eyes closing and lips still parted on that same faltered breath, allowing sunlight to catch on your skin in the shift, warm and liquid-gold along the lines of you.

“Bed,” you whined, and you didn’t need to tell him twice. 

Jaeyun turned the taps off, not really checking if he had done it properly, before he took you in his arms again, folding your legs around his waist as he walked you back down the short stretch of your place. Water tumbled from you both — tiny drops trembling loose with each step, catching the light before they fell in a thin, gleaming trail on your floorboards.

But you didn’t complain, you didn’t even say anything. When he placed you on the mattress; you merely spread your legs further — wordlessly making room for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Condom,” you reminded him. “Do you have more?”

For a moment, the question didn’t make sense, but then, he nodded at you, slipping from your touch — just enough to reach for the wallet still tossed on your floor.

“How many did you bring?” you asked, and although Jaeyun had listened to it and understood, he didn’t reply, he allowed the question to hang in the air, a flush of warmth spreading up to his cheeks because the memory of him piling it at the chaser before he went to his classes last evening was too fresh still. 

Just enough, he had thought like he wasn’t, in fact, hoping.

Hoping that it wouldn’t be a one-time thing.

Jaeyun’s fingers fumbled once at the wallet before he forced them steady. He didn’t let himself look at you while he did it; if he looked, he’d lose the last clean thread of control he had left, and so, he merely tore the foil, the sound too loud in the quiet room, and the practical motions that followed felt like an anchor — something procedural to keep him from drowning in the fact that you were watching.

He climbed back onto the mattress, moving slowly, knees sinking into the sheets between your thighs. The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted automatically to make space for him, your body already well known in the shape of him.

Jaeyun paused above you.

Water still clung to your hair, darkening the strands where they stuck to your neck. Your skin gleamed in the soft light — warm, flushed, kissed by steam and morning and the evidence of him. You looked up at him with your mouth slightly parted, breath uneven, eyes steady and it hit him so hard it almost made him gentle to the point of breaking.

“Princess,” he said, but if anything, you reached up, fingers catching at the back of his neck — not pulling him down, only holding him there — close enough to feel your breath on his mouth. Close enough that he couldn’t lie to himself about how much he wanted it.

Jaeyun lowered his forehead to yours and breathed once, then twice, as if he was counting himself into calm.

“Tell me if—” 

“I know,” you cut, and he snorted at that, his hands finding your thighs, and spreading there with care — measuring you, reading you, bracing you the way he always did when something mattered and he couldn’t afford to do it wrong.

He pulled in slowly, pausing each time your breath changed. Waiting when your fingers tightened in his hair. Listening like your body was the only language he trusted.

“Okay?” he murmured against your mouth.

“Okay.”

Jaeyun exhaled, giving himself a moment before he shifted his weight and settled in deeper.

You made a small sound at that, and Jaeyun halted — caught mid-motion as his eyes stayed on your face, searching for the smallest crack of discomfort, for anything he might have missed and could never forgive himself for.

“Talk to me, Princess,” he said. “Is it too much?”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s — good.”

That answer landed somewhere under his ribs and stayed.

Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a beat. And when he opened them again, he looked wrecked in the quietest way.

He kissed you once more, slower, lingering at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, beneath your jaw — mapping comfort into you the way he mapped calm into circuits, the way he tried to fix the world when it was too big.

And then he moved again, careful and deliberate, letting the moment become real one breath at a time.

The sheets gathered under your fingers. The room narrowed to heat and the sound of his name caught in your throat. Jaeyun held you like he could keep you safe simply by refusing to rush, like tenderness was the only rule he needed now.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did, blinking under the morning light and making him swallow, his chest swelling then, big enough to break open with love for you. And perhaps, you had felt it too — heard it in his voice, this sickening desperation, because your hands found his face, cupping it with a tenderness that didn’t match the way he was burying deep inside of you, his tip forming an eminence on the lower part of your belly as he worked on you with slow, long thrusts, and making you come in the morning haze.

Jaeyun collapsed beside you, his back sinking into the mattress as you followed rolling so you rested over his chest.

“Always,” you whispered, the word coming so suddenly, Jaeyun blinked down at you, his head rolling so he could search your face, confused if he had asked you something in his own haze. But sunlight picked strands of your hair, reflected through your damp skin. And he couldn’t make sense of anything.

“What?”

“I’m always okay when I’m with you,” you said.

He knew that he shouldn’t — but Jaeyun felt so right about it.

He felt so right when you called him Sunday afternoon, a tiny can you help me with something? rolling from your tongue and making him sprint to your place, being greeted with you already in your lingerie and you didn’t lie — you had no bad pairs.

When he brought you down onto the bed, he didn’t even care about taking it out of you; his fingers merely reached in between your thighs, holding the piece as he slid inside of you.

He didn’t know then, if his hands were still doing their job or if they’d defected. If he was still keeping you safe — or if he’d finally started touching you like he’d wanted to for years, and breaking one more rule.

But as he held you, listening to you breathe quickening and setting against the curve of his neck, he couldn’t make himself care.

Again.

RULE #3: DO NOT BE POSSESSIVE  

I’m her best friend. I always have been. That doesn’t give me the right to be possessive. If I can’t be calm about her, I at least have to be kind. If I touch her, it has to feel like a question she can stop — not a claim. And if someday she chooses someone else, I have to accept it. I have to accept it like it won’t split me in half.

Jaeyun woke to movement.  

Not the slow, sleep-warm kind he’d grown used to in the past weeks, but something quicker — restless. Drawers scraped open and knocked shut again in the same nervous motion; fabric whispered against fabric, and hangers clacked as they were shoved aside.

He didn’t open his eyes — not yet. He listened to you instead: your bare feet skimming the floor, the breath you kept trying to hush, the tiny hitch of frustration when something wasn’t unfolding the way you needed it to.  

And that — that was what pulled his eyes open at last. You sounded wound tight with it, and Jaeyun couldn’t stand the idea of you being anything but fine.

You were half-dressed — shorts on, bra, hair still messy in the way only the mornings after managed, the frizz denoting the number of times he had made you come the night before, arching and pushing your head against the sheets — one of his t-shirts clutched in your hands like it belonged to you more than it belonged to him.

“What—”

You looked over your shoulder at him, guilty only for the fraction of a second it took before your face rearranged into something else.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I’m late.”

Jaeyun pushed himself up on his elbows, the sheets slipping down his waist. He blinked slowly, trying to coax his mind into one piece through the morning haze.  

“Late for what?” he asked — voice rough with sleep and something worse.  

“My exam,” you said, already turning and moving another hanger. This time you pulled a blue plaid shirt free — the kind you’d been loving to borrow and make him come to collect it himself, your scent worked into the fabric like a quiet claim disguised as comfort.  

“You’re stealing that,” he said.  

You didn’t even bother to look guilty. “Borrowing.”  

“My wardrobe is becoming empty.”  

“And yet,” you said, turning to him with that familiar tilt of your mouth, “you really don’t hate it.”

Jaeyun didn’t answer. He merely watched as you stepped in close again, stealing the air from between you, as you pressed a kiss to his mouth — soft, swift, like a blessing you left behind on purpose.

And the second you pulled away, he moved. Jeans in his fists, he dragged them on as he went, stumbling through the doorway — desperate to be the first thing at your heels.

He caught you at the exact moment his roommates did — both of them lingering in the living room, their backpacks slung over one shoulder, caught in their coffee-stained routines — until the second they saw you and stopped like they’d walked into an invisible wall.

Sunghoon’s gaze went straight to the shirt.  

Then to Jaeyun.  

Then back to you, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.

Jongseong’s eyebrows lifted, slow and serene — the kind of calm that only existed because he liked chaos best when it belonged to someone else.

“Morning,” Jongseong said.

“Morning,” you replied — too bright. “I’m late.”

“Exam?” Jongseong offered, easing into conversation the way he always did: polite, steady, giving everyone an out.

Jaeyun cleared his throat. “She’s late.”

“I am late,” you echoed, pointing at him like it was somehow his fault you’d woken up tangled in his sheets instead of your own — in a room with no alarm clock at all, because Jaeyun despised morning obligations. “But yes.”

You crouched by the door, fingers quick on your laces, and slipping your shoes on.

Sunghoon’s eyes tracked you the whole time, amusement sharpening at the edges of his expression as Jongseong, bless him, kept the conversation where it belonged — safe, ordinary. 

“Good luck,” he said.

“Thank you,” you chirped, already halfway upright again. “Do you have exams too?”

“We’re finishing our exams too,” Sunghoon said. “We should go out after. Celebrate.”

Jaeyun’s jaw worked, like he was chewing down whatever sound wanted to come out of him.

“Arcano?” you asked, and Jongseong’s expression tightened into immediate refusal. He despised the bar, convinced it was what got him hospitalized during his first semester. “I know it’s terrible, but Yun has classes until late tonight — it’s the most reasonable for him.”

For a moment, the room went strangely quiet.

Jaeyun’s gaze found yours and held, warmth rising in him — quiet, disarming — and he went still with it, not knowing where to put the feeling. His mouth parted on a reflex, then he swallowed it back.

Jongseong’s eyes flicked to Jaeyun, then back to you.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But if anyone ends up in the ER again, I’m haunting all of you.”

“That’s fair,” Sunghoon said.

“You don’t have to—” Jaeyun began.

“I — we want to,” you cut in, the words coming as gentle as it was final before you stood and took the knob. “Text me the time!”

You slipped out with a bright, hurried smile, the borrowed shirt hanging off you like a secret, and making Jaeyun step forward, holding the door open so he could stand in the doorway, lingering in the shape of you leaving, and the way you’d arranged the world so he could follow.

When Jaeyun finally clicked the door shut, silence filled the hallway for exactly two seconds before Sunghoon whistled. 

“So,” he began, but Jaeyun didn’t look at him; his gaze stayed on the closed door. “Friends-with-benefits?”

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Don’t.”

“Oh, it is that.”

“It’s not—” Jaeyun started, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he turned to his roommates. “I mean, I don’t know! We haven’t talked about it.”

“But you should,” Jongseong said, his voice neutral enough for Jaeyun not to hear the warning it carried until the air in the room shifted.

“Baekhyeon talked to me yesterday,” Sunghoon said.

“What?” Jaeyun asked, more as a reflex than in fact, understanding what it meant. “Why?”

Sunghoon’s gaze flicked to the door before it moved to Jongseong. And Jaeyun didn’t need anyone to spell it out — his roommates had already talked about this when he wasn’t there.

“He wanted to ask about her,” Sunghoon said. “He didn’t come in aggressive — just pathetic.”

Jongseong’s mouth flattened. “Careful.”

“I’m not being cruel,” Sunghoon replied. “I’m telling the vibe. He was clearly bothered, like he knew what he’s doing was humiliating.”

“What did he say?” Jaeyun asked, his voice warped to his own ears. “Exactly.”

“That was it,” Sunghoon said. “He just asked if I’d been seeing her around.”

He paused. 

“And if she was with someone else.”

Jongseong’s eyes cut to Jaeyun, concern flashing there before he forced his expression back into stillness.

“And?” Jaeyun asked.

Sunghoon’s mouth twitched. “I am not stupid, I didn’t say you both have been acting like bunnies over the past few weeks.”

“Do you think she told him something?”

“No,” Sunghoon cut. “That’s the thing — I think he has been trying to contact her, but she has been ignoring him.”

And suddenly, it made sense — all those times he’d watched you skim your phone, thumb hovering over the screen, before you set it aside and you looked back at him, a smile forced into place.

God — he’d been so silly for overlooking it.

“He broke up with her,” Jaeyun said. 

“We are not telling you this to make you stressed,” Jongseong cut in. “We are just telling you so you can decide — this thing of yours is working for now, and I am glad for you — she apparently doesn’t want Baekhyeon back, which is great, but it might be someone else someday, and you will have to decide if you are okay with having only a part of her again.”

The apartment fell silent at this, and only then did Jaeyun notice how fast his heart was beating. It hummed against his ears, so loud he couldn’t even think.

When you were both younger — ten, maybe eleven — you had camped in your parents’ garden, your backs side by side on a too-thin blanket and a tent that never stopped letting the wind in. The world had been so silent, you’d whispered that it felt like there were only the two of you in the world, wouldn’t it be nice? You had asked. Back then, he’d rolled his eyes and said something dumb to make you grin, too young to consider anything.

Now, in his hallway with your perfume still on his skin and your borrowed shirt still bright in his mind, he understood what you’d meant. It would be so nice — so nice — if the world really could narrow down to just the two of you, and choosing you didn’t mean risking everything else. And he didn’t know whether that thought made him in love or made him dangerous.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

By the time Jaeyun arrived at Arcano, you were already on the dance floor with Jongseong and Sunghoon.

And it was stupid, honestly, how whenever he thought he was getting used to your existence, you managed to surprise him — newly lit, newly impossible — you stood between his roommates, eyes sparkling, arms half around Sunghoon’s shoulders as you both shouted the lyrics of a song that was too loud and too familiar, and Sunghoon was singing like he meant it, even if he was off-key on purpose. Jongseong yelled the chorus at your back, his face turned upwards as if the ceiling had personally offended him.

Arcano was the same as it had always been — red bulbs that made everyone look like a rumor, sticky floors that clung to the soles of your shoes like the place didn’t want anyone leaving sober, and bass so loud it turned thought into vibration. The air smelled like cheap liquor and perfume and sweat and the faint bite of citrus from a just-spilled drink. 

And it’s too much — everything was too much.

But the moment he stepped further, you turned to him — not searching, but sure — as though you knew he was going to be standing there.

Gravity, he thought.

He moved through the bodies like he’d done it a hundred times — shoulders angled, hands careful, a quiet apology here and there, never shoving, never rushing. The bass beat against his ribs and still he stayed steady, eyes on you the whole time as if the rest of the room was just static.

You didn’t meet him halfway — you never did — you stayed where you were, your body turned subtly toward him, and only when he got close enough, your hand lifted, fingers finding his. And the moment you held him, the noise of Arcano seemed to dull around the edges, like the room had agreed to give you a fraction of quiet.

His hand was cold while yours was warm, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.

And God — he wanted to kiss it. 

You had changed since the morning, trading the shorts and t-shirt for a white dress, but his shirt remained, draped around your shoulders, and making his breath catch — he tightened his grip only enough to be sure you felt him back.

“Hi,” you said, loud enough to be heard over the music, but soft in the way you always became with him.

“Hi,” he replied.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Sunghoon shouted. “We were about to file a missing person report.”

Jaeyun huffed a breath that almost counted as a laugh. He had gone to the apartment after his classes to drop off his backpack, but he didn’t feel like explaining, not when you were squeezing his hand — small, and private.

“Did you eat?” you asked, and Jaeyun felt the absurd tenderness of it. The fact that you could be in a bar, sweating and laughing and alive, and still your first instinct with him was care.

“Yes,” he lied automatically.

Your eyes narrowed. “Yun.”

“I ate.”

“You ate what?” you asked, and Jaeyun opened his mouth, but his words stalled, and so he closed it again.

“He didn’t eat,” Jongseong said.

“He did that thing where he decides worrying is a food group,” Sunghoon agreed.

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed, but his hand stayed linked with yours like the connection mattered more than winning. “I’m fine.”

You didn’t argue, or at least, not right away. You just watched him for a second, your expression shifting into something softer and knowing, like you could see through him even in red light and bass.

“I am getting you something,” you said. “Stay here — don’t wander.”

Sunghoon leaned in. “He literally can’t. He’s on a leash.”

Jongseong barked a laugh. “Be nice.”

Jaeyun opened his mouth to protest, but you were already gone — your smile tossed back at him before you turned toward the bar and leaving him to stand there, eyes following, and tracking the small obstacles: the drunk guy who swayed too wide, the table edge that could catch your hip, the slick patch of floor near the booths. All the little risks the world liked to place in your path, as if daring him not to rush up and fix it before it could hurt you.

You barely had reached the counter when he approached you. 

For a moment, Jaeyun thought it was a guy merely trying his luck with you, but then he shifted, red light catching on his features and Jaeyun recognized him immediately. 

Baekhyeon.

Your body stiffened as he leaned in, his mouth close to your ear for a moment before you shifted sideways, trying to create space. Jaeyun couldn’t hear the words leaving your mouth, but your body was speaking loudly enough: no.

Yet Baekhyeon didn’t step back; when you seemed to be about to leave, he reached out, his hand closing around your wrist, and forcing you to stay.

Jaeyun didn’t even think, Sunghoon shouted something behind him, but he was already moving, shoving through people, and cutting a direct line toward you.

“Just listen.” Jaeyun heard Baekhyeon say, his grip still on you. “Just for a second.”

“I said no,” you said. “Let go—”

“Let her go.”

Baekhyeon turned at the sound of his voice, eyes unfocused and caught in that ugly space between sober and drunk. For a second he only stared, his brain having to wade through the noise to understand what he was seeing. But then, something in his face tightened, reading the truth between the lines and understanding, all at once, that you weren’t alone here. That you weren’t waiting to be won back. That whatever space he thought he still had in your life had been filled.

Or worse — that it never existed at all.

Jaeyun inhaled, his chest filling with a silly compassion toward Baekhyeon because he, too, wouldn’t know what to do if he ever found himself being dismissed from your life like this, but then Baekhyeon’s hand tightened on your wrist, making your fingers contract in pain, and Jaeyun exhaled, letting it all go. 

He would crawl through hell, cut himself open until his body had become numb to pain, but Jaeyun surely would never hurt you — never.

“Let her go,” Jaeyun repeated.

Baekhyeon’s laugh echoed oddly loud in Arcano’s air.

“Here he is,” he said. “Always showing up like a good little — what is it? Lap dog?”

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed once. He’d been called worse — he could take worse — but then Baekhyeon’s gaze slid over you again, slow and mean, taking in your dress, your flushed cheeks, the smile you’d been wearing five minutes ago like it was a crime, and Jaeyun couldn’t stand it. 

He stepped forward.

“Baekhyeon,” Jaeyun warned, and the other released your wrist, flicking his hand in a dismissive gesture as he looked around the bar. 

For a moment, Jaeyun believed Baekhyeon had given up, putting an end to it, but then he turned back at you again, eyes brighter than ever.

“Tell me,” he said, loud enough that people nearby started to glance. “Did you ever actually care about me? Or was I just—”

He looked at Jaeyun.

“—filling time until your lap dog finally got his reward?”

Jaeyun didn’t decide to shove him — he didn’t plan it — his body merely moved like it had been waiting for permission from something older than thought.

His hands drove into Baekhyeon’s chest, making him stumble back, hard, and knocking into someone behind him. 

Drink spilled onto the floor, and the scent of it rose almost immediately — sharp citrus and cheap sugar, muddled by the stale sweetness already living in the boards. It cut through the sweat and perfume for half a second, bright as a peel torn open, before the warmth of the room swallowed it again and left only the sour bite of liquor drying in the air.

“What the fuck—?” Baekhyeon barked. 

“Yun,” you called, but it was already too late.

Baekhyeon launched himself at Jaeyun, his knuckles across Jaeyun’s cheekbone with a hot, skidding sting.

For a beat, the impact didn’t hurt the way it should’ve — it was just information — pressure, heat, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding his mouth.

But then, something in him snapped.

The image of Baekhyeon’s hand around your wrist flashed behind his eyes like a match struck in dry tinder, and Jaeyun moved before his mind could catch up.

His fist drove forward on instinct, a short, brutal arc — no finesse, no warning — just the need to hit back, to end it, to make Baekhyeon understand with his body what his brain refused to learn.

The punch connected.

Jaeyun felt it in his knuckles, in the jolt up his arm, in the startled give of flesh beneath bone — and the sound that left Baekhyeon was small, shocked, as if he hadn’t expected consequences to be real. Jaeyun didn’t wait to see what it did to his face. He only stepped in closer and did it again.

Baekhyeon fell on the dirty floor, Jaeyun above him, fist in the middle of another throw, when someone hooked an arm around Jaeyun’s chest from behind and hauled him up.

“Stop it,” Jongseong snapped. “You’re going to ruin your damn face.”

But Jaeyun barely heard him. He was still leaning forward, still straining toward the floor like if he just landed one more hit, the feeling in his chest would finally loosen, and make sense. 

Jongseong tightened his hold, bracing his weight behind Jaeyun’s back like an anchor.

“Yun,” you called.

Your voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Jaeyun froze like you’d put a hand straight on his spine. His fist hovered, trembling with leftover momentum, and then your hands were on his face — warm palms cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as if you could physically pull him back into himself.

“Yun,” you said again, closer now, eyes searching his like you were trying to find the part of him that still knew you.

And just like that, the fight drained out of him in a shuddering rush. His shoulders sagged. His breath broke. He let Jongseong hold him up for a second longer than he should’ve needed before he leaned on your touch.

“Princess, I—”

“Come with me,” you said. “Can you?”

For a second, Jaeyun couldn’t find the shape of an answer. Not because he didn’t have one — but because he had too many, a lifetime of yeses he’d never said out loud. His body was still buzzing with violence, his knuckles still singing, but your hands on his face made the world narrow into something he could survive. You were asking like it was a choice, like he was a person with options, when the truth was simpler than that: he had been following you since he was old enough to recognize your voice in a crowd. Since gardens and tents and school hallways. Since the first time you turned and expected him to be there — and he was.

“Yes,” he breathed, and the word came out rough, almost broken with how easy it was. Because you could’ve asked him to walk through fire and he would’ve stepped forward without thinking, just because you were the place his instinct went when the world got sharp. His hand rose, uncertain at first, then settled at your wrist like a question he’d spend his whole life answering the same way. 

Always.

You looked past him to Jongseong and nodded, a quiet reassurance, and Jongseong finally released Jaeyun.

“Come,” you said, your fingers slipping into his.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Arcano’s neon shrank behind you with every step, its red glow thinning into something distant and irrelevant, but Jaeyun’s body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. The adrenaline still sat high in his chest, making his breath feel too big for his lungs, his heart beating like it was trying to outrun what had happened. He kept swallowing like he could force it down.

You didn’t talk much at first. You didn’t need to. You just walked — your fingers laced through his.

And every time his grip tightened without meaning to, you squeezed back once, small and reassuring. It’s okay. I’m here. 

The street was cooler than it had any right to be, so closer to the summer, late-night air cutting cleanly through the smell of booze still clinging to him. The city sounded normal — cars passing, a laugh from someone’s balcony, a distant siren that didn’t belong to you. It was strange, how quickly the world returned to ordinary after a fight. As if nothing could be important for more than a few minutes.

Jaeyun glanced at you once, then again.

You looked furious in a contained way, like your anger had somewhere to go now that you’d gotten him out. Your mouth was set, your brow faintly pinched. Your thumb brushed the side of his hand, absent and grounding, like you couldn’t help checking he was still there.

Jaeyun’s chest tightened.

He wanted to say something useful. He wanted to apologize in a way that would actually fix it. But every sentence he tried to build collapsed into the same thing: I saw him touch you and I lost my mind.

Instead, he stayed quiet and let you lead.

You pushed the code into the keypad of your door with muscle memory, the little beep sounding too loud in the stairwell before it buzzed open and revealed your apartment.

Quiet in the specific way your place always was — soft, contained, familiar, smelling like clean laundry, faint florals, the lived-in warmth of your routines. The small lamp near your bed cast a gentle yellow glow that made everything look calmer than it felt. Books stacked neatly where they always were. A mug by the sink. A blanket folded too precisely at the end of the bed like you’d been trying to keep your life in order by force.

“Shoes,” you remembered. “Then sit by the counter.”

Jaeyun did as you said, slipping out of his shoes before he went to your counter and sat down on a chair, his hands on his thighs, and palms down, like he was trying to behave as you rummaged around — drawers, cabinet, a small basket you moved too roughly — the soft clack of objects knocking together filling the silence between you.

“First aid,” you muttered. “I know I have it.”

“Princess,” he said quietly.

“Don’t move.”

“I wasn’t going—” he began, but stopped, suddenly understanding. You weren’t being dramatic, but practical, anchoring the night into tasks: disinfectant, gauze, bandage. The same way he always did when his emotions got too big to hold comfortably.

You found the kit with a little gasp before you crossed back to him and set it on the table with a soft thud, kneeling slightly so you could see him properly.

“Give me your hand,” you said.

Jaeyun hesitated for a fraction of a second — then extended it.

Your hand closed around his, gently turning it over in the light, and beneath this sudden clarity, you frowned, eyebrows knitted, lips pressing into a thin line. The wounds were worse than it seemed. There was a cut over his fingers, bleeding as a darker bruise spread over. You reached for them, the tips of your fingers wandering through his skin as if you could erase them with your bare touch.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Jaeyun went still, your words reaching past the cuts and hitting something deeper.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t say you’re sorry for that.”

“It’s my fault—” you started. 

“No,” Jaeyun cut in. “No. He did that. Not you.”

You turned to the aid kit on the kitchen counter, dropping your gaze like you could hide behind the small, practical motions of it — like if you focused hard enough on gauze and antiseptic, he wouldn’t see the way your eyes had gone wet. But Jaeyun did. He always did, in the quiet, unfair way he noticed everything about you.

“I hate that you got hurt because of me,” you said.

Something in Jaeyun’s chest tightened — sharp and aching. 

He leaned forward in the chair before he fully knew he was doing it, his uninjured hand sliding to your wrist, fingers curling gently around your skin as he pulled you onto his lap.

The motion was clumsy with the chair and the counter and the first aid kit half-open, but the moment you settled, your thighs bracketing his hips, the world narrowed into something that made painful sense.

His hands came up to your face, palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, cleaning your tears like he had done when he got you both grounded at twelve, and like he’d done again years later, on the night you crashed your father’s car — your hands shaking on his wrists, as he told you to breathe.

He made you look at him.  

Your eyes were wet and bright, with tears, the shine gathering at the lower lid until it spilled and traced down your cheek, and his chest ached at that low instinct already moving with the need to make it better.

“Don’t take the blame,” he said. “I can’t stand it when you do that.”

Your breath hitched.

“It wasn’t your fault — he grabbed you and said those things. He—” Jaeyun’s throat worked, and for a second his voice broke. “I heard the way he talked to you, and I didn’t know how to be calm about it. If there’s someone to blame here, it isn’t you. It’s me.”

You stared at him for a second before your hands lifted, your fingers finding and resting at his wrists as they always had.

“Yun,” you whispered.

Jaeyun’s breath shuddered out, and he leaned forward without thinking.

You met him halfway.

Your kiss was soft at first — careful, like checking whether he was still Jaeyun, whether you were still you. Like asking permission in the only language that didn’t require words.

But Jaeyun answered too eagerly.

His grip tightened at your cheeks, desperately — like he needed the proof of you. His mouth moved against yours with a yearning that felt out of proportion to the moment, and he hated himself for it even as he did it.

He kissed you like he was still at Arcano. 

Like he was still shaking.

Like the only way to stop the night from replaying was to overwrite it with you.

This wasn’t protection anymore. It was possession.

He wanted proof that you were still here.

Your hands slid into his t-shirt, fingers curling at the thin material the way they always did when you wanted him close, and it was enough to steal a sound from him — quiet, and yet completely wrecked — his arms slipped, and tightened around your waist, pulling you nearer until there was no space left to misunderstand.

“I’ve been trying to be good. I keep failing when it’s you,” he heard himself say. “I don’t know how to be only your friend anymore.”

There was a lost moment — a second where none of you moved, and Jaeyun thought that he finally did it — he had finally ruined the friendship, but then, you leaned in again, lips on his as your knees tightening around his hips, your weight settling into him like you’d chosen the place on purpose.

And it made him exhale like relief.

His uninjured hand slid along your side, finding you. The curve of your waist. The line of your ribs. The warmth of you under your dress like a living proof he couldn’t talk himself out of. He paused every time your breath changed, as if he was listening for the smallest no, for any flicker of doubt.

But you didn’t give him one. Instead, you tipped your forehead to his, noses brushing, and whispered his name in that soft, wrecked way that always pulled something honest out of him.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, the words rough around the edges. “Tell me and I—”

You kissed him before he could finish, fingers threading into his hair, holding him so close, he not only heard the next word, but felt them. “You.”

Jaeyun’s throat worked.

He lifted you — not smoothly, not perfectly, because the chair was in the way and the table was too close and the first aid kit lay open like a dirty evidence — but he did it anyway, with a gentleness that didn’t match the violence still humming under his skin. He carried you those few steps like it mattered, like the distance between your kitchen and your bed was a threshold he needed to cross carefully.

When he set you down, you caught the back of his t-shirt and pulled him after you. His restraint cracked in the smallest way — enough to let a kiss turn deeper, enough to let want show itself without becoming rough.

He braced his weight so he wouldn’t crush you, forearms on either side of your shoulders, head dipping until his mouth you again, again and again, pressing kisses along your cheek, your throat, the place beneath your ear that always made your breath hitch and he made a question of always finding it. His hand slid down your arm to your fingers, lacing them together above your head for a moment like a question, like an offering, and when you squeezed back, he let himself believe you.

His shirt went first, easing off your shoulders like a last, familiar layer — then your dress, and then your bra, quietly as the breath you released when he leaned in again and kissed the tip of your breasts, one at a time before he moved to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.

When he reached your panties, he didn’t care about taking them off; he merely kissed you over them, the thin lace not doing much to dull the feel of his mouth over your cunt and making you shiver, hands coming to his hair and threading almost bitterly, but if anything, he hummed, giving you another kiss and then, another. Open mouthed and tongue sneaking out every now and then to bump against your covered clit, and making you squirm in his hands, head thrown back, and sliding away a bit.

He pulled you into him, hands grabbing at your thighs so he could push his face back between them, licking a flat, slow stripe over your cunt. The lace did nothing to hold your fluid this time, and he tasted you through, his eyes closing almost instinctively to savor it better. 

“You taste so good,” he couldn’t help but say. “So fucking good.”

A grin broke across your face — bright, and disarming — and Jaeyun forced his arms to push him up, kissing it like he could keep it there, among your already flushed cheeks, and your hair messy against the sheets because God — he was so in love with you.

“Princess,” he called, not really sure if he had something to say. But you hummed at him anyway, hands reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, and slipping your fingers underneath it.

His abdomen tensed and contracted as you wandered through, your trembling fingertips grazing through the lines long memorized, and pushing the piece up and up, until he had no other option but to lift his arms and help you take it off. 

Jaeyun groaned as you moved to his belt, unbuckling it with the same ease you unzipped his jeans.

“Shit,” he murmured. 

“What?”

“Condoms,” he whispered. “I — we used the last one yesterday. I was going to buy after Arcano.”

“That’s okay.”

It was his turn to halt, your words catching somewhere between sound and meaning. “What?”

“That’s okay,” you repeated, and when he didn’t move, you arched up beneath him, lips finding his ear. “I am saying that you can hit it raw, Yun.”

He made a sound — small and involuntary — the kind of honest noise his body made when his mind was still trying to pretend it had control.

You blinked up at him for half a second — then a laugh slipped out of you, warm and bright, the exact laugh you’d always used to turn moments into something survivable. Not mocking. Just delighted, but Jaeyun’s face heated immediately, color climbing up his neck.

“Don’t,” he managed, as if the word could stop you from seeing him like this — undone by you, made soft by a sentence and the brush of your mouth near his ear.

But you only smiled wider, eyes shining with the kind of fondness that hurt.

And Jaeyun — God, Jaeyun — looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with how much he felt. Like love had taken up residence in him years ago and never once paid rent, and now it was everywhere: in his breath, in the way his hand hovered and then settled, careful, as if touching you was a question he wanted to keep asking for the rest of his life.

He exhaled, a little shaky. Then, because he couldn’t help it — because you were laughing and alive beneath him, and he was hopeless — his mouth twitched.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Princess,” he whispered, the words rough with tenderness.

You shook your head, not quite dismissively, but more like you couldn’t believe how silly he was — how silly he was for you. 

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Hips up, babe,” he instructed, and you met him there, your body moving on a quiet arch, as you pushed at your feet, and allowed him to curl his fingers at the band of your panties, sliding them away.

His attention snapped back to you immediately — hands returning to your inner thigh, your calves, taking over your ankles, and pulling you toward him. 

You shivered as he pushed himself inside of you, your fingers digging into his back as your lips parted on a quiet moan that he made up for you — Jaeyun simply not being able to be quiet at the feeling of you around him with no limitation and groaning loudly.

Jaeyun never thought he would be the type of guy to be emotional over taking a girl without a condom, but it was you with him, and when he started moving again, it was slow and deep, each thrust deliberate as if he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every way your body responded to his. The friction was different, he could feel every ridge, every pulse of you around. And it was almost too much, the intimacy of it making his chest tight with emotion he couldn’t name.

Jaeyun hissed, looking down between your bodies, eyes all warm and glazed as he watched how you fit together for a quiet moment before his forehead dipped and rested against your shoulder, his breathing uneven, as if he was trying to keep the night from turning reckless again.

He was so careful with you it felt like devotion.

But then, you drew him closer — insistent — and he finally let his body answer with the same honesty his voice had tried to avoid. Jaeyun kissed you until you tasted like him. Until your hands clung. Until the space between your bodies stopped feeling like a rule and started feeling like a lie. Each thrust of his hips pronounced with a wet clash, and the sound of your headboard hitting the wall.

And it was too much, honestly — you were too much.

When you came, he followed — quietly, inevitably, his breath breaking as if your body had taken his and led it somewhere he’d never learned to survive. Yet still, he didn’t punish you; he stayed close, slowly towing your climaxes for as long as he could. And when he finally stilled, he pulled back with a tenderness that looked almost like it broke him to let you go.

Jaeyun eased down and let his head rest against your lower stomach, breathing there for a second — then another — almost as if his lungs needed to relearn how to work. Your hand found him, threading into his hair, fingers combing gently until his face softened and his eyes fell shut. And, for the first time all night, his body stopped bracing.

RULE #4: DO NOT LET HER KNOW YOUR TRUE FEELINGS  

If I say it out loud, I make it her problem. I put something heavy in her hands when she never asked to carry me. And I’m afraid — plain and simple — that if she knows, everything changes. And if everything changes, she might step back. She might leave. I can survive wanting her. I can survive swallowing it. I can’t survive losing her. So I’ll keep it useful: jokes, rides home, answers at 2 a.m., the kind of loyalty that looks harmless from the outside. I won’t say I love her. I won’t say I’ve always loved her. I won’t turn our friendship into a question she has to solve.

Jaeyun stayed where he was a little longer than he ought to have, his palms splayed at your sides, lips parted against the skin of your stomach as he pressed a kiss there, and then, at your hips, your thighs, covering all the way to your knees and back up again. 

You shivered as he nipped at the tender skin just inside your hip, your fingers tightening in his hair for a moment before you eased again — slow, and unconsciously, keeping time with your breath.

“Jaeyun,” you whispered, and perhaps it had been the way your breath changed then, caught on something that he couldn’t quite hear, but his heart wavered in his chest.

He knew you enough to know it was the beginning of a confession. He just didn’t know what kind. And that was what scared him: not the truth itself, but the possibility of it. That you might be about to ask for distance. That you might be about to reach for a word that would make him either the safest thing in your life — or the mistake.

“Could you turn the lights off?” you asked. 

It could have sounded silly then. But it was something old between you — something you’d done as kids when you needed to confess something embarrassing, something heavy. As if darkness could make secrets smaller. As if not seeing each other’s faces could make bravery easier.

Jaeyun propped himself up, knees pressed against your mattress as he reached for your lampshade and turned it off.

The room darkened instantly, but not completely — not with your curtains still open and the city’s light streaming in, painting the walls in soft silver and distant neon, scattering stripes on your sheets.

Jaeyun hadn’t noticed how still you both had become until a car passed outside, its tires whispering over the asphalt before it was gone, and the room held onto the quiet that followed, too complete, too attentive.

The sheets rustled softly as Jaeyun lay back down beside you, not touching you — not yet. He just stayed close enough that when you turned to him, he could feel you through the dark, but then you reached for his hand, interlacing your fingers as you had done when you were nine and whispering that you’d heard your parents arguing and didn’t know where to put the feeling, you were thirteen and admitting you were terrified that one day you’d grow up and he wouldn’t be yours to keep.

“Talk to me, Princess,” he whispered.

“Baekhyeon wasn’t wrong,” you said, the words scattering through the space of your bodies so quickly, Jaeyun took a moment to catch it all, and when he did, he went very still, eyes sharpening on your face.

“Not about you,” you added. “But about me — he wasn’t wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember my first date?” you asked.

Jaeyun let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except it didn’t contain humor. Of course he remembered. He remembered the outfit. He remembered your perfume. He remembered how a strand of hair didn’t quite stay on your pins and he kept fixing it while you paced through your room. He remembered how his fingers lingered there for one last time before you slipped through the door.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I remember.”

You stared at your hands for a beat, thumb brushing against his knuckles. 

“I thought you would tell me not to go,” you admitted. “But you didn’t, and so I went, and through the whole day I kept thinking oh, it would have been so much better if Yun was here,”

“The same thing happened with Baekhyeon — I kept wishing you were there with me instead, and I thought it was just because you’re my best friend and everything is funnier when it’s just us. I thought it was just because I feel safer when I’m with you, but—” you paused. “But through these last weeks, I just realized that I truly wished you had asked me to stay.”

Nothing in the room moved, but something in him did, his internal footing slipping, the world turning unstable while his body stayed perfectly still beside you.

You weren’t saying I wanted you to forbid me. But I wanted you to want me enough to risk it.

Jaeyun’s mouth parted, but his body acted like it was still losing its footing. His breath snagging, throat tightening, the words jamming as if speech required solid ground he no longer had. And in the middle of his silence, you created your own answer.

“Never mind, I just—” you began, slipping from his touch and slipping away, but he caught you then, fingers closing around yours again and keeping you there.

“I’ve wanted to tell you to stay a thousand times.”

Your breath caught at his words, your gaze lifting to his and holding, steady and unblinking, the kind of eye contact that made everything feel suddenly too honest to survive. His grip tightened on your fingers, then gentled again, careful not to turn it into a claim — only a question he was asking with his whole body.

“I wanted to,” he said. “When you had that first date. When you called me after and tried to laugh about it, like it didn’t get under your skin. When you—” His breath caught. “When you started seeing Baekhyeon, when he called when we were together. Every time — every time damn time — I wanted to ask you to stay.”

Jaeyun lifted your joined hands to his face, turning them slightly so the backs of your fingers brushed his cheek. 

“But I didn’t,” he whispered. “Because I thought if I told you to stay, that was when I was going to lose you entirely — and you know, Princess, I can handle being your best friend forever. I can handle being the one you call when you’re sad or drunk or mad — even if it’s just for you to leave once the moment passes. I can handle having only parts of you.”

His voice lowered. “But I can’t handle losing you.”

You turned toward him properly then, shifting until your faces were close enough that when you spoke, he didn’t just hear the words that followed, but he felt them.

“I would have stayed,” you said. “Every damn time — I would have stayed.”

Jaeyun made a sound that didn’t belong to him — small and raw — the sentence going straight through his ribs and lodging there.

His grip on your hand tightened — and his forehead dipped toward yours, hovering there as if he didn’t trust the space between you not to change its mind. 

“Stay, Princess,” he asked.

“I’m going nowhere.”

FINAL RULE: NO MORE RULES  

I wrote rules that were supposed to keep me from ruining us. I thought that if I could define every boundary, I could pretend I could control the outcome. Don’t accept reckless requests. Don’t touch her like I’m owed. Don’t be possessive. Don’t say the words that might make her leave.

A small guide for surviving her without losing her.

But I’m not losing her.

She’s here. She’s not a maybe, not a mistake, not something I have to handle with gloves on. She’s with me — clear-eyed, chosen, real. And for the first time, the future doesn’t feel like a threat I need to solve. It feels like something we’re walking into together.

So this is the last rule: no more rules.

Not because I’ve stopped being careful with her — fuck, I’ll always be careful with her. But because I don’t need rules to keep her close when she’s already choosing to stay. Because I don’t have to hide love inside procedure anymore. Because I can finally stop bracing, and start living in the simplest truth I’ve ever had:

It’s us.

[revehae]

frankenstein

pairing ↠ stepbrother!haechan x (f) reader

genre .. warnings ↠ smut, noncon, dubcon, abuse, stepcest, misogyny, the patriarchy is deeply embedded within the story, religious themes here and there, dialogues regarding childbirth and pregnancy

summary ↠ in a world where your body belongs more to your future husband than it ever will to you, it makes sense that your brother, by law or by birthright, owns you too. when your father died, you were convinced that was the worst thing that could ever happen to you. you hadn’t met haechan yet.

wc ↠ 30k (my biggest fic ever)

a/n ↠ revehae’s disbandment fic… if it’s not already obvious, my beliefs do not align with the beliefs frequently portrayed in this story. it is not my intention to romantize any abuse or toxic behavior you may read. also, i had to compact some lines to meet the tumblr block limit (about 40 of them), so if some things read weirdly or a block of text seems huge, i apologize. as always, feedback is appreciated!

don’t like it, don’t read.

night had settled and naturally your body had begun to loosen with the need for rest, your eyelids getting heavy.

every now and then, you would hear a cacophony of boisterous laughs from downstairs just moments before you could slip away completely. at the threshold of sleep, but constantly interrupted. with an exasperated sigh, you resigned yourself to watching television for a while, at least until the boys wore themselves out for the night. but every time you had to turn the volume up another notch, you felt your irritation ramping.

deciding you were at your breaking point, you stuffed your feet into your house slippers and marched down the stairs straight into the living room, huffing, “can you guys please be a little quieter? i’ve been trying to sleep for an hour.”

your stepbrother, haechan, and his three partners in crime, jeno, jaemin, and mark, all glanced at you. there was a lull of silence before they each burst into laughter. “my sweet sister,” haechan said, setting his cup on the coffee table and standing up from where he’d been seated with the others. “what did i tell you about making demands?”

you stiffened. you hadn’t meant to come off that way, but could he blame you for being cranky? sue you for wanting to get some sleep. preferably before the night was over with. “i’m not trying to make demands,” you replied, your tone shifting to something gentler. “i was just asking for a favor.”

“we owe you favors?” haechan asked, the question clearly not meant to be answered. you shuddered when his hand met the small of your back. he cocked his head towards the kitchen. “let’s have a chat.”

your feet carried you there on their own accord when your mind failed you.

“now,” haechan started, shaking his head in dissatisfaction, and sucked his teeth. “that little stunt aside, what did i tell you about coming out when my friends are around?”

“not to do it,” you murmured.

“that’s right,” haechan sang, his hands gentle around your body and his own throbbing with warmth, but his touch still made you freeze. “that could have been a phone call and i might have been more inclined to be nice. but you disobeyed me. you’ve been doing that a lot, sweetheart. so now you’re gonna have to learn why it’s important to listen to me.”

your brows furrowed, and you were desperate to know what he meant by that. you knew him well enough to recognize when you were on the verge of being disciplined. your stepbrothers punishments had been unpleasant, at the very least.

haechan grinned at the obvious look of dread on your face and the stiffness in your posture, and called out to the boys. when they entered the kitchen with mischievous smiles on their lips, each more so than the last, he leaned into you and whispered, “each of my friends has had a little too much to drink tonight, and when men drink, well, let’s just say it makes us do things we wouldn’t normally do.”

you knew he wasn’t saying that to give you a reminder of the effects alcohol had on human inhibition; he was telling you to warn you about what was going to happen any moment now. your eyes widened. “haechan, no, please,” you begged, suddenly wide awake. you frantically hid behind him, panicked.

haechan snickered. they all did. “ah, ah, ah,” he sang, grabbing a hold of you and not only pushing you in front of him, but sending you stumbling into the arms of his friends. “you don’t get to hide now when you weren’t supposed to come out in the first fucking place.”

you had never felt so many hands on your body at once. your torso twisted and turned, shrinking into itself in hopes of recoiling away from every touch, but it was a pointless endeavor. “your little sister is so pretty, haechan,” said mark. “she’s so squirmy,” teased jaemin. “look at her trying to get away,” noted jeno. they all laughed.

“please, stop,” you pleaded, your eyes burning with unshed tears. “haechan, please, make them stop!”

haechan shook his head, and as far as you could tell, his eyes had been approving. “sorry,” he apologized without a hint of sincerity. “but you have to learn.”

fingers slithered up your thigh. “where you going, baby?”

there were a set of hands cupping your supple breasts, another groping your ass, and one more slipping underneath the band of your sleep shorts. you couldn’t tell which was which; your mind was trapped in a panic, and they were all the same. “shh,” jaemin crooned, palming your hair almost with tenderness. “we’re just having a little fun. no doubt haechan would throw a fit if we actually tried to depurify his innocent little sister.”

by the end of the night, you realized jaemin had been right. the three of them touched you and mauled you, but haechan didn’t let them do anything more. apparently, he was just teaching you a lesson. not that that had made it any better. haechan had been watching his friends fondle you for minutes on end, doing nothing in spite of your pleas. the moment he finally decided he’d seen enough and told them to release you, you’d sprinted back upstairs and locked yourself in your room like you should have done from the beginning.

your resentment deepened. never had you quite loved this strange family your mother had married into. your stepfather was a tall, stout businessman who was the chief executive of a technology powerhouse, which sounded awe-inducing out loud, but you always found him painfully arrogant and entitled. as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and haechan was no different.

the worst part was that your mother made you serve him. made you fix his dinner when he was hungry, wash his clothes when they were dirty, clean up behind him and his friends. it was infuriating, because he had maids for that purpose, but insisted on having you do it for some peculiar reason. your mother agreed with him; she thought it was important you learned how to take care of a man.

when your father died, you were convinced that was the worst thing that could ever happen to you. you hadn’t met haechan yet.

on a particularly sunny afternoon, you had gotten dressed to go out to the mall with your best friend and made the unfortunate mistake of walking past haechan, who took one look at you and asked, “you’re really going out wearing that?”

“what’s wrong with it?” you asked in annoyance, glancing down at your outfit. “it’s modest.”

haechan retorted in a heartbeat, “yeah, modest and outdated as shit. you look like your name is velma.” he stood up and grabbed a hold of you, which you didn’t take kindly to, all things considered. “let’s go to your room. i’m not letting you go outside like this. it reflects poorly on the family image.”

you stifled a sigh, knowing better than to protest against him. 

“take that shit off,” haechan commanded once you entered your bedroom. 

you begrudgingly obeyed him, shedding the long dress with black buttons that formed a line on the front. it was a little dated, perhaps, but you dressed that way to honor your deceased grandmother. your father had liked it. he said it kept alive his mother’s memory. 

haechan had been going through your closet in pursuit of something that suited his taste, so when he finally did turn around and see you half naked, he paused. “you look better that way,” he said after a moment. 

you were affronted, and your body tensed in remembrance of what had happened the last time you felt so vulnerable.

“relax,” haechan teased, shoving a bright yellow sundress decorated with white daffodils into your arms. “put this on.”

the moment you donned the dress, you swore haechan almost looked happy to see you for the first time. his eyes took in the sight of you and it gave you the feeling of something unstill in the very pit of your stomach, even though in the moment he had silently looked at you, your body had seldom moved.

haechan was pleased. “so you do own something that’s not entirely unwearable. you know, they say fine feathers make fine birds.”

it took everything in you not to roll your eyes. “can i go now?”

“patience, miss mary mack,” haechan chastised playfully, grabbing a hat and purse from your closet, also yellow in color. “here. wear this.” with that, haechan turned and walked out of your room. apparently, that was all the consultation he had to offer.

when you were finally at the mall with your best friend chaewon, you couldn’t help but notice something unusual; there were too many eyes on you. you were used to being paid attention to in certain settings, usually in occasions related to your stepfather’s job where everyone recognized you as an attachment to him. his young, beautiful, unmarried stepdaughter.

this was different. not many people knew you, and yet for whatever reason, you could feel stares from numerous directions. most of the time when you went out with chaewon, they were only looking at her. you could count on both hands, if not more, the amount of times you’d been offered things for free just because a stranger felt moved by her beauty.

but as you stood in the middle of a jewelry store, chaewon was unbothered, your eyes darting over a bunch of luxury watches that were on display. “ooh, i think jaehyun would like this,” she whispered, pointing to a particular silver one. “wanna get something for haechan?”

“not really,” you murmured. “i don’t really know what he likes.” his personality made you think he would prefer something more flashy like gold, but as you pondered his style, your eyes raked over a watch with a brown leather band.

“he’s so cute, though,” chaewon swooned with a smile, sighing dreamily. “jaehyun said that he doesn’t want me to marry him, but it’s ultimately up to my dad. you should put in a good word for me.”

you frowned for a split second. you had always thought that you would marry whoever your dad selected for you, but now that he was dead, that choice was in the stone cold hands of your stepfather and stepbrother. you made an attempt at humor to cloak your grief. “don’t you have enough suitors already?” you teased.

“well, yeah,” chaewon admitted, despite not sounding deterred. “but imagine how much less my parents would argue if they’d just married someone they actually liked. that’s why we can’t have sleepovers at my house. always fussing.” 

she briefly paused, her attention stolen by another watch she thought her brother would find fitting as a gift, and pulled out her phone to take a picture. a thought struck her as her fingers moved. “ooh, plus we would be sisters-in-law!”

you nodded along as she rambled, but you couldn’t understand why she would want to wed haechan of all the men who would love to have her hand in marriage. it made no sense to you; he was unbearable and treated you cruelly. she would never know that, though. whenever chaewon came to your house for sleepovers, haechan was always on his best behavior.

you thought about it a little harder. haechan was the type of man that looked perfect in pictures and on paper. there was no doubt that he was a handsome young man, and sometimes he was admittedly even funny, but as long as you had shared a house with him, you had been increasingly more miserable.

though there was no way in hell you could tell chaewon that, not when it was your responsibility to ensure everyone kept your family in high regards, so you forced a smile and told her cheerfully, “i’ll ask him what he thinks about it.”

chaewon embraced you in a tight hug. “you’re the best.”

“no, chaewon,” you murmured faintly. “you are.”

if you had to give haechan credit for one thing, however, it would have to be the outfit he’d dressed you in. despite being often told you were beautiful, you were particularly lacking in suitors, which was concerning now that you were in your twenties.

these are the years for betrothal, your mother had said the day of your twentieth birthday, and when you closed your eyes to blow out the burning candle, you hoped for all the admirers your father had once vowed you would have, remembering the times he’d spun you in his arms and likened you to a princess with a million knights to defend her honor.

all you had ever wanted was to make your father proud, even if it meant settling with a man that was less like a fairytale, although in the deepest part of your heart, you had dreamed of a husband that treated you as well as your father had done until the day he died.

day by day, the reality of the situation seemed more and more grim, and as you compared yourself to other young women of your years, you concerned yourself less with the quality of men, but the quantity; time was running out, and you knew that if they found it necessary, your mother and her husband would pair you on blind dates with men of their choice sooner than later.

for that reason, and despite yourself, you found yourself standing outside haechan’s bedroom door. you almost turned back, almost decided that you could handle your problems on your own. with your pride, it seemed better to die than to ask him to extend his help, especially when he made it a point to remind you that he owed you no favors. but you knocked anyway, and when you heard the sound of brutal combat and agonized cries cease, you knew he was coming.

“what?” was the first thing haechan said when he answered his door. “i’m in the middle of a game.”

you swallowed. the words seemed physically painful to say. “i need your help.” it was a strained sound. 

haechan’s irritation was gone, replaced by something closer to amusement and ridicule. “you need my help?” he repeated, as amazed to hear those words as you were burdened to say them. “i owe you my help?”

god, it was insane how absurdly predictable he was. “no, but i didn’t ask you for help last time, and i believe your words were that my fashion choices ‘reflect poorly on the family image,’” you reminded.

haechan laughed; his owns words probably sounded like the wisdom of god repeated back to him. “this is about your subpar sense of style? why didn’t you say so sooner?” he stepped out of his doorway. “you realized why you should listen to big brother, didn’t you?”

hearing him refer to himself that way was almost as strange as hearing the irony in his voice when he called you, “sweet sister.” he was no brother of yours, no matter what the law or marriage said. nevertheless, you couldn’t deny the truth in the rest of his words; if nothing else had changed, then surely it was your clothing that had deterred men away.

inflating his ego was the last thing you wanted, so your response was a mere soft, “will you help me?”

“you’re lucky you’re my responsibility,” haechan replied, as if it would burden him otherwise. “sure, i’ll help you, but you’re gonna need an entire closet revamp. be ready to leave in thirty minutes.”

he walked backwards into his room and shut the door. thirty minutes later, you were in the passenger seat of haechan’s sleek, luxurious sports car. 

haechan was allergic to silence, and gripping the leather wheel, he asked teasingly, “what made you realize your fashion’s off? did you suddenly get special attention when you were out?” 

that was exactly what had happened and you hated it. “more or less,” you told him vaguely.

haechan hummed, putting on his blinker. at least he was a mindful driver. “men want things with value. things with no value go in the trash. your pretty face is a waste if you don’t know what to do with it. save the throwbacks for the met gala.”

“thanks for the advice,” you grumbled. 

haechan glanced away from the road briefly to throw you a look. “is that snark?”

“no,” you lied. you both knew it.

it didn’t seem to have personally gotten to him, but haechan was still unsatisfied. “you know how old my mom was when she got engaged to my father?” he asked. “nineteen.”

“and how did that work out for her?” you asked sarcastically, given that they were clearly no longer together.

“wonderfully, considering that when they divorced, she walked away with a fortune more than she had before they were married,” haechan retorted without missing a beat.

the man has a response for everything, you grumbled to yourself, exasperated. “i assume there’s a point in there somewhere.”

“if you would let me get there,” haechan groaned, feigning annoyance. “my mother, despite not being from the most wealthy family ever, still managed to marry my dad. do you want to guess why that is?”

“because your dad values things other than money?” you asked, despite finding it difficult to believe.

“close enough. because my dad saw value in her. the way she behaved, the way she carried herself. that was what made him decide that was the woman he wanted to tie himself to.”

you nodded along. “right.”

haechan rolled his eyes. you still didn’t get it. “the point is, my mom had nothing near my dad’s fortune and still managed to compete against richer women from more prominent families. you, my sweet sister, are the stepdaughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country, and yet how many men have you lured with your own effort?”

you were silent, but you knew he was right to an extent. again. of your suitors, they were mostly men that had heard the chief executive had a stepdaughter and decided that was all that they needed to hear. few were organic, which any woman would prefer.

in an effort to spare your pride, you huffed, “you act as if no man wants me at all.”

haechan laughed harshly. “as long as you’re the ceo’s stepdaughter, of fucking course men will want you. my dad is most likely handpicking a list of candidates for you as well. but most girls run up to their fathers and declare, ‘dad, this is the man i want to marry,’ and pray to god that daddy likes him. you expect me to believe that you’re so good of a stepdaughter, you’ll marry whoever my dad tells you to without bothering to find someone yourself first?”

you sighed.

“everybody in this family serves a purpose,” haechan told you, giving you his attention now that he’d stopped at a red light. “my father leads and represents the company. within a year’s time, he’ll retire and i’ll take his place. your mother assists with charities and public image. you need to figure out how you will contribute.”

it would be untrue if you said haechan hadn’t given you something to contemplate. you could have cared less about the family business, but you remembered your father. sometimes he could be conventional to a fault, though you had still loved him with all your heart. the man had put family above all else in the world, and knowing that, you knew you had to do the same.

not to honor this family whose name you didn’t bear and whose blood you didn’t share, but to honor your father. and there was no better way to do that than to transform yourself from a princess to a queen.

haechan brought you to a specific store you knew your stepfamily frequented. when you walked in together, the staff recognized you both and greeted you respectfully. “genesis,” haechan said to one of the workers, a pretty woman with brown hair and fair skin. “my sister here wants to change her style and is in need of a complete overhaul. do me a solid and show us everything you have in season.”

“you got it,” genesis replied with a kind smile. “right this way, mr. lee.”

she led you to a large, private dressing room secluded from the rest of the store. they had your measurements on file, courtesy of previous fittings, and genesis alongside some other workers began to bring out a large selection of outfits.

haechan did most of the talking. all you had to do was step in and out of the clothes, and wait for his nod of approval. “you look best in bold colors,” haechan mused out loud. he turned to genesis. “let’s try these.”

all around you, there were men and women bustling about as they meticulously organized a fine assortment of clothes and shoes and accessories that would complement your appearance. and when you let yourself sink into the moment, you did feel like royalty.

you did pick a few things yourself and haechan gave no protest, before or after he saw your choice. “i don’t think you have bad coordination. you just need to get your head out of the nineteenth century,” he teased.

you had no response for that, none that wouldn’t kill the mood. even when you were a child, your taste in clothing had always favored that of your grandmother, your father’s mother, yet another loss you had too soon faced. perhaps in dressing like her, you were subconsciously honoring her too. 

there was a large, golden-framed mirror fixed to the wallpaper that hung tall against its maroon surface, running nearly from the edge of the floor to the roof, and you gazed upon your appearance with little recognition. “do i look good?” you asked, your face still, your eyes neither fond or unfond.

“you look beautiful, miss,” genesis told you adoringly, delicately placing a headband around your head.

to your chagrin, her input was not the one you had intended to hear. haechan grinned, his warm brown eyes seeming to seldom blink as he looked at you. “it’s an improvement.”

but you could see his eyes wandering, appreciative, and there was an awkward blend of discomfort and desperation that clasped you in its arms. on the one hand, you hated the way he looked at you because it reminded you of the night when his friends had groped your body to their hearts’ content, but on the other, it made you feel desirable. and more than anything, you wanted to be desired.

“thank you for your hard work today,” haechan said to the staff members on your way out, giving your bags to a staff worker to take to the car. the man walked the other direction.

your brows stitched together. “we’re not leaving?” you asked, baffled. maybe he wanted to visit the food court.

“no, my sweet sister,” haechan replied silkily, taking your hand in his. “we have one more stop to make first.”

the second stop was another clothing store a floor higher, which you thought nothing of, assuming he simply wanted to view a broader inventory. haechan led you to the fitting room and told you to stay put. 

when he came back, he was holding an ivory lingerie set. your eyes went wide. “haechan, this is…”

“i know what it is,” haechan interjected impatiently. “just try it on so i can see if it’s worth the change.”

you were in no particular hurry to don the ivory set, especially considering you could sense the sting of his eyes boring holes through your bare skin, and you couldn’t believe he had asked you to wear something so raunchy. but there he was, restlessly waiting, his gaze expectant. 

your movements were begrudging. when you had actually willed yourself to wear it in front of him, your eyes never met his own. the outfit of his choice was thin as paper and form-fitting and hid little to nothing, the color of your flesh exposed in between intricate stitches of white silk and lace. you felt every bit as naked as you were. haechan very clearly liked what he saw. “maybe you aren’t entirely worthless,” he said, reaching out to brush his hands over your figure. you shuddered.

he stepped back, pulling out his wallet. 

“alright, you can take it off. for now.” his smile was unsettling. “i’m buying it.”

something told you that that was nothing to celebrate. after haechan paid, you left the stores for good, and he held the bag himself. “tonight,” he whispered in your ear. “put it on. wait for me. i’m not asking.”

your throat dried, but you nodded your head. what else were you to do?

the rest of your day had been spent rearranging your closet, contemplating heavily what of the clothes you had already owned you would keep, and where to put the ones you couldn’t bring yourself to discard. walking in, you almost never walked out. though it was a time-consuming task, you took delight in shelving your shoes and hanging your clothes. it was distracting. 

it lent itself to being a great escape for the trouble which you knew in the back of your mind would find you before the night’s end, and every now and then, you would fleetingly glance back at the singular bag you had yet to open, afraid of its contents.

you wanted to hide. more than anything, you wanted to disappear beneath a mountain of armani tops and miu miu skirts and gucci loafers, concealed and covered, safe from all that sought to hurt you. but this was the reality that had been chosen for you, even if you hadn’t chosen it.

night fell too quickly. you had prayed for the sun to take its sweet time (even though you were aware it would purely mean delaying the inevitable, no real answer), but she, too, had something to hide from; the moon and the night. you dressed yourself in the lingerie; you waited; your heart hammered against your chest and your stomach twisted.

haechan knocked merely to announce himself and strutted in with his usual confident gait. he took out look at you sitting at the edge of your bed and whistled. “you’re so obedient when you want to be,” he praised. “are you learning, sweetheart? what happens when you don’t listen to me?”

you had no clue what would have happened, not specifically, but you were in no way inclined to find out. 

haechan joined you on your mattress, sitting beside you. his warm hand wandered to your thigh and you felt your body lock with the wariness of a woman who had felt danger and recognized its emergence. “you’re still upset with me,” he pointed out. “for letting my friends touch you.”

your eyes closed, and you yearned to go anywhere but back to that moment. 

“believe me,” haechan whispered, his rough fingers creeping higher, farther. “i didn’t want to. but you weren’t taking me seriously. so much disobedience, so much attitude. i figured you would learn then. and like always, i was right.”

“haechan,” you called his name softly, light as a feather. “i don’t want to do this. what if my mom and your dad find out?”

haechan brushed his thumb against your bottom lip. “if you keep that pretty mouth shut, they won’t.”

you swallowed harshly. something had to work. “but you’re my brother…”

haechan completely dismissed your concerns. “exactly. i own you, remember? i can do whatever the hell i want with you. and if i want to fuck you til i can’t anymore, then i’ll do that.”

“i’m supposed to wait…”

haechan groaned. “your future husband doesn’t have to know.” 

he lay you down on your back and mounted you, his knees on either side of your body as he bound you to the mattress by your wrists. 

“he’ll lie to you, you know,” haechan murmured against your neck, pressing kisses there. “you can lie back and tell him that you’re a virgin. you think he’ll know the difference?”

you squirmed underneath his weight.

haechan straightened up and smacked your hardly clothed cunt, declaring, “that’s a myth.”

you gasped out. as he drew back, haechan admired the view of you sprawled out before him on the bed, the delicate designs of the lingerie teasing him just enough to evoke a carnal curiosity of a sort. your nipples were obscured, but he could see the upper and underside of your breasts, the soft, moistened surface of your stomach, and the plush, malleable flesh of your thighs.

“my god,” haechan said in amazement. “where do i even begin with you?”

you didn’t answer, but that wasn’t a surprise to haechan. you knew better than to spite him with words, and you knew they wouldn’t persuade him.

haechan paid attention to everything. that which he wanted to see, and that which he didn’t. and it was very obvious that you were anxious. “you don’t have to be nervous,” he assured you, his saccharine voice almost affectionate. “i’ll be gentle. relatively.”

his lips met your skin again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders. he could have self-restraint when he so desired, and at the moment, he was summoning all of his willpower. he had this unwavering feeling that he would thank himself later.

you only wanted it to be over. there seemed no way around haechan getting what he wanted, and though there was nothing stopping you from confiding in your mother, you had doubts about her backbone; even if she heard your concerns, you feared that she would ignore them if it meant preserving her marriage. you figured that was why she had you placate her husband’s child.

haechan slipped his hand underneath the crotch of the lingerie and ran his fingers over your slit, testing the waters. dissatisfied, he slipped the fabric to the side and spat between your legs, using it as lubricant as he worked a finger inside. “need you to relax for me,” he murmured.

you weren’t sure how to relax; your body was uncalm and so was your mind, plagued with the reminder of how wrong this was and the memory of how crude the first touches your body received had been, both cementing you in a state of sheer weakness. you had always known, as every woman did, that your body was never truly your own, but this was unlike anything you had ever braced yourself for.

haechan didn’t try to uncover the thoughts in your head just yet. he had no use for them. to him, the more pressing matter was the heat between your legs, and he was more preoccupied with stoking the flames.

your body tightened around his fingers as he stuck in another, the pair steadily collecting your moisture as haechan tried to open you up for him. his eyes flitted over your body, tense as ever, and he shook his head, complaining, “you’re like a damn crab.”

you couldn’t help it. every inch of you was rigid. as you had come to know, haechan got this dangerous look on his face whenever a lightbulb went off in his head, and now was no different. he never withdrew his fingers, but he crouched between your legs to flick his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

that got you jumping.

haechan lapped at you as his digits moved inside you, working together to unravel you enough that you could take him. your hands gripped the bedding and your soft moans filled the rest of the silence that went untouched by the sound of your body slickening with unwanted arousal. you tilted your head and bit your lip, hoping to suppress your own noises. it was humiliating. 

haechan was finally able to include a third finger with ease, and by that point, he was confident he had done ample work, but he kept going. the thought of what you would sound like when you came for him entered his mind with no intention of vacating, and he decided he would see it for himself.

you could feel it, the fire building rapidly in your core. haechan sensed it too; your body was more restless and your breathing was heavier and some smaller details that weren’t lost on him. he smirked against your folds. “that’s it. don’t fight it, sunshine. just come for me.”

unable to keep your impending orgasm at bay, you trembled in climax at last, hiding your face in a pillow not only to smother your sounds, but to minimize your embarrassment. you clenched around his three, slender digits and your body eased despite yourself.

haechan withdrew his slick fingers from your dripping cunt and sucked them into his mouth with a hum of delight. “now you’re ready for my cock.” he didn’t wait for you to respond. you watched with a speeding heart as he undid his clothes and suddenly realized how much more exposed you had been compared to him, how you were vulnerable and waiting.

haechan grabbed a condom from the right side pocket of his fallen leather jacket and rolled it onto his hardened length. you squirmed when he got closer, but haechan was unfazed, spreading your legs back apart and steadily making his way inside.

you quietly whimpered, “haechan.” the stretch was unlike anything you had taken before, more intense then his fingers alone. you were wet enough to handle it, haechan had made sure of that much, but no preparation could compare when you were so used to being empty.

haechan took his sweet time. in a strange act of kindness, he extended his hand for you to hold, which you did. “i know,” he murmured, kissing your face. “i know, sweetheart. it’s okay. you can take it.”

you nodded your head, your hand never daring to leave his. haechan watched your face as he gingerly coaxed himself deeper, your walls expanding around his girth. soft, high moans escaped him as he filled you to the hilt. you met his eyes for the first time, having somehow mustered the courage, and for a minute, something kept you from looking away.

sooner than later, haechan had sheathed himself inside you completely, but he didn’t move yet. “there you go. i told you that you could take it,” he praised, cradling your cheeks in his hands. “does it hurt?”

most of your voice failed and you managed a tiny, “no.” on the contrary, there was an unusual pleasure in being filled by him. 

haechan grinned. “good. i’m gonna start moving, okay? nice and slow.”

you wordlessly nodded your head. 

haechan began to thrust in and out of you, dragging himself back and forth through your slick heat. the friction and the warmth of him was pleasant, and your pussy gushed around him with every movement. at the sound of your own wetness, you flushed and covered your face. 

“you’re so damn shy,” haechan teased. he gently pried your hand away from your face. “don’t hide. i want to see that pretty little face showing me how good i’m making you feel.”

you shook your head, ashamed. you had always been told to wait. to lie beneath him in this manner felt forbidden and you knew it as surely as you knew the sun would come, but the knowing did not cease the feeling, and the feeling did not sate the knowing.

it didn’t help that haechan had set a comfortable pace, his thrusts neither too fast nor too hard; they were long, deep strokes that filled you just right and allowed him to savor the way your pussy throbbed around and kneaded his cock for dear life. you were both making a mess of each other and you utterly despised it. 

haechan was perceptive to a fault and he knew your shame was likely most of what kept you quiet. had your parents not been home, though they surely wouldn’t hear you when their own rooms were many yards away (though that didn’t account for maids and servants with busy mouths), he would have been less lenient. “i hate quiet sex,” haechan grumbled. “talk to me.”

your face was hot and your ears burned. “i don’t know what to say.”

haechan’s grin was smug. “that’s an easy fix. tell me how much you like me inside of you.”

you did like the feel of him inside of you. more than you cared to admit. the feeling of being full pleased you more than you had anticipated. “i… thought it would be worse,” you murmured.

that amused haechan. “worse, huh? you thought i wouldn’t take care of you?”

“yeah,” you replied faintly. it seemed so unlike him, with how cruel he had been. 

haechan leaned lower and caressed your face with his thumb. “if you act like a woman, i’ll treat you like a princess,” he crooned. then, he tugged at your hair and pulled you toward him, not enough to cause you any pain, but enough to draw a startled gasp out of you and make his threat clear. “if you don’t, i treat you like a peasant. understand?”

the words leapt out of your mouth. “i understand!”

“good girl,” he sang, releasing you. “you could make some man really happy one day, you know that?”

you peered up at him. your mouth wouldn’t close. “you think so?”

haechan hummed. his hands cupped your breast and slowly but surely made their way to your hips as his thrusts slowed to a halt. the coldness of his rings made you shudder. “with practice,” he said, admiring the fucked-out looked on your face, his handiwork. “i see in you what my dad saw in my mom. you just need a little training. i could perfect you. would you like that?”

“well, i don’t…”

haechan cut you off. “just think about it. imagine all the men lining up for you to have you on their arm. your mother would stop nagging you. she’d stop comparing you to your friend, too.”

those images flashed in your mind as they often did, the way men would gawk and stare and compete among themselves, vying for your hand in marriage. they would do their best to impress your stepfather, going to war to prove their worthiness. it was easy to imagine after having it described to you on more occasions than you could count, because when chaewon talked, it was your job to listen and support her. your heart clenched.

haechan raised a brow, still smoothing his hands up and down your body. “did you think i didn’t know?”

you said nothing. haechan seemed to know everything.

haechan felt your body tensing beneath his hands, but if anything, it only spurred him on. “she gives you hell. you try so hard to please mommy, but nothing’s ever enough because you’re not her. and you compare yourself to every other girl in your circle because that’s what she does - pick you apart. so you sit there, ignorant in your ways, wondering if you’re just broken. i bet it’s exhausting.”

your eyes burned with unshed tears. “haechan…,” you trailed off weakly. every word cut deeper than the last.

“i could make you into something even better,” haechan whispered, his face so close to yours as his breath tickled your ear. when he said it like that, it sounded like a promise. “i could turn you into something beautiful that no one could resist and no one would deny. men will look at you and dream of making you their wife. mothers will look at you and back at their own daughters with scorn, wondering why they can’t be more like you. fathers will look at you and hope to god their son brings back a woman even half as wonderful as you could be.”

it felt like you were holding your breath and waiting to die. 

then, haechan abruptly pulled back, straightening himself. “or not.” he shrugged his shoulders. “you could just commit to a life of constant critique and never satisfy anyone. you could keep convincing yourself that you don’t care. but every woman cares. it’s in your nature.”

without warning, he started moving again, and it knocked the breath out of you. he was closer now, hot on the tail of release.

haechan’s voice was like silk. “do you want to be perfect, sweetheart?”

you needed it. you longed for it. you craved it more than anything. “yes,” you replied breathlessly.

“then, let me teach you how,” he said, simple as that. a great offer, void of charge. “let me make you perfect.”

you bobbed your head without hesitation, thoroughly sold, unconcerned with what you had given away. he was offering you everything you wanted on a silver platter and you had no intention of denying yourself the opportunity to be everything that everyone wanted.

haechan smiled, and for once, he had nothing to say, either. but his face said it all; he was pleased. 

after a few more moments, his thrusts became somewhat sporadic, and after a few moments more, he leaned down and sank his teeth into the smooth flesh of your shoulder as he came, stifling his soft moans. your lips parted, but you didn’t complain; you knew that much better.

he took a moment to gather his bearings, but once his mind had cleared and his legs remembered how to serve him, haechan pulled away and rose to his feet. “come on. let’s get you cleaned up.”

haechan did most of the work, scrubbing you clean and holding you up when your body felt too weak to stand. you almost felt okay when you were back in bed, better than what you had initially feared. rather than used, you felt restless, eager to know and eager to become.

“good night,” haechan said from your doorway. “get some rest. you deserve it.”

with that, he turned and left. 

you glanced down at your pristine, white sheets. there was a tiny red spot from where your bodies had been.

the day before your stepfather’s birthday, your mother took you with her to buy ingredients for his birthday cake. there was no need for her to go out, or to keep you in tow, for that matter, but your mother was nothing if not a perfect performer. 

“you look different,” she observed. 

that had your attention, and you immediately stood up even straighter than you already were. “do i?”

your mother hummed, pleasantly surprised. “yes. more sophisticated.”

grinning from ear to ear, you confessed, “i decided to try a different style.” 

your mother gave you a tiny smile of approval, placing her hand on your shoulder. “well, that’s excellent. it suits you better. i was starting to worry i’d made a mistake with you along the way somewhere. your daddy would be turning in his grave.”

your heart clenched at the mention of your late father, but you didn’t let it spoil the moment. 

turning the aisle, you mother asked, “don’t you want to know why i brought you here with me?”

you decided you would bite and guessed, “to spend quality time with your only daughter?”

your mother laughed. “to remind you of something. even being married to the richest man on the east side, i have certain things i do as a courtesy. i still have wife duties that my husband expects of me. when you marry a man of your own some day, you will understand. your husband will still expect you to raise his children, not a nanny.”

“ah,” you replied, bobbing your head. “of course, i understand that.”

“good. i don’t want you to hate me for being hard on you now, but i do it with faith that when the time comes, you’ll be prepared. becoming your mother has been the greatest blessing god has ever given me. he will give it to you, too.”

the inevitability of motherhood was something you had already long accepted, years before you could truly even understand what it meant. and maybe even now, you might not have totally known. “amen,” you agreed.

your mother pretended to be looking at her phone, checking her list of ingredients, but you noticed her glancing subtly at a man who had been not so discreetly throwing looks where you two stood at a shelf. she turned to you with a smirk that meant she was up to no good. “do you think he’s looking at you or me?”

you gawked and whispered, “mom, you’re married.”

“oh, please,” she mumbled, lightheartedly rolling her eyes. “marriage is security, honey. a man gets married to have an heir, and a woman gets married to have a man take care of her. it’s accomplished. it’s safety, not love.”

she sounded so sure. you thought of what chaewon had told you, about if her parents had married someone they liked instead. with time, maybe they could have grown to love each other. but first and foremost, marriage was a business proposal, and that was what you had always known.

as much as you loved your parents, you knew the love between them had always been scarce. they’d committed to their roles not out of love, but out of an obligation they thought had been given to them by god. your mother put it best. a man took care of a woman, and a woman took care of a man’s child. what he provided for, the woman nurtured. 

“besides, i’m just appreciating,” your mother replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “more importantly, your stepfather and i are going on a romantic husband-and-wife trip together in the maldives next week for his birthday, so it will just be you, haechan and the servants in the house for two weeks. i trust that you can handle everything he needs. apparently, he really likes your cooking.”

“he’s never told me that,” you murmured. at first, you had just thought he liked to make you needlessly suffer.

“maybe he’s more the physically affectionate type. must run in the family,” she quipped. “oh, and i was told he took you shopping. how was that?”

you thought about it. to be fair, it had been a pleasant day. the staff were patient and kind and hard-working, and you had found all the new clothes, though some styles would be an adjustment, beautiful. there was the end of day, which you knew you could never mention a word of, but it hadn’t been what you dreaded it would be.

the answer you gave your mother was far less complicated, and you simply told her, “it was nice. he helped me pick out a few things. i guess we’re bonding.”

your mother put a hand over her heart. “oh, i’m so happy to hear that. i was worried that maybe you were too old to appreciate the gift of having an older brother.”

“honestly, i think i’m starting to appreciate it now more than ever,” you admitted softly.

“that’s beautiful. your stepfather told me you would eventually get along, but i had trouble believing it. well, i can breathe easier now,” she said, sighing with relief. “alright, let’s go get those damn eggs and get the hell out of here.”

that had been the intention, until she noticed someone whom she’d referred to as the director’s wife, most likely an affiliate of one of the charities she worked with. no sooner had she noticed her son was with her than she’d grabbed you by the arm and took you over to introduce you to him. to your delight, he seemed to like what he saw.

your stepfather’s birthday party seemed to be going as beautifully as any occasion intended to celebrate a man over half a hundred, part of which meant that most shares of the cake you and your mother had whisked together were quickly eaten by his nieces and nephews and the young children of the men he named friends.

it also meant that it was quite boring. in truth, the party was half celebration and half a fundraiser that welcomed many wealthy men and women across the country, supposedly meant to provide money for existing youth programs. whether or not it was being done in good faith, you knew better than to question. rather, you fulfilled your daughterly duties, greeting guests as they came.

throughout the course of the party, you received ample attention. it was weird, being recognized all of a sudden and directly approached. only last week, men seemed to whisper if they looked at you, and now businessmen in their thirties were flirting with you here and there, some older, and men with boys said how fitting you would be for their dear sons at home.

one man had talked your ears off about his boy child, a notable young fellow by word of how he’d been described, a decorated warrior. the man told you he’d speak with your father and perhaps try to arrange a meeting with the boy he’d promised could protect you and any children you birthed. though you doubted your stepfather would be too impressed, you’d shown him your best smile and told him how delightful it sounded.

that being said, you were of the opinion that it wasn’t as bad as you’d made it out to be. you were pleased with the attention, it made you feel confident, and you accepted the unpleasant parts as simply coming with the territory.

when you finally gained a moment of respite towards the middle of the party, you found a troubled chaewon at the end of a long table at the back of the grand hall. even she, for all her bubbliness, seemed over it. “you look thrilled,” you remarked ironically.

that brought a smile to her upturned lips. “i was just thinking.”

you were all ears. “yeah?”

“the human body is so smart and so dumb. we have seals underneath our fingernails to protect the nail bed from infection, but women still die giving birth.”

you blinked. then you laughed. “you chose a fine place to discuss this matter.”

chaewon smirked. “am i wrong?”

“the human body was never ordained by god to be immune to pain, you know,” you told her, not unkind. “it was ordained by him to sustain it. pain keeps us human, and more importantly, it keeps us alive and breathing.”

“a pain men don’t share,” chaewon murmured. 

you finished in a heartbeat, “a pleasure and privilege men don’t share too.”

chaewon groaned, but she wasn’t upset, not seriously. “you sound like my mother. and her mother.”

you raised your shoulders. “well, maybe there are lessons to learn from the wise and more experienced.”

chaewon scoffed. usually, she agreed with you on these matters, as it was all she had ever known, but you could sense a tension within her like no other. it plagued her. “look at you getting so smart.” she sighed, softening. “i guess i’m just scared of giving birth. i can handle the marriage stuff, i’ve always dreamed of it. but the second my parents start mentioning grandchildren and the baby talk, i want to disappear.”

you grabbed her hand, sympathetic. you may not have shared it, but it was a valid concern of hers, to be fair. “you’ve suffered a lot of loss in your family because of it. it makes sense that you’re scared,” you whispered, thinking of the late aunts and cousins she’d mourned. “but your mother was fine, wasn’t she? you might not have to share that fate. god will protect you.”

chaewon nodded her head. it was true, her mother had experienced little to no complications when she’d birthed her and her older brother. her eyes shone with hope as she replied, “you’re right. their fate isn’t mine.”

you squeezed her hand and smiled proudly. “there you go.”

something caught chaewon’s eye. her gaze drifted from your face and her grip on your hand tightened. when you heard a familiar dreamy sigh part her lips, you knew instantly what she had seen without looking. “i don’t envy you, you know.”

your brows furrowed. “what do you mean?”

“i’d hate to be his stepsister. i’d struggle to keep my hands off him,” she explained, probably conjuring up fantasies in her head. 

you faltered for half a second, but swiftly composed yourself when you saw haechan coming.

“my dad sure knows how to bore somebody,” haechan said when he came your way. “you ladies look lovely tonight.”

chaewon offered him her seat so that he could sit between you both. his words got a laugh out of her, though with how she was looking at him, she probably would’ve laughed if he joked about folding laundry. “thank you. we’re probably not the target audience. the older crowd seem happy.”

“oh, trust me. they are,” you droned. 

haechan turned his head at you, grinning. “getting hit on by the fifty and up club, sister?”

you almost laughed. “nearly so. they seem to just think i’m a perfect match for their sons for now.”

haechan was amused. “i guess they stop by you first then make their way on over to me to tell me that the future of greatness is in my hands.” he smiled and curled an arm around chaewon gingerly. “my feet are tired. would you mind getting me something to drink from the bar?”

chaewon rose to her feet without wasting time. “sure. what should i get you?”

“just tell them it’s for me. the guy’s a longtime caterer. he knows what i like.”

chaewon bobbed her head and somehow, even as she scurried away, it was with refinement and elegance and grace.

and then you were alone. haechan sighed, leaning back in his chair. “are you enjoying the attention?” he asked, glancing over at you.

you smiled. it felt different than before. “yes. it makes me feel beautiful.”

haechan didn’t skip a beat. “you are beautiful. with a little sophistication, you will be the most beautiful woman to ever grace the earth.”

sophistication. yes, refined and elegant and graceful. “where do i lack?” you needed to know. 

haechan brushed a strand of hair behind your ears. “i spent a month with my family on my father’s side when i was little. his brother’s wife has many daughters. one thing i heard her tell them all the time was, ‘it only takes a moment to rouse a man’s excitement, but his fidelity? you will work at that for the rest of your life.’” haechan smiled. “do you know where i’m going with this, sweetheart?”

you thought about it. “i have to be more than just a pretty face.”

“exactly,” haechan sang. “things with no value go in the trash. men want a wife they can brag about. you’re beautiful and your stepfather is one of the most influential men in the world. notable achievements. what else?”

“i graduated top of my class,” you said, remembering the years of hard work that you had put into achieving strong academics.

“an educated woman,” haechan said. “good. what else?”

“i’m good with kids,” you blurted. 

haechan was grinning. he liked the sound of that. “amazing. men want children to continue their legacies. for that, they need a good woman to manage their households. what else?”

“i can sing, sew, cook, clean…,”

“you know what you’re missing?” haechan interjected. he didn’t give you a chance to answer. “submission. for all the good things about you, sweetheart, you do have a mouth on you. it could do you some good to be more docile.”

maybe he was right. you had never considered yourself particularly unruly, but you were no idiot, and you knew when things were worth questioning. like the true meaning of this party, for that matter. but that did not mean you had to be the one to question it, and sometimes, closing your eyes and looking the other way was smarter.

chaewon was returning, her short black hair bouncing as she walked with that perfect smile. “here you are,” she said to haechan, handing him over a glass.

“thank you, chaewon.” he took a tentative sip, judging for a moment, then hummed in satisfaction. “just the way i like it.”

your parents left the morning after the party, and haechan had sent home all the housekeepers, leaving you with only yourself during the day while he tended to his father’s affairs at work, in his absence.

with the housekeepers gone, there would be things to do around the house, and you spent a morning compiling a list in your mind. the laundry would need to be taken care of. the main rooms managed, if there were guests. haechan liked coffee in the morning, and he would expect to come back to dinner already waiting, no matter how late he returned home, which was sometimes long after the day’s end.

you managed to perfect your routine in seven days. wake up early enough so that his coffee was ready to grab on his way out. on wednesdays, he went in later, so you would need to wake up even earlier to prepare breakfast. he liked familiar foods for breakfast but more variety for dinner, so that was a factor when you were shopping. laundry was a sunday affair, and you had to ensure you didn’t use the detergent that irritated his skin.

one day in particular was different. haechan hardly went in from thursday to sunday, and today was friday, so he was home. over breakfast, he said, “yuta nakamoto, one of our japanese investors, is coming over this afternoon. if you don’t behave yourself, it’s not just me you disappoint, it’s our entire family. and your father.”

the mention of your father made your heart clench. “i understand.”

“see that you do.” he stood, taking up his plate. he set it in the sink, but didn’t wash it. he was expecting that of you. “breakfast was good. you’re handling this well.” with that, he turned and walked away.

after cleaning the kitchen, you went upstairs to freshen up and make yourself pretty. more often than not, you chose makeup that was subtle and complemented your natural features. peering into the closet that was brimming with clothes haechan had hand-picked for you to wear, you settled on a dress that was flattering without being too formal.

it was maybe two hours before you were ready. you went to haechan’s door, dressed in an outfit he had bought, smelling like the lotion and oil you had anointed yourself with after shower. your fist tapped his door.

when he came out, he was dressed differently too, as if he was preparing to go to work. his eyes flitted over your body. you waited for his approval with bated breath. it was only for a few seconds, but you swore it felt like minutes. “you look beautiful,” he said. his voice was absent of awe, but his eyes were appreciative.

you smiled, relieved. “thank you,” you said. “will he be here soon?”

“soon,” haechan said, checking his watch. your mind wandered back to the watch with the leather band you had seen while shopping with chaewon. he went downstairs, and you followed him.

true to his word, yuta nakamoto did arrive shortly after. the two of them exchanged greetings.

“let me take your coat, sir,” you said politely. 

“oh, thank you.” yuta smiled, shrugged his coat off, and handed it over to you. you put it on the rack.

“this is my stepsister,” haechan introduced. he told him your name. 

you grinned. “can i get you something to drink, mr. nakamoto?”

“just some water would be wonderful,” he told you. “the sun’s blazing out there.”

haechan made himself chuckle. “the summers are getting hotter.”

as you went to fix yuta nakamoto a glass of water, you could hear him talking to your brother as they stepped further into the foyer. “your sister is very well-trained,” he said.

haechan laughed. this one had less of a performative quality. “we lees like everything in top tier condition, from our women to our products.”

the afternoon passed smoothly, and the meeting was a pleasant affair. you didn’t do much of anything, but you made it a point to be available. the two of them talked about business, and haechan was his usual charming self, flashing smiles and saying all the right things. you followed their dialogue but didn’t comment.

it was maybe about forty five minutes until yuta nakamoto left and you returned his coat to him, helping him slip it back on. he looked relaxed and confident in the matters they’d discussed. you closed the door behind him on his way out, and turned to haechan who looked pleased himself. “you were perfect,” he said. 

your eyes sparkled. “really?”

haechan had a twinkle to his eyes as well, admiring his handiwork. “you were poised. servile without being too obsequious. he noticed.”

he’s proud of me, you thought, your heart feeling light. “thank you,” you said.

“for what?” he was literally asking. 

“for making me better,” you whispered. “for showing me how to be a proper woman.”

haechan ran his finger over your face. “you’re welcome,” he said softly. “your father would be proud.”

it was the single most powerful thing he could have said. you really hoped so. nothing mattered more, nothing at all.

when the days passed, you hardly noticed the time lost. there were many things around the house that needed to be taken care of, and it was by no means a small estate, so your work was often cut out for you. you told yourself it was nothing you couldn’t bear on your own. you were the daughter of the most powerful man in the country, and this was your first test to see if you could handle the privilege and honor. all you had to do was keep haechan happy. it wasn’t as if you had children to raise, so it ought to have been simple enough.

and at moments when you had spare time to think, your mind wandered to what haechan was doing at work, if the company was giving him a hard time. here and there he would come home particularly agitated, but you knew nonetheless that he would prosper. you applied the same principle; if he was not able to bear his father’s responsibilities in his absence, there was no way he could run the company when the baton was passed.

that was nothing to worry about though. haechan was smart and competent. he had purified you with ease, made you the woman your father had known you could be, and it had taken him little to nothing. he was a man that you could depend on, and for that, you wanted to prove that he could rely on you to do what he expected as well. you had to.

the day had become night, and darkness settled around the house. you lit candles in the kitchen to create the feeling of an intimate moment. haechan was on the phone as you set the table. “oh, that’s wonderful. how long are you staying?” you watched him with curious eyes as he took his seat. “no, no, not at all. i can handle the company. it won’t burn down if you take a few more weeks off.”

so that’s what it was. your parents were extending their getaway.

“it is beautiful,” haechan said, sounding as if he was agreeing with something. “stay. you deserve it. make sure you appreciate how blue the water is before you come back and see murky everything is in the city.” haechan laughed. “yes, she’s well. she’s plating dinner as we speak. she’s been doing a remarkable job.” 

your heart fluttered. you set the utensils down in a careful order. he’s talking about me.

“alright. call me when you have lunch. have a good night,” he said at last, hanging up. “pass me the salt.”

it was an equal distance away from him as it was from you, but you handed it over regardless.

he shook some grains into his food. “you know,” he said. “we’ve got a lot of time together. looks like mom and dad aren’t coming home until next month.”

“i heard,” you said. “did you ask them to take pictures of the water?”

“no,” haechan said. he picked up his fork. “i’m sure your mom will anyway. she’d take pictures of the lake we see every day leaving the house.” he laughed at himself.

it occurred to you then that you hadn’t left the house at all since the party, not even to go shopping. your mother might have liked to go out herself sometimes, if not out of a genuine preference for doing things herself than out of sense of duty to perform it, though your stepfather himself did not seem to expect it of her. he cared less about who did the shopping and how and more about what time dinner would be prepared.

you had spoken to chaewon since that night, but every exchange was sparse and fleeting. you were too busy as of late, and certainly she had her own affairs to attend to.

“would it be okay if i invited chaewon over someday?” you asked. haechan hung out with his friends plenty enough. he never said so, but why else would he come home so late smelling of alcohol?

“chaewon,” he repeated. haechan hummed, mulling it over. “fine. you’ve been good.”

you beamed. it would be good to see her again. “thank you,” you said, remembering his lessons. submission.

haechan chuckled. “don’t thank me yet. nothing is for free.”

after dinner, you washed the dishes, wiped the table, and then at last withdrew to your bedroom to cleanse yourself. you had chosen a silky black nightgown to wear to bed, but first anointed your skin with lotion to make it especially soft for him tonight.

haechan appeared in your doorway moments later and welcomed himself inside. “are you ready for me, sweetheart?” he didn’t wait for you to answer. his hands cupped your breasts through your gown, eager to feel what was his.

it did you no good not to be ready; he would take what he wanted regardless. you tensed a bit at first, but willed yourself to relax. the contact took some getting used to, but you didn’t want to displease him. perhaps by the time your future husband was due to take you, you would be prepared enough not to be so fidgety. “yes,” you whispered.

oddly enough, haechan didn’t speak right away. for a moment all you could hear was his breathing and the sound of your nightgown rustling as he kneaded your breasts through the fabric. your lips parted ever so slightly when his thumbs brushed repeatedly against your nipples.

“still so restless. guess that means i just have to fuck you till you get comfortable.” his hands dropped to his sides. “but not tonight. get on your knees.”

your brows furrowed, but you did as told.

“look at you,” he crooned, brushing his fingers through your hair. “right where you belong. you look so pretty.”

your lashes fluttered. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me yet,” he said for the second time. “take my pants off.”

he hadn’t decompressed for the day yet beyond dinner, so instead of his casual wear, he was sporting the clothes he’d worn into the office. you undid the belt buckle and slipped it off, undid his fly, and let his pants fall down to his ankles.

you had been about to reach for his underwear too when his hands gripped yours. “suck,” he said.

your lips tugged. “but you’re not…”

a smack rang out in the air. “did i tell you to comment on my state of undress or did i tell you to suck?”

you reached up to hold your sizzling cheek. “i’m sorry…”

haechan was annoyed. “don’t be sorry. do what i told you to fucking do. if you can’t please me, you’ll never please any man.”

you pressed your lips against the outline of his half-hard cock through his boxers. you hadn’t expected this to be what he wanted, you thought it would be more like the first night he took you, but you supposed there were many ways to please a man, and a good wife should be skilled at them all.

“there you go,” he said. “lick me. do it like you’re fucking starving for it.”

your tongue darted against the dent in his pants, licking, swirling, sucking, your world narrowing to the taste of cotton and your own saliva. you wished you would have known the sort of favor he wanted. you might have looked online for some tips, anything that would temper this sense of aimlessness that accompanied your fear of arousing disappointment rather than lust. 

haechan moaned, though, his fingers tightening in your hair with need instead of violence for now. that noise was a light in the dark for you, and you followed it, repeating whatever stroke of your tongue had given him pleasure with a touch more of confidence. the floor was rough against your knees, but you would bruise them both a million times over if it meant he was satisfied. because if he was satisfied, it meant you were doing something right.

“just like that. good.” his words were breathy. a wet spot had formed in his pants from the combined dampness of your saliva and his precum.

you could still feel the faint burn on your cheek where his palm had whacked you, but the pain had taken a backseat to his pleasure, so it was a distant thing in the moment. the first tests started at home. you would give favors many times once you were married, so it was best to get good at it early. thank goodness haechan was such a thorough teacher, keeping you disciplined.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned. you figured his body was of a more sensitive nature, so even through his underwear he must have felt these sensations sharper than most.

his cock had reached total erection, and you had felt it growing against your skin with every warm touch. you remembered how it had felt inside you at first, the size so overwhelming you had bled after. it hadn’t hurt per se, but the stretch was so unusual you had nothing to compare it to. and haechan had been courteous and kind, so it was not as unbearable as you had imagined.

more importantly, your body had given him immense pleasure, and you were of a mind to keep it that way, thinking of how you would drink less at the next gala and eat better than was normal for you and wear more of the clothes and undergarments he so loved, as you were memorizing the colors and outfits and fabrics that were pleasant to his senses and tastes…

“take my cock out,” haechan said. “i want you to suck me now. and i don’t want to feel any teeth.” your hands reached for his boxers and tugged them down to reunite with his pants. his cock sprung free, already leaking and aching for you to the finish the job. you took only a little bit into your mouth at first, intimidated by the remaining length. how could this all fit into your mouth?

haechan didn’t offer answers, but he did offer moans, which in a way was an answer in and of itself. you kept that motion up for as long as you could, but when you started to take him deeper, your throat rejected it and you gagged. you pulled off him, tears burning your eyes.

when haechan sighed, you feared he would strike you again, but instead he grabbed one of your hands and made you curl it around his cock. “keep your hand here.” he moved the other beneath it to the bottom. “move this one up and down. like that. good. now try it again.”

your lips sealed around his cock again, your dominant hand stroking his cock all the while, the two working in tandem to deliver the high he was seeking. you focused on your breathing more than anything, because it felt like that was where things started to go wrong.

haechan’s hand cupped yours, demonstrating to you how to squeeze his cock, and from there it was relatively smooth sailing. every now and then you would go up to let yourself breathe through your mouth, but you tried not to do it too long, or too often, lest it disturbed him.

“there you go. you’re getting the hang of it,” he said. you could see the way his chest was rising and falling, falling and rising. “look me in the eyes while you suck my dick.” you did. in the beginning it was an awkward thing, meeting his gaze when you were doing something so intimate, but you didn’t dare look away. he had given you a task, and you intended to see it through no matter what. everything else had to be temporarily set aside.

haechan reached down to tug the top of your nightgown and expose your breasts to him, the sight stimulating him even more. he squeezed them as he done before, only this time without the barrier to keep you from noticing how warm his hands were. his fingers brushed your nipples. it was almost distracting, but you summoned all your willpower to keep yourself focused on what was most important.

the sound of you sucking him was wet and lewd, but you supposed haechan had like that, because here and there he would mutter things under his breath about how beautiful you looked and sounded on your knees before him. you remembered he’d said he hated quietness during intimate acts. perhaps the next time he took you you should make yourself especially loud for him. he would appreciate that.

“i’m gonna come,” he grunted. “faster.”

you obliged, setting a new pace that was quicker and harder to maintain than the other, but it wasn’t so bad; in a few moments, he would be finished. in a few moments, you could say you were beginning to acquire another skill, and only haechan could speak to what extent, but you were hopeful he would be content…

“fuck,” haechan hissed. he’s liking it. he likes it. you hoped he would finish soon. you felt your mouth growing tired, and you didn’t want to anger him by stopping now of all moments, now when he was so close to the finish, right there…

haechan came at last, spilling into your mouth with a shrill sound and an abrupt forward drive of his hips. his eyes snapped closed and he used your mouth until every bit of his high began to fade.

when they opened at last, he was demanding. “swallow.”

the taste was bitter, but you made yourself do as he bade you, swallowing his warmth until there was no more. only then did he withdraw from your mouth. 

“now you can thank me,” he said. “thank me for letting you suck my cock.”

your eyes darted away awkwardly. “thank you for… letting me you suck your cock.”

he grabbed your chin. “look at me,” he barked. “now say it again.”

you met his eyes. “thank you, haechan. for letting me suck your cock.”

haechan smiled. “good girl.” he fixed his clothes. “i expect breakfast tomorrow.”

“yes, haechan.”

“and you need more practice, but not tonight. we’ll work on it some more later.”

“okay, haechan.”

satisfied, he walked away.

you woke late. most days you would have set an alarm to gather you out of your sleep, but you must have been so tired last night that you’d forgotten. you scrambled out of bed, making a quick effort of washing up before you scurried downstairs to the kitchen. this would be one of those days where haechan wanted an entire meal instead of just coffee.

that said, you started with his coffee first, then hurried to get every ingredient out of its place. maybe haechan would wake up late too. maybe he wouldn’t notice.

you were pulling a pan out of the cabinet when you heard footsteps descending down the stairs. your heart raced.

haechan called out your name. you couldn’t even see his entire body yet, but you could hear him. “why don’t i smell bacon?”

“i’m… i’m working on it,” you said, glancing over at the raw bacon on the counter.

“you’re working on it.” far too soon, haechan made it downstairs and crossed his arms when he saw you standing there, nothing going except the coffee. “shouldn’t you be about done by now?”

you couldn’t meet his eyes. “i woke up late.”

“you woke up late.” haechan laughed. “you woke up late?”

you nodded, looking at the floor.

your shoulders went cold when he began to approach you. he seized your face abruptly and made you look at him. “can you not do one simple thing? you think a man wants a wife who can’t even have his breakfast ready when he wakes up and his dinner ready when he gets home?”

“no,” you whispered, eyes blurring with shame. “i’m sorry, haechan. it won’t happen again.”

he smacked your face, the same side that he’d struck last night. “see that it doesn’t,” he said. “how many times do i have to tell you? where do things with no value go?”

your voice was a whimper. “in the trash.”

“and are you trash?”

“no, i’m not trash...”

“as long as you’re a part of my family, damn right you’re not,” haechan said. he released you. “pour me a cup of coffee.”

so you did.

after haechan had had his coffee,  he took your face in his hands and asked, “you know i only do this because i love you, right?”

you sniffled. “really?”

“of course,” haechan crooned. he brushed the tears from your eyes. “why would i bother trying to fix you if i didn’t love you? i want what’s best for you, baby. and sometimes what’s best for you is a little discipline. i don’t know what you would do without me. no one else is going to be this patient with you. the rest of the world will you chew you up and spit you back out.”

you nodded. “i know.”

“good. now dry your eyes and get back to work, okay?” he went to go sit at the island.

that day made you realize that you couldn’t afford to keep making mistakes, especially ones that you were beyond capable of preventing. to be the best that you could be, to truly live in your father’s image, you had to go above and beyond in exceeding expectations.

it would make your father proud. it was making your mother proud too, and you had thought she was impossible to please. and it made haechan proud, as your brother and as your teacher, the lines blurring as they should when it came to the realization of the perfect girl. at times, nothing mattered more.

over the coming weeks, as the responsibilities came and went and came and went again, you found yourself drawn back to those words he’d said, like a vessel that wants to drift away but is anchored where it floats. you know i only do this because i love you. it had been so long since you heard anyone say that. your father not since his passing, your mother not since god knows when.

i only do this because i love you. you hadn’t known, but now that you did, the thought kept to you like a spirit housed to a man. there was such strangeness. you had never before thought words of that nature would come from haechan and onto you, but perhaps you didn’t know him as well as you thought. but things were different than they had been some months ago. did he change, or did you change? did you become a person deserving of love, or did he become a person willing to express it?

you supposed it mattered little now. i love you. you had his love, his care, and you knew what you had to do to maintain it. now that you knew you had it, you would do whatever it took to keep it. no price was too high.

after that day, you began practicing to please haechan in the future so that you would be less of a disappointment. you ordered a toy so that you could train your throat to take him better. it was hard at first. every time you did it your mouth instinctively wanted to gag. but you had to perfect it, you had to get it right so that you would be perfect for him.

you practiced arching your back in the mirror, wanting to get the curve of your spine just right. you practiced perfecting your moans so that they were loud and breathless enough for his ears. you spent hours analyzing pornography to enact the things you saw other women do. the next time haechan took you, you had to be the very best you could.

 failure was not an option. 

there were weeks before chaewon finally had enough time to fit you in her schedule, and when the rolled around that you knew she would be coming over, you were terribly excited.

she was about twenty minutes out when haechan entered your room and came up behind you where you were bent over your bed, scrolling. “i need something from you real quick, baby,” he said, his hands drifting underneath your skirt.

“hyuck, no,” you said softly. “chaewon’s gonna be here soon.”

clearly it was the wrong thing to say. “no?” haechan repeated. “no?”

you swallowed. “i only meant…”

he didn’t care to hear your explanations. “did you just tell me no?”

“haechan, please, i…”

“i think you’re confused about who’s in control here,” haechan said. he spun you around to face him. “do i belong to you?”

“no….”

“do i answer to you?”

you sniffed. “no, haechan…”

“so then why the fuck—” he started, his face getting closer to yours. “—do you think you get to tell me no?”

“i don’t think that, haechan, i-i made a mistake, i’m sorry-”

“you’re the fucking mistake if you think you have the power to tell me what i can or can do. if i want to fuck you right now, i will. if i want to fuck you in front of chaewon, i will. if i want to fuck you on the streets of tijuana and make you a public spectacle, i fucking will.”

your eyes burned.

his hand wrapped around your throat and tightened there. “if you hang out with your friends, that’s because of me. if you wear a pretty dress you like, that’s because of me. if you get married, that’s because of me. if you breathe, that’s because of me. do you understand? nod if you do.”

you nodded your head urgently, eyes wide.

haechan released your throat. “good. now turn around.”

he took you there against your bed. it hurt badly, but you knew that you deserved it, so you didn’t complain, and when he was done, you silently retreated to the shower to wash away the traces of what had happened from the eye, even if you could still feel the ache within you.

your neck bruised from where he had seized it into his hand, and that was something that wouldn’t simply wash away with water. you changed into a turtleneck to conceal it, fixed your hair, and made yourself smile. this was how he would want you to look.

chaewon looked even prettier than the last time you saw her. “my brother’s getting married,” she announced when you both got settled in your room. 

“really?” 

she nodded, grinning from ear to ear. “yes, really! it’s official as of last night. he really likes rosie.”

“i couldn’t tell,” you said. jaehyun had been with her for the better part of eight years, and only now did he think to drop on one knee. “i mean, what took him so long?”

“i mean, my brother is a little different than most guys. he takes stuff slow. that’s his thing.” chaewon shrugged. “the guy’s a total romantic.”

“i mean, but don’t you think that’s weird?” you asked. “if a guy waited eight years to propose to me, i’d think he was ashamed of me or something.”

“if he was ashamed of her, he wouldn’t marry her at all,” chaewon told you. “or meticulously pick out what ring to propose to her with, or where to do it, or rehearse his lines in his room every day for weeks in advance.”

“i guess,” you conceded. “i just think that’s a long time.”

“forever’s a long time too, and that’s how long people hope to be married,” chaewon said. “what’s an eight year slice of forever?”

“you say things so weirdly.”

“it’s a talent of mine,” chaewon chirped. “you’re invited, by the way. obviously. your plus one can be whoever you want, but i really hope you bring haechan.”

you rolled your eyes. “give it up to god, chae.”

“i can’t!” she clasped her hands together. “please, please, please? for me? i really want him there.”

“why? it’s not even your wedding.”

“obviously,” she agreed. “if it was my wedding, he’d be there as the groom.”

your stomach clenched. “but like… what do you even like about him? you can’t just marry him because you think he’s handsome.”

“he is so handsome,” chaewon said dreamily. “but he’s also very witty and intelligent. i like talking to him. you don’t understand the importance of good conversation, of talking to someone who knows how to respond to you and meet you where you are.”

he was witty. sometimes. “so… you like him because he’s handsome and can hold a conversation?”

“and he’s a perfect gentleman,” she breathed.

“i guess that’s reason enough.”

chaewon grinned. “and if you invite him as your plus one, i might get the chance to get to know him even better.”

“our brothers barely even like each other,” you reminded her. why, you had no idea, but they just never seemed to click as well as you and chaewon had. “why would my brother even go to jaehyun’s wedding?”

“because you’re gonna ask him nicely,” she retorted. “please?”

you exhaled a breath. “i’ll mention it to him later.”

“yay!” chaewon threw her arms around you. “you’re the bestest best friend ever.”

the day passed in a blend of talking, gossiping, and laughing. before you knew it, you had all but forgotten the incident earlier, and remembered what it felt like to be alive, even if for a short while.

at night, you and chaewon showered, and fell asleep together in your bed.

it must have been late when you suddenly woke again with a sudden thirst. you rolled over in your bed and felt the emptiness beside you and remembered that chaewon was supposed to have been there. maybe she’s gone to the bathroom.

you opened the door and made for the stairs. but as you started the descent, you started to hear… noises. strange noises. noises that were unfamiliar in their familiarity.

“shh, baby,” you heard haechan’s voice whispering. “you don’t want to wake her, do you?”

you couldn’t see chaewon at all, but you faintly heard her say something that sounded like, “no, i’m sorry. you just feel too good.”

haechan chuckled. “don’t be sorry. just be quiet.”

your chest was so tight you thought you might die.

their voices might have been quiet, but their bodies weren’t. you could hear the sound of him driving into her, of her hands scrambling for purchase, of their breathing finding a rhythmic sync, of haechan taking a pleasure that had nothing to do with you.

and it felt like the wind had been knocked out of you.

it was too much. you forced yourself to turn away and creep back up the stairs as quietly as you had come down. you returned to your bedroom and threw the blankets over yourself, your pillow dampening bit by bit.

chaewon was chipper the next morning, very chipper. before she left, she offered to help you make breakfast for haechan. you waited to see if she would mention their tryst, but she didn’t at all.

it was supposed to be a secret then. something between her and him that you weren’t in on, that you weren’t a part of.

when she left, you went to your bathroom and began to wipe off the concealer you had used to hide the bruises haechan had given you from her. they were darker than they had been yesterday. she didn’t want him. you knew that to be a certainty. if she knew what it truly was like to be his, beyond marveling at his handsome face and witty words and willingness to pull out a chair here and there, she would crumble like a house in a tropical storm.

but you, on the other hand, were strong and enduring. you could take it. you could take anything he gave you, not just when it was pleasant, but when it burned. you could take it and know that it was beautiful, that it was a display of love, strength, and growth.

chaewon had been born shining. she had no idea what it was like to be pressed into a diamond, to earn everything beautiful about herself. she had no idea what it was like to be shaped by his hand. she had no idea what it was like to be his creation, to be exactly as he intended.

but you did. and that was why you knew no one else could satisfy him, even if he made the mistake of seeking out other temporary delights. no candy was as sweet as the one made purely by your own hand, because it was yours.

you knew you had displeased him yesterday, a slip of the tongue that would never happen again, but you had pleased him the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. you planned to do so for eternity. haechan, forever yours, you, forever his, in a condition of perpetual devotion.

and forever started today. “hello?” came the voice on the other end of the phone, gruff and confused.

“hi, jeno,” you sang.

“this is a surprise,” jeno murmured. you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “change your mind about me?”

“not at all, no,” you said. “do you think my friend chaewon is pretty?”

“chaewon,” he repeated. “do i think she’s pretty? i think she’s gorgeous, everyone knows she’s gorgeous. why?”

“what if i told you that she leaves bible study every wednesday at eight, stops at becky’s at eight twenty, gets gas at eight thirty, and she’s home by nine.”

there was a lull of silence. “why are you telling me that?”

you continued, “she has a bad habit of looking at her phone while she’s walking, she wears noise-cancelling while she’s waiting in becky’s up until the moment she gets back in her car, and sometimes she forgets to lock it.”

jeno said your name. “is this a fucking joke?”

“nope,” you chirped. “dead serious. she’s that stupid.”

“i thought she was your friend.”

“i thought she was too,” you said. “but i thought wrong.”

jeno laughed. he didn’t ask what happened. he didn’t care. “so, let me get this straight. you guys had a cat fight, and now you want me to… what? brutalize her in the becky’s parking lot?”

“i don’t care what you do,” you said, “as long as she suffers. deal or no deal?”

“damn,” jeno said. “i’ll think about it, princess. i gotta go, though.”

“think about it quickly.” you hung up. wednesday was approaching.

you didn’t agonize over whether or not he would do it. guys like jeno couldn’t resist themselves. instead you busied yourself with tasks around the house, keeping haechan happy, keeping him satisfied, keeping him yours.

the next time you saw chaewon was in the hospital. “what happened?” you asked as you came to her side, brows stitched. 

“i was leaving becky’s,” she said, her voice small. she looked small. her lips and cheeks were bruised, and there were other marks scattered across her figure. and yet somehow she was still annoyingly fucking beautiful. “but then some guy came up behind me when i was leaving… and… and…” she couldn’t continue. her eyes became wet. 

you squeezed her hand. “hey, hey. it’s okay. it’s okay. you’re safe now.”

her bruised lips were quivering. “it hurt so bad.”

“i know,” you whispered. “did you see what the guy looked like?”

chaewon shook her head. “i didn’t see anything. one second i was alone and the next he was there. i tried to get away but he was too strong. and the cameras out there haven’t been functioning in ages.”

“he won’t get away with this,” you told her. “do you understand that?”

chaewon nodded. 

you smiled. “good. i have to go. my parents are coming back today and i want to be home before they do. i’ll come back to visit you again tomorrow. will you be okay?”

“i think so,” she whispered.

“alright. i love you, chae.”

“i love you too,” she whispered. 

first problem taken care of. at home, you went straight to haechan’s room. the door was already open so you let yourself inside. “haechan?” you called. 

haechan looked up from his phone. he had been sitting on his bed, scrolling. “hey. chaewon okay? she’s not in too bad shape, is she?”

“who gives a fuck?”

haechan paused. then he laughed, perhaps thinking it was a joke. “you…? i mean, aren’t you guys best friends?”

“not anymore.”

haechan tilted his head. “you guys get into a fight in the two seconds between her coming over and now?”

“i know what you did,” you announced levelly. 

haechan was quiet a moment. “what are you talking about?”

“don’t do that, haechan. i heard you,” you said. “i heard you with her in the kitchen.”

haechan sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “look-”

you cut him off. “i know i made a mistake. i know you were angry at me. i understand.” you stepped closer, shutting the door behind yourself as you entered the room entirely. “i know i deserved to be punished. but was what i did so wrong that you had to replace me?”

“sweetheart, i-”

“you didn’t do it to hurt me,” you said. “i know you didn’t, because you didn’t want me to know. if you wanted to hurt me, you would have wanted me to see. so then you must truly have meant to replace me, to find someone better than me…”

“if you would let me-”

“but she’s not better than me!” you snapped. “she’s not! and i wish everyone would stop treating her like she’s some perfect princess just because she smiles prettily when she’s hardly a real woman! a real woman wouldn’t fear giving birth! a real woman would trust god!”

you knew you were getting out of line, but you needed him to hear you. this was worth any punishment he could conceive.

“i shouldn’t raise my voice. strike me if you must,” you told him, standing in front of him now, between his legs, perfectly within arms reach. “if you would choke me, i’m ready.” you tugged your shirt over your head to give him better access to your throat. “but she doesn’t deserve you. she doesn’t have what it takes to be your woman. she wouldn’t do these things for you. i know because i’ve spent almost my whole life since first grade by her side and she’s always expected everything to be easy. she has no idea how to face anything she thinks might be hard.”

you brought his hand to your neck, where the bruises were fainter now, but still visible, the colors blooming across your neck. “she wouldn’t see this as what it is,” you whispered, not once looking away from his eyes. “a gift. a honor. a privilege. she would think it’s monstrous. but it’s not. it’s beautiful. it’s a milestone.”

you smiled. “that’s why i had to teach her a lesson.”

“baby,” haechan said slowly. “what did you do?”

“i had jeno pay her a visit.”

“what?” 

you nodded. “please don’t be angry,” you whispered. “i did it for you.”

haechan’s hand didn’t fall away from your throat, but it was very loose. “for me?”

“yes. for you. for us. because i love you. because you said you loved me.”

“i do love you,” haechan said, running his spare fingers through your hair.

“so why did you do that?” you asked. your eyes were misty, and soon your cheeks were dampened. “am i not good enough? did i do something wrong? i can fix it, haechan, i swear. i can be better. you just have to tell me. i’ll do anything.” you dropped to your knees. “i can fix it, haechan,” you said again, peering up at him desperately. “let me fix it. please. i don’t want to be trash.”

“how do you plan on fixing it, baby?” haechan murmured.

“i’ll show you,” you said. you began to tug down his pants. “i’ll do better this time. i promise. i’ve been practicing, like you said.”

haechan looked genuinely surprised. “you’ve been practicing for me, baby?”

“yes,” you admitted. “i wanted to make you proud.”

“i’m so proud of you, my girl,” haechan said. he patted your head. “show me what you can do.”

my girl. his girl.

at first, you mirrored the last encounter together where he’d had you on your knees, kissing him through his boxers. he had liked that, you remembered. you spread your tongue along the fabric and sucked the head as if there was no barrier.

you continued that just long enough to get him worked up before doing away with the boxers and discarding them into oblivion, but you paid the head of his cock no mind. instead you dragged your tongue again now along his shaft, up and down, down and up. you heard his breath hitch, and that was all the encouragement you needed. tonight, you were determined to get this right. you couldn’t lose him to someone else, least of all her.

the next time you licked up his shaft, you started another descending path, except this time you were peppering sweet, soft kisses, a gesture that was tender and loving, more than he knew. your lips found their way from just shy of his head to his balls. you took one into your mouth gingerly, not wanting to overstimulate him.

“fuck,” haechan swore. “you trying to kill me, baby?” your giggles were stifled. while your mouth was preoccupied with that, you stroked his cock in your fist. he was so hard now, it never took long. you could feel the blood burning within your hand, his cock hot and stiff with excitement. that’s it. that’s how much he wants me. that’s how much he needs me.

whether he knew it or not, he needed you, just as you needed him. you could see it clearly now. the two of you were fated, and now you had reached a point where it was truly undeniable on your part, where the truth stood tall, a roaming giant, every resistance being crumbled underfoot. the past never mattered. you could forgive his sins if he forgave yours.

those days where you had not yet understood what it earnestly meant to be a woman, where you had believed he was a terror that some entity had cursed you with, those were the days of your naivety at its purest. it was like if chaewon had seen those marks on your neck; she would think they were some an immortal act, she wouldn’t realize it was a gift, a token of love, of care, of how much haechan wanted to see you prosper.

at last when you felt the growing tension in haechan’s body amass to a peak, you let yourself take the head of his cock into your mouth, though without any particular haste. haechan shuddered, the sensation worth the anticipation and then some. “oh, shit.”

seeing him react so strongly made your body burn with urges of its own, but those were secondary. what was paramount was making him understand, proving to him that you were the woman he had made of you.

“you taste so good, hyuck,” you briefly pulled away to tell him. “i missed your cock so much.” not a moment later, you were back to sucking him.

haechan groaned. “yeah? i can tell you miss it. you really have been—holy shit—practicing.”

you moaned around his cock, and it must have done something, because the noise that came out of him made your thighs tense.

“don’t stop,” haechan gasped. “fuck, just like that, baby, don’t stop, you’re so good.”

you were determined to unravel him, to please him more than anyone ever had and ever could, to stake your claim to the man you knew with your whole heart was yours by right, even if you’d never hear the words come out his mouth. this was evidence enough. the way his body responded to you, the things you were making him say, that was a power of its own, and power was the most important thing in this world.

and if men were the heads of power, but you had dominion over his body, what did that say about you? 

haechan said your name. he rarely did, it was usually a petname, something sweet and meaningless, but this was yours. “god, i’m gonna fucking come.” it was fun to see his body speak for him, to watch it convey things that words like pleasure never really could. his hips jolted as his cum emptied inside your mouth, hot and salty and meant for you. even as that was happening, his hands were clenched into the sheets, and his voice was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard. 

you swallowed it all, not letting a single drop go to waste, and when you were done, you remembered your words. “thank you, haechan, for letting me suck your cock,” you whispered, meeting his eyes as you licked some of his release from your lips.

haechan blinked silently. then he laughed. “fuck. you’re so welcome, princess.”

you got up from your knees and sat on the bed. “can i ride you?”

haechan raised his brow, amused. “you think you can handle that?”

“i know i can.”

“confident,” haechan murmured. he lay back. “sure, ride me. but if you get tired and ask me to take control, i swear to god…”

“that won’t be a problem,” you promised.

haechan chuckled. “if you say so. grab a condom.”

“we don’t need it,” you said as you undid your bra and skirt. “i’m not afraid of the consequences. i’m not afraid of what it means to be a woman.”

haechan’s face fell. “baby, if you get pregnant, that could get us in a world of trouble.”

“i’m not afraid,” you insisted.

“and that’s brave,” haechan said, “but imagine what your mom would think.”

“i don’t care,” you blurted. “i want to marry you and have your babies.”

“whoa. okay,” haechan said, visibly reeling. “we can do that, i promise. after we’re married. deal?”

you nodded. “okay. deal.”

haechan exhaled a breath. “great. now go get a condom out of that drawer and show me how much you want my cock.”

you did as told, fetching a condom from the supply he had in his nightstand drawer. as you were rolling it down his shaft, you whispered, “can we pretend?”

haechan smiled. “yes, princess. we can pretend.”

you shed the very last of your clothes and mounted haechan’s lap. “i want your cock so badly, hyuck.” you sank down onto him, inch by inch, bit by bit. “don’t you feel it?”

haechan moaned. your pussy was gushing around his cock, wet and warm and tight. his hands went to your hips. “shit, babe. all that from sucking me off?”

you nodded. “i like making you feel good.”

haechan closed his eyes. “i like that you like making me feel good.”

nothing could have been better or more important. you would have done this every day if he so asked. you would have gotten on your knees for him, or perhaps your hands and knees, or your back, or bent over whatever surface he preferred that day, or mounted him as you were now, none of it mattered. you were a good woman, and so you could please him whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted, however he wanted it.

surely chaewon couldn’t say the same. chaewon was just a pretty face. beyond that, she was empty. you pitied whatever man would realize that only after he had made her his wife, but that man would not be yours.

“do i feel better than her?” you asked.

haechan didn’t hesitate. “so much better,” he said. “i don’t know what i was thinking, baby. i could never replace you. you’re perfect.”

that warmed your heart. “you mean that?”

“of course, beautiful,” haechan said. “look at you. look how good you’re taking my cock right now. you know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“uh huh,” you agreed. that’s right. i know what he likes.

“nobody’s ever made me feel the way you do,” he said breathlessly. “you were made for me.”

for you, by you. “i was made for you,” you echoed, bouncing on him harder. your boobs followed suit.

“you’re so fucking beautiful,” haechan swore. he took your boobs into his hands, holding them, kneading them.

you smiled coyly. “you’re very handsome.” you liked the way he looked beneath you, his skin flushed, his chest heaving, his hair beginning to stick to his face as the lust made even a room as spacious as this one grow hot and stuffy. you liked the way his lips parted for breath, the way his eyes fluttered when the warm sensation of you got to be too much, the way his brows jumped when your pussy throbbed in response to his words.

it went beyond attraction. it satisfied you, assured you, and rewarded you all at the same time. it was your north star, that guiding light, the thing that let you know that for as long as it was bright you were not a failure.

“you feel so good,” you whimpered, your eyes fixed to his face. you stitched your brows together. “i love your cock, i love it, i love it so much! i don’t want anyone else, hyuck, just you, no one else matters like you do. i’d do anything for you.”

“anything?” haechan murmured.

you nodded. “anything, anything at all. you said i’m beautiful, but i’m only beautiful because you made me so.”

haechan groaned. “and don’t you forget it.”

“i won’t,” you promised. your skin was scorching, every breath more intense than the one before it. “i won’t forget. i’m in debt to you, i’ll repay it however you want me to.”

haechan reached up and grabbed your throat. “repay it by riding me like you mean it.”

your eyes widened. “yes,” you whispered, and immediately began to ride him faster. 

haechan grunted. his grip on your hips tightened as you increased your pace.

“yes, yes, yes,” you moaned. your body was moving on top of his wildly, eagerly, desperately. it was as if he had something that no one else could give you, something that you couldn't even give yourself if you tried, but was still unique and purely your own, and no one else could taint it. something like a purpose.

haechan lay there, a dazed look in his eye as he watched you ride him like you were worshiping your new god, and in a way, that was exactly what you were doing.

“tell me it feels good, hyuck,” you said. “tell me i belong to you.”

“i can’t even put into words how incredible you feel,” haechan breathed. “you’re all mine, baby. all mine.”

“i want you to claim me,” you told him, peering down into his eyes. “i want you to show the whole world that i belong to you. breed me, hyuckie. fill me up with your love and show everyone that i’m yours.”

your words made him swear. “you’re asking for something real dangerous, princess, you know that?”

“i don’t care,” you insisted. “all i care about is you.”

“if i breed you, i’m not just gonna do it one time,” haechan said, tightening his chokehold just a bit. “i’m gonna do it again, and again, again, until your pussy has given me every last baby it can. you understand that?”

“yes,” you gasped. “i understand. i’ll give you as many as you want!” it truly didn’t matter to you. you had long accepted the inevitability of motherhood, and you would gladly produce as many babies as he dreamed. that was what you were meant to do, and that was what you would do. and what would say that you were haechan’s like his baby growing in your stomach, the proof of it growing larger and larger by the month until it was a truth that you could cradle in your hands?

you had dreamed of it so much lately, being the mother of haechan’s children, as many as he wanted. marrying him and bearing his name, as you never took on the lee name when your mother married in, too attached to that of your father’s. maybe getting a place of your own, somewhere with a view even better than the one here. raising your sweet little baby, something you and haechan would create together, while he officially took on his father’s position within the company.

nothing would have been sweeter. you would have given up anything for that. soon enough, it would no longer be a dream, but a reality. you imagined inviting chaewon to your wedding, making her watch as haechan swore a vow to you and not her, as he promised to love you until death did you part. you imagined her willing herself to be polite, forcing herself to say that she was happy for you as you had done tirelessly for so many years.

that day would be about you, not her. it would be entirely yours. you would be wearing a stunning dress, surrounded by your loved ones, walking to meet the love of your life at the aisle’s end, and the only thing wrong was that your father would not be there to hand you off.

but you wouldn’t let that ruin anything. because the wedding itself would be proof that you had done it, that you had become the woman he always knew you would, and that was what mattered. then you and haechan would be off to your honeymoon, and he would make love to you with no barriers, and you would give him a child, and everything would be perfect. “when do you think we can get married?” you asked him.

“uh, in a couple years,” haechan projected, loosening his hold on you. “i just have to get settled into the company first, sweetheart.”

you beamed. “my ceo,” you murmured. “whenever you come home stressed, i’ll make sure you come home to something to eat, and then i’ll suck your cock until you come down my throat.”

haechan’s dick twitched. “holy fuck.”

“or you can fuck me, if you’d prefer,” you said. “even if i’m asleep, even if i’m tired, i’ll be yours.”

“there’s no one else on this planet like you, you know that?” haechan asked.

somehow you smiled even wider. “likewise, hyuckie. and even if there was, i’d still choose you.”

haechan simpered. “you’d choose me no matter what, wouldn’t you?”

“yes,” you gasped, a particular nudge of his cock inside you stealing your breath for a moment. “you’re everything to me, haechan.”

“i know, baby,” he muttered. “i know.”

if you were already wet to begin with, you were dripping now, and that might not have been enough to accurately describe your state of arousal either; your pussy was leaking so much you could feel it dripping past your thighs and onto the sheets, staining his bed. and with how vigorously you were riding him, the sound of your bodies meeting was just as intense.

you had never gotten like that before, even haechan seemed amazed. “you’re so wet,” he whispered incredulously. “jesus christ. you’re fucking soaked. because of talking about babies?”

you whimpered. “please give me your cum, hyuck, i need it so bad, i want your baby, i want everyone to know you own me, that your cock was so deep inside me it made me see stars. please, please, please.”

“if you keep talking like that, i’m going to see stars,” he hissed.

you didn’t stop talking. partly because you knew he liked it, and partly because you were so far gone that talking deliriously was about all you could really do. you moaned loudly. “haechan!” you cried out. “please, i’m gonna come on your cock, i want us to come together, oh, please, please, please!”

your thighs had begun to ache from the effort of riding him so hard and for so long, but you paid it no mind. even when your body tired, you refused to stop. not before he was finished. you were stronger than that.

it was a good thing that the servants were returning tomorrow, and not a second before. you were being so loud that someone on the opposite wing would likely have been able to hear your cries.

“i’m gonna come,” haechan said, driving his hips up to meet your thrusts. “i’m gonna come, baby, fuck—”

he spilled, not into you, into the condom, but with such an intensity that you could almost have convinced yourself it didn’t matter. you felt the way his hands gripped your hips to anchor himself, the way his body convulsed beneath you, and you heard him cry out and shudder as the orgasm took over his body, as for a moment he surrendered all sense and all control to the ecstasy that scorched through every corner of his body.

that was what undid you, and as he was still coming down from that godly high your body had given him, you clamped down around his cock, chanting, “yes,” over and over again until your hips finally stilled.

the room was quiet for a moment, or close enough to quiet. your panting and the fan whirling was about all the noise you could hear. 

you lay against haechan’s chest. “promise me you’ll always choose me,” you whispered. 

“i promise, sweetheart,” haechan said softly, curling his arm around your waist.

the two of you stayed together like that, skin to skin, heart to heart. your eyes fluttered closed and you might have even slipped away if you didn’t hear the footsteps coming up the hall. footsteps that had no reason to be on this corridor.

haechan sat up and patted your arm. “go in the closet. hurry up.”

you scurried away, plucking your clothes off the floor, and hid inside the closet. 

haechan was shuffling around in his bed, hurriedly redressing himself from the sounds of it. that went on for a few moments until a knock sounded at your door that made you jolt.

“it’s open!” haechan called out.

“hey,” came his father’s voice. “we’re back. your stepmom went up to the room to get some rest, but i’d thought i’d come over and let you know.”

“cool,” haechan said. “nice trip?”

“fantastic. very beautiful place. beautiful girls too. you would have liked it.”

haechan laughed. the sound made your chest tighten. “oh, i’m sure.”

“where’s your stepsister?” your stepfather asked. “i peered in her room, but she wasn’t there.”

“uh, i don’t know. she left a little while ago. probably hanging out with chaewon.”

“chaewon is in the hospital.”

“yeah, i know,” haechan said. “she probably went to go see how she’s doing or something.”

your stepfather sighed. “you’re supposed to keep a rein on her.”

“i have,” haechan insisted. “didn’t you notice how pristine the house looked when you walked in?”

“i suppose so,” came his father. “alright. i’m gonna go lie down. that flight got the better of me. let your stepsister know we’re back.”

“will do.”

you heard the door click shut, and released the shakiest breath.

“you can come out now,” haechan said. 

you stepped out the closet, still naked, your clothes in your hands. “keep a rein on me?” you echoed, smiling. “is that what you’re doing?”

“mmhm,” haechan hummed, pulling you back into his arms. “bend over.”

you draped yourself over his bed.

“see?” haechan threw his hand against your ass, making you cry out in surprise. “that’s the rein.”

the next day, you went to see chaewon again, bearing gifts that your mother had gotten for her while on the trip. it seemed like more than the things she had given you, but you focused on dropping them off, saying a few nice things to your best friend, hovering beside her for a few moments, and then leaving. haechan was at home. you missed him already. you wanted to feel his body against yours, to hear him whisper praises in your ears.

as you turned to leave chaewon’s hospital room, jaehyun was there in the hallway. your eyes flickered in surprise but you smiled pleasantly. “hello, jaehyun. i’m sorry, i didn’t see you there.”

jaehyun’s face didn’t change. “i know what you did.”

your smile didn’t fade, not yet anyway, but you tilted your head, brows stitching together. “i’m confused.”

“i know what you did,” jaehyun repeated. “you hurt her.”

you laughed. “right. with what bits?” you gestured over your figure. “i think i’m ill-equipped. you’re not. maybe you did it.”

jaehyun drew near you so quickly you missed it in the time it took you to blink. “don’t you ever,” he started, “accuse me of something so egregiously foul and incestuous as that when you’re the one who’s sleeping with your brother.”

your shoulders went cold. how did he know?

“don’t you realize that your brother will fuck anything with a pulse?” jaehyun asked. “i’ve seen the way he looks at you, and i’ve seen the way you look at him. it’s disgusting.”

“you-”

“be quiet,” jaehyun hissed. “when i came to see her last night, she was crying. i asked her what was wrong. she said, ‘god has punished me for my sin.’ i told her, ‘that’s nonsense, chaewon. what did you do?’ she said, ‘i slept with someone before i was married.’ obviously, i was not happy to hear this, but she was going through enough, so i simply asked her, ‘chaewon, who was it?’ she avoided my eyes, she wouldn’t look at anything but the tv. finally, she said, ‘haechan.’”

“what does that have to do with me?” you asked. 

“everything,” jaehyun said, glowering. “you’ve always wanted to be her. chaewon’s too blind to realize it, she only sees the best in people. but you have always resented her for having everything you didn’t. and when she slept with your precious brother, well, that was the last straw for you.”

“you have no proof of this,” you said. “stop wasting my time with theories.”

“let’s see if your parents will think it’s just a theory.” jaehyun turned and walked away.

needless to say, when you walked into the main room, you knew the day was far from over.

everyone was joined on the couch: your mother, who looked distraught, your stepfather, who looked distressed, and haechan… who just looked distant.

when your mother saw you, she called your name. “come sit. now.”

your heart thudded, but you had braced yourself for anything they could throw at you. you were prepared to fight. 

“jaehyun says that you set up that poor incident that happened to chaewon,” she said worriedly. “did you do that?”

well, your cat was out of the bag. “yes.”

your mother furrowed her brows. “but why? she’s your best friend, and she’s a good girl.” 

“she’s a stupid cunt and she has no idea what it takes to be a woman. she thought she deserved him,” you blurted.

she looked taken aback. “so it’s true then.” she grasped her dress. “you and haechan have… a relationship.”

“yes,” you confirmed proudly. “we love each other.”

scoffing, your stepfather said, “this- this is despicable. haechan, she’s your sister.”

haechan said nothing.

your mother sighed and began to massage her temple. “i don’t understand how something like this could happen. i knew you two were getting closer, yes, but for heaven’s sake, i thought you were just finally bonding.”

“we have bonded,” you insisted. 

“you have sinned. there is nothing holy about this joining. to lay with another man before marriage, and not only that, but your brother…”

you almost rolled your eyes, “he’s my stepbrother. we’re not related!”

“you need to watch your tone,” she said, pointing her finger at you.

“you don’t understand,” you whispered. “haechan and i love each other, and we’re going to get married and have children together.”

your mother looked like she was going to faint. she was gripping the pad of the chair for dear life. “jesus christ. what did you just say?”

your stepfather barked, “then you will have disgraced our entire family. do you have any idea the shame that the news of this affair would bring to our names? we would be a laughing stock in the media. we would lose investors. the company would be in shambles!”

your mother reached for your arm. “this must stop now.”

“no! can’t you hear me? we’re in love. we’re in love. and i won’t let you take that away from us!”

“are you out of your ever loving mind?” she snapped. “you cannot be in love with him, he is your brother. and you sure as hell cannot marry him. mark my words, no one will bless it.”

“yes i can! he said so himself. he said we’ll get married when he gets settled within the company.”

“settled within the company,” your father echoed. “there will be no company to settle into if this were to happen, do you hear me? i wanted to come home, relax, announce my retirement and pass let my son take my place. instead i’m bombarded with this utter nonsense. what’s with all this talk of marriage anyway? haechan has never shown interest in marrying any of the girls i’ve paired him up with.”

“haechan likes women with value,” you told him firmly.

“value!” your stepfather laughed, as if there was something funny that you were missing there. “is this a joke or something?” he turned to face his son, who had been silent on the matter thus far. “haechan, do you want to be ceo or not?”

“yes,” haechan finally spoke up. 

“then you have to stop this incestuous nonsense. i will not have you ruining the reputation of the company i’ve spent decades building up from nothing because of some silly fling you decided to have with your stepsister of all people. i can turn a blind eye to many things, but this will not do.”

to your horror, haechan nodded his head. “i’ll stop. i swear, dad, on everything, i’ll stop.”

relieved, your stepfather sighed. “good. that solves that issue. we’ll announce it today, and the party will be on the third sunday of the month.”

you gawked. “what?”

your stepfather stood, not so much as looking at you. “i have business to attend to. come find me in my study if it’s important.” he started down the hall.

haechan met your eyes, but he didn’t say anything to you, and they were only on you for a fleeting moment before he went after his father. “actually, dad, i wanted to talk to you about the company. i had some ideas and i thought i would run them by…” his voice trailed off the further he went.

you sat there, blinking rapidly, trying to comprehend what had just happened. “what…”

your mother turned sympathetic. “oh, honey. i’m sorry.”

“he lied,” you whispered. only last night, he had held you in his arms and told you that he would always choose you. he had promised. 

she didn’t ask what about. she just held you. “i know, darling,” she said. “believe it or not, i know how you feel. you think you’ve done your very best to make him happy, but something else comes along and then that something else takes priority. and you wonder what you did to make him love you less.” she patted your back. “that’s just how they are.”

“why?” you whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks.

“i wish i knew, honey. i wish i knew.”

over the next couple of weeks, you barely saw haechan, which was easy given the size of the house, but still jarring when you had spent the past month glued to his side, fulfilling his every need. and now he didn’t need you. you had exhausted your value.

you just didn’t understand it. did all that time together mean nothing to him? every word, every touch, every promise? one day, he was holding you like you were the most precious thing he ever seen, and the next he tossed you away like… like trash.

never had you ever felt more embarrassed. he had been so quiet, his eyes darting back and forth between whoever was speaking as you vehemently defended your love, while he didn’t say a word. not when it mattered most. not when it was time to stand for you.

you had officially become worthless, and you weren’t even sure you knew why. after everything with chaewon went down, you could have sworn that you had made it right. that he had chosen you. that you had proved to him you could be everything he wanted and more. that you would do anything for him. but he didn’t want it.

the other day, you had tried to send a text to chaewon, but it didn’t go through; jaehyun must have told her the truth. now you were truly and utterly alone.

you felt alone too. on the second week before the party, you barely stepped out of your room altogether. all you did was lay in bed and weep, while haechan was probably planning what initiatives he was going to take as the new chief executive. your mother came to your room to check on you, but you didn’t feel like talking. she had to make the maids send up your meals, but you barely touched them at all.

it wasn’t food you were hungry for. you could barely eat or sleep. it was haechan. i thought he loved me, you said to yourself, alone in your mind, a dark, cold void where every thought reverberated. he said he loved me. he said he would always choose me. he said there was no one else like me. he said we would get married and then start a family. he said i was perfect.

you must have replayed that night in your mind over and over a million times since it happened. it had been magical, the most magical. all your hard work and studying had paid off, and it was the most confident you had ever felt. it had given you something to believe in, something larger than just yourself.

but it was over now, dead and gone, and to never come back, as far as haechan was concerned. he had given that up, because when faced with the choice of you or the company, he had chosen the latter, sacrificing your love, your devotion, your faith. sacrificing everything he had told you to be.

the bruises that had been on your neck were mostly gone now, but you could still see them clearly as if they’d never left, as if it was just yesterday that his hand had been around your throat. you wished he’d do it again, just to show you that he still cared. the longer he was away, the more you started to forget what it was like to feel his hands on your body.

you missed him. you felt like you hated him, and yet you missed him so much. you missed the warmth of his body beside yours, you missed the way his fingers would thread your hair, you missed the way his voice sounded when he was right there, and you missed the way it felt when he said something that made every punishment feel like it was worth it. but even if you couldn’t get that, you would have settled for his anger, his frustrations, his violence, his cruelty.

it would have been better than nothing. right now you had nothing but silence and distance, and you were certain that someone tearing you open from limb to limb would still hurt less.

the day of the party, you almost had to be forced out of bed. you wanted to stay home and rot, but your mother said it would reflect poorly on the family if you were absent. resigned, you did your makeup, covering up the days of sobbing, and donned a gorgeous red dress that haechan had bought you months ago.

as you gazed at your reflection in the mirror, all you could thing about was that day at the mall. you look the best in bold colors, he had said. well, here you were in red, the boldest of them all. today, he would see you. today, you would make sure it was impossible for him not to.

the venue was rippling with businessmen and their ladies, as to be expected. you sat at the high table with the rest of your family, as to be expected. normally at events like this, you would chaewon by your side to help you through the monotonous segments… but that ship had sailed.

it was entertaining enough. you mostly watched haechan, who was socializing deftly, here one second, and there the next. he was very charming. everyone looked glad to hear whatever it was he was saying. they were putting their trust in him, their time and their faith, just as you once had. you all are so silly, you thought. he’s a liar. he lies. he’s lying to you right now.

the future of greatness was in his hands, he had said. his father might as well have put his money in a safe and melted it.

it was amazing, though, how haechan could say things he didn’t mean with such conviction. he could make a believer out of anyone. that silver tongue of his could forge promises like no one you had ever seen and say them almost as though he truly believed them himself. you were convinced that it had to have been some kind of superpower.

or maybe it was insanity of some kind, but regardless, it made you realize that maybe this whole time you hadn’t really known him at all.

speeches were given and forgotten. there was food and drinks and laughter. so much laughter. people were just laughing for laughter’s sake, and you were sitting there trying to hide the fact that your entire world had been upturned. somehow you felt even lonelier here than you had alone in your bed.

“now this was no hand-me-down,” your stepfather was saying in the middle of his speech, his hand clasped on haechan’s shoulder. “my son has this position because despite all odds, he’s proven that deserves it more than anyone.”

everyone was cheering and clapping. you clapped your hands together too, watching attentively. “that was beautiful,” you said, standing up. “would you make if i said a few words of my own?”

your stepfather’s smile tightened ever so slightly, but haechan’s face didn’t seem to change at all. your mother reached for your arm, but you were determined.

“i won’t be long, i promise,” you added. 

“of course. why not,” your stepfather replied begrudgingly. “everyone, my beloved stepdaughter would like to say a few words to celebrate her stepbrother’s success.”

more cheers, more laughter, but it all faded as you went up to accept the microphone. as you stood beside haechan, the closest you had been to him in weeks, you saw your stepfather whisper something to one of his men, who then proceeded to take a position not too far from you, his eyes watching and waiting.

“first of all, i just want to start off by saying congratulations, brother,” you told him, grinning from ear to ear. “i’m very happy for you. it seems that you’re finally getting everything you wanted, and you know what? you deserve it.”

haechan looked so composed, so proper. “thank you, sister.”

glancing out into the crowd of people before you, you continued, “when i heard that my brother here would be the new chief executive of our family’s excellent company, i was not surprised. who would be a better candidate than the man with this much grit? i think he could turn a tree into a diamond if he really wanted to.” everyone laughed. “i believe that the future of the company is in amazing hands. haechan is the kind of person who knows what he wants and how to get it. once he has a vision for something, he will mold it and shape it in his palms until there is nothing but the best version of it.” you could feel haechan’s gaze on you from the corner of your eye, but you didn’t glance at him. “it’s truly inspiring to watch. i feel as though i’ve learned a lot from him. to never accept anything but the best for myself. to always strive for perfection and aim to have what the next person doesn’t. that’s what truly makes this company great - the ability to distinguish it from its competitors, to exist in a realm of its own. if you like what my father has done with the company so far, then you should get excited. because lee haechan is going to make it even better. thank you.”

as everyone clapped and hollered, you handed the microphone back to haechan and returned to your seat without a backwards glance. you had said what you needed to say.

“let’s give my sister another round of applause for those kind words,” haechan said, smiling, but there was no depth to it. “isn’t she the absolute sweetest? even though she exaggerates a little bit. making me sound like ten times the man i am.” laughter rang out in the room.

that might have been the first thing he’d said all night with some truth to it.

the party dragged on with no end in sight, and you found yourself missing chaewon once more, the feeling harder to drown than you thought it would be. you supposed it was only natural. she had been a close companion of yours since the two of you were very young. you wondered if she missed you too, or if she hated you now, just as you hated haechan.

you were nursing a drink in an empty corridor to get away from the noise when you heard footsteps approaching. oh, brother, you thought.

a male voice you didn’t recognize said your name. “hey. that was a wonderful speech back there. you have a way with words.” when you turned around, you had to look up to see his face. he towered over you, tall and imposing. he smiled and outstretched his free hand. in the other he was holding a glass of champagne. “i’m johnny.”

you already knew that. you may not have recognized his voice, but you recognized his face. johnny suh. his father used to do business with your stepfather before he retired and had johnny take over, much like what was happening with haechan now. he was also one of the shareholders. you gave him your name and shook his hand, though it was unusual for men to do that with the women they met.

“thank you for coming to celebrate my brother,” you said politely.

“of course,” johnny replied, pleasant as one could be. “my father is hoping i do business with him. but i thought i might have sensed some… tension between the two of you a moment ago.”

“tension?” you echoed, feigning ignorance.

johnny shrugged. “well, i don’t know. i just thought it was peculiar that your stepfather had placed someone on your end of the platform. like he wanted to be prepared in case you said something… improper.”

your smile was tight. “my stepfather is a cautious man, is all.”

“i’m sure,” johnny said. “i didn’t mean to pry. i just thought that maybe there was strife, or maybe you wanted the position for yourself.”

so little had you ever even considered that an option that you were certain he was jesting, but when you laughed, he didn’t join in. “you’re serious?”

johnny didn’t even blink. “i’m not a man intimidated by a woman’s success. if you did take it, i think you would do well. it’s about time that more women assume positions of power in this world.”

he was speaking of foreign, forbidden concepts. “that sounds… scary.”

“of course it does,” he agreed. “but if there’s no pioneer, it’ll never happen. the grounds will never flourish. my father taught me a lot about business, but my mother taught me about life and judgment. my father was always focused on the end result, but my mom saw how to get there.”

you took that in. “how old are you?”

“thirty-one this year.”

looking at his hand, you saw there was no wedding band on his finger. “you’re not married.” 

“yes, society tends to be a bit more forgiving to men in that regard,” he replied, chuckling. “do you have any plans to get married soon?”

the thought of getting married stirred up some odd feelings, and memories, within you. “no. well, my stepfather has a list.”

johnny laughed. “no one wants to marry off their father’s list. mine has one too. my next date is still postponed indefinitely.” he took a sip from his champagne glass. “isn’t there any guy you like?”

“not anymore,” you murmured. 

that made johnny smile. “then can i take you on a date?”

well, he was very forward. you did like men like that. it had been a long time since you’d gone on a date with a guy, and maybe going somewhere without traces of haechan would finally expel him from your mind. “sure.”

“perfect,” johnny chirped. “would you prefer to be indoors or outdoors? vanni’s has some of the best italian food i’ve ever had, but the pier is a great place to watch the sunset.”

outside. you needed to be outside again, connect with nature or something. that month alone with haechan had felt like an eternity, and the only people you had seen that weren’t him were chaewon and one of the foreign investors. “the pier sounds lovely,” you decided.

“the pier it is,” johnny said. the lighting in the hallway made his eyes sparkle. “if you give me your number, we can arrange a time that works best for you. wear comfortable shoes.”

you exchanged numbers and he promised to text you, wishing you a good night before pardoning himself, and you found yourself wondering what you had gotten yourself into just now, but a part of you wanted to untangle yourself from anything that was tied to haechan. the other so badly wished you could go into his arms and be held by him and take in his warmth.

but that was not an option anymore. he had given it up, he had deemed it worthless in the face of his father, the place where it might have mattered most. if he could choose other things, then perhaps you could choose something that wasn’t him as well.

that being said, you still couldn’t be certain if you had made a good choice. you couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. you laid in bed that night, the dress and makeup gone, alone with your raw self, or at least whatever was left of her. you had relied on haechan, in more ways than you knew. in trying to build a structure around him, you inadvertently built a system that upraised him as the very sun that kept life as you had known it together.

it never seemed like a bad thing. even now, it hardly seemed like a bad thing; it felt like you were lost, like you were drifting, and you needed him to keep you anchored, but he was gone now, so you were trying to do it yourself, clumsily, spitefully, desperately, but it was just too different.

tonight of all nights, you really missed chaewon. it was your fault she wasn’t there, you knew that. maybe everything was your fault. you had never regretted anything more; you honestly felt at least three shed skins away from the person who made that choice, removed enough to feel remorse, but not so much that you didn’t still feel angry at the thought of haechan with another.

and yet even that had wounded you less than him choosing the company, because he hadn’t even tried. maybe if he had put in some effort, you could forgive that, but he had sat there like it had nothing to do with him, like it wasn’t his life, like it wasn’t yours.

you weren’t sure when you fell asleep. you never really were. every night you lay awake, thinking about haechan, crying more often than not, and it felt like mere seconds between then and the second you roused, not even remembering the moment that sleep took you.

the cycle, unbroken as it had been for weeks, persisted even into the day of the date you were going on with johnny. you debated whether or not you even wanted to go, but you knew that what you were doing now was not helping, so you made yourself get up. it was just a few hours. the bed would be there when you returned.

concealing the dark circles under your eyes made you think of concealing the bruises haechan had left on your throat even though those were long gone now and you realized this was not too different. they were marks haechan had left on you, even if one was more indirect than the other.

you made yourself pretty, the way he would want you to be, even if it wasn’t for him, even if it was for another guy. you remembered what it felt like to get his approval for an outfit. for a second you almost let yourself wonder if he would approve of this one, but you had to finish getting ready before johnny got here.

the final look was so different from the version of you drowning in bed that you felt like you were posing, an imposter in your own skin. your perception of reality was fragile lately.

johnny picked you up yourself. he was outside in a car waiting and got out to open the passenger door for you when he saw you coming down the steps. “hey,” he greeted. 

“hi,” you said back. 

his eyes seemed to take you in, and you knew your efforts weren’t for nothing. “you look beautiful.”

“thank you.” he didn’t look bad himself. johnny was an attractive guy, and he had dressed with the weather in mind. “you look rather spiffy yourself.”

“well, i tried for you.” once you were inside, he shut the door behind you and went around to get in the other seat.

you watched him buckle his seatbelt. “you didn’t have to do this. you could have just sent a driver.”

johnny glanced over at you, not yet starting the car, and smiled. “i find that what a man can do matters less than what he chooses to do. besides, i have a functioning car and an active license. what’s the harm?”

you hummed. “i guess that’s true.”

“shall we go?”

“we shall,” you said, adjusting your seat a bit.

you didn’t talk much on the way there, but it didn’t feel awkward. sometimes it was nice to just look out the window and watch as you passed everything by. there was a world out there, and it was vast, parts of it unknown.

at the pier, johnny bought you both drinks and you ambled along the boardwalk together. “so,” he started. he had matched his strides to yours. “tell me about yourself.”

you didn’t know where to start. it felt like there was so much you could say. “what do you want to know?”

johnny shrugged. “anything. what do you like to do in your free time? where do you see yourself in ten years? what kind of men are you into? were you really going to marry off of your father’s list?”

you pondered each of those things before you spoke, and every answer seemed to go back to haechan. “the list… um, i don’t know. i guess i never really thought about who i would marry.”

that seemed to amuse johnny. “isn’t that all anyone ever thinks about?”

“i thought about getting married, yes. but not really who.” it was a lie now, but once it had been true.

“so you wanted to get married just so you could say you did it?” johnny asked. he didn’t seem to mean anything by it. 

“i mean, that’s… putting it bluntly,” you murmured. “but i guess it’s something like that.”

johnny’s voice was soft. “that doesn’t sound like you’re living for yourself.”

“well, a woman lives for her family,” you said. that was what you had always been taught. 

johnny changed the subject. “well, what about the other questions? what do you like to do?”

you had spent the past couple of weeks becoming a corpse in your bed, and the weeks before that submitting to haechan’s every whim, or practicing how you would in the future, so you weren’t sure how to answer that question either. “um, if there’s nothing to do around the house, i might hang out with my friend chaewon. well, i did, but um… anyway, i… watch tv, i guess? i don’t have that much free time. what about you?”

johnny didn’t even think about it. “i like to do all sorts of things. try out restaurants i’ve never eaten at, or an activity i’ve never done. i’m a pretty spontaneous guy.” he glanced down at you. “does that bother you? spontaneity?”

you didn’t know if haechan had been spontaneous or unpredictable or both. “i don’t think it’s a problem.”

johnny was pleased. “good. some people prefer routine, but i get bored easily, you know? i want to be with someone who has a sense of adventure.”

but i get bored easily. maybe that was it. maybe haechan had gotten bored of you. maybe he lost interest. “do you get bored of women as well?” you asked. you hadn’t mean to be that forward, but it came out before you could rein it back in.

that, on the other hand, made johnny pause. he spoke very carefully, “i think that there are certain traits i’m attracted to in a woman. her fierceness. her spirit. her resilience. those are the things that keep me interested. i think i wouldn’t approach a woman who didn’t display these traits in the first place.”

you had never really thought of yourself that way, but if he believed it, maybe it was true.

“what about you?” he asked. “what do you want in a man?”

you took a moment to think about that as well. it was something you didn’t always have the luxury of considering. for so long it had just been, this is the kind of woman i need to be. “maybe a man like my father. my biological father,” you whispered. “he was sweet. even when he was busy working, he made time for me. he made me feel special.”

“sounds like he was a good father,” johnny said. 

your heart felt heavy. “he was.”

thankfully the rest of the date was lighter. johnny took you to a ton of different stores and you browsed through their inventory, pointing out things that looked cool or silly. you tried on a few different hats. johnny. there was live music playing and you stayed around for that as well.

something about it soothed you. you had always liked music, ever since you were very young. in high school you and chaewon had gone to so many concerts you could scarcely remember them all, but you remembered the way they had made you feel. there was nothing else like that in the world.

leaning against the railing, you watched as the sun began to sink down into the earth for the night, the sky blossoming with color. you could hear the sea beneath you, the water heaving back and forth, the waves crashing against the earth, devouring the bottom of the structure where you stood.

“i think i never really appreciated stuff like this,” you said quietly.

johnny hummed. “why not?”

“it didn’t seem like it mattered,” you said. “it seemed like everything else was bigger and more imminent. but maybe i had it backwards.”

“maybe.”

for the first time in a long time, the silence wasn’t so loud. it didn’t feel like your thoughts were haunting you, pulling you back into a dark abyss of emotions that kept you up at night. everything was just there.

when the sky turned dark, johnny decided he would take you home. you did speak a little bit in the car, but after a while it was just the radio and the gloomy, looming night. you liked it that way.

johnny helped you out of the car and led you up the doorsteps like a proper gentleman, even though it was utterly unnecessary. “i had a good time with you tonight,” he said. 

strangely, you felt likewise. you didn’t know if it was because of him, or the environment, but nevertheless, you were glad you forced yourself out of bed that day. “i did too,” you said. “we should do that again.”

johnny was pleasantly surprised by the initiative. “do you have anywhere in mind?”

you thought about it. “there’s a restaurant my father liked,” you told him. “i’ll text it to you when i get inside.”

johnny nodded. “okay. i’ll be waiting.”

“have a good night, johnny.”

he reached out for your hand and kissed it. “you as well.” he walked back a few steps and watched you go inside before he left.

you didn’t run into anyone when you came in so you went straight to your bedroom and took a shower. you were moisturizing yourself when someone knocked on the door. “honey, it’s me. can i come in?” 

you glanced up at the door. “yes, it’s unlocked.”

your mother entered the bedroom and closed the door behind her. “how was the date?”

“he was different than i was expecting him to be.”

your mother tilted her head. “in a good way or a bad way?”

“i’m not sure yet,” you said. johnny had been nice enough. you just had a lot going on, and being back here made you remember everything.

“well, you have time to figure it out,” she said. she came to sit beside you on the bed. “do you want to go out with him again?”

“yes.” you knew that much.

she looked pleased. “good. that’s good. i’m glad you’re putting yourself out there and finding a man of your own. i started talking to your stepfather about arrangements.”

arrangements. well, johnny had picked a good time to ask you out. truthfully, it was the last thing you wanted. “mom?”

“yes, dear?”

“do you ever think about dad?” you asked. you knew she hardly talked about him, and you never mentioned him to her first, but today his memory was particularly strong.

she she didn’t answer immediately. it was a while before she finally said, “i try not to.”

you wondered why, but you didn’t ask. “i just feel like you moved on really fast. and i don’t know, i don’t think he deserved that.”

“i remember him one way and you remember him another,” your mother said. she stood up. “goodnight. get some rest. i want us all to have breakfast together tomorrow.”

you restrained yourself from groaning in disgruntlement. ever since you started locking yourself in your room for half the day, she had been trying to force these family meals. sometimes it would be breakfast and sometimes it would be dinner. and it was absolutely awful because haechan would always sit there as if he had never done anything wrong.

but it would be fine. you would get through it. because maybe that was what you did. you got through things.

day by day, you found yourself looking more and more forward to your next date with johnny. it had been a long time since you went to that restaurant you told him about. after your father died, it was like the world pulled you in the other direction, and everything that was his was so far away, part of another life you once had.

you almost wished you could go back to it. but you knew that was impossible, so the next best thing was to wrestle out of this one and start something new.

before you knew it, you were sitting before johnny, eating things that you used to eat, drinking stuff you used to drink. it was bittersweet.

after a while, johnny very gingerly asked, “can i ask when your father died?”

“like two years before my mom married my stepfather,” you said, looking down at your plate. if you closed your eyes, you could see him sitting there, talking about how much he liked the songs the band was playing.

you didn’t know if he was a mind reader or something, but he pressed, “do you think she moved on too fast?”

yes. maybe. i don’t know anymore. when you told her that you did, your mother had said something that confused you. you had no idea how she remembered him, or what that was supposed to mean. “it just feels like she was running from something,” you said. “and i didn’t feel like i really had time to process what happened before she married into this new family.”

“have you ever considered therapy?”

“no.”

“why not?”

“i never really thought about it,” you told him. “i guess i was worried about other things.”

“like getting married?” it was such a harmless question, but it felt like there was something he was getting at.

“i mean, yeah…”

johnny took a sip from his cup. “well, my mom says you can bury a body, but it’ll still be right there where you left it. you have to face those sorts of things.”

the conversation was getting heavy. maybe too heavy for a second date. “i like the music they play here,” you whispered. “the music they played at the pier was nice too.”

johnny smiled. “do you like music?”

you nodded. “yes. i used to sing in the choir. when i was little i watched my grandmother play the piano. i wanted to learn how to play it in college but i never had time.”

“you have time now,” he replied simply. 

your brows furrowed a moment. that was true. it had seemed so small in the grand scheme of things, learning to play an instrument, but now there was really nothing holding you back. “i guess so.”

“i’d like to hear you sing some time,” johnny said with genuine interest. 

you smiled timidly. “i think i’m a bit rusty, but i wouldn’t mind doing a tune or two. what about you? do you sing?”

johnny made a face, moving his head from side to side. “a little bit. i’m not whitney houston or anything but i can hold a note.”

you laughed. “i heard there’s a festival happening on the tenth. would you be interested in that?”

“are you asking me on a date?” johnny teased. 

“i thought that was the point of this.”

“it is,” he said. “and for the record, i would love to be at this festival with you on the tenth. i’ll clear my schedule right now.”

“if you’re busy, it’s okay—”

“nope,” johnny interrupted, already reaching for his phone. “i’m calling my assistant and telling him to cancel everything i have scheduled for that day.”

you had already been smiling, but it somehow grew even bigger. “that’s really nice of you.”

johnny’s eyes raked over your face, your smile. “it’s what you do for a girl you like.”

something about that made your heart flutter in a way that felt forbidden, but you didn’t know why.

and if you thought that was a lot, then nothing could prepare you for when johnny walked you up the steps to your house like he had done on the first date, only this time asking, “can i kiss you?”

when you came to think of it, you weren’t sure if haechan had ever kissed you on the lips. he had kissed other parts of your body and held you in his arms, but he had never put his lips to yours, and you never knew how badly you wanted that until now. “yes,” you whispered. 

johnny craned his head down so that his lips could reach yours. the kiss was soft, tender. in a way it felt like he was merely testing the waters, but it made a fierce heat spread through your chest, and when he pulled away,  you felt light as a feather.

“was that okay?” he asked, taking in your face with concern.

“yes,” you said again, because you didn’t know what else to say. a smile broke out across your face.

“good,” he said, reluctantly stepping down. “good night.”

“good night, johnny.”

it was safe to say that the dates didn’t stop there.

you spent months going out with johnny, and the more you did, the less you thought about anyone else. when you were with him, it felt like the two of you were the only people in the world, but not because you were alone. because he had a way of making everything else not matter.

the two of you did various activities together. the music festival was a blast, and he was tall, so he got good videos. you went bowling a few times, and that got super competitive. he even had the idea of taking dance classes, and it was the silliest thing, but you did it, and you enjoyed it. everything felt so easy.

the worst part was the waiting. sitting at home, knowing he was at work, knowing that it would be a while before he responded to your messages. but you always texted each other good morning and good night, no matter what. sometimes you texted him things anyway, if you really just had something to get off your chest, knowing that he would read it later.

it did finally give you the inspiration you needed to get out of bed and stop merely existing. you took up piano like you wanted, and the instructor came in a few times a week, helping you bit by bit.

you started sleeping more, and the dark circles went away. there were still hard times and harder thoughts, but you didn’t feel this unshakable sense of doom anymore. it felt like things were happening the way they were supposed to, and for the first time in a long time, you were doing things just because you wanted to do it.

that felt like a superpower you never knew you had. your mind was at ease more often that not, even though it could still be hard when you saw haechan and remembered the way things were. but you told yourself that the way things were was not necessarily the same as the way things should be.

one day, you went over to johnny’s apartment for the first time. “you have a nice place,” you said, taking in the sight of everything. it was neat, organized. the furniture selection was tasteful. 

“thanks. perks of being a businessman,” he chirped. “may i interest you in a glass of pinot noir?”

you giggled. “yes, you may.”

the two of you sat at a table, drinking wine, talking about anything and everything under the sun. it felt comfortable. safe. you just came as you were, and he was okay with that.

one thing led to another, and you found yourself in bed with him. at first it was just kissing. his lips against your lips, then against your jaw, then against your neck. it made your breath hitch. then it was touching. he paused, asking if you it was okay, and his hands wandered more and more, his eyes glued to your face, searching your every expression for a hint.

at some point, you wound up naked. his lips had been everywhere, your face, your chest, your abdomen, but then his face was between your legs, and he said, “i want to make you feel good. tell me if you want me to stop.”

at first, you had started to go into your mind, but it was hardly ever a good place to be. you slowly eased into the moment and let yourself relax. and that was the best choice you could have made. when you came, he kissed you down there and said that you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

you wanted to return the favor. he had said you didn’t need to, but you insisted; it would feel wrong if you didn’t give back. so begrudgingly he let you, and when you took him into your mouth, you pulled out every trick you knew to please him, because there was never the alternative of being mediocre.

johnny was very receptive. you liked the way his body reacted on its own, those responses raw and natural. you liked the way his voice sounded when he urged you on, saying things like, “fuck, just like that. you’re so good at that. how are you so good at that?” he had a steady hand in your hair as he held it behind your head.

when he came, you swallowed everything, your eyes fixed to his as you did. he looked like his soul had been dragged out of him, his eyes hazy, his chest heaving.

when you pulled away, you said, “thank you for letting me suck your cock, johnny.”

johnny blinked, like it took him a moment to process what you said, which was fair, all things considered. “what did you just say?”

you really hadn’t even meant to say it, but it was ingrained.

johnny was looking at you hard. “where did that come from? that’s really weird.”

your face burned. “i-i’m sorry, i thought you would like it.”

“don’t be silly. that’s nothing you need to thank me for,” he said. he pulled you off the floor, back up to the bed with him. “who taught you to say that?”

you didn’t know how he knew that, but your heart was racing. you had been hiding this truth from him for so long. you were afraid that if you told him, he would change his mind about you and everything you had would be nothing, and you couldn’t take another loss, you just couldn’t. 

but you couldn’t lie to him either, so reluctantly you confessed as quietly as you could, “haechan…”

johnny’s brows furrowed together. “had he touched you?”

you swallowed. “yes… but i wanted him to!”

johnny put his pants back on and handed your clothes back to you. you were afraid he was going to make you leave, but he asked, “when did this start?”

“i don’t know. it was months ago,” you said. it felt like forever ago and just yesterday at the same time. “i wasn’t getting suitors, so i asked him to help me dress more attractively. he took me to the mall and bought me clothes. he also bought… lingerie. he told me to have it on and wait for him. and later that night he came in and we… were together.” your eyes watered. “i’m sorry. i understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore. i know i was supposed to wait. he said i could lie, that my husband would lie, but i can’t do it. i’m sorry, i’m sorry.”

“stop,” johnny said, gentle but firm. “having sex doesn’t defile you. stop crying. tell me the full story.”

so you did. you told him about haechan and his friends. you told him about chaewon and the mall. you told him about the party, the vacation, what you saw in the kitchen, and how haechan had chosen the company over you. you told him what haechan had said, that if you couldn’t make him happy, you would make no man happy. that things with no value go in the trash. by the end of it, johnny’s face was grim.

“you do realize that that’s coercion and manipulation?”

“what?” you croaked. you didn’t know what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.

johnny continued, “none of what you just told me is normal. you just told me that he took advantage of your grief and insecurities to make you consent to having sex with him, and that he physically abused you and let his friends abuse you as well.”

“he loves me. he said so,” you whispered, but you had already started to doubt that.

johnny grabbed you by the shoulders. his touch wasn’t rough, but you could feel the graveness of it. “a man who loves you will not put his hands on you. a man who loves you will not lie to you. a man who loves you will not make you perform sexual favors simply so that you can meet a friend and then become aggressive because you’re inexperienced. that is a man who is using you. that is a man who gets off on controlling you and eroding your sense of self.”

for some reason, that only made you cry more. you knew haechan was no good for you. you knew that he was a liar and he hit you and he was probably not a good person, but you had never been good at letting go. it was the single hardest thing in the world.

johnny’s eyes softened. he wiped the tears from your face with his thumb. “darling, he made it so that your self worth hinged on his validation to such an extent that whenever he got angry, you would blame yourself. you would think, ‘well, if i never messed up, he wouldn’t have hit me.’ but there’s no such thing as perfection, least of all to men like him. men like him don’t give you the space you need to mistakes and grow. they want to break you down so that there’s nothing left of you but what they want you to be. don’t let him break you down by believing his lies.”

“you don’t understand. at first, he was helping me…” you whispered. 

“i understand how you might believe that, but it was never about helping you. he may have done things that you feel have benefited you, but it was always for his own gain.” johnny tilted your chin up. “why do you want suitors?”

it was such an outlandish question. “because i want to get married.”

“why?”

“because…. i want to have a family.”

“why?”

“because that’s what i’m supposed to do.”

“why?”

you didn’t understand why he was asking this question over and over and it was frustrating. “because that’s how i grew up.”

“exactly,” johnny said. “you want those things because the rest of the world told you that you’re supposed to want it. they dress it and make it sound pretty too. but you know what happens to most people? they marry a person they don’t really know or barely like. they have kids with this person without an inkling of an idea what a commitment it is to be a parent. they fuss and fight with this person and the children grow up watching, learning, absorbing, and they internalize it as their picture of love so that when they go into the real world, they can’t identify a performance of it from the real thing. and the cycle repeats.”

it made you remember what chaewon had said about why you couldn’t have sleepovers at her house. she had always complained about her parents’ incessant arguments.

johnny kissed your forehead and continued, “so if you’re going to marry someone, if you’re going to have children, at least do it on your own terms. do it because you want to. don’t do it because you think that’s all there is to life. it’s not. you’re very young.”

he was the first person to ever say anything like that to you, and that went for a lot of things you had heard him say over the months. but when you were brave enough to follow his advice, it did make you happier, so maybe he was right. 

“i want to marry you,” johnny said. “but i don’t want you to agree to it because you think you have to. i want you to agree because you like me, and you think that we will make each other happy.”

“i do like you,” you said, wiping your eyes. “you make me happy. more than anyone else.”

“are you sure?” johnny asked warily. 

“yes,” you told him. you wrapped your arms around him. “i want you in my life forever.”

“okay,” johnny said, sighing in relief. “okay. then sit down. we should talk about that.”

you followed him to the bed, sitting beside him, watching him, half clothed and barely even noticing. his words were echoing in your head, giving you so much to think about, things you had never considered, and that was the thing you liked about johnny that was so scary. he put things in your head that went against everything you ever heard, everything you had ever let yourself believe about the world.

that night honestly ended too soon, but the good news was that you weren’t dreading going back home for once.

at the next dinner, you knew the night was going to be exciting. everyone was seated in their usual spots, and your mother interrogated everyone about their days. 

you took a more active position for once, asking haechan, “how’s things with the company?”

“i’m glad you asked, sister,” haechan said, smiling. it was always weird seeing him act pleasant. “things are running smoothly. we’re currently trying to ascertain the most efficient means of implementing some new initiatives i had in mind that could boost our worker productivity and overall profitability. and you? how are things going with, what is it, mr. suh?”

“i’m glad you asked, brother,” you echoed, matching his smile. “mr. suh wants me to be mrs. suh.”

the table went silent for a moment. you saw the forks freeze as everyone took that in. 

your stepfather was the first to say, “i think that’s a wonderful idea!”

“honey, that’s amazing,” said your mother, the delight shaping her face. “i’m so proud. are you serious?”

“very,” you said. you glanced at your stepfather. “obviously, i need your blessing, but…”

“i can’t think of anything more fantastic," he interrupted.

“i think i’m going to cry,” your mother said, clasping her hands over her mouth. “my baby is getting married! i’m getting a grandchild!”

it felt like forever before your mother and her husband finally stopped bombarding you with a million questions about things you hadn’t even had time to consider yet, but it was obvious that they were pleased. 

haechan, on the other hand, was not.

you were alone in the kitchen, grabbing something extra to drink when haechan popped up in the entrance.

“you can’t marry him,” he said. 

“i believe that decision is up to your father, and he seems more than thrilled about it,” you replied.

it was like he didn’t hear you. “you can’t marry him,” he said again. 

you spun around and crossed your arms. “and why not?”

“because you’re mine,” haechan declared. he walked up until he was standing directly in front of you, his face nearly touching yours. “did you forget that already? i don’t touch you for a couple of months and you spread your legs for the first willing man in a suit like a good little whore? is that what you are? a whore?”

you grabbed a knife from the knife holder and pointed it at him. “don’t talk to me like that!”

haechan’s eyes widened. “baby, put the knife down.”

“no!” you exclaimed. something about the entire interaction made you feel so triggered. “you made me like this! i believed you. i thought you loved me!”

“i do. i do love you, baby, i swear-“

you jabbed the knife at him. “stop lying to me! you only love yourself! you said you were going to fix me, but you just wanted to break me down. you said you were doing what’s best for me, but you were doing what was best for yourself!”

haechan leapt back, stumbling. “okay, okay, i’m sorry, i’m sorry- let me make it up to you, okay?”

“no,” you said firmly. “i’m done with you. i’m moving in with johnny.”

haechan didn’t look like he was taking that well. you could see it in his eyes. the shock, then the anger. he was quiet for a moment, just glaring at you, but at last, he said, “you’ll never find another man like me.”

“i sure hope so.” you turned and walked away.

every time you saw haechan around the house after that day, he was sure to look at you with nothing but contempt, as if you had done something to break his heart and not the other way around. 

but you didn’t care. something good was finally happening to you, and you weren’t going to let him ruin it. you weren’t going to let your life revolve around his happiness anymore. for once, this was about you. and that was okay. it felt like it was okay.

it didn’t take long for you to remember how much you hated moving. the process was beyond annoying, even with people hired to do the heavy lifting for you. it was especially hard when you moved out of the house you grew up in, your father’s house. every memory you had ever made for the first twenty something years of your life was in that house, and you had to leave them there, or try to bring them somewhere the walls looked different, and the stairs didn’t sound the same, and the doors weren’t what you were used to. somewhere they didn’t fit.

at least now you were going somewhere you wanted to be. this house had never been a home. you walked around it the last few days of your staying, and it felt like a shackle was at your feet, letting you go just far enough to get around here, but keeping you inside.

the kitchen made you remember that night with haechan and his friends, the way their hands had felt on your body, how trapped you had felt. it reminded you of the way his hand went across your face when you woke late. your closet reminded you of the doom you felt waiting for him to come up to your bedroom, dreading it. the living room made you remember the day the investor stopped by to see him. the stairs made you remember hearing him and chaewon together.

when you put all of those thoughts together… you really hated this house.

“that’s the last of it,” you said in relief as you came in to sit on johnny’s couch. well, it was yours now too. “thanks for letting me move in.”

johnny snorted. “well, we’re getting married, so i think that’s only fair.”

i am getting married. to think something you had dreamed of your whole life was now becoming a tangible reality, and you were doing it for the right reason too. not because it was what everyone expected, but because you genuinely wanted it.

you glanced up at johnny. “i don’t think i’m going to talk to haechan anymore.”

“good,” he said, nodding. “that’s good.”

your feelings for haechan had been complicated, hard to shake even when you began to comprehend the truth of the harm he had done to you. but for some reason, that night in the kitchen, when he said those things to you, it was like a switch had gone off in your head. maybe even a month prior, you would have told yourself that you deserved it, that you had insulted him by going off with another man and had somehow earned his cruelty. but every month with johnny made you realize that what you had felt around haechan was not butterflies, but fear.

you didn’t want to live every single day on edge. you wanted to be with someone who made you feel safe. someone who made the world feel quiet. someone who made your life feel rich with possibility. someone like johnny.

“i was so stupid to believe him,” you murmured.

johnny shook his head. “you weren’t stupid,” he said. he approached the couch and dropped beside you. “you were vulnerable. he knew that and he preyed on you. the good thing is that you started to recognize the trap for what it was, and you didn’t let yourself get stuck in it. that counts for something.”

your brows furrowed as you became lost in thought, pondering the way things had been, how you had been so deceived. “he was nice sometimes. especially in the beginning.”

johnny chuckled. “of course he was. it’s easy to forgive someone when you’re clinging onto the good parts of them.”

“it’s almost like you’re speaking from experience.”

“well, there’s a lot of things you still don’t know about me,” johnny said. “but i’ll trust you if you can trust me.”

you reached for his hand. “i do trust you.”

johnny smiled. “i’m getting you a ring. and i’m going to propose to you properly. somewhere with good music. then we’re gonna go to dinner and you’re gonna tell me what you want to do in the next phase of your life, and i’ll tell you something about the last phase of mine.” he squeezed your hand. “deal?” 

you looked down at your joined hands, and a wide grin broke across your lips. “deal.”

you were truly happy with johnny. happier than you had been since before your father died. part of that was because your understanding of happiness had changed. you did things because they fulfilled you, and not because you were told that you should find it fulfilling. it didn’t feel like you were performing. with johnny, you could truly just be, and he still accepted you with open arms no matter what.

sometimes you would make mistakes. sometimes the ways of the life you had before you and johnny met emerged, but when it did, johnny helped you get through it so that you could start to unlearn behaviors that were never truly meant to serve you.

and you learned so much about yourself now that you were finally letting yourself exist. you wanted to travel more, learn more instruments, learn more languages, eat different food, meet different people. you wanted to pick up new hobbies and wear new clothes and do something random just because.

you had been in the middle of selecting color arrangements for your wedding when the mention of a familiar name on the news got your attention. the news anchor was saying, “tonight’s breaking news, ceo lee haechan has been removed from office after several subordinates came forward alleging that he engaged in illicit sexual relationships with them. the allegations are currently under investigation, and no criminal charges have been announced at this time.”

oh, how you would have loved to have been a fly on the wall at the house. things with no value go in the trash. there’s a mercy in that. i’d rather him go to hell.

as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to months, though, no matter how great your life had become, you knew there was still something missing.

you tapped your feet against the ground as you sat at the back of the cafe. you had texted chaewon from johnny’s phone, still knowing her number by heart after all these years. you’d had little hopes that she would respond, but she did, and now you were waiting.

it had been so long since you last saw each other, you didn’t know what to expect. you didn’t even feel like the person you were when everything happened. it felt like a life that someone else had lived.

when you finally saw chaewon approaching, the air fled your lungs. she sat down at the table in front of you, and up close, she seemed to have become a different person too. 

“hey,” you said shakily. 

chaewon didn’t smile. “hey.”

“long time, no see. you look good,” you told her, because it was true. she had always looked good, her worst days were another person’s very best. but her hair was longer now, and she had dyed it.

“as do you,” she said, “but we’re a little past small talk, don’t you think?”

you swallowed. it was strange, being so careful around her, the person you had once felt the most comfortable with. “i suppose we are.”

chaewon cut to the chase.  “my brother made me block you. he says you set it up. is that true?”

it was the hardest thing to admit. “yes.”

chaewon scoffed. “wow. how could you do that? do you know that i got pregnant?”

“what?”

“yeah,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “luckily, jaehyun convinced my parents not to make me keep it. i was so scared.”

“did it… go okay?” you asked tinily. it felt like a stupid thing to say. “the abortion?”

“it was fine, i guess,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “i cramped and bled for a few days. after that it was easier.”

you nodded. it took you a moment to find the words. “chaewon, i am… so sorry. sending him after you… that was awful of me. i heard you and haechan in the kitchen that night and i was angry. i was jealous. i’ve been jealous of you almost my whole life. and i chose to do something that i knew would hurt you because of it. looking back, i can see how wrong it was. you didn’t deserve it at all and it cost me our friendship, and i didn’t understand that that was the realest thing i had. i know there’s nothing i can say to erase the impact of that trauma, but i can promise that i won’t let my emotions get the better of me like that again. i’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if i have to.”

chaewon was quiet a long time. “i appreciate your apology, but i don’t know if i’m ready to forgive you right now, or if i ever will be.”

that cut deep, but you couldn’t blame her. “that makes sense.”

“congratulations on your engagement,” she said, gesturing to your hand. “i hope he treats you well and you have a good life together. goodbye.”

“goodbye, chaewon,” you whispered. you watched her rise and walk away, almost as quickly as she had come. the moment was over before it really began, and you sat there not knowing if she would ever come back, not knowing if you had said the right thing, not knowing if there was anything in the world you could do to keep her there.

you looked down at the ring johnny had gotten you. it was absolutely beautiful, and he had let you choose it to ensure you loved it. you were entering a new phase of your life, and though it wasn’t with chaewon, it was with someone who loved you all the same. maybe you could live with that.

[lac4ygal]

✦ ݁˖ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴ’ ᴄʜᴇᴀᴘ. sim jaeyun

You thought the worst thing that could happen after your breakup was running into your cheating ex. Then you got pregnant by JAKE SIM. Captain of the Caldwell Wolves, campus golden boy and the most notorious heartbreaker on campus. He’s the last person you’d ever trust. Unfortunately for you, he’s also the father of your baby.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 19.4k

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: college au, unexpected pregnancy, slow burn, enemies-to-lovers adjacent, angst, fluff, smut

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fingering, oral sex, cum eating, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, praise kink, dom!jake, breast/nipple play, dirty talk, riding, bump worship, penetrative sex, accidental injury, unexpected pregnancy, morning sickness, cheating (backstory), past relationship trauma, physical altercation, toxic male behaviour, jealousy, emotional manipulation, brief mention of abortion, alcohol consumption

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: Delicate - Taylor Swift // Kiss Me Right - keshi // Sugar Talking - Sabrina Carpenter // It Ain’t Over ‘Till It’s Over - Lenny Kravitz // Please - BTS // striptease - carwash

𝐋’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐞: i genuinely had the best time writing this fic and getting way too emotionally attached to these characters! please feel free to leave a comment, scream or simply stare into the void thinking about these idiots (i know i will be). your support means more than you know and every notification makes me kick my feet like a Victorian lady seeing an ankle. i hope this fic made you experience at least one completely unnecessary emotion. thank you for ready and PLEASE enjoy!

The party is Mina’s idea. It always is. You’ve stopped pretending otherwise — stopped doing the thing where you spend twenty minutes debating whether you’re really feeling it before Mina gives you the look and you both know you’re going regardless.

It’s a Friday in late September, the air outside finally tipping from warm to something with a bite in it, and you’ve been in your dorm room since two in the afternoon staring at the same paragraph of Middlemarch without absorbing a single word.

“You need to get out of this room,” Mina says from your bed, where she’s been watching you not read for the past hour. She’s already dressed — black top, dark jeans, the gold hoops she only wears when she’s decided the night is going to be worth the effort. She decided before she came over. The last hour has been a courtesy. “You’ve been staring at that book like it cheated on you.”

The word lands between you, briefly. Mina’s face doesn’t change “George Eliot is a menace,” you say.

“You love George Eliot.”

“I love George Eliot when I’m not trying to produce fifteen hundred words on her narrative voice by Monday morning.” You close the book. It’s not like you’re reading it anyway.

The thing about Delta Kappa parties is that they are, by any objective measure, too much. Too loud, too hot, the bass sitting somewhere in your sternum, red cups and bodies everywhere you look. Mina thrives. You tolerate it with the specific resignation of someone who knows they’re going to have a good time despite themselves and finds this faintly irritating.

You’re on your second drink when you see Sunghoon. He’s across the room near the kitchen doorway, mid-conversation with someone you don’t recognise, laughing at something. Head tipped back the way he always did — that particular way, unhurried and a little private, like whatever amused him was his alone. You used to love that about him. You watch it for maybe three seconds before you look away, which feels like a victory of some kind.

Four months. Four months since you’d found out, since you’d sat on your dorm room floor and read a conversation thread you were never supposed to see, since everything you thought you’d built with him had turned out to be built on something rotten underneath.

Two years of your life. Your first real relationship. You’d thought it would last.

You look away. You drain the rest of your cup.

“He’s here,” Mina says, appearing at your elbow with the precision of someone who has been watching.

“I know.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No.” You mean it. “I’m not leaving a party because of Sunghoon Park.”

She studies you for a moment with that particular look — the one that measures the difference between actually fine and performing fine with uncomfortable accuracy. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her, because she clinks her cup against yours and says, “Then let’s get another drink.”

You’re at the makeshift bar — someone’s kitchen counter pressed into service — when you become aware of someone standing beside you. Not waiting for the bottle. Something else. A specific quality of attention that you register before you’ve consciously clocked it. You look up. Jake Sim looks back.

You know who he is the way you know most things about the people who exist in Caldwell’s uppermost stratum — passively, through cultural osmosis, without ever having chosen to learn. Captain of the Wolves. Dean’s son. The name that comes up in a specific tone of voice, like a warning dressed as gossip.

Up close he is, unfortunately, exactly as good-looking as that reputation implies. Tall, built through the shoulders and chest in the way that years of hockey builds — not showy, just solid, like his body was designed to take up space and does so without apology. Dark eyes. A jaw that should probably be illegal. A mouth curved at the corner like he’s already three steps ahead of the conversation and finds this mildly entertaining.

“You’re doing maths,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Your face.” He nods at you, vaguely. “Very intense for someone just standing at a bar.”

“I’m making a drink.”

“You’ve been staring at that vodka for forty-five seconds.”

“I didn’t realise I was being timed.”

“You weren’t.” He reaches past you for the bottle — close enough that you catch something clean and faintly expensive — pours his own cup, sets it back.

“I’m Jake.”

“I know who you are.” Something moves through his expression. Amusement, maybe, or the specific satisfaction of a fact confirmed.

“Most people do,” he says, and there’s no arrogance in it, just a statement of observable reality, which is somehow worse. “And you’re—”

“Also a person,” you say.

That gets a real smile. Brief, but actual. “Fair enough.”

You should find Mina. You’re aware of this the way you’re aware of the coursework due Monday and the fact that it’s past midnight — true, noted, irrelevant. Instead you stay where you are and let the conversation go where it goes, and it goes somewhere you didn’t expect.

He’s good at this. That’s the thing you clock first and keep clocking — the way he makes conversation feel like it has momentum, like you’re building toward something together, the timing of his humour landing slightly off-beat in a way that catches you. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. You know it’s a formula. You know it has worked on an uncountable number of girls at an uncountable number of parties exactly like this one, and knowing that should make you immune to it, and it doesn’t.

Mina finds you at some point, clocks the situation in under a second, raises her eyebrows precisely two millimetres — a full paragraph in two millimetres — and disappears back into the crowd.

At some point his hand finds the small of your back. Light. Questioning. You don’t move away from it. At some point, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them, he says: “We could get out of here.”

You think about Middlemarch, which you’re not going to read tonight regardless. You think about the two years you spent being someone’s person and the four months since that have felt like learning to walk in a body that’s been subtly rearranged. You think about Sunghoon somewhere in this house with his head tipped back, laughing.

“Okay,” you say.

His room is in the east block upperclassmen housing — a single, because of course, because Jake Sim has probably never had to negotiate space with anyone in his life. It’s tidier than you’d have guessed. You file this away without meaning to, the way you’re still filing things even now, even when you’ve told yourself you’re not doing that anymore.

He closes the door and you’re already turning toward him and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like how he acted downstairs — no charm, no ease, just heat and intent, his hands gripping your face and kissing you like he’s already decided exactly how this goes.

You grab his shirt and walk him backwards and he turns you instead, smooth and immediate, your back hitting the wall beside the door hard enough to knock the breath out of you and you don’t care, you’re already pulling at his shirt and he’s already got your top halfway up your body.

He strips it off you and his mouth drops straight to your throat, open and hot, and then your bra is unclasped and gone before you’ve fully registered his hands at the back of it.

Then his mouth is on your tits and he makes a sound low in his chest like the sight of them was specifically designed to ruin him. His hands cup them, squeezing, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples and watching your face while he does it. You feel your cheeks go hot because his expression is entirely too focused, too attentive, like he’s cataloguing your reactions and filing it away for later use.

He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue working in slow wet circles. Your head drops back against the wall on a moan you didn’t mean to let out that loud.

“Yeah,” he says against your skin, rough and pleased, “get loud,” and bites down lightly you gasp and your nails find his shoulders through his shirt.

He marks you up like he has all the time in the world — mouth dragging from your tits to your throat to your collarbone and back again, teeth and tongue, leaving his work on your skin with a thoroughness that should feel like too much and instead just makes you want more.

His hips grind into yours against the wall, the hard line of his cock pressed against your core through clothing, slow and deliberate, the friction makes you roll up into it and he does it again to which you make a sound that’s honestly embarrassing.

“Bed,” you manage, and he pulls back just enough to look at you — mouth-bitten, dark-eyed, satisfied with himself in a way you don’t have the capacity to be annoyed about right now — and walks you to it.

You land on the mattress and he’s over you immediately, his mouth back on your tits before you’ve stopped bouncing on the mattress, you’re pulling at his shirt until he lets you get it off him and then his jeans are gone and yours are gone and he’s settled between your thighs in just his boxers and the weight of him is — a lot, in the best way, solid and warm and pressing you into the mattress, his hips grind down slow as his cock drags against your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties, you grab his shoulders to hold onto something.

He does it again. Slower.

His mouth is still at your nipple, tongue working it stiff while his hips keep that maddening rhythm, grinding into you with enough friction to make your thighs clench around him but not enough to give you anything real, you can hear how wet you are, can feel it and judging by the way his jaw tightens he can too.

“Jake,” you say, and it comes out more desperate than you intend.

“I know,” he says, like that’s an answer, and then he’s moving down your body.

He hooks your underwear off, throws it somewhere and finally puts his mouth on your pussy. Your back comes off the mattress.

He licks into your folds slowly, taking his time, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke and then doing it again, his hands are spread flat on your inner thighs holding you open and still and there is nothing to do but take it.

He’s good — infuriatingly good — like he’s genuinely interested in making you cum, like this is something he wants to do rather than something he’s doing to get to the next thing. You’ve got one fist in the sheets and one pressed to your own mouth to which he pulls your hand away from your face without looking up. “Don’t,” he says against your cunt, and goes back to work.

His tongue finds your clit and stays there, tight focused circles, two fingers then press at your entrance and push in slow, curling immediately, finding the spot that makes your hips jolt and working it with patience that feels almost cruel.

The sounds coming out of you are loud and continuous and undignified and he hums against you like he approves, the vibration travelling straight up your spine, and you can feel yourself getting close embarrassingly fast, your walls clenching tight around his fingers, your whole body chasing it.

“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please —“ and he doesn’t, his tongue relentless on your clit and his fingers curling deep, and you cum on his mouth with your thighs shaking, his name coming out broken and too loud for the room.

He works you through every second of it, tongue gentling, fingers slowing until you’re twitching and oversensitive and pulling at his hair to get him off you, he comes back up your body looking composed in a way that feels like a personal attack. There’s something dark and satisfied in his expression as he looks down at you and kisses you before you can say anything, slow, and you taste yourself on his tongue.

His cock is hard against your hip, straining against his boxers, you reach between you and wrap your hand around him and feel him shudder. He’s thick and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip and when you stroke him his composure cracks — hips pushing into your grip, jaw tightening and a low rough sound forming against your mouth.

You work him slow and watch his face and feel something warm and powerful settle in your chest. “Condom,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says and reaches for the nightstand.

He pushes in slow and you feel every single inch. The stretch of him opening you up, thick and relentless, your walls giving way around his cock, you dig your nails into his back and breathe through it until he’s fully seated. You’re so full it sits somewhere between pleasure and pain and then he rolls his hips and it tips firmly into the first one.

He starts slow — deep, grinding strokes, his cock dragging against every nerve of you, the weight of his hips pinning yours into the mattress and his mouth finds your tits again immediately, like he can’t help it, tongue working your nipple while his hips keep their deep rhythm and you stop being capable of thoughts that go anywhere.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he says against your breast, low and rough, and bites down on the swell of it and soothes it with his tongue and does it again somewhere else.

“Jake—”

“I know,” he says, his thumb finds your clit. The added pressure makes you gasp and your hips jolt up to meet his and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a groan and picks up the pace.

The slow grind gives way to something sharper. His hips snap against yours and the headboard knocks the wall and the wet sounds of it fill the room. You have completely stopped caring about anything except the way his cock fills you on every stroke, deep and thick, the drag of him pulling back and driving in again setting off a chain reaction of sensation that climbs fast.

He shifts your leg up higher over his hip and the angle changes, deeper, and the sound you make at that is genuinely obscene. “Yeah?” he says, doing it again, deliberate. “There?”

“Yes,” you manage, “there, don’t stop, please—”

“Dirty when you want something,” he says, low and pleased, and fucks you harder.

His thumb circles your clit without stopping, his cock drives into your cunt again and again and his mouth marks your throat. The build crests too fast to catch — you cum for the second time harder, walls clenching rhythmically around him, his name coming out wrecked and he follows you over with his hips buried deep and his face pressed to your throat, low broken sounds against your skin as he cums.

The room goes quiet. You stare at the ceiling. Your body has been taken apart and put back together slightly differently and everything feels warm and loose and heavy.

That, you think distantly, was either the best or worst decision you’ve made in months.

Possibly both.

Jake disposes of the condom, comes back, drops onto the bed beside you. The quiet settles. It’s almost comfortable — the dark, the warmth, both of you just breathing. And then…

“You can go whenever,” he says. Flat. Casual. Already looking at the ceiling like you’re no longer the most interesting thing in the room. Like you’ve been downgraded, in the last thirty seconds, from a person to an inconvenience that’s resolved itself.

You blink. You can go whenever. Not you don’t have to rush, not do you want some water, not even basic human decency. Just — you can go. Door’s there. Thanks for coming.

Something cold moves cleanly through the warmth in your chest and extinguishes it. You sit up. “Right,” you say. Your voice comes out level. You’re proud of that.

He says nothing. He is staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head like a man with absolutely no awareness that he’s just been profoundly rude, or perhaps perfect awareness and total indifference, which is worse.

You find your clothes in the dark with quiet methodical efficiency — jeans, top, shoes, bra shoved into your bag because life is short. You do not look at him while you dress and he does not look at you. At the door you pause, and you genuinely don’t know why, some reflex kicking in from a life spent being polite to people who haven’t earned it.

“Bye, then,” you say.

“Mm,” says Jake Sim, at the ceiling not even at you. You want to scoff in his stupidly hot face.

You close the door behind you.

The walk back across campus takes twelve minutes and you spend all twelve of them with the cold night air doing its best against the heat in your face. Not embarrassment — or not only that. Something sharper. The specific anger of someone who knew exactly what they were walking into and walked into it anyway and is now annoyed at themselves for being annoyed.

I knew, you think, with each step. I knew what he was. Everyone knows what he is. I just—

You’d let the hour at the bar do its work. You’d let the conversation and the hand at the small of your back and the dark eyes and the unfair jaw do their work, and you’d told yourself it was fine because you were going in clear-eyed, and the sex had been — god, the sex had been amazing — but then he’d opened his mouth and reminded you exactly who he was and now here you are, at one forty in the morning, crossing the quad with your bra in your bag.

You text Mina. still up?

The reply is immediate. obviously. how was it?

You stare at your phone for a moment. come to mine, you type back.

Mina is sitting up in your bed when you get back, laptop open, a bowl of cereal balanced on her knee that she definitely made while waiting. She takes one look at your face as you come through the door and sets it on the nightstand. “Tell me.”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sit on the end of the bed. You press your fingers to your eyes for a moment. “The sex,” you say carefully, “was genuinely incredible. Like — top three of my life, Mina. Easily. Potentially top two.”

“Okay—”

“And then, the moment it was over, he looked at the ceiling and told me I could go whenever.” You drop your hands. “In the tone of someone dismissing a tradesman. Like I’d come to fix his boiler.”

Mina’s expression moves through several stages. “He did not.”

“He absolutely did.”

“What did you say?”

“I said bye then and closed the door.”

“Bye then?”

“I panicked and defaulted to manners.” You flop backwards onto the duvet. “I knew. That’s the thing. I knew exactly what he was before I ever spoke to him and I did it anyway because—” You gesture at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Because I’m tired of being careful. Because Sunghoon was across the room being beautiful and I wanted to feel something that wasn’t about him.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. Then: “Was it, at least something that wasn’t about Sunghoon.”

You consider this with the ceiling. “Yes,” you admit. “Annoyingly, yes. Right up until he opened his mouth.”

“He really is the worst,” Mina says, with the conviction of someone delivering a verdict.

“He really, genuinely is.” You stare upward. “He’s got such a good cock though, Mina. Like. I’m annoyed about it. I’m actively annoyed.”

Mina puts her face in her hands. You watch her shoulders shake. “It’s not funny,” you tell her, and then you’re laughing too, and the tight mean thing in your chest loosens by a fraction, and outside the window Caldwell goes on being loud and indifferent and fully lit up, and you are fine.

You’re fine. You’re completely fine.

The week after the party you are, by any reasonable measure, completely fine.

You turn in the Middlemarch essay on Monday morning — fifteen hundred words on narrative voice, mostly written Sunday afternoon in a single focused stretch that you attribute to having gotten something out of your system.

You go to your Tuesday seminar and your Wednesday lecture and you have coffee with Mina on Thursday at the place near the English building where they do the good almond croissants, and you do not think about Jake Sim.

Or you think about him the normal amount. The amount that is appropriate for a person you slept with once at a party and will probably never speak to again, which is to say occasionally and without weight, the way you might think about a film you watched on a plane — enjoyable in the moment, not something you’d seek out again, largely irrelevant to your actual life.

This is what you tell yourself. Mina does not challenge it, which means she’s either convinced or she’s decided to let you have it, and knowing Mina it’s the second one.

Sunghoon texts you on Wednesday. Just — hey, saw you at Delta Kappa Friday. you looked good. You stare at it for a long time. You don’t reply.

You see Jake on Monday. You’re crossing the main quad, coffee in hand, bag over one shoulder, running approximately four minutes late for your seminar, and he’s coming the other direction with Jay Park and someone you don’t recognise, all three of them in Wolves gear, clearly post-practice.

He’s laughing at something Jay said, head tilted back, and he looks — easy, and loose, and completely unbothered by anything in the known universe, which you knew, which is exactly what you expected, and yet something about seeing it in person at ten forty-three on a Monday morning makes your jaw tighten anyway.

He doesn’t see you. Or he does and gives no indication of it, which amounts to the same thing. You look straight ahead and keep walking and do not think about it for the rest of the morning.

You think about it a little bit in the afternoon. By evening you’ve filed it away under irrelevant and moved on, which is the correct and mature response and you’re proud of yourself.

The sickness starts on Wednesday morning. You wake up with your stomach doing something wrong — not dramatic, not the sharp unmistakable rebellion of food poisoning, just a low persistent nausea that sits behind your sternum like it’s made itself at home. You lie still for a moment, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

You get up, make it to the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub for ten minutes breathing carefully, and then it eases enough that you can brush your teeth and get dressed and tell yourself you’re fine.

You’re not fine by Thursday morning.

The nausea is worse — still not acute, still this low insidious wrongness, but it’s there when you wake up and it doesn’t fully lift, and your coffee tastes like something burnt and metallic and you push it away after two sips which Mina clocks immediately from across the table at the place near the English building.

“You’re not drinking your coffee.”

“I’m not feeling it today.”

Mina looks at the cup. Looks at you. “You have never in three years of knowing you not felt like coffee.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” She watches you for a moment with that look. You look back at your laptop and don’t say anything else.

By Saturday you feel actively, genuinely terrible.

Not sick-sick — no fever, no aches, nothing you can point to as a specific illness — just this relentless creeping nausea that is worst in the morning and fades by afternoon and makes the idea of eating before eleven o’clock an abstract and unpleasant concept.

You cancel your Saturday morning coffee with Mina, which you have never done, and she’s at your door by noon with a container of crackers and a forensic expression. “Talk,” she says.

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

“What kind of something.”

“I don’t know, Mina, a virus. A bug. Something that’s going around.”

She sits down on your bed and opens the crackers and holds them out to you and you take one because the sight of them is, somehow, the most appealing thing you’ve encountered all week. You eat it slowly. Your stomach does not immediately rebel. You take another one. “How long?” Mina asks.

“Since Wednesday morning.”

“And it’s worst in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t drink coffee.”

“It tastes wrong.” Mina is quiet for a moment. You eat another cracker and look at the wall. “I’m sure it’s just a bug,” you say.

“Yeah,” Mina says, in a tone that means something else entirely. “Probably.”

The conspiracy theories start that evening, though. It’s the two of you on your bed with Mina’s laptop open and a bag of pretzels between you, and it begins reasonably enough — you googling nausea worse in morning possible causes and working through the list with the detached efficiency of someone who is definitely not spiralling. Stress. Acid reflux. Inner ear issues. Viral gastroenteritis. Dietary changes.

“Have you eaten anything different lately?” Mina asks.

“No.”

“Stressed about something?”

“When am I not stressed about something.”

“Fair.” She scrolls. “It says here inner ear problems can cause—”

“I don’t have inner ear problems, Mina.”

Mina scrolls further. You eat a pretzel and watch her face and wait for it. You know it’s coming. You’ve known since Saturday morning, if you’re being honest, since she’d sat on your bed with that specific expression and said probably in that specific tone, and you’ve been not-thinking about it with considerable effort for the past several hours.

“Okay,” Mina says, carefully, still looking at the screen. “What if.”

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to.” You pull the laptop toward you and close the tab. “It’s been less than two weeks. It’s too early for that. It’s a bug.”

“You used a condom?”

“Obviously.”

“They’re not a hundred percent.”

“It’s a bug,” you say. “It’s a completely normal bug that normal people get and it has nothing to do with — it’s a bug.”

Mina looks at you with the expression of someone who has several more things to say and has made a strategic decision to not say them yet. “Okay,” she says. “Bug.”

By Sunday you can’t keep breakfast down. You sit on your bathroom floor at eight in the morning with your back against the tub and your forehead against your knees and you think about the party, and Jake’s room, and the nightstand, and the condom, and you think no very firmly and repeatedly and it doesn’t help at all.

You text Mina. can you come over

She’s there in seven minutes. She doesn’t say anything when you open the door, just looks at your face, and you nod back at her.

The Caldwell campus drugstore is a five minute walk from your building and has, blessedly, a single-occupancy bathroom at the back that Mina sweet-talks the Saturday cashier into letting you use on the grounds that you’re not feeling well, which is at least entirely true. It’s a very small bathroom.

The two of you fill it completely — you on the closed toilet lid, Mina with her back against the sink, the test sitting on the edge of it between you with three minutes on Mina’s phone timer counting down. Nobody says anything.

The tile is white. There’s a motivational poster on the back of the door — you’ve got this! in yellow letters — that you stare at with a feeling you can’t fully name.

Two minutes.

“It’s probably negative,” you say.

“Probably,” Mina says.

“The condom—”

“Yeah.” “And it’s been less than two weeks. Like. The timing—”

“The timing is actually about right,” Mina says, gently, “for symptoms to—”

“Stop,” you say.

One minute.

You watch the timer. The timer watches back. Your hands are completely still in your lap which surprises you — you’d have expected them to shake, but instead you feel very calm in the specific way that you get sometimes when something is about to happen and your body has decided that panic is a resource to be conserved.

The timer goes off.

Neither of you moves for a second. Then Mina picks up the test and looks at it. Her face does something — a flicker, fast and controlled, there and gone — and she hands it to you without speaking.

Two lines.

You look at it for a long time.

“Okay,” you say, finally.

“Yeah,” Mina says.

The motivational poster on the wall says you’ve got this! in yellow letters and you stare at it and think about Jake Sim telling the ceiling you can go whenever and feel something move through you that is too big and too complicated to have a name yet.

“Okay,” you say again. Like if you keep saying it, it’ll start meaning something useful.

—

You don’t go to him straight away. That feels important somehow — that you don’t just spiral out of that drugstore bathroom and make a beeline for the Hargrove Center in a panic, that you go back to your dorm first and sit with it for a while like a person with some degree of self-possession.

You and Mina order food you mostly don’t eat and sit on your bed with the test face-down on the nightstand like if you can’t see it it’s less real, and you talk around it for a while before you talk about it directly, which is its own kind of processing.

“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Mina says.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to tell him today either.”

“I know.” You pull your sleeves over your hands. “But I feel like — I don’t know. He should know. Like in or not he’s — it’s his. He should know.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “But eat something first.”

You eat half a portion of noodles. It’s the most you’ve managed in days and your stomach accepts it cautiously, like it’s making no promises. Then you change your top, put your shoes on, and look at Mina.

“Don’t come with me,” you say.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were absolutely going to.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Text me the second you’re out.”

The Hargrove Center is a twenty minute walk across campus and you use all twenty minutes to rehearse what you’re going to say, which turns out to be a complete waste of time because the moment you push through the side door and the cold air of the rink hits you — that particular sharp smell of ice and equipment — your prepared sentences evaporate entirely.

Practice is just wrapping up. You can see them from the entrance, the Wolves coming off the ice in clusters, helmets off, sticks in hand. Jay Park says something that makes Riki Nishimura laugh. Jungwon Yang is already halfway to the boards.

And Jake is — there, centre ice, still, talking to one of the assistant coaches with his helmet under his arm and his hair pushed back from his face, and even from here he looks like someone who has never had an uncontrollable variable in his life.

You wait.

You’re good at waiting. You’ve spent the last two weeks being good at things you didn’t choose to be good at.

He sees you when he comes off the ice — clocks you in the way that people clock something unexpected in a familiar space, a brief recalibration. Something moves across his face, too fast to read. Then it’s gone and he’s walking toward you with the easy unhurried stride of someone who has decided to be unbothered and you stand your ground and wait for him to reach you.

“Hey,” he says. Like you’re an acquaintance. Like he’s mildly surprised to see you and finds it mildly unremarkable.

“I need to talk to you,” you say. Something shifts.

The easy expression doesn’t disappear exactly but it adjusts, becomes more guarded. He glances around — Jay is watching from the boards with open curiosity, Riki less subtly — and then jerks his head toward the corridor off the main rink.

You follow him into it. It’s quieter here, the noise of the rink muffled, the overhead lights slightly too bright. He turns and faces you with his arms crossed and his weight back, and waits. You had sentences. You had very good sentences, all the way across campus.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

The corridor goes very quiet. Jake looks at you. His expression does several things in quick succession that he doesn’t quite manage to keep off his face — shock, and something that might be fear, and then a shuttering, a closing, something careful dropping down over all of it.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” you repeat.

“That’s — okay. How far—”

“I just found out today. So.” You fold your arms across your chest. “Not far.”

He nods slowly. His jaw is working. He looks at the floor for a moment and then back at you and the careful expression is fully in place now, composed and unreadable, and you don’t know whether to be relieved or furious about it.

“Are you sure it’s mine,” he says.

The corridor goes even quieter somehow.

You look at him. “What did you just say.”

“I’m just—” He shifts his weight. “We don’t know each other. I don’t know who else you’ve been—”

“Are you calling me a slut.” It comes out flat. Not a question.

“I’m not calling you anything, I’m just saying I don’t know—”

“You’re the only person I’ve slept with in four months.” Your voice is very level. “I was in a relationship. It ended. I haven’t — there’s been no one else. There’s only been you.” You look at him. “And I can’t believe I’m standing here explaining that to you.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You literally just implied I could have slept with someone else.” The level voice is beginning to fray at the edges. “You literally said that. To my face.”

“Look, I just—”

You slap him.

You don’t plan it. Your hand moves before the decision has fully formed, the sharp crack of it landing across his cheek, and then there’s a ringing silence and your palm is stinging and Jake’s head has turned with the force of it and he’s looking at you now with an expression you haven’t seen on him before. Not angry. Something more complicated than angry.

“Don’t ever,” you say, quietly, “imply something like that to me again.”

He says nothing. His hand has come up to his cheek, not pressing, just — there. His jaw is tight.

“I thought you should know,” you say. “That’s all. I thought you deserved to know because it’s yours and you deserved to know. I haven’t decided anything yet and I’m not asking you for anything.” You pull your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he says. Low. You walk back out into the cold. You text Mina out and she sends back seventeen question marks which is fair.

You tell her you’ll explain when you get back and spend the walk home feeling the particular hollow exhaustion of someone who has done the thing they needed to do and now has no idea what comes next.

You’re back in your building, one flight up, when you hear him behind you. “Hey—”

You turn. Jake is in the stairwell, still in his practice gear, slightly out of breath like he walked fast to get here, and you have absolutely no idea how he found out which dorm you’re in and you’re going to have questions about that later.

“How did you—“

“Jay knew,” he says, which explains nothing and everything.

He comes up the last few steps and stops on your landing and runs a hand through his hair and looks like someone who has been having a very difficult internal conversation at speed. “Can I—”

“No,” you say.

“Two minutes.” You look at him. He looks back. The mark from your hand has faded from his cheek but his expression is still doing that thing — complicated, unreadable, something working behind it.

“Two minutes,” you say, and unlock your door. Your room is small and suddenly smaller with him in it. He stands just inside the door like he’s not sure he’s allowed further in, which is the most uncertain you’ve seen him, and you sit on the end of your bed and look at him and wait.

He reaches into his jacket. He puts a stack of bills on your desk. You look at the money. You look at him. “Jake.”

“It’s enough to cover — whatever you decide.” He’s not quite meeting your eyes. “I’m not — look. I don’t want a kid. I’m not in a place for that. We don’t know each other. But I’m not going to just—” He stops. Starts again. “Take it. Whatever you need it for.”

You stare at the money for a long moment. “Are you going to want to be involved,” you ask. “If I decide to keep it.”

Something crosses his face. “I don’t — I haven’t—” He exhales. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” you say. “That’s honest at least.”

“Are you going to keep it,” he asks. Quietly. Like he’s not sure he has the right to ask.

You look at the money on your desk. You look at him — standing in your doorway in his practice gear, jaw tight, trying very hard to look like someone who has this handled and not quite managing it — and you think that this is the first time he’s looked like a person to you. Not the reputation, not the corridor composure, not the ceiling of his bedroom. Just a person who is as blindsided as you are and coping with it badly.

“I don’t know yet,” you say. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

He nods. He looks at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he picks up the money from your desk and puts it on your nightstand instead, like the desk was somehow wrong, like the four feet of distance makes a difference, and you don’t say anything about it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, at the door. “For what I said. At the rink.”

You look at him. “Which part.”

“All of it.”

He closes the door behind him and you sit on your bed in the quiet of your room for a long time, the money on your nightstand and the weight of everything pressing down, and then you pick up your phone and call your sister.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you.” Hannah’s voice is warm and slightly distracted in the way it always is — you can hear one of the kids in the background, the particular high-pitched negotiation of a five year old who wants something and has decided now is the time. “Give me two seconds.”

Then, away from the phone: “Lily, baby, I said after dinner. After. Yes. Because I said so, that’s why.” A door closing.

Then: “Okay. Hi. Sorry. What’s up?”

You open your mouth. You’ve been sitting on your bed for forty minutes since Jake left, the money on your nightstand and your phone in your hand, and you’ve composed this conversation approximately thirty times in your head and all thirty versions started more coherently than what actually comes out, which is: “I did something kind of stupid.”

“How stupid.”

“Significantly.”

A beat. Hannah has always been good at letting silence do its work, at not rushing in to fill it with the wrong thing. It’s one of the things you’ve always loved about her. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me.”

So you tell her. All of it — the party and Jake and the test and the corridor and the slap and him in your room with the money — and Hannah listens through all of it without interrupting, which is its own kind of gift, and when you’re done there’s a moment of quiet that feels like her sorting through it.

“Okay,” she says again. “First question. Are you physically okay?”

“Yes.”

“Second question. Do you have someone with you?”

“Mina’s coming over in an hour.”

“Good.” You can hear her moving around, the soft sounds of her kitchen. “Third question, and I want you to actually think about it before you answer — not what you think you should say, not what’s practical, not what he wants or what anyone else wants. Just you.”

She pauses. “Do you want to keep it?”

You look at the money on your nightstand.

You think about the question the way she asked it — stripped of everything else, just you, just the truth of it underneath all the noise.

The thing is, you already know. You’ve known since the bathroom floor this morning, since you sat with your back against the tub and your forehead on your knees. It’s why the knowing has been so terrifying — not because you’re uncertain but because you’re not, and being not uncertain makes it real in a way that uncertainty would have postponed.

“Yeah,” you say. Quietly. “I do. I just — I don’t want it to be his. I don’t want to be tied to someone who—” You stop. “I don’t want the situation. I just want—”

“The baby,” Hannah says. “Yeah.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Those are two separate things,” she says. “The situation and the baby. They feel like the same thing right now but they’re not.”

You hear her sit down somewhere. “Marcus and I — when I had Lily, things with us were not good. You remember. We were not in a good place. And I thought about it the same way — I want her, I just don’t want this. And it was hard. It was genuinely really hard. But she’s five now and she’s the most annoying, amazing person I’ve ever met and I can’t — I can’t imagine.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Hannah says quickly. “I promise I’m not. Whatever you decide I’m with you. I just — you asked.”

“I know,” you manage. “I know you’re not.”

“Is he terrible?” she asks. “This Jake person.”

You think about the corridor. The money. I’m sorry. For what I said. All of it. “I don’t know yet,” you say. “He’s — I don’t know what he is.”

“Okay.” Hannah’s voice is careful and warm. “You don’t have to know yet. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. Everything else gets figured out.”

You sit with that for a moment. “I’m keeping it,” you say. Out loud, to another person, for the first time. It lands differently than it did in your head — more solid, more real, like something that has been decided rather than something being considered.

“Okay,” Hannah says, and she says it the way Mina says it — not okay as in fine but okay as in I’ve got you. “Then we figure out the rest.”

You tell Mina when she comes over and she holds your hand and doesn’t say anything for a long moment and then says “okay, what do we need to do” in the tone of someone rolling up their sleeves, which is exactly right, which is why she’s your person.

You tell Jake two days later.

You find him after morning practice on a Wednesday, same side entrance to the Hargrove Center, and this time he sees you coming and something in his posture adjusts — not quite bracing, just becoming more careful, more deliberate, the way he gets when he’s paying attention. “Hey,” he says.

“I’m keeping it,” you say.

He goes very still. You watch him process it — the stillness and then the almost imperceptible movement of his jaw, the way his eyes go somewhere internal for a second before coming back to you. He looks like someone doing rapid and complicated mathematics. “Okay,” he says finally.

“You don’t have to be involved. I meant that when I said it. I’m not — I’m not asking you for anything except to know. You deserved to know and now you know and whatever you decide to do with that is up to you.”

“I said I’d provide,” he says. “I meant that.”

“Money isn’t the same as involved.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at you with that careful expression, the one you can’t fully read. “I don’t — I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it and disappears. That’s not—” He stops. “I don’t know what I am yet. But I’m not that.”

You look at him for a long moment. There is, underneath the practice gear and the careful composure and the history of the last two weeks, something that might be decency in there. It’s buried. It’s inconsistent. You’ve seen it appear and disappear enough times already to know better than to trust it yet. But it’s there. “Okay,” you say. “Then figure out what you are and let me know.”

You turn to go. “Can I—” He stops. You look back. “Can I have your number,” he says. “Properly. So we can — so it’s easier to—”

“To what.”

He looks, briefly, like someone who hasn’t thought this far ahead. “Talk,” he says. “If we need to.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you take out your phone and hold it out. He puts his number in and hands it back and you save it under Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) which you do not show him. “I’ll be in touch,” you say.

Jake doesn’t mean to tell his friend— or he does, but not like this, not in the locker room with his gear half off and Riki eating a protein bar on the bench across from him and Jay taping his wrist in the corner and Jungwon doing something on his phone. It comes out the way things come out when you’ve been holding them too long and the effort of holding them finally exceeds the effort of saying them.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The locker room goes quiet. Riki stops chewing. Jay puts down the tape. Jungwon looks up from his phone. “I’m sorry,” Jay says, with the careful enunciation of someone who wants to make sure they’ve heard correctly. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you, I just want to make sure I—” Jay sets down the tape fully and turns to face him. “Who.”

“Girl from Delta Kappa. Three weeks ago.” Another silence. Jay is looking at him with an expression that Jake doesn’t particularly enjoy — something between concern and the specific look of someone doing the maths on how this could have happened and arriving at several uncomfortable conclusions about Jake’s general life choices.

“Are you—” Jungwon starts.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask.”

“Then what.”

Jungwon looks at him steadily. “Is she okay.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about you in the corridor at the rink and your voice going flat and your hand cracking across his face, and then you in your dorm room — calm and certain and telling him you weren’t asking him for anything, which was somehow the part that landed hardest. “I think so,” he says. “She’s — yeah.”

“Do you like her?” Riki asks, with the bluntness of someone who has not yet learned that some questions require more runway.

“I don’t know her,” Jake says.

“That’s not what I asked.” Jay shoots Riki a look. Riki shrugs and takes another bite of his protein bar.

“What are you going to do?” Jay asks, turning back to Jake.

Jake leans his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor. The locker room smells like it always does — ice and rubber and effort — and it’s familiar in a way that is almost destabilising right now, how normal everything around him is when nothing feels particularly normal. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “Be there, I think. As much as she’ll let me.”

“As much as she’ll let you,” Jay repeats. Something in his tone.

“She’s not — she’s not soft.” Jake looks up. “She’s not going to make it easy.”

“Should she?”

Jake looks at him. Jay looks back, steady and unhurried. “No,” Jake says, after a moment. “Probably not.”

Jay nods once. Picks the tape back up. “Then figure it out,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Jake sits with that in the familiar smell of the locker room and thinks that he probably needs to.

—

The truce, when it forms, is not announced. It happens gradually over the following week — a text from him checking if you need anything, which you respond to with I’m fine thanks and nothing else. A text from you three days later telling him your first appointment is booked for the following week, which he responds to with do you want me there and you respond with not yet and he responds with okay and that’s it, that’s the whole exchange, and somehow it’s the most civil conversation you’ve had.

He doesn’t push. You note this without letting it mean too much. You’re not friends. You’re not anything with a name. You’re two people who made a mistake that turned into something neither of you planned for, and you’re figuring out how to exist in the same orbit without either of you combusting, and most days it feels manageable and some days it feels impossible and on the days it feels impossible you call Hannah, who answers on the third ring and lets the silence do its work.

It’s something, you think. It’s not much but it’s something. For now, that has to be enough.

The thing about Caldwell though, is that it’s a big campus until it isn’t.

Thirty thousand students, four faculties, two libraries, a quad the size of a small park — and yet somehow the people you most want to avoid have an unerring instinct for occupying the same coffee shop, the same corridor, the same stretch of pavement at the same time.

You’ve been navigating this for four months with Sunghoon and you’ve gotten good at it. You know his schedule well enough to avoid it without meaning to, the way you learn the shape of someone after two years and can’t quite unlearn it.

Which is why it catches you off guard when he’s just — there. The library café, a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks after the test. You’re at a corner table with your laptop and a cup of tea you’ve been nursing for an hour because coffee is still wrong and probably will be for the foreseeable future, and you’re halfway through a close reading of Middlemarch chapter forty-two when someone pulls out the chair across from you and sits down and you look up and it’s Sunghoon.

He looks, as he always looks, like something assembled with unreasonable care. Dark hair, clean jawline, the particular quality of stillness he has that used to make you feel calm and now just makes you feel tired.

“Hey,” he says.

You look at him. Then at the chair he’s sitting in. Then back at him. “I didn’t say you could sit.”

“I know.” He doesn’t move. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Sunghoon.”

“Five minutes.”

You close your laptop. Not because you’re agreeing, but because whatever he’s about to say you want to be looking at him when he says it. “Five minutes,” you say. “And then you’re going to go away.”

Something moves through his expression — not quite hurt, but adjacent. He folds his hands on the table. He has nice hands. You spent two years noticing his hands. “I saw you at Delta Kappa,” he says.

“I know. You texted me.”

“You didn’t reply.” He looks at you steadily. “You were talking to Jake Sim.”

There it is.

You keep your face very neutral. “I was at a party. I talked to a lot of people.”

“Jake Sim isn’t a lot of people.” Something in his voice shifts — not quite possessive, not quite jealous, threading that needle with the precision of someone who knows he doesn’t have the right to either and is trying to disguise it as concern. “He’s not a good person to get involved with.”

“Thank you for that,” you say. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You look at him. “Sunghoon. You don’t get to come sit at my table and tell me who I should and shouldn’t talk to. You gave that up.”

His jaw tightens. “I know I did.”

“Then why are you here?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Outside the café windows the quad is grey and overcast, students moving across it with their heads down against the wind, and Sunghoon is looking at you with an expression you know — you’ve catalogued it, the way you’ve catalogued everything about him, two years of accumulated knowledge you can’t seem to put down. It’s the expression he gets when he wants to say something and is choosing his words with care.

“I miss you,” he says.

You look at him for a long time. The honest answer is that you miss him too — or you miss the version of things you thought you had, which isn’t exactly the same as missing him but lives close enough to it that the distinction is hard to maintain on a grey Tuesday afternoon with him sitting across from you looking like that.

You miss having a person. You miss the shape of your life before it got complicated in every possible direction.

But you also know what he did.

You know it with the specific clarity of something you’ve gone over enough times that it’s stopped being sharp and started being just — true. A fact about him. A fact about what he chose. “I know,” you say. Carefully. “But that’s not my problem to fix.”

He nods. Slow. Like he expected it and it still costs him something. He stands up, pushes the chair back in, and then pauses with his hands on the back of it. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Actually? You look—” He stops.

“I look what.”

“Tired,” he says. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” you say.

He looks at you for a moment longer. Then he goes, and you open your laptop, and you stare at Middlemarch chapter forty-two for a while without reading any of it.

You don’t tell Jake about Sunghoon.

There’s no reason to.

You and Jake are not — whatever you are, it doesn’t include telling each other things. It includes occasional texts, one appointment you went to alone where a doctor confirmed what you already knew and gave you a due date that made it real in a new and specific way, and a strange careful politeness that exists between you like a temporary structure neither of you fully trusts.

He texts you on a Friday evening. how are you feeling

You look at it for a while. Fine. Less sick this week.

that’s good

A pause. Then: do you need anything?

You think about your sister’s voice. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. You think about Jake in your dorm room, the money on your nightstand, I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it. You think about how many times in the past three weeks he’s almost been decent and then done something to complicate it.

I’m okay, you send back. Thanks.

He sends a thumbs up and you put your phone face down and tell yourself this is fine, this arrangement is fine, and mostly you believe it.

You find out about the girl on a Saturday night.

You’re not looking for it — you’re not the kind of person who goes searching for things they don’t want to find, you learned that lesson with Sunghoon — but Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t, and Mina’s friend group overlaps with the hockey crowd in the specific way that happens at schools where athletes are their own ecosystem but not a fully separate one.

It’s Mina who tells you, with the careful expression of someone who has been sitting on information and decided you’d rather hear it from her. “I heard Jake hooked up with someone last weekend,” she says. Not leading with it, not burying it either. Just: here is a thing that is true.

You look at your coffee. You’ve graduated back to coffee this week, weak and milky, which feels like a victory. “Okay,” you say.

“You’re allowed to have feelings about that.”

“We’re not together, Mina.”

“I know.”

“He can do whatever he wants. We’re not — there’s nothing between us. We’re just—” You move your hand in a vague gesture that encompasses the entire situation. “This.”

“I know,” Mina says again, in the tone that means she has more to say and is choosing not to. You continue to drink your coffee.

The thing is — and this is the part you don’t say out loud, the part you turn over privately in the quiet of your own head — the thing is that you know she’s right.

You are allowed to have feelings about it.

You do have feelings about it, somewhere underneath the very reasonable and correct observation that Jake Sim owes you nothing beyond basic decency and whatever co-parenting arrangement you eventually figure out.

You have feelings about it the way you have feelings about a lot of things lately — in the muffled, at-a-distance way, like they’re happening to someone slightly removed from you and you’re watching through glass.

You’re pregnant with his baby and he’s sleeping with someone else and you’re not together and you have no claim on him and all of that is true simultaneously and you’re not sure what to do with the fact that it still sits in your chest like something uncomfortable.

“I don’t care,” you tell Mina. She looks at you with the expression that means I know you and I know that’s not entirely true but I love you so I’ll let you have it.

“Okay,” she says.

—

Jake texts you on Sunday.

heard you’ve been doing better. that’s good

You stare at the message for a long time. Yeah, you type back. Thanks.

A pause. Then: can I take you to your next appointment?

You put the phone down. Pick it up. Put it down again.

The question sits there, simple and direct, and the thing about it is that it isn’t nothing. It’s not the gesture of someone who is just throwing money at a situation. It’s — something. Small and tentative and probably not enough and something nonetheless.

It’s in two weeks, you send back. I’ll let you know.

okay, he says. no pressure.

You put the phone down and look at the ceiling and think about a girl you don’t know and a Saturday night you weren’t part of and the specific stupidity of having feelings about either, and then you think about your next appointment and the due date the doctor gave you and the small impossible reality of all of it, and you decide that you are going to take a nap and deal with every single one of these things later.

Later, you think. All of it later.

He comes to the appointment, in the end you let him. You texted him the details the night before — time, building, room number — and he’s there when you arrive, standing outside the health centre with his hands in his jacket pockets and his breath fogging in the cold, and he looks up when he sees you coming and something in his expression does that thing, that complicated unreadable thing, and he falls into step beside you without saying anything.

Inside, in the waiting room, you sit next to each other in plastic chairs with a magazine between you that neither of you reads. A couple across the room are holding hands. You and Jake sit with six inches of space between you like a demilitarised zone.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly.

“Fine,” you say. “You?”

“Fine,” he says.

The nurse calls your name and you both stand up and Jake follows you in and stands slightly to the side while the doctor talks and asks questions and pulls up the scan on the screen, and you look at it — the small impossible blur of it, the heartbeat a flickering certainty on the monitor — and you feel the thing in your chest that you’ve been keeping at distance move closer without permission.

Beside you Jake goes very still.

You don’t look at him. You look at the screen.

“Everything looks perfect,” the doctor says.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

In the corridor after, walking back out into the cold, Jake is quiet for a long time. Longer than usual even for him.

You’re almost at the path that splits — his way, your way — when he says, without looking at you: “That was—”

“Yeah,” you say.

He nods. Puts his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll walk you back,” he says.

You think about the girl he slept with. You think about Sunghoon in the library café. You think about the scan on the monitor and the heartbeat that is real and certain and not theoretical anymore.

“Okay,” you say.

He walks you back. You don’t talk much. It’s not uncomfortable exactly — it’s something more complicated than that, something neither of you has a name for yet, and when you reach your building he stops at the bottom of the steps and looks at you and opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“What,” you say.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just — take care of yourself.” You look at him for a moment.

“You too,” you say, and go inside.

—

Sunghoon doesn’t give up. You’d half expected him to — one conversation in the library café, you’d said your piece, he’d said his, and you’d thought that would be the end of it. Sunghoon has always been precise about things, economical, not the type to repeat himself unnecessarily. You’d thought he’d take the answer and file it and move on.

Instead he texts you on a Wednesday. Just — how are you doing. No punctuation, which for Sunghoon is practically shouting.

You don’t reply.

He texts again on Friday. can we get coffee sometime? just to talk?

You stare at it for a long time.

You show it to Mina, who makes a face. “Don’t,” she says.

“I’m not going to,” you say.

He finds you on campus on Monday — the English building, your own territory, which feels deliberate. He’s waiting near the entrance when you come out of your seminar and you see him before he sees you and for one uncharitable second you think about turning around and going back inside.

You don’t. You keep walking. “Hey,” he says, falling into step beside you.

“Sunghoon.”

“I just want to walk with you.”

“I didn’t say you could.”

“I know.” He walks with you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, quiet for a moment in the way that used to feel comfortable and now just feels like pressure. “How are you feeling?”

You glance at him. “Fine.”

“You look better than last time I saw you. Less tired.”

“Thanks,” you say, flatly.

He’s quiet again. The path curves toward the quad and you keep walking and he keeps pace and you’re aware — acutely, uncomfortably aware — that you’re starting to show. Not dramatically, not in a way that’s obvious under your coat, but enough that you know. Enough that it’s a matter of time.

“I meant what I said,” Sunghoon says. “In the library.”

“I know you did.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“You’re walking next to me uninvited,” you say. “What would you call that?”

He stops. You stop too, half a beat later, and turn to look at him. He’s standing in the middle of the path with that precise, careful expression and something underneath it that isn’t quite what he’s performing, and you know him well enough to know the difference and wish you didn’t.

“I made a mistake,” he says. “I know I did. I know what I did and I know it was—” He stops. Starts again. “I just want a chance to—”

“Sunghoon.” You keep your voice even. “I can’t do this right now. I genuinely cannot — there is too much happening in my life right now for me to also be doing this. Okay? Please.”

He looks at you. Something in his expression shifts — a question forming, something he’s noticed that he can’t quite place. “What’s happening?” he asks. Carefully.

“Nothing that’s your business,” you say. “Please just — let me go.”

And he lets you go.

But the problem is that Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t.

The problem is that two weeks later you’re at a party you didn’t particularly want to attend — a smaller thing, a friend of Mina’s, an apartment off campus — and both of them are there. Jake and Sunghoon.

You don’t notice Jake first. You notice Sunghoon, across the room with his circle, and you note it and move on, you’re good at that now. You get a drink — water, the specific reality of being the only sober person at a party hitting — and find Mina and settle into the corner and decide you’ll stay an hour and then leave.

You notice Jake about twenty minutes in.

He’s near the kitchen with Jay, and there’s a girl — tall, dark-haired, laughing at something he’s said with her hand on his arm and her body angled toward him in the specific way that means something. You see him lean in to say something close to her ear. You see her laugh again. You look away.

You look back to Mina, who is mid-conversation with someone and hasn’t clocked it, and you drink your water and you are fine, you are completely fine, this is exactly what you knew was happening and seeing it in person doesn’t change anything and you are fine.

You last another twenty minutes before you decide you’re going to get some air.

The problem is that getting air requires passing the kitchen. Jake sees you at the same moment you see him and something in his expression shifts — that recalibration, that adjustment — and the girl’s hand is still on his arm and you keep walking, eyes forward, almost past— “Hey.”

His voice.

You stop. You turn. He’s stepped slightly away from the girl, who is watching with a politely curious expression. “Hey,” you say.

“You’re here,” he says, which is not his most articulate moment.

“Briefly,” you say. “Don’t mind me.” Something moves across his face.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” You smile at him — pleasant, neutral, the smile of someone who is absolutely fine. “Enjoy your night.” You keep walking.

The air outside is cold and you stand on the small concrete step outside the apartment and breathe it and tell yourself the tightness in your chest is just the stuffiness of the party and not anything else.

You hear the door behind you. “Hey—”

You turn, expecting Jake, and it’s Sunghoon. Of course it’s Sunghoon.

He’s in his coat, hands in his pockets, and he looks at you with that careful expression and says “I saw you come out” like that explains what he’s doing here, which it does, which doesn’t make it better.

“I needed air,” you say.

“I know.” He comes to stand beside you. Close, but not touching. “You looked upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You have a face,” he says, gently, and you hate that he’s right, hate that after four months and everything that happened he can still read you like that. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it Sim?” Something in his voice changes — not quite hard, not quite angry, threading the needle. “Are you involved with him?”

“That’s not your business.”

“I’m asking because I’m worried about you, not because—”

“Sunghoon.” You turn to face him. “Please stop. Please just—”

The door opens behind you. Jake comes out. He takes in the scene — you and Sunghoon, close, Sunghoon’s expression, yours — in about half a second and his jaw tightens in a way you’ve learned to read as something being suppressed.

“Everything okay?” he asks. Looking at you, not at Sunghoon.

“Fine,” you say, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

“She said she’s fine,” Sunghoon says. His voice is even. “So you can go back inside.” Jake looks at him. Something passes between them that has nothing to do with you — some older, unnamed thing.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jake says.

“Then walk away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jake.” Your voice is sharper than you intend. “It’s fine. Go inside.”

He doesn’t go inside.

He stays where he is with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on Sunghoon, and Sunghoon stays where he is with that precise stillness, and the cold air between all three of you is doing a lot of work.

“You’re the one she’s been seeing,” Sunghoon says, to Jake. Not a question.

“That’s not your business,” Jake says.

“It is when you’re—” Sunghoon stops. Something has crossed his face — he’s looking at you, at your coat, and the realisation moves through his expression slowly and then all at once.

His eyes find yours. “Are you—”

“Don’t,” you say.

“Are you pregnant?”

The step goes very quiet.

Jake goes very still.

You look at Sunghoon and there is a specific kind of exhaustion that moves through you — the exhaustion of someone who has been managing too many things for too long and has just watched one of them slip out of their hands.

“That,” you say, carefully, “is none of your business.”

“It’s his, isn’t it.” Not looking at Jake. Looking at you. Something in his voice that you don’t have a name for — not anger, not hurt, something more complicated and less clean than either. “You hooked up with Jake Sim at a party and now you’re—”

“Sunghoon—”

“What were you thinking?” And there it is — the composure cracking, the precision slipping, something rawer underneath. “What were you actually — with him, of all people—”

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is hard. “Watch yourself.”

“You stay out of it—”

“She told you it’s none of your business—”

“I’m talking to her—”

“Then talk to her with some respect—”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you.” Sunghoon turns to Jake fully now and the precise stillness has sharpened into something else. “Everyone knows what you are. Everyone knows how you treat—”

“And everyone knows what you did,” Jake says, low and flat. “So don’t stand here and act like you’ve got the moral—”

“Stop.” Your voice cuts through both of them. They both look at you. “Both of you. Stop.”

A beat. “I’m going home,” you say. “This is—” You gesture at the three of you, at the step, at all of it. “I’m not doing this.”

“I’ll walk you—” Both of them, simultaneously.

“Neither of you will walk me anywhere.” You pull your coat around you. “I want to go by myself and I want both of you to leave me alone tonight. Okay?”

Sunghoon opens his mouth.

And then — later, when you try to reconstruct the exact sequence, it’s hard to isolate the moment it tips — he reaches for your arm, a gesture, just trying to stop you leaving, and Jake moves at the same time, stepping forward, his hand coming out to push Sunghoon back, and Sunghoon turns, and the angles are all wrong, and Jake’s elbow catches you across the side of your face.

It’s not hard. It’s not a real blow — it’s the edge of the motion, glancing, the kind of thing that in any other circumstance would be an accidental knock in a crowded corridor that you’d shake off and keep walking.

But you make a sound and stumble back.

Jake turns and sees your face and goes completely white. “Fuck—” He reaches for you.

“Don’t touch me.”

Your hand comes up. Your voice has gone very quiet. The side of your face is throbbing, low and dull, and underneath it everything else — the tiredness, the party, Sunghoon’s face when he realised, the girl’s hand on Jake’s arm — all of it presses in at once and you are so, so tired.

“I didn’t — it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know it was an accident,” you say. Still quiet. Still very controlled. “I know that.”

“Are you okay? The baby—”

“I’m fine. It was my face, not—” You stop. Press your fingers briefly to your temple. “I’m fine.”

Jake is looking at you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before — something undone about it, all the composure gone, something almost desperate. “Let me take you home—”

“No.”

You look at him. Then at Sunghoon, who has gone very still and very pale. “I’m going to get Mina. I’m going to go home. And I don’t want either of you to contact me tonight.”

You take out your phone. You text Mina. You wait on the step with your back to both of them until she comes out, takes one look at your face, takes your arm, and walks you away without saying a word.

Behind you, you don’t look back.

Jake texts at midnight. I’m so sorry. please tell me you’re okay

You look at it for a long time. I’m fine, you send back. Goodnight Jake.

He sends: I’m sorry again

Those two words, and you put your phone face down and stare at the ceiling of your dorm room and Mina is asleep in your desk chair with a blanket over her because she refused to go home and you love her for it, and the small dull ache in your temple has faded to almost nothing, and the baby is fine, you’re fine, everything is fine.

You don’t text him back.

He tries on Sunday.

A text at nine in the morning — can we talk please? — that you look at and put face down without replying.

Then at eleven: I know you’re angry. you have every right to be. I just want to talk.

Then at two in the afternoon, which shows either impressive persistence or a complete inability to read a room: I’m going to keep texting until you tell me to stop.

You text back: stop.

He texts back: okay. I’m sorry.

You put the phone in your drawer.

He doesn’t stop.

Well, he stops texting — he respects that, or he tries to, mostly — but he finds other ways. There’s a bag outside your dorm room door on Monday morning: crackers, the specific brand you’d been eating in the early weeks, ginger tea, a punnet of the green grapes that you’d mentioned once in passing to him that you’d been craving. No note. Just the bag.

You stand in your doorway looking at it for a long time.

You bring it inside. You eat the grapes. You do not text him to say thank you and you do not text him to say stop and the not-texting feels like its own kind of answer that you’re not ready to examine yet.

On Tuesday he’s outside your building.

Not lurking — he’s sitting on the low wall by the entrance with his hands between his knees and his jacket on against the cold, and he stands up when he sees you come out and he doesn’t move toward you, just — stands there, and waits, and lets you decide.

You stop on the steps. “Jake.”

“Five minutes,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve them. Five minutes and then I’ll go and I won’t — I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

You look at him. He looks back. He has, you note, the specific appearance of someone who hasn’t been sleeping well — not dramatic, just a tightness around his eyes, a quality of having been somewhere difficult in his own head for the past two days.

Good, says a part of you.

The other part steps down off the steps and stands in front of him and crosses her arms and says: “Five minutes.”

He exhales. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For Friday night. For — all of it, the whole night, but specifically for—” He stops. His jaw works. “I should never have let it get to that point. I should have walked away from him the second it started and I didn’t and you got hurt and you’re — the baby could have—” He stops again. Something in his face that isn’t composure. “I will never forgive myself for that. I need you to know that. It keeps me up.”

You look at him. “It was an accident.”

“It was an accident that happened because I couldn’t keep my head.” His voice is flat with self-assessment. “Same difference.”

“It’s not the same difference.”

“It’s close enough.” He looks at you steadily. “I’m also sorry for the girl at the party. I know you saw. I know we’re not — I know you don’t have any claim on me and I don’t have any claim on you and technically I didn’t do anything wrong but I’m still sorry because I saw your face and I knew and I did it anyway and that’s—” He stops. “That’s not who I want to be. With this. With you.”

The wall by the entrance is cold and grey and a girl from your floor passes you both with her earphones in and doesn’t look up and the world keeps moving indifferently around this conversation.

“You hurt me,” you say. Not the elbow. The other thing. The girl at the party and the ceiling of his bedroom and the weeks of almost-decency that kept getting complicated. “Not — not physically. You just keep—” You stop. “Every time I think maybe you’re a person you do something that reminds me why I shouldn’t think that.”

He takes that. Doesn’t deflect, doesn’t explain, just takes it. “I know,” he says.

“I need you to be consistent,” you say. “I can’t — I’m going to have your baby, Jake. We’re going to be in each other’s lives for a very long time. I need you to be someone I can rely on or I need you to be completely absent because the in-between is—” Your voice doesn’t shake. You’re proud of that. “It’s too hard. I can’t do the in-between.”

He’s quiet for a moment. The wind moves across the quad and he looks at you with that expression — the undone one, the one without composure — and says: “I don’t want to be absent.”

“Then be consistent.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?” He’s not defensive — it’s a real question, earnest in a way that sits oddly on him, like a piece of vocabulary he hasn’t used much. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Specifically. I’m not good at—” He moves his hand. “Guessing. Feelings. Whatever this is. But if you tell me what it looks like I’ll do it.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“No more girls,” you say. “Not while we’re — not while this is what it is. I know I have no right to ask that but I’m asking.”

Something shifts in his expression. “Done,” he says. No hesitation.

“And show up. When you say you’re going to show up, show up.”

“Done.”

“And don’t fight people on my behalf. I can handle my own situations.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “That one’s harder.”

“Jake.”

“Done,” he says. “Okay. Done.”

You look at him. He looks back. The five minutes has long since passed and neither of you has moved and the cold is starting to get into your fingers.

“The grapes were good,” you say finally.

Something in his expression — brief, warm, gone almost immediately. “I’ll get more,” he says.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He says it simply. No performance in it.

You nod. You pull your coat tighter. “I have a seminar,” you say.

“I know. Go.” He steps back, hands in his pockets. “Thank you. For the five minutes.”

You go.

He tells his father that evening.

He doesn’t plan to. He goes to his dad’s office on the east side of the admin building for what is ostensibly a standing weekly dinner that they do on Tuesday evenings — a thing they’ve done since Jake’s freshman year, his dad’s attempt at maintaining something normal in the specific abnormality of being the dean’s son at your own father’s university. They go to the Italian place two blocks off campus. They talk about the team, the season, coursework, the usual rotation.

Except tonight Jake sits down across from his father and picks up the menu and puts it down again and his dad looks at him over his own menu with the steady, unhurried attention that has always been the most disarming thing about him — the way he looks at you like he has all the time in the world and means it — and says:

“What’s going on.” Not a question. His dad has never really needed to make them questions.

Jake puts his menu down. He looks at the table. He thinks about you on the steps this morning saying every time I think maybe you’re a person and the specific accuracy of it, the way it had landed not like an attack but like a diagnosis.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The restaurant is quiet around them — mid-evening, not full yet, the soft noise of other people’s conversations providing cover. His dad sets his menu down with the deliberate care of someone who is choosing his response carefully.

“How far along,” he says.

“About eight weeks.”

His dad nods slowly. He’s a big man — Jake has his build, the same broad shoulders, though his dad carries more grey now at his temples and something steadier in his face, something earned. He looks at Jake with the expression that Jake has never been able to fully decode — not anger, not disappointment exactly, something more complicated and more patient than either.

“Tell me about her,” he says.

Jake blinks. Of all the things he’d expected — “What?”

“The woman. Tell me about her.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. He thinks about you — the flat voice in the corridor at the rink, your hand cracking across his face, I can’t do the in-between. The grapes. The way you’d said the grapes were good like it cost you something to admit it.

“She’s—” He stops. Tries again. “She’s a third year. English lit. She’s sharp. Like — she doesn’t let me get away with anything, she just looks at me and calls it and moves on. She’s not—” He shifts. “She didn’t want this to be mine. She told me that. She wants the baby, she just didn’t want it to be complicated, and I’ve made it complicated.”

“How.”

Jake looks at the table. Lists it. The slap he deserved, the money that was clumsy, the girl at the party, Friday night and the elbow and her face and the specific look she’d had, controlled and exhausted and done.

His dad listens to all of it without interrupting. When Jake finishes there’s a pause — his dad picks up his water glass, drinks, sets it back down.

“Do you like her?” he asks.

Jake looks up.

“It’s a simple question,” his dad says.

“We don’t — I don’t know her. Not really.”

“That’s not what I asked, son.”

Jake is quiet for a moment. He thinks about you outside your building this morning, arms crossed, giving him five minutes you didn’t have to give. The way you’d said I need you to be someone I can rely on like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, like you weren’t asking for anything extraordinary, just — consistency. Basic human consistency. The thing he has never had to be for anyone.

“Yeah,” he says. Quiet. “I think so.”

His dad nods. Like that’s the piece he needed. Like everything else was context and that was the information.

“Then be someone worth liking,” he says. Simply. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s the only thing that matters and everything else is just logistics.

Jake looks at him.

“You’ve never had to work for anything,” his dad says, and it’s not unkind — it’s just true, delivered with the directness of someone who has been watching this coming for a long time. “Not really. Not the things that count. You’re talented and you’re smart and things have always — moved for you. And that’s partly my fault.” He meets Jake’s eyes. “But she’s right. You can’t be the in-between. You’re going to be someone’s father. That’s not a thing you can be inconsistent about.”

Jake absorbs this.

“I know,” he says.

“Do you?”

“I’m trying to.”

His dad looks at him for a long moment. Then he picks his menu back up. “Good,” he says. “That’s the right answer.” He glances over the top of it. “Order something. You look like you haven’t eaten good in a while.”

Jake looks at the menu.

“Dad,” he says.

“Mm.”

“I really—” He stops. “I’ve really made a mess of this.”

His dad lowers the menu slightly. Looks at him with that steady, unhurried attention. “Yes,” he says. “But messes can be cleaned up.” He raises the menu again. “The carbonara is good tonight.”

Jake picks up his menu.

He end up ordering the carbonara.

—

The thing about consistency is that it’s quiet.

It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a gesture or a speech or a moment you can point to and say — there, that’s when things changed. It just accumulates, slowly, in the background of your ordinary life, until one day you look up and realise the weight you’ve been carrying has shifted without you noticing.

Jake shows up.

That’s the only way to describe it. He shows up in the small ways, the unglamorous ways, the ways that don’t make for a good story but add up to something anyway. He texts when he says he will. He’s outside your building on Wednesday mornings because you have a seminar and the walk takes you past the science quad where the wind is brutal and he started walking with you three weeks ago without asking and has not stopped. He brings food — not always the crackers and ginger tea, sometimes just the grapes, sometimes something from the good Thai place near the rink that you’d mentioned once you were craving and didn’t expect him to remember.

He remembers things.

This is, you find, the most disarming thing about him. More than the jaw and the shoulders and the specific quality of his attention when he’s fully in a conversation.

He remembers that you take your tea with one sugar and that you’re writing your dissertation on George Eliot and that your sister’s youngest is called Lily and that you cannot watch medical dramas right now because they make you anxious in a way you can’t fully explain. He files things away and uses them with a quietness that suggests he’s not doing it to impress you — he’s just paying attention.

And god, it’s harder to be angry at someone who pays attention. You’re still trying.

Your bump begins appearing at eleven weeks.

Not dramatically — not one morning you wake up transformed, just a gradual undeniable softening of the line of your stomach that means your jeans sit differently and your favourite hoodie, the oversized one you’ve worn for three years, suddenly doesn’t hang quite right. You stand in front of your mirror on a Thursday morning and put your hand flat against it and stay there for a moment with the strange doubled feeling that has been following you for weeks now — the unreality of it and the complete reality of it, existing simultaneously, refusing to resolve.

Mina notices before you say anything. She’s been noticing for two weeks, you suspect, and has been waiting for you to bring it up, which is one of the reasons she’s your person.

“You’re showing,” she says, on Friday afternoon, without preamble.

“A little,” you say.

“How do you feel about that?”

You think about it genuinely. “Weird,” you say. “Good weird. Mostly good weird.”

Mina nods. “Have you told Jake?”

“He’ll notice,” you say. “We’re — we’ve been spending time together. He’ll see.”

Mina looks at you with the expression that means she has registered the significance of we’ve been spending time together and is choosing, for now, not to make anything of it. “Okay,” she says.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I really wasn’t,” she says, in the tone that means she absolutely was.

He notices on Saturday.

You’re at this Thai place — his suggestion, your agreement, the two of you in a corner booth with menus neither of you needs because you’ve been here enough times now that you already know — and you’ve taken your coat off because the restaurant is warm and you’re wearing a fitted top and when you reach across the table for the soy sauce you catch him looking.

Not rudely. Not in a way that makes you want to cover yourself. Just — looking, with that attentive expression, taking in information.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You have a face.”

“I have a face,” he says, which is almost a smile. “You’re showing.”

“I know.”

“You look—” He stops. Considers his word choice with unusual care. “Good,” he says finally. “You look good.”

You look at him across the table. “That was very diplomatic.”

“I meant it.”

“Jake.”

“I genuinely meant it.” He meets your eyes. “You look good. You’ve looked good for a while. I just—” He stops again. “Didn’t say it. You looks beautiful actually.”

The restaurant is warm and smells like lemongrass and the couple at the next table are arguing quietly about something and the ordinary world is going on all around you and Jake Sim is sitting across from you saying you look good with an expression that has nothing performative in it, no angle, no formula.

You pick up your menu that you don’t need and look at it. “Thank you,” you say, at the laminated page.

He goes back to his menu too. Neither of you says anything else about it. But the air between you has shifted by some small degree and you both know it and neither of you is ready to name it yet and that, you think, is okay.

For now that’s okay.

The not-naming becomes its own kind of language eventually.

He walks you to your seminar on Wednesday and waits fifteen minutes in the wrong direction from the rink to do it, which you know because you’ve looked at the campus map, which you will not be telling him. You bring him coffee one morning — just once, without explanation, the specific order you’ve heard him give three times now — and he takes it without making anything of it which is exactly right. You text him a photo of a onesie Mina finds online that says future hockey player as a joke and he sends back a voice note that is mostly him laughing, genuine and unguarded, and you listen to it twice.

You do not examine why you listen to it twice.

Sunghoon texts once more — I hope you’re okay. I mean that.

You look at it for a long time. You think about the library café and the step outside the party and the way his face had looked when he realised. You think about two years and what they were and what they turned out to be underneath.

I’m okay, you send back. Take care of yourself.

He sends a single: you too.

And that, you think, is the end of that chapter. It doesn’t feel like closure exactly — closure implies a clean line, and there is no clean line, just a gradual and mutual putting down of something that had gotten too heavy to carry. But it feels like something finished. Something that needed to be done.

You feel lighter, after.

Jake finds out about the dissertation.

Not in a dramatic way — you’re in the library one afternoon, the two of you at adjacent tables because you’d both ended up there independently and moving would have been more pointed than staying, and he leans over at some point and looks at your screen and reads two sentences and says: “You write like this normally?”

“Like what.”

“Like—” He gestures at the screen. “Like that. Like it means something.”

You look at him. “It’s an academic paper.”

“I know what it is.” He looks faintly annoyed, the way he gets when he’s trying to say something and the words aren’t cooperating. “I’m saying it’s good. It sounds like you.”

You turn back to your screen. You are not going to make anything of this. You are a reasonable and self-possessed adult and you are not going to sit in the library and catch feelings because Jake Sim said your writing sounds like you.

“Thanks,” you say, at your laptop.

“I’m serious. It’s—” He picks up his pen. “Good.”

“You said that.”

“Because I mean it.”

You look at him. He looks back, pen between his fingers, entirely unaware that he’s just done something dangerous, and you look back at your dissertation and breathe carefully and remind yourself of all the reasons this is complicated.

There are many reasons. They are good reasons. You know them all.

The night it almost becomes something, it’s late November and it’s cold enough that your breath fogs and Jake has walked you back from the library and you’re standing at the bottom of your building’s steps in the dark and neither of you is moving.

“I should go in,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says.

Neither of you moves.

You’ve been doing this — the standing, the not-moving, the conversations that go slightly longer than they need to — for three weeks now. It has a shape, this thing between you, even if it doesn’t have a name. It has weight. You’re both aware of it and both moving around it with the particular carefulness of people who have been burned recently and are not in a hurry to be burned again.

“Jake,” you say.

“I know,” he says. Like he already knows what you’re going to say. Like he’s been having the same conversation in his own head.

“I just need it to stay—” You gesture between you. “Like this. For now. Okay? I need it to stay manageable.”

He looks at you. “Is it not?”

You look back. “Less and less,” you admit.

Something moves through his expression. Warm and complicated and controlled. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll keep it manageable.”

“Okay.”

“I just need you to know—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever this is, whatever speed it goes. I’m not going anywhere.”

The cold is sharp and the steps are lit by the yellow glow of the entrance light and you are eleven weeks pregnant and standing in the dark with the father of your baby who is looking at you like you’re something worth staying for, and you think about all the reasons this is complicated and you think about your sister’s voice — those are two separate things — and you think that maybe, maybe, the situation and the feeling don’t have to be the same thing.

“Goodnight, Jake,” you say.

“Goodnight,” he says. You go inside.

At the top of the first flight of stairs you take out your phone.

You open his name — Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) — and you look at it for a long moment.

You change it to Jake.

Just Jake. Nothing else.

You put your phone in your pocket and go to bed.

—

He asks you out on a Tuesday.

Not dramatically — not with any of the ceremony you might have expected from someone who has spent the better part of four months being alternately infuriating and disarming. He just falls into step beside you on the Wednesday morning walk to your seminar and says, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes forward: “Let me take you to dinner. A real one. Not Thai because we’ve done that.”

You look at him. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that.”

“Did you want me to make it complicated?”

You look back at the path ahead. The quad is grey and cold and a girl on a bike nearly takes out a first year near the fountain and life goes on all around you, indifferent and ordinary. “No,” you say. “I didn’t want it complicated.”

“Friday,” he says. “Seven. I’ll pick you up.”

“I know where the restaurants are, Jake. I go here too.”

“I know you do.” He glances at you sideways. “Let me pick you up though.”

You look at him. That expression — patient, certain, not performing anything. Just asking.

“Friday,” you say. “Seven.”

He nods. Looks back at the path. The corner of his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile and is better than one.

The restaurant he takes you to is small and Italian and not the kind of place you’d have expected from him, which you’re finding is a theme — Jake Sim consistently failing to be what you expect in the specific ways that make him hardest to keep at distance. It’s candlelit without being try-hard about it, the kind of place where the pasta is made that morning and the wine list is handwritten and the tables are close enough that you’re aware of his knee near yours under the table for the entirety of dinner.

You talk. That’s the thing — you just talk, the way you have been talking for weeks now on walks and in the library and over Thai food, except tonight there’s no pretence of it being anything other than what it is. He asks about your dissertation and actually listens to the answer. You ask about the season and he tells you about the conference standings with genuine animation, hands moving, and you watch him and think about the ceiling of his bedroom in September and the corridor at the rink and the bag outside your dorm door and all the distance between those things.

“What,” he says, catching you looking.

“Nothing,” you say. “You’re different.”

“From what?” He laughs.

“From who you were in September.”

He’s quiet for a moment. He turns his wine glass slowly on the table. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”

“Is that — do you mind that? Being different?”

He looks at you. “No,” he says. Simply. “I don’t mind it at all.”

You look back at your pasta.

Under the table his knee settles against yours and stays there and you don’t move away from it and neither does he and you eat your dinner in the warm candlelit ordinary of it and let yourself be there, fully, without managing it from a distance.

Outside afterward the cold hits and you’re pulling your coat around you when his hand finds yours. Not reaching, not making a thing of it — just his hand finding yours in the dark like it already knows the way, fingers threading through, warm and certain.

You let him.

You walk back across campus like that, not talking much, and when you reach your building you stop at the bottom of the steps and he turns to face you and you look at him in the yellow entrance light and you think about goodnight, about all the goodnights, about the careful distance you’ve been keeping.

“Come up,” you say.

His expression does that thing — complicated and warm and something that isn’t quite controlled anymore. “You sure?”

“I just asked, didn’t I?”

He follows you up.

Your room is warm and small and familiar and he’s been in it before but not like this — not with the door closed and the lights low and both of you knowing exactly what this is. He stands just inside the door and looks at you and you cross the room and kiss him.

It’s different from September.

September was heat and momentum and two people who didn’t know each other doing something that felt like a decision.

This is — slower. His hands come up to your face the way they did at the party but gentler, more deliberate, like he’s paying attention to something he nearly missed before. He kisses you like he has something to say and this is the only language that fits, and you feel it move through you differently than anything has moved through you in a long time.

“Hey,” he says, against your mouth.

“Hi,” you say back.

He pulls back just enough to look at you — really look, the way he does now, the full attentive weight of it — and his thumb traces your cheekbone and he says, quietly: “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?”

“Jake—”

“I mean it.” You can tell he means it. It’s in his face, unguarded and certain. “I’ve been — I should have said it a long time ago.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you pull him back down.

He undresses you slowly, which is new — September was efficient, purposeful, barely stopping. Now he takes his time like he’s making up for it, his mouth following the line of your throat, your collarbone, his hands sliding your top off with a care that makes your breath catch. When he gets to the soft curve of your stomach he stops.

He goes to his knees.

You look down at him, breath held, and he puts both hands flat and warm against your bump and just — holds them there. His forehead drops forward to rest against you. The room is quiet. You put your hand in his hair without thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says softly. Not to you.

Your throat tightens.

He turns his head and presses his lips to the curve of your stomach, gentle, then again, then moves his hands slowly like he’s learning the shape of it, and you feel something in your chest come undone quietly and without ceremony.

“Jake,” you say, and your voice is not entirely steady.

He looks up at you. His eyes are dark and very serious. “Okay?” he asks.

“More than okay,” you manage.

He stands back up and kisses you again and walks you back to the bed.

He lays you down and settles over you and his mouth goes back to your tits immediately — you’d forgotten, or you’d tried to forget, the specific focused obsession of it — his hands cupping them, heavier now, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples until you’re arching up into his mouth.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, “you’re so perfect,” and the praise lands warm and low in your stomach and you pull at his shirt until he lets you get it off.

He’s as good-looking as you remembered, which is annoying.

His mouth works down your body and his hands slide your underwear off and then he looks up at you from between your thighs with an expression that makes your brain go briefly offline. “Okay?” he says again.

“If you don’t—” you start.

He puts his mouth on your pussy and the rest of that sentence evaporates.

He goes slower than September. That’s the difference — the same precision, the same devastating accuracy with his tongue on your clit and his fingers curling deep into your walls, but slower, like he wants to take you apart carefully this time, like he’s paying attention to every sound you make and adjusting accordingly.

Your hands find his hair. Your hips roll up. He holds them down with one forearm across your hips and doesn’t stop, doesn’t change pace, just keeps that steady merciless rhythm until you’re shaking and pleading and your walls are clenching around his fingers and you cum on his tongue with his name coming out wrecked and too loud for the room.

He comes back up your body looking — different than September. Still composed, still that infuriating ease, but underneath it something open. Something that wasn’t there before.

He reaches for his jacket on the floor. Finds his wallet to grab a condom.

You start laughing.

He looks at you confused. “What.”

“Jake.” You press your lips together. “We don’t — I’m already pregnant.

He looks at the condom in his hand. Looks at you. Something crosses his face and then he laughs too — real and unguarded, the laugh from the voice note, the one you listened to twice — drops it back on the floor and comes back to you.

“Fair point,” he says, against your mouth.

“Incredible,” you tell him. “You’re incredible.”

“Shut up,” he says, warmly, and kisses you.

He flips you over.

Not roughly — carefully, one hand at your hip and one at your shoulder, mindful, and you end up straddling him and looking down at him and his hands settle on your hips and he looks up at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen.

“You good?” he asks.

“Very,” you say, and sink down onto him.

The sound he makes is low and immediate and deeply satisfying. You feel every inch of him filling you, your walls stretching around his cock, and you go slow — partly because of the bump, partly because you want to, partly because watching his face as you take him is something you want to draw out. His jaw is tight. His hands on your hips are firm but not directing, just — there, holding on.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—”

“I know,” you say, and roll your hips.

His head drops back.

You find your rhythm — slow, deep, the grind of your hips meeting his, and his hands tighten and his hips push up to meet you and his mouth falls open and he is, you think, the best-looking thing you’ve ever seen like this, undone and flushed and completely present, all the composure stripped away.

“Perfect,” he says, rough and low, watching you move. “You’re so perfect, look at you—”

The praise moves through you like heat and you move faster, his thumb finds your clit and you gasp and his other hand spreads warm and careful over your bump and the gesture — the gentleness of it, the instinct of it — tips something over in your chest that you’re not going to examine right now because you’re busy, but you feel it, you feel it clearly.

You cum the second time with his cock buried inside you and his thumb on your clit, his hand on your stomach and his eyes on your face. He follows you not long after with his hips driving up and your name in his mouth, said like it means something, said like he’s been saving it.

Afterward you lie tangled together in your narrow dorm bed, which is not really built for two people but is managing. His hand is resting on your stomach with a naturalness that would have been impossible three months ago and you’re staring at the ceiling and feeling the particular peace of someone who has been braced for a long time and has just, finally, put it down.

“Come to my game next week,” he says.

You turn your head to look at him. “What?”

“Home game. Friday.” He’s looking at the ceiling too. Casual. Except you know him well enough now to know when the casual is covering something. “Come watch.”

You look back at the ceiling. “Okay,” you say.

He turns his head. “Actually?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you say. “Yes. I’ll come to your game.”

The corner of his mouth. That almost-smile that’s better than a real one. “Okay,” he says, and looks back at the ceiling, and his hand stays where it is, warm and certain.

—

The following week is small moments.

Tuesday he brings you the grapes and stays to help you outline your next dissertation chapter, sitting on your floor with his back against your bed and your notes spread between you, and he asks better questions than you expect and you don’t tell him that.

Wednesday the walk to your seminar, his shoulder bumping yours, the coffee he brings without asking — your order, exact, without you saying anything.

Thursday a voice note at eleven at night: just wanted to check you were okay. don’t reply if you’re asleep.

You reply and end up talking for forty minutes.

Friday morning he’s at your door.

In one hand, coffee. In the other, folded fabric — dark blue, the Caldwell Wolves crest on the chest, white lettering across the back. SIM. 9.

He holds it out. “You don’t have to,” he says, before you can say anything. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it a thing. I just thought—”

You take it from him.

You pull it over your head immediately. It’s enormous on you — falls to mid-thigh, swamps your shoulders, the fabric soft from washing. You look down at it and then up at him. His expression is something you don’t have a word for.

You reach up and pull him down by his jacket lapel and kiss him, there in your doorway, in the yellow morning light, slow and certain.

When you pull back he looks — stunned, almost. Like he didn’t expect it even after everything.

“What was that for,” he says with a big grin.

“The jersey,” you say. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

The Hargrove Center is loud in a way that is different when you’re in the stands rather than the corridor — a living, moving noise, four thousand people and the echo of the ice and the announcer’s voice bouncing off the rafters. Mina is beside you, which you’d insisted on, and she’s wearing a Wolves scarf she definitely did not own before today and is eating a pretzel with the focus of someone who has decided to enjoy this.

Someone sits down on your other side.

You look over. He’s older — Jake’s build, the same broad shoulders, grey at his temples, a Wolves cap and a measured, unhurried expression.

“You must be—” he starts while smiling at you with the same grin Jake gave you not long ago.

“Dean Sim,” you say. “Hi.”

He looks at you for a moment with that steady attention that is so recognisably Jake’s that it almost makes you laugh. He’s smileing — warm, real. “He talks about you,” he says. “Quite a lot.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly.” He settles back in his seat. “He told me about the grapes.”

You look at him. He looks back with an expression of someone who finds this mildly amusing and is being polite about it.

“He remembered I was craving them,” you say.

“I know,” Dean Sim says. “That’s why he told me.” He looks out at the ice where the Wolves are warming up, Jake moving with that particular ease that is the same on ice as off it, unhurried and certain.

“He’s better than he knows how to show yet,” his dad says, quietly. Not performing it. Just — true. “But he’s getting there.”

You watch Jake on the ice.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

The Wolves win.

Not narrowly — convincingly, the way they do when Jake is in the kind of form he’s been in lately, sharp and present, the kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by being fully there. You find yourself on your feet twice without meaning to be and Mina is absolutely losing her mind beside you in a way that suggests she has been quietly wanting to attend a hockey game for some time and has simply been waiting for the invitation.

After the final buzzer the arena stays loud, the celebration on the ice spilling into the stands, and Dean Sim shakes your hand and says it was lovely to meet you with a warmth that is entirely genuine, and you watch him go and think that Jake got the best of him, underneath everything.

And then the jumbo screen above the ice lights up.

You see it before you process it — your name, in big white letters, and then: JAKE SIM WANTS TO KNOW — WILL YOU BE HIS GIRLFRIEND?

The arena does not go quiet because four thousand people do not go quiet, but there is a definite shift — a ripple, a collective awareness, people turning and pointing and the noise changing character. Mina grabs your arm. You stare at the screen.

“Oh my god,” Mina says.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Are you — are you going to—”

And then he’s there.

Full hockey gear, skates and all, somehow having gotten from the ice to the stands in the time it took you to register what the screen said, and he’s standing at the end of your row with his helmet under his arm and his hair damp and his face doing that thing — the unguarded thing, the thing without composure — and four thousand people are watching and Mina has both hands over her mouth.

“Well?” he says. Over the noise. Just to you.

You look at him. You look at the screen. You look back at him.

“You’re insane,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Is that a yes?”

You laugh — real and helpless, the kind that comes from somewhere you haven’t accessed in a while — and you step over Mina’s knees and go to him and he meets you halfway and you kiss him in the Hargrove Center in front of four thousand people and full hockey gear and the crowd does what crowds do when they witness something and the noise is enormous but you don’t hear any of it.

When you pull back his forehead drops to yours.

“Yes,” you tell him. “Obviously yes.”

He exhales — slow, like something released. His hand comes up to your face. His thumb at your cheekbone, the way it always is. “Good,” he says.

“Good,” you say back.

Behind you Mina is making a noise that suggests she is going to be telling this story for the rest of her natural life.

—

Three weeks later you are officially four months pregnant and the bump is undeniable now, round and real, and you’re sitting on Jake’s bed in his room — tidier than September, same room, different everything — with your legs across his lap while he reads something for class and his hand rests on your stomach with the absent certainty of someone who has stopped thinking about it and started just doing it.

The Wolves won again last night. His jersey, what you wore last night and have been to every game, is on the back of his chair.

Outside the window Caldwell goes on being large and indifferent and fully lit up, and in here it is warm and quiet and ordinary in a way that is — everything, actually. The whole thing. The specific ordinary of someone else’s presence that you’ve been missing without knowing how to name it.

“Hey,” Jake says, without looking up from his page.

“Hey,” you say.

“You good?”

You look at him — at the line of his jaw and the hand on your stomach and the room that used to be just a room and is now something else, something yours — and you think about September, about the corridor and the money and the slap you don’t regret. You think about Mina in the drugstore bathroom and Hannah on the third ring and the heartbeat on the monitor that made everything real.

You think about how none of this was the plan and how a plan was never the point.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”

He turns a page. His hand stays where it is. Outside, Caldwell. Inside, this.

Good, you think. I’m more than good.

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips @hooniluhv @afanok @seungiesdoll @rinforu @isa942572 @ride-a-nishimura @florarua @baedreamverse @softblaqn @rikisloverrr @kittyvalr @ellushic @dimples264493 @kimmm02 @kiwicup @jakebitez @mystgene @baek-some-cake @betagalactose @kookiesnkim @honeyvelvetinez @violetteaismyfavourite @meowza1 @imminentcodexcore @mlink64 @k4y-sh @rubadubdubinthetub @jungwno @k3nza @simjakeyjake @heeseungdada @bbrianawhatt @onlyifusayyesxx @mintchocoddeonut @sillycactus143 @heexyzy @wonkiipiilled @sugarcwtie @alleiraa @firstclassjaylee

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── BACK 2 U [PREVIEW] ⁺₊✧ s. jy ⤷ FULL FIC POSTED HERE!

pairing ⋆₊˚⊹⋆˙⟡ sim jaeyun x f!reader ── .✦ angst, exes with benefits, exes to friends to ???, smut (none in this preview!) , ft. friend group!enha, jake has one sided beef w jungwon wc ꩜⊹✎ᝰ.ᐟ 3k (preview wc!)

synopsis ₊˚⊹⋆˙⟡ sim jaeyun broke up with the love of his life eight months ago. sim jaeyun is doing just fine. or at least, he's gotten very good at saying he is. unfortunately, the truth is a little more complicated when the person you're trying to get over still exists in your everyday life, still shares the same friends, still shows up to game night, still laughs at your jokes, and still reminds you of what you lost. so when one reckless night becomes another, then another, then another, jake finds himself caught between the future he thought he wanted and the person he can't seem to stop choosing. because while some people leave your life, some become the place you're always trying to get back to.

₊˚⊹⋆˙⟡ hiii everybody ok,,,posting this preview so i can force myself to finish this soon & post it officially hehe but literally last week i was at 3k words and rn it's sitting at 25k and counting...so she's gonna be a hefty one but i'm also really excited for this one and also just kinda love jake in this ugh,,,been in my emotions lately for no reason whatsoever im just a #girl so this one is gonna be for my angst lovers & guys & gals with attachment issues bc me too. anyways! im in ireland rn and still whipping her up so she should be done soon lemme know if u wanna be tagged when she's out...mwah <3

the party is loud in the way parties stop being fun after twenty two and start being endurance tests—bass vibrating too hard through the floorboards, red cups everywhere, that specific smell of cheap vodka and someone's cologne that was trying too hard. jake doesn't even fully remember how you all ended up here, it was something along the lines of all five of you lazily sprawled across jay's living room with a movie no one was watching playing in the background until jay mentioned something about knowing a guy who knows a guy who was throwing a house warming party even though he moved in over six months ago and now here we are.

jake had been doing alright the first hour, he'd taken two shots with sunghoon and heeseung just to feel something, let jay rope him into some dumb drinking game that mostly involved shouting and losing, and nodded easily when you told the group you were going to go say hi to some people you recognized. he didn't think about it too much, which was a good habit he found himself trying to get better at more recently—not overthinking every little thing you did, not letting his eyes follow you across rooms like they still had the right to.

but then everything and anything he learned about good habits was thrown right out the window the second he looks over and searches for you, solely only because he's being a good friend, he tells himself. just making sure you were okay, just checking, nothing more. the lie sits easy on his tongue even as his eyes scan across the crowded room, past the clusters of people and the haze of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke drifting in from the balcony. he finds you near the kitchen island, leaning against the counter in that comfortable, familiar way, talking to yang jungwon.

now, yang jungwon was the kind of guy who just kind of existed to jake, a friend, but the kind that never really orbited in his life. he was younger, a little removed from the group, the kind of person whose life didn't collide with jake's enough for a solid, everyday friendship to form. to jake, he was always kind of like background noise, someone he used to nod at across campus, someone he sees at parties and gives a quick 'hey' to before moving on and that's it. never someone significant enough to warrant a second thought in jake's head.

until jake looks over and finds you looking at jungwon. and then what occurs in jake's head isn't only a second thought, but a third, a fourth and maybe the beginning of a fifth. all of which are circling the same stupid, irrational thing: jake hates yang jungwon.

because now here he is, watching the way jungwon leans in a little closer when he speaks, the way your hand brushes against his arm when you make a point. the way you look relaxed in a way jake hasn't seen in a while, shoulders soft, smile easy, the kind of open that used to be reserved for early nights and late mornings when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world felt far away.

and the worst part is that jake couldn't even be mad at jungwon. jungwon, who was all bright smiles and sweet and a little shy and looked at you like he was trying not to look too hard. jungwon, the kind of person who probably remembered birthdays without being reminded and asked follow up questions about people's days. jungwon, the kind of person who probably returned rogue shopping carts in the grocery store's parking lot. jungwon, who didn't know that the last time you laughed like that was because jake said something stupid on purpose just to watch your eyes crinkle at the corners in that way that always made his chest feel too full.

that's the funny thing about perspective. because here's the thing. jake had been looking at the breakup entirely from one side of it, his side. the side where he lost you. which, objectively speaking, was terrible enough on its own. but still, loss is a strangely selfish thing. because when someone loses something, they almost center themselves around the surrounding artifacts of what is no longer theirs. for jake, it was the calls he didn't get anymore, or the newly cold and empty space beside him in bed. or like how he still pauses in grocery aisles in front of snacks he didn't even like because buying them for you became so automatic that not buying them felt stranger. he spent so long mourning the absence of you that he never really stopped to consider what came after.

because yes, you're now his ex-girlfriend. yes, the relationship was over. yes, he had been the one to end it. all of those were true. but there was another truth too, the one that he unfortunately believes in more than the former—that the two of you had loved each other for three and a half years. and that doesn't just disappear. there were entire pieces of one another that would always belong to that relationship, memories nobody else would understand, inside jokes nobody else would find funny. versions of yourselves that only existed because the other person had been there to witness them. it was something sacred, in a way. sacred and special and it belonged to you and him and him and you and some small, selfish part of jake maybe took comfort in that. because even after everything, it still felt like yours and his. like nobody else could ever touch it, understand it, or even come near to it.

but then jake looks across the room and sees you laughing and suddenly, a realization hits him hard enough to make his stomach drop. that you weren't just something he lost. you were someone who would keep going, someone who would keep living. someone who would keep collecting new memories and new experiences and new people. and someone who would eventually fall in love again and be loved. because, of course. why wouldn't you be? you were beautifully soft, kind, impossibly easy to love.

the thought sat heavy in his chest like a bruise that he couldn't stop pressing. jake was all at once suddenly and painfully aware that not only did he take you out of his future, but he had given you back to the rest of the world. that the version of you he still carried in his head wouldn't just be his anymore. that one day it would belong to someone else. someone who would look at you for five minutes and immediately understand why jake had loved you for three and a half years. someone like jungwon, who was sweet and safe and looking at you like he already knew exactly how lucky that would make him.

jake's fingers tightened around his cup until the plastic creaked. and jake usually believes in being the bigger person, he genuinely does. to be mature, to stay put right where he is and let the group have a normal night, to let you have a normal night without making it about the fact that he still notices every little thing about you.

jake takes a long sip from his drink. then another. then another. as if enough of whatever concoction this is in his cup might somehow make him stop thinking. and obviously, because we all know how this goes, it doesn't. if anything, it makes the spiral worse, because now he's really watching. and once jake starts watching you, he's kind of screwed.

he watches the way you're smiling, real and unguarded, the way you lightly shove jungwon's shoulder after something he says, the way he grins, the way you grin back. and suddenly jake is very aware that he hates this. which is ridiculous because, really, nothing is happening. because jungwon is jungwon. because you're allowed to talk to whoever you want. because jake is twenty-three years old, not twelve. because he broke up with you. because he broke up with you. because he—

the thought doesn't get to finish itself. jake is already moving. already halfway across the room before his brain catches up. because apparently all that maturity he spent the last eight months building could be taken out behind a shed and shot the second he saw you smiling at somebody else.

and before he knows it, before he could let himself think about what he's doing for even a second, he's right there against you, his arm sliding around your waist before either of you could react, fingers spreading possessive and familiar over the curve of your hip like they had every right to be there. the warmth of your body against his side hits him like a memory he didn't realize he wasn't ready for. and for the first time in eight months, for one stupid, selfish second, jake felt like he was home again.

"there you are," he says, low enough that only you could hear the small crack in his voice. he then presses a quick, deliberate kiss to your temple, the kind of small, possessive thing that used to make you roll your eyes and smile at the same time. the kind of thing that he's done a thousand times before that used to mean absolutely nothing but now means entirely too much.

everything in your body immediately goes still and jake feels it. he feels the way you freeze beneath his arm, the sharp inhale you try to hide. he feels jungwon's eyes snap to him. then yours. but jake's committed now. or perhaps more accurately, he's already ruined his own life.

"been looking everywhere for you."

there's a horrifying two seconds of silence where nobody says anything.

jungwon then blinks, his eyes flicking between the two of you with that polite confusion that says he's realizing in real time that he's stepping into something he didn't really have the full context for.

"oh—shit, sorry, i didn't know you guys got back—"

"yeah, yeah we did," jake cut in smoothly, smiling like he had everything totally under control and didn't just lie right through his teeth with ease. your head whips towards him. jake pointedly does not look at you. instead, his thumb strokes once, slow and instinctive against your hip under the hem of your top before he could stop it. "right, baby?"

you don't answer right away. the music pulses around you, the lights catch your eyes, and for a second jake recognizes that look and that's when he realizes he's absolutely done for, that he pretty much dug his own grave and is actively getting in it.

jungwon then backs up slightly, mumbling something polite about catching up later before he finally turns and disappears into the crowd. the second he's out of sight, you spin in jake's hold, shoving his chest with both hands, and the look on your face is the one he had been waiting for and dreading in equal measure.

"what the fuck, jake?"

jake blinks at you slowly, like his brain was still catching up to what his body had done. like he's only just realizing that he crossed an invisible line that he laid down himself and then proceeded to sprint fifty feet past it.

"i thought we were good," you say, your voice tight as you look up at him, eyes wide and filled with the familiar mix of frustration and hurt that he knows all too well.

jake's jaw flexes, like he was trying hard to hold back every single, selfish, ugly emotion he'd been suffering with ever since you walked out of those apartment doors eight months ago and took half of him with you.

"we are good." the words come out too fast, too defensive. he heard it and hated it.

you let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "right. yeah. because that was totally normal."

he hesitates for a moment, the small distance forcing his eyes to flick down to your mouth for half a second before he forced them back up.

"c'mon, i mean…you—" the words stopped. for a second he just stands there, just looking at you, accepting that this is the closest he's been to you ever since eight months ago and this could very well be the last time he ever will be. just looking at you and the way your lips press together like you were holding back something much bigger than anger. and then at the very, very obvious fact that even now, even when upset at him, you still haven't stepped back. neither of you have. eight months of carefully curated distance and here you were again, letting him hold you like this in the middle of a crowded room.

"jungwon," he says finally, quieter. "really?"

you quirk a brow, and jake can't tell if it was pure annoyance or that infuriating mix of annoyance and amusement you always got when he was being ridiculous. your hands still stay fisted in the front of his shirt, not pushing anymore but definitely not letting go either. at this point the space was pretty much near nonexistent, his arm still curved around your waist, your knees almost brushing, the heat of him bleeding onto you like it used to when you'd stand in his kitchen at two in the morning.

"and what's wrong with jungwon," you ask, voice deceptively calm. and this is when jake realizes right then and there that eight months must've meant absolutely nothing because just the way your voice sounds, just the way you're looking at him, is already unraveling him in ways in ways he tried really hard to unlearn.

his thumb moves without permission, a quick stroke against your hip, restless and desperate. "he's a kid."

"he's like a year younger than me," you shot back, tilting your head, the movement bringing your faces a fraction even closer.

jake's jaw tightens. "he's still in school."

you stare at him for a long second, something dangerous and challenging sparkling behind your eyes. then the corner of your mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close enough to make his stomach flip.

"i'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that," you say, voice laced with that teasing edge that always used to get under his skin in the best way. "since when did you become such a possessive old man, jaeyun?"

jake closes his eyes at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue, trying his hardest to pretend it didn't hit him the way it always did whenever you called him that. he sighs, the sound quiet and exhausted, in that defeated kind of way that tells you this isn't coming from completely out of no where.

"c'mon, y/n," his voice is softer now, almost pleading. "i know you."

"right," you scoff, but your stance falters slightly. "so you know what's best for me, right? for the both of us?"

and that lands somewhere. somewhere deep and hard and admittedly more vulnerably raw than he wishes it had. his fingers tighten slightly around you, his breath hitching for a moment before he catches himself.

"c'mon..don't be like that," he murmurs, eyes searching yours like he was looking for an exit he already knew didn't exist. his hand slides a little higher against you, his palm now flat against the warm skin of your lower back. "you know i'm not trying to—"

"i'm not being anything," you cut in, voice quieter now but still edged with that defensive frustration, "you're the one who decided to make it weird. you're the one who came over here and—" your voice breaks off with a shaky laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. you shake your head then, eyes now shining. "you know what, this is stupid. whatever."

a beat of silence stretches again between you, jake still unmoving, holding you right there against him. your bodies were nearly flush now in the cramped room, your knee slotted between his thighs, every point of contact painfully impossible to ignore.

then, soft and almost reluctant, you whisper, "let go of me, yun."

he swallows hard, voice low and defeated when he finally answers, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

"i kinda really don't want to."

the confession hangs there in the small space between your bodies, the truth heavy and honest in a way that solved absolutely nothing and somehow made everything worse. you let out another small scoff, but despite yourself you still don't pull away. you don't push him. you just stay right there, letting him hold you, neither of you making any real effort to create distance.

then, your eyes meet his in the dim party light, dark and shining and full of the same messy, desperate thing he was feeling. you break the silence first.

"how drunk are you?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"not at all."

you pause, studying him. your gaze traces his face like you were memorizing it, like you were actively aware you were making a mistake but couldn't bring yourself to stop. then, slowly, hesitantly, one of your hands slid up from his shirt, fingers trailing along his collarbone before curving around the back of his neck, finding the ends of his hair automatically, mindlessly playing with the strands in that familiar way that always used to make his breath catch.

your eyes then meet his again and something flashed between you, something tired and hurt and full of everything you weren't supposed to feel anymore.

"sober enough to drive me home?" you ask after a moment.

"yes ma'am."

and for another agonizingly long second you just watch him again, eyes searching like you were waiting for one of you to be smart enough to stop this. to choose self-preservation over whatever this still was between you.

"liar."

jake's breath hitches. a small, low chuckle escapes him.

"would i lie to you?"

and when jake and you leave the party and end up at his car parked a few blocks away, what happens next is, what jake would later say, probably not his brightest idea.

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[mssishipi]

OUT OF REACH — PJS

A bird is often seen as a symbol of freedom, soaring high across the open sky with nothing holding it back. But you were never that kind of bird. You flew close to the ground, surviving on whatever scraps fell from above, learning to live with the weight that kept your wings from ever reaching the same heights as others.

A life as a prostitute was something you had accepted long ago. It was never the source of your struggle—it was simply the reality you learned to survive within. The real problem began when your path became entangled with PARK JONGSEONG, a celebrated actor whose wings carried him far above the clouds, soaring through a world that had always been completely Out of Reach.

CONTENT WARNING: this story contains dark and potentially disturbing themes, including prostitution, exploitation, abuse, and other sensitive subject matter. some scenes may depict situations involving vulnerable individuals and may be emotionally difficult, unsettling, or uncomfortable for some readers. reader discretion is strongly advised. please proceed with caution and read at your own risk if these topics are distressing to you.

content tags: actor!jay x reader, idol! jungwon x reader, ANGST (w/comfort), love triangle :<, fan x actor, grumpy! jay x soft! reader, reader needs a lot of hugs, self worth issues, social prejudice and stigma, jay and jw are half brothers, SLOWBURN, jay have this perfect and flawless image inside the camera, jungwon also need a hug, unrequinted love, eventual romance, secret child trope, slice of life, each tags will be included on each chapter. explicit content: smut, consensual sex ofc, unprotected sex, multiple scenes in each member. MDNI.

1 : DUSK | ESTIMATED WC: 30K

2 : DAWN | TBA

[0210sjy]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚  sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.

(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.

paid! jake x fem! reader ˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI ! inspired by 10 things i hate about you !

Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.

What he didn't understand though, were your laws.

No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.

No driving without adult supervision.

No going out past 10PM.

No girlfriends until eighteen.

No accepting rides from people he didn't know.

No staying out without answering his phone.

The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.

These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.

You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy. 

The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life. 

"Don’t drink." you state.

Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"

You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."

He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"

You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."

He groans. "It's a party." 

You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."

He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it. 

A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"

Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.

Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”

“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.

Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”

The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.

Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.

You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.

He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”

They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”

Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”

That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy? 

“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.

Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”

“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”

Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged. 

The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.

It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.

Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.

Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.

"Why are you looking at me like tha —"

“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”

Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction. 

“No.”

“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.

Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”

Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

Jake shakes his head, “What?”

“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”

And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”

“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.

Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”  

Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.

Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.

The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.

Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”

By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.

"You're a good man, Jake."

"I'm aware."

"No, like, a really good man."

"Thank you."

"The best."

Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.

"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."

Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.

Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough. 

Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”

Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.

“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.

“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”

“No.”

Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.

“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”

Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”

“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.

You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”

“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.

It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes. 

You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”

You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.

For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door. 

That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.

Wow. Okayyy.

You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.

Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.

“Hey.”

You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.

He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.

For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.

“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”

You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”

Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”

That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”

The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”

You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”

“No.”

He frowns. “So it’s personal.”

“No.”

Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.

“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.

Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”

He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”

For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.

You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.

Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.

Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.

Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.

Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”

Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"

“It had the best lighting.”

“It has me.”

“Exactly.”

You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.

You don’t look up. “No.”

Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.

“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”

Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”

He blinks. “So?”

“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”

“You know my grade?”

“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”

It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”

This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”

The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”

“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”

You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”

Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”

“You asked for help.”

“I asked for economics.”

“And I gave you something useful.”

His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.

You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.

For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.

“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.

Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it. 

“No.”

Riki stares. “No? Jake.”

“No.”

Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”

Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.

“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you. 

“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.

Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella. 

The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary. 

“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”

Jake groans. “No.”

“Please.”

Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him. 

Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.

A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.

The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.

“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.

The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”

Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.

It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.

After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.

“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.

Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”

You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”

His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”

You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”

He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”

You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”

His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”

Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”

“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”

You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”

You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.

The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”

“I have coffee at home.”

For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.

“That’s not the point,” he says.

You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”

You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.

He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”

You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.

Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”

Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.

By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.

The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes. 

You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.

The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.

You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

"Wow."

You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.

Specifically you.

"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.

His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.

"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom. 

You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."

"Right."

"I do."

He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.

He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"

You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."

That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"

You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.

The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.

You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."

You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner. 

You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.

A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”

You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”

He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.

The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.

His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”

Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”

For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.

Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”

Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.

Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”

You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.

Then you look up to see Jake. 

“What the hell?” you hiss.

He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”

You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”

“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”

Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.

However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.

“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”

He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.

“No.”

“Then one.”

“Jake.”

“You can yell at me outside.”

You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.

The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.

The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”

You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.

Which lasts forty-seven seconds.

“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”

Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”

He shrugs. “Occasionally.”

“About me?”

He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.

You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Well, yes.”

You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.

You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”

“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”

You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”

“So yes.”

“No.”

“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”

Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”

“There’s nothing.”

“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.

“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.

“I’ve been told.”

“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.

He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”

“No.”

“Board member?”

“No.”

Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”

Your head snaps up. “A guy?”

He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”

You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”

“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”

You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.

“Good.”

Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

“You’re being weird.”

He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.

He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.

“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”

Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”

For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.

A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.

He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.

You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.

Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”

Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”

The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”

You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”

Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”

You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”

For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.

He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”

You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”

The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it. 

Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”

You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.

You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”

He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.

You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”

“No.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”

You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”

Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.

His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”

A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”

“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”

Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”

Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”

He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”

You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”

“You called him Chicken.”

“Because his name is Chicken.”

“Which is insane, by the way.”

You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.

You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”

“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”

His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”

For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.

“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”

He glances at you. “I did.”

You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”

“I said hey.”

“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”

He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.

“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”

He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.

“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”

You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.

His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”

“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.

“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”

“Unlikely.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”

For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face. 

“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”

His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”

You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”

He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”

He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either. 

Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”

The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.

Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.

Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”

His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.

“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”

“That is not what you said.”

“I know.”

“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”

“I know what I said.”

Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.

His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.

You clear your throat. “I should go back.”

His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”

You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”

He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”

You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”

His mouth curves. “Fine?”

“Yes.”

He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.

“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.

He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”

You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”

His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”

You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.

“In front of everyone?”

“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”

You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”

“Okay.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore. 

The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.

One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.

You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in a dress shirt.”

“And you’re shivering.”

“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer. 

“Just wear it.”

The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.

You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.

You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”

“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.

For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again. 

It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”

Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.

By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.

That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.

Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.

There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.

Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.

At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.

Riki had paid him.

Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.

It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty. 

He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”

He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”

“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”

Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”

“A date.”

There is silence — one awkward silence.

Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”

“No, obviously not.”

“Riki.”

“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”

Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”

“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”

Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.

“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.

Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”

“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”

Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”

By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.

You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”

There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”

His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?

You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”

You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”

“Come with me.”

The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened. 

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.

Then he says, “Okay.”

You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely.  “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.

On the other end, there is a small pause. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”

The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.

“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”

You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.” 

He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”

You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”

Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”

There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.

You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”

He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”

The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.

Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.

His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”

You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”

“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.

You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car. 

The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him.  The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.

You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.

You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”

He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.

“Come on,” he says.

Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.

At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.

He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”

“People are walking.”

“Badly.”

Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.

He catches himself at the last second. “What?”

You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.

“I’ve been craving dumplings.”

The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.

For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”

You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.

You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”

“Was that gratitude?”

You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink. 

You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.

You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.

You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.

Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”

He picks it up. “It does.”

You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.

“Put it back.”

Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”

He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”

“No, why did you buy it?”

“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does. 

The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.

For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.

Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.

You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.

You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”

He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”

At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.

You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.

Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”

He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”

He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.

You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.

“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”

You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.

“Are you blushing?” you ask.

Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”

“You are.”

“It’s cold.”

You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.

So you stay.

He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.

You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.

“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.

You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.

By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether. 

He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.

When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.

“I can carry my own stuff,”

“I know.”

He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.

Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”

You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.

“A little,” you say.

His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“I feel greedy.”

Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze. 

Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.

“Only tonight.”

“Because of the market?”

“Sure.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”

He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.

You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.

He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”

You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”

He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says.  Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.

That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.

His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

“You’re not going.”

“Neither are you.”

You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.

It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.

He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”

He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.

You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.

“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”

He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”

You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.

“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”

His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.

Then you kiss him. 

He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.

“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.

Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again. 

Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.

When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”

For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.

“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.

His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”

“That’s your excuse?”

His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”

You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”

His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.

“Then let me do better,”

You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.

When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.

You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”

His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.

For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.

You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.

He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.

The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.

He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.

You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”

His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.

Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.

Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”

His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.

And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.

Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.

When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”

“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”

He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions. 

In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.

You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.

You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”

You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.

Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.

For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.

“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.

Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”

“You usually have more to say.”

His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck. 

He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.

“You’re very careful.”

His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”

You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.

Except, you do. And it is very obvious.

You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.

“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”

He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.

“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.

But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it. 

A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids. 

 “I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.

You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”

He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.

He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.

He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.

He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently. 

“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.

His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.

“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.” 

He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark. 

He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer. 

He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.

With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.

“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head. 

He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head. 

He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.

“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.

His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.

He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles. 

The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”

“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?” 

He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.

He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.

Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets. 

“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.

You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.

He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.

Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed. 

He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”

You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.

He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”

He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.

His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.

You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.

“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “

If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact. 

“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip. 

You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.

“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.

He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.

“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.

“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “

He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure. 

Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does. 

“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”

You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”

He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”

Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”

“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”

You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”

Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.

“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.

Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.

Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds. 

“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat. 

The next few days have been… a turn.

Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.

The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.

You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.

The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.

Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.

You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.

You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.

After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.

Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough. 

One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”

With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.

Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.

When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”

You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.

He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.

Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.

Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.

The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in. 

Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.

You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”

“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”

That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”

He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing. 

His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).

Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize. 

For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.

Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter. 

You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.

He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”

For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers. 

The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.

A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”

Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”

Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.

Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”

“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”

There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.

“Taming the lion,” someone says.

Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.

The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.

Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”

Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.

Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”

“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”

“What?” Jake asks, distracted.

Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.

“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”

Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.

He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.

And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.

Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.

You turn and walk.

Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.

You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.

“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”

The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.

You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.

He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.

Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”

“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”

Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”

You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.

That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”

He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”

Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge. 

You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.

“Is that true?” you ask.

His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”

You stare at him.

“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”

Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”

He goes still.

That is the answer.

You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.

You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”

The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.

He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”

“I thought you chose me,” you say.

“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”

Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”

He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.

“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”

You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”

Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”

His breath catches. “Please.”

You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in. 

“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.

You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.

You hate men. Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.

Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning. 

Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.

But history is dead. Men killed it.

Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.

By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.

On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus. 

“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.

Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.

“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”

You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind. 

By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing. 

At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.

Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”

Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.

At eight minutes, you sit up. At nine, your feet touch the floor. At ten, you stay where you are.

Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.

The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary. 

That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.

“What?”

He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”

You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”

“I don’t want delivery.”

“Then make something.”

“I want to go out.”

You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”

Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”

You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.

“It’s late,” you say.

“I know.”

“And you have Jake, apparently.”

He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.

He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”

You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.

With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”

The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark. 

When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.

Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.

For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.

“What?”

He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”

You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?

Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”

You look at him, face unreadable.

“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”

You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”

Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”

The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.

“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”

He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”

The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.

You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”

For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”

For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.

“I really am sorry,” he says.

When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.

“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.

He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”

You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.

For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.

“You’re so stupid.”

“A dumbass, I know.”

You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.

“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.

You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”

Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”

Your eyes narrow at him.

“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”

The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.

He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”

Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.

“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”

“Riki.”

“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”

You stare at him for a long second.

“And what am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”

You hate him a little for saying it.

You hate him more because it makes you think.

The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it. 

You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”

“I know.”

You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”

“I know.”

You look at him.

He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.

Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”

Your mouth almost curves.

“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.

That night, you cannot sleep.

It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.

You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.

You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.

The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.

When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.

The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”

You nod once. “Right.”

“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.

You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car. 

“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.

You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.

He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”

You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.

“Okay.”

You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”

He goes still.

“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.

“Okay.”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“And you still hurt me.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”

You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”

He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile. 

“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”

You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.

Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.

Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.

“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”

He does not answer.

“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”

Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.

“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”

For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.

He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.

“Can I?” he asks.

You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.

You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.

“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”

You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”

He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”

Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”

“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp. 

His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”

For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.

Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”

You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”

“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”

He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.

Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”

The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”

He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.

“I want you,” he says.

He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.

For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.

Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe

“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.

His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.

His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”

You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.

For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.

His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”

“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.

His mouth softens. “Yeah.”

You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.

His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”

You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.

The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.

Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.

“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.

He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.

When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”

For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”

Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.

“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.

Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”

His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.

You hate him. You hate him a lot.

You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”

He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”

“Jake.”

“Sorry. Done. No more.”

[luvpocket]

top two (sim jake) ‎ꫂ᭪݁

pairing: college(fuckboy)!jake x fem!reader

content: (blonde) jake college au, academic rivals, enemies to lovers, angst, emotionally repressed characters (they're all kind of toxic), competition, sexual tension, unreliable narrator (i think?), mental health topics, reader is pretty socially anxious and depressed, light fluff, smut

warnings: mdni! sexual content, cursing, fingering (f. receiving), oral sex (m. receiving), risky sex, classroom sex, degradation, emotional sex, first time, regret.

wc: 41.6k (oops)

note: if you recognize the small kanthony quote, i love you. this is for the avoidant, from the avoidant. i have a few songs that i listened to while writing this, so here they are in case anyone cares. the story doesn’t exactly relate to them, but they might put you in the mood to read it:

true love waits - radiohead / aquel nap zzzz - rauw alejandro / who knows - daniel caesar / con los dos en la cabeza - pedro guerra and cruz cafuné / just for today - clairo / cardigan - taylor swift / sarah - alex g / some protector - role model / angel (bedroom session) - beabadoobee / pushing it down and praying - lizzy mcalpine / boyish - japanese breakfast / moon river - frank ocean / moon song - phoebe bridgers / casual - chappel roan (ofc) / soren (bedroom session) - beabadoobee / i will - mitski / cinderella - mac miller and ty dolla $ing

i hadn't written in so long i forgot i actually enjoy doing this. this has been sitting on my notes app since like december lol. i also hope the whole research thing doesn't sound too stupid, please forgive me if you have already graduated, my fellow psychologists. i got all the info from a little research thing my friends and i did, but it’s hard to put it into dialogue, even harder if it’s in english :”) once again, english is not my first language, so forgive me in advance for any mistakes :) enjoy!

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you knocked on his door, almost pounding on it, letting all your rage out in that single action. you thought he was predictable enough. you didn’t really know him, but his mind had never seemed all that complex. he might have had the best grades in all your classes for almost three consecutive years, but outside of academics, his thought process felt pretty easy to follow. or so you believed.

you kept trying to get him to open the door. it was a saturday morning, so it was obvious he was sleeping in after a long night of doing god knows what. you had only spoken to him briefly once, but everyone seemed to know his routine a little too well. he was extremely predictable, right?

“could you explain to me why the fuck-“ you cut yourself off after a few words came out of your mouth, realizing you weren’t talking to the person you were supposed to kill that morning.

“who are you?” the pitch black haired girl standing in front of you asked in a condescending tone, with all the confidence you had spent hours trying to build vanishing in a few seconds.

“y-yeah, uhm. sorry. i was looking for… jake?”

“he is sleeping.” you could tell she wasn’t going to give you much more information by her lack of justification. could she at least offer to pass the message down to him? while you were pondering about how to even ask her to do so, you couldn’t help but notice her smudged mascara and the faint red marks that were blooming on her neck. didn’t he have a girlfriend? you had heard some people called him ‘the campus slut’, but you didn’t know the title was so literal. you had no interest on speculating on people’s sex lives at that moment, but you prayed someone had told his supposed girlfriend about how this guy was spending the nights.

“anything else?” you thought people would stop being mean for no reason once you got to college, but that wasn’t the case at all. you learned pretty quickly in your first year that all the cliches still existed no matter how old you got, and that’s how you stayed invisible. you were comfortable with being irrelevant, unknown to most people, since that’s how it had been for your whole life. you didn’t speak to anyone unless it was mandatory and completely inevitable, which left you with, to be honest, zero friends. you tried in your first year, you really did, at least during the first month. but you quickly realized people weren’t so friendly there, even less to such an awkward person. interacting socially didn’t come as easy to you as it did to others, but you had no idea how to change it. even if you had tried to for your whole twenty years of life.

all you knew was that you had a single goal. a quiet goal that made you stay up every night, drowning in voluptuous psychology books that you took out of the library’s darkest corners and writing infinite notes that were carefully highlighted in all sort of colours. a goal that always had an obstacle. an obstacle named jake sim, to be exact. and at that exact moment, he was hindering your progress more than ever. “look, uhm… could you tell him i’m his project partner for his social development class and that i need to talk to him? if he doesn’t remember me, tell him he gave me his email, in class. i-i shared a google doc so he also has my email address and he can-“

“who the fuck is at my door at this hour, kyra?” before you could finish your sentence, you heard a deep voice approaching. the infuriating voice you were actually looking for.

“great, you woke him up.” kyra spoke in a fake nice tone, a mean smile pulling at her lips. before you could even process the passive-aggressive comment, a dyed blonde head peeked out from behind the door. your heart jumped. you had spent so long preparing for this confrontation, but now that it was actually happening, you suddenly felt weak. “oh, you.” well, at least it seemed like he remembered who you were. you could skip the embarrassing part in which you reminded him of the only interaction you had ever had, in front of another stranger too. “so… what do you need?” jake questioned in a confused tone, clearly not interested in what you had to say.

“i wanna talk to you. in private.” you said as your gaze turned to the girl who answered the door, trying to subtly get your message across.

“this is fucking stupid, i’ll wait for you in bed.” she rolled her eyes as she entered the apartment again, clearly not happy about your presence. you knew you were being an inconvenience, but he deserved it. it wasn’t your fault she was there to suffer the consequences of his actions.

“so?” you took a deep breath before speaking, as seeing the natural look of confidence he had was already making you furious.

“i did my part the day the project was assigned. tell me why i opened the document yesterday night to see if you had started and, to my surprise, the whole thing is gone. deleted.”

“do you not know how to look at the document history or what?” “d-do you think i haven’t done that?! that is also gone, you know?” you raised your voice a little, trying to hide how anxious you were about the whole interaction.

“and you weren’t smart enough to make a copy of your text?” “why do we use google docs for? it’s supposed to be safe because of the damn history.”

“did you come here just to blame me for your irresponsibility?” you had never met such an infuriating person, you were sure. but before you could even respond, he questioned you again. “how did you even get my address?” you knew that question would come up sooner or later, so you already had your answer prepared.

“i asked your friend who works at the campus cafe. i always see you with him.” you did ask heeseung because you knew he would be dumb enough to just tell you without much reasoning. although you actually didn’t need his help, you couldn’t let jake know you were actually very aware of his surroundings. you were a little too familiar with what his friend group posted on instagram, too. this guy’s information was way too easy to find, you thought. some people might have thought you were obsessed, but to you, it was simply being strategic. analyzing the objective, comprehending how a person so careless could always win. no matter what you did. maybe you were a little obsessed, but you had your academic reasons.

“so my guy heeseung is just giving out my information for free to random people, huh? i’ll talk to him later then.” he thought out loud, while completely ignoring your accusations still.

“don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” “you know, the need to sabotage only exists when there is real competition.” ouch. it wasn’t only the content of his message, it was also the way he delivered it. the calm tone, the cocky smirk and the lack of need of explanation. “look, you must have had a problem with your connection. but since i can physically sense your anxiety from here, i’ll do your part again. happy?” you were enraged. what did he know about your anxiety? he probably didn’t even remember your name. him being so sure about your mental state made you feel furious, and him being correct about it worsened even more.

"i don't need your pity. i just need you to not mess with my work. i don't have time for these kind of things, okay?"

"i'll send you a message when it's fully done. see ya." before you could even think of an answer, the door was shutted right in front of your face without further explanation. you just needed to get through this project and you wouldn't have to share a single word with jake ever again in your life. 

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

three days later, you finally reopened the document after you had only been working on it for a couple hours that same day you confronted jake. you needed to finish your part once again not because you wanted to, but because ignoring it any longer would’ve felt like admitting defeat. you sat down in the library with the same heaviness you had been carrying since that night, fingers hovering above the trackpad for a moment too long before you clicked in. the file loaded and nothing felt different at first. your section was still there, the parts you had rewritten after the frustration of seeing it had been erased. it still felt slightly uneven to you, unfinished in the way only your own work could feel when you knew you hadn’t had enough time to properly shape it again. you scrolled down, expecting the rest of it to still be blank. empty space, his problem. but there was no empty space. the document was... done. not half done, not rushed, not patched together just to meet the deadline. fully done. the methodology section had been expanded beyond what you had originally outlined, your notes reorganized into something clearer, more structured. the analysis had been rewritten in places, not replaced, but refined in a way that still made your ideas recognisable underneath it. even the conclusion was there, clean, direct and complete. you stared at it for a long time, not scrolling, not moving, just reading the same paragraph twice because your brain refused to accept that it hadn’t been there before.

and then you saw the comments. dozens of them. not long messages, not explanations, just quiet interruptions in your work: “this needs more grounding” “unclear reasoning here” “this part is actually strong, keep it” “you’re overexplaining this concept”. there was no tone in them, no praise or sarcasm, no attempt at softness. there was just precision, like he had treated your writing the way you treated data. you leaned back slightly in your chair, exhaling through your nose while trying to make sense of the irritation forming in your chest. not because he had ruined your work, but because he hadn’t. he had expanded it into something much more structured as he had finished his own precisely. maybe his stupid first place at the rankings seemed a little more fair now. you stared at his name for a second longer than you should have, your jaw tightening slightly as you scrolled back through the pages again, slower this time, as if you might find the trick hidden somewhere in the formatting. there wasn’t one. it was just good, annoyingly good. one last comment appeared at the end of the document, letting you know that he was done editing. you followed his suggestions and made the changes you saw necessary, as you didn't agree with all of his opinions. jake was sharp with his work — direct, structured, almost brutally efficient. you, on the other hand, preferred slower reasoning, longer explanations, space to sit with an idea instead of compressing it into something clean and immediate. you almost had opposite ways of writing, but it had worked somehow.

once you read it all again, you opened a new email and attached the file, professor jones’ address going in first. you didn’t overthink it, as it was just the usual submission format for a small assignment. after a second, you also added jake’s email in cc so that he would be notified you had already turned it in. you clicked send, finally allowing yourself to forget about that dumb project and your even dumber partner. although, somehow, he still lingered in the back of your mind anyway.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the following days slipped back into routine in a way that almost felt normal again: lectures, library sessions, half-finished readings you told yourself you would return to later. the project stayed somewhere in the back of your mind, present but quiet. until professor jones called you in after class. his office looked the same as always — slightly cluttered, papers stacked in uneven piles, his laptop half-open like he was constantly in the middle of something he hadn’t finished yet.

“come in.” he said warmly as you stepped inside. “i was just reviewing your submission.” you sat down, hands folded loosely in your lap, trying to read his expression before he said anything else. “it’s good.” he said after a moment. “really good. there’s a lot of clarity in your thinking, especially in how you structure social behavior patterns. that’s not easy to teach.” you blinked slightly at the praise, caught off guard. “but more than that,” he added, softening his tone a little, “it shows potential. real research potential.” as you heard his words, your posture straightened without meaning to. “i've been thinking.” he continued, leaning back in his chair. “your work doesn't need to only be small coursework assignments. it can become something more meaningful if you’re willing to push it.”

“more meaningful?” you repeated carefully.

he nodded. “a structured research project over the semester. you’ll expand on what you already always do: methods, data collection, proper analysis. but you’ll actually test your ideas instead of just discussing them.” you stayed quiet, absorbing it all. “and at the end of the term, there’s a student research conference. it’s internal, but it brings in students from different departments who are interested in research work. you would present your findings there.”

that made your stomach tighten slightly. “a conference?”

“yes.” he said simply, like it was the most natural next step in the world. “it’s a good opportunity, especially for someone in your position.” you looked up at him at that. he smiled slightly, not in a performative way, more like he was choosing his words carefully. “you’re doing very well, but you’re also at a point where the work you produce should be seen. it matters for your scholarship, and for what comes after this degree.” that landed differently, since it wasn't pressure, but direction. “you’re capable of more than just maintaining grades.” he added gently. “i don’t want you to only stay at the top, i want you to build something that stays with you after university.” he paused then to continue a few seconds later, more practically. “and i think jake challenges you in a productive way. he forces structure where you tend to stay more exploratory. that balance is exactly what makes strong research.”

you felt it before you even processed it properly. that small tightening in your chest, like your body had reacted faster than your thoughts. you looked down at your hands for a moment, adjusting your grip on the edge of your sleeve without meaning to. the room suddenly felt quieter, not because anything had changed, but because your attention had narrowed too much. jake. you didn’t say anything immediately, just letting the silence sit there, as if waiting long enough might make the idea rearrange itself into something more tolerable. but it didn’t. working with him wasn’t just a line in a document anymore, it was becoming something structured. planned, extended, something you couldn’t quietly ignore your way out of. your throat tightened slightly. “so we’re still working together?” you asked, but it came out more carefully than you intended. less like a question, more like something you were testing the weight of out loud.

professor jones didn’t answer right away, studying you for a second instead. not in a clinical way, but in the quiet, patient way someone does when they already know the answer you don’t want to hear. “i was expecting you to ask that.” he said gently, and that alone made your stomach sink a little further. he leaned forward slightly, resting his hands together. “i wouldn’t keep you as partners if i didn’t think it was beneficial for you.”

your fingers pressed a little tighter into your sleeve. “beneficial in what way?” you asked, though you already had a suspicion you weren’t going to like the answer.

“in every way that matters for where you’re trying to go.” he said simply. “academically, yes, but also in terms of development. your work becomes sharper when you’re challenged. you know that.” a pause. “and jake responds well to direction, you respond well to space. that combination works.”

you exhaled quietly through your nose, but it wasn’t really a laugh. “it’s not that simple.” you said, mostly under your breath.

“i know.” he replied immediately, not dismissing it. “it rarely feels simple when it involves someone you’re not comfortable with.” that made you look up slightly as he continued, tone steady. “but i'm not asking you to like the arrangement. i'm asking you to trust the outcome of it.” silence again. your mind went through it anyway, whether you wanted it to or not. the library. the comments. the way he rewrote your work without destroying it. the way you had hated that you noticed it was good.

you swallowed. “i just… don’t want it to interfere with my other work.” you said, slower now, searching for a more acceptable objection.

“it won’t.” professor jones said calmly. “if anything, it will stabilize it. you’re already thinking about it too much on your own.” that made something in your chest pull uncomfortably tight, because he wasn’t wrong. you weren’t agreeing, but you weren’t refusing anymore either.

"okay.” you said finally, quieter than before. not fully convinced, not fully resistant either, just caught somewhere in between. professor jones nodded once, like that was all he needed.

“good.” he said softly. “i think you’ll see what i mean sooner than you expect.”

you left his office with the word conference sitting in your head, heavier than expected, but not entirely unwelcome. and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you had been assigned something. it felt like someone had seen further ahead than you had.

as you walked across campus, you realized you had left professor jones' office with your chest feeling strangely heavy. you should have been happy, actually happy. this was the type of opportunity people waited years for. actual research as a third year student, actual experimental work, a proper conference. something that would look incredible on scholarship evaluations and future applications, something that could genuinely help build a future. your future. and professor jones had looked so excited while talking about it too. so why did it feel like your stomach was sinking? probably because of him. because for some obvious reason, out of everyone in your year, it had to be jake. you tried convincing yourself it wasn't that serious while walking through campus. you could do it, you could be professional. people worked with classmates they disliked all the time, and it wasn't like you had to become friends. it wasn't like you even spoke to each other outside of a single assignment. still, your mind kept replaying professor jones' words: "he challenges you in a productive way." productive, right. because accusing him of sabotage and showing up at his apartment at nine in the morning on a saturday definitely sounded productive. you let out a quiet breath through your nose as your thoughts kept spiraling without a stop.

whatever. you would deal with it later. except apparently later meant right in that moment, because as soon as you entered the campus cafe, you saw him. jake was standing near the pickup counter with one hand in his hoodie pocket while staring down at his phone. completely relaxed, completely normal and unaffected. you almost turned around, you almost did. but then he looked up and saw you as his eyes narrowed slightly — not in annoyance, more like in realization. you looked away first, because absolutely not. you walked toward the counter while pretending you hadn't seen him, hoping maybe he would do the same.

he obviously didn't. "professor jones talked to you too?"

you stopped. of course he would skip hello. slowly, you turned around. "yeah." a small silence. he looked at you as you tried looking at him back, just to immediately turn your head away. why did he cause so much anger inside you just by standing there?

"so we're doing that." your voice sounded much weaker than you wanted it to.

jake stared at you for a moment. "looks like it."

you hated how calm he sounded. you actually hated how calm he always sounded. because meanwhile your brain was practically running into walls trying to process things. you crossed your arms without realizing. "if you don't want to, you can tell him."

his eyebrows furrowed slightly. "what?"

"the project." you shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "if you don't think it'll work." silence. you risked looking up, noticing how jake was staring at you now.

"why would i do that?"

you frowned. "because we don't exactly get along." "do we not?"

you just stared at him in disbelief. "are you serious right now?"

jake blinked once as his mouth twitched slightly. not enough to call it a smile, but enough to make you want to punch him. "you don't sound very excited." he said in a playful tone.

"that’s probably because i'm not." "then you tell professor jones that."

"why me?" "because you're the one who looks like you're about to throw up."

you stared at him in horror. "i do not." "you do."

"i don't." "okay."

you hated how quickly he gave up. you hated it because somehow it felt worse, now sounding like he simply didn't care enough to argue. another few seconds passed. awkward, horribly awkward. "look," you finally sighed, crossing your arms, "i want to do this project."

jake looked at you. "obviously."

"i'm serious." "i know."

"i just don't think we'll work well together." there, you finally said it.

jake looked at you for a few moments and then shrugged. "probably not. but professor jones wants us to do it." he continued casually, "and i want him to keep liking me, because it means recommendations. opportunities." he looked at you like it was obvious. "and because he also looked way too happy explaining it." your irritation paused for a second, because that actually sounded reasonable — like you almost shared a motive. jake looked down at his drink before looking back at you. "so let's just not kill each other for a few months."

you stared at him and then frowned. "a few months?"

"yeah." he tilted his head slightly. "did you think research happened in two weeks?"

of course you knew research took months, you weren't stupid. you just hadn't thought that far as you had been too busy processing the jake part of it. "right." another silence. you suddenly became very aware of how awkward it was to just stand there looking at him. people kept walking around you both, entering and leaving the cafe while the conversation felt weirdly stuck.

then jake took a sip from his drink. "professor wants us to meet with him on friday."

your eyes snapped back to him. "what?"

"he told me before i left." he shrugged. "to discuss ideas."

"already?" "that's generally how projects work."

you lowered your head with a quiet sigh as a few seconds passed before jake spoke again. "don't make me do the whole thing alone."

"excuse me?"

he looked back at you with complete indifference. "you accused me of deleting your work like four days ago. i feel like i'm allowed to be cautious."

you stared at him in disbelief. actual disbelief. "right." that was it, right. because apparently getting the last word wasn't enough for him either.

"i'll see you friday then." you said flatly, crossing your arms a little tighter around yourself.

jake simply nodded before taking another sip of his drink. "see you." and then he walked away. you stared at his back for a few seconds longer than necessary before turning around toward the counter. you didn't know what annoyed you more — the fact that you were stuck with him for months or the fact that he somehow looked completely okay with it.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you had expected professor jones' office to somehow feel different after what he had told you a few days ago. bigger, maybe. more serious. like the room itself would suddenly reflect the fact that this wasn't another regular class assignment anymore. it didn't, though. it looked exactly the same as always. the same crowded bookshelves covered nearly every wall, filled with books you doubted anyone had touched in years and stacks of papers that looked disorganized to anyone except probably him. the same small plant sat near the window, somehow surviving despite looking half dead every semester. the same coffee mug sat on the corner of his desk. everything felt normal, which was ridiculous, because you definitely didn't. you sat in the chair in front of his desk trying not to bounce your leg under it, your fingers loosely playing with the sleeve of your shirt while your thoughts continued moving much faster than they should have. actual research. a conference. recommendations. scholarships. your future. the words had been replaying in your head since he had first mentioned them, and somehow every time you thought about them they felt heavier.

meanwhile, beside you sat jake, who of course seemed to be relaxed. you hadn't expected anything else. he was leaning back slightly in his chair, one hand resting against his jaw while absentmindedly scrolling through something on his phone. he looked like someone waiting for a friend to finish buying coffee, not someone sitting in a meeting that could potentially affect the next few years of his academic life. you hated that. you hated it because you maybe knew it probably wasn't even confidence. confidence implied effort, confidence implied he had considered the possibility of failure and then decided not to care. jake simply looked like failing had never crossed his mind.

professor jones looked between both of you before smiling. "before i start overwhelming you with articles and deadlines, i want to hear what interests you."

the room went quiet. the problem wasn't that you didn't have ideas, the problem was that you suddenly had too many of them and none of them sounded intelligent enough to say out loud. you had spent the last few days imagining this whole thing becoming something important, and now your brain had apparently decided that speaking was impossible. professor jones continued waiting patiently while beside you, jake said nothing, which annoyed you too. because if he was supposedly so structured and organized and perfect, then why was you go first suddenly the strategy?

"...people?" you finally said. the word left your mouth and you immediately regretted existing as you physically felt yourself cringe. people. great, amazing contribution. you cleared your throat. "i mean..." you quickly continued, trying to recover from the disaster you had just created. "relationships, maybe? social development. interpersonal stuff." professor jones nodded thoughtfully, which made you feel relief for approximately one second.

"too broad." your head turned slowly. of course it had come from him. jake wasn't even looking at you, he was staring somewhere near the bookshelves behind professor jones with the most neutral expression imaginable, as if he had simply commented that it looked cloudy outside.

you stared at him. seriously? "okay," you said slowly, "sorry for not arriving with a fully developed research proposal."

that finally made him look over, his eyebrows pulled together slightly. "i wasn't criticizing you." and somehow that annoyed you even more, because criticism you could work with. criticism meant opposition. but this expression on his face, this genuine confusion, like he actually didn't understand why you sounded irritated, somehow felt worse. because then either he was pretending to be oblivious or he genuinely had no idea how he came across. and honestly, you weren't sure which possibility bothered you more.

professor jones looked suspiciously close to smiling, making your eyes slightly narrow. he was absolutely enjoying this. he finally cleared his throat, although the small smile at the corner of his mouth never really disappeared. "okay," he said, leaning back in his chair. "let's narrow it down a little."

you looked away from jake and back toward the desk, crossing one leg over the other while trying to ignore the lingering irritation sitting somewhere in your chest. it was stupid, honestly. you didn't even fully know why his comment had bothered you so much. actually, no. you did know. because he always sounded like that. never rude enough for anyone to call him rude, never arrogant enough for anyone to call him arrogant. he simply said things in this annoyingly neutral tone, like he was reading facts off a presentation slide. there was never enough emotion in his voice to prove he meant anything by it. which meant getting irritated always made you look dramatic. which maybe you were a little, but it was fine as long as you kept it inside your own head.

you stared down at your sleeve for a few seconds while absentmindedly pulling at a loose thread. social development, relationships, interpersonal stuff. none of it felt specific enough anymore. you had thrown the ideas out without really thinking, mostly because silence had somehow become unbearable. but now that the room had gone quiet again, you could feel your brain doing that thing it always did where it started running in ten directions at once. because relationships could mean friendships, family, social behavior, emotional regulation, childhood experiences, attachment. "what about attachment?" the words had simply left out of your mouth. for a second, the room stayed quiet, which made you slowly look up. great, now both of them were looking at you. you shrugged slightly, suddenly becoming very interested in a tiny scratch on professor jones' desk. "i don't know," you said quickly. "we talk about it a lot in class." you paused, then immediately felt the need to explain yourself more. because apparently your brain believed every thought required a full defense. "like... childhood relationships affecting later relationships and stuff." you frowned slightly. "people act weird because of it."

"people act weird?" you turned your head so fast you almost regretted it, as jake was looking at you now. and there it was again, that tiny thing near his mouth. not a smile, you were beginning to realize that jake apparently never smiled normally in front of you.

you narrowed your eyes. "you know what i mean."

he tilted his head slightly. "i actually don't."

you stared at him, because you knew he knew what you meant. there was no way someone who had the highest grades in almost every class suddenly forgot how basic human behavior worked. you crossed your arms. "yes, you do."

"i really don't." for a few seconds, you just looked at each other. and then, very suddenly, you realized something awful. professor jones wasn't interrupting. he was just sitting there, watching. watching like this was some kind of television show. you slowly turned your head toward him and finally, he looked back at the notes in front of him. "i think what she's trying to say," he said gently, "is that attachment patterns influence the way people perceive and interact with others."

you immediately pointed toward him. "yes." then toward jake. "that."

jake looked back at professor jones and nodded once. "that makes more sense."

you dropped your hand back into your lap, because somehow being understood by professor jones and not by jake felt weirdly personal. which was ridiculous, because it definitely wasn't personal. the guy barely knew who you were. still, something about it sat annoyingly in your chest.

professor jones glanced down at his notes again, pen hovering slightly above the page as if he was already organizing your scattered ideas into something more coherent. "attachment could be a good starting point." he said calmly. "but you’ll need to decide what exactly you want to examine within it."

you exhaled softly through your nose, leaning back a little in your chair. that was the problem. everything felt like it connected to everything else, which made narrowing it down feel almost arbitrary. your gaze drifted across the room while you tried to force your brain into something more structured. "emotions?" you said eventually, though it came out more like a question than an idea you fully owned. "like… emotional responses. how people react to others."

it wasn’t great, but it was something. jake shifted slightly beside you. he hadn’t looked at you when he spoke, which for some reason made it easier to listen without immediately wanting to argue. "empathy would fit better than emotions in general." he said after a moment, still looking down at the desk. his tone was even, like he was just adjusting a term rather than rejecting your idea. "emotions is too broad. empathy might be more specific to interpersonal response."

you glanced at him briefly. professor jones nodded slowly, as if that was exactly the direction he had been hoping the conversation would move toward. "that’s true." he agreed. you looked back down at your sleeve, tugging lightly at the fabric again. it wasn’t even that jake was saying anything particularly offensive. he wasn’t dismissive, he wasn’t rude, he wasn’t even trying to take over the conversation. that was probably the worst part, because he just… contributed. you exhaled quietly. "okay," you said, mostly to keep things moving. "attachment and empathy then."

professor jones’ pen paused for a second. "that could work very well." he said, more thoughtfully now. he leaned forward slightly, interest clearly sharpening. "attachment styles influence how people interpret social information, and empathy is one of the clearest ways that gets expressed." professor jones let the words settle for a moment, as if he was already rearranging them into something more formal in his head. the pen between his fingers stopped moving, and for the first time in the conversation, he looked fully focused rather than just mildly entertained. "attachment and empathy." he repeated quietly, testing it. you nodded once, a little slower this time. it still felt strange how quickly the idea had become something real, something that could actually exist beyond this room. a few minutes ago you had been throwing out vague concepts just to fill silence, and now there was a tiny direction forming out of it. you weren’t sure if that was exciting or stressful. probably both. professor jones leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. "there’s actually a lot of room there." he continued. "you could look at different attachment styles and how they relate to empathic responses, or even how that changes depending on individual differences."

you stayed quiet, absorbing it more than responding. the structure of it was starting to take shape in a way that made it feel less like an abstract idea and more like something you would actually have to do. collect, measure, analyze. real work. beside you, jake gave a small nod, like he was following the same thread without needing it explained further. it wasn’t showy, just… immediate. like the conclusion had already formed in his head and he was simply confirming it matched the room. you noticed it before you could stop yourself, then immediately forced your attention back to the professor. "so," professor jones said as he sat back again, tone lightening slightly. "if you both agree, this could be the start of your project." the sentence landed more simply than you expected. no ceremony, no dramatic framing, just that. your first instinct was to look at jake again, but you stopped yourself halfway through it. instead, you focused on the edge of the desk, letting the idea settle properly before reacting to it. your project. together. you exhaled slowly through your nose. it wasn’t that you disagreed with the topic, because you didn’t. actually, it was probably one of the better ideas you could’ve landed on in the time you’d been given. it just… came with a complication you hadn’t fully processed yet.

you glanced sideways anyway, just briefly. jake was already standing up slightly straighter, like the decision had simply moved the conversation forward in his head rather than changing anything significant. professor jones smiled, clearly satisfied with the direction everything had taken. "i’ll formalize the assignment and send you the guidelines." he added. "but for now, attachment and empathy. that’s your starting point. so now, go search all the papers and articles you can find about this topic and try to explore what new things you could bring to the table. i trust they will be a lot."

you gave a small nod, slower than before, as the reality of it finally settled properly. and for the first time since walking into the office, the thought that stuck wasn’t the topic itself. it was the fact that this was no longer just an idea you could step away from when the conversation ended.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

working with jake became an uncomfortable addition to your routine much faster than you wanted it to. not because he demanded constant meetings or sent endless messages about the project. honestly, if it had been up to him, you were starting to think he would've been perfectly fine speaking only through shared documents for the next few months. the problem was professor jones. because professor jones apparently loved words like collaboration and research process and active discussion, which translated into him repeatedly reminding both of you that good research wasn't built by two people independently doing half the work and stapling it together at the end. so now you had meetings. actual meetings. which was why you currently found yourself sitting across from jake in one of the library halls of the the study rooms on a thursday afternoon, surrounded by articles you had printed the night before.

jake had only brought his laptop, of course he had. you had shown up with highlighted articles, sticky notes sticking out of pages at uneven angles, and a notebook full of things you had written at two in the morning that had seemed organized at the time. he glanced down at the stack in front of you, then back at you. “you printed all of those?"

you looked down. "yes?"

he was silent for a few seconds, seemingly lost in thought. "why?"

you stared at him, the answer being too obvious to you. "to read them?"

"right." he nodded once, expression completely flat. "forgot people still did that."

you narrowed your eyes a little. "some people just remember information better when they see it physically."

"mhm." his face didn't change. you couldn't tell if that was agreement or if he had simply made a noise.

you pulled one of the articles toward yourself instead. "okay, so," you said as you flipped through a few pages. "we already know attachment and empathy have been studied a lot."

jake leaned back slightly in his chair. "yeah."

"secure attachment usually correlates positively with empathy." "mhm." "avoidant usually negatively." another nod. you glanced up, wondering if he was going to say anything beyond one syllable words at some point. you looked back down at your papers before you could accidentally look irritated. "the issue seems to be preoccupied attachment." you tapped the article lightly. "results aren't consistent."

jake finally shifted a little. "because it's contradictory." you looked up. he was looking at his laptop screen, eyes moving as he scrolled. "people with preoccupied attachment are hyper-aware of relationships, so you could argue they'd be more empathic." he paused. "but they're also more emotionally reactive." you frowned slightly. "so self-focused distress gets in the way."

"yeah." you blinked, because that was actually exactly what you had highlighted.

you looked down at your article again, then immediately said, "but that's already been suggested."

his eyes moved toward you. "i know."

"so we can't just say that." "i also know."

silence. you hated that somehow you felt awkward when he was the one sitting there acting like human conversation was an optional side quest. jake clicked something on his laptop. "the inconsistency has to be coming from somewhere."

you looked at him again. "well, that's obvious."

"not really." you frowned as he turned his screen slightly toward himself. "people keep treating preoccupied attachment like everyone with it responds the same way." he shrugged a little. "and they don't."

you crossed your arms. "that's too broad."

"why?" "because individual differences can explain literally anything." "doesn't make it wrong."

you opened your mouth to just immediately close it. you had your doubts on where to take this. "okay, but if we say individual differences, that's not specific enough for a study."

he looked at you for a few seconds, then nodded once. "fair." jake glanced back at his screen. "gender?"

you looked up. "how?" you said in a genuine way, being curious about his thought process.

"women generally score higher in empathy." he said it casually, like he was reading weather data. "if previous studies ignored gender, maybe that's part of the inconsistency."

you stared at him for a second, then slowly looked down at the article in front of you. "if we include gender," you said slowly, mostly thinking out loud now, "then we'd be arguing that the reason findings are inconsistent isn't necessarily because preoccupied attachment itself is inconsistent." jake looked up. you kept going, eyes still on your notes. "it could be because previous studies grouped everyone together." you flipped the page absentmindedly. "so if women with preoccupied attachment generally score higher in empathy than men with the same attachment style-"

"you get different results depending on who ends up in the sample."

you stopped and looked up. jake was leaning back in his chair, one arm resting against the table, eyes on his laptop screen even though he'd just finished your sentence like he'd known where you were going before you did. you stared at him for a second. "right."

he nodded once and that was it. no exactly. no yeah, that's what i meant. nothing, just that tiny nod like the conclusion had been obvious. and maybe that was what annoyed you. because if you had connected those dots, you would've at least looked a little pleased with yourself. not in an obnoxious way, just in a normal human way. there would've been some visible sign of satisfaction, but jake looked like he had remembered something so casual it wasn't worth a reaction. you looked back down at the article, except now you weren't reading anymore. you were staring at the highlighted lines while a much more irritating thought sat in your head. had he already thought about this? because if he had, then why was he sitting there acting like he'd just casually thrown out a possibility? you kind of hated people who did that. people who already had an answer but acted like they were arriving there naturally with everyone else. "wait." you couldn’t help but ask. "did you already think this?"

jake's eyes lifted from his screen. "think what."

you stared at him. "this." you gestured vaguely between the papers and his laptop. "the gender thing."

his expression barely shifted as he looked back at the screen. "a little."

a little. of course. because apparently every answer with him had to feel like you were trying to pull information out of someone being questioned by the police. "define a little."

he glanced at you, then back at the screen. "i mean, professor jones already said we needed a gap in the literature." click, scroll. "there's inconsistent findings around preoccupied attachment." click. "gender isn't really addressed." click, another shrug. "it wasn't that hard."

you stared at him. it wasn't that hard. something in your eye twitched, not physically, more like emotionally. because there was absolutely no chance he meant it in a condescending way, and that was the problem. if he'd smirked, if he'd looked smug, if he'd sounded even remotely pleased with himself, then you could've comfortably decided he was irritating and moved on. but he didn't. he said it with complete indifference, like he genuinely didn't think he had said anything worth noticing. you couldn't even be mad at him for being cocky — he wasn't being cocky. he was just casually smart in a way that made you feel stupid for needing more time, which was significantly more annoying. you crossed your arms. "okay, well, i think it's a little more complicated than that."

jake finally looked up properly. "how?"

you sat up slightly. "because if we immediately assume gender explains the inconsistency, then we're forcing the data to fit an explanation before we've even looked at it." his eyebrows moved a fraction, the tiniest amount. you felt strangely victorious. "there are other possibilities," you continued. "differences in measures, sampling issues, social desirability bias-"

"those aren't mutually exclusive. we’re looking at gender because we want to focus on a possible variable that is shown to have a differential impact on empathy in previous literature." he continued as you looked at him. "gender can matter and those things can matter too." he said it so simply, so annoyingly simply. like you'd somehow overcomplicated something that, in his mind, had never needed complicating.

you frowned. "i know they're not mutually exclusive." "okay."

you stared at him, because there was something uniquely irritating about the way he did that. the way he said okay like he had accepted what you said while simultaneously sounding like he thought you had taken the scenic route to arrive somewhere obvious. and maybe you were imagining it, you could be imagining it. you had personally known this guy for what, a few weeks? maybe less? if you didn’t count all your social media stalking and the horrible image you had already made up in your head about him, of course. there was a very real possibility that you were projecting an entire personality onto him because his face gave away approximately nothing and your brain apparently hated unanswered questions. except maybe, just maybe, you weren't completely imagining it. because there had been that tiny eyebrow raise earlier, that microscopic thing. that i'm waiting to see where you're going with this expression. and now there was this, this stupidly calm okay. you narrowed your eyes a little. "you know that's annoying, right?"

jake looked up from his laptop. "what is?"

"that." you pointed vaguely at him, which wasn't helpful at all, but you honestly didn't have a better explanation.

he looked down at himself for a second, then back at you. "me sitting?"

you stared at him as he stared back, and for a whole second you genuinely couldn't tell if he was serious. you let out a small breath through your nose. "you seem to do this thing where you act like you don't care about the conversation and then suddenly say something that completely changes the direction of it."

he blinked once. "i'm literally just discussing the project."

"that's not what i mean." "then what do you mean?"

you opened your mouth just to immediately close it. because annoyingly, you didn't know exactly what you meant. you just knew there was something frustrating about the whole thing. about sitting there with someone who looked detached enough to be mentally planning dinner while somehow keeping up with every point you made and responding with irritatingly concise answers that kept making sense. because if he had been openly pedant, if he'd corrected you every five minutes, you swore it would've been easier. but jake just sat there looking half-asleep while dropping comments that made you rethink your own arguments, and somehow that felt unfair. you looked down at your papers again. "nothing." you muttered.

silence. you started reorganizing the articles in front of you, even though they had already been organized, because your hands suddenly needed something to do. paper slid against paper. outside, footsteps passed down the hallway. someone laughed somewhere in the distance. the library air conditioning hummed softly overhead. and then — "you do it too." your hands stopped. slowly, you looked up, but jake wasn't looking at you. his eyes were still on his screen.

"do what?" "act like you don't care."

you let out a tiny laugh of disbelief. "what?"

he shrugged. "you keep pretending you're just thinking out loud."

your eyebrows pulled together. "i am thinking out loud."

"not really." his eyes lifted then. "you say something," he said evenly, "then you look at me for like three seconds waiting to see if i agree."

you stared at him. and for one horrible second, your brain replayed the last twenty minutes. you saying something, looking up, waiting. saying something else, looking up, waiting. oh my god. heat crept into your face, hopefully not enough to be noticeable. you looked down at your papers again. "i do not."

"mmh." there it was again. you looked down at your papers once more as you tried to sound normal, which unfortunately for you often meant sounding more defensive than intended. you closed your eyes for a fraction of a second and opened them again, because there it was, that same infuriating calm. the same complete lack of effort in sounding like he was trying to win the argument, which somehow made him more annoying than if he had actually been trying. "and for the record," he spoke again as you spiraled inside your mind, making you look cautiously. "you were right before."

you blinked. "about what?"

"social desirability bias." he clicked something on his laptop. "if we're discussing explanations for inconsistent findings, we should include it in the literature section." a pause. "it's relevant."

you looked down at your notes again before he could catch you staring for too long, suddenly becoming very aware of yourself in the way you sometimes did around people. where all at once your hands felt oddly placed and your face felt too visible and you became convinced that if you spoke then, you would sound strange somehow. which was stupid, because you were just discussing research methods. you had spent years doing presentations and group projects and class discussions. you knew how to talk, technically, although you never became fully comfortable to do it in a natural way. you were just forced to do it to keep up, to maintain your grades, your scholarship and, subsequently, your ranking. your ranking, which was casually right behind jake’s. the top two students who had never interacted before up until now, up until they were basically forced to. you wondered if he had ever noticed you were second, or if he had heard your name before. you wondered if he even cared about the rankings or just couldn’t help but get first every single time without trying. you always wondered about his position there, about how he seemed to be untouchable.

there was also a difference between knowing how to talk and actually talking. and for reasons you did not fully understand, talking to jake felt like walking into an exam you had forgotten to study for. the silence had now reached that stage where you had become aware of it, and once you became aware of silence, it became impossible not to think about it. and then you started wondering if the other person was aware of it too, and then you started acting weird because you were thinking about acting weird. "so..." you said.

jake looked up and your brain immediately emptied. absolutely nothing. why had you spoken before knowing what you were going to say? you had an idea in your head literally two seconds ago. where had it gone? jake waited. one second, two seconds. "...so?" he said.

you blinked. "right." you looked down at your papers quickly, pretending to search for something. "i was gonna say something."

"i figured." you grabbed a random article and looked at it despite not reading a single word. "take your time."

you looked up and jake was already looking back at his laptop. his expression hadn't changed at all, completely neutral. which somehow made it impossible to tell if he was making fun of you or not. you narrowed your eyes slightly. "was that sarcastic?"

he looked up slowly. "no." a pause. "should it have been?"

"you're doing that on purpose." you muttered.

"doing what again?” you looked up despite yourself. he was still looking at his screen, still typing. still acting like this whole conversation was happening in the background of something more important. that should have made you feel less nervous, but somehow it didn't, because the fact that he could say something that pointedly and then go right back to his work without changing expression made it feel worse, not better.

"saying that." you said, a little more quietly this time, because saying it out loud had made it feel more ridiculous than it already was. jake finally looked up then, just briefly, as if he was checking whether you were serious or just reacting out of habit.

his face didn't change. "you're the one who keeps looking for a reaction." you opened your mouth, then shut it again, because you had a perfectly good response in your head and it had somehow become impossible to access the second he actually looked at you. which was deeply unfair, because you had spent the entire meeting trying very hard not to look at him too much, and now he was acting like he had some kind of quiet evidence against you.

you crossed your arms and leaned back slightly in your chair, trying to look less thrown off than you felt. "maybe because you keep talking like you're not even in the room."

jake looked back down at his laptop. "i am in the room."

"you know what i mean." "not really."

you stared at him again, and this time you were fairly sure you were doing it because you were annoyed, not because you were waiting for approval, even if the distinction felt a little blurry right then and you did not appreciate that one bit. the thing was, he wasn't exactly wrong, and that was the irritating part. you were trying to see if he agreed, because the whole point of sitting there together was to figure out what actually fit and what didn't, and if he made a face or paused or looked like you were completely off base, you could usually tell before you said something worse. except he never really looked like that, he just listened. and then, when he bothered to answer, he said things like they had always been obvious. which made you feel like you were the one making a big deal out of everything. you hated that feeling. you also hated that you were starting to understand the shape of his attention a little better, because it wasn't warm, and it wasn't especially generous with you, but it was there in a way that made him harder to ignore than if he had been openly hostile.

jake glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the screen. "we're done for today."

you looked up automatically. "already?"

he nodded once. "we've got enough for a first outline. this is actually the first meeting where we got somewhere useful, to be honest.”

you stared at the page in front of you, at the notes you had actually managed to organize without fully realizing the time had gone by. "fine." you said, a little too fast, because you suddenly needed the meeting to end before you could think too much about how much of it you had spent watching him instead of the article in front of you.

jake already started closing his laptop, no wasted movement, no hesitation. you gathered your own papers more slowly, still trying not to think about the fact that you had just spent an entire afternoon disagreeing with him, only to realize that the disagreement itself had finally got you "somewhere useful". "send me the list of studies you want for the literature section." he said, slipping his laptop into his bag.

you looked up. "i was going to do that."

he glanced at you once, expression still unreadable. "i know."

so you didn't respond at all. you just nodded and looked back down at your notes, pretending to be very busy with the papers in your hands, because if you looked at him too long you were pretty sure you would either say something stupid or stand there doing nothing like an idiot, and neither option felt acceptable. when you finally looked up again, he had already slung his bag over one shoulder and was heading toward the door. he paused only once, hand on the door handle, and looked back at you for a brief second. "friday."

you nodded before you could overthink it. "friday." then he was gone. you sat there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the empty chair across from you, trying very hard to convince yourself that the only reason your chest felt oddly tight was because the room had been stuffy and you had spent too long inside it.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

friday happened. and then the next tuesday happened. and then another thursday. and somewhere between opening shared documents and arguing over article inclusion criteria and listening to professor jones remind both of you for the fourth time that research is collaborative by nature, something deeply irritating started happening. you and jake developed a rhythm. not a friendly rhythm, but a rhythm built entirely on disagreeing with each other. because apparently neither of you could say yes, that works without first trying to dismantle the other person's point from at least three different angles.

which was why, on a tuesday afternoon two weeks later, you were sitting across from him again, staring at your laptop screen with growing irritation. "i still don't think we should only use overall empathy scores."

jake didn't even look up immediately. he kept typing for another few seconds before saying, "why." not why? like a question. just why, flat. like he had dropped the word onto the table and was waiting for you to do something with it.

you frowned immediately. "because empathy isn't one thing." he finally glanced up as you shifted in your chair slightly. "i mean..." you gestured vaguely toward your screen. "the test separates cognitive and affective empathy for a reason. perspective-taking isn't exactly the same thing as emotional response."

jake leaned back a little. "okay."

you narrowed your eyes, already suspicious. "okay what." "okay, keep going."

"why do i feel like you're about to disagree with me?" "because i'm about to disagree with you."

you stared at him. of course he couldn't just let you have three seconds of peace. "why?"

"because if our main question is whether gender moderates the relationship between preoccupied attachment and empathy, adding separate dimensions complicates the interpretation." he rotated his laptop a little toward himself. "if one dimension changes and another doesn't, then suddenly we're discussing three different questions instead of one."

you crossed your arms. "that's literally how research works." "not always."

"yes, always." silence. you stared at him and he stared back. and there was something genuinely horrible about arguing with jake because he never looked irritated. you, meanwhile, could physically feel your face making expressions. your eyebrows pulling together, your eyes narrowing, your mouth doing that thing where it pressed into a line. meanwhile jake looked exactly the same as always, which you hated. you hated it because you couldn't tell if he wasn't affected or if he was just better at hiding it. and somehow the second possibility irritated you even more. "you're oversimplifying it."

he tilted his head slightly. "how."

"because if we separate dimensions and one changes while another doesn't, that's still useful. that tells us something." "about what."

you blinked. "what do you mean about what?"

"i mean exactly what i said." his eyes moved back to the screen briefly. "what does it tell us."

you stared at him. because you had an answer, you absolutely had an answer. you did. you — you had one like two seconds ago. why did your brain keep doing this? why did it keep functioning perfectly until someone actually looked at you? you hated this so much. your eyes dropped to your notes immediately, pretending to search for something. you could feel him waiting, not impatiently, which almost made it worse. because impatient people interrupted, impatient people looked on edge. but jake just sat there, waiting, completely comfortable with silence. and silence had always felt like some kind of social punishment to you, as it happened way too often because you never could actually find the proper words. your brain started doing that thing where it became aware of itself. okay say something. why aren't you saying something. he's waiting. oh my god you've been quiet too long. say literally anything. "because..." you started. great, excellent opening. very strong. "...if affective empathy changes more than cognitive empathy then maybe-" you stopped and jake's eyes lifted. you looked away immediately. "maybe... preoccupied attachment influences emotional responsiveness differently than perspective-taking." silence. you looked down at your laptop, then up. then immediately wished you hadn't, because jake was still looking at you. and for some reason you suddenly became weirdly aware that he was actually listening. he wasn't typing, wasn't scrolling.

then he nodded once. "that's actually good."

you stared. you had spent the last fifteen minutes preparing for disagreement. you had mentally arranged counterarguments that you probably wouldn't be able to fully explain out loud. you had been half ready. and now suddenly — that's actually good? just like that? you narrowed your eyes slightly. "you're agreeing with me?"

jake looked confused. "a little."

you stared harder. "a little?"

he looked at you for a second. then one corner of his mouth moved, barely. honestly it could've been your imagination. "don't look so surprised."

you blinked, because the thing was that you were surprised. somewhere over the last few meetings, without realizing it, you had apparently started expecting disagreement. expecting him to immediately pick apart whatever you said. expecting another why, another not really, anotherokay. and now your brain had already built the response before it even happened, which was ridiculous. completely ridiculous. because you weren't paying attention to him like that, obviously not. except — except lately you had started noticing things accidentally, things you weren't trying to notice. like how he tapped his fingers twice against the table whenever he was reading something carefully. or how he leaned back when he disagreed with something and leaned forward when he actually found it interesting. or how he somehow greeted every single person outside the library. because you knew jake was social, but you didn't fully know he talked to everyone. every single time you walked a few meters out of the library with him after meetings, somebody knew him. "jake!" "hey, man." "are you coming friday?" and every time he would answer easily, naturally, like conversations required absolutely no effort at all. which had honestly felt vaguely offensive to witness, because around you he acted like human interaction had been assigned as coursework. you had seen it now enough times that it wasn’t accidental anymore. he would leave these meetings with you, walk out into the corridor, and immediately become… lighter. someone would call his name and he would look up instantly, respond without delay, like he had been expecting interruption rather than treating it as one. a girl from your seminar group once stopped him mid-walk to ask about an assignment and he had answered while still moving, already halfway into another conversation with someone else behind her, like his attention didn’t have to be gathered first before being distributed. and every time it happened, you found yourself with the same thought you didn’t particularly like having, which was that you didn’t know where that version of him went when he sat across from you. like everyone else got the full version by default and you were just interacting with the edited one. which was ridiculous to think about, objectively.

you looked down at your screen again. you kept your gaze on there a moment too long, not because there was anything left to read, but because looking back up felt like admitting you had been thinking about him at all. which you absolutely had not been doing in any meaningful or concerning way. but you did feel like a creep sometimes, somehow. you had always been aware of jake because he was quite the definition of perfection, almost turning him into a figure you looked up to. you had known he was great at communicating when the situation could obviously bring him something valuable, and he was precise and unreachable in all sort of ways. you already also knew he had no idea of who you were before this, you knew it all. but now, your observations were becoming much more elaborated, detailed and what you felt was more accurate. you couldn’t stop observing because he was everything you wanted to be and somehow found perfect balance within it.

outside the glass wall of the study room, someone laughed too loudly in the corridor and the sound slipped through the silence like it belonged there more than you did. you suddenly became aware of how still the room was when neither of you were speaking, how jarring it was compared to the constant low-level motion of everything else on campus, and how jake didn’t seem to experience that shift at all. he went back to typing — no reaction, no follow-up, no “expand on that” or “explain it better” or even a minimal acknowledgement beyond what he had already given you. which was, annoyingly, enough. you shifted slightly in your chair and tried to refocus on the article in front of you, but your eyes kept snagging on lines without processing them properly, which was frustrating in a very specific way. you knew you understood the material, you knew you were capable of following this conversation, and yet somehow your attention kept slipping sideways like it had decided there were more important variables in the room than the paper. you exhaled softly through your nose and dragged your cursor down the page again, forcing yourself back into the text with more intention this time, as if you could physically outpace your own attention if you tried hard enough.

“okay.” jake said suddenly without looking up. you straightened a fraction too quickly, because your brain still hadn’t fully adjusted to the fact that he didn’t announce transitions the way other people did. he paused his scrolling. “we should probably decide if we’re treating empathy as a moderator or a mediating variable before the next outline, otherwise we’re going to keep looping on the same interpretation problem.” he spoke like he had already done the internal version of the argument and was now reporting the result.

you stared at him for a second longer than necessary, then looked back down at your screen as if the answer to your own competence was printed somewhere in the margins. “i think it depends on what we’re prioritising.” you said, and you hated how careful your voice sounded when you said it, like you were checking every word before letting it exist outside your head. jake finally looked up properly this time, not immediately responding, just watching you in that brief, neutral way of his that didn’t give anything away and somehow made you more aware of your own phrasing.

“go on.” he said.

you leaned forward slightly, because if you were going to say this, you were going to say it properly. "if we treat empathy as a moderator,” you continued, slower now but more controlled, “then we’re basically saying it changes the strength or direction of the attachment relationship depending on its level, which makes sense if our goal is to explain variability in findings across samples. but if we treat it as a mediator, then we’re implying attachment influences empathy, which then influences whatever outcome we’re implicitly assuming is downstream, and that shifts the entire theoretical framing of preoccupied attachment in a way i don’t think we’ve actually justified yet.”

silence again. jake didn’t respond immediately. “moderator makes more sense for the scope.” he said finally, like it had been reduced down to something that simple. “we don’t have longitudinal data anyway, so mediation would be speculative at best". that was it. not wrong, not corrected. not reframed in a way that made you feel like you had missed something obvious. just… aligned. that again felt more disorienting than when he disagreed with you.

you nodded anyway, because you didn’t know what else your face was supposed to do in response to agreement that didn’t come with any emotional signal attached to it. “right.” you said, a beat late. “yes. that makes sense.”

jake had already turned back to his laptop. “cool.” he said as he resumed typing like the conversation had simply been another step in a process he was moving through, not something that had required negotiation at all. you sat there for a moment longer than you should have, staring at the same line in your document, realizing with a slow, uncomfortable clarity that you were starting to adjust your thinking in real time just to keep up with the pace at which he seemed to arrive at conclusions.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the thing about working with jake was that it never actually felt like it started. there was no clear beginning, no moment where you agreed to become whatever you were now. it just… kept happening. friday turned into tuesday turned into another thursday, and suddenly your shared document had folders inside folders, and your notes had actual structure, and professor jones had stopped reminding you what “collaboration” meant because he assumed you had figured it out. you hadn’t, you were just surviving it better. sampling hadn’t even been finalized yet, which was the worst part of it. every time you thought you were close, jake would ask one question that made you realize you were still missing something fundamental. “why are we excluding first-year students again?”

you didn’t look up from your notes. “because attachment measures are unstable in early adaptation phases.”

“that’s not a source.” he said immediately.

you sighed through your nose. “it’s implied in the methodology section of-”

“no,” he cut in, calm as ever. “it’s not.”

you stopped typing. not because you didn’t have an answer, because you did. you just hated when he was right in a way that required you to actually go back and verify your own confidence. you clicked your pen once against the table. “fine,” you said. “then we include them and control for year variance.”

jake nodded once like that was the obvious outcome the whole time. “fine.” he said and went back to typing. that was the rhythm now. not agreement, just adjustment. you said something, he poked at it until it either collapsed or stabilized. you did the same to him. neither of you ever called it teamwork, you just called it necessary.

except it wasn’t just that anymore. because somewhere in between building sampling criteria and arguing over scale reliability, you had started noticing even more things that had nothing to do with the project. like how you both had begun asking things that weren’t strictly necessary, even when neither of you fully ever answered. “you usually stay up late before deadlines?”

you looked up from your laptop, suspicious immediately. “why?”

he didn’t even look phased. “just asking.”

you narrowed your eyes. “that’s not a research question.”

“it is if it affects output consistency.”

you stared at him. “you’re insane.” you said finally.

he nodded once. “dramatic.” and then went back to the document like he hadn’t just casually asked about your sleep schedule. you didn’t answer him, but you started noticing that he stayed online later too. not in a way that felt performative. if you were still editing at midnight, his cursor would still be there in the shared doc, quietly adjusting formatting or fixing citations without saying anything.

the ranking came up sometimes. not between you directly, never directly. but it always affected how you saw him, no matter how much time you spent together. someone in your lecture would gasp when they saw the board. “jake’s even more insane this semester.” “he’s literally top one again.” and then — “is that girl still second tier?” "who?". you would pretend not to hear it, you were very good at pretending not to hear things. you didn't know if jake ever heard them too.

“did you finalize the variables list?” “are we locking the likert scaling or adjusting for cultural bias?” “did you check the cronbach alpha ranges for similar studies?”. jake interrupted your train of thought with a million questions every time you got lost inside your own head thinking about it. still, you would answer. and then there were the moments that made your brain feel like it was misfiring entirely. like when you realized he had started noticing some of your patterns too, in a way that made you uncomfortable in a very specific direction. at least you weren’t the only one going insane because of how many evenings you were spending on doing that damn project, you thought.

you had stayed late alone in the library one night, rereading the same paragraph for so long you stopped processing it. he casually arrived, not saying hello immediately. he just sat down across from you and looked at your screen for a second. “you’re not reading that anymore.” he said.

you didn’t look up. “i am.” “you’ve been on the same line for how much time?”

silence. you clicked your pen harder than necessary. “i’m fine.”

he didn’t respond immediately. “you always seem to do that when you’re overwhelmed.”

your fingers paused as you looked up. “what?”

he shrugged slightly. “you repeat sections. like it resets something.”

you felt something uncomfortable move in your chest. not because he was wrong, but because he was accurate in a way you hadn’t authorized him to be. “it’s just focus.” you said.

“no,” he replied, simple again. “it’s more like avoidance.”

you shut your laptop slightly, not enough to close it. “you’re reading too much into it, i fear.” you said.

jake leaned back. “maybe.” but he didn’t sound like he believed that, and that was worse. he spoke like he had noted something and decided not to touch it further as if it wasn’t his place. which was new, because he seemed to have a place in everything. your thoughts started doing that thing again, where they tried to categorize him. you started packing your things too quickly, suddenly deciding it was time to go home.

“we should split spss variables next week.” you said.

he nodded. “already started it.”

you froze slightly. “you did?”

“just coding structure.” he said. “didn’t run anything.”

of course he had, of course he had already started without telling you. “send it to me.” you said as you stood up.

he nodded. then, he spoke again after a pause. “did you sleep last night?”

you stopped your movements to look at him. “what?”

he didn’t look up from his laptop screen. “you didn’t sleep last night, right?”

it wasn’t a question. denial felt pointless when he said it like that. like it was already observed, already logged. “it’s fine.” you said instead.

he nodded once. “okay.” but he said it like he didn’t believe that either.

you looked at him for a second too long after that, which was becoming one of your more irritating habits around him. because the problem with jake was that he could say something that sounded like nothing and somehow make it feel like he had seen more than he should have. not in a sentimental way, not in a dramatic way. just in the quiet, inconvenient way people did when they noticed details you would have preferred to keep unregistered. you looked back down before he could catch you still thinking about it. the library was almost empty by then, the kind of late that made the air feel flatter and the lights feel too bright for how little of the room anyone was actually using. jake was still packing up and unpacking nothing in that casual, efficient way of his, one hand resting against the edge of the table while he kept half a eye on the document as if he could will the dataset into finishing itself. you should have gone back to picking up your things, but you didn’t. “you always say that.” you muttered before you had fully decided to speak.

he paused. “say what.”

“okay,” you said, mimicking him badly on purpose, which was the closest you ever got to being openly petty around him. “like that.”

jake glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable in the exact way that made you immediately suspect he had understood more of your tone than you wanted him to. “it was a fine answer.”

“fine as in?” you made a small sound of frustration through your nose, then shut your laptop a little harder than necessary. not enough to make a scene, just enough to feel like you had done something with your hands.

the thing was, you had started to recognize the structure of this, too. the way neither of you ever really let the conversation stop at whatever it was initially about. it would begin with variables or scales or sample criteria, and then somehow, without either of you fully meaning to, it would drift into something else, something less concrete. which was how you ended up saying, “you’re one to talk, anyway. do you ever actually sleep? i always see you here, or around, or logged into the doc.” like it was a research question and not, very clearly, not that.

jake looked up. “yes.” “that was too fast.” “you asked like you wanted a fight.”

you stared at him. “i always sound like i want a fight to you.” “because you do.”

“i’m asking because you’re always here.” you said after a beat, more carefully now, like you were trying to step around the shape of your own curiosity before it became obvious. “which is not the same thing as sleeping.”

jake leaned back slightly in his chair. “you’re always here too.”

you looked up immediately. “that is not the same.”

“why not?” “because i have reasons.” “i also have my reasons.”

that made you pause. you hated that he had said it so easily, so neutrally, because now it sounded like you were the only one who had turned this into a personal pattern when, apparently, he had one too. you looked away first, which was getting embarrassing in its own way, because it happened almost automatically now. “sure.” you muttered. “your reason is probably just being annoyingly productive.”

he didn’t react right away, and for a second you thought maybe that was too close to a compliment and he had decided not to dignify it. then he said, “and your reason is probably panic.”

you turned your head so fast you almost regretted it. “excuse me?”

he looked at you now, completely calm, one eyebrow moving just a fraction like he was genuinely amused by the reaction and not the content. “you look more alive when you’re stressed.” he said.

you blinked. that should have sounded insulting. maybe it was insulting, maybe that was the point. but the way he said it made it land in a different place, somewhere too specific to dismiss and too strange to take seriously. “that’s a weird thing to say.” you said carefully.

“it’s true.” “no, it’s weird.” “both can be true.”

you stared at him for a second, then looked back down at the floor because if you stayed looking at him, you were pretty sure your brain would start doing something stupid like trying to decide whether he meant that in a clinical way or an observant way. there was a stretch of silence after that that didn’t feel hostile, which was somehow worse. so you decided to change the topic of discussion. “we still need to finish the sampling justification before friday.” you said, a little too quickly, because you had the uncomfortable feeling the conversation was moving somewhere you didn’t know how to stay in.

he nodded. “i know.”

“and the staffing numbers.” “mmh.” “and you need to send me the spss stuff.” “yeah.”

you looked up at him. “do you always answer like that when you’re tired?”

he paused, then glanced at you. “like what?”

“like you’re doing me a favor by remaining conscious.”

for one second, nothing happened. and then, to your absolute horror, he laughed. not a lot, not enough to make a big deal out of it. just one short, unexpected sound that slipped out before he could stop it, and it was so unlike the usual tone he used with you that it made your stomach drop in a completely different way than the argument did. you froze. he froze too, if only for a second. then his face settled back into that familiar neutral expression like the sound had never happened. but you had heard it, you definitely had. you stared at him as he looked down at his laptop. “what?”

you opened your mouth, then shut it again. because for one awful, amazing, deeply inconvenient second, you had laughed too. it came out sharp and surprised, barely there, the kind of laugh that felt like it had escaped from somewhere you didn’t mean to open. you pressed your lips together immediately after, as if you could pretend it had not happened if you became physically still enough. jake looked up at you again, but this time his expression had changed by the smallest amount. not a smile, exactly. just that tiny shift at the mouth that made you think he was aware of what had just happened and not sure whether to acknowledge it. “that was not funny.” he said.

you huffed, still trying not to look too pleased with yourself. “you laughed first.”

“barely.” “you still laughed.” “you did too.”

you stared at him and he stared back. and then it happened again, worse than before because now you were both trying not to do it and failing in the exact same moment. your shoulders shook once, his mouth twitched. you both looked away almost immediately, like eye contact had become a liability. “this is stupid. this thing has officially made us lose our minds.” you said, voice too tight to sound convincing.

“agreed.” he said. you stood there for a second, trying to rearrange your face into something more normal, while your brain replayed the sound of it over and over like it was trying to memorize a mistake.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you opened your laptop again because that was what you were supposed to do. because the project still existed. because spss still existed. because the sampling still needed cleaning and your regression outputs were still an unholy mess and no amount of accidental laughter was going to change that. and because you were suddenly, painfully aware of how little sleep you had been getting. you had been aware of it before, obviously. but it had been sitting in your body more loudly these days. the weekend shifts on top of the project work, the reading, the note-making. the constant checking of the ranking board when you passed it in the corridor, pretending not to look while your stomach still tightened every time you saw your own name underneath his. the scholarship renewal form waiting in your email draft folder like a quiet threat. you were tired all the time. not enough to stop, just enough to feel yourself fraying in increments. and somehow the worst part was that jake noticed before you said anything. not dramatically, not as some great emotional insight. he just seemed to clock when your answers got shorter, when your attention slipped, when you started rereading the same sentence too many times. and every time he noticed, he said something like it was normal. “you missed the same word twice.” “you haven’t moved from that tab in ten minutes.” “you look like you haven’t eaten.” you hated that those things were true more than you hated that he said them.

he still talked to everyone outside the library, still moved through the campus like he belonged to it in a way you never fully did, but now you also noticed that he always, always pretended not to be tired until the last possible second. he asked you once, very casually, “do you still work on saturdays?”

you looked up from the screen. “why?”

“just asking.” “but you don’t just ask. so why?”

he looked up, briefly, as if surprised you had said that. “because if you’re working every saturday and then coming here afterward, it explains why you keep looking half-dead.”

you hated that your first instinct was not to deny it. you hated that your second instinct was to ask how obvious it was. instead you said, “i don’t look half-dead.”

“you do sometimes.” “sometimes.”

“fine,” he said, almost mildly. “most times.”

you made a face at the screen. “you’re being rude.” “i’m just being accurate.”

and because you were tired and your defenses were thinner when you were tired, you heard yourself say, “well, sorry i can’t afford to look fresh and academically superior all the time.” the sentence was meant to be sarcastic, but it landed and went quiet for a second. jake looked at you then, really looked at you, and there was something in the expression that made your throat tighten before you could stop it. not pity. thank god, not pity. just recognition. you immediately regretted the whole sentence. “i didn’t mean-” you started.

“i know.” he said, very quickly and very flatly, like he was cutting off the part where you would start overexplaining and making it worse.

you blinked. he had said it like a clarification, not a reassurance, which somehow made it easier to accept. you looked down at your laptop. “okay.” you said, quieter.

and because he apparently couldn’t leave anything completely alone, he added, “you should probably eat something before you start another round of edits.”

you stared at the screen. “are you my mom now?”

that got him again, that tiny almost-laugh, the one that wasn’t quite one. “no,” he said. “my mom would tell you to sleep.”

you stared at him for half a second too long, and the thing was you could have left it there. you should have left it there. “good to know you think i’m below sleep deprivation standards.” you said.

“you are.” “wow.”

he shrugged lightly. “it’s not an insult.”

“it kind of is.” “only if you’re proud of this.”

you stared at him. and then, despite yourself, despite the exhaustion and the rankings and the scholarship and the fact that your life had been measuring itself against a list you couldn’t stop looking at, you laughed again. quieter this time, because the way he said it was so absurdly dry that your body didn’t even have time to resist. jake looked at you for a second, then went back to the screen like nothing had happened. but his mouth had that tiny thing again, that almost-not-smile he wore like it cost him nothing. and you hated how your body didn’t seem capable of stopping your wait for the next one.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the thing about finally reaching the results stage was that both of you had spent so much time preparing for it that it almost felt anticlimactic when it actually happened. because there had been weeks of articles and coding structures and sample discussions and methodological decisions that had somehow managed to generate fifty arguments over things that normal people would probably not even recognize as real issues. and now suddenly there were actual numbers in front of you. actual output tables, actual things to interpret instead of endlessly preparing to interpret things. it should have been satisfying, except jake had apparently decided to become unbearable. “okay,” he said, scrolling through the output with the kind of confidence that immediately made you suspicious. “so the effect sizes aren't that strong, but they're still meaningful enough to support the direction.”

you looked up slowly. “what?”

he glanced at you. “what what.”

you stared at him. “you cannot just say that.”

he blinked once. “why not?”

“because that's not-” you physically leaned closer to look at his screen. “jake.”

he looked back at it, then at you, then back at it. “what?”

“you're literally making conclusions before we even finish checking assumptions.”

he looked unconcerned, almost amused. “i'm not making conclusions.”

“you just said "support the direction".” “because it does.”

“no,” you said immediately, “it suggests a direction.”

“same thing.” “absolutely not the same thing.”

he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as if he was waiting for you to keep talking. you narrowed your eyes immediately, because there it was. that stupid thing he did, that look that said explain. that challenge that somehow always sounded like he was handing you a microphone in front of an audience you hadn't prepared for. you hated it and you hated him for it. you leaned forward toward your laptop. “because you're already writing like we proved something definitive.” you pointed at the screen aggressively. “results sections don't interpret outcomes like that.”

“they literally interpret outcomes.” “not like that.”

he raised an eyebrow. “okay.”

you looked at him suspiciously. “don't okay me.”

“i'm listening.” “no, because you're doing that thing.” “what thing?” “the thing where you sit there and pretend you're not disagreeing while very clearly disagreeing.” “i'm not disagreeing.” “jake.” “y/n.”

you stared at him, realizing how much you hated how calm he always looked. you could feel your mouth pulling and your eyes narrowing like they always did, probably making you look ridiculous. meanwhile, he looked so pretty it made you feel envious of a man. you could see his eyelashes from the proper distance your chair was at, casually fluttering at you in a mesmerizing manner. his lips looked glossy, almost as if he had applied something to them, although you knew it was all just natural for him. his bangs were down in a perfectly messy way, like gravity was his hair’s biggest ally every morning. gosh, you hated him so much. you quickly shook your head as you tried to physically snap yourself out of your trance, trying not to look like the weirdo who was just analyzing every detail of his appearance. “results sections are descriptive,” you continued while trying to act nonchalant, pointing at his screen again. “you're good at synthesizing information and making broader arguments, but that's discussion section stuff. you're skipping steps.”

he looked at you for a second, then glanced back down. “i'm not skipping steps.”

“you are.” “i'm being efficient.”

you let out a dry laugh. “that's a really interesting way to say overconfident.”

he looked offended for approximately half a second. “overconfident.”

“yes.” “that's harsh.” “just like you said, that's just accurate.”

silence. you watched him with crossed arms, trying very hard not to look smug because you already knew that stupid face. the hold on face. the i might actually be checking if you're right face. he stared at the screen another second. "...okay maybe."

you stared. "...maybe?"

he glanced at you. “don't make that face.”

you almost laughed. “what face?”

“that i was right face.” “i don't have a face.” “you absolutely have a face.”

you physically felt your mouth trying to move, but you stopped it immediately. you were not smiling over winning an argument about statistical reporting. that was embarrassing, deeply embarrassing. still — “so i was right.”

jake sighed dramatically, which almost never happened. “fine.”

“jake admitted i was right...”

he looked up. “once.”

“i need to write this down.” “okay now you're annoying.”

you smiled a little before you could stop it, small enough that maybe it didn't count. “you know,” you said, leaning back slightly now, “you do this all the time.”

he narrowed his eyes. “do what.”

“you jump ahead.” he looked confused. “in general.”

“what does that mean.”

you gestured vaguely toward his laptop. “you get excited about an idea and then immediately start connecting everything before it's even there yet.” he stared at you and you stared back. then added, “you're good at putting things together. too good.”

he looked down at the table for a second, tapping his fingers lightly against it. “and you're annoying.”

you narrowed your eyes. “excuse me?”

“you slow things down.” you stared as he absentmindedly kept speaking. “every time i think something makes sense, you start questioning it until i have to actually justify it.”

you blinked. "that's literally criticism."

“mmh.” “was that an insult anyway?”

“not really.” you stared harder, because his tone hadn't changed at all. he was still typing, still looking at the screen. still acting like he hadn't just said something weird enough to throw your brain slightly off balance. “you're basically quality control.”

you looked at him. "now it sounds like a compliment.” “don't make it weird.”

“you did.” you stared at him for another second to immediately look back down at your laptop, because suddenly your brain had decided to become strange about something that objectively wasn't strange. because it wasn't, obviously.

jake had an ego, a massive one. and over the last few months you had confirmed he knew he was good at things. he knew he was smart, he knew he could walk into a room and make people listen. and yet, he had looked at you after realizing he was wrong and hadn't fought it, hadn't defended himself into the ground. he had just adjusted, which felt weirdly significant. you were still thinking about that when he suddenly looked down at his phone. and then there it was, that tiny shift you always saw. that tiny thing you'd started noticing more lately. he looked at the time, locked the screen again and then looked back at his laptop. then at the time again. and for some reason you already knew what he was about to say before he opened his mouth. he was definitely leaving earlier. not dramatically, not enough to be called out. just enough that you noticed because the first few times he had stayed until nearly closing, the library doors glassing over with the dark outside while he still had his sleeves pushed up and his notes scattered in front of him like he had nowhere else to be. now he would start closing his laptop before you did, check his phone once, and give you a vague time estimate that sounded almost too casual to matter. “i’ve got to go in twenty.”

“mmh.” you only murmured.

he looked at you for half a second, then back down at the document. “plans.”

that should have been the end of it. you nodded without looking up, because of course he had plans. it would be deeply strange if he didn’t, he was not you. he had actual social skills and wouldn’t only spend the entire week trying to outrun a scholarship deadline, a project deadline, a weekend shift, and the constant low-grade panic of knowing the rankings board would be updated again soon and that your name would likely still be sitting under his like a fact you could not afford to ignore. he had friends, he had people who wanted him elsewhere. and if he could leave the library earlier because he had somewhere to be, then that was just him being a functioning person with a life outside the project. there was nothing to get hung up on. nothing. still, when he stood up ten minutes later and reached for his bag, your eyes did that stupid thing where they tracked him before you could stop them. “you’re leaving?” you asked, and you hated how flat it sounded, because it was not really a question and it was not really casual either, which made it the worst possible version of both.

he glanced at you, one hand still on the chair. “yeah. i told you.”

“you said twenty minutes.” the words came out of your mouth without much thought put into them, which you quickly regretted.

“it’s been twenty.”

you looked at the screen, looked back at him and looked down again, because you could not, under any circumstances, let the irritation in your chest become visible on your face for something that objectively did not concern you. “right,” you said. “yeah.”

he paused. not long, just enough to make you aware that he had noticed the tone shift, though he did not seem interested enough to comment on it. then, after a beat, “do you need anything else before i go?”

you looked up at that. not because the question was surprising, because it was not. he asked practical things like that all the time. the surprise was that it landed in a way that made you suddenly more aware of how little of the project he actually left unfinished when he did this. he always asked, always checked, always made sure there was no immediate loose end. and because of that, it would have been ridiculous to say yes just to keep him there, which was not something you would ever do because you were a rational person who did not need to manufacture reasons for anyone to stay in a room with you. so instead you said, “no.” and then, because silence suddenly felt too pointed, you added, “you can go.”

his eyes moved over you for a second. you hated that. you hated being looked at long enough to start wondering what expression you were making. but then he nodded once, unsurprised. “okay.” he said.

and that was it, he left just like that. which, objectively, was fine. you told yourself it was fine while staring at the empty chair across from you and pretending to reread the same paragraph for the fourth time. he had plans, you did not own his time. you did not want his time. you just needed his timing to be more consistent because it made the work easier, which was all this was, all it had ever been. the fact that his leaving earlier now felt like the shape of something missing was just your brain being inconvenient and tired and, frankly, a little overdramatic. you worked for another hour after that, but the page kept blurring at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the text. somewhere down the hall, someone spoke out loud. somewhere else, chairs scraped across the floor. the library was still full of people who had somewhere to be, and that should have made you feel better, or at least normal. except all it really did was remind you that jake had simply gone somewhere else, and you were there, which was also normal, and therefore should not have felt so pointed. you hated that he got to be nonchalant about it. you hated, more than that, that he had every right to be. and because you were not going to let yourself think too hard about that, you did what you always did when something pressed too closely against a thought you did not want: you changed the subject in your own head. there was still work to do, there was always work to do. and if you stayed long enough in the quiet of it, maybe the feeling would wear itself thin before you had to name it.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the realization happened completely by accident. which was annoying, because if there was one thing you had learned over the years, it was that the discoveries that managed to get under your skin were never the dramatic ones. they weren't the revelations, they were the offhand comments, the things people said when they weren't paying attention. it happened three weeks later. the project had reached the stage where every task somehow generated three additional tasks behind it. every answer created a new problem, every cleaned variable revealed something else that needed fixing. you had spent most of the afternoon correcting participant coding because someone had apparently decided that following instructions was optional. you were tired, more tired than usual, actually. the kind of tired that sat behind your eyes and made every conversation feel half a second slower than it should have been. you genuinely didn’t want to be there or anywhere that wasn’t your room, which was an emotion you were feeling a little too often lately. but instead, you and jake had been sitting in the library for almost two hours, arguing. again.

"i'm telling you, that's not an outlier." "it literally is." "it doesn't meet the threshold." "because you're using the wrong threshold." jake leaned back in his chair as you leaned forward. somewhere in the distance, a printer made a horrible mechanical noise.

"you're impossible." "you're dramatic." "i'm correct."

"again, those aren't mutually exclusive." you glared at him and he ignored you completely, which somehow made it worse. you opened your mouth to continue the argument when somebody appeared beside the table.

"jake." both of you looked up. it was one of the guys you knew you both shared a class with, but you couldn’t fully remember which one. you vaguely recognized him.

"hey." "did professor wilson move the deadline?" jake immediately switched into that version of himself, as if a switch had been turned on. easier, lighter, like social interaction operated on a completely different set of rules for him.

"yeah, yeah." "to monday?" "pretty sure."

the guy groaned. "thank god." jake laughed. you looked back at your laptop, because this wasn't your conversation. because there was no reason to pay attention. "honestly," the guy continued, dropping his backpack onto a nearby chair, "i thought i was cooked. especially with rankings updating this week." your fingers paused, just for a second. rankings. you kept staring at your screen. didn't react, didn't move. "you're still first anyway."

jake made a face. "don't remind me."

the guy laughed. "what? scared somebody's finally coming for you? you've literally been first for more than two years."

"yeah." "so?" you clicked your mouse. kept looking at the same paragraph, the same sentence, the same word. because suddenly you were listening, which you knew was stupid.

"so eventually people get weird about it."

the guy snorted. "people are already weird about it."

"exactly." you heard papers shifting, chairs moving, conversation continuing somewhere above your head. and then —

"besides." jake's voice, speaking casually. "i've had somebody sitting right behind me since first year." everything inside your head stopped. just enough that the next few words arrived strangely, like your brain needed an extra second to process them.

"yeah, but she's not catching you."

you stared at your screen, your cursor blinked. jake shrugged. "you don't know that." something tightened unpleasantly in your chest.

the guy laughed. "come on."

"what?" "she's been second forever." "and?" "and you're still first."

you heard jake exhale through his nose. not annoyed, not defensive, just certain. "that's not really how that works."

silence, a short one, the kind that only lasts a second. but it was enough. enough for the guy to look confused, enough for you to stop reading entirely and enough for your stomach to do something uncomfortable. because suddenly you weren't hearing the conversation anymore, you were hearing one specific thing. i've had somebody sitting right behind me since first year. you had always assumed the rankings mattered differently. you checked because you had to. because your scholarship depended on it, because staying second was survival and becoming third was a problem and dropping lower than that was unthinkable. you checked because every semester felt like standing on the edge of something. but jake? jake didn't need to check, jake was first. he had been first forever. you had always assumed he occupied that position carelessly, without thinking about it. without noticing it, without needing to. and yet — i've had somebody sitting right behind me since first year. which meant he knew. not just now, not just recently, he had known. the thought landed strangely. because the truth was you had spent an embarrassing amount of time assuming that you barely existed in his academic universe before your first little social development project encounter. you had never imagined he paid attention to it from the other side.

you became aware of the conversation ending. the other guy leaving, the chair scraping against the floor, the room returning to normal. jake sat back down, opened his laptop and looked at the document, completely unaware that your brain had become stuck on something deeply stupid. or maybe aware, as it had been getting harder to tell these days. you stared at the same line for another ten seconds. then twenty. "what?" you looked up. jake was watching you, so you immediately looked back down.

"nothing." "you've been staring at the same sentence."

you hated that he noticed that. "it's called reading."

"it's called not reading, actually."

you clicked your pen, trying very hard not to ask a question that would immediately reveal how much attention you had been paying. because that would be deeply embarrassing and objectively unnecessary. "you check the rankings?" the words escaped before you could stop them.

jake blinked, like the question itself was strange. "yeah."

you stared. that was it, yeah. like you had asked whether he checked his email. "why?"

he looked genuinely confused now. "why wouldn't i?"

and somehow that answer was worse, because there was no arrogance in it. no competitive edge, just simple confusion. you looked away first again, which was becoming a problem. "i don't know."

"mmh." he returned to the document. conversation over, just like that. you sat there staring at your screen while your brain performed increasingly unnecessary calculations around a piece of information that should not have mattered.

"it's useful." jake suddenly spoke, explaining himself.

"useful." "yeah." "for what?" "seeing where people are."

you stared. "that's incredibly vague."

"it's rankings." he looked back at the screen. "they're literally designed to show where people are."

you looked away before he could see the involuntary twitch at the corner of your mouth. he was annoying. the conversation again should have ended there. instead you heard yourself ask, "so you actually pay attention to them?"

his fingers paused briefly over the keyboard. "depends."

"on what?" "who."

your stomach did something unpleasant. you immediately focused very hard on the document in front of you, which unfortunately did not stop you from hearing your own voice ask, "who?"

silence, not a long one. just enough to make you aware you had probably sounded more interested than intended. "people near me." there it was again, simple, easy. like the answer should have been obvious.

you nodded slowly, pretending that explained absolutely everything. "and apparently you've had somebody right behind you since first year."

jake glanced up, and for the first time since the conversation started, something shifted slightly in his expression. not surprise, more like realization, like he had finally figured out what you were actually asking. "yeah." you looked down at your laptop.

"i thought you didn't pay attention to that stuff." "why?" "because you're first."

he leaned back slightly, thinking. "those two things don't seem related."

you hated how quickly he said that, like it had never occurred to him they might be. "i just assumed you wouldn't care."

"you assume a lot when it comes to me. and i didn't say i cared."

you blinked. that answer threw you off immediately. "then why look?"

he shrugged. "same reason everybody does."

you almost laughed. "that is absolutely not true." "okay." "most people aren't first."

"and?" you stared and he stared back. calm, patient, infuriating. eventually he looked away first. "you're making rankings sound way more dramatic than they are."

you nearly choked. because if there was one thing in the entire world that had never been casual for you, it was rankings. rankings determined scholarships, rankings determined funding. rankings determined whether next semester would be manageable or impossible. rankings determined whether all the hours were worth something. rankings had never once been casual. meanwhile jake was sitting there talking about them like it was nothing. you looked down before your face could betray anything. "easy for you to say." the words slipped out before you could stop them.

silence. when you looked up again, he was watching you. and suddenly you wished you had said literally anything else. "i guess." you couldn't tell whether he understood what you meant or whether he had decided not to ask. after a minute, he said, "i knew who you were before this whole thing, you know?"

your eyes immediately lifted, but jake didn't. he was still looking at the spreadsheet, still typing, like he hadn't just casually inserted himself into the worst thought process you'd had all week. "what?"

"you seemed surprised. and since you assume a lot, you had probably assumed i didn’t."

you stared. "we had basically never talked until all of this. so yeah, i don’t think it was such a crazy guess."

he shrugged. "i still knew who you were. you sometimes answer questions in class. not often, but when you do." your brain immediately supplied every lecture hall from the last three years. every time a professor had waited too long for somebody to answer, every time silence became unbearable. every time you'd reluctantly spoken because of participation marks, because there was no other option.

"you always sit near the aisle. you leave immediately after class." your stomach tightened, slightly. "and." he paused, then added, "you never talk to anybody before lectures start. see?" you looked away immediately. because that one landed too accurately, too directly. the silence stretched and jake looked back at his laptop, apparently finished. meanwhile your brain was still stuck three sentences ago, because none of those observations sounded important, they sounded ordinary. the kind of details people noticed accidentally, which somehow made them harder to dismiss. and for the first time, you found yourself wondering something you had never really considered before. had he been watching you just how you had been watching him?

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you were tired. and the thing about burnout was that nobody ever told you how boring it was. people talked about breakdowns like they happened all at once. like one day you were functioning and the next day you were crying in a parking lot or failing all your classes or staring dramatically into the distance while your life collapsed around you. but mostly it was just repetition. it was waking up tired, then waking up tired again, then waking up tired enough that you stopped being surprised by it. it was reading the same paragraph four times and only realizing afterward that you hadn't processed a single word. it was opening your laptop with a headache that never fully left. it was drinking coffee because you were tired and then being too anxious to sleep because you had consumed enough caffeine to chemically alter your blood type.

and the worst part was that none of it looked serious from the outside — you were still getting things done, your grades were still high, the scholarship was still intact, you still showed up. which meant nobody out of the two people you talked to really had a reason to worry. including you, especially you. because every time the exhaustion started feeling noticeable, there was always something more urgent waiting behind it. an assignment, a shift at work, the project. the rankings, always the rankings. the ranking board had become something you checked constantly, feeling like it was the only thing you had some control over. every other day your eyes went to the same two names. jake. you. sometimes the gap changed, sometimes it didn't. sometimes you gained points, sometimes he gained more. but he always stayed first, and you always stayed second, and every single week you told yourself it didn't matter. every single week your stomach tightened anyway. because second place sounded impressive until you realized first place existed. and first place had a name.

and unfortunately for you, first place also kept asking if you had eaten lunch, which somehow made the whole thing worse. the semester kept moving and you kept moving with it, mostly. until one afternoon your phone buzzed while you were halfway through finishing coding participant responses. you ignored it, but it buzzed again. then again. finally you looked down. jess. for a second you just stared at the screen, because you hadn't spoken to jess in almost four months. not properly, not beyond the occasional reaction emoji or one-word response she dropped into conversations before disappearing again. the funny thing was that the sight of her name didn't even surprise you anymore. there was a pattern to these things, there always had been. jess vanished, jess travelled somewhere, jess forgot everyone existed. jess reappeared, repeat. you opened the message.

jess: oh my god jess: are you busy jess: i need to tell you something

you stared at it, then at the typing bubble that appeared immediately afterward.

jess: it's an emergency

you already knew it wasn't. or rather, you knew exactly what kind of emergency it was. three dots appeared, then disappeared, just to appear again.

jess: i think ethan is actually the worst person alive

there it was. you leaned back in your chair. somewhere in the distance a professor was explaining something to a student. somebody dropped a pen, somebody laughed. you just stared at your screen. and suddenly a memory surfaced so clearly it felt recent. first year, late-night study sessions, sharing notes, getting coffee between lectures. jess talking for hours while you listened, back when friendship had felt reciprocal. or maybe when you had simply been too optimistic to notice it wasn't. after all, she had been the only friend you had made during your college years. 

your thumb hovered over the keyboard, because the thing was you already knew how this conversation would go, you could practically predict it. you would listen, jess would vent and you would help. she would feel better, then she would disappear again. and in a month or two there would be another emergency: another boyfriend, another friendship drama, another crisis. and somehow there would always be room in her life for your attention, just never actual room for you. the realization arrived so quietly that it almost didn't feel like a realization at all, more like finally reading a sentence you had been skimming for years.

your phone buzzed again.

jess: hello??? jess: are you alive

you stared at the messages, and for the first time in a very long time, you didn't immediately answer. instead you looked at the clock, looked at the spreadsheet, looked at the participant responses, looked at the list of assignments due next week. looked at the exhaustion sitting permanently somewhere behind your eyes. you felt something unpleasant twist in your chest, like disappointment that had finally gotten tired of disguising itself as understanding. because suddenly you couldn't stop thinking about all the messages you had sent over the years. all the conversations that had ended with no reply, all the updates she had forgotten, all the times she had said sorry i've been busy before immediately disappearing again. and the worst part was that you had accepted it, every single time.

because having part of a friendship had seemed better than having none. and when it was good, it was really good. jess was one of those people that made everyone comfortable no matter what. one of those people that saw much more from you than your initial single word answers said in an anxious manner. she was someone who gave you an opportunity when no one else did, and the thought of that was sometimes, or most times, enough. 

your phone buzzed once more.

jess: seriously i need help

the messages started becoming ridiculous. at first, you ignored them because you were angry, then you ignored them because you didn't know what to say. which was how you ended up with twenty three unread messages from jess spread across almost two weeks. some were memes, some were photos. some were random observations she apparently felt compelled to share despite receiving absolutely nothing back. another was a screenshot of some guy's text messages followed by:

jess: am i insane or is he insane

you had stared at it for nearly five minutes before locking your phone and putting it face down. the next day there had been another message.

jess: wow thanks for the support

you hadn't answered that either. then there had been silence for almost four days, and for some reason those four days had felt worse than the messages. because it made you realize you had spent the entire time expecting another one, which was humiliating.

then friday night, after finishing a shift that had lasted too long and dealing with a customer who had somehow managed to ask for four different managers despite being wrong every single time, you unlocked your phone while waiting for the bus and saw:

jess: okay jess: i know where this is coming from

your stomach immediately tightened.

jess: and i know you're mad jess: and honestly fair enough

you stared. jess almost never admitted fault immediately, and that alone made you suspicious.

jess: but i think we're both being stubborn now jess: and i think if we actually talked we'd fix it in like ten minutes jess: so jess: surprise jess: i'm back next week jess: and before you ignore this too jess: yes i'm serious jess: yes i'm coming to campus jess: yes i'm finding you jess: and no you're not allowed to disappear

another message appeared.

jess: we're fixing this jess: even if you hate me right now

you locked your phone just to unlock it again. read the messages a second time, then a third. you still didn't answer, but you also didn't delete them, which felt like its own kind of weakness. because the truth was that a very small, very pathetic part of you had immediately felt relieved, and you hated that. you hated that after everything, after months of being forgotten whenever she found something better to do, after every unanswered message and every time you had watched her life continue without you, some stupid part of your brain still reacted to her name like a starving dog being handed scraps. you hated it, and you hated yourself for it. somehow that made the exhaustion sitting in your chest feel even heavier.

she found you four days later, which you should have expected. you were leaving a lecture hall when someone suddenly wrapped both arms around you from behind. you nearly had a heart attack. "oh my god."

"there she is." you immediately knew it was her. same perfume, same voice, same face no one, not even you, could ever say no to. same irritating ability to behave like she had never been gone at all.

there she was, smiling like nothing had happened, like months had not passed. like you hadn't spent entire semesters watching your messages sit unanswered. for one awful second your chest actually hurt, because you had missed her and that was the worst part. "hi." she said softly.

you stared. "hi."

her smile faltered slightly. "wow."

"what?" "you really are mad."

you looked away immediately, because somehow hearing it out loud made it feel childish. "i'm just busy. can’t stay much time here."

"you always say that." "because i am."

jess rolled her eyes. "see, this is exactly what i'm talking about."

you frowned. "what are you talking about?"

"this." she gestured vaguely. "whatever this is."

you laughed once, a short humorless sound. "you disappeared for months."

"i didn't disappear." "okay." "i didn't!"  "mmh."

"stop doing that." "doing what?!" "that!"

you stared at her. "jess, you literally stopped answering me."

"i was in another country."

"phones exist internationally and for a reason, you know?" that finally made her go quiet. and for a second you thought maybe she actually understood. maybe she got it.

"i thought you knew it wasn't personal." and there it was, the reason this conversation had always been impossible. because for jess it wasn't personal. for jess, friendships were elastic — they stretched, they shrank, they disappeared and then they came right back. and somehow they always remained exactly the same. but for you they didn't. for you every absence left marks, every ignored message sat in your chest for weeks. every unanswered attempt became evidence.

"that's kind of the problem." jess blinked and you immediately regretted speaking. because now the words were moving, and once they started moving they rarely stopped. "i know it wasn't personal for you." your voice sounded calmer than you felt. "i know you weren't sitting there trying to hurt me."

"then-"

"but i was still there." silence. "i was still your friend while you weren't answering."

jess's expression changed slightly. "y/n-"

"and every single time something went wrong, you came back." your throat tightened. "every time."

"that's not fair." "it is fair." "no."

"yes." you looked away, because suddenly you couldn't look at her anymore. "you only miss me when something happens." the words landed harder than you expected. and for the first time since she arrived, jess looked genuinely hurt. and for some reason that didn't make you feel better, it just made you tired.

"that's not true." "okay." "stop saying okay like you've already decided i'm guilty!" 

you laughed again, smaller this time. "haven't i?"

jess looked down, then back up. and for the first time all afternoon she seemed unsure. "i missed you." your chest twisted immediately, because she sounded sincere, and that somehow made everything worse. "i did." you didn't answer. "i know i'm bad at this, but i did miss you." the problem was that you believed her, and the problem was that believing her changed absolutely nothing. because people could miss you and still leave, people could care and still disappear and people could love you and still make you feel lonely. you had learned that years ago, but jess just happened to be the latest example. eventually she sighed. "you're impossible."

"i've heard that." "are you just… going to stay mad forever?"

you shrugged. "depends." "on what?"

you looked at her and suddenly realized she genuinely thought this was fixable with one conversation. like all she had to do was show up, smile, say sorry and everything would reset. the way it always had before. except this time you were too tired to pretend. "i don't know." and all of a sudden, neither of you had anything else to say. which was probably answer enough.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

your life had somewhat become structured around jake’s, often ending up in the same spaces. same library, same project, same professor. same increasingly concerning amount of time spent staring at statistical outputs. you arrived already tired, even more tired than usual, which was saying something. the scholarship paperwork still wasn't finished, you had missed breakfast again and you had slept four hours. jess had texted you three times before nine in the morning, and you had spent most of the walk to campus pretending not to see the notifications sitting on your lockscreen. by the time you dropped into the chair across from jake, you felt like your body was running entirely on momentum. he looked up once and paused, then looked back at his laptop. "you look awful."

you dropped your bag onto the table. "good morning to you too." "i'm serious."

"thank you." you said in a sarcastic tone, not being able to deal with his shit at that point. still, there was a silence, and the comfortable kind. or whatever the closest version of comfortable was between the two of you. until eventually, after some time typing, you noticed he hadn't moved for almost a minute. which was unusual, because jake was always doing something. you looked up and he was staring at the screen. not reading it, just staring. "what?"

his eyes shifted. "nothing." “mmh.” you immediately went back to your laptop.

he frowned. "that's it?" "what?" "you're not going to ask?"

you looked up. "you literally said nothing."

"yeah." "so?" "usually people ask again."

you stared. "usually people should answer properly the first time."

that got the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. then he sighed, longer this time. and he suddenly looked older, not physically, just tired. the kind of tired you only noticed when someone stopped performing for a second. "my independent project is a mess."

you blinked, because that was not what you expected. "the lab one?"

he nodded. "i've been working on it for almost a year."

you knew the project because everyone did, you were sure. it was one of those ambitious research proposals professors liked bringing up when they wanted to motivate students. jake's project, jake's future publication, jake's possible master's application. jake's future everything. "so… what happened?"

he leaned back as he rubbed a hand over his face. "nothing happened." which sounded suspiciously similar to disaster.

"jake."

he laughed once, without humor. "i spent eleven months collecting data. and now i'm not sure the question was even worth asking." you froze, because that wasn't frustration, that was something close to fear. the kind that sat underneath months of work and suddenly asked whether any of it mattered. he looked away. "i keep trying to force something interesting out of it." another pause. "and every time i look at it i hate it more."

you watched him carefully, because this wasn't the version of jake most people saw. the version everybody else saw walked around campus looking annoyingly competent, like things simply worked for him. like success arrived naturally and confidence was his default setting. but this version looked frustrated and uncertain, which somehow felt more vulnerable than if he had outright admitted he was struggling. "i’m just going to be honest."

he snorted. "that sounds dangerous."

"might be. but i think… your problem could be that you keep trying to make it impressive." he looked up, immediately. but you continued before he could interrupt. "every time you talk about a project, you talk about what it could become." 

his eyebrows pulled together. “because that's the point."

you sat forward slightly. "you're doing the same thing you did with the results section."

he groaned immediately. "don't bring that up." "i'm bringing it up, jake." "of course you are."

"because you're doing it again." he leaned back, watching you as you continued. "you keep jumping ahead. you're trying to write the conclusion before you've looked at what's actually there."

his eyes narrowed slightly. not defensive, just thinking, which was different. "maybe the data isn't exciting."

you shrugged. "most data isn't."

"great." "but maybe it's useful, and maybe that's enough."

silence stretched, long. he tapped his fingers against the table. "you’re really annoying and that's a really annoying answer."

your mouth twitched slightly. "i know. feelings are mutual."

"and i also hate that you're probably right."

"i also know." you finally smiled, not being able to control your facial expressions anymore.

"stop enjoying this."

you looked back down at your laptop. "i'm not." but you absolutely were.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

after a few days, you met up again. it was one of those days where everything felt wrong before it even started. jess had called, which already felt aggressive, and somehow the conversation had made everything worse. because she sounded normal, excited, exactly like somebody who had not disappeared from your life for months at a time. and by the time you arrived at the library, you could feel the anger sitting underneath your skin. jake noticed immediately, which was becoming irritating. "okay."

you didn't look up. "what?" "you look like you want to commit murder today."

"yeah, and you’re about to be my next victim.” jake just looked at you in shock, making you think he might have believed it. “i looked like that last week too, anyway." you said while avoiding eye contact.

"this is definitely different." you ignored him, but he ignored your attempt to ignore him. "who is it?"

you sighed. "what? nobody." "that's a lie and we both know it."

"why ask if you've already decided then?" you said in a passive aggressive tone, more aggressive than passive.

he shrugged. "fair." after a minute of silence, you heard his voice again. "is it a guy?"

you immediately stared in shock. "what?" "i'm asking." "why?"

"because people usually look like this because of a guy. and i would know, because i am a guy… a guy a lot of girls get mad at, actually."

you rolled you eyes as you heard him admit to that so easily. "your reasoning is stupid. and your reasoning should maybe make you a little more self aware for the sake of others too." "mmh, okay."

you looked back down, annoyed. then heard yourself speak, feeling the need to clarify it. "it's not a guy, for the record." "good."

you frowned, confused at his comment. "why?" "because i wouldn’t have been helpful. i’m on the receiving end when it comes to that stuff, so i don’t understand those situations.”

you stared. "and you understand this one?" "try me."

you rubbed your eyes, already regretting speaking. "it's an old friend. jess."

his expression shifted slightly. recognition. "jess?"

"yeah." you hesitated. "you might know her."

"how exactly?" "well, apart from the fact that you talk to basically everybody on campus including the trees, she used to… visit one of your friends?"

he immediately looked confused, raising one eyebrow. “visit?”

“as in, intimately.” you awkwardly said, making it all even more awkward, which was one of your not-so-hidden talents.

"that doesn't narrow it down at all." 

despite yourself, you laughed. "fair."

after a second, you heard him speak again. "oh."

"you know her." "i remember we talked a few times, yeah. she used to hook up with jay, i think. it’s hard to keep up." 

you blushed at his words like a stupid girl, as if you weren’t a full grown twenty year old woman. you felt the need to move on with the conversation, which somehow meant oversharing a little. "she just disappears. for months." you stared at the table. "sometimes longer. then comes back." your throat tightened. "and every single time she acts like nothing happened." you laughed, short and sharp. "like i'm supposed to be waiting exactly where she left me." jake didn't interrupt, so you kept talking, which was probably a big mistake. "she goes traveling, does exchange. somehow the exchange ends and she still doesn’t come back? she meets new people and simply forgets i exist." your voice sounded flatter now. "then something goes wrong and suddenly she remembers my phone number." silence. you looked down. "and the worst part is i always answer." there it was, the embarrassing part, the part that actually hurt. because the problem wasn't only jess, it was you. always accepting less than what you needed because some version of friendship felt better than none.

jake was quiet for a moment. but when he finally spoke, you immediately wished he hadn’t. "i kind of understand her."

you looked up, instantly regretting opening your mouth. why had you even told him about that? why would you ever talk about something so personal with jake? you genuinely wondered what had gotten into you, what stupid spell you were under to suddenly speak about something so important to you with this person. "forget it."

he didn't seem bothered by your reaction, which somehow made it worse. "listen. i’m just saying i understand why she might disappear."

you laughed, actually laughed in disbelief. "seriously? that's your response."

he frowned. "what?"

"i tell you all that and your first instinct is to defend her." "i'm not defending her." "you literally are." "no?" "jake."

he leaned back, annoyingly calm. "i'm saying i understand it."

"those are not different things." "they are."

"not right now they're not." you raised your voice a little, not being able to keep up with his nonchalance.

"people get overwhelmed." his voice remained steady. "people avoid things."

"for more than a year?" "sometimes." "well, that's ridiculous." "it just happens, y/n."

you laughed again, angrier this time. "easy for you to say."

he frowned. "why are you so sure about that?"

because you have people. because people stay and because nobody forgets you. because you don't spend months wondering whether someone cared about you in the first place. you thought all of that but said none of it. "because you're not the one waiting." that landed and you saw it. 

jake's expression shifted slightly. "fair."

you quickly looked away, because suddenly your eyes were burning. because suddenly you remembered why you didn’t like talking to jake. "i'm just tired of being understanding." the words slipped out before you could stop them.

he just sat there for a second, looking at you with that frustratingly neutral expression he always wore whenever he was actually thinking about something. "i know."

you almost laughed. not because it was funny, because it was irritating. "i don’t think you do." you wished you hadn't said that, because now the conversation was no longer about jess. it was about you. silence stretched between you, making you look down at the table. 

jake looked at you and said, carefully this time, "i'm just saying i've done that before. not answered people." your eyes lifted. he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking somewhere over your shoulder, somewhere vague. like he was talking to the room instead of directly to you.  "you get busy." he shrugged slightly. "or stressed. or something happens and you keep thinking you'll answer tomorrow." you didn't say anything as he continued. "then a week passes, then two." another pause. "then it starts feeling weird. and then the longer you leave it, the more embarrassing it gets." something uncomfortable twisted in your chest, because he didn't sound defensive, he sounded familiar. like he wasn't really talking about jess anymore, like he was talking about himself. "and eventually," he said, quieter now, "you know you've waited too long." your throat tightened unexpectedly, because there was something strange about hearing that from him. jake, who always seemed so put together, so socially effortless. so capable of moving through every room without friction. you had never really considered that he might be the kind of person who avoided things. or people, or conversations. he leaned back slightly. "but i'm not saying it doesn't hurt."

you immediately looked away, because that wasn't what you wanted, it wasn't what you needed. you didn't need understanding, you needed someone to tell you that you were right. that jess was selfish, that disappearing for months was selfish. that coming back whenever she felt lonely was selfish and that you had every right to be angry. instead he was sitting there calmly constructing reasons that almost sounded like excuses. "okay." your voice came out flat. "so what?"

he frowned slightly. "what do you mean?"

"i mean so what." you looked at him again. "so she was embarrassed." he immediately knew where this was going and you could tell, but that didn't stop you. "so she got busy. so now i have to be there every time just in case she felt that way, because of course she didn’t give any solid explanation either. great." you laughed once, sharp.

"that's not what i'm saying." "it kind of is." "no, y/n."

"then what are you saying, jake." you called his name back as if trying to prove a point, unconsciously arguing at this point.

he rubbed his jaw, already looking mildly annoyed. which somehow made you even more annoyed. "i'm just saying life gets messy." you stared at him and he stared back, completely calm, completely composed. and suddenly you wanted to shake him, just a little. just enough to make him react properly.

"you don't get it." "maybe not." "no, you definitely don't."

he frowned. "then explain it. explain whatever you want me to get."

and there it was. you could tell exhaustion had been eating holes through your self-control for weeks now as you spoke without a filter. "because it's always me." you looked down, immediately regretting it, immediately wanting to take it back. but now it was already out. "i'm always the person who understands and the person who's supposed to wait until everybody figures their shit out." your chest felt tight, too tight. "and somehow nobody ever seems worried about whether i have things going on too." the words sounded pathetic the second they left your mouth. you hated yourself for saying them, because this was jake. jake wasn’t even your friend, but there you were trauma dumping on him for some strange reason.

he was quiet for a moment, long enough that you wished he would just let it go. "have you told her that?"

you blinked. "what?" "any of that."

you stared. "that's your takeaway?"

"it's a question." "obviously not." "then how would she know?"

you actually laughed in disbelief. "jake, seriously?" "yeah."

your irritation flared immediately. "because she should know."

he sighed. "people don't magically know things." "she should."

"why?" you stared at him, because the answer felt obvious. because if somebody mattered to you then you noticed, and if somebody mattered to you then you checked. you would remember they existed even when your life got busy. but suddenly explaining that felt impossible because it sounded childish and needy, it sounded exactly like the thing you spent years trying not to be. you looked away but, unfortunately, jake kept talking. "look." his voice softened slightly, which somehow made it worse. "i'm not saying she's right. i'm saying people aren't always good at being what other people need. and honestly," he hesitated for a moment, just enough for you to notice. "i don't know. if she's basically the only friend you've got." your stomach dropped, violently. he didn't mean it cruelly and that was the problem. he said it like an observation, like a fact, something practical and logical. "maybe expecting perfection from her isn't realistic."

that was the exact moment everything inside you snapped, quietly. somehow he had managed to take the ugliest fear you carried around and say it out loud like it was reasonable. if she's basically the only friend you've got. you stared at him, and suddenly all you could hear was that sentence. you wondered if he realized what he had just said, if he realized how true it was. your chair scraped against the floor, which made jake immediately looked up. "you’re right." your voice sounded strange, even to yourself. you started shoving your laptop into your bag too fast, too aggressively.

"y/n." "no, you're right."

his eyebrows pulled together. "that's not-"

"no." you stood up as the library suddenly felt too bright, too loud and too exposed. "i should probably lower my standards."

"i didn't say that." "you kind of did." "that's not what i meant." "it's fine." "y/n."

you slung your bag over your shoulder, avoiding his eyes. because you knew if you looked at him right now something humiliating would happen — either you'd cry or you'd say something cruel, and you didn't want either.

"i've got work." "we're literally working right now." "not this."

"that's not what i meant." he said quieter this time, more serious.

you nodded once, short and mechanical. "just leave it, okay? i don’t give a fuck at this point." you turned around and left before he could say anything else. before he could explain or clarify, before he could make it reasonable. because the worst part was that maybe it was reasonable and maybe that was why it hurt so much. because somewhere underneath all the anger and embarrassment and exhaustion, there was a small ugly part of you that had heard his words and immediately thought: he's right. and you hated that part enough that you spent the entire walk home trying not to listen to it.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you didn’t want to see jess, and you wanted to see jake even less. the conversation with him had left you feeling like a whiny, annoying person, which somehow felt like it was both of their perception when it came to you. you still didn’t understand why you had let him know all that personal stuff, why you hadn’t second guessed saying it like you did with everything else. why had you all of a sudden let something real slip out so carelessly when you had spent most of your life making sure nothing slipped out at all? although once you reflected on it, you realized jake was the closest thing to a friend you had at that moment. you kept telling yourself he wasn’t one because you knew he didn’t consider you as such, but that didn’t mean it was as easy for your brain to interpret it all in the same nonchalant way as his did. and maybe that was the reason why you had been so careless, because at some point of spending countless hours with jake as a project partner, you had begun to spend time with him as a person too, even if it was a one sided experience. you had to stop that, though. he had clearly shown you he thought it was stupid to even bring up the thing with jess as a problem. he wasn’t your friend in reality, and although he had told you about some of his worries as well, you obviously didn’t have that kind of connection.

the project document sat untouched for longer than it should have. you told yourself you would get back to it tomorrow, but then tomorrow became the next day, and then the next. same thing happened with texts that went unanswered, cancelled meetings and skipped classes. eventually you emailed your professors about a “debilitating cold” that technically existed but probably wasn't severe enough to justify missing class or being absent from life in general. you had never missed class, not voluntarily, not unless you physically couldn't move. but exhaustion had started settling somewhere deeper than tiredness. it wasn't sleep, because sleep didn't fix it. sleep just delayed it until the morning. the strange thing was that once you stopped going, you discovered how easy it would be to keep stopping, which terrified you. because rankings, scholarships, deadlines, projects and all the things that normally sat in your chest screaming for attention suddenly felt distant, muted. like somebody had wrapped your life in several layers of fabric. and you knew enough about yourself to understand how dangerous that feeling could become if you let it stay.

so on wednesday morning you got out of bed, because whatever else you were, you were not a quitter. you got dressed, packed your bag and ignored the fact that everything felt heavier than usual. you promised yourself you wouldn’t allow yourself to have those kind of thoughts anymore because they would only bring you down. emotional repression was your favorite kind of unhealthy coping mechanism, you thought. once you were back on campus, all you could think about was how you couldn’t handle seeing neither of those two people you couldn’t get out of your head at that moment. which was genuinely stupid, because one of them was a former friend who had apparently decided to reappear in your life after treating it like a waiting room, and the other was your project partner to put it simply. those were the facts — simple, reasonable, adult facts. the fact that both situations somehow occupied an unreasonable amount of your brain space lately was a separate issue entirely. you shook in fear just by imagining it, already feeling awkward because of conversations that had not happened yet, expressions you had not seen yet, and possibilities your brain had already managed to rehearse a dozen different ways.

so when you casually looked up on your way to class just to see both of those two people, your entire body froze. you stood still like a rodent in fear, trying to process the scene you were watching. jake. jess. together. you were standing far enough away that neither of them saw you. thank god, because you suddenly felt like an intruder. jess was leaning against one of the walls near the notice boards, talking about something with her hands moving the way they always did when she got animated. her hair was down and she looked effortless in that way she always did. jake was standing across from her. he was smiling, genuinely. that small version of it that showed up when he was actually entertained by something. you hated that you recognized the difference now. your stomach tightened, probably because you were annoyed. that was the explanation, the obvious explanation.

you kept walking a little slower without meaning to. jess said something and jake looked down for a second before looking back up. she touched his arm, briefly, the way extroverted people touched everybody. which meant absolutely nothing. except your brain immediately decided to remember every single time jake had ever touched you, which took approximately half a second because the answer was basically never. you looked away, then looked back. and you knew you were acting ridiculous. you should just have gone to class, but instead you found yourself lingering beside a column further down the corridor. not hiding, just... standing there for a second. a completely normal amount of time. jess laughed as jake said something that made her shove his shoulder lightly. and there it was, that impossible-to-define thing. you couldn't hear a word they were saying, but somehow the conversation felt familiar anyway. easy, comfortable. like they already knew where the other person's jokes were going before they arrived there. you noticed jess occupied space easily, exactly like you never had. jess laughed loudly, but you usually laughed like you were apologizing for it. jess flirted with people the way other people breathed. and even from across the hallway you could see the familiar rhythm of it. the slight lean forward, the eye contact held a second too long, the teasing smile, the confidence. she had always been good at that.

you weren't even friends with one of them anymore, and the other had never been your friend to begin with. so why did it feel like watching something you weren't supposed to be seeing? why did it feel like standing outside a room with the door cracked open? why did it feel like everybody else had somehow received instructions for a social world that you were still trying to decipher years later? jess laughed again. jake looked down and shook his head. and there it was, that tiny almost-smile, the one you had spent months accidentally memorizing. your stomach dropped, hard. you wished you had the strength in you to go tell him how much you hated him, but you knew they would just look at you like you were crazy. because maybe you were a little, but you believed you had your reasons. it felt like he was doing it on purpose — you had explicitly told him that she had hurt you, he had dismissed it and now he was luring her in. he couldn’t be doing it on purpose, right? he couldn’t dislike you that much. he didn’t even seem to care, for god’s sake. so why would he go out of his way to do something so mean to you? you were taking it personal when deep down you knew it had nothing to do with you, which probably was what hurt the most. you weren’t in neither of their minds and you had to accept it.

you hated how bitter every thought you had sounded. you hated it enough that you immediately started walking again, faster this time, before they could notice you. before your brain could turn the whole thing into something even uglier. because whatever this feeling was, you didn't want to examine it. you had enough problems already, you really didn't need another one. especially not one you couldn't even name.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

jess: can we just hang out like old times? pls girl lets fix thisss

you stared at the message, your desperation for friendship coming through. just two weeks ago, you were sure you couldn’t forgive her. you didn’t think acting as if nothing happened was too respectful to yourself. but you wanted a girl friend, you needed someone who would keep you distracted for a little while. someone you could share a tiny part of your 20s with, even. loneliness was getting the best of you and although it felt pitiful, you couldn’t help but miss human connection. and maybe, just maybe, jake’s words had also had an effect on your thoughts about the situation too. and maybe, it was also about seeing them talk in such a friendly manner and not being able to get what kind of interaction it was from where you were standing. maybe it was about getting mad at him because of it, because it felt like you accidentally shared way too much with him and he didn’t take it as a serious matter. as something that had hurt you deeply, as something you almost considered betrayal. he indirectly told you so, and then turned around to use his charm on her just like he did with every other girl, choosing to ignore your vulnerability. maybe it was a way of showing him that you also didn’t give a fuck. that you had realized you were being dramatic, just as he implied. was it better to spitefully prove him right by talking to jess or to feel stupid as a salty girl who cannot just forgive and forget? you thought that you at least would gain a friend back with the first option. you were being extremely irrational. the thought of jake even noticing who you talked to or not was simply dumb in the first place.

you: okay. when and where?

done decision. this could either go extremely wrong or make you a little less depressed for an evening.

jess: ik youre not going to like this, but there is this party… jess: it will be really fun and you can meet new ppl !! ill help you out plssssss

you: jess you know im too awkward for ts

jess: take it as a challenge bby jess: well leave as soon as youre uncomfortable promised jess: pick you up at 10 🥳

at least she had a car that she could pick you up with. it was hard to take anything else as positive out of this stupid situation you had chosen to get yourself into. you were extremely anxious to talk to her. still remembering how to act like a regular person, still knowing how to actually let your personality out. the fact that the only social interactions you had had for the last few months had been about your shared project with jake didn’t help at all. you knew the best you could do was not to overthink it. do not overthink it, you repeated to yourself. do. not. over —

“girl, snap out of it please. you need to get a little hyper, we’re going to a party, remember?” “sadly.”

“you’ve changed so much. i miss brighter you, you know?” your heart ached a little when you heard jess’s words being said in such an endearing tone. you missed her too.

“swear i won’t ruin it. don’t worry, you’ll have fun.” you smiled at her while she drove her mini car. it looked so chic. she looked so chic. the wind that came out of the rolled-down window somehow blew her hair perfectly without it sticking to her lipgloss, and you felt stupid for noticing those details. you always admired her, always prayed you could exude even a quarter of her elegance.

“it’s not only about me having fun. it’s about us having fun. you and me, both. understood?” she said as she pulled her car over, parking in a seemingly unknown street to you. but as you walked closer to the location, jess leading the way, it started to get a little more familiar.

“jess?” “mmh?” “is this a house party?”

“well… maybe. i thought if i told you before you wouldn’t even think about coming.”

“you know i hate this vibe. this is stupid, jess. you’re going to be socializing and i’m just going to be weirdly standing in a corner!”

“hey! i’m not going to leave you alone, okay?” “no. i don’t want you to babysit me. i told you, i want you to have a great time.”

“i’ll have a great time as long as you stop anticipating. come on, we’re already here anyway.” you knew at some point during the night she would leave you. you knew you wouldn’t go home “as soon as you get uncomfortable”. you wouldn’t even ask to leave because she deserved to have a great time without you being in her ass about it. gosh, you wished you could be normal about everything for just one night.

as soon as you entered the house, you knew who was throwing the party. you didn’t ask before, afraid of the answer jess would give you. it was the same apartment complex you once visited to bang on a boy’s door about some deleted google doc. it was jay’s home. jake’s friend. jess entered first, her beaming smile making her look even more magical. you wished you were a ghost in that moment as you genuinely couldn’t take being looked at. but there you were, too deep in the lion's den to get out now. “jay!” jess ran up to the familiar face you always saw jake with. you walked a little faster, trying to keep up with jess’ excited run. you awkwardly stood next to her, waiting for the perfect moment to include yourself in their conversation. you swore no matter what the interaction was, there was never a right time for your stupid brain.

“aaaand this is y/n! we’ve been friends for almost… how many years now?”

“three and half.” you finally added something to the conversation, trying to politely smile to jay without showing too much of your nerves.

“oh my god, it’s been so fucking long, girl. anyway, she’s such a sweet girl, right babe?” jess looked at you with her deer eyes and a light smile, almost pleading you to speak with just a look.

“never as sweet as her. i hope you’ve had a great chance to get to know her properly, jay. it’s extremely worth it.” jay smiled genuinely, nodding yes with his head.

“oh babe! i missed my girl so much!”

“girls are too fucking sweet to each other, god. i feel pre-diabetic already.”

“oh, shut up! it’s not our fault you guys don’t have a single ounce of emotional intelligence!” jess punched jay’s arm in a friendly way, making him laugh while dramatically exclaiming how painful it felt.

“anyway, make yourself at home. there is plenty of alcohol, so get drunk and have fun. those are the house rules.” jay winked while he left to walk to a bigger group of people, which seemed like his friend group. his friend group. jake.

“jake!” your biggest fear came true. having to awkwardly stand at a house party while your friend talked to another person. and that person was the guy you had a project to finish with. and the guy you had been avoiding for about three weeks for various reasons. the guy who looked extremely confident while walking towards your friend, probably knowing he already had her wrapped around his finger. the guy who didn’t even spare you a glance, as if you hadn’t shared information that you considered very personal with him. as if he hadn’t opened up too. for a moment, your brain had even tricked you into thinking he was your friend. loneliness makes you a little too delusional, you thought.

jess hugged him tightly, almost doubtful of letting him go. you hadn’t addressed it since you were pretty sure she didn’t even know you were aware of them knowing each other, or even jake and you knowing each other. but you had your suspicions about the sexual tension you could feel between them. you kind of knew both jake and jess, and you were aware they both didn’t do serious. and although you weren’t judging, it kind of hurt knowing that your old friend no longer trusted you enough to update you about her intimate life like she used to. it wasn’t about the intimate life part, it was more about the fact that you two didn’t talk anymore, didn’t know about each other’s general life anymore. you weren’t close enough for her to tell you and that interaction had made you more conscious of it.

you glanced at jake for a moment, trying not to make it too obvious. was this how it was going to be? pretending not to know each other because you were in a social setting instead of that damn library? he looked so alive while talking to jess, you didn’t think you had ever seen him interact with you that way. it wasn’t a new feeling, noticing how people’s behavior changed when they were actually comfortable talking to others. although you wanted to lie to yourself and act like it didn’t matter, your emotions were hard to miss.

“and this is y/n! my old time beautiful friend. y/n, this is jake! he’s my friend too, i met him around your dorm actually!” jess could be so innocent at times, it made you feel maternal. you awkwardly smiled, not being able to bring yourself to say something. jake finally addressed you with his eyes, confirming your earlier wish of becoming a ghost hadn’t come true. sadly.

“yeah. we actually know each other, we’re partners for a shit project our teacher assigned us because of our grades.” ouch, shit project. you actually had had your fun while doing all the research and creating your own little experiment. it turned out it wasn’t the same for everyone involved.

“what?! you hadn’t told me, y/n! this is so cool! you must have become friends during this, right? you two are too nice to not be friends. and so fucking smart, god!” you knew she had the best intentions, you really knew. but that didn’t stop you from wanting to choke her with your bare hands in that exact moment.

“not really. your friend here has been a little… distant. and we didn’t even have much time to talk, anyway.” you couldn’t stop yourself from directly looking at him. did he really have to say that? you already were well aware of the fact that you two weren’t friends, but he didn’t have to be so mean about it. you needed a drink. or a whole bottle.

“y/n! jake is soooooo sweet. you need to start opening up more! he’d be a great friend when i’m not around.” your eyes were already burning, as it all felt like a humiliation ritual. everything that could go wrong in your head went even worse in reality. you just laughed it off, focusing on not looking like you were about to have a meltdown.

“jess, i need a drink.” “sure, babes! jake, show us the drinks.”

jake opened the fridge, not looking at you still. he had some great talent to avoid eye contact, you had to give him that. “i’ll prepare you whatever you desire.” jake said as he dramatically reverenced, making jess giggle cutely. you were pissed and you genuinely couldn’t pinpoint what was actually making you feel that way. you just felt it, which meant nothing he said or did was fucking funny no matter how hard you tried. you hadn’t been this irrational since you were a teen, and it was all jake sim’s fault.

“i’ll take a rum and coke, sir. and you, y/n?” “a rum and coke is fine too.”

jake giggled at jess addressing him as sir, and you could tell he was already a little tipsy. his cheeks were flushed, his lips were even plumper than usual and his movements weren’t as controlled. as they casually spoke, you couldn’t help but look around anxiously, already zoning out. you quickly took the drink into your hands as soon as jake finished making it. even your basic manners were being tempered by your irritation, since you weren’t even able to bring yourself to thank him. you were sure neither of them would notice your lack of appreciation for the below average drink he had just made you, so you didn’t need to feel guilty about it.

you basically chugged your drink, finishing it whole in one swallow. you needed some strength to somehow flee from the extremely awkward situation you were in. a good escape would be using the opportunity to socialize with new people, you thought. but that would definitely require at least one more drink. the bathroom was the right option until then.

“i’m going to the bathroom, jess.” “okay, pretty. we’ll be here.” jess answered casually.

“upstairs. first door to the left.” “thanks.” first and probably last interaction of the night with jake. how friendly the two of you were.

as you fled from the scene, you finally let your body relax a little. you were so tense your muscles were actually hurting, and it all felt like a fever dream. as you were walking upstairs, you suddenly felt a body crushing into yours, while a wet stain formed in your shirt.

“oh, fuck! i am so sorry!” you looked up, seeing one of the prettiest boys you had ever met holding a now half emptied cup. he looked familiar, but you weren’t too good at recognizing faces since you didn’t look around that much.

“don’t worry. i have an excuse to leave now.” you said calmly, not wanting him to feel guilty about a drunk accident. your drink was already kicking in as you were a bit of a lightweight for alcohol, so you didn’t feel like reacting at all. he giggled lightly, still murmuring sorry repeatedly.

“i think i know you.” “you also look familiar.”

“i’m sunoo. does that ring a bell?” of course it did. even if someone knew nobody like you did, you would still know sunoo. he was always mentioned somehow, and you now recalled seeing him being part of jake’s friend group. he reminded you a little to jess, as he was one of those people that could light up a room as soon as they entered it.

“mmh, it does. i think we have statistics ii together.” “oh, right! give me your contact and i’ll pay for the laundry service, i swear!” “there’s really no need. the top isn’t good quality anyway.”

“still! we’re in the same class, we should have each other’s contact. let’s be friends, yeah? i should know your name first, though.” you admired nice extroverts, people who could make everyone comfortable even if it was somebody as awkward as you.

“y/n. and i would really like to be your friend. i’ve heard nice things about you.” you smiled politely, trying to reciprocate his kindness back as he passed you his phone with his contact list opened. you added yourself as a contact, saving it as “y/n stats ii”.

“it was so nice to meet you, y/n. and i will pay for that dry cleaning, i don’t care what you have to say about it.” you laughed at his half-threat, saying bye to sunoo as you entered the bathroom. you took a deep breath as you stared at the mirror, seeing how much of a mess you looked like in your reflection. your eyes were bloodshot, your cheeks were flushed and your hair looked a bit frizzy, and now you had a big stain right in the middle of your white shirt. you tried to clean it up with some water, which made it a little less noticeable, but your top was almost drenched now. you needed to leave. you breathed slowly, building up the courage to tell jess you wanted to go and to convince her of not coming with you. she was having a good time, a marvelous time even, and you didn’t want to be the one ruining that. although you felt a little selfish for wanting to leave so early, you just couldn’t push your feelings away. you grabbed the doorknob, taking one more deep breath as you twisted it open.

someone was waiting, though. jake was waiting. “oh, sorry i took so long. all yours.” you walked around him with your head down, not making it too far before you heard his voice.

“we need to talk.” you fully stopped in your tracks, praying you were just hearing voices.

“really? about?” you turned around with a confused expression, because you genuinely didn’t know what he had to say to you after he had been so clearly ignoring you for the whole night. he walked a few steps forward, opening a door that you guessed led to a bedroom. you felt your heart beating in your throat as he just stared at you while waiting at the door, threatening you to go in with a single look. it seemed like you didn’t have many more options, so you walked through the door after him, entering what you thought was jay’s bedroom. he had two guitars hanging on the walls, a bunch of band posters and some workout equipment on the floor. the place smelled like expensive cologne and just boy scent in general. you were so out of place, feeling like you were entering such a private space where you didn’t have the right to be. “i really shouldn’t be here.”

“yeah, you shouldn’t. so why are you here?” your stomach dropped. this was such a different jake from the person you saw talking to jess just twenty minutes ago.

“look… jess didn’t tell me it was jay’s party. she didn’t even tell me it was a house party, okay? if i had just known that, i wouldn’t even have accepted the plan just in case. i know i’m not invited, but you already know her, right?” jake stared at you in silence. did your presence really upset him so much? you hadn’t even spoken to him, but you guessed they only wanted certain people to come to their parties and that may have been his problem. the awkward silence forced you to keep talking, feeling like you had to explain yourself because of his judging look. “the last thing i want is to be an inconvenience, okay? i don’t want anyone to be upset. i was going to leave right now, but if i tell her that i’m going now she will try to come with me because she’s not drunk enough to ditch me yet. so, i’ll go and you’ll tell her my stomach felt upset when she asks about me, okay?” you had a hopeful look in your eyes, wanting the situation to be over as soon as possible. instead, jake kept staring, an unreadable expression on his face. you were becoming even angrier by the minute. he was the one who dragged you to that damn bedroom and made you explain yourself in the most embarrassing way possible just to say nothing back. “so what else do you want me to say?”

“so you’re friends with her now?”

“really? and what about you? can i ask about what you two are?” you would regret saying that later. you shouldn’t have had that drink, as it made your brain-mouth connection malfunction a little, but it was too late already.

“i wasn’t the one who said you didn’t know if you could forgive her. or the one who got upset for some stupid fucking reason.”

“i’m not upset!”

“then why have you been avoiding me for weeks now, huh? do you think i enjoy wasting my time on this project, y/n? i want to forget it just as much as you do, but we have a compromise with professor jones and i can’t let him down!”

“i have been doing my parts, though! it’s not like i’m not working on it.”

“you know it’s not the same thing! it’s a fucking mess right now because we haven’t sat down to actually do it together in so long. look… i don’t care about whatever shit you have going on with jess, i just want this to be over.” you had been in your own head for so long now that you had completely forgotten about what this project could mean to you. about how important it was for jake to have your professor’s trust and stay top of the class. about how it wasn’t fair for him to go to meetings with mr. jones by himself and take it upon himself to explain your work all alone when you were supposed to be a pair. all of a sudden, you were realizing how horrible you were being as a working partner and the consequences it could have for jake. although all that didn’t erase how unmotivated you felt. how it had been so extremely hard to get out of bed every morning, how you were giving up on that too. still, you would make an effort for him.

“you’re right. i am now seeing it’s not fair to you, and i am sorry. i’m available this whole week though, so we can meet whenever you can and as much as you want. we’ll finish it soon, promised.” you successfully held your tears in as you smiled politely, knowing you had to leave right in that moment if you didn’t want to have a meltdown in front of him. “i’ll text you tomorrow so we can schedule, okay?”

“why did you get so mad at me just to forgive her and act like nothing happened?” “jake, i-i need to go.”

“no! i deserve an explanation. why are you not even coming to class? rankings are coming out soon, you know?”

“i know.” “is this all about jess? about the conversation we had?”

you knew that was just the tip of the iceberg. you were sinking for the first time in years and the whole jess thing and seeing them together was the last drop you needed to let yourself go. “things happen, jake. it’s not only that, but it doesn’t matter. what matters now is that we’re finishing that project together, i promise.”

“leave the fucking project now! are you not taking uni seriously anymore?”

“stop.” “have you even thought about your scholarship?”

“stop it!” tears came out uncontrollably, not being able to hold it together anymore. jake’s expression changed to a surprised one for a few seconds, quickly turning it back to his cold demeanor. “you know nothing, so stop it.”

“you won’t let me know anything.” “the moment i fucking told you something about someone, you went right to that someone and charmed her like a fucking…” you cut yourself off before the words slipped out of your tongue, although the damage was already way more than done.

“so it is about that.” “no! for fuck’s sake i’m just saying!”

“why are you so mad if you two are back to being friends? did you really forgive her?” you looked at him, an incredulous expression in your face. you wondered why he was so mean to you but so kind to everyone else. you knew you had fucked up, but you were actually trying to clean up your mess.

“i have nothing else to say to you, jake.”

“did she tell you she came to my apartment?” so they were that close and she hadn’t told you a single thing. she had the right to, but it confirmed you two weren’t friends like you used to be. knowing that made your heart sting a little, not being able to stop the tears anymore.

“guess you two aren’t such close friends after all.”

“you just told me you don’t care about what jess and i got going on.”

“just giving you updates.” jake shrugged his shoulders as if he had said nothing too important. you tried to compose yourself, not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of him anymore.

“she’s going to leave anyway. you two are adults so enjoy it while you can. i have nothing to do with this and like i said before, i’ll text you tomorrow to talk about the damn project.” you turned around, not being able to listen to his voice for a second longer.

“for fuck’s sake, y/n! i just want to-“ as jake stopped talking, you heard a loud thud and a groan right behind you, making you quickly turn around. before you could even react, jake was already on the floor, his nose bleeding nonstop.

“what happened, oh my god!”

“t-the dumbbell! fuck…” you looked around, noticing one of the dumbbells you saw earlier scattered on the floor. you rapidly guessed he had tripped and fallen face-first on one of the bed corners. he was holding his nose with both of his hands while whining in pain, making you immediately run up to him, forced to ignore the mess of a conversation you had just had.

“here, let’s get you to the bed.” you offered him your arm for support, trying to forget about the way your heart was thumping in your chest once he held onto you. jake wasn’t heavy, but you still struggled to carry him as he wasn’t making much effort to help. “did you hit your head? tell me you don’t have a concussion, please.” only groans came out of his mouth, so you sat him in the bed and held his face tightly, staining your whole hand with blood in the process. “jake.” he finally looked at you in the eyes, making you feel nauseous. “do you know where you are?”

“party. jay’s room.” “okay, good. does your head hurt?”

“mmh.” “yes or no?” “yeah.”

“okay, lay down. stay here and don’t get up, i’m going to get you some stuff, okay?” you got no answer, but you needed to make sure he was listening to you. “jake, okay?”

“come back.” he finally replied with a trembling voice that made your heartbeat spike even more, given not only the way he spoke, but the content of what he said.

“what?”

“after. don’t leave me here alone.” you were really confused at his sudden need to be with someone, let alone you.

“jake, i’m not going to let you be alone. i’m pretty sure you have a small concussion.”

“but you. you’ll come back.”

“you definitely have a concussion. but yeah, don’t worry.” as your legs were trembling, you ran down the stairs trying to find sunoo. he looked not too intoxicated before, and he would probably know where things were in that stupidly big apartment. he also seemed really sweet, and although your whole body was shaking from anxiety, he was probably the best option of a person to talk to. once you found him, you saw him talking to two girls, which made you even more scared to go up to him. still, you remembered the bloody mess a certain boy was making in his friend’s room, so you gathered all the courage you had inside you to go and talk to sunoo.

“sunoo!” “oh, hey y/n. how is it going so far? i see the stain got a little better.”

“yeah, and i told you not to worry about it! anyway, this is going to sound a bit weird… but do you know where there could be some painkillers and towels?”

“i do know, but first i need to know why you could possibly need all that for? because it sounds a bit suspicious.”

“your dear friend jake hit his head while we were arguing.” what were you supposed to do? lie on the spot? you were pretty dumb to assume he would just not question your request at all, but you weren’t too conscious either at that point.

“did you have anything to do with that injury or…?” sunoo asked while laughing, finding the situation quite entertaining.

“no! i mean, he was just tipsy and tripped. i shouldn’t have added the arguing part, it makes me look guilty now that i think of it.”

“okay, okay. i’ll believe you, i guess. come on, i’ll get you everything.” sunoo hugged the two girls he was having the conversation you interrupted with, following him into the kitchen right after. “didn’t know jake and you talked. even less, argued.”

“we were assigned a project together because of our grades. that’s why.”

“oh, so you are the project partner.” sunoo simply said while looking around the cabinets, leaving you even more confused than you already were with this whole situation.

“what?” “here.” sunoo ignored your inquire as he extended his arm out while giving you a small box of pills, which you quickly took. “towels are in the bathroom, top cabinet, you’ll see them. and please tell jake to stop being so damn inconvenient all the time.” you smiled at his comment, not being able to hold back your reaction to his annoyance.

“i will. it would also really benefit me too, you know.” sunoo laughed as he said bye once again, leaving you to face jake all alone. you walked upstairs, knowing you did not have too much time before he would get dizzy from his nosebleed. as you took the towels from the bathroom, you could hear some light voices coming from the bedroom next to it, which was also the room you had left jake in. you approached the half-closed door once you had everything you thought jake might have needed, hearing the voices more clearly then.

a familiar silhouette was on the floor, right in front of a smiley jake that sat down on the same bed you told him to lay down on ten minutes earlier. jess was assisting him with a small piece of cloth, which looked like more than enough to make him have a better appearance. that was all you needed. your sign to go now that the two people you had to give explanations to were entertained with each other. you left that suffocating place, the walk to your dorm being around 30 minutes long. it was definitely peaceful, but you couldn’t help shedding a few tears on your way back, not knowing the exact reason why, but also not being able to make the strange feeling in your stomach stop. you sent a text to jess once you were halfway there, telling her not to worry and to have fun, and that your stomach was feeling a bit upset because of your period. she didn’t respond until 45 minutes passed, so you were already in the safety of your room by then. you guessed they must have had some sort of pretty interesting conversation for her not to see the messages before.

jess: you shouldng have lefy alone jess: well tslk jess: jakes mad too jess: youre too irrespinsible

although it hurt to admit, she wasn’t that wrong. responsibility had been your strength once, but it all felt like it wasn’t worth it anymore. you didn’t respond to the messages, just telling her you had made it safe. you went to bed while being aware of all the important things you would have to face once the week started, making you wish you could just stop time and go to sleep for a few weeks straight. a few months would have been great too.

you texted jake on sunday night, feeling obligated to. only a day had passed since that awful conversation you two had had, but you had sadly promised him you would actually show up for the project.

you: hey. i told you i am free all week to finish the project, so i am checking in to see if maybe you were available tomorrow after class?

three hours went by before your phone vibrated at one am.

jake: ok

you already knew this was about to be the most awkward experience you'd had in a long time.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you arrived at the library on monday right after your classes ended, entering the usual spot you had been frequenting before the whole thing had gone down. you waited around forty five minutes before jake decided to show up, walking towards you in an extremely calm manner. it was infuriating.

“hey.” you forced yourself to say, as he only nodded with his head without saying a word back. the day you actually finished that punishment of a project would be the same day you would feel free for the first time in a while. you wasted no time in order to leave as early as possible, not even making a remark on his late arrival. you reread all the parts you had made at home on your own, trying to get his opinion on how you could connect it all together. but you didn’t get a word back. jake kept looking at his phone while mindlessly scrolling on his laptop, not even sparing you a glance. you had had enough, though. you wanted to lay in bed and dissociate for hours as you had been doing for the past few weeks. but instead, you had consciously dragged yourself to that damn library knowing what you had talked about in that nightmare of a conversation the night before. you had done it for him just to stupidly show up to not even speak to you. “why are we here if you’re not even going to listen? i have better things to do, you know.”

“really? what could those better things possibly be?” you stiffened. was he still mad about what you had talked about at the party? what were you supposed to do about it anymore? you were trying your best to show up as a project partner, but he wasn’t even allowing you to do it.

“what is your problem?” jake stayed silent, still scrolling through his phone as if you didn’t even exist, ignoring your presence. “you know what? i’m leaving. we’ll try again tomorrow if you’re in the mood by then.” you started packing your things hurriedly, needing to flee from the awkwardness.

“do you ever stop running away?” “what?” you stopped all your movements, shocked at his words.

“you heard me.”

“i don’t know what this is about, but i don’t care either, so.”

“have you ever cared about anything i’ve said, anyway?”

“what is this sudden victim complex you’ve got going on, jake? i already told you i realized i’ve been a shit project partner but i’m trying to fix it! what else can i do? i can’t turn back time, you know?”

jake humorlessly laughed at your words, making you have that weird stomach feeling again. “the fucking project…”

“what?! i’ll fucking tell mr. jones to just assign someone else to work with you if i need to. i don’t care about our progress anymore at this point. i’m not even going to be second on rankings anymore, anyway. so it doesn’t even make sense for us to do this shit together, right?”

“you’re giving up, just like that?”

“i can’t keep up, so. you win.”

“i win?!”

“it’s been three long years of trying to get to you up there. you probably already did, but now i know it won’t ever happen for sure. so you win, yeah.”

“then i hope you’re proud of the fact that you can’t keep promises. neither to yourself nor to others.”

“what are you even saying, jake?”

“you told me you would come back.” you stared at him as your throat went dry and your palms became sweaty. you couldn’t understand why he was bringing up that moment all of a sudden.

“t-the other night? i asked sunoo for painkillers and towels but once i got back you were already assisted. you didn’t need my help anymore. do you think i didn’t make sure you weren’t bleeding out before i left? is that why you’re so mad?”

“you promised you would come back. and you just fucking left without saying a word to anyone, god knows at what fucking hour and all alone?”

“for fuck’s sake! was i supposed to knock while jess was practically on her knees for you and give you the fucking painkillers? do you know how awkward that is for someone else, jake?”

“she wasn’t.” you held your tears back once again as a dry laugh escaped your throat. you couldn’t comprehend what he could possibly want to gain from that argument, making it feel pointless to explain yourself.

“she was on the floor, jake. you were practically drooling all over her. i saw you guys and that’s fine, but don’t expect me to just interrupt… that! to fucking say bye? like?”

“i was waiting for you.” his voice sounded softer when he said that, confusing you even more.

“why does it matter when someone helped you anyway? not even someone, jess! i knew she would take good care of you. way better than i ever could.”

“why do you keep bringing her up?”

“because she’s… she used to be my best friend. and because you’re… something with her now. it makes sense.”

“we’re nothing.”

“i don’t need to know that. just make sure she knows that.”

“you do need to know.”

“what?” jake suddenly stood up, his figure looming over you while he breathed rapidly. you could tell he was furious, although you still didn’t exactly get why.

“if i did something, you would need to know.” “can you just… talk normally?” you tried to step back, still not looking at him directly as it felt like he could murder you with a look. you suddenly felt his hand pulling your wrist, not allowing you to take that step while tugging you forward.

“tell me you don’t feel it.” “w-what are you even saying, jake?”

“you fucking mess me up.” you looked up at him then, not knowing if you were understanding him right. you were so scared, but maybe it was all you needed to finally stop thinking about him. maybe your instincts were finally working for someone and this was your sign to let go. although you couldn’t understand why he would want that too, and you still weren’t sure if he was hinting at it, you still allowed yourself to look at his lips. they were plumper than usual, reminding you of two nights ago when he was fighting you while tipsy. you were starting to wonder if he was drunk at that moment too.

“what do you want from me?” you were almost whispering, not being able to find your voice anymore. you felt him so close you were going insane by the minute, hating him for having so much power over you.

“tell me to stop.” “jake-“

“just say no and i’ll fucking let go.” but you didn’t. you didn’t say anything, letting him drag you to an empty secluded classroom as if it wasn’t jake. jake, who you couldn’t even look in the eye. jake, whom you had had a one sided competition with for years now. jake, who had fucked your old best friend after you had told him how deeply she had hurt you. jake, who was now cornering you between a table and his body, making you feel helpless.

“we’re going to regret this.” you whispered again, afraid of hearing your own words.

“i can’t fucking stop thinking about it though.” after a beat of silence, you finally spoke.

“then do it.” he wasted no time after you said that, taking your words as a forward sign. he suddenly kissed you, letting all his hunger out in a single motion. he was harsh, grabbing you steadily by your neck while crushing his mouth onto yours. you couldn’t help but moan at the sudden intrusion, not being too confident in your kissing skills either. still, it felt like he was too out of it to question your form.

“wait-“ you tried to pull back, but he suddenly spun you around, his heavy breath on your neck as his crotch pressed onto your back.

“you feel it, huh? i’m so fucking mad at you, i think it makes it worse.”

“jake, fuck-“

“i hate you so much.” he kept desperately grabbing your whole body, moans coming out of both of your mouths as he ground himself against your ass without a stop. he kept your head forward, turning your neck with his hand whenever you unconsciously tried looking behind you.

“just take off my fucking pants.” you said between whines, feeling much needier than ever before in your whole twenty years of life. he suddenly undid your jeans and dragged them down, as his long fingers entered your wet cunt. it all felt so rushed and rough, not a single care being taken by either of you. you could practically feel the shame you both were experiencing, wanting it to be over but unable to make yourselves stop simultaneously.

“can you ever stop giving orders, huh?” jake kept rubbing circles around your clit, making you feel so good but so overwhelmed by his presence. you couldn’t believe he was actually inside you. the sim jake was finger fucking you, and it all seemed so surreal that you already felt like you couldn’t hold your orgasm in for much longer. “have we finally discovered the only way to shut you up, mmh?” you suddenly felt him whispering in your ear, making it all feel even more intimate. his words were more than enough to make your whole body tremble in pleasure, completely drenching his fingers in the process as you bit your lower lip to not moan at full volume. you had experimented with your own fingers before, but it was nothing like what jake had made you feel in a few minutes. he kept his rhythm steady as you heard him panting in your ear, being able to feel the desperation through his breathing only. your legs were shaking, so you mentally thanked him for holding your body still without dropping you to the ground. he kept using his fingers inside you, the overstimulation making you whine into your own palm as an attempt to muffle your sounds. your cheeks were burning, ashamed at how quickly you had come while only using his fingers.

“how about you go on your knees for me?” jake kept talking in your ear as your body still trembled from the overwhelming stimulation. you were now panicking about your absolute lack of experience, but you still complied, feeling too out of it to put coherent thoughts together. you slowly went down so that your knees didn’t give out, watching him put the same hand he had just had in you inside his mouth, dragging his tongue around his slender fingers. you still weren’t looking at each other for some reason, so you quickly took your eyes off him while waiting for instructions.

as he pulled his pants down, you felt the need to say something before fucking it up completely. “i have never…”

“i know. i’ll help.” jake spoke between pants, his throbbing tip leaking pre cum in front of you. you didn’t confront him about how on earth he would know that so surely, although you obviously had the urge to. if you ever talked to him again after all that, you might ask. “open wide.” you obeyed, genuinely feeling like you were under a spell that didn’t allow you to control your own actions. he introduced himself into your mouth, making you quickly taste the salty liquid on your lips. as he tangled his fingers between your hair strands, he began to push your head deeper and deeper, obliging your throat to adapt to the shape of his cock. you couldn’t help but make a gag sound, looking up at him to be faced with closed eyes and an unrecognizable expression.

“f-feels so fucking good… fuck…” he wasn’t letting you go, the lack of oxygen quickly catching up to you. you tapped on the back of his thigh as a signal for your much needed release, but he seemed to be in trance. after a few more seconds, tears started to spill down your cheeks, making you panic while whines came out of the same mouth that was full of his cock. "you look so dumb like this. you're always such a smart girl, but look at you now..."

he finally let you go, quickly stealing a glance of your fucked-out state. "d-don't call me dumb." you said after catching your breath, not being so sure about who you were trying to convince anymore. he smirked at your words, which only confirmed that he also knew you didn't really dislike it. jake kept stroking his cock at a rhythmic pace right in front of your face, making you mentally prepare yourself for what you thought was about to come. he whined, sounding so needy it made you weak. sweet sounds kept coming out of his mouth, which made you understand a tiny bit better why everybody wanted to have a special moment with him so badly. he suddenly looked at you in the eyes, making you freeze instantly as he spoke. “stupid slut can only not argue when she has a dick right in front of her face, huh?” your breath hitched, somehow finding pleasure in the degrading words he had decided to use.

you kept looking up at him as you reached out to switch his hands for yours, causing him to let out a high pitched moan that only made you even needier. “is that good?”

“please… don’t fucking stop.” jake groaned as he breathed even faster, making you realize he was probably close. although he had his eyes closed again, you kept looking at his face, being fully captivated by his facial expressions. it was pure lust and pleasure, the kind of face you would have never thought could be caused by you. but there you were, jerking the sim jake off right after he had made you come on his fingers only. “oh my god… you fucking… i’m gonna…”

“do it, jake.” jake suddenly moaned so loudly you were sure people on another floor could hear. you shushed him in the process, the anxiety of being caught together not leaving even when you seemed to have bigger problems. like most of your upper body being covered by his cum, for example. your hair felt sticky and your mouth was full of spit, while your shirt was stained and your mascara was runny. what had just happened looked so physically obvious, it made you feel so ashamed you couldn’t even look up. both of you were silent as your breathing slowed down, the tension being so palpable it made you want to vomit. it was the textbook definition of awkward.

you tried to get up from the floor while balancing yourself on a nearby table. jake didn’t look at you neither, pulling up his pants as he tucked himself in in pure silence. it had almost been like a dissociative experience for you both, only becoming conscious of what had just happened once it was over. once you were up on your two feet, you reached for your bag to look for tissues, wanting to at least get out of that classroom without jake’s cum dripping down your chin. you quickly wiped what you felt was more visible, letting the rest to be fixed in the bathroom with a mirror available. “i’ll go first. j-just… stay here for a moment, just in case.”

“you’ve got… a little bit of… right there.” jake pointed at your cleavage, some drops of his release still on there.

“y-yeah. i’ll go to the bathroom now to clean up.” “good.”

“okay.” he looked down while fixing his shirt, an unreadable expression on his face as if nothing had happened. it seemed like the two of you wanted to pretend nothing had happened, actually. “then bye.” you found your most polite smile to show him, making the situation even more awkward for both of you. you fled from the scene as you shut the door right behind you, quickly running off to the bathroom. once again, tears started to run down your cheeks as soon as you entered the stall, feeling too overwhelmed to just ignore it. you felt guilty and stupid and ashamed all at once, having the need to never see his face ever again. how were you supposed to just finish the project? to meet up with him all alone and not address it? to act as if it didn’t affect you at all? you knew he was experienced when it came to hook ups, so it would obviously be too ordinary for him to even give it a second thought. but for you, it was your first sexual experience, and you had decided to give that moment to jake. you knew virginity was a stupid concept and it all didn’t matter once you looked at the bigger picture, but it still felt like such a waste to share such an intimate moment with someone who could not give two fucks about you. to someone who actually told you he hated you in the act. and although your feelings were mutual and you hated him too, it still hurt.

there was also the fact that he was fucking the girl who used to be your best friend. and although you knew they weren’t anything serious, it still didn’t feel fair to let yourself be touched by the same man without telling her. but you couldn’t tell her, you couldn’t tell anyone. no one could ever know about that encounter and you knew jake would feel the same about it. you wished you didn’t even know about it yourself, so acting as if nothing had happened was the only option left. blocking it out of your memory was all you needed to do, right?

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

days passed and neither of you talked about it. neither of you talked about anything, really. the project was left untouched, as if you hadn’t been fighting about how important it was for both of your futures a week ago. you hadn’t gone back to class either, but you knew you were at your limit with the number of classes you could miss. you basically were about to fail because of how absent you were, which kind of was a reality check for how much you wanted to give up on life. still, you had a bit of rationality left, which made you actually get up that morning and attend your classes. you would send emails later as a sad attempt to get your professors’ trust back.

you didn’t want to see him. you successfully blocked everything out of your mind for those few days you didn’t go to uni, but being in that building again gave you so much whiplash it was impossible to ignore. you wandered through the halls with your head down, since you needed to avoid everyone now more than ever. the fact that that place was becoming hell by the minute made you extremely upset, knowing you once were so excited to even be accepted into it. as you were walking out of your first class while having a whole breakdown inside your mind, you started hearing a commotion in the hall, instinctively catching your attention while obliging you to put your head up. you then saw a big group of people looking at the wood panel on the wall all together, quickly making you realize what it was. the rankings.

“how the fuck am i up there?! yo!” “dude, you’re right under jake. that’s crazy.” “you’re actually second, sunghoon?!”

although it was obviously bound to happen, it still didn’t feel real until you actually saw it. seventh. you had slacked so much you had moved five ranks down. and the difference between first and second place was now bigger than ever before. you stayed still behind everyone else as you stared at the printed out numbered list. all the voices became muffled while you quietly dissociated, almost having an out of body experience. you were probably going to get kicked out, you couldn’t afford it. you would have to use all your savings to only be able to pay for half a year. jake had moved up a decimal. he had got even better, while you miserably failed to keep up. still, you couldn’t find the energy to despise him. you didn’t have the energy to shed tears, to even be upset. you just wanted to go home and lay in bed, no matter if you were second, sixth or last. you were drained.

“y/n. i haven’t seen you around at all lately.” a familiar voice interrupted your pathetic train of thought, making you turn to the side to face a slightly worried looking mr. jones. you were acting so stupidly you hadn’t actually planned how this encounter would go. and now, it was happening right in front of you.

“y-yeah. i am so sorry about that, professor. it has been a rough… month. i’m trying to be more present now, though.” your professor lightly nodded with his head in an understanding manner, making you pray that that was the end of your conversation. you quickly realized it was not, as he kept calmly speaking.

“i haven’t seen jake this week neither, which is strange considering he’s the only one who comes to our reunions. is the project going well? it’s supposed to be tutored by me, do not forget that. you need to come and see me so that we can discuss it, y/n.” being nagged by your university professor was definitely a humbling experience. still, you couldn’t deny he was right. “jake! we were actually just talking about you. come here.” no, it couldn’t be. you closed your eyes and took a deep breath as your whole body completely froze in fear. a tired looking jake appeared in frame, politely smiling back at your excited professor. he didn’t look at you, which you were extremely grateful for, as you couldn’t stand maintaining eye contact with the guy you had had your first sexual experience with while supposedly being your academic rival right in that moment.

“i need to see a report on basically the whole project now by the end of next week. we need to keep this going, okay? i trust you a lot, you guys are my top students for a reason.” not anymore, you wanted to say. could sunghoon do this with jake now that they were top one and two together? you wanted to ask. instead, you quietly nodded your head yes, too afraid to say it out loud. you would maybe send an email later. “congratulations, jake. your progress is just outstanding and you always have the strength to overcome yourself somehow. it’s beautiful to see you grow. and y/n, a setback is not a reason to give up. you’ll be up there again soon if you keep working like you’ve always done. do not think this is going to make me regret my decision on choosing you for this project, i know your potential.” you felt even worse now. how could you have ignored this sweet man who was actually the only person in this world rooting for you? you smiled at him with teary eyes as you repeatedly murmured thank you, getting too emotional to fight it back. “you two can always email me if you need anything, project related or not. i’ll see you at the end of the week, try to have fun.” you didn’t miss how he only maintained eye contact with you while he said that, confirming he knew that something was definitely not right.

you saw him walk away, leaving you standing right next to jake all alone. you didn’t have the strength to say anything, to anyone really. “so… i’ll go now.” you were ready to immediately run off, but jake’s voice unexpectedly stopped you.

“are you going to talk to professor jones?” “about?”

“giving up on the project.” you knew he was wording it like that on purpose. you also knew he was right, but his words still made your chest tighten.

“i-i thought about sending an email later, yeah. to consider it all, see what he thinks.”

“and what about what i think?”

“since sunghoon is now second, he could take on the rest of it with you. it’ll be the most comfortable option for you too, surely.”

“could you please stop assuming shit? it’s getting really annoying at this point.” you saw his jaw tighten as his tone got harsher, already too used to his mean stare to care. maybe you were assuming, but you also knew you were right. you had been fighting since the beginning of all of it and only really got along for a few lucky weeks, in which you still bickered with each other every single day. and now you were so depressed and unmotivated you couldn’t find the strength to simply care, which you knew he would not understand and would only make him more pissed. there was also the fact that you had half fucked and had not touched the topic at all, which only made it even more awkward. so yeah, you were pretty confident to assume he would be more comfortable working with someone who was his childhood friend. you didn’t understand why he was presenting it as such a wild guess.

“i’ll probably have to go anyway, so.”

“what do you mean go?”

“like, leave uni.” “what are you saying? have you officially lost your mind?”

“no. but there’s a big possibility i’ve officially lost my scholarship. and you know, being a part time server on the weekends does not make you a millionaire.”

“mr. jones said it. a setback is not a reason to give up.”

“mr. jones and you live in a different world from mine, it seems.”

“in my world, you’ve always been able to be up there. so what changed now?” the halls were pretty empty by then, making jake’s slightly raised voice sound louder.

“a lot, actually.“ “yeah, i’ve noticed.”

you both fell quiet, a heavy silence coming between you two as you didn’t know how to end the conversation. you were so desperate to leave that building and most importantly, to leave his side. “why did it change, though?” jake suddenly spoke, half whispering his words as if they were slipping from his mouth without his permission.

“jake… it’s just hard to explain.”

“but why won’t you try? try to explain it. what is it? do i have anything to do with it? does jess? please, y/n.” you were shocked at the desperation in his voice, making your chest tighten as you tried to build an answer for him. the truth was that everything had exploded right in your face and you had finally realized that maybe, just maybe, you couldn’t keep up. you weren’t strong or smart enough, and you were trying to make amends with the fact that it had been haunting you for years without end. you had simply reached your limit.

“i-it’s… i mean… jess coming back obviously made me be a little too emotional. irrational, even. but that’s obviously not all of it.”

“and me?” “you what?”

“did you change because of me?” you slightly opened your mouth just to close it again. you were trying to choose your words carefully, because yeah, jake had changed something inside you that you were too scared to confront. something irrational that felt stupid to even contemplate for a second, so him not being in your life anymore had definitely helped you not think about it. although you obviously couldn’t tell him that.

“i-i don’t know. i just know i can’t keep up. i can’t keep going like this.” “like how?”

“killing myself to reach you. i don’t see why i should keep doing this shit. life doesn’t make sense right now, to be honest.”

“so is it uni? or is it life?” “i just know i need time, jake.”

“well, we don’t have much of that.” jake went back to sounding cold and direct, making you wonder why he was inquiring so much if he would just get mad at your sad attempt to give him honest answers.

“that’s why i’m going to ask mr. jones to assign it to sunghoon if they both want to. if i had known i would get like this, i wouldn’t have accepted it from the beginning. and i am sorry. you deserve a good, responsible partner, and right now i’m everything but that.”

“do you think i would ever want that?” “i think you should.”

“you always think for me. and somehow you always get it wrong.” you wondered when you could have possibly thought so much on his behalf. even if it was a sensitive moment, you couldn’t help but always get a little annoyed at jake’s words. “so you’re just going to drop out?”

“i don’t know if i have many more options, jake.”

“you could always work as hard as you’ve always done and come back to your rank.”

“i just told you! i’m killing myself living like this, jake. i am not like you. it doesn’t fucking come naturally to me, at all. nothing. neither studies nor being a fucking functional human being, it seems.”

“do you think it is that easy? that it’s all instinctive?”

“i think you’re a smart person. truly intelligent, and a lovely guy. and me having to compete against that just to be able to study here means having to constantly fight a losing battle. and i’m just so tired i wish i could stay in bed forever right now. so yeah, i am giving up. and if you want to judge me about it, go ahead. to be honest, i don’t have the strength to care about anything anymore, so you are free to do so.” you quietly spoke as you tried to be honest with your feelings while putting it all into words, which was not an easy task.

“this is not me judging, y/n. this is me trying to… make you stay.”

“i don’t have a real reason to.”

“we’re all here for a reason. we’re all needed here.”

“that’s easy for you to say.”

“what do you mean by that?”

“nothing. let’s just… leave it.”

“no! say it! you’re not running away like you always do.”

you sighed at his insistence, giving up on your attempt to not voice your thoughts. “you are for sure needed here, jake. meanwhile, there are other people who have no one. not everyone’s life experience is the same, you know.” you shrugged your shoulders up in annoyance, knowing he would never understand where you were coming from.

“you are needed too!” jake kept raising his voice in an angry tone, obliging you to take a deep breath in order to supress the primal instinct you were having to beat the shit out of him.

“whatever, jake. this goes nowhere.” you tried to speak in a fake calm tone, knowing it did not make any sense to keep the conversation going.

“i need you.” jake suddenly spoke more quietly, making you doubt of what you had just heard coming out of his mouth. you stayed silent, trying to make sense of his confusing words. “i need you to be up there just a decimal away, trying to beat me to keep me grounded. i need you to argue and fight back and i need you to humble me and give me a different perspective because we’re so similar but so different all at once.” you couldn't stop looking at him, feeling as if you were under a spell that didn't allow you take your attention off him. it felt like he was under a spell too, one that forced him to only be able to speak nonsense. “i need your presence. in class, in the library, even at a stupid party that you didn’t want to go to, even if i ignore you there. and i need you to finish this project with me because it won’t ever be the same without you.”

“you don’t mean that.” you quickly said, not comprehending why he was so eagerly trying to make you write the project with him all of a sudden. you didn't understand why the sim jake would be so insecure about presenting the project with someone else that he would give you that fake sappy speech you definitely didn't need to hear.

“then why am i saying it? do i look like the kind of person to just go around saying that kind of shit to everyone?”

“you told me you hate me.” you couldn't hold back at this point, having to get it out of your chest to prove your point.

“because i do. you make me hate you because you make me feel so unsure of everything i was so confident about. you make me question myself and i fucking hate the uncertainty of it.” as you heard his words, you couldn't help letting out a dry laugh, making his expression turn even sharper.

“the thing is you’ll always be better than me. you’ll always win. you’ll always have the power of talking to people and being likable and being truly intelligent, and i won’t ever have that. this was never a true competition because i was the only one fighting to change the end results. so what are you so uncertain of?” you pointed at him in an accusatory manner, knowing you wouldn't let him win this one. “don’t worry though, because it is mutual. i’ve hated you for years now because you are everything i’ve ever wanted to be. everything i’ve fought for and haven’t fully got, you effortlessly have it. everything i know i can’t be, you just are. and being your partner only made me realize that the lines between admiration and hatred are a little too blurred.” the bitter tone in your speech was so noticeable it was kind of pityful, but you couldn't contain your emotions anymore. “so i think i have my reasons to hate you because i see you as a threat. but you? how could i ever cause you trouble when i can’t even reach you?”

“do you genuinely think that’s what you make me so uncertain of? academics?”

“then what is it?! why is it that you dislike me so?”

“because i fucked your friend to feel something and still, all i could ever think of was when our next library hangout would be.” jake whispered with a heavy voice, now being the one who was pointing his finger at you. he took a deep breath as you stayed silent, trying to process everything he was implying in such a rushed way. you weren’t prepared for this at all, since you would have never guessed you would be even be sharing a single word with him at that point. “all i could think of was why you were pulling away, and then making excuses, and then not coming to class. all i can think of is you because you won’t give me answers.”

“answers to what?!” “is you not wanting to accept it part of why you disappeared?” 

“accept what exactly?” you raised your eyebrows in a challenging way, not wanting to accept that maybe you knew what he was talking about, and maybe he already had your answer.

“that you feel the same. that you can’t stop thinking about me.” jake kept trying to keep his volume steady, since you were still in the middle of the hallway where you bumped into your professor. no one was around, but both of you were too afraid of someone hearing your little discussion, given the content of it. “you have to feel something, come on.”

“how could i not?! we… we did that. and i know it’s not the same for you, but to me it’s a big deal.” you automatically put your hands in your head as you remembered your encounter with jake. every time a brief flashback came to your mind, you felt the need to shake it off physically, as if trying to get the memory out of your body. “i can’t believe i actually did that with you, fuck.”

“do you regret it?” jake was now staring into your eyes, making you look around while trying to avoid his gaze at all cost. you just couldn’t do it, couldn’t look in the eyes of the man who was confronting you about your possible regret for having your first sexual experience with him.

“let’s just not. please.” as you pleaded to let the topic go, you saw his expression change instantly. his brows frowned and his jaw clenched, making you comprehend he hadn’t liked that answer at all.

“so are we ever going to actually address anything?! you’re fucking impossible, i swear.”

“where does that take us, jake? i address how i feel and then what? i have to keep seeing you and act as if nothing is going on?”

“if we address it, then maybe we can do something about it!” jake suddenly spoke out loud, making you jump in fear of what anybody could hear, even if nobody seemed to be around.

“do not raise your voice, fuck! and what exactly are we going to do, huh? go ahead, enlighten me.” jake stayed silent as your voice trembled, knowing he had no idea what to answer. “exactly. so stop acting like anything you are saying actually makes sense.” as he heard your words, you noticed a slight change in his demeanor for a second, making your chest automatically tighten.

“fine! this is fucking stupid anyway.”

“yeah, fine. the report will be done by the end of the week, so don’t worry about it. and you don’t need to come to mr. jones’ meeting, i’ll cover up for you since you’ve been going alone these past weeks.”

“yeah, whatever.” jake turned around and left the building, parting ways while mad at each other once again. some things may never change, you thought.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

as you opened your laptop to miserably continue writing what felt like your death statement, you received a notification that made your phone vibrate, which wasn’t that usual for you on a friday evening.

unknown number: hey this is sunoo !!! unknown number: from the party and stats ii unknown number: im calling u okay ??

you didn’t have much time to react before your phone rang repeatedly, making your heart jump inside your chest from the near fatal levels of anxiety you were suddenly experiencing. you could have just let it ring, act as if your phone was silenced and send a text back later. but maybe, this was your opportunity to show someone you could be nice, that having embarrassing amounts of social anxiety didn’t mean you were unapproachable. fuck it.

“hey, sunoo?” “hi, y/n. sorry for the sudden call.” sunoo giggled lightly, as if he knew he had startled you and was genuinely sorry for it.

“that’s okay! no worries.” you tried to play it off, knowing you were actually feeling so anxious you could crawl up the wall.

“so… since you probably won’t let me take the top i accidentally destroyed to the cleaner…” “sunoo! first do not say you “destroyed” it. could that be any more dramatic? and second, yeah, you’re right. i won’t let you.”

“well... then i thought i should make it up to you somehow. so how about we hang out? i know it's not a big deal, but since i don't see you around much, i thought i could help distract you from uni a bit." your mind started spinning as you tried to make sense of what he was saying. that was the last thing you thought sunoo would call you for, so you weren’t ready for it in the slightest. “you can say no, you know. i know you are a really busy student.” sunoo giggled again in an attempt to make things less awkward given your previous silence, which you really appreciated. you did want to hang out with someone though, even more with someone as cool as him. even if you were on the brink of a panic attack, you wanted to.

“n-no! i mean, i do want to hang out. i’m actually like, super grateful right now. i was just… surprised.” “surprised? i told you we should be friends, y/n! how can we be friends if we don’t ever see each other?” you laughed at his sweetness, becoming mesmerized at how good he was at socializing. he definitely needed to teach you his ways.

“anyway, so the plan is... a small get-together at my apartment. i invited a few people over and i thought you could come too?" "when you say "small get-together"... how small are we actually talking?" you said in a doubtful tone, not trusting you and sunoo shared the same concept for small when it came to being social.

"mmh... i would maybe say fifteen people? if nothing gets too out of control, yeah. i would say about that many." "is that what you consider small, sunoo?"

"is that what you consider big, y/n? we need to find you new guys, then." sunoo said as he giggled in a mischievous way, making you chuckle too.

"sunoo!" "sorry, sorry. now seriously, it's going to be fun. you know i'm good with people and i'll literally force you to have fun. so...?"

there was a pause after that, but it didn’t feel empty like the ones you were used to. it felt full, actually, like someone had filled the silence with intention instead of expectation. you found yourself sitting a little straighter without really noticing, staring at your screen like the answer might already be written there if you looked hard enough. something in the way sunoo said it, the casual certainty, the assumption that you could just exist somewhere else for a night and it would be fine, it made your chest tighten in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant “i don’t really… do parties, sunoo. last time it went soooo horribly, i don't even want to remember it.” you said finally, quieter than you meant it to be, immediately hating how predictable it sounded, like you were repeating a line you had rehearsed for years instead of answering a simple invitation.

“i know.” sunoo replied, and there was no judgment in it, just acknowledgement. “but that’s kind of why i’m inviting you, y/n, not because you already do it well.” that made you stop, fingers hovering over your keyboard, because it should have been simple, just a yes or no, just another thing to decline and forget about and return to your increasingly collapsing routine. but your life had started feeling so small lately that even the idea of refusing something that wasn’t required felt like reinforcing the walls around you. “it’s not going to be overwhelming.” he added quickly, as if sensing the exact direction your thoughts were spiraling. “and if it is, you can literally just come to me and i’ll get you out, no questions, no drama, i promise.”

you almost laughed at that, because you didn’t really believe in exits that clean, not anymore. not with jess, not with jake, not even with yourself. but still — “okay.” you said before you could overthink it out of existence, the word slipping out too quickly, too final, like your brain had briefly disconnected from its usual committee of warnings

“okay?” sunoo repeated, like he wanted to make sure he had heard correctly.

“yeah.” you swallowed, already feeling the familiar panic of commitment creeping in but forcing yourself to continue anyway. “i’ll come.”

there was a beat of silence on the other end, and then sunoo laughed, bright and immediate, like you had just agreed to something normal instead of something that felt like stepping off a ledge you had been standing on for months “you’re actually coming.” he said, almost disbelieving. “okay wait, this is big, this is actually big, y/n. i’m proud of you right now.”

“now, don’t make it weird.” you muttered automatically, but your voice had softened without permission.

“i’m not making it weird, i’m making it true.” he said, and then, lighter again, “i’ll send you my address, okay? and i’ll make sure you don’t end up standing in a corner the entire time like a tragic main character.”

“i am not a tragic main character.” you said, even though your entire life recently had been arguing otherwise.

"i know! so that's why we're proving it tonight. see you later, y/n!" and then he was gone, the call ending as quickly as it had started, leaving you staring at your phone like it had just made a decision on your behalf that you weren’t entirely sure you were qualified to make. you turned back to your laptop, cursor blinking at you like nothing had changed, like you hadn’t just accepted an invitation into a space full of people you didn't know, all alone. for a second you considered undoing it, sending a follow-up message, pulling back into the safety of your own excuses. but your fingers didn’t move. instead, you just sat there, feeling something unfamiliar settle in your chest, not quite hope, not quite relief, more like the brief illusion that you might still be allowed to exist somewhere outside of exhaustion and expectations and the quiet weight of always being second to everything you wanted.

by the time you arrived, you almost turned around twice. once while standing outside the building, once while waiting for the elevator. neither attempt was particularly convincing, though. they felt less like genuine decisions and more like ritual, the predictable final stage of any plan that involved leaving your comfort zone. your brain offered excuses automatically now, producing them with the efficiency of a machine that had been trained on years of avoidance. you could still go home and nobody would be angry, you thought. sunoo would probably understand. you could return to the familiar rhythm of proving your worth through productivity until you were too exhausted to think about anything else. or you could just lay in bed for hours just how you had been doing lately. the thought should have been comforting, but instead, it just made you tired. when the elevator doors opened, you stepped out before you could change your mind again. music drifted faintly through the hallway, voices too. you stared at the apartment number for a moment, then knocked. almost immediately, the door flew open.

"holy shit." sunoo looked genuinely stunned. "you actually came."

"shut up."  "no, because this is history."  "it's not history!"

"for you?" he pointed dramatically. "this is absolutely history." despite yourself, your mouth twitched, making sunoo gasp. "oh my god, and she's smiling too."

"i'm leaving."  "no you're not."

before you could protest, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you inside. the apartment was warm, that was the first thing you noticed. warm and loud and alive. not overwhelmingly so, but enough that it immediately felt different from the quiet apartment you had left behind. people occupied every available space, so you quickly realized there were a bit more than fifteen people inside. it didn't even surprise you, to be honest. some sat cross-legged on the floor, others crowded around the kitchen island. music played from somewhere deeper inside the apartment, blending with conversation and laughter until everything became one continuous sound. you froze for a second as your brain immediately began scanning for danger. where do i stand. where am i supposed to look. i don't know anyone. what if everyone can tell i don't belong here. what if —

"hey." you blinked. sunoo was watching you. "breathe."

you frowned. "i am breathing."

"debatable." you rolled your eyes, which seemed to satisfy him.

"good."  "good?" 

"you rolled your eyes."  "and?" 

"that's normal behavior. we're aiming for normal behavior tonight."

"you're more annoying than i thought. you lied to me, sunoo." you said in a sarcastic tone, a light smile appearing without permission.

"that's even better." you couldn't help laughing. just a little, but enough. sunoo grinned like he had personally solved depression, which was deeply annoying but strangely comforting. the next hour passed differently than you expected. within ten minutes, you had been introduced to more people than you usually spoke to in an entire month. and somehow, none of them seemed particularly interested in judging you. a girl complimented your earrings, someone asked about your major. another person immediately started complaining about one of their professors, someone spent ten full minutes passionately arguing about the correct way to eat instant ramen. you found yourself listening more than speaking, but nobody seemed bothered by that. for once, silence wasn't treated like a problem that needed fixing. halfway through a conversation, you caught yourself laughing at something and immediately felt a strange ache in your chest. the realization hit unexpectedly, because you couldn't remember the last time you had done that. the thought lingered longer than it should have, because it wasn't happiness exactly. happiness felt too large a word, too permanent. this was smaller, more fragile, like finding a patch of sunlight in a room you had forgotten contained windows. for a moment, you stood near the kitchen holding a drink you hadn't touched much, watching people move around the apartment. laughing, talking, living. and suddenly an uncomfortable thought appeared — what if this is what everyone else had been doing? what if life wasn't supposed to feel like an endless attempt to stay afloat? what if there were entire versions of adulthood that didn't revolve around endurance? the thought should have been hopeful, but instead, it made your throat tighten. because if that was true, then somewhere along the way you had missed it. you had become so focused on surviving each week that you had stopped asking whether survival was supposed to be the goal. for a second, you felt strangely disconnected from yourself, like you were looking at your own life from a distance. the pressure, the loneliness, the way every achievement seemed to dissolve the moment you reached it. all of it suddenly appeared not tragic but absurd. you had spent so long waiting for life to begin after the next deadline that you hadn't noticed it was already happening. around you, without you. you took a longer sip from your drink, just enough to make you decide that, for tonight, you didn't want to think about it anymore. for tonight, you didn't want to measure your worth, you didn't want to compare yourself to anyone, you didn't want to think about the conference. or the scholarship, or the future, or jess, or jake. for one night, you wanted to be a person before you were a project. maybe tomorrow morning everything would return exactly as it had been, but standing there in the middle of a crowded apartment, surrounded by people who expected absolutely nothing from you, it felt like enough. for now, enough was more than you had been allowing yourself lately.

the small pocket of sunlight sunoo had cleared inside your chest actually stayed for hours, expanding into something that felt dangerously close to real happiness as you leaned against the kitchen counter. you took heavy gulps from a plastic cup filled with cheap vodka, chasing it with laughter you didn't have to force. you were drunk, the good kind of drunk where the sharp edges of the room start to blur and the music becomes a warm weight pressing against your shoulders, keeping you grounded in a way you hadn't felt in months. you were actually having fun, tasting a tiny sliver of what a regular twenty year old life was supposed to feel like, right until the heavy front door swung open and the cold air from the hallway cut straight through the warmth. it was that same involuntary, miserable instinct that made your eyes snap up, immediately tracking the shift in the room's energy as jake walked in. of course you had thought about the slight possibility of him being there, but you hadn't let it stop you from coming, which you were now regretting a little. he looked different, his hair falling into his eyes and wearing a oversized black hoodie that made him look smaller than usual. but you didn't run this time as the liquor in your veins gave you a stupid, stubborn sort of bravery. you just stayed in your corner, deliberately turning your back to him and pouring another heavy splash of alcohol into your cup, determined to ignore him. for two long hours, it became a silent, agonizing war of avoidance, both of you staying on opposite sides of the crowded apartment. you heavily drank down cup after cup just to find the nerve to exist in the same breathing space without completely losing your mind. you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he threw back shots at the kitchen island, his eyes dark and completely fixed on you whenever you laughed at something sunoo said, until the air in the room became so thick with unspoken venom and burning liquor that you couldn't breathe. you desperately needed to escape the suffocating heat, your head spinning violently as you stumbled your way through the back corridor, pushing open the heavy metal door to the fire escape just to let the freezing night air shock your system.

the click of the door behind you was almost immediate, and you didn't even have to turn around to know it was him because the sharp scent of his cologne was mixed with the heavy smell of alcohol breathing off his skin. "not now, jake." you whispered into the wind, your hands gripping the freezing metal railing to keep yourself steady as the world tilted slightly from the sheer amount of alcohol you had consumed. "i was having a good time for once. i was actually fine until you walked through that door."

jake didn't answer with his usual sharp arrogance. he just stumbled slightly as he stepped up next to you, his face flushed and his eyes wild with a messy, drunken desperation that matched the chaos in your own chest. "you were pretending i wasn't there." he rasped, his voice rough and completely stripped of his neat academic precision. his fingers suddenly caught your wrist with a loose, heavy grip that you didn't even have the strength to pull away from. "can't believe you've been doing it for weeks now, y/n. you've vanished from class, you've left me alone with all the data. and now you show up here smiling at everyone like i didn't touch you like that in that room."

your heart thumped in your chest at the mention of that, allowing you to see how drunk he was at that moment too. you let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the vodka burning the back of your throat as you finally looked at him. "because it meant nothing, jake. we are nothing. why are you even here? sunoo didn't say you were coming."

jake's grip tightened, his eyes narrowing as they became teary, completely unprompted. your body froze entirely at the sight of it. "because i told him to invite you. i told him everything, y/n. i told him because i was going fucking insane trying to figure out why you left."

the humiliation that washed over you in that second was heavier than any academic failure you had ever experienced. your stomach dropped so hard you felt physically sick, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped animal as you stared at his beautiful, desperate face through a blur of fresh tears. that classroom had been your rock bottom, the secret place where you had completely dismantled your own dignity and given your first time to a boy who claimed he hated you. and now that same boy was telling you he had taken that fragile, private moment and handed it over to his friend like it was just some casual gossip. "you told him?" your voice came out as a pathetic squeak, your hands coming up to your head as a sob tore through your chest. "you fucking told someone, jake? i trusted you to at least keep that between us, to let me pretend it was just a nightmare. and you went and exposed me to your friend? your friend who also happens to be the only person that i can call a friend right now too?!"

"no, y/n, it wasn't like that, i swear to god it wasn't." he panicked, his hands flying up to grip your upper arms, his fingers digging into your skin through your thin top as if he could force you to understand the chaos inside his head. "i didn't laugh about it, i didn't treat it like a joke. i was drowning. i've never felt like this about anyone in my entire life, and you locked me out so completely that i thought i was losing my mind. i needed help. i asked sunoo to bring you here so i could just look at you, so i could know you were still real and not just something i ruined."

"but you did ruin me!" you screamed, your voice cracking completely as you pushed against his chest with all your might. he barely moved though, his grip only tightening as his own tears finally spilled over his eyelashes, tracking down his flushed cheeks. "you ruined my head, you ruined my focus, and now i can't even look at sunoo without knowing he's picturing me on that classroom with you! you take everything from me, jake. you always take everything until there's absolutely nothing left for myself."

"then take something from me!" he yelled back, his voice breaking into a ragged, desperate sob that shook his entire frame. his forehead came down to press against yours until you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "hate me, hit me, scream at me, do whatever the fuck you want, but stop acting like i'm the only one pulling the strings here. you think you're the only one drowning? look at me, y/n. look at my fucking hands."

you looked down involuntarily, seeing the way his fingers were trembling against your arms, his knuckles white. the untouchable number one, the golden boy of the behavioral sciences department, was completely falling apart on a freezing fire escape, stripped of his ego, his composure, and everything that made him superior to you. "i don't care about you or your stupid fucking hands, jake." you whispered, the alcohol making your head spin as the cold wind whipped your hair across your face. "i don't have the energy to care anymore. look at the wood panel on the wall inside. go look at the printed list. i moved five ranks down. i'm seventh."

"it's just one semester." he pleaded, his mouth moving against your skin as he spoke, desperately trying to catch your gaze. "mr. jones said it himself, it's just a setback. we can finish the report this weekend, we can present, and next term you'll be right back up there. you're too smart to let a stupid ranking define you."

"i don't have a next term, jake." you said, your voice dropping into a flat stillness that completely cut through his frantic energy. you stopped fighting his grip, letting your arms hang uselessly at your sides as you looked at him with empty, exhausted eyes. "my scholarship is gone. the criteria says you have to maintain a position in the top three to keep the funding. i checked the portal before i came here tonight. next month, my tuition doubles, and i have exactly seven hundred dollars in my savings account from my weekend shifts. i'm dropping out. i have to pack my bags and go home."

the silence that followed was suffocating, the muffled bass from the party inside the apartment suddenly feeling like it belonged to a different universe entirely. jake just stared at you, his mouth slightly open, his hands slowly loosening on your arms as the harsh reality of your words finally cracked through his sheltered world. hard work wasn't going to fix the variables and a low grade didn't just mean studying harder, it meant packing up your entire life because your bank account was empty.

"i can pay for it." he said suddenly, his voice rising in a frantic, terrifying pitch as he grabbed your wrists, his grip turning clumsy and desperate. "y/n, listen to me, i can help. i can call my family right now and we can talk about it. it's nothing to them, it's just a phone call. you can stay in the dorms, you don't have to leave, we can just fix it-"

"stop it!" you shrieked, pulling your hands back with such violent force that you scraped your knuckles against the metal railing. the sheer humiliation of his offer felt like a physical blow to your chest, exposing the unbridgeable gulf between the two of you. "do you have any idea how pathetic you're making me feel right now? you think you can just buy my survival? you think my entire life's tragedy can just be solved by a wire transfer from your parents?"

"i'm just trying to keep you here!" he shouted back, his face twisting in absolute agony as the tears poured down his face, his chest heaving under his hoodie. "because i don't know how to exist in this place if you're not here! i don't want sunghoon to challenge my data, i don't want anyone else sitting across from me in the library bickering about methodologies. i need you, y/n. i need the only person who actually looks at me and sees someone worth fighting instead of someone to admire."

"but it was never a fight for you, jake, i told you." you whispered, a final, heavy tear falling down your chin as the alcohol gave way to a cold clarity. "it was effortless for you, you wake up and you're brilliant. and i've spent three long years completely destroying my mental health just to stay some decimal points away from a guy who i thought didn't even know my name until some months ago. i am completely empty. i have no more money, i have no more friends, and i have absolutely nothing left inside of me to give to this university, or to mr. jones, or to you."

jake's shoulders completely collapsed inward, making him look so small under the flickering orange light of the fire escape. "did you really hate me that much?" he whispered into the dark. "the whole time? even in that classroom?"

"i hated how much i admired you." you murmured, stepping closer to him one last time, your hand moving automatically to touch the soft fabric of his hoodie before dropping back down. "and i hated that when you touched me, for a split second, i forgot that i was drowning. but we can't keep doing this, jake. we're just two broken people using each other to feel something stable, and it's making us toxic. it's making us mean."

he didn't argue. he just reached out, his trembling fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear with a tenderness you had never seen in him. when his lips met yours this time, there was no hunger, no harshness, and no anger like there had been the first time. it was a slow, mourning kiss, a silent acknowledgment of everything you could have been if the world had been a little more fair, tasting of cheap alcohol and the salty weight of a shared grief. you let yourself sink into it for one last, agonizing second, breathing in the sharp scent of his cologne and the warmth of his skin, memorizing the exact weight of his body against yours before you firmly pulled away.

"the report is finished." you said softly, backing toward the balcony door, your hand reaching behind you to grip the cold metal handle. "i formatted the final citations before i came here tonight. i'll send the file to your email when i get back to my room. submit it under your name, jake. you deserve the top spot."

"i don't give a fuck about the spot." he whispered, his eyes wide and completely vacant as he stood in the freezing wind, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. "don't go. please. just... let me walk you back."

"i want to." you whispered, the admission slipping out before you could stop it, tasting like the bitter vodka and the salt of your own tears as you looked at him. you suddenly saw the raw loneliness that he had been carrying at the top of that pedestal for years, a weight that was just as heavy as your own even if it looked different from the outside. "god, jake, you don't understand, i want to stay more than anything, i want to go back to the library and argue about variables. i want to stay here and keep fighting you for the top spot until we both lose our minds, but i can't." your hand trembled against the cold metal handle, the friction of the iron biting into your skin. his posture looked completely ruined in a way that made him look so human, so terribly fragile, that it made your chest ache. "i don't have a choice. i never had one. i'm just... out of time, jake. i'm so sorry." you didn't give him the chance to find more words or offer more pieces of a world you couldn't afford to live in, turning around with a quiet sob and pushing the heavy door open. you stepped back into the warm, blurred chaos of the apartment before your resolve could completely fail you and make you stay.

as the heavy metal door clicked shut behind you, cutting off the freezing wind and leaving jake standing entirely undone under the flickering orange bulb, you started walking through the crowded hallway. the bass from the speakers vibrated deep inside your hollow chest while people laughed and spilled drinks around you, entirely oblivious to the fact that your time there had just officially ended on a fire escape. you felt a terrifying wave of clarity wash over you, the alcohol finally settling into a cold finality that made the past three years of sleepless nights, skipped meals, and agonizing anxiety feel like a tragic joke of a sacrifice made for a numbered list that didn't even matter anymore. you thought about sunoo standing somewhere in that crowd, about the crushing humiliation of knowing jake had exposed that to him. but even that anger felt exhausted now, swallowed up by the heartbreaking realization that jake hadn't done it to hurt you — he had done it because he was drowning in his own isolated, perfect tower. it filled you with a heavy ache to realize that the one intimate piece of yourself you had kept protected through all the loneliness of your academic life now belonged to a boy who you were going to love and miss in the dark for the rest of your life. a boy whose effortless privilege allowed him to offer your entire tuition like a casual favor while you were left to pack your life into cardboard boxes with seven hundred dollars to your name.

but as you grabbed your coat and stepped out of the building into the quiet, dark street, the cool air hitting your face felt less like a punishment and more like a slow expiration. it was like a quiet release from a beautiful trap you had been building for yourself since the day you arrived. and though your chest felt entirely empty and your future was a terrifying black void of uncertainty, you took a deep breath of the night air and finally let yourself weep for the library nights that were gone, for the competition you had lost, and for the boy on the fire escape who you were leaving entirely alone at the top.

the end ⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

[heejamas]

BEFORE WE WERE STRANGERS    ｡⋆ LHS

heeseung x fem! reader ⊹ ࣪ ˖⠀⠀⠀you met heeseung when you were just a kid. somehow, he was always there, until he wasn't. years later, you reunite. what starts as a long distance thing turns into and a relationship neither of you ever stopped trying to make work. the whole time, even in the good years, there's this quiet awareness underneath everything: that the distance was always there, that it never really went away, and that loving each other meant carrying that the entire time, right up until it was the thing that ended it.

→ genre: heeseung as your ex, slice of life, angst, childhood friends to lovers, long distance relationship, non-linear | → playlist: coming up roses - harry styles | wish you were here - pink floyd | less - olivia rodrigo | purple rain - prince | who knows - daniel caesar | i know the end - phoebe bridgers | pluto projector - rex orange county | → word count: 16k | !! warnings: smut scene, grief, heartbreak, oral sex (m and f receiving), protected sex, mutual breakup, bittersweet ending

HEESEUNG SPENT WAY TOO MUCH TIME THINKING ABOUT HOW LONG YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO GET OVER A BREAKUP. All of his friends had a different answer — Jay, for example, said it takes exactly half of the amount of time you spent with that person. Jungwon claimed it took one hundred beers, no matter how long that takes. Sunoo insisted you're cured the moment you survive a date without crying after. Meanwhile, Jake's method was to hit the party as soon as possible and lock eyes with whoever doesn't look away first. And well, Heeseung didn't do any of those things. He just kept wondering if grief had an expiration date or if he'd just have to distract himself from how he felt about you for the rest of his life.

Pablo Neruda once wrote: I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. He doesn't explain what spring does exactly, he assumes you already know. Everyone has felt that combination of arrival and disruption and beauty once. Spring doesn't ease you into anything, it just shows up one day and suddenly everything that was dormant is out in the open, exposed and vivid, and you start wondering how you went from bare branches to this, without noticing the exact moment it changed.

What people miss about that line is that spring always leaves, and that's not a tragedy in the poem and Neruda doesn't treat it like one. Spring was never going to stay, that's not what spring is for. The cherry trees don't mourn the end of spring, they just stand there changed in whatever season comes next, carrying the proof of what happened to them in the way they've grown. The poem is not about the love that lasts, but about the love that makes you into something you couldn't have become alone.

You thought about that poem more than you should have. You used to turn this over in your head on the bad nights, on the nights when you'd done the math too many times and kept arriving at the exact same answer — that you'd been right about each other and wrong about the circumstances, and that maybe that was its own kind of love story, just not the kind that gets a second act. It helped, sometimes. Other times it felt like something you were saying to yourself in place of something you didn't have the words for yet. But you kept trying to believe that what you two had was complete even if it wasn't permanent, that it counted, that it had changed you in ways you were still discovering. That's what you told yourself when you thought too much about the end.

While you thought too much about the end, Heeseung thought too much about the beginning. You were eleven and he was twelve, his family used to visit the city sometimes, cousins on his mom's side who lived three streets from your childhood home, and one summer he showed up at the end of your block and didn't know the rules of the game everyone was playing and argued about it for twenty minutes. You remember thinking he was annoying. He remembers thinking you were the kind of kid who knew everyone's name already and made him feel like he'd arrived late to something.

You played outside until it got dark, something kids don't do anymore and you both did back then without thinking about it, just stayed out because no one had called you in yet and there was no reason to leave. What he remembers is that at some point, you ended up sitting on the curb away from the others, and he was probably talking about some stupid boyish thing, and you had this way of listening even then, chin in your hand, actually paying attention, like what he was saying mattered. Heeseung wasn't used to that, even though Heeseung was only twelve.

His family came back the next three summers. You'd spot him from your window sometimes before he spotted you, this familiar-unfamiliar face showing up at the end of your street, and you'd go downstairs like you just happened to be going outside. You'd pick up wherever you'd left off, easy in the way things are easy when you're young and don't know yet to be guarded. He brought a portable speaker one summer and you'd sit on the building steps and argue about music, mostly you telling him his taste was bad and him defending himself without much conviction.

Heeseung eventually stopped coming. His family just stopped making the trip, and you'd notice his absence the first summer and then less the second and then it was just how things were. You'd see his name on your phone sometimes, a like here, a story view there. Once, when you were sixteen, he'd commented a single emoji on a photo you posted. By the time you were almost adults you were basically strangers who knew each other's faces.

But then, one day, you were running late when you ran into him. You'd taken the wrong exit and had to double back and you were annoyed and distracted and got on the train and almost didn't look up from your phone at all. He was standing by the opposite doors with his hands in his jacket pockets and you almost didn't place him and then you did, all at once. He looked up at the same moment and that felt like something, even then.

You both figured out within about a minute into the conversation that you were going to the same concert. He showed you his ticket on his phone like proof and you laughed and said that's insane and he said I know and you looked at each other in that way you look at someone when coincidence feels a little too neat to be only coincidence. The Strokes played Someday third song in. You grabbed his arm without thinking about it and you let go of his arm and you both faced the stage and you could feel him smiling even without looking at him.

The show ended at eleven. He said so and you said so and then you both laughed because that was all there was to say. You ended up at a place nearby that was still open and you stayed there until they started stacking chairs around you and the guy behind the counter looked at you twice before you got the hint. You talked the way you talk to someone you don't really know but somehow aren't nervous around. He told you about his hometown and you told him about the last five years and it was easy in a way you couldn't fully explain, the way it sometimes is with people you knew before you knew anything, before you'd decided who you were going to be. At some point you were talking about something completely unrelated and he laughed at something you said and you thought, this is a memory I would like to keep.

Heeseung texted you when he got back to where he was staying that night. That was really fun, he wrote. You read it in bed with your phone on your chest after and thought yeah, it really was.

The next day you walked around for a long time without going anywhere specific. You showed him the street where you grew up and you stood outside your old childhood home for a minute, and Sunday came too fast. You drove him to the airport because you offered and he said yes maybe a little too quickly. The drive took almost fifty minutes and you talked the whole way, then you were there and you weren't talking anymore and you pulled up to departures, and Heeseung looked at you and you looked back, and there was something there that you didn't have a name for yet, something that felt old and new at the same time. He picked up his bag and said he'd text when he landed. You watched him walk through the sliding doors and then you sat there for a moment longer than you needed to before pulling away.

He texted when he landed. You were still awake, not because you'd been waiting, except you had been. landed safe, he sent. Then a minute later: hey. for what it's worth, running into you was the best thing that happened to me this year.

After that, talking to Heeseung just became part of your day. He'd send you something he saw on the way to work, you'd reply hours later with something completely unrelated, and somehow that would turn into an hour of back and forth that neither of you had scheduled. You'd fall asleep mid conversation and wake up to three messages he'd sent after, the last one always something like okay you're asleep. talk tomorrow. You always talked tomorrow.

He called one night because he said he was too tired to type and you ended up on the phone for two and a half hours, both of you lying in your respective beds in your respective cities, talking about nothing that mattered and somehow not running out of things to say. When you finally hung up it was past two in the morning and you had work the next day and you lay there in the dark staring at the ceiling feeling something you didn't want to look at too directly yet.

He made you a playlist once and the title was just a date — the date of the concert, the day you ran into each other on the train. You listened to it on your commute and texted him you put Someday first and he said obviously and you smiled at your phone like an idiot on a crowded bus. So you made him one back and you spent longer on it than you'd admit. You watched movies together sometimes, texting reactions in real time because neither of you could figure out the sync on any of the watch together apps and at some point it stopped mattering.

Nobody called it anything and you didn't talk about what it was. There was no conversation where you defined it, no moment where either of you said so what is this. It just kept being what it was, consistent and entirely without a label, and most of the time that felt okay.

Then he texted you a screenshot of a festival lineup with no caption. You looked at it for three seconds and then called him. "When is it," you said instead of hello.

"June," he said. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" You were seeing what he was seeing. Heeseung bought his ticket that night and you already had yours by the time he texted to ask if you were going to get one.

You were at the arrivals gate twenty minutes early. You watched the doors and then he was coming through them with his backpack on one shoulder, looking slightly jet lagged and exactly like himself, and he saw you and his whole face changed in this quiet way, not a big reaction, just relief, maybe. You hugged and he lifted you off the ground, picked you up like it was nothing, and you laughed into his shoulder and he held on for a second longer than necessary and when he put you down you thought, very clearly, this is not how you hug a friend. You picked up his bag and said you look terrible and he said I was on a plane for several hours and and you both laughed and he followed you to the car.

You were at every show together, front to back, and Heeseung had this thing where he'd lean down to say something in your ear when it was loud, not always anything important, sometimes just this part right before a song got good, like he wanted to make sure you were paying attention to the same thing he was. You always were.

Heeseung always had a hand on your back when you were moving through a crowd, his chin on top of your head when you were both standing still watching something, finding your hand in the dark without looking. One night you were waiting for a set to start and he was standing behind you and he said something in your ear and you turned around to respond and your faces were closer than you'd calculated for and neither of you moved back. You said whatever you were going to say. He listened. You turned back to face the stage and your heart was doing something unreasonable and the music started and you let it.

On the last night you sat on the grass after the final set, not ready to leave yet. The field was emptying out around you and you were both just sitting there, not saying much, and he was pulling at the grass next to him, and you looked at him and thought you were going to miss him when he leaves. And then, underneath that, you thought that you were already missing him even though he was right there.

You sat on the curb outside your building for a long time after the festival ended. At some point Heeseung started humming something and you recognized it before he got to the words. "Wish You Were Here? Pink Floyd," you said.

"Yeah."

"I love this song." You were quiet for a second. Then you said, "do you know what it's actually about?"

He looked at you. "Tell me."

You told him about Syd Barrett, Pink Floyd’s founding member. Barrett suffered a mental breakdown and was ousted from the band in 1968, so you told him about how Roger Waters wrote it for someone who was physically there but already gone in every way that mattered. How the band would play it for him sometimes and he'd show up to the studio unrecognizable and they wouldn't even know it was him at first. How it's a song about watching someone disappear while standing right next to them. Heeseung listened with forearms on his knees, looking at the street.

"There's another interpretation though," you said. "About becoming so successful and so numb that you stop being present in your own life. Like, don't get so lost that you forget to actually be there."

"So it's about two different kinds of absence," he said.

"Yeah," you said. "Exactly."

He nodded slowly and didn't say anything for a moment. A car passed. Somewhere above you a window was open and you could hear the low sound of someone's television. "I think regardless of all that," he said, and his voice was quieter now, "every time I hear that song from now on I'm going to think about you."

You didn't see it coming. You don't know why — you should have, probably, but you didn't, and it landed somewhere unguarded, and before you could do anything about it your eyes filled up and you looked away.

"Hey," he said immediately. "Hey, c'mere." Heeseung put his arm around you and pulled you in and you let him, your face against his shoulder, and he just held you there on the curb outside your building at whatever time it was, not saying anything else, just his hand on the back of your head, careful.

When you pulled back you looked at him and he was already looking at you, close, and you thought about how easy it would be and how hard it would be and how those were the same thing right now. "I really want to kiss you," you said. "And I think that's going to make tomorrow really hard."

He looked at you for a moment. "I know," he said. And then, softer: "I know."

He kissed you anyway, or maybe you kissed him, you can't tell afterward who moved first. It was gentle and it lasted and when it ended you stayed close, foreheads touching, neither of you saying anything. It was the best moment of your life and one of the saddest and you understood, right then, that those two things were going to live together for a long time. Heeseung loved to remember that one specific moment.

Heeseung, unfortunately, also remembered the last night he spent with you with an unfairly amount of clarity, because it was so ordinary in every way it shouldn't have been. You were sitting on your couch with your legs across his lap, both of you watching something neither of you cared about. The apartment was too quiet and he'd thought he wanted to remember this moment, which probably meant he already knew you weren't going to cross his path again. The conversation, when it finally came, wasn't a fight; it was two people being honest with each other at the exact wrong time, or maybe the exactly right time, which sometimes does look the same. The most painful thing about loving someone the way you'd loved him was learning to recognize his truth, even when it costs you something. Even when it costed you him.

But what really stayed with Heeseung wasn't exactly the ending, but everything before it. You had given him something he didn't have a word for yet, like the version of himself he'd been while loving you, that was less guarded and more willing. He didn't know what to do with that now that you were gone, it felt like inheriting something beautiful with no place to put it. Some nights he'd catch himself thinking, at least it happened. Other nights that thought felt like the cruelest one of all.

Meanwhile, you made a list of all the things that were supposed to help, assembled from every friend who meant well and every corner of the internet that promised a way through. You tried most of them, trying to act organized about your grief, which felt inappropriate somehow given how disorganized the grief itself was.

You rearranged your bedroom, moved the bed to the other wall, switched which side the lamp was on and bought new pillowcases in a different color. It worked for exactly one night, the unfamiliarity of it, waking up disoriented and not immediately knowing where you were. By the third morning your body had already memorized the new geometry and you were back to reaching for your phone before you were even fully awake, which is how you'd been starting every day since, looking for something you couldn't name and definitely weren't going to find on TikTok.

Then there was the phase you got very into routines. You read somewhere that structure was healing, that the body finds comfort in repetition, so you set alarms and kept them and made yourself eat breakfast at the same time every day and immediately going to the gym next. It helped, keeping yourself busy always helps, which is to say it helped until it didn't, until a random morning the coffee finished brewing and your apartment was very quiet and you stood at the counter of your kitchen and felt it anyway — the whole weight of it, right on schedule, completely unbothered by your new routine.

The crying wasn't even the hardest part, because crying at least felt like something. The hard part was the in between, the perfectly normal moments that somehow hurt even more. You'd be on your way to work, reading, entirely unbothered, and then you'd remember something he said once, something small and stupid and specific to him, and your chest would forget how to work for a second. You'd watch a funny reel and immediately think of his reaction and then remember you wouldn’t know his reaction. You wondered if that was pathetic, then you wondered why you were so concerned with whether your grief was pathetic, and who you were performing sanity for, and why. Then you'd turn the page. Someone across the aisle would shift in their seat. Life would keep moving, as advertised.

Heeseung went home after you broke up. Jay picked him up from the airport and looked at him before saying anything, exactly like people do when they already know but are giving you the chance to bring it up first. By dinner that night somehow everyone already knew, someone just said so, you good? and Heeseung said yeah in a tone that meant the opposite.

Jungwon tried to get him to do the hundred beers thing, obviously. Heeseung made it through maybe four before he just stopped and nobody pushed it, which he was grateful for. Jake and Riki dragged him out one night to a bar and Heeseung stood there holding a drink he wasn't really drinking, and at some point Jake just put a hand on his shoulder and said we don't have to stay and they left twenty minutes later and got Taco Bell instead, and that ended up being the better night by a lot.

What actually helped — if anything did — wasn't any of the specific things but just being around people who'd known him before, who could sit with him in a room without needing him to be okay. Sunghoon made fun of him for something stupid he did in middle school and Heeseung laughed for real for the first time in weeks, and it wasn't because the joke fixed anything. It just reminded him that he existed outside of heartbreak, that there was a version of him that had nothing to do with you, that had been around a long time before you and apparently was still in there somewhere.

Still, he kept catching himself doing the thing where a place would remind him of something and he'd just stand there for a second, recalculating.

His cousin's wedding was the first thing you two ever went to together as an actual couple; the first time either of you had to explain to other people what you were to each other, something neither of you had really practiced. His aunt asked, very directly, in front of everyone, and who is this? and Heeseung had said this is— and then paused for just slightly too long, and you'd jumped in and said your name and then, after a beat, his girlfriend, like you were trying it out loud for the first time too. His aunt had said oh, finally, like this had been a long time coming, making you laugh, and Heeseung remembered standing there thinking that you'd just said it so easily, and that had made it feel like a bigger deal.

The trip to the mountains was the first real trip you went on together, just the two of you for a few days on a cabin he'd found. It was, by any measure, romantic. The cabin had a fireplace that he spent way too long trying to figure out and a window that looked out at actual mountains and you'd cooked together in a kitchen too small for two people, bumping into each other constantly, and at night you'd sat wrapped in the same blanket watching something on his laptop because the cabin didn't have a TV.

But what he actually thought about, more often than the fireplace or the view, was the heater breaking on the second night and the two of you lying there in every layer of clothing you'd packed, laughing about it instead of being annoyed. He thought about the hike that was supposed to take two hours and took four because you'd insisted on a "shortcut" you found on your phone that turned out to not exist, and you'd both ended up arguing about whose idea it was while also laughing too hard to actually be mad, and by the time you got back it was dark and you were both starving and the only thing open was a gas station and you'd eaten gas station food like it was the best meal of your life because you were so hungry, sitting on the hood of the rental car in the cold.

Those were the things he remembered, the parts that would only ever mean anything to the two of you, the kind of thing you'd bring up years later and both immediately start laughing.

The first time you flew out to see him after you'd both quietly decided this was a thing now, without either of you using the word relationship out loud yet — he remembered standing at arrivals and seeing you before you saw him, and you looked pale, lightly green. You hadn't told him until after that you hated flying and that you hadn't been on a plane in years, that you'd spent the whole flight gripping the armrest and doing breathing exercises and that you'd nearly cried during turbulence. You told him all of this like it wasn't a big deal, like you hadn't just done something that scared you specifically so you could stand in this airport.

Heeseung hadn't known what to say to that, then. He still didn't, fully, even now. He just remembered taking your bag and putting his hand on your back and you leaning into him slightly, still a little unsteady, and him thinking — not in those words but the feeling of it — you did something hard to get here. He hadn't asked you to, you'd just done it.

After that it was the normal stuff. Time zones you both did math around. Flights that got more frequent and then somehow never frequent enough. His friends started including you in plans before you'd even arrived — is she coming this time? — and your friends started doing the same with him, asking about him like he was just part of the group now, which he was. You'd shown up to enough things that people stopped explaining who you were to each other. You were just Heeseung and you, one unit. So that's why it hurt even more when his heart broke.

Heeseung never actually had his heart broken before. He'd had things end before but nothing serious, nothing that lasted more than a month. He'd never had a person and never built a life around someone and then had to figure out what to do with the life once the person was gone.

So when it actually happened, he didn't recognize it. He thought he just had a cold. That's not a joke, for the first few days he genuinely thought something was physically wrong with him, because nothing had ever made his body feel like that before. His chest hurt not metaphorically, he felt like there was something tight wrapped around his ribs that didn't loosen no matter how he sat or stood or breathed. He didn't know that heartbreak was a physical thing. He'd heard people say things like my chest hurts about breakups his whole life and always thought it was just an expression. He found out that it was true the hard way, lying awake with an actual, physical, located ache in his chest.

He wasn't hungry, which had literally never happened to him in his life because Heeseung was always hungry, and then when he did eat, food tasted like nothing, like he was chewing for the sake of chewing. He'd lie down to sleep and his brain would just start running through everything on a loop he couldn't turn off, and he'd look at the clock and it would be 4 a.m. and he'd have work in four hours.

He kept reaching for his phone to tell you things, like send you a video, a thought, this happened today, you'd find this funny. His thumb would be most of the way to your contact before his brain caught up and he'd just sit there holding his phone feeling like an idiot. It happened more times than he wanted to admit but it still happened, actually, even weeks later like some reflex in him that kept assuming you were still the person he told things to.

And there were the plans and that was maybe the worst part. A trip you'd been saying you wanted to take, an apartment thing, eventually, someday, a conversation you have when you're imagining a future together without officially deciding you're imagining a future together. None of it had been a promise exactly, but it had been real in the sense that he'd started picturing it, started letting himself assume it.

And now all of that was just sitting there unused. He didn't know what to do with a future he'd been picturing that didn't exist anymore. It wasn't like returning something you bought, where there's a process, a receipt or somewhere to send it back. It was more like the plans were still technically his, still in his head, except they didn't connect to anything real anymore, and he didn't know if he was supposed to throw them away or just let them sit there until they stopped meaning anything on their own. Neither option felt possible. He just had this whole imagined life with no home for it.

And you'd been through heartbreak before, or you'd thought you had. You'd had a breakup at seventeen that wrecked you for months, your friends had to physically remove you from your room sometimes, and you'd thought, at the time, that this was what heartbreak was. And you'd survived it, you'd come out the other side eventually, and some part of you had filed that experience away as the worst it gets, a kind of benchmark — you'd been through the worst, so whatever came after, you'd know how to handle it.

You did not know how to handle it.

It wasn't that this hurt the same and you were just better at managing it now. It was that this hurt more, because by every external measure the relationship at seventeen had been messier and more obviously bad for you. This one hadn't been bad and that was the whole problem. There was no version of this where you got to be angry at Heeseung, no version where you could point to something and say that's why it ended, that's the villain of the story, and that was so much harder to carry than betrayal had ever been.

You thought, I already did this. I already know what this feels like. And then you'd be hit by something like a song or a memory, and you'd realize you didn't know what this felt like at all. This heartbreak was something else entirely when the first one had been just bad, because you'd never actually lost something you thought might have lasted. At seventeen, some part of you had always known it wasn't going to work out. This time you hadn't known that, this time you'd been wrong about that, and being wrong about that was its own kind of grief, separate from the grief of losing him.

But there were moments that felt like progress. You went to the movies by yourself one day because you had nothing else to do and the alternative was sitting in your apartment alone again. You bought a ticket for a movie nobody else wanted to see, got popcorn, sat in the middle of an almost empty theater and watched the whole thing. Walking out afterward, you felt — and you remember being almost embarrassed by how big this felt for something so small — capable. Like you'd done something that proved you could still be a person who did things alone. It was such a small thing but it felt enormous.

You went out with your friends one night and a guy at the bar started talking to you, and you flirted back, leaned into it a little, enjoyed it even. He was funny and he asked for your number near the end of the night and you almost gave it to him, you really almost did, and then you didn't, and you told your friends in the bathroom I don't think I'm ready, I think I just wanted to know I still could, and you went home that night feeling fine about it.

You downloaded one of the dating apps eventually, because everyone kept telling you it would help, and you matched with someone within the first day, and you looked at the match notification for a long time and then deleted the app. You just didn't feel like doing it and you'd promised yourself a while ago that you weren't going to do things anymore just because you were supposed to.

And yes, you bleached your hair. At home, by yourself, with a box kit and gloves, because you'd decided that going into your late twenties, it made sense to have pink ends again, something you hadn't done since you were a teenager. It took three tries to get the bleach even and you fried your hair more than the box promised you would, and it looked a little uneven for the first week, but you loved it anyway.

For a while you thought all of this was the healing, and it was, partly. But at some point you noticed that you were doing all of it a little too quickly, a little too eagerly, like you were decorating around a hole instead of dealing with the hole. You were busy, and you were fine, and underneath both of those things was everything you hadn't actually let yourself feel yet.

So one night you decided, very deliberately, that you were going to feel it and not avoid it, just feel it, all the way for the first time since it happened. You got in the shower and you sat down on the floor of it, water running over you, and you just let it happen. And it wasn't pretty crying, it was loud and ugly and it didn't stop when you wanted it to. You'd always called it emotional constipation, where you go too long without crying and it all just sits there waiting, and when it finally comes out it comes out all at once, everything you'd been holding for weeks, and you have no control over how long it takes or even what it looks like.

You don't know how long you sat there but probably for long enough that your legs went a little numb from the position. And while you cried you let yourself go back through it on purpose this time. You let yourself have all of it again, fully, one more time, specifically so you could put it down. You thought about the way Heeseung used to talk about love, back when none of this had happened yet, back when love was still a theory to him and not something that had already happened to him and broken his heart.

He'd never been in love before you. He told you that early on like a disclaimer, like he wanted you to know what you were getting into, that he was the kind of person who needed things to make sense. He'd grown up obsessed with space, he had learned that the universe is infinite and if everything he'd ever do or feel amounted to a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of the universe's lifetime, then none of it had to be a big deal. Nothing was permanent because nothing was supposed to be permanent.

He told you all of this the night he told you he loved you, which you found out later was not a coincidence because he'd been rehearsing it in his head for weeks. You were in his backyard and it was getting cold and neither of you had bothered to go inside, and you'd asked him half jokingly, if he still thought love was just chemistry, like dopamine, oxytocin, all the stuff he used to bring up whenever the topic came up. He thought about it for a while, and then he said, "I think about the math."

"What do you mean by math?" you asked.

"You know. The odds of us both existing right now, at the same time, on the same planet." You didn't say anything, just waited, because you could tell he was going somewhere with it. "Okay, so — the universe is 13.8 billion years old, right," he said, looking up at the sky. "Earth is about 4.5 billion. Life on this planet has been around for something like 3.7 billion years. And humans have only existed for about 300,000 years." He paused. "If you do the math on that, all of human history put together like every war or civilization — comes out to something like 0.000002% of the universe's lifetime. It's basically nothing, a rounding error, actually."

"That's scary," you said, but you were smiling, because you could tell it wasn't where he was going.

"It's not, though," he said. "That's the thing. I used to find that comforting. Like, if everything I am and everything I do amounts to almost nothing on that scale, then none of it has to be a big deal." He shrugged. "I liked that."

"What changed then?"

"You." He said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "And for someone who's spent his whole life thinking everything has an answer, there are questions I have about you that I can't solve. Like, I know how stars form and I know how galaxies move, and I still don't know how, or when, or why I fell for you."

You felt something in your chest shift, your eyes wet, but you didn't say anything yet because you wanted him to keep going, and he did. "And I get it," he continued, and you could tell his heart was going faster now, that this part was harder. "I get being scared. I'm terrified most of the time — of saying the wrong thing, of not knowing how to do this—" he gestured between the two of you, "—but I'd rather be terrified and honest than safe and nowhere."

You stared at him, while a stubborn tear ran down your cheek, "And I'm — god, I'm jealous of you," he said, the words coming faster now. "Of the way you feel things so easily. The way you just let yourself experience stuff without trying to explain it first. I've spent my whole life trying to make everything make sense, and you don't do that, you just — exist in it. And it's beautiful. You're beautiful." he stopped, flustered, started again.

"So when you ask if I still think it's just chemistry," he said, quieter now, "I think about the probability of us both existing right now, in this exact moment. Humans have been around for 300,000 years and you and I get maybe eighty years each, if we're lucky. Do the math on that and it comes out to something like 0.00000058% of the universe's entire lifetime. And somehow, in that fraction of a fraction, we're both here on the same planet at the exact same time."

His voice cracked, just slightly, on the last part.

"And when I think about that — about how unlikely it is that I get to exist on Earth at the same time as you. And I'm scared of it, because if the universe only gave us this much time, then you deserve to spend it happy. And I want to make you happy."

The tears that had been building finally spilled over, and you didn't wipe them away. "No one's ever said anything like that to me before," you whispered.

"It's just math," Heeseung said, almost apologetic, like he was embarrassed by how much of himself he'd just handed over.

"No," you said, laughing through the tears. "You make it sound beautiful."

He looked at you for a second, like he was deciding whether to say the next thing. Then he said it anyway. "You make everything beautiful."

Sometimes he'd imagine a future and it felt precarious and unstable. Would you be there with him? Would you want to be? But who was he to say? He wasn't a computer. He couldn't run the simulation a thousand times and find the outcome with the highest probability of success. Was it a crime to not have the answers? In physics, uncertainty was a principle, but in life, people seemed to expect certainty and confidence. And Heeseung had neither.

Maybe one day things would make sense. Maybe he'd understand what you saw in him, if you saw anything at all. Maybe you'd get married, build a life, exist in the same space for longer than this brief cosmic moment. He'd probably take these thoughts to the grave, but somewhere, in the parts of himself he didn't like to examine, he knew something else too: he'd love you always. Or at least, he thought he would.

So when you'd said it back, that you loved him too, that you wanted this, whatever this was going to turn out to be, distance and uncertainty and all of it — Heeseung didn't think he'd ever been that happy in his life. He just remembers standing there in the cold with you and feeling like something had clicked into place.

Neither of you had any idea what you were actually signing up for. You said it like it was simple and it felt simple that night, because you were both standing in the same place and the distance was just an idea. You didn't know yet what it would feel like to want to tell someone something at eleven at night and have to wait until morning because of the time difference. You didn't know what it would feel like to watch someone's flight status app for two hours because their plane was delayed and you couldn't do anything about it from where you were. You didn't know that missing someone could become a baseline, something you got used to without it ever actually going away.

But you made it work, in an unglamorous way that long distance actually works. You learned each other's schedules down to the hour like when he was done with practice, when you were free for lunch, the three hour window every day where your awake times actually overlapped and you protected that window like it was sacred. He'd call you on his walk home so the time wasn't wasted on nothing. You'd eat dinner with your laptop propped up so he could "be there," even though being there meant a slightly pixelated version of him eating ramyeon at his kitchen counter while you ate whatever you'd thrown together, and somehow that still counted as a date, and somehow it actually felt like one.

Heeseung got good at little things. He'd send you a photo of the sky at golden hour with no caption because he knew you'd be waking up to it, he was handing you the start of your day before he went to sleep. He'd leave voice messages instead of texts, just rambling about his day, and you'd listen to them on your commute and it would feel like he was right there talking to you, which he kind of was, just delayed.

He said things to you over those months that he never thought he'd say to anyone. He told you once, half asleep on a call at like 2 a.m. his time, "I like falling asleep on the phone with you more than I like falling asleep in silence, and that used to be my favorite part of the day." You'd laughed and told him that was the saddest compliment you'd ever gotten and he'd said, "no, I mean it, I used to look forward to the quiet. Now I look forward to you."

He told you, after a video call where you'd been having a bad day and cried a little and he couldn't do anything except be on the other side of a screen, "I hate that I can't just be there. But I'm glad you let me see it anyway. I don't want the version of you that's only okay."

He'd say things like "I keep thinking about what you'd think of this" about completely mundane stuff like a building, a song, a weird thing someone said on the subway, and you started doing the same thing, narrating your day to him in your head even when he wasn't there, because somewhere along the way he'd become the person you processed your life through, even from across miles and miles away.

Funny enough, Heeseung felt exactly like that now too. He'd be walking somewhere and see something like a dog wearing a stupid little jacket, a sign with a typo, some guy arguing with a vending machine and the first thought was, automatic, before he could stop it, she'd think this was so funny. And then there'd be that second where he remembered he had nowhere to send it.

He wondered, sometimes, if he'd ever feel that again. He didn't know if that was a one time thing or if it could just happen again with someone else, eventually. He hoped it could, but he also kind of hoped it couldn't, which he knew didn't make sense.

And then he'd spiral a little, sometimes late at night — was any of it even worth it? But not in a bitter way. He didn't regret it, not even on the worst nights. But he'd lie there doing the math again, except this time the math wasn't comforting. He'd think about all those years and all that effort and flights and time zones, and where it had landed him: here, alone, missing someone he used to talk to every single day, and he'd think, what was the point of all of it, if this is where it ends up?

The distance had always hurt, that part wasn't new. But the distance used to have an end date like in two weekends or three weeks, whatever it was, there was always a number attached to it like a flight already booked and something to count down to. But this was different, this distance wasn't going to end in a reunion. It was just going to be the new permanent shape of things, and that took some getting used to, the idea that the ache wasn't temporary anymore, it was just what this was now.

For a long time, he'd actually felt kind of arrogant about it, looking back. He'd believed, fully, that the two of you could outlast the distance, like that it was a problem like any other problem, something you could just be diligent enough about and eventually it would stop being a problem at all. He used to think love was the kind of thing that just automatically solved logistics. And for years, it kind of had. You'd both shown up for it, over and over, and then, after everything, after years of doing exactly that, the distance won anyway.

The visits had been getting less frequent for a while, it was just life. He'd gotten busier with work, you'd gotten busier with yours. Your friend group needed you for things. His family needed him for things. The visits that used to happen every month started happening every couple months, and then less than that, and you both kept saying next time will be easier without either of you really believing it.

Then the first real conversation happened, you were on a call and you'd made some offhand comment like I miss when we used to see each other more, and he'd said, yeah, me too, and then there was a pause that went on a beat too long. "So what do we actually do about that," you said, eventually, but you weren't accusatory, you were just tired.

And neither of you had an answer, that was the thing. You both had real lives and not placeholder ones you were waiting to leave behind. He had his job, his friends, his family, a whole structure he'd built around himself in his city and you had the same, in yours. Moving wasn't simple for either of you and you both knew it, and neither of you wanted to be the one to ask the other to give theirs up because you both knew what that would actually cost, and you loved each other too much to want the other person to pay it.

People don't really talk about how love doesn't always mean being willing to give up everything for someone. Sometimes the healthiest version of loving someone is not doing that, even if it would feel more romantic in the moment. You'd both built lives that mattered, separately, before you'd built something together, and asking either of you to dismantle one for the other wasn't love.

After that, it wasn't one conversation, but it was a lot of small ones, spread out over months. There was a stupid fight about a missed call that wasn't really about the missed call. There was a conversation where you asked, carefully, if he'd ever consider relocating eventually, and he said maybe, someday, and you both heard how far away someday sounded. There was a night where he asked you the same question, in reverse, and got the same kind of answer.

You both just kept circling it, and there'd be a good week, where it felt normal again, where you'd talk like always and it would feel like maybe you'd just been in a rough patch. And then there'd be another conversation that didn't go anywhere, another what are we going to do that ended in the exact same place.

He took a few weeks off work over the holidays to visit you, since your birthday was a week before Christmas, and he'd booked the trip around it months in advance so he could be there for it and for Christmas with your family and ring in the new year together too. You both just kind of needed it, even if you both already knew, somewhere underneath, that it might not turn out the way either of you had pictured when he'd booked the flight.

It started fine, better than fine, actually, for the first couple of days. You picked him up from the airport like you always did, and he hugged you the way he always did, and for a few hours it felt like nothing had changed and nothing would change. Your birthday came first, and he'd remembered everything, and for that whole day it really did feel like nothing was wrong. Then there was Christmas, and you took him to see your family, and your mom made too much food like she always did, and your dad asked him about work and Heeseung answered like he always did. Your nephew still asked him to play video games and he still let him win even though you both knew he wasn't actually trying, like he always did.

You did all the things you always did. The same coffee place. The same walk along the river you always ended up on. You went to the bookstore he liked, the one with the cat that ignored everyone but him, and he bought a book he probably wouldn't read and you both knew that too.

But underneath the whole week, there was something different, nothing either of you could point to. Just a silence that hadn't used to be there in between the normal stuff. A few times you caught him looking at you in a way that felt like he was trying to memorize something. A few times you did the same thing.

New Year's came and went quietly as you watched the countdown from your living room, and he kissed you at midnight the way he always did, and neither of you said anything about how it felt different this time, like you were both carrying something into the new year that you hadn't carried into the last one. The second night of the new year — his last night before he flew back — you were on the couch at your place, some movie on that neither of you had picked for any real reason, just something to have on, and neither of you was watching it. You were sitting close, his arm around you, and at some point you just started crying quietly. You didn't make any noise about it, didn't want to, but he noticed it the way you do when you know someone's body that well.

He sat up a little straighter and turned toward you, careful, and put his hand on the side of your face, his thumb just resting there. "Hey," he said, quiet. "Hey. What's wrong?"

You looked at him and you didn't say anything for a moment. Then you said, "I don't know if this is going to be the last time we do this."

He didn't say anything right away. He let out a long breath like he was trying to hold something back, and he couldn't, his eyes filled up too and he didn't wipe them. "I don't know either," he said. "And that scares me."

You looked at him. "I know I've asked this so many times already," you said, "but what do we do?"

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what to do."

"I don't either," you said.

And that was the thing that broke it open. You both just started crying properly, and you didn't care about being quiet anymore, and he pulled you in and held onto you like he was trying to keep something from slipping through his hands. "I love you so much," he said into your hair, his voice not really working right. "I don't want to let you go."

You pulled back enough to look at him, and you reached up and wiped the tears off his face with your thumb. "You need to love me less now, baby," you said.

"I don't think I can," he said.

"But you have to," you said. And you weren't saying it to hurt him, you said it like it was the only kind thing left to say.

It went quiet for a while after that. Just the movie still playing, both of you sitting there with your faces wet and your hands still holding onto each other. "Is there a way we can make this work?" he asked eventually. Not like he believed there was an answer, just like he had to ask it one more time, for both of you.

"We already did," you said. "We made it work. For years, we made it work." You looked at him. "And I don't want to be here to see when it stops working."

He closed his eyes. He leaned his head down onto your shoulder, his whole body curving toward you, and he said, barely above a whisper, "I've never felt this much pain before."

You rested your head against the top of his, and you said, "Me neither."

And you both just sat there like that, holding on, for a long time, not because either of you thought it would change anything. Just because you both needed a little more time before it stopped being something you got to do.

Growing up, you thought grief was a word that belonged to death. That's how it was always used in books and movies, at least. You'd see characters in black and slow piano music, someone staring out a window, and you understood that this was what grief looked like and that it only happened when someone died. You later found out that grief is actually just the word for what happens when you lose something that mattered to you. You can grieve a person who's still alive, still texting other people, still posting pictures, still existing in the world, but just not in your world anymore. You can grieve a version of your life that didn't happen. You can even grieve a job you lost. You can grieve a future you'd already started building in your head, and none of that requires a death. It just requires losing something.

Movies get some of it right. You personally enjoyed Past Lives because gets a lot of it right, actually, like that scene at the end, when the two of them are standing on the curb waiting for the car. Nora says something about how if she'd stayed, if things had gone differently, she wonders who she would have been, and that line stuck with you because it's not really about him. It's about grieving a version of yourself that only existed in a timeline that didn't happen. The you that would've existed if things had gone differently. You'll never meet her.

But movies also get a lot of it wrong, or at least incomplete as if they compress it. Grief in a movie happens in maybe a montage with sad song and rain, a few weeks pass in a cut, just like that one Bella scene in her bedroom in New Moon. Real grief doesn't have edits, though. It just keeps going in real time and there's no soundtrack.

Joan Didion wrote about grief after her husband died, about how she kept his shoes because some part of her brain hadn't accepted that he wasn't going to need them again. She talks about how grief isn't a thing you process and finish, it's a thing that ambushes you, again and again. You read that book a long time ago and thought it was about death specifically, but you understand it differently now, especially the ambush part. It doesn't ask permission, it just arrives, when you're listening to a song, or an specific smell, and you're back at the beginning again.

You grieved all of your firsts. The first kiss on the curb outside your building after the festival, you crying before it even happened because some part of you already knew how hard it would be to let him go the next morning, but you'd jumped in anyway. You remembered thinking, right before, this is going to complicate everything but I'm doing it anyway, because by that point not doing it felt like the bigger risk. The first time he said he loved you at his backyard and the conversation after, the one where you both actually decided that this was going to be a real thing now. You remembered how light you'd felt afterward, like something had been settled.

You remember the first proper date, where he'd called ahead of a visit and said, let me take you out on a date, like he wanted to do it right. You went to a café in the afternoon, then a movie — Joker, which he'd picked, and which you ended up loving way more than you expected. "You're being weirdly into this," he said. "This is giving me incel girlfriend energy." You'd hit his arm and said "shut up, it was good," and he just kept laughing the whole walk out of the theater, occasionally muttering "Arthur Fleck did nothing wrong" under his breath in a voice clearly imitating you, even though you'd said no such thing.

Then you ended up at a bar afterward, way later than either of you meant to, drinking beer and laughing about nothing, and at some point it turned into one of those nights where you just kept going back and forth, building on each other's jokes the way you always did. "Honestly," he said, leaning back, "now that you're my incel girlfriend, I gotta be careful. Don't want to accidentally get red pilled by association."

"You're the red pilled one, Heeseung, what the hell are you on," you said, laughing. "You like Neon Genesis Evangelion. That's literally the most incel anime ever."

"That's a masterpiece of animation and you know it."

"That's what they all say." He waved the waiter down and asked, completely seriously, if he could borrow a pen. You raised an eyebrow at him. "What are you doing?"

"We need to write all of this down," he said, already scribbling on a napkin. "Every inside joke we have. We're gonna lose track otherwise."

So you did, you spent probably an hour just going back through everything, all the bits you'd built up, laughing harder at some of them out loud than you had the first time, because hearing them said back to you made them funnier somehow. The incel girlfriend thing. The thing about his cousin's wedding band. A whole bit about a typo he'd made once that had become a permanent part of your vocabulary. By the end the napkin was full on both sides and completely illegible, and neither of you could read half of what he'd written, which somehow made it even funnier.

For your one year anniversary, you actually made a real little book with every inside joke you could remember, written out properly with little doodles next to some of them. You gave it to him and he read through the whole thing slowly, laughing at some pages, going quiet at others, and at the end he just looked at you for a second like he didn't totally know what to say, and then said, "this is the best thing anyone's ever given me," and he wasn't joking.

There was a version of this where you tried to explain it to people and it never quite landed right, because what you had with him didn't fit the categories people usually used. Boyfriend was true, technically, but it always felt like it was missing something. The truer thing you'd have said if you weren't worried about how it sounded, was that he was your best friend. The person you'd call first, the person whose opinion you actually wanted before you made a decision, the person you trusted completely with everything, including the parts of yourself you usually kept tucked away.

People talk about friendships turning into relationships like it's this dramatic slow burn shift, some kind of line you cross, but it never felt like that with you two. It felt more like nothing changed and everything changed at the same time. You still talked the same way, you still made fun of each other the same way, you still told each other things you wouldn't tell anyone else, except now you also got to kiss him, which honestly felt like a bonus.

That's why it was so light. Not in the sense of unimportant but in the sense of having no extra weight on it and no performance or anxiety about whether you were doing it right. A lot of relationships you'd seen, and even some you'd been in, had this undercurrent of tension running through them but you never had that with Heeseung. Even with the distance, you almost never felt jealous and neither did he, and it wasn't because either of you was trying hard not to be, it just genuinely didn't come up. You trusted him completely in this almost boring way, and he trusted you the same way. There was nothing to manage, because there was nothing either of you was worried about. The only thing that was ever actually hard was the physical distance itself but never the relationship.

You used to think that was rare, even back then, even before you had any sense of how it would end. You'd hear friends talk about their relationships with all the games, and you'd feel almost guilty that you didn't have any of that to contribute. What you had instead was just ease — he was your best friend who you also happened to be in love with, and being in love with your best friend turned out to be the most uncomplicated thing in the world, right up until it wasn't anymore. Except even then, even at the very end, that part of it never broke because you never stopped being each other's best friend. That might have been the hardest part of all of it, actually. You didn't just lose a boyfriend. You lost your best friend too, and there was no version of moving on that got you that part back.

Even though every time you told him he was your best friend, he'd fire back, completely straight faced but jokingly, "no, Jake's my best friend. Know your place," and you'd laugh every single time, no matter how many times he'd done the bit — and you grieved that too, the fact that you'd never hear it again in that specific voice over that specific dumb thing.

And then, you also grieved the moment you were intimate for the first time.

It was on the weekend when he first came to visit because of that festival. One of those afternoons you'd taken an everything shower, scrub, shave, lotion, the nice perfume you almost never wore and you felt ridiculous doing it. He was your best friend. You'd talked everyday, shared everything, there was no reason to be nervous around him. But the old stuff was still there, the quiet insecurities left over from people who hadn't been careful with you like he was. Your hands shook a little when you dried your hair. You told yourself it was stupid but it didn't stop the feeling.

That night, after you cried on the curb outside your building before he even kissed you, you went upstairs with him. The second the apartment door closed, the air changed. He looked at you like he already knew the next visit was months away. You barely made it to the couch. He kissed you carefully at first, almost reverent, his hands cupping your face, then the kisses grew deeper and slower, like he couldn’t help himself. He leaned over you and you softened under him, and it felt different from anything you'd known. This wasn't just want, it was like every cell in you pulled toward him. He hadn't said the words out loud yet, but you could feel it in the way he touched you. He already loved you. You already loved him.

You let out a small sound against his mouth, almost a whimper. He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead against yours, and you felt him hard then, pressing against your thigh through his jeans, embarrassingly obvious. The realization made heat rush through you and another soft moan slipped out before you could stop it. He exhaled sharply. "Don't do that," he murmured, voice rough, "or I'm not gonna be able to control myself."

You looked up at him, heart hammering, and said the only thing that felt true. "Please don't control yourself."

He kissed you again harder, then stood and lifted you, and your legs wrapped around him. He carried you to your bed and laid you down carefully,and he sat on the edge of the bed for a second, just looking at you. His eyes moved over your face, your neck, the rise of your chest under your shirt. "You're so fucking beautiful," he said quietly, almost to himself. Then he leaned down and kissed you again, slow and deep, before his hands found the hem of your blouse. He pulled it up gently, pausing when he reached your ribs so you could lift your arms. The fabric slipped over your head and he dropped it somewhere on the floor.

His gaze stayed on you, just taking you in. "God," he breathed, fingers tracing the line of your collarbone. "I've thought about this so many times. You have no idea." He said it like a confession, like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed to touch you.

He kissed your neck, open mouthed, and you felt yourself arch while he moved lower, his lips brushing over the tops of your breasts, and your fingers threading through his hair. He unhooked your bra with both hands, sliding the straps down your shoulders, and the cool air hit your skin and then his mouth was there, soft and warm. He kissed one breast, then the other, like he had all the time in the world even though you both knew he didn't.

He kept going lower, lips brushing over your ribs, then your stomach and he stayed there for a moment, forehead resting just below your belly button, breathing you in. "Can I take these off?" he asked, fingers already at the waistband of your pants. His voice was low, but you could see the nerves in the way his hands trembled just slightly. He was being more direct than you'd imagined he would be, saying exactly what he wanted, and it made something hot twist low in your belly.

"Yeah," you whispered.

He pulled your pants down your legs carefully, eyes following the movement. Once they were off, he sat back for a second and tugged his own shirt over his head. The sight of his bare chest, the way his skin looked made your mouth go dry. He leaned down again, pressing his whole upper body against yours, skin on skin, and the warmth of him was overwhelming. He kissed you deep and you felt like you could drown in it.

Then he moved lower again, kissing the inside of one thigh, then the other, slowly. When he reached the center, he pressed a kiss right over your panties. He inhaled, slow and deep, and let out a quiet sound that made your cheeks burn. "You okay?" he asked, looking up at you. His eyes were dark, but the concern was still there reassuring.

You nodded quickly, hips shifting toward him without meaning to. "Yeah. Please."

He hooked a finger under the edge of your panties and pulled them to the side. "Fuck… you're so wet," he murmured, almost reverent. "Is this all for me?"

You let out a shaky smirk, trying to keep some control. "Obviously."

"Yeah?" His voice dropped even lower, then his mouth was on you. The first slow lick pulled a broken sound from your throat. He took his time at first, learning you, but the more you reacted, the more sure he got. He licked and sucked with a focused hunger that made your head spin. Your hands fisted the sheets and his hair, trying to stay grounded.

"Heeseung… oh my god," you moaned. He groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight through your body. One of his hands moved down to palm himself through his jeans, like tasting you was driving him crazy too.

You tried to hold back, but it was impossible. The tension built fast and sharp. He felt the way your thighs started to shake around his head, and he went faster and more insistent, mouth working you like he needed you to come for him. When it hit, it crashed over you hard. Your back arched, a loud moan tearing from your chest as you came, pulsing against his tongue. He kept going through it gentler now until you were panting and trembling.

He kissed his way back up your body, kissing your stomach, ribs, the valley between your breasts until he reached your mouth. His lips were slick, and the taste of yourself on him made your head spin. "Are you okay, baby?" he asked while brushing hair out of your face.

"More than okay," you breathed. You pulled him down into another kiss, deep and messy, while your hand slid down between you to palm him through his pants. He was rock hard, straining against the fabric. The groan he let out against your mouth went straight to your core.

"We don't have to keep going if you don't want to," he said, voice strained, "or if you're tired."

You smirked, suddenly feeling bolder, dirtier. "I would never be tired. I want you, Hee."

You pushed at his shoulders gently and he let you flip him onto his back. You straddled him, and started kissing down his chest, his stomach, taking your time the same way he had. But you let a hungrier side of yourself show, the one that felt safe enough with him to be a little shameless. You mouthed at him through his pants, looked up at him while you did it and watched his eyes flutter. He looked wrecked already, breathing hard, one hand reaching down to touch your hair like he couldn't believe this was real.

You kept teasing him like that, pressing open mouthed kisses along the hard line of him, breathing warm against the fabric until his hips twitched up toward your mouth. His hand tightened in your hair, and you finally hooked your fingers into his waistband and looked up at him. He lifted his hips to help you drag his pants and underwear down together. When he sprang free, you took a second just to look at him hard and flushed, leaking a little at the tip. The sight made your mouth water.

He let out a low chuckle, half breathless. "Holy shit… you're actually a little dangerous, aren't you?"

You smirked up at him. "You'll see."

You leaned down and took him into your mouth slowly, tasting him and learning the weight of him on your tongue. He groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw while his hand stayed in your hair. "Yes… right there," he breathed, voice wrecked. "Fuck, you're doing such a good job. Just like that."

You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and he cursed under his breath, hips jerking a little before he caught himself. He looked completely lost with his eyes half closed and his lips parted, chest rising fast. Before long his grip tightened and he gently tugged you back by the hair. "Wait," he panted, "I don't wanna bust too soon."

You laughed softly and kissed the inside of his thigh. "I don't mind. I want to make you feel good."

He pulled you up and kissed you hard, hands sliding down your back like he needed to hold all of you at once. While you sat on the edge of the bed catching your breath, he reached for his jeans on the floor, dug through the pocket for his wallet, and found the condom. You watched him the whole time, the ordinary little movements somehow making everything feel even more real. He came back to you and rolled it on quickly, then looked at you with something almost reverent in his eyes. "You're so, so perfect," he said quietly, and kissed you again.

You guided him to sit up against the headboard and straddled him again. While he finished with the condom, you reached down and slipped your panties all the way off, tossing them aside. His hands moved over you immediately cupping your breasts and then sliding down your waist, gripping your hips. "Look at you," he murmured. "So fucking beautiful. I can't believe you're mine right now."

You braced your hands on his shoulders and slowly sank down onto him. The stretch was intense, perfect. Both of you gasped at the same time. When he bottomed out you stayed there for a second with your foreheads pressed together. You started moving, rolling your hips, and he met every movement with small thrusts up into you. The sounds in the room were just skin, breath, and moans. "Fuck, that's it," he whispered, one hand on your hip guiding you, the other tangled in your hair. "Ride me just like that. You're so wet… shit."

You picked up the pace as you were rolling faster and taking him deeper each time. You leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. "You feel so good inside of me," you breathed, the words slipping out raw. "So fucking good, Heeseung."

He groaned and his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard. He bit his lip, eyes screwed shut for a second. "Fuck… I don't think I'm gonna last," he managed to say.

You could feel him trying to hold back, his thrusts getting a little more careful. You kissed along his jawline softly and then murmured against his skin, "It's okay, Hee. You can cum for me."

That was all it took. He let out a low groan that turned into a moan of your name as he came hard inside you. His hips stuttered up into yours and his arms wrapped tight around your waist, holding you down against him while he rode it out. For a moment everything was just his shaky breath and the way his body trembled under yours.

He stayed like that for a few seconds, panting against your neck, then pulled you into a full hug, bare chest to bare chest. He kissed your forehead, then your temple. "I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered, sounding genuinely embarrassed. "I couldn't hold it. Just… give me a minute to recover and we can keep going. I promise."

You let out a soft laugh and pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was flushed and his hair was messy, his eyes still a little dazed. You brushed a strand away from his forehead. "It's okay," you said gently. "We have all the time in the world."

The words made something shift in his expression. His heart squeezed tight because he knew it wasn’t really true since he was leaving the next morning. But he didn’t say any of that, instead, he kissed you again. When you pulled back, you stayed there straddling him, just looking at him. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowly settle. He looked up at you with an open expression he only ever had with you, thumb gently stroking your lower back.

"God, I love the way you look at me," he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. He reached up and cupped your face with both hands, pulling you down for another kiss but this one was sweeter. When he broke it, he kept his forehead against yours.

You woke up early the morning after, both of you, neither of you having really slept much. Heeseung had a flight to catch back to his actual life that existed outside of this weekend, and you got up and got dressed and drove him to the airport in a comfortable kind of quiet, the radio on low, his hand resting on your knee the whole way. At the airport you stayed with him through check in, standing next to him at the counter, double checking if he had his passport, making sure his bag wasn't over the weight limit. He kept looking over at you while he did it, like he was checking you were still there.

You had time before his gate, so you got ice cream from one of the little kiosks. You ordered something and ate maybe a third of it because you weren't really hungry. He noticed and didn't say anything about it, just finished his own and then quietly ate some of yours too. You sat near his gate for a while. He had your hand the whole time. When his boarding group got called, he stood up and you stood up with him, and he looked at you for a second before either of you said anything.

"Hey," he said. "You know you're not getting rid of me that easily, right?"

You laughed a little wet, wiping under your eyes. "I know."

"I mean it," he said.

"I know, Heeseung," you said. "It just sucks saying bye to you anyway."

"Yeah, it does," he said, and pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping all the way around you, and you put your head against his chest and he ran his hand over your hair, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Then he pulled back just enough to make you look up at him. "I'll be back," he said. "And we'll figure it out, okay?" You nodded. "Smile for me. I don't want to see you sad before I go."

You smiled, even though your eyes were still full, and he smiled back like that was exactly what he needed. He kissed you once more, and then picked up his bag and walked toward the gate. He looked back once right before he went through, and you saw the way his jaw tightened, the way he was clearly holding something back too. For one second he looked like he was actually considering turning around and walking back, leaving the flight behind entirely. Then he gave you a small wave, and went through.

That day had been bittersweet, the kind of sad that still had something good to look forward to. You drove home that day still feeling sad but lighter than you'd expected, because there was a next time attached to it. There always had been, every time, for years.

The last time was different.

The drive to the airport was the same as it always was with you behind the wheel and him in the passenger seat, the same roads you'd driven a dozen times. The airport was busy since it was the first week of January, and you walked with him to check in like you always did, stood next to him while he handled his bag like you always did, made sure everything was in order, the same as every other time, like you always did. Except this was the last time you'd ever do this.

Your face was swollen from crying the night before, you both were actually, neither of you had slept and neither of you had bothered trying to hide it from each other that morning. But he still held your hand the whole walk to security, the same way he always did like nothing had changed, even though everything had.

You got close to the gate and neither of you said much. There wasn't really anything left to say that hadn't already been said the night before. You just stood there, and at some point he pulled you in, and you both just held onto each other and cried properly for a long time, not caring who saw.

"I'm always going to love you," he said into your hair, his voice breaking on it.

"I'm always going to love you too," you said.

He held onto you a little longer after that like he was trying to make it last, and then he pulled back and wiped his face, and you wiped yours, and there wasn't anything left to do except let him go through the gate.

For him, walking through that door was the worst pain he'd ever felt, worse than anything, worse than he'd known a person could feel, walking away from someone while every part of him wanted to turn around and not get on the plane at all, and knowing he was going to do it anyway because there wasn't another option left. For you, watching him walk through it was the worst pain you'd ever felt — watching his back disappear, knowing this was the last time, with no next time attached to it, nothing waiting on the other side of this except the rest of your life without him in it.

You both stood on opposite sides of that door for a moment, in the worst pain of your lives, at exactly the same time, in exactly the same place, the way you'd always somehow ended up.

You'd think, looking back, that the day at the airport was the worst of it, but the actual worst day was the one after. You'd told yourself you could do this on your own because you were an adult. You had your own apartment and your own life and your own ways of dealing with things, except none of that turned out to be true, not that day. What you actually did was drive to your parents' house and you walked in and your mom took one look at you and didn't even ask, just opened her arms, and you fell into them and cried in a way you hadn't cried since you were small.

Your mom held you and kept saying "okay, okay, it's okay," but you could tell she was a little alarmed by how much was coming out of you, like she hadn't known a person could cry that much for that long and that loudly. You weren't embarrassed, though. You'd spent your whole adult life being a little embarrassed by big emotions in front of people, even your mom, but that day you just let it all out, the way a kid does with no filter, just pure unfiltered grief taking up all the space.

At some point, you became aware of where you were. This was the house you grew up in. The same house on the same street, where you'd met Heeseung for the first time, more than a decade ago now. You tried not to think about it, you really did but it came anyway.

You were eleven and you'd been playing some version of hide and seek with the other kids on the street, and Beomgyu, one of the neighborhood kids, showed up with this kid you'd never seen before and introduced him as his cousin. You were wearing an Eevee shirt and you remember that specifically, because the first thing Heeseung said to you after Beomgyu introduced him, was, "do you like Pokémon?"

"Yeah," you'd said.

"Every girl likes Eevee," he said, like it was just a fact.

You remember being instantly annoyed. "Yeah, I love Eevee. You have a problem with that?" you'd said, hands on your hips, eleven years old and ready to fight about it.

"No, no," he said quickly, holding his hands up. "I'm just saying." And even then, even as a dumb kid who'd clearly just said something dumb, there was this flicker of him being careful like he didn't want you to take it the wrong way.

He told you his favorite was Gengar. You shot back, "every boy likes Gengar," and that felt like a very satisfying thing to say.

"My friends mostly like Charizard," he said.

"Everyone likes Charizard," you said.

"I pulled a shiny Charizard once," he said, like that changed everything.

"No you didn't," you said.

"Yes I did."

"Then where is it?"

"It's at my house."

"Let's go get it then."

"I don't — I don't live here," he said. "I'm just visiting. Beomgyu's mom is my mom's cousin."

"Oh," you'd said. And even then something in you had felt a kind of disappointment, this quiet little fact landing somewhere: he's not going to be here whenever I want him to be. You didn't know what to do with that feeling, so you didn't do anything with it, you just kept playing.

You remembered that feeling now, lying there on your mom's couch, feeling like that same eleven-year-old, except this time you knew exactly what it meant. Heeseung wasn't going to be here whenever you wanted him to be. Not this summer. Not any summer. Not ever again.

And even though, in those first weeks, you'd been completely sure you'd never get past it and that this pain was just going to be the new permanent shape of your life — one day, months later, you woke up and didn't think about Heeseung first thing.

You were running late for work, actually, which was probably part of it because there wasn't time to lie in bed and feel anything before you had to move. You got dressed fast, caught the train, put your headphones in, read a few pages of your book. Work was normal, you laughed at something a coworker said. You went to lunch with one of your friends from the office and had something genuinely good. You went home, watched an episode of the show you were into at the time, had a glass of wine, and went to bed. And that whole day, for the first time, you hadn't thought about Heeseung not even once. And the strange part was that you hadn't noticed not noticing.

The next day went the same way mostly, until someone at work mentioned they'd seen Joker 2, the one with Lady Gaga, and that it had been terrible. And just like that, you thought of him. And it hurt the way it had hurt the day it happened, like no time had passed at all.

You sat there for a second, kind of stunned by it, and then you realized something else: it had been a while since you'd felt that specific ache of missing him. You'd gone — what, a day? Two days? — without it, and you hadn't even clocked it as an absence until it came back. The thing that struck you was that some part of you had actually missed it. Not only him, but you'd missed the missing. You'd gotten so used to carrying that weight that his absence had felt like its own kind of absence, and its return felt almost like coming home to something, even though it hurt.

C.S. Lewis wrote about grief in A Grief Observed, something about how sorrow turns out not to be a state but a process but more like a long valley with bends in it, and every time you turn a corner you think the road has changed completely, but then you look back and realize the shape of the landscape is still the same, you've just gotten used to walking through it. That felt true now in a way it hadn't before because the pain hadn't gone anywhere. You'd just stopped noticing it was there, and then, when it changes, even for a second, you remember — oh, yeah. That happened.

You weren't sure if that meant you were healing or if it just meant you'd made peace with the ache itself, or maybe learned how to live alongside it instead of waiting for it to leave. Maybe those weren't the same thing, you didn't know yet. But you sat there with your coffee going cold, missing him in that old familiar way.

Heeseung had never had to move on from anything before. So every piece of advice he got, every thing his friends said, all of it assumed he knew the shape of this, that he just needed reminders of a process he'd been through before and would get through it again. But he hadn't, he had no reference point. He was just kind of stumbling through it and figuring out the rules as he went, the way you do anything you're experiencing for the first time as an adult.

For a long time every day felt like the same day but just repeated. Bad but in slightly different ways, but always bad and always present the second he woke up. And then, one day, it just wasn't. He didn't notice it happening, just like you. He woke up and went for a run, because Sunghoon convinced him running was supposed to help with everything, and he actually felt good after, and not "fine, considering," just normal good. He showered and made breakfast, had a video call with Jay about something stupid and they ended up talking for an hour about nothing important and Heeseung laughed. He worked, went out with Jake and Sunoo that night and had a genuinely good time with no asterisk on it.

He went to bed that night and felt good. It felt weird feeling good. Then he realized that he hadn't thought about you all day, not once. He lay there almost waiting for that to upset him, like maybe realizing it would bring it all back, but it didn't, really. He just felt this strange quiet thing on his chest, it wasn't happiness, definitely wasn't happiness, but something close to relief.

The next few days were okay too. Not perfect but the baseline had shifted somehow. He started to think, cautiously, that maybe this was it. Maybe this was what people meant on what moving on feels like. Maybe he was actually getting somewhere. And then there'd be a bad day again out of nowhere, just a monday that felt exactly like the worst weeks all over again, like none of the good days had happened at all. He'd lie there wondering if he'd imagined the progress, if it had been a fluke, if he was back at square one.

He'd pictured it, before, as a kind of slope. Bad, then less bad, then less bad than that, steadily, like a graph trending in one direction. That's not what it was, it was more like weather. Good days and bad days just like rainy days and sunny days, no pattern and no schedule, and the good days didn't cancel out the bad ones and the bad ones didn't erase the good ones either. They just both existed taking turns.

Heeseung found that he could hold both at the same time, eventually — that he could think about you, about the years and the calls and the airport goodbyes and feel something warm about it and something sad about it in the exact same thought. He wasn't sure if that was what moving on actually meant. Maybe moving on wasn't about the bad days disappearing. Maybe it was just about being able to hold the good and the bad without it knocking him over anymore. He didn't know if he was there yet. But some days, increasingly, he thought he might be getting close.

Years went by, the way years do. You still followed each other on social media, but muted. Neither of you unfollowed each other but neither of you really engaged either, beyond the one thing neither of you ever stopped doing: a birthday message. You knew that for the rest of your life, probably, on October 15th, some part of your brain would just know — it's Heeseung's birthday — whether you wanted it to or not. You weren't sure if he'd remember yours the same way since yours was buried in the Christmas week, easy to lose in everything else going on, and you figured if anyone had a reason to forget, it'd be understandable. But Heeseung never forgot. Every year, a message would show up, sometimes with something small attached, maybe a joke or a reference only the two of you would get. You always answered. He always did too, on his.

He changed jobs. His brother had a kid. You moved apartments. You changed your car. You broke your thumb and it hurt like hell. You changed your hair more than once — the pink eventually grew out, and then came back, and then grew out again. You went to Paris for a week with friends and posted way too many photos of the Eiffel Tower. He went to China for something work related and you saw, through someone, that he'd looked happy in the pictures.

You dated someone eventually, a couple of years in. It ended badly actually, messier than you'd have liked, an ending with real anger and real hurt feelings on both sides. But it didn't break you the way you might have once expected something like that to. It hurt, and then it stopped hurting on a fairly normal timeline, and somewhere in the middle of it you realized something almost funny: this wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to you, not even close. You'd already had the worst thing. You'd survived the worst thing. Whatever this was, you already knew you could get through it, because you'd gotten through something so much bigger already. Heeseung had been the big one. Everything after that, you could handle.

He found someone too, eventually. You've heard he's still with her, years later, and that they seem happy. You didn't feel anything bad about that. You'd thought, at some point, that you might — that hearing it would hurt, but it didn't. If anything, it felt right. That was what he deserved. You meant that, plainly.

Then one day, there was an announcement that Oasis, the band you'd been sure would never get back together, somehow getting back together. You got tickets and you went with a friend, a friend you'd gotten closer to over the past year, someone you still weren't entirely sure how to define, if you were being honest with yourself. You weren't sure what this thing between you two was yet, but you were still figuring it out.

At the show, you stood next to her, and at some point during one of the songs, she reached over and took your hand and you let her, and you stood there like that for the rest of the set. And you felt something settle, this unexpected relief. The thought arrived almost gently: maybe I can do this again. Maybe you weren't someone who'd only get to feel this once. There had been a long stretch where you'd genuinely wondered if you'd ever feel love again — not necessarily romantic, but that unguarded affection — and standing there, holding someone's hand listening to a song you'd loved, not even sure yet what it meant, you realized you were feeling it. Whatever this was, it was real and it was love in some form, and you loved her, regardless of what it eventually turned into. And it reminded you, distantly, of him.

And in the middle of that thought, you looked over. And there he was. A few rows over, watching the show, singing along with his arm around someone, her head resting against his shoulder, both of them completely in it, completely happy.

He'd found it too. He'd let himself love again. And it didn't hurt seeing him love someone else.

Heeseung had spent way too much time, once, thinking about how long it's supposed to take to get over a breakup. To get over you. He'd never gotten a real answer, maybe that was because it was the wrong question all along. Some loves aren't ones you get over. They're ones you get through, and what's left, on the other side, is not an absence — it's room. Room to love again, because you finally know you can.

ronnie notes ⊹ ࣪ ˖⠀⠀hi everyone!! i’ve actually been writing this one over the past three months and it’s not as long as the stories i usually post but it means a lot to me. i’m pretty sure some of you are going to yell at me after reading it because well !! it’s sad very sad..... this story is also a lot more personal than most things i’ve written before. there are a lot of emotions and experiences in here that came from things i was dealing with in real life. i started writing it during a period where i felt like i needed somewhere to put all of those feelings, so every time i was sad, overwhelmed, confused, or just trying to make sense of something, i ended up pouring a little bit of it into this fic. in a weird way, writing it helped me get through a lot of the things that were happening while i was away. so i hope you enjoy it.!! and as always, feedback is more than welcome. thank you for reading and for sticking around ♡

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures

[en-thezone]

HOW LYING FUCKED UP MY LIFE FOR A MONTH | N.RK

PAIRING: Nishimura Riki x female!reader

GENRE: college!au, smut, paranormal!au, strangers to lovers

SUMMARY: Best friends would do anything for each other, right? So when you tell a little lie to save your friend Minju’s ass, a punishment falls on your doorstep from the Witches' Council: do not lie for an entire lunar cycle. What you thought was simple starts to get complicated when you can't keep your mouth shut and honesty oozes out of your pores in the most uncomfortable and awkward situations. Add Riki Nishimura to the mix, the sharp-eyed boy who starts to take an interest in your sincerity.

WORDS: 21k+.

WARNINGS AND CONTENT: strangers to lovers, reader is a magnet to chaos, explicit smut, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, spanking, praise, overstimulation, Niki big cock agenda, just Niki being a menace in general.

The Witch's Council chambers was an old place outside town that smelled like wood, incense and power. You could easily sense the magic and power like it was engraved in the air, strong and ancient. But the old-fashioned look was interrupted by modern touches: new chairs, a wall projector and council members with iPads, some others playing with their phones. Not the entire council was present; only the president, Na Seorin, and the vice president, Kim Junseo, Minju's father. Off to one side stood the council secretary, Lee Sunjae, who seemed more engrossed in his phone than in what was happening around him, wearing a deep, concentrated frown. He was very, very focused on his phone and at some point he even leaned towards Seorin, asking her if she could send him lives on Candy Crush. She silenced him with an unimpressed look.

There was a small jury of witches and warlocks that you obviously knew, uncles and aunts and even parents of some friends, people who you grew up around. You were sitting with Minju on a wooden bench at the front, being judged in a very dramatic fashion in your opinion. Your back was straight and your knees touching and Minju wore the same position, you could feel the nervousness radiating from her. You didn’t quite know why you'd been summoned there with her, but hell, you wouldn't open your mouth to incriminate yourself until someone else started the whole thing. What was worse, you and Minju didn't have time to talk and organize a lie together.

‘’We are here to clarify the events of last Friday that have caught our attention,’’ Minju’s dad started, voice calm. He turned to face the jury. ‘’We have sufficient reasons to believe that both witches are involved.’’

You raised both eyebrows and tilted your head, wondering what on earth was going on. You weren’t involved in shit. Beside you, Minju whimpered under her breath, probably knowing where this whole thing was heading. Junseo turned his attention towards you and it took everything in you not to shrink under his steel gaze. He looked like a very offended father. 

‘’You are a well-known associate of Kim Minju. You grew up together and are very close, as we all know. Responsible, respectful, talented with magic, and disciplined.’’

‘’Thank you, sir,’’ you muttered, lowering your head humbly and nodding. You heard one juror behind you cooing and telling another how polite you were. 

‘’Did Minju attend a fraternity party Friday night?’’ He asked.

Oh, so that's what this was all about. You lied without even thinking, in a steady voice, even frowning slightly as if you were confused that he even asked you that. ‘’Um, of course not. She spent the night with me; we were catching up on some reading. It was a quiet night, and we went to bed early.’’

You knew perfectly well that was a damn lie. The last thing Minju would do is spend a Friday cooped up inside studying instead of following Jungwon, her campus crush, to parties. You knew Minju was pretty easygoing and a lightweight, so alcohol wasn't exactly the wisest thing to give her, since chaos usually followed her wherever she went. When you asked her the next day how the party was, Minju only remembered maybe a quarter of it, not even a half. You weren't entirely sure what Minju had done to warrant a damn jury of witches, but you were going to defend your best friend no matter what anyway. Minju was... prone to getting into strange situations. You were used to it. 

You turned your face and smiled innocently at the jury trying to sell your act; some thoughtful murmurs reached you while others simply nodded in agreement. You looked at Junseo as if nothing was wrong, with an open and friendly expression, nothing challenging or mocking. His eyes studied your expression and Minju's in a very familiar way, like when you were little and he wanted to find out which of you had eaten the whole drawer of chocolates.

‘’I don't know exactly what this is about, but I guess the only thing I can assure Minju did was snore very loudly,’’ you joked with a chuckle. ‘’We had a super quiet Friday, sir.’’

Minju gave you a playful nudge and you both giggled adorably, the very picture of good, innocent girls that the jury was totally buying into. For a beautiful moment you believed it had worked and that would be all, except that Mr. Kim had an ace up his sleeve.

He just nodded thoughtfully and, without saying a word, simply raised his hand holding a small remote control. The projector sprang to life and displayed a slightly blurry image filmed from a porch security camera. The room filled with sound: loud, silly laughter, someone yelling "aim well!" and "do it again!" A group of clearly drunk college kids came into view, eggs in their hands. Someone threw one and completely missed the house; another projectile did hit the door and splattered a little on the camera. 

Minju gasped next to you. ‘’Oh my God. No way.’’

Then Minju's face appeared, her eyes wide and dilated, her mascara slightly smudged, and smiling as if she had just summoned a vortex of pure chaos. You frowned, believing your sight was deceiving you, but no, Minju was throwing or at least trying to throw eggs. She looked absolutely ridiculous, drunk as a sailor and staggering, unable to contain her drunk giggles, hands full of eggs, some failing into the floor. You covered your mouth, trying to control your laugh from spilling. 

‘’Oh no,’’ Minju blurted with worry. ‘’My hair looked like that?!’’

You closed your eyes with a sigh and pinched the bridge of your nose. The video continued playing, showing Minju teetering on the sidewalk and trying to aim the eggs, some landing on her shoes while others cheered on her failed attempts. No eggs actually hit the house. Now you understood why the two of them were there. The house that Minju and her friends had vandalized was one of the oldest in town, now a museum, and what not many people knew was that it had actually been a house belonging to the witch settlers. In fact, nobody knew, except for those of their kind. Minju egged a historic house to your community, a very important one. 

The screen went dark and a heavy silence fell over the room. The president spoke for the first time, clearing her voice. ‘’Girls, this is not exemplary behavior for witches.’’

‘’I know and I’m sorry,’’ Minju panicked, moving her hands desperately. ‘’I’ve grown since then! I swear!’’

‘’This happened three days ago,’’ her father said flatly. 

The president moved her attention to you and you shrank a little in your seat under her stare. ‘’And you have lied to this council and the jury, covering up for the accused.’’

You deflated like a balloon, looking at the floor. ‘’Yes,’’ you admitted with a sigh, there was no point in denying it. ‘’I did. I’m sorry.’’

Seorin sighed loudly. ‘’You’re two young witches still forging their path, but at your age you should already understand certain rules. This room isn't a place for lies, girls. Magic doesn't just respond to power, but to truth,’’ she scolded you two gently but firmly; her eyes were not unkind. ‘’I'm a little disappointed in both of you. I was expecting better.’’

Being scolded by an older, more experienced witch felt just as embarrassing as when you were a little girl. Thank goodness your familiar, Soomin, had taken a short vacation, otherwise you would have been doubly scolded, though you suspected she probably already knew. Some jurors nodded, others agreed, and some looked at you two more suspiciously, as if they thought Minju had more eggs in her pockets and was about to attack them. Perhaps with better aim.

‘’This is obviously not a criminal matter, but every action has its consequences,’’ the president continued. ‘’And this is no exception.’’

Minju held your sleeve while looking at you alarmed. ‘’They're going to burn us at the stake!’’ she whispered urgently.

You rolled your eyes and pushed her softly, scoffing. ‘’Of course not!’’

‘’For you,’’ the president said, looking directly into your eyes, ‘’one lunar cycle without lies. No falsehood or trickery, your tongue will always speak the truth. May sincerity teach you an important lesson, young witch.’’

Your stomach dropped, but you maintained your neutral expression, even as you could feel the faint presence of a spell reaching your body and settling there. Your tongue felt heavy for a second and you touched your lips with a frown, noticing that the sensation appeared as quickly as it vanished, as if something had been tied up and then melted on your tongue like candy. Well, fuck.

‘’And for you,’’ she turned to Minju, ‘’you will be in charge of three hens. You will feed them, care for them, clean their coop and collect their eggs. It goes without saying that not a single one should be broken in the entire month.’’

Minju blinked. ‘’Uh, excuse me, Madam President… three?’’

‘’Exactly.’’

‘’Oh. These hens,’’ Minju continued, ‘’are they… alive?’’ 

‘’They’re chickens, Minju,’’ her father sighed tiredly. ‘’That is usually how they work.’’ 

Seorin struck the gavel once. ‘’With this, we conclude the council meeting. Thank you all for your presence today.’’

Minju fell dramatically to your side, staring at the ceiling with a pout. ‘’Next time I’ll tell the truth.’’

You looked at her sideways. ‘’You don't say.’’

She pouted even more, regretting filling her cute features. ’‘I'm sorry I dragged you into this! But it was kind of worth it, if we think about the grand scheme of things. Like, I kissed Jungwon at the party and I got his number!’’

You looked at her in disbelief and wondered if they would increase the punishment if you hanged her right there. ‘’Minju, we're under a spell for a whole month! I can't lie, and you've become the babysitter for three chickens. Aren't you forgetting something?’’

She stared at you blankly, head empty, just waiting for you to say more after she shook his head no.

‘’You're afraid of chickens.’’

By morning you had already begun to encourage yourself. Honesty was easy, wasn't it? You could do this. It's not like you're constantly lying, you weren't a pathological liar. One month. One lunar cycle. Thirty days. It would be easy. You could do this. People liked honest people, after all. 

It's not like the most powerful witch of the coven casted a spell on your tongue forever. There was no chance that a careless word could send you back to the Council chambers with judgmental candles and Minju’s chickens clucking in the distance… right? Right. You could do this. Being honest was a good thing! Maybe this whole mess could turn into something positive. 

But one thought wouldn't leave your mind. How did this spell exactly work? Did silence count as an answer? Perhaps it was a good idea to fake pharyngitis and take a few days off. If you could keep your mouth shut and stay quiet, maybe take a lower profile… Huh. That could maybe do the trick. 

You were so caught up in mental damage control and possible ways to cheat (or maybe not cheating as such, you would call it... walking the spell's edge), that you barely noticed someone started walking beside you.

Too close, close enough that you could smell his cologne. You glanced sideways and there was Park Jongseong in all his glory and blinding smile, gracing you with his presence. Jay was one of those guys who had a high place among campus royalty, definitely a party prince. Everybody knew him. Everybody wanted him. Always smiling like he knew something most people didn't, confident with a track record to back it up: friendly, athletic, way too good with the girls, as you’ve heard the rumors. Trouble.

Your alarm bells were starting to quietly go off because Jay was smiling at you as if you two were lifelong friends (you weren’t), looking at you as if he didn't notice your expression, which was somewhere between disinterest and slight concern (like saying please think twice what you’re about to say).

Jay wasn't a conceited idiot per se, but hey, you weren't going to give all your trust to one of the campus's favorite heartthrob just like that. You knew his kind (frat, attractive boy) and well, his group of friends had a certain reputation on campus. You weren't particularly interested in getting involved in their games like Minju, who had her sights set on Jungwon and apparently it was working well, without any illegal love potion included. You hoped. 

“Hey,” he said easily. “You’re in Professor Park class, right?”

You looked at him and then at the empty halls.

“I am,” you replied flatly.

He chuckled, unbothered by your tone. “Cool, cool. Listen— quick favor. I’ve been kinda… busy lately,’’ Jay made a vague gesture that probably meant parties, games, existing attractively, fucking around, more parties. “Missed a few lectures. You take good notes, right?”

You felt a strange sensation in your chest, like a tickling inside. Your eye twitched a little, too early to deal with whatever that was. ‘’My notes are good, yes,’’ you said.

“Perfect,” Jay said enthusiastically, as if you had come up with the idea and not him. “Think you could send them to me? Or maybe help me catch up sometime? Maybe you could tutor me from time to time.”

You inhaled slowly, ready to say that you hadn't been taking notes lately, or that maybe he wouldn't understand your handwriting, that you didn’t have the time to tutor someone or even just a clear yes so he would leave you alone.

None of that came out of your mouth. 

‘’No,’’ you said instead. Your eyes widened, realizing you couldn't have lied. It wasn't what you meant to say, it was just automatically spat it out.

Jay blinked at you. ‘’Oh. Okay.’’

‘’You should be more responsible, Jay,’’ you said, the words spilling out before you could stop it or control it. ‘’This isn't such a difficult class. If you came regularly, you'd definitely do better and be able to keep up instead of relying on people who actually are responsible, instead of being so unprepared, you know.’’

An awkward, confusing silence fell between you, and you quickly covered your mouth, wishing the floor would swallow you whole. If that wasn't guaranteed social death... some passing girls turned their heads, intrigued by the exchange. 

Jay continued to stare at you for a few seconds and then let out a small laugh, more surprised than angry. ‘’Wow,’’ he said. ‘’Okay. Fair. Harsh, but fair,’’ he chuckled. ‘’I get it.’’

You shrugged mortified and helpless and bit your tongue hard, trying to hold back the words, but the spell was stronger. ‘’Also, I’m not interested in tutoring someone who prioritizes parties over academic responsibility. You'll just waste my time.’’

Jesus Christ.

Jay raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘’Damn. Alright. Message received.’’

He stopped in the hallway, still smiling, but there was something more thoughtful in his expression, his gaze lingering on you, as if he had miscalculated what he expected from you. Jay was placing you in some drawer of his mind with a new label.

‘’I didn’t know you thought like that,’’ he added. ‘’You don’t take shit from anyone, do you? I respect that.’’

Before you could make things worse by replying, thankfully Jay just gave you one of his boyish smiles and walked away. As you watched him go, your heart calmed and you sank into the nearest wall. Well, that turned out just fine. So much for walking on the edge of the spell, huh?

Not very far, someone was watching you and Jay intently, observing the entire conversation without moving with a growing interest. 

Fortunately, you didn't scare away anyone else for the rest of the morning with your big mouth. Perhaps honesty wasn't as simple as you thought if it wasn't filtered, you could only hope that no one else asked you something as direct as Jay did. The spell definitely was out of control. So that was a damn problem. Not only could you not stay quiet, but your tongue was moving uncontrollably with thoughts that hadn't even formed yet. It was as if the truth was being ripped from your soul before your brain was even aware of it.

Minju was halfway through describing chicken’s politics when she realized you weren’t really paying attention to her. Your brows were furrowed, your mind racing, analyzing the damned spell. It was both strong and subtle, binding your tongue to the truth in a way that made it impossible to shut your damn mouth once you started speaking. There had to be some way to stop it. Of course, you weren't crazy enough to cast a counter-spell and actually end up in the Witches’ Council basement. But the chances of getting through the month without any trouble weren't looking so high anymore.

“I swear,” Minju said, poking at her salad, “at first they screamed every time they saw me, but now they only scream a little. And one of them lets me hold her for, like, five seconds. Her name is Buttercup. I don’t know why I was scared of them, they’re kinda cute. It’s not so bad.’’

‘’That’s good,’’ you murmured, barely nodding, eyes unfocused. ‘’Chickens are nice.’’

‘’It really is,’’ Minju agreed proudly. ‘’Also, I don’t scream as much anymore either. I think we’re warming up to each other, you know?’’

You hummed softly, taking a sip of your soda. ‘’It's great that you're building a relationship with your chickens. Bonding is important.’’

Of course Minju noticed your thoughtful and cloudy mood and stroked your shoulder with a frown. She also noticed the faint whisper of magic. ‘’How was your day? Is it the spell? Is your soda not fizzy enou— oh my God. Oh. My. God— okay, don’t look.’’

‘’What?’’ You asked, blinking out of your haze and looking all around. ‘’What’s going on?’’

‘’I said don’t look! Listen carefully,’’ she whispered urgently, going back to her salad and keeping her eyes down. She took a deep breath, preparing herself. ‘’Niki is looking at you.’’

You frowned at her, not quite understanding the urgency of the situation, but you assumed Minju would have some reason. You snorted, keeping your eyes down anyway and trying not to laugh. ‘’Okay, I won’t. So?’’

Minju looked at you in the most offended way possible, pointing her fork at you, eyes full of incredulity. ‘’You must be kidding. Seriously? Niki? Basketball player, very cute, very tall, friend of Jungwon.’’

A face flashed into your mind and you nodded, remembering him too well. The boy with the perpetual look of disinterest. ‘’I wouldn't call him cute but okay. What about it?’’

Your best friend is practically vibrating with happiness. ‘’What do you mean, what about it? He’s looking at you! This is so good! This mean we could have a double date!’’

‘’Okay,’’ you murmured under your breath, ‘’I don’t wanna know how that occurred to you. Besides, I don't think he's looking at me for that reason. He’s probably planning my social death right now. Don’t mind him, Min.’’

Minju fell from his cloud of excitement. ‘’What? Why? Why would he?’’

‘’I refused to help Jay this morning; the stupid spell made me say a bunch of crap. Basically that he was a party animal with little interest in academics and something about not wasting my time in him.’’

Minju made a face, measuring the damage in her head. The bond between the boys was no joke. Jungwon, Heeseung, Jay, Jake, and Niki were like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse if they were five of them and in a frat— incredibly attractive, magnetic, with the kind of presence that simply drew attention. Whether it was their looks, their grades, the trophies they won with the basketball team, the gossip or their fraternity parties, someone was always talking about them. Loyal as hell, crossing one of them meant crossing the whole group of friends. And it wasn't a good idea to do that with the guys who basically controlled the narrative on campus.

Minju tried to smile again. ‘’Oh. Uhm, it doesn't sound very polite but he doesn't look murderous to me. He looks… in love,’’ she sighed cutely. 

You looked at her, not entirely convinced and then subtly moved your head, until your eyes did find Riki Nishimura not far away, staring at you as if he could burn you with his mind. Or trying to.

He looked murderous. 

Or maybe that was his everyday face. To you, he looked as always, as if he were bored and at the same time thinking about how he could start some chaos and blame others for it. Niki was leaning back in his chair across the courtyard, one arm lazily slung over the backrest, long fingers slowly swirling his ice americano coffee cup in circles. His posture screamed indifference, but his eyes betrayed him completely. They were fixed on you— not in passing, not accidentally. Intentionally. Burning. There was nothing shy about it, but you guessed that someone like Niki didn't know what shyness was in the first place.

It was a little creepy how his eyes had an almost predatory gleam in broad daylight. They weren't flirtatious as such, more like... analytical. Observant. Curious. As if he'd seen something and wanted to figure out exactly how it worked before getting close. He had a sharp, intense gaze, a feline spark that felt more like a panther than a cat. You couldn't deny it, he was one of the most attractive men you had ever seen, no truth spell needed to admit that. His cheekbones alone deserved a separate analysis for sure.

Niki didn’t look away when you caught him. Instead, he held your gaze for too long as if he was challenging you to not look away. His chin tilted and a hint of mockery appeared in his dark eyes, or perhaps it was an effect of the sun, as if he was saying Yes. I am looking. Problem?

You lose on the spot because your stomach did a strange flip under his piercing stare and you looked away, refusing to let him make you blush like a schoolgirl. You turned to Minju again. ‘’Right. I mean, it could be, who knows? That guy only has one expression for everything,’’ you shrugged. 

She gasped. ‘’Of course not! He’s actually nice.’’

You arched a brow. ‘’Have you ever saw him smile?’’

‘’Maybe he’s one of those people who has a neutral face. You’re not the smiling type either,’’ she reminded you, mimicking your expression. 

‘’You’re trying to say resting bitch face,’’ you offered, taking another sip of your soda. ‘’Or maybe he's just constantly constipated.’’

It was impossible for Minju not to laugh a little at that, and the two of them shared a few giggles that quickly died away when a shadow appeared over the two of you. 

‘’What’s so funny?’’ 

A deep, definitely masculine voice sounded behind you. Minju jolted, eyes wide, while you turned far too slowly in your seat— straight into Niki standing there like he belonged in your space. Relaxed. Unbothered. Looking down at you from his full height, and fuck he was actually tall. Jungwon was at his side, smiling like it was a completely normal social interaction and not a potential social nightmare to you. You bit your tongue in advance. 

Before anyone could speak, Jungwon's gaze flicked to Minju and he gently reached out, removing something of her shiny hair with a hint of hesitation, as if reality were playing a trick on him. It was a white feather. 

Minju froze as Jungwon studied her and then the feather held in his fingers, his lips trembling as if he wanted to laugh but he was a little confused anyway. 

‘’What’s this?’’ He asked her, amused.

You and Minju looked at each other speechlessly as the silence stretched long enough into awkwardness, not knowing what to say or how to explain. But of course, the spell didn't hesitate.

‘’It is from one of the chickens Minju is currently responsible for caring as a disciplinary punishment from the Witches' Council,’’ you quickly said.

Minju let out a strangled noise, horrified at your outburst. A second later you realized what you said and covered your mouth, frowning and looking panicked at Minju, shaking your head in a way best friends communicate meaning help me the fuck out.

Jungwon blinked between you both. ‘’Oh.’’

Niki’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘’Is that so?’’

‘’Yes,’’ you continued helplessly, ‘’Minju was actually telling me how her relationship with them is progressing and she's not so afraid of them anymore.’’

Minju buried her face in her hands and took a calming deep breath instead of screaming before looking at Jungwon, trying to smile and pretend that everything was normal. 

‘’She’s right! I got some new pets,’’ she laughed with forced enthusiasm. ‘’Three chickens!’’

“That explains the feather,” Jungwon said, nodding solemnly as if this makes perfect sense. He placed it on the table. “Chickens are cute. Good luck with… that.”

‘’Thank you,’’ she mumbled, smiling too wide. 

You wished with all your heart that no one else would speak to you, that perhaps the boys would just keep walking and think you were a couple of weird girls. But fate couldn't be that kind to you. Instead, Niki's attention never left you, searching for your eyes even while you were picking up your things, ready to bolt. You weren’t about to spill all your secrets and actually earn a worse punishment. 

‘’Where are you going? Class?’’

You froze, feeling the spell regain its power and refusing to let you lie. ‘’I do not have class right now,’’ you explained, defeated.

Niki let out a quiet laugh, eyes gleaming. “Ah. Then why are you leaving?”

‘’I really don't want to continue this conversation in case I say something terrible or incriminating,’’ you admitted and made a face, grabbing your purse ready to bolt from there. God, just shut up! 

Niki smiled slowly. Dangerous. Too handsome. The way something malignant finds out a new soul to torment. “Relax,” he taunted you. “We’re just talking. Do I make you so nervous that you want to run away?’’

You stood up abruptly, almost colliding with him. ‘’Yes. That is precisely the issue.’’

Niki stepped aside without argument, gesturing with exaggerated courtesy. “After you, princess.”

With what little dignity you had left and afraid of revealing some witch secret that would end with you being burned at the town bonfire (or having to move to another town), you left almost running. Niki's eyes watched as you disappeared among students coming and going, a slight smile raising the corners of his mouth. 

Minju, bless her soul, tried to fill the heavy silence in your favor. ‘’Uh… she’s been pretty tired these days, you know, exams and stuff. She's usually more... quiet. But she’s super nice!’’

Jungwon nodded buying the explanation but Niki simply saw the bottle of soda you left; it was his favorite flavor. ‘’Is she?’’

The last thing you expected when you entered your home was a very, very angry owl staring at you from the stairs. You groaned under your breath as you approached, knowing you were about to get the scolding of a lifetime. You forced a smile onto your face and circled the scowling bird, slowly beginning to climb the stairs under her stare. 

‘’Oh, Soomin, hi! You’re back already? How was your vacation? God, how the time flies. Anyway, I have so much work to do so—’’

‘’Don’t,’’ she warned, staring at you with huge, unblinking eyes. You gulped. ‘’Don’t even think to leave this conversation.’’

‘’But Soomin—’’

The owl hissed at you, feathers puffing. ‘’How is it possible that I'm only gone for a week and you've been punished with a spell?! And I'm only finding out about this today?’’

You froze mid-step and slowly turned to face her. Her small, feathered face was somehow the same one your mother used when you broke something expensive as a child. Pure maternal disappointment that could be read as: how have I ever had to put up with you.

‘’A week,’’ she repeated, flipping her wings in stress, ‘’just a week! I left you here trusting you’re a functional adult now and you got yourself in a trial and a punishment?!’’

‘’It wasn’t kinda an official trial—’’ 

‘’Of course it was official! There was a jury! The president and— I think I’m about to faint,’’ the owl wheezed, wobbling a little enough to worry you.

You quickly approached the bird trying to hold it, but as soon as you got close, Soomin began hitting you with its wing while hissing with renewed strength.

You yelped, cornered to the wall. ‘’Ow! Stop!’’

‘’You lied to the Council! You didn’t call me!’’ She growled, flapping at you with tiny, furious little hits. ‘’You lied in front of the entire Witches’ Council! Do you have any idea of how serious this is?’’

‘’Soomin, please, you’re being so dramatic,’’ you said, running a few steps up. ‘’It wasn't that deep! It's just for one lunar cycle.’’ 

The owl tilted its head and, of course, followed you, still giving you short, scandalized taps with its wings that weren't painful but ridiculously humiliating. You wondered how many people in the world could be scolded by a bird.

‘’Just a lunar cycle? This is a disaster,’’ Soomin continued, pacing back and forth on the stairs like a furious professor or a stressed lawyer. Probably both. ‘’A complete catastrophe. One week. I leave for one week and you ruin your life. You’re gonna tell me exactly what happened and oh, look at that, you can’t lie to me,’’ she mocked you. ‘’Because you’re cursed!’’

You scoffed and lifted your hands up in a calming gesture, staring down at her tiny form. ‘’Listen. It was just... a very confusing chain of events that somehow ended with me under a spell. I clearly didn’t expect that. How could I have known that was going to happen?’’

‘’Why did you lie in the first place while being interrogated?’’

You hesitated for a second, enough to make Soomin narrow her eyes. ‘’Oh, no. No, no, no, no. That face means it was a stupid reason.’’

You sighed, leaning against the wall, the spell working too well. ‘’I was trying to cover up for Minju. She got drunk and egged the histori—’’ you noticed how Soomin’s feathers started puffing again and you made a face, taking a step up. ‘’Historical house— she went to a party and I told the jury she was with me the entire night.’’

Soomin narrowed her eyes. If owls could facepalm… ‘’So it was a stupid reason.’’ 

You rubbed your temples. ‘’Hey, I’m actually struggling here. Today was my first day and already made some fucks ups,’’ you groaned, covering your face. ‘’I don’t think I’m surviving three full weeks. This is hard!’’

‘’You’ll find the way to do it because it’s what you deserve,’’ Soomin scolded you. ‘’That’s what you get for lying.’’

‘’It was just a small lie! All of this is so dramatic! You have any idea what this means to my social life?’’

‘’You don’t have one,’’ the owl responded, blinking at you. 

‘’That’s not the point,’’ you replied, crossing your arms defensively with a frown. ‘’Now I definitely won’t.’’

Soomin perched on the railing and gave you another motherly look of pure disappointment. ‘’From now on, you won’t be unsupervised anymore,’’ she said firmly. ‘’I’m not leaving you for extended periods of time ever again.’’

You pouted and leaned your head on the wall. ‘’A month,’’ you muttered in pure misery and sadness. ‘’Twenty nine days to go.’’

Soomin shook her head. ‘’Unbelievable,’’ she scoffed. ‘’I raise you for years and this is what happens the moment I take a break.’’

You blinked. ‘’You’re appeared like three years ago, you didn’t raise me.’’

‘’Emotionally, I did.’’

You and Minju looked incredible. There was no other way to describe it, to be honest and full objective. Shorts that showed off your legs, zip-up jackets that clung to all the right places and accentuated your waist, your hair in a high ponytail that could have been in a sports-themed fashion editorial. 

You had both made a deal, before the whole punishment mess happened, that both would enter their athletic era; meaning no more sedentary life and naps. It was time to get healthier, enjoy the nice weather and all that shit that was supposed to be good to your body.

You were dying. 

Literally. Lungs gone. 

You didn't know when you thought it was a good idea to suggest to Minju that you both take an open hockey class as a form of exercise, but it was definitely you trusting too much that your back would hold up. And your knees. And practically your entire body. It wasn’t the case. Who knew running while holding a stick could be so difficult? 

By the end of the class you had moved parts of your body that you weren't sure you could coordinate at the same time in the first place, bent over your knees and gasping for air. Sweat trickled down your back as if you'd run a marathon from continent to continent, not just an hour-long class. Minju wasn't in the best shape either, dragging her hockey stick towards the benches while groaning, like she was leaving a battlefield. 

‘’I think I saw angels,’’ Minju panted beside you, ‘’when they made us sprint the second time.’’

‘’I saw God,’’ you wheezed. ‘’She suggest me to sit down.’’ 

On the other side of the field, the men's team was finishing their practice too. From afar you could hear their shouts, grunts, and jeers. These classes were supposed to be the Student Council's idea to provide free, open sports spaces for everyone, but the men definitely treated it like the National Championship. Fast, competitive, sticks and shoulders clashing. You recognized some of the guys and wondered who in their right mind would do two different sports in the same week and survive. Apparently, Niki was one of them.

The way he moved was ruthless, efficient, controlled. You couldn't help but watch him from afar while you drank water because, well, why not? A girl could enjoy the view. His hair was slightly damp, pushed back from his forehead. His t-shirt clung a little to his torso, and it was impossible not to notice the trace of his abs and the muscle in his arms. His body moved with force and speed. And although he seemed incredibly focused, his eyes still occasionally wandered. Towards you. Searching.

Again. Again. One more time, until Jungwon noticed and it made him snort with a knowing smile. 

After practice, while your lungs were slowly coming back to life and Minju was showing you videos of her chickens, on the other side of the field a group of boys were making a straight line towards you. It was too late to run when you looked up and Jungwon was approaching with an easy smile, Jay by his side and Niki just a step behind, hands in their pockets and a serious expression.

‘’Hey,’’ Jungwon greeted warmly, eyes drifting to Minju. ‘’How’d it go?’’

‘’We survived,’’ she smiled at him, proud. ‘’Barely. But it was fun. I can’t still feel my legs.’’

Jay arched a brow, chucking. ‘’That intense?’’

‘’You have no idea,’’ you whispered to no one, positioning yourself behind Minju as naturally as possible while you put away your water bottle and grabbed your bag. So, a new game plan was set. If no one specifically spoke to you, you couldn't say anything catastrophic, right? 

All you needed to do was make yourself a little invisible.

For a moment you thought you were actually succeeding. Jungwon was clearly only interested in Minju, with whom he was animatedly discussing hockey (or so you thought, because you had no idea about the terminology they were using). That was the moment: back away slowly, as if you'd decided in the moment and hadn't overanalyzed it for several minutes. Slowly, imperceptibly, so no one would smell your fear. Just a few steps toward freedom, just a bye under your shoulder and no one would get hurt. 

Jay noticed right away, calling your name.

‘’Hey,’’ he said casually, glancing at you and your outfit, taking in your legs. ‘’You look good today.’’ 

You froze. Oh no. No. Please, no. The spell didn’t wasted a fucking second. 

‘’I know,’’ you said confidently. ‘’These shorts gave me an incredible ass.’’ 

Silence. Minju choked, eyes huge. Jungwon’s brows shoot up. Jay bursted out laughing, full delight, not at all bothered. 

‘’You’re so sincere,’’ he said with a grin. ‘’Confidence. I like that.’’

Niki didn't laugh or say anything. He was simply watching you, studying the way you spoke without hesitation and the subsequent panic that followed, as if you had no filter.

Jay playfully nudged Niki with his elbow and kept the conversation going. ‘’You guys watched us play?’’

You prayed that no one else would say anything to you directly, taking another step back. 

Of course, Niki’s voice interrupted your attempts. He looked straight at you. Calm, low, direct. ‘’Did you?’’

You swallowed, as if that could stop the truth from rising like bile up your throat. ‘’Uh, y-yes.’’

‘’And?’’

“You looked very attractive,” you admitted helplessly, eyes flicking to him for half a second before staring at the grass, accepting your destiny. “With your hair all sweaty and pushed back.”

Minju made a tiny distress sound, Jungwon tried to look neutral watching the exchange and failed, and Jay grinned knowing he found free entertainment and material to taunt his maknae. But Niki didn't mock you, or smiled, nor did he seem embarrassed or smug. He tilted his head and continued looking at you with heavy, but not cold, eyes. Just… attentive. Listening. Like he never heard that sort of answer before. 

‘’Did I?’’ He asked, mildly. 

‘’Yes,’’ you said immediately, planning your own death. ‘’It was distracting.’’ 

Jay looked at Niki, considering your words. He was enjoying it too much. ‘’Distracting, huh?’’

Niki ignored him and moved a little closer to you, just enough to make the air shift. ‘’Then maybe,’’ he said quietly, eyes steady on you, ‘’you should stop watching.’’

‘’I would, but you’re hard to ignore,’’ you murmured automatically, slamming your eyes shut. ‘’Okay. I’m leaving now.’’

‘’We need water!’’ Minju intervened, taking your arm and leading you away with an apologetic smile. ‘’Bye, guys!’’

Jungwon was smiling and waving, Jay was saying something about Niki's sweaty hair being gross and Niki... his eyes followed you the whole way. Smiling a little.

Already deciding. 

Avoidance is power, you told yourself. 

Clearly you couldn't control the spell. Okay. Nor could you control who spoke to you. Obviously. But you could control the exposure. Limited interactions, minimal risks, avoid potential red flags that could lead to humiliation. You were going to finally walk the line of the spell or die trying.

It didn't matter that Minju was officially dating Jungwon and that somehow included his friends who orbited him and, due to their proximity, your best friend, like damn satellites. You wouldn't be rude. Just... brief and efficient. Simply as that. In the middle of a night where you were staring at the ceiling wondering how you ended up in this problem while you were in a chocolate ice cream coma, that's when it occurred to you.

You couldn't lie, but you could control how you told the truth. You wouldn't be lying per se... you'd simply be revealing the answers in long, technical sentences. Careful words, a controlled tone, crafted and directed honesty. That wasn't lying. You were simply adapting to the rules of the game. Expanding your vocabulary. Making things complicated wasn't lying. The spell didn't imply that people had to understand you.

In the dating world, some friends canceled plans because of their boyfriends. Minju did it for her chickens. She bailed on hockey practice before it even started when her security app sent a notification.

“One of the girls laid an egg and she looks emotionally overwhelmed,” she had said seriously, already packing her bag. “I need to supervise.”

‘’She’s just a chicken,’’ you stared at her. 

‘’She’s sensitive.’’ 

That's how you ended up alone, suffering, exhausted but not as dramatically as last time. Or maybe you just didn't have anyone to complain to. Either way, once practice was over, you actually enjoyed it a little. Other girls were stretching and chatting, laughing and drinking water, while you sat on the benches. You breathed a sigh of relief when you took down your ponytail and let your hair fall, enjoying the fresh air.

Perhaps doing outdoor sports wasn't so bad, you supposed. The sunset and the breeze caressed your damp skin, and for a second you relaxed, enjoying the silence. You tilted your head slightly toward the sky, toward the last rays of the sun, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You even smiled a little, not ruining your social interactions for a whole day felt like a huge victory.

You weren’t aware of it, but at the other side of the field the boy’s team were finishing warm-up drills. Niki’s focus shifted, as he had done all week, to you. Finally alone. Illuminated by a halo of sunlight, looking so pretty and relaxed, not like the times he had approached you and you looked ready to flee.

By the time you sensed someone’s presence it was too late, opening your eyes to Niki standing close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly to meet his gaze. You got startled with a small yelp and your heart rate went crazy while Niki was completely and clearly unashamed of staring at you like that in the open. 

He broke the silence first. ‘’Minju abandoned you?’’

You were ready for this. You cleared your throat and sat straighter. ‘’She had a chicken-related emergency.’’

Niki blinked once, nodding like that made all the sense in the world. ‘’I thought you were avoiding us,’’ he said plainly. ‘’Avoiding me.’’

You inhaled, choosing the words carefully in your head. ‘’I’m being selective with my interactions at this particular moment.’’ 

His mouth twitched slightly. ‘’Selective? And I didn't make the cut?’’

Panic spread across your brain, that was dangerous territory! 

‘’I'm trying to minimize situations where I have to interact verbally because… because I'm avoiding saying things that can amplify the exposure of my personal, reserved thoughts and put me in complicated circumstances.’’ 

Niki’s eyes sharpened. ‘’So I complicate your life?’’

This fucker. You froze for a second, feeling the spell around your tongue, ready to pounce head first into the truth. ‘’I believe you increase the odds a little,’’ you admitted, maintaining your calm tone. 

He took a step closer, his knees almost touching you. ‘’And why is that?’’

Because I can't decipher the way you look at me.

Because you don't react like everyone else.

You didn’t say any of it. ‘’You ask direct questions,’’ you said instead, finding the right words. ‘’And I struggle with filtering in those interactions.’’

His eyes fell on the curve of your shoulders, the way your hair waved in the breeze, your cheeks a little pink from exercise. ‘’You look better like this,’’ Niki said casually. 

You frowned. ‘’Like what?’’

‘’Less guarded.’’

Your brain short-circuited, and thankfully, not even a powerful witch's spell could fix that. But before you could die crushed by Niki's dark eyes, he was the first to look away towards the other side of the field, where his team resumed training.

‘’We’re not done,’’ he started, and you suspected he wasn’t just talking about hockey. ‘’Stay.’’ 

You blinked. ‘’Stay? Why?’’

He gestured subtly with his head towards the bleachers and you followed his line of sight. Oh. A few girls were there, watching the boy’s practice. Some talking, others taking photos. Waiting for boyfriends. Watching situationships or prospects. 

You looked at Niki again, not fully understanding the situation. Actually, more in denial. The implication was too obvious to ignore, but it still confused you a little. Why the hell Riki Nishimura wanted you there of all people?

‘’You can sit there,’’ he said, like it was the most normal outcome. ‘’Watch.’’

You kept staring at him, blinking slowly. ‘’You’re recruiting spectators, Nishimura?’’

His mouth twitched again, trying not to crack a smile. ‘’I’m inviting you.’’ 

Your stomach lurched catastrophically. ‘’You want me… to sit there and openly watch you?’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’No.’’

He didn't react badly to your refusal, he simply studied you. ‘’Why not?’’

You swallowed and searched your brain for an answer that made sense. ‘’Because that could create some assumptions.’’ 

He tilted his head, a spark of mischief in his eyes. ‘’What kind of assumptions?’’

You narrowed your eyes a little, knowing that now he was playing with you. He knew what kind of assumptions, the cocky bastard.  

‘’I would prefer not to fuel potential situations that could lead to rumors that are not substantiated… based on our interactions. Misinterpretations could arise.’’

He searched your eyes while lowering his voice a little. ‘’What if I want them substantiated?”

Fuck this frat boy. You let out a loud sigh and thought about your next move. There was no chance you would let Niki throw you into the stands full of girlfriends, when the possibility of the spell going out of control due to the pressure and the crowd was so high. You were barely taking baby steps into the edge of the spell, not doing fucking somersaults on it.

So you took the next best route: evade. ‘’You’re very confident,’’ you managed to say, trying to smile. 

‘’Yes.’’

‘’That's very... threatening to my… filtering,’’ you groaned, feeling the spell tightening. 

He kept his eyes on you, pleased by it. ‘’Then stay,’’ he muttered, almost soft. ‘’Face the danger.’’ 

‘’That’d end with me saying something incriminating,” you warned him with a sigh. 

“I’m counting on it.”

Alright.

You stood abruptly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “This is exactly the kind of scenario I am strategically eliminating.”

He didn’t move out of your space immediately. “You’re running again.”

“I am exercising discernment.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Same thing.”

You looked at him once more, trying to appear composed and with a serene face, even though your heart was beating strangely inside your chest. ‘’I'm not equipped to deal with you right now. Bye.’’

That made him stop for a second. And then: ‘’Good.’’

‘’What? Why’s that’s good?’’ 

‘’Because when you are, I'll be here. I want to see it.’’

Niki walked back onto the playing field, leaving you behind as if he hadn't desestabilized your nervous system.

From that day on, things got progressively worse, little by little, as if the loose ends were starting to tie themselves up. And by loose ends, you meant Niki's friends. The strangest part was the stares you got from other girls. Some were curious and interested, others hateful. The campus had eyes everywhere, that was obvious to anyone. The five horsemen and their lost bachelorhood were the talk of the town. First Jungwon, then Jake, who would be next?

The initial plan to avoid social interactions wasn't working too well. Maybe it was because you were just one soldier, and well, Niki's army was bigger, not to mention the whole campus. Little things started happening. Like Jay sitting next to you in class, much to your alarm, and you even considered pretending not to know him. But if there was one thing impossible in the world, it was getting Jay to shut up. He talked about everything. Your head was completely empty by the time he launched into his anecdote about the basketball team's mascot falling into the pool last week. 

The party invitations came in a more personal way. It wasn't like fraternity parties required it, but maybe it was something about the social hierarchy you weren’t aware of…? You had no idea and weren’t about to ask Minju about it. You assumed people just showed up, like you had done a few times before. But then Lee Heeseung basically blocked the library entry and asked you (more or less threatening you) if you would like to come to one of their parties. It took you too much by surprise to put together a coherent sentence, so you basically scuttled out the side with a yelp and a hurried ‘’no!’’. 

That’s how you ended like this. Looking insane. 

A scarf wrapped around your head as if you were a Hollywood actress from the 40s hiding from the paparazzi (you weren't), oversized black glasses that definitely weren't your style and didn't serve much purpose on a cloudy day, shoulders hunched as you slid along the edges of buildings like a cartoon thief, trying to blend into the shadows. Head down, quick steps, incognito mode activated.

The problem was that the Silverveil’s campus was a curse in itself, starting with its architecture: lots of open spaces, glass walls, and lots of people who liked to talk. And of course, him.

Nishimura Riki.

You had acquired a new knack for finding Niki in a crowd, though it wasn't too difficult. Tall, existing effortlessly, hands in his pockets with a semi-bored expression. You saw him at the other end of the courtyard, laughing at something Jake said, his laugh short and sharp, and just that sound made your stomach clench. 

Abort. Abort. Abort.

You spun around instantly, nearly colliding with a group of students, muttering a quick apology before making a beeline run towards the nearest column. You leaned your back against it and took a breath, waiting a few seconds before poking your head out and inspecting the area.

No five horsemen of the apocalypse. No teachers. No curious girls asking if you can introduce them to Jay or Heeseung— or asking if it's true they're in a polyamorous relationship. No hockey coach asking why you didn't go to the last class and you not answering that you'd rather sleep for ten hours than drag your ass through that torture again. 

Good.

You adjusted your scarf, lowered your glasses further, and leaned again— only to freeze. Niki was definitely close. Too close. So close you could see the lazy way he walked, unhurried, making his way along without even asking, as if he weren't chasing after anything. As if he knew exactly where he was going.

You pulled back fast, heart slamming against your ribs. Shit. 

‘’Who are you spying on?’’

His voice came from behind you, low and amused, close enough that you felt it more than hear it. Slowly, too slowly, you turned around and there he was, devastating so. Niki’s eyes scanned you from head to toe, taking in the handkerchief, the glasses, and your expression somewhere between guilt and panic, as if you were assessing your chances of running away.

For a second he just looked at you, until one corner of his mouth lifted. 

‘’No one in particular. I’m just… examining the perimeter and human elements near me.’’

Niki arched a brow, somewhat amused and slightly judgmental. ‘’Is this a disguise or a styling choice?’’

Panic surged through your mind, flooding your entire brain, barely remembering the plan and survival mode before the spell revived. ‘’I’m avoiding being recognized to prevent unnecessary social interactions that could result in irreversible harm to me.’’

Niki let out a short laugh, surprised and real, eyes bright with something dangerously close to interest. “Wow,” he said. “That’s… specific.’’

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second, heart trembling. “I would appreciate it if you did not interpret my current behavior as an invitation for conversation.”

“And yet,” he replied lightly, stepping closer instead of away, “you’re still talking to me. You are hard to go unnoticed, too.”

You swallowed. “This is an unfortunate consequence of your proximity.”

He studied you like you were a puzzle he didn’t know how he wanted to solve, which piece picked up first, gaze lingering just a beat too long. “You know,” he started, voice dropping a little, “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

Your heart stuttered. “Did you? That information is… distressing.”

Niki smiled fully now, slow and unreadable. “Good,” he responded. 

And suddenly, hiding felt impossible and dumb. You were pressed against the column when Niki moved closer, cornering you enough so that you couldn't leave without brushing against his body. Niki lifted a hand, slow enough that you saw it coming but not slow enough to stop it. His fingers brushed your cheek for half a second before hooking under the arm of your sunglasses.

‘’Hey!—’’

He slid them off your face with infuriating ease. The world suddenly felt too bright. Too exposed. His gaze settled on your eyes immediately, intent and unreadable, like he was cataloguing something important. Up close, you noticed details you really shouldn’t be noticing: the curve of his lashes, the way his expression softened when you weren’t hiding behind dark lenses, a faded scar on one of his eyebrows. The smell of his cologne. 

“Hm,” he hummed, studying you. “So that’s what you were hiding.”

You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “…That statement is inaccurate since you don’t know my intentions and motives.”

Without breaking eye contact, Niki casually slipped the sunglasses onto his own face. They looked ridiculous on him. He also looked unfairly good as well. 

‘’There’s a party tonight,’’ he said, like it was the most normal conversation he ever had. ‘’Our frat. You coming?’’

There’s no way in hell I’m going, you thought. Instead, you said: ‘’Attending an event of that magnitude is not in my immediate plans.’’

He stepped back, finally giving you air. “That’s a shame,’’ he smirked, then tilted his head, lowering his voice just enough to feel intimate. “If you want these back,” he added, tapping the edge of the sunglasses, “you should come.”

You opened your mouth to renegotiate the deal or tell him it was ridiculous, but Niki turned around and left without looking back, just like that. Hands in his pockets, wearing YOUR big glasses, carefree, as if he hadn't left you there with the words on your lips and your heart racing, or with people nearby pretending not to have seen everything.

By the end of the day, it was everywhere.

People saw Niki. 

People definitely saw the sunglasses. 

People definitely saw Nishimura Riki wearing your sunglasses like they were his in the first place and didn't steal it from you in plain sight. The bastard had the audacity to actually wear them throughout the day, even with his friends, completely unbothered by the small chaos he caused. 

You even heard some whispers throughout the day that made you stare at nothing while some people gossiped about your life in real time. You sat in class, notebook opened, half-hearing your professor, doing doodles and making an effort to write something even if you barely care. That’s when you heard the whispers. 

‘’...Is that her?

‘’Mmmh. I think so.’’

‘’Ya, she’s pretty. No wonder Niki’s dating her.’’

You stopped doodling and paid more attention, your eyes were on your professor as you grip tightening around your pen. Waiting for more gossip to spill. 

‘’They look like an idols couple or something.’’

‘’My friend saw them flirting in front of everybody. Is that serious.’’

‘’Really?’’

‘’I know, right? He’s wearing her glasses. She’s friends with Jay too, I think.’’ 

By the end of the day, it was everywhere, and Minju was proof of that, because at some point during the day your best friend dragged you to the nearest cafe and interrogated you in a very similar way to the Witches' Council. With two lattes and two muffins and Minju unsuccessfully trying to contain her excitement, you sighed in defeat.

‘’Okay,’’ she started, resting her hands on the table, trying to calm down as if that would make her hear better. ‘’I’m ready. Tell me everything! What’s is going on with you and Niki?’’

You shrugged. ‘’There’s nothing going on,’’ you murmured, taking a sip of the latte. ‘’I think? I can categorize it for sure. Try be more specific.’’

Minju narrowed her eyes. ‘’Someone from my Economics class saw you and Niki earlier,’’ she paused. ‘’She said he took your glasses, like, he took them.’’

‘’That’s true. I was robbed in broad daylight and slightly criticized by my fashion choices, I think,’’ you frowned. 

Minju blinked and deflated a little. ‘’That’s not… how she described it.’’

You stared at your best friend, unimpressed. ‘’I’m literally incapable of lying, remember?’’ 

‘’So? What you’re gonna do?’’

‘’Honestly, I don’t know,’’ you sighed, massaging your temples. ‘’He told me I can get them back if I go to their party. He can keep them, I guess.’’

Minju gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. ‘’Oh my God. You’re being courted!’’

‘’More like terrorized. He stole from me!’’

‘’He’s flirting, you dumbass!’’

‘’He committed a crime,’’ you stated. 

‘’You’re brushing!’’

You groaned and covered your face with a whine. ‘’Leave me alone.’’

‘’Listen,’’ Minju said, in a softer tone. ‘’I’ve never seen Niki doing something like that, he’s very reserved. He’s always looking at you like… like he wants to eat you alive. And to be honest, you don’t look at him very differently.’’

You pressed your lips together and watched your coffee as it had the answers of the world. Somewhere on campus Niki was probably smiling to himself, that you were sure of, perfectly aware that he did exactly what he wanted. 

Stressed you out, checked.

Provoked you, checked.

Left you with an invitation you could’t stop thinking about, checked.

The worst part? You didn’t care about getting your sunglasses back.

The sky has been gray and cloudy lately, but you hardly care. It was another hockey practice and only half your body was there, your functional neurons checking out a long time ago. Physically you existed there, but your mind? That was a thing with a life of its own. Your body moved when it should, your stick hit the ball when it was your turn, even your legs seemed more coordinated than before. The reality was that your mind was deep in a daydream about the thing you wanted most: your warm bed.

You were planning it in detail, too distracted and entertained. 

Hot shower, giant pajamas, a greasy double hamburger— eating cross-legged under your blankets while something mindless played on your laptop. The beginning of your weekend. No campus. No accidental honesty. No dodging dangerously perceptive boys. Just a pause in time to exist without stress.

You jogged half-heartedly across the grass, barely registering the shouts of your teammates playing. The cloudy weather made everything feel slower, heavier. Your eyelids even drooped for a second. And then— a memory flashing too fast, your brain betraying you.

Niki. Uninvited. 

How close he stood the other day, the way he said face the danger. His low, deep voice, the way he looked at you like— no. You shook your head slightly, refusing to let yourself do that. But the images, his face, it kept flickering in your head. His smile, his smirk, his intense eyes. Him watching you like— 

‘’Watch out!’’

Too late.

A body collided with you, hard, from the side. One of the girls tripped mid run to hit the ball, and suddenly the world turned upside down without warning. Grass. The grey sky. Impact. Your head hitting the ground hard enough to make you stay still with a low groan. There were some black points in your vision and for a second everything sounded muffed, until a sharp whistle pierced the air. 

The girl approached immediately, kneeling beside you in alarm. ‘’Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn't see you— are you okay? Don’t move.’’

You blinked a few times, staring at the sky. ‘’I’m fine,’’ you mumbled, pressing your hand on your head, making sure it was still there. ‘’It’s my fault. I was… geographically misplaced.’’

She looked confused but relieved. ‘’Oh…? Okay. Don’t stand up anyway, just take your time.’’

The coach jogged over, calling your name. ‘’Are you okay?’’ 

‘’Yeah,’’ you muttered, sitting slowly. ‘’It was just grass, it’s okay. Nature softened the hit, I guess.’’

And then, a shadow fell over you, but it wasn’t your coach or a teammate. You didn’t need to look up to know, a sense in your body recognizing the presence before your mind did. But you did look anyway and you suck a breath, cursing in your mind. 

Niki dropped beside you, crouching immediately, his expression serious. Shifting into something you never saw before, sharp and alert in a way that made your stomach flip for entirely different reasons than falling into the ground. 

Before you could process what was happening or even talk, his hands found you— sliding under your head, cradling carefully like you were struck with a metal baseball bat and not softly bonked by grass.

Your brain short-circuited and you let out a startled squeak, trying to push his hands. 

‘’I’m fine!’’ you blurted, trying to push yourself up. 

His hands didn’t move, still holding your skull. ‘’Don’t,’’ Niki said gently. 

Your heart was beating too fast for someone who just wanted a nap and a burger. 

‘’I literally fell on grass,’’ you insisted, noticing more people staring. ‘’This is not a serious injury, really.’’

Niki ignored you completely and looked up at your coach. ‘’She should go to the infirmary,’’ he suggested, voice steady and persuasive. ‘’Just in case.’’ 

Your head snapped towards him, confused. ‘’Just in case of what?’’

‘’Concussion.’’

You blinked, then laughed. ‘’No way. It was a gentle meeting between my head and nature. I’m perfectly fine.’’ 

Niki looked down at you. ‘’Do you know how concussions work?’’

The spell was faster than you. ‘’More or less.’’ 

‘’More or less,’’ he repeated, a small glint of amusement in his eyes. ‘’So you don’t actually know.’’

You clenched your teeth. ‘’I’m clearly conscious. I’m not dizzy. I can form intelligent sentences.’’

‘’Barely,’’ he said under his breath.

You gasped in outrage.

Your coach softened visibly by his tone. ‘’It’s very sweet that you’re worried about your girlfriend.’’

There was a split second of silence. And then:

‘’I am not his girlfriend,’’ you yelped at the same time Niki said smoothly, ‘’Thank you. I’ll take her.’’ 

You stared at him with both betrayal and alarm. ‘’Excuse me?’’

But Niki was already moving, and before you could react or scream his arm slided under your knees, other behind your back and the ground suddenly disappeared. 

You grabbed onto him reflexively, noticing that you were quite far from the ground. ‘’What are you doing?!’’

Carrying you apparently cost him zero effort, holding you like it was nothing. A small part of your brain noticed his arms flexing and his hard chest, but you pushed those thoughts down. 

‘’You might faint,’’ he replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘’I’m not taking risks.’’

You covered your face while Niki carried you bridal-style out of the field, leaving behind teammates whispering, gasping, other laughing, definitely rumours taking a new shape. You swore you saw Jay snapping a pic, but for your mental health you told yourself that was a hallucination induced by mortification.

You squirmed in his arms, refusing to give up. ‘’Right, I will faint from humiliation!’’

‘’You’re so dramatic,’’ he chuckled. ‘’Just stay still.’’

‘’This is completely unnecessary,’’ you hissed, kicking the air. ‘’I can walk. Put me down!’’

‘’No. Stop overreacting.’’

You gasped in pure incredulity at his nerve. ‘’Me? I’m the one overreacting? You engineered this!’’ 

He glanced down, amused. ‘’How? You were the one so distracted in the middle of a game that you hit your head. What were you thinking of, anyway?’’

The spell enveloped your tongue. ‘’I was thinking about my plans for tonight when I fell. On. Grass.’’

‘’You. Hit. Your. Head.’’

‘’On grass,’’ you groaned, resuming your kicks in the air. ‘’It’s not serious!’’

‘’You don’t know how hard you hit yourself,’’ Niki tried to reason with you. He adjusted his grip on you, too comfortable to care about your protests. 

‘’I do? I was literally there?’’

‘’So was I. Saw the whole thing.’’

‘’Put me down, Nishimura.’’ 

‘’No.’’

‘’I don’t particularly enjoy being paraded like this. People are looking!’’

‘’You’re being cared for.’’

‘’Against my wishes!’’

His expression, despite the teasing and the smirk, is sharp. Watchul. With something deeper, until you realize what it was. Protective. You hated the way your pulse reacted to it, and at some point along the way you relaxed enough to rest your cheek against his chest. You were giving him the silent treatment anyway, all pouty and clinging to what little dignity you had left.

The infirmary smelled like lemon scented cleaner. It was bright and quiet, a small place with a desk and a few simple beds to lay. Niki set you down on one of them, his hands lingering on your body enough for your heart to do a backflip before he stepped back in a very professional way and not suspicious at all. 

‘’Sit,’’ he said, unnecessary. You did. 

The nurse came up with a clipboard under her arm, looking between you and Niki. ‘’What happened?’’

Before you could open your mouth, Niki started speaking. ‘’She fell, hit her head hard. Black spots, disorientation. She tried to stand up immediately,’’ he accused you. 

Your eyes widened. ‘’That’s not—’’

‘’I feared she might have a concussion,’’ Niki continued, crossing his arms and looking at you like you were a very bad behaving kid, ‘’she insisted she was fine and that’s a sign that someone is not fine.’’

You stared at him in disbelief. ‘’I fell on grass.’’

‘’She collapsed after the hit,’’ Niki told the nurse. 

The nurse hummed, clearly entertained and nodding to the story, writing something on the clipboard. ‘’Mmm-mm, I see. And you carried her all the way here?’’

‘’Yes,’’ Niki replied like it was the most obvious thing to do. ‘’For her safety. She needs a check-up.’’

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. 

‘’Well,’’ the nurse smiled, turning to you, ‘’you seem pretty alert and you didn’t lose consciousness. Let’s have you rest here for a bit just to be safe,’’ she handed you a small box of juice from her desk. ‘’Drink this, sugar helps.’’ 

You took it obediently, giving Niki a bitter side eye.

The nurse stepped back to her desk and then paused, taking the paper from the clipboard. ‘’I’ll be back with some paperwork,’’ she sent you a knowing look. ‘’Behave, you two.’’

The door closed behind her and then silence followed. 

You snorted softly. ‘’Don’t worry,’’ you said while stabbing with too much force the straw into the juice box, ‘’we’re not having a making-out session here.’’ 

The words hit your ears a second later and you froze, remembering the fucking spell. You immediately shoved the straw in your mouth like it might save you. 

Niki tilted his head, looking at you. ‘’We won’t?’’

You choked when the juice went the wrong way and you coughed until your eyes watered. ‘’—What!?’’

Niki patted your back softly, too entertained for someone who was playing hero. ‘’You heard me. That was a question.’’

You glared at him over the juice box, cheeks burning, spell threatening you. ‘’I'm not going to do anything that doesn't involve the nurse's medical advice, Nishimura.’’ 

Niki stepped close and you felt it— his fingers brushing the hem of your shorts, idly tracing the edge like it was the most natural thing to do.

‘’I like it when you call me that,’’ he muttered in that deep voice of his.

Your suspicions and alarms went off at the same time and you gave him another warning look, moving your thigh away from his fingers.

His touch followed you, but now it was his giant palm covering your thigh and gently squeezing it. 

‘’Don't,’’ you scolded him. 

He stooped, mostly. His hand still hovered there, but didn’t move further. 

‘’You got me worried out there,’’ he said, quietly. 

You studied his face— the crease between his brows, the lack of amusement or teasing. ‘’You didn’t have to carry me all the way here,’’ you mumbled.

‘’I wanted to and I’d do it again.’’

That landed harder than it should, straighter to your chest and even lower. A pause fell but it was soft, quiet, not quite awkward. It felt more like something seeking place and settling down. 

‘’Why do you run away all the time?’’ He asked, curious, searching your eyes. 

You swallowed and put the empty juice box to the side with a sigh. Your shoulder slumped a little, tiredness waving in your voice. ‘’Sometimes I feel…’’ you explained quietly. ‘’Like… there’s something in me that doesn’t let me lie, even if I wanted to,’’ you chuckled softly. 

Niki leaned in, eyes sharpening with interest. 

‘’And I don’t know how people would take that,’’ you continued, staring at the floor. ‘’What if I said too much and I hurt somebody? Or I show too much of myself? I don’t like that exposure. I don’t have any… shield or control. So I just wanna avoid those things from happening.’’

Niki didn’t interrupt you, listening attentively. He was silent for a long moment. ‘’You want to protect yourself,’’ he explained easily, making you tense a little. ‘’I know you think running makes you invisible, but it doesn't. It just makes people look harder.’’

You looked up and glanced at Niki, noticing that his face had gotten too close to yours, his eyes focussed on your lips. But before you could respond, the infirmary door opened and the nurse came back. Niki straightened up immediately as if nothing had happened and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, the other still resting warmly on your thigh.

You didn’t scold him again or move away. 

Growing up as a witch was a series of completely out-of-context situations thrown right in your face for you to deal with. Like the time everything inside your house floated constantly for a month before you could get that power under control. Or the time you saw a rabbit, thought it was cute, and overnight your yard was overrun with rabbits from all sizes and colors until the town newspaper reported a rabbit overpopulation in your neighborhood. You hadn't realized you were controlling their energies and, unintentionally, summoning them.

So yes, you were somewhat used to surprising situations, but you still almost had a heart attack when you opened your backpack in the middle of class and two huge, deep, yellow eyes stared back at you from the darkness inside the bag. 

You nearly screamed. But the sound somehow got muffled in your throat as you quickly zipped up your backpack and cradled it against your chest like a contained bomb. Slowly, very, very slowly, you leaned forward over your desk and opened the zipper again, enough for Soomin to hear you. 

‘’What are you doing here!?’’ You whispered.

‘’I’m doing a surprise check in,’’ the owl whispered back. Inside the backpack, Soomin shifted with the quiet rustle of feathers. ‘’Supervising.’’

You squeezed your eyes shut and slowly pulled up the zipper again. You spent the entire class sitting stiffly in your chair, your backpack resting on your lap like the most suspicious object in the world while you pretended to take notes and that everything was normal and you didn’t had a fucking talking owl with you. Every small movement from inside the bag made your spine lock up and discreetly observe your surroundings, in case anyone noticed anything.

You felt the presence of the spell like a fucking dagger waiting to pierce your heart. Your mind kept cycling through every possible disaster scenario: the owl popping her head out, someone hearing her talk, someone asking you what was inside the bag. You had never been so aware of every single person in the room. When class finally ended you were one of the firsts to get the hell out of there, relief hitting you like oxygen after drowning. 

You fled the lecture hall still holding onto your backpack. 

‘’Don’t run! I’m getting dizzy,’’ Soomin whispered from inside the bag. 

‘’You snuck there! Now enjoy the ride,’’ you hissed quietly. ‘’What are you even doing here!?’’

‘’I’m monitoring and supervising, I told you I wasn't leaving you out of my sight and you been acting weird lately.’’

You pushed through the hallway doors, scanning the corridor for a quiet corner where you could finally unzip the bag and properly scold the feathered menace inside. Unfortunately, fate had other plans, of course it did, because you walked straight into Nishimura Riki.

You stopped in your tracks.

He had one hand in the pocket of his jacket, leaning lazily against the wall like he had nowhere urgent to be. When he noticed you approaching at suspicious speed with your backpack clutched like a hostage, his brows lifted slightly. Then his gaze drifted downward and slowly pointed. You followed the direction of his fingers, to the round owl head sticking out of your backpack. 

Soomin blinked at him. You froze. Soomin froze as well. For a long moment the three of you just stared at each other in a very tense and confusing silence. Niki muttered your name, a little doubtful.

‘’... Is that an owl?’’ 

Your brain ran through every possible lie in the world that you could think of, but obviously they all ran into the magic brick wall of the spell. ‘’Uh… uh… this is an animal that can be found in the forest.’’ 

You stopped talking immediately after that. Niki stared at you, then at the owl, and again at you. He didn't seem alarmed or confused, more like he wanted to understand why you would have an owl with you in the middle of the day instead of questioning how strange it was.

‘’Right,’’ he said slowly. Niki leaned a little closer, examining the bird with curiosity. ‘’And what is it doing in your backpack?’’

The truth tightened in your throat. ‘’It just… climbed in there.’’

Silence fell again, looks were exchanged and Soomin even tilted her head, taking in the boy in front of her, examining him in the same way Niki was doing. Then, he glanced at you and let out a quiet, amused breath through his nose, like he just decided not to question the situation too deeply. Niki was late to class, anyway.  

‘’You’re kind of weird,’’ he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. He looked at the owl again. ‘’What are you going to do with an owl?’’

You tightened your hold on the backpack, feeling Soomin shifting inside. You sighed. ‘’I’m… going to have a talk with her.’’ 

Ni-ki glanced down at the owl head still poking out of the zipper. The owl stared back with wide, unrepentant eyes. He nodded slowly, like that explanation made complete sense. Then he reached out without warning and casually pinched your chin in a gesture too gentle and familiar that made your brain short-circuit for a second. 

‘’Okay. We’ll talk later, yeah?’’

You just blinked at him, eyes huge and nodded. ‘’Uh-uh. Sure.’’

‘’Good luck with your…’’ he frowned and gestured vaguely at Soomin. ‘’Your forest animal.’’ 

And with that, he pushed away from the wall and walked down the hallway, disappearing into the flow of students like the entire interaction had been perfectly normal.

You stood there for exactly two seconds. Then you spun around into a more hidden corner and put the backpack down with a groan. 

“Soomin—!”

The owl immediately hopped out of the bag. ‘’Oh my God, who was that?’’

‘’What?’’

‘’That tall, intense dude. The handsome one with dark eyes,’’ she commented conspiratorially. 

‘’You snuck into my backpack, infiltrated in the university, caused me the most stressful class of my life, and you want to talk about a boy?’’

‘’Yes. Spill.’’ 

You rubbed your face, asking for patience from above. ‘’That’s Niki.’’

The owl studied the hallway where Niki had disappeared with a thoughtful expression. ‘’He’s very attractive.’’

‘’He is,’’ you conceded.

‘’He touched you very confidently,’’ she observed. 

‘’Uh— I mean— he kinda does that—’’ 

‘’And it didn’t bother you,’’ Soomin furthered her observations, blinking slowly. ‘’Are you dating him?’’

‘’No!’’

‘’You’re secretly seeing him? This is some of prohibited romance?’’

‘’What? Of course not.’’

‘’He’s your boyfriend and didn’t tell me?’’ Soomin asked with a squeak, entertained by the gossip. 

‘’I already told you no,’’ you tried to reason with her. 

‘’... Why are you blushing?’’

‘’Because... because... it's hot and I feel strange, now shut up,’’ you groaned, picking up the bird and putting her into the backpack again like you could trap the conversation inside it. 

She gasped. ‘’You like that tall boy!’’

The spell crackled throughout your body, your mind and tongue couldn't agree on what to say, but the truth did its job. ‘’I— I— I think— yes— but—’’

‘’I like that boy too. He didn’t scream when he saw me.’’

‘’You’re a bird, not a monster.’’

‘’That’s not the point,’’ Soomin scoffed. ‘’He was very gentle with you. I approve that.’’

Soomin watched you very carefully and you felt a little nudge in the heart of your magic. Her eyes softened.

‘’Oh,’’ she said. ‘’You’re so doomed.’’

You grabbed the zipper and slammed the backpack closed.

Later that day, after you took Soomin home and she promised you there would be no more surprise inspections, the library greeted you with silence and concentration. The setting sun reached some tables, the soft sound of pens writing relaxed you somehow, and the distant hum from the air conditioner in the distance served as white noise.

You were exactly where you liked to be, seated by the window, notes spread neatly. Pretty and colorful highlighters. Life under control, for once. 

That didn’t last long. 

You were finishing a paragraph about an idea you had written when a chair scraped against the floor across from you. You didn’t look up immediately, which was a big mistake.

‘’Okay,’’ a low, masculine voice said. ‘’Serious question.’’

Your pen froze mid word and you lifted your gaze, finding Niki sitting across from you like he belonged there. Elbows resting on the table, dark eyes locked on you with immovable focus.

You stared at him, putting down your pen slowly. ‘’Oh, no,’’ you doubted, straightening up as if a bomb were about to drop on you at any second. 

‘’Would you date me?’’

You stared at him completely blanky, certain you mishearded. There was no question in his tone. No hesitation. Just calm certainty, like he had already considered the options and selected the obvious one. You blinked again and looked around you, wondering if that was in fact a daydream and not reality. Maybe you casted a spell of illusion without realizing it? 

The spell stirred to life. ‘’I don't know,’’ you finally muttered. ‘’You just can’t ask me that out of nowhere!’’

His eyes sharpened, resting his chin on his hand. ‘’I just did. Let’s date.’’

‘’Niki,’’ you sighed, sending him a warning glance when he smirked at your tone. ‘’I don’t think that’s a good idea.’’ 

‘’Why not?’’

The spell tugged your tongue begging for honesty, warm and insistent, and the silence prolonged until you found how to stretch the truth. You inhaled softly, trying to collect the right words. 

‘’You look like the kind of problem I'm not really qualified for or sure I will be able to manage. Like… advanced detached emotional skills I don’t possess or want to entertain.’’

He didn’t flinch, or left, or smirked anymore. He considered your words leaning back into the chair, arms crossed, studying you like he was deciding how to make sense of what you said. 

Niki leaned forward then, forearms on the table like he was about to touch you in any second. The distance between you and him was slowly shrinking, but you felt like the walls were falling down onto your head. 

‘’How can you know that? We don’t know each other that well,’’ he explained patiently.

That was fair and he had a point. You hated that. You nodded and exhaled, unable to lie.  ‘’That’s true.’’

He waited, sensing how you were trying to expand your answer into something that made sense but it wasn't sharp and cruel. Niki’s focus didn’t waver. 

‘’I don’t know you that well,’’ you recognized, ‘’I am simply overlaying the information I have based on observational data in social interactions to form an opinion of you.’’

One corner of his mouth twitched. ‘’Observational data. Meaning you’ve been observing me.’’

‘’I mean, not on purpose or significance,’’ you explained further. ‘’And that’s not the main takeaway.’’

‘’Tell me,’’ he encouraged you, leaning even closer. ‘’What kind of problem do I look like to you? Use your data to enlighten me.’’

“You look,” you said carefully, stretching the sentence as far as it would go, “like someone who is used to getting attention without asking for it. And who doesn’t have to work very hard to keep it.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “And?”

“And,” you continued, because the spell would not let you escape halfway, “I don’t enjoy competing with other females. Especially not recreationally and emotionally. I like stable sentimental involvements.”

Niki snorted, entertained by you, clearly. ‘’I’d be an excellent boyfriend.’’

You laughed, between surprise and incredulity, it slipped so naturally out of you that you couldn't stop it. ‘’How would you know? You’ve never had a girlfriend.’’

He arched his brow. ‘’How would you know that?’’

You narrowed your eyes, taking in his challenging tone. ‘’There’s usually a different girl every weekend,” you said, far too matter-of-factly. “Statistically speaking, long-term attachment does not appear to be your preferred pattern. It’s very notable that you’re rarely alone and there's no fixed tendency on your type either.’’

But Niki didn’t look offended or insulted, or even caught, he was intrigued. ‘’Have you been keeping track?’’

Your spine straightened. ‘’Not actively. It’s more a knowledge from a passive environmental awareness situation, like… occasionally overhearing comments in the women's restroom from time to time.’’

“Environmental awareness,” he repeated. ‘’So, gossip in the women’s bathroom. That formed your opinion of me?’’

“Well, it's like noticing changes in the weather or bird migration patterns, I guess. I’m just exposing the data I gathered.’’

Niki slowly reached for your hand, his fingers brushing against yours. ‘’You’re comparing me to migratory bird patterns? That’s your angle here?’’

“I compare your social habits to recurring seasonal behavior,” you corrected quickly. ‘’Don’t spin this on me.’’

‘’So you think I’d be a bad boyfriend.’’ 

“I think,” you corrected, choosing each word with painful care, “that you give the impression of someone who enjoys options,’’ you said, honestly falling with surprising weight. And maybe a touch of vulnerability. ‘’Not the type of male to do stable emotional interactions.’’

For a moment, he didn’t deny it. “And that bothers you?”

“It doesn’t bother me in a personal capacity right now,” you responded, then sighed when the curse nudged you again. “But it would complicate things if we get hypothetically involved together.’’

The corner of Niki’s mouth curved upward, slower this time. “So you’re considering being hypothetically involved with me.”

“I am considering the hypothetical scenario in which I evaluate the feasibility of such involvement,” you clarified, aware of how ridiculous you sounded. 

His knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you moved. ‘’Mmm, I see. But you didn’t say you won’t date me, you say you didn’t know. Explain that, then.’’

You stared at him, blinking slowly, pretending you didn’t move your fingers away from his.

‘’I said exactly that I wouldn't know how to handle the problem you represent, theoretically.’’

‘’I’d let you,’’ he simply answered. ‘’Just say yes.’’

The tension between you shifted—less teasing now, more charged. 

‘’Let’s test your theory.’’ 

‘’My theory?’’

Niki played with one of your rings. ‘’Date me,’’ he proposed, ‘’find out if I’m actually a problem. Get to know me, do your research with your own data. What do you think?’’

Your heart flipped, lost connection with your brain and poured with automatic honesty. “I am… not opposed to gathering additional data under controlled circumstances to reassess my preliminary assumptions.”

‘’I like you,’’ Niki simplified, caressing your knuckles. ‘’And I wanna know you more.’’

That simple declaration sent your heart into failure, and your cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. “I find you objectively unfair,” you said, forcing steadiness into your tone. “Your face structure combined with your confidence level creates unnecessary distractions.’’

His eyes darkened slightly at that, satisfaction flickering across his features. “So that’s a yes.”

‘’It’s not a no,’’ you sighed, a little lost in the conversation. Keeping track of the truth was already hard, but doing it under Niki’s eyes and intentions was too hard. 

‘’Saturday at the frat,’’ he straightened, victory settling over him like a final move in a game only he knew they were playing. ‘’Come to the party. We’ll be alone and nobody will bother us.’’ 

‘’But—’’

But before you could say anything else, Niki stood up and walked around the table until she was standing in front of you, leaning in until your breaths mingled and you closed your mouth. He stroked your cheek and lifted your face, holding your chin, studying you closely with a knowing look.

‘’I know you're going to try to run away,’’ he said, eyes flickering to your lips. ‘’I know you talk the way you do because you're trying to prolong the truth. I know you want this because you're not really pushing me away,’’ he murmured, his thumb rubbing your lower lip absently. ‘’You look at me the way I look at you, and it's driving me crazy, baby.’’ 

You were out of words. Niki’s gaze returned to your eyes, satisfied at the effect he had on you. He stood up, full of triumph and smiled at you, he actually fully smiled, and you just stared at Niki like you were seeing the sun for the first time.

‘’We’re dating now,’’ he mumbled, giving you one last look. ‘’And if I don't see you there, I'll come looking for you. Choose wisely,’’ he advised, already stepping back.

And that's how Niki left, leaving you stunned and recalculating in a corner of the library, your heart pounding and your cheeks flushed. 

And somehow, in a way you didn't quite understand, the day ended with you officially dating Nishimura Riki.

The fraternity house was already shaking by the time you went through the door. It wasn't surprising, because everyone wanted to be there. Nobody in their right mind would miss the chance to get close to one of the guys, to mingle with them, to get their attention. The chances of fun and craziness were too high; everyone knew about the reputation of that frat's parties. 

The air was thick with the sweet and sour aroma of alcohol, juice mixed with vodka and beer, bottles and glasses piling up everywhere. The music was so loud it pounded in your chest, the flashing lights made your footsteps blurry, and people were everywhere talking, laughing, kissing, dancing. It was the kind of party everyone would tear apart piece by piece the next day and gossip about everything that happened, because it was the kind of party where something was always happening.

You knew that your best friend was probably entangled with Jungwon in some corner of the party. You avoided touching any drop of alcohol, because adding that to a spell powered by truth was the worst idea in the world, even though that what you wanted most at that moment was a drink. 

You felt as if you had willingly walked into the lion's den, and well, you had. There didn't seem to be any safe zone; your eyes were constantly scanning for Niki to appear. This was because of the collection of accurate data, you lied to yourself. That's why you dressed so daringly. A short skirt that showed off your legs, loose hair, overly glossy lips, a long-sleeved top with a neckline that dropped just enough to show your collarbones.

It was absolutely not because of him. And then, you felt it.

It was a shift in the air, a tiny recognition of something about to happen. The weight of somebody’s attention, the feeling of being watched. You turned your face over your shoulder and locked eyes with Niki across the room, near the stairs, where he was watching you intently. 

He was surrounded by friends and other people you didn't know. When his eyes noticed you, it was as if his expression changed completely, fading into something focused and determined, satisfied. His eyes traveled over you slowly, unhurriedly, like a caress; taking in your skirt, your legs, your bare shoulders, the soft, exposed skin. You breath caught under his intense gaze, instinct kicking in from feeling like a prey. 

You turned around and blended into the crowd with ease, trying to control the mild panic and excitement coursing through your veins. You knew he was still there, keeping a close eye on you, and that running was a terrible idea. Because Niki loved a chase. You knew you were delaying the inevitable, buying more time than you had, testing limits just because you could.

You wondered if he was still following you. Wouldn't he get distracted? Wouldn't he get bored and rather pick another girl? Would he get annoyed? 

At some point you gave up and your fingers circled a plastic cup with something sweet and strong that warmed your throat and made you immediately regret it because of how good it tasted, how easy it was to drink it. You didn't know exactly where in the house you were, but it wasn't the heart of the party, it wasn't packed with people, and the music wasn't as loud.

A hand wrapped around your wrist, and you didn't need to turn around to know who it was. His thumb caressed the spot where your pulse quickened, his chest pressed against your back just enough for his breath to brush against your hair.

His mouth brushed against your ear, sending hundreds of shivers down your neck. ‘’Still running from me?’’ 

You barely turned your face, as his grip loosened from your wrist to your waist, where both hands squeezed it tightly, as if he feared you might escape. ‘’I was strategically relocating.’’

Niki laughed shortly, the sound against your ear. ‘’You saw me and tried to escape.’’

The spell cursed through your mouth before you could register it. ‘’Yes.’’

His body pressed closer to yours, making you hold your breath. ‘’Why?’’

You swallowed, searching for the right words, absentmindedly licking your lips. ‘’I wanted to know if you would follow me,’’ you admitted.

He shifted, turning your body carefully so you could face him fully. Niki’s hands were still on your waist, his touch more relaxed, but not less possessive. Up close, his eyes seemed darker, wilder, dilated under the flickering lights.

“You wore this on purpose,” he said, gaze dipping briefly to your collarbones before returning to her face. ‘’For me.’’

‘’I wore it because it's socially required to wear clothes at public events.’’

His thumbs caressed and pressed the skin of your hip, shaking his head. ‘’Not good enough. Try again and be honest.’’

The spell pushed you, taking control. ‘’I wore it because I knew you’d be here,’’ you responded before you could wrap the thought into something safer and confusing. ‘’And I wanted you to look.’’

His jaw tightened, not in anger but in restraint. ‘’You’re starting a dangerous game,’’ he warned you, voice warm and husky. ‘’Careful.’’

You shook your head, staring at him. ‘’I’m not playing,’’ you frowned, spilling truthfully. 

One of Niki’s hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you flush against him, deliberated. The air shifted around you, your hands resting on his chest and not moving him away, too blinded by his eyes to care if anyone in the crowd saw you.

“You’re driving me insane,” he admitted, barely audible.

“You like it,” you replied, and the tremor beneath the honesty was too evident. 

His gaze flicked to your mouth. “For the record,” Niki said, “I’m about to kiss you.”

Your heart bounced, melted, reformed, and continued bouncing against your ribs. Maybe it was the spell, the drink you had, or maybe you just didn't want to fight against honesty anymore, but you smiled a little. 

‘’If you don't I might, Nishimura,’’ you lightly threaten him.

The small distance that existed vanished like a whisper, slowly, the tension that had been built up for a long time slowly letting go, something bigger entered. He kissed you as if he had waited too long to do so and didn't want to waste another second.

It wasn't desperate or clumsy, but decisive, as if he knew exactly where and how to strike. You melted into a kiss almost immediately, letting him do as he pleased with you. He made his way into your mouth and explored it slowly, savoring the strawberry and vodka from before and your own taste. Both of your breaths caught in your throats as neither of you let go, too immersed in the kiss for breathing to be a priority. 

Your hands tangled in the honey-blonde hair at the nape of his neck, your nails slowly sliding down his skin to his neck, making him hiss into the kiss, his hands touching you more freely, exploring, daring to slip inside your skirt.

You had no idea how, but between a kiss and a breath, more kisses and muffled moans against each other's mouths, at some point your back hit a door. Niki opened it, pulled you both into a room, and cornered you against the door again, closing it with a click you barely registered. His mouth went down to yours again, one hand on your throat and the other on your jaw, as if that way he could hold you down to devour your soul in peace.

When both had to separate again because their lungs couldn't take any more, you two were a bit of a mess. Niki's full lips were swollen from kisses, barely colored by your gloss, his hair a little disheveled, eyes shining with barely contained desire. You weren't looking much better either, your skirt twisted and wrinkled from how many times Niki had grabbed and crumpled it, your cheeks flushed, and your lip marked by Niki's bite.

Niki kissed you again, but this time more gently, first your lips, then the corner of your mouth, your throat, the line of your exposed collarbones. He turned you both gently, walking into the room while continuing to kiss and gently suck on your skin, making you sigh and hold onto him, until you laid on a bed and a little bit of sense got to your fuzzy brain. 

Only then you fully looked at your surroundings. 

The light was dim, with a lamp in the corner casting a warm glow. Sneakers were arranged against the wall, some everyday shoes and some basketball shoes. Hanging from a hook near the closet was a jacket with a number and Niki's last name embroidered on the back.

You tilted your neck to get a better look and Niki interpreted it as you were giving him more space, smiling against your neck and continuing the trail of slow, wet kisses, making himself room between your legs. 

You blinked, still finding details to look at. ‘’This is your room,’’ you said.

Niki stopped briefly, looked at you and then placed a kiss on your lips. ‘’Welcome.’’

‘’This feels like important information,’’ you arched a brow, curious. 

‘’We’re busy,’’ he replied simply, leaning again to press another kiss to your mouth. Your pulse quickened, and you let him distract you with his mouth, wrapping your legs not so timidly around his waist. His lips trailed down the spine of your throat, biting the sensitive spots that made you dig your fingers into his shoulders, breathless.

Your eyes opened for a second, but it was enough to notice something at the other end of the room. It was a medium-sized cabinet hanging against the wall, made of wood and glass, a display case. Inside, carefully arranged under warm strip lighting were small collectible figures— you knew them too well. Cute, round-headed, soft features, expressive.

Hirono.

Not one. Not two. Several. Arranged too neatly to be random, they were all different, but aligned according to the collection they belonged to. It was a curated exhibition. 

The stunned gasp you let out was too loud and made Niki froze for a second, looking up from your neck. ‘’What?’’

You couldn't control the little laugh that bubbled up from you, a mixture of disbelief, excitement, and delight. ‘’You have Hirono figures!’’

Something too interesting happened. Niki blinked, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear from you. For the first time he seemed hesitant, as if he had been caught up in a confusing crime, but at the same time, something else flashed across his face... a touch of shyness. 

He cleared his throat. ‘’What?’’

You twisted slightly in his hold to point at the display case, smiling. ‘’They’re in a diorama, aren’t they? You arranged them by series. The right ones are from the Mime set and the middle ones are,’’ you squinting your eyes, leaning in, ‘’Little Mischief. Right?’’

Niki stared at you, eyes glowing. ‘’You know them?’’ He asked slowly.

‘’Of course,’’ you looked at him incredulously. ‘’I collect them too.’’

He stepped back a little to get a better look at you, holding himself above you. ‘’You’re lying.’’

‘’I can’t lie,’’ you replied automatically, too focused on the figures to notice the slip. ‘’They even look like you, Nishimura.’’

His eyebrows shot up and he snorted. ‘’They do not.’’

‘’They do,’’ you insisted with a laugh. ‘’Look at them! Their eyes and little nose. Moody, slightly frowning, probably judging everyone internally.’’

He stared at you for a moment, as if debating whether he should be offended or not. ‘’I do not look like a Hirono figure.’’

‘’The resemblance it’s very accurate,’’ you defended your theory. 

He looked back at the figures and then at you, something unreadable flickering across his expression. No one noticed those figures when they entered his room. Not the guys on the team or his friends; maybe Jungwon took a picture of them once but didn't ask any further questions about it. Definitely not the girls who came and went and whose names he didn't bother to remember afterward. 

But you did, without a second thought, without trying to impress him. “You’re the first person who’s ever said anything about them,” he blurted, before he could stop himself.

The confession floated between the two of you, as soft as the muffled music that could be heard from below. You felt your face slowly lose its smile, your expression becoming gentler. 

‘’They're arranged as if you cared about them, as if you'd thought it carefully. Of course I noticed.’’ 

He closed the small space and kissed you once again, while his fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face. ‘’What am I gonna do with you?’’

‘’You’re the one who dragged me here.’’

‘’You talking about my collection distracted me more than necessary.’’

You smiled a little. ‘’They’re cute.’’

He shook his head, stealing another kiss. ‘’You’re cuter.’’

The spell sparkled but this time you didn’t feel it like a threat or a trap, just letting it take its course. ‘’You look unfairly attractive when you’re flustered,” you observed. 

‘’I’m not flustered.’’

‘’Liar,’’ you scoffed. 

Niki huffed a quiet laugh and kissed you again, slowly. His hands slipped back under your skirt, and you didn't stop him, letting his palms cover and caress your thighs as he devoured your mouth like someone who had all the time in the world. You wrapped your arms around his neck and let each kiss melt you more and more, until the migratory patterns of birds no longer mattered to you, nor did the spell, letting Niki convince you with every touch that he wasn't a problem you could easily run away from.

Maybe it was because your lungs had their daily dose of suffering when they made you run ten laps around the field, or maybe the concussion from days ago was a delayed effect, but you were just too dizzy.

Niki's body pushed you further against the wall, as if the way you were pressed together wasn't enough and he needed more. It wasn't a soft kiss, but the kind of kisses Niki gave where you were convinced he wanted to steal the air from your lungs and replace it with him. 

The bastard knew exactly which buttons to push, his warm hand cradling your jaw while the other one was inside your shorts, long fingers buried deeply in your dripping cunt. His thumb gently stroked your cheek, in that way he knew it would melt you too quickly. It did.

When he pulled back you were too disoriented to remember where you were; hidden from stares under the stands in broad daylight, feeling like two highschoolers furiously making out before getting caught. Your heart was pounding as if you had made ten more laps, moans stuck in your throat trying to keep them at bay, but the way Niki was fingering you was merciless.

‘’Come watch my training,’’ he murmured against your ear, lips kissing the sport under it. His fingers found the spot inside you that made you whimper, stroking it over and over. ‘’I want to see you there, sitting all pretty and mine. Where I can look at you.’’

He had tried to convince you for several days, and you had to admit the man had a certain charm that made you hesitate. Maybe it was the amazing orgasms. Once you had almost agreed, but when a girl you didn't know greeted you and asked what you did to get Niki and if it was true that he had a huge cock like his friends, you panicked a little and abandoned the idea. The spell was coming to an end and you weren't going to give in.

‘’If you don’t,’’ he added, voice dripping into something dangerous and playful at the same time, ‘’I won’t kiss you again. Or worse.’’

You blinked at him, cunt clenching around his fingers, cheeks flushed. ‘’O-or worse?’’ 

Niki hummed and nodded, fucking you faster until you gasped against his lips and he swallowed every moan of yours while you cum, holding you as your thighs trembled and crushed his hand between your legs. 

He deliberately brushed his fingers against your clit one last time as he withdrew his hand and brought them to his mouth, sucking your juices while continuing to look at you. Niki didn’t say anything else, just kissed you, so fondly and threatening at the same time, and walked away towards the field like nothing had happened. Wearing an eating-shit smirk, whistling softly to himself. 

You stared at him, recalculating your entire existence, just as you had from the moment Niki decided to be a part of your life weeks ago. 

You told yourself that maybe it was the afterglow of a good orgasm, or maybe you just had nothing better to do, or perhaps a part of you really wanted to watch Niki training, all sweaty and focused. The day felt like it was about to explode into a storm at any moment, the sky gray and covered with thick, threatening clouds waiting for the perfect opportunity. There was hardly anyone watching the boys, just a few girls a few steps up in the stands— Minju was there.

Buttercup as well.

Minju had grown fond of her chickens and had bought accessories to take them everywhere. Her most recent purchase was a backpack with a hard, clear plastic cover that was actually for walking cats, but the label didn't specify that it couldn't be used for chickens.

She was leaning forward, with lovestruck eyes and a silly, dreamy expression, watching Jungwon run. Inside the plaster carrier Buttercup was dozing off, relaxed and round. Your best friend noticed your hesitation and smiled at you, tapping the spot next to her with an expression that said, "you better sit down or I'm capable of tackling you to the ground if you take one step back."

You sat. 

The world didn’t combust instantly. Minju beamed and turned her attention back to the field. You gradually relaxed and leaned forward as well, resting your chin on your hand as you openly watched Niki. He had just finished a drill and was talking to Heeseung (who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but running there, clearly struggling) (he was the last victim to be convinced to join the open class), when his eyes flickered up to the stands and landed on you. 

You swore you saw his pupils dilating. Something in his expression changed and his smile was slow. Darker, satisfied, making your stomach flip and your pussy throb. But it didn't stop there. Niki was focused on training, of course, but every now and then he'd glance at you, as if making sure you were still there. You met his gaze each time, even smiling slightly and enjoying the way it seemed to affect him. 

You'd discovered that this was a two-way street, and that Niki, the unattainable and serious Niki, was capable of getting flustered. Like when he asked you which Hironos you collected and if he could see them, and which one was your favorite. Or the time you just kissed his neck and brushed his hair back without thinking about it too much, and Niki blinked and then melted against you.

The training session ended and the boys scattered everywhere, some going for water, others lying on the ground to stretch, but not Niki. He walked straight to you, determined eyes that held you still in your place, your pulse spiking with anticipation. 

He kissed you in front of everybody, hands cradling your face.

Minju gasped, you swore Buttercup made a similar sound, other peoples gasps reached your ears as well, but honestly it could have been a trick of your mind. Nothing existed around you but you and Niki.

He pulled back enough to grin at you, eyes soft and bright with a touch of mischief. ‘’Hi, baby.’’

You blinked, trying to gather your thoughts. ‘’Uh… Hi.’’

‘’Ready to go?’’

You nodded, still a little hazy and flustered. He took your hand, pulled you up, grabbed his bag, threw it over his shoulder, and got you out of there in less than two minutes. He also ignored Jay throwing kisses at him while leaving. 

Niki decided to break the silence first, your hand in his gently swaying, intertwined. ‘’There’s a party tonight at Jake’s,’’ he started, stealing a glance at you. ‘’Jay’s pretending we don't notice, but he wants to get a girl's attention.’’

You arched a brow, interested. ‘’Is he trying to set a trap there or what?’’

‘’That’s what I thought,’’ he huffed a laugh, drawing you closer to him. ‘’He’s been weird lately. Restless. Anyway, Jake wants us to keep an eye on the party. He know how things can get.’’ 

You gently bumped your shoulder against his, trying not to smile and failing. ‘’Is this your way of asking me to come with you?’’

‘’This is an opportunity for you to continue collecting new data to establish your patterns. Or have I already convinced you that I'm not a problem?’’

‘’Hmm. You are... doing an acceptable job in proving your case considering my prior judgment based on social environmental observation. Maybe you'll give me back my sunglasses too, Nishimura?’’

‘’They will remain my hostage until you accept that I was right and that I can be a good boyfriend.’’

You didn't correct him and Niki noticed.

Jake's house was exactly the chaos you imagined it to be, maybe a little smaller and more contained than the frat parties, but no less alive and vibrant for it. Before you could go inside and find Niki, something small and black, furry, jumped out from the side and meowed at you. The cat blinked slowly at you, and you tilted your head, studying it, feeling an energy emanating from it that stopped you before you could pet its head. You chuckled softly in disbelief, glancing at the cat and then back at Jake's house as if you were mentally running through the odds.

‘’I can’t believe it,’’ you mumbled, staring at the knowing eyes of the cat. 

‘’Welcome, dear,’’ the cat purred. ‘’I’m Minhyung and you're the one with the truth spell, aren't you?’’

‘’Unfortunately.’’

The cat meowed and laughed, shaking his head. You had to admit, it was too cute and fluffy to even care that it was probably an ancient soul, so of course you petted his ears softly. 

‘’Aish, that punishment was too much. Anyway, your boy’s inside. It’s a house full of witches tonight,’’ Minhyung observed, tilting his head so he could get more pets to his ears and neck.

You entered the house, greeted by loud pulsing music and drunken laughter. You recognized some faces among the dancing crowd, the dim light and the smell of liquor, like Jake taking a girl upstairs and Jungwon and Minju huddled in a corner devouring each other's faces. You slowly made your way through the party, not quite knowing where you were going or where to find Niki, your body trembling with anticipation. It was impossible not to.

In the short time you and he had spent together, Niki had done an incredibly good job training your body. Maybe it was the slow making out sessions in bed, or the way he buried his face between your legs like an starved man, or the intense way he looked at you sometimes, as if he were thinking about throwing you to the ground and fucking you until you couldn't take any more.

You just wanted to find him, sit him down on the nearest surface you could find, and ride him while you kissed him. And maybe then watch something while spooning.

Your steps led you to the almost deserted backyard and you pursed your lips, examining your surroundings without much success, when a hand encircled your wrist and you were cornered against the wall.

Niki placed one hand beside your head and the other settled comfortably on your waist. His eyes drifted to your lips, slowly and deliberately, as if he were thinking about how to kiss you.

‘’You took your sweet time,’’ he said, tilting your chin up. ‘’I was wondering if maybe you backed out.’’

You rolled your eyes. ‘’I said I would come. Why, Nishimura? Would you have missed me?’’

‘’Yes.’’

His thumb brushed your hip and you felt it everywhere, staring at his full lips while he was closing the distance and—

Your phone started ringing with the most annoying alarm ever. 

‘’Wait—wait— let me turn it off—’’

Niki exhaled though his nose, amused. ‘’Seriously?’’

You frowned a little. ‘’I don't even remember setting an ala—’’

You glanced at the screen, blinking completely shocked like you quite didn’t understand what was written on it. 

FULL LUNAR CYCLE COMPLETED!!!

You gasped loud, dramatic, so loud that startled Niki.

He looked at you urgently. ‘’What?’’

You stared at the words like it was some divine intervention. You let out a shriek and jumped on your place, laughing. 

‘’Oh my God!— OH MY GOD!’’

You threw your arms around Niki’s neck so suddenly that he catched you firmly to stop both of you from falling over. You were screaming and laughing and Niki laughed too, more startled and confused than anything, automatically wrapping his arms around your waist to steady you. 

‘’It’s over! I can't believe it! I did it!’’ You laughed again, a little hysterical. ‘’It’s over, it’s over!’’

He blinked down at you, the pure face of confusion. ‘’What is?’’

‘’I survived the whole lunar cycle! It’s over! I’m free!’’

You were practically bouncing in his arms, pulling back only to grab his face and grin at him like you just won millions. 

‘’A month,’’ you started, smiling too wide. ‘’An entire lunar cycle! made it!’’

Niki stared at you, arching a brow. ‘’Lunar cycle?’’ He repeated slowly. ‘’...Is this about your period or something?’’

You didn’t even hear him, skipping away from him and spinning around the yard with your arms in the air. ‘’I can shut up! I can lie! I have options!’’

He watched you like you officially lost your mind.

You approached him again and took his hands, jumping with a smile. ‘’Do you have any idea how hard is to live without lying even once?’’

Niki’s eyebrow shoots up. ‘’You haven’t been lying this whole time?’’

You beamed at him. ‘’I haven’t!’’

He squinted at you, nodding. ‘’That… explains a lot.’’ 

‘’I’m free,’’ you whispered dramatically. ‘’It’s over.’’

Niki stared at you for a whole moment and then, very slowly, he smiled. Not a smug smirk or his teasing grin. A soft, pretty, full smile. Warm and completely smitten by you. 

You were still dancing in tiny, excited circles close to him when Niki reached out, grabbed you by the waist and pulled you flush against his body in one smooth motion.

‘’I have no idea what’s happening,’’ he admitted quietly, brushing his nose with yours. ‘’But you look too adorable to care.’’

He kissed you, deeply, sighing into the kiss like he just found the place where he belonged. Niki held you against him, hands firm and possessive, like he was anchoring you to him. The party noises blurred into something in the back of your mind and you melted against him, fingers curling into his shirt. 

When he finally separated from your lips, a thread of saliva joined them both, which he slowly licked from your mouth. He rested his forehead against yours, his hands wandering further down until he grabbed your ass.

‘’So,’’ he murmured, staring at your eyes, ‘’does this mean you’re going to start lying to me now?’’

You smiled, slow and seductive, stealing a short kiss from him. ‘’That,’’ you whispered sweetly, ‘’depends.’’

His eyes darkened. ‘’On what?’’

You tilted your head, pretending to think about it while biting your lip. Niki’s gaze followed the movement. 

‘’On how good you’re gonna fuck me tonight.’’ 

Niki promised himself that Jake would never find out, despite all their years of friendship, that he used his parents' empty room to have sex with you in the middle of a party. But it was so fucking worth it. 

Maybe you had bitten off more than you could swallow because Niki took your challenge too seriously and you were paying for it with orgasms that didn't let you string a single thought together, your body simply reacting to his will. His mouth was closed over your nipples, alternating between sucking one and then the other until they were red and tender as you moaned and your vision blurred with a second orgasm incoming, his fingers pushed inside your soaked wet pussy. 

‘’That’s it,’’ he mumbled quietly around your nipple, sucking it again while you arched and moaned. ‘’Just take it, baby. Cum again for me, let me stretch this pretty pussy for my cock.’’ 

You gasped from overstimulation, listening to the wet noises your pussy made each time Niki thrusted his fingers inside fast and hard, clinging to his hair and pushing it towards your tits, Niki growled and sucked your nipples roughly, swirling his tongue. You came with a muffled scream and whimpered when Niki didn’t stop, your pussy tightening around his fingers as if you didn't want to let them go.

He chuckled darkly, staring at you completely fascinated at the state you were. Panting, teary, marked everywhere by his mouth; red hickeys blooming all over your neck down your chest, to the pretty and soft skin of your breasts, nipples swollen from having sucked them for so long. So prettily destroyed by him, and it was just the beginning.

‘’Fuck,’’ you whispered, a trembling mess, tears failing from pleasure. You sobbed a short laugh. ‘’You’re such a menace, Nishimura.’’

Niki straightened with a proud smirk and began working his belt, your eyes immediately fixed on the tent in his pants. You licked your lips and replaced his hands, opening his pants and pulling down his boxers until his hard cock sprang out, hard and veiny. Too big. 

‘’No way.’’

‘’What?’’

‘’It’s… so big,’’ you breathed in short gasps, encircling his cock with both hands and pumping it slowly, making him moan. You looked at it from under your eyelashes, rubbing the tip with your thumb, spreading the precum leaking. You were a girl open to accepting challenges, but this worried you a little. ‘’I don’t think it’ll fit, Niki.’’

Niki simply smiled smugly, his dark eyes filled with desire. He flipped you onto the bed, making you yelp because of how sudden and abrupt it was. Your pussy fluttered and a new gush of wetness soaked you, feeling his hands wandering through your body, gripping and squeezing your waist, your thighs, the curve of your ass. 

‘’It won’t fit,’’ you repeated shakily, even as you let Niki position you however he wanted. Face pushed down, ass up, your back arched so prettily that made him grunt and spank you. You whimpered and you turned your head, trying to look at him. ‘’Are you listening to me?’’

‘’Of course I’m listening,’’ he said, positioning himself behind you and caressing your ass with his cock, gently rubbing against your skin. He slipped his cock between your folds and began to rub it lazily back and forth making you feel how hard it was, how big it was. You dripped all over him with a moan each time the head of his cock grazed your throbbing clit. ‘’Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make it fit just fine. You’re ready for me, you trust me, right?’’

‘’Y-yeah,’’ you moaned, feeling the tip of his cock lining up to your hole, barely pushing. Niki grabbed your hips, held you down onto the bed and slowly guided his cock inside you. ‘’I do.’’

The head of his cock pushed against your entrance, forcing its way in little by little and stretching you completely. You gasped and opened your legs wider as he pushed his cock inch by inch, making you whimper at its thickness. Fuck. You had never felt so full, so stretched out and open, a loud moan leaving without you could control yourself. 

‘’Relax for me, pretty girl,’’ he said quietly, still keeping the slow but unforgiving pace. You tried not to tense up, but everything was both too much and too little, gently sniffing against the bed as your pussy tightened around Niki's cock. ‘’Just like that, taking me so well.’’

Niki hissed softly, feeling your cunt wrapping so tight his cock was the hottest thing he ever saw; how your pretty, wet hole creamed his length. 

‘’You’re doing so well, baby,’’ he whispered, hands holding you in place, big hands caressing your waist, your ass. ‘’Opening your pretty pussy for me, letting me fill you. You can feel it, don’t you? How deep it goes?’’

You nodded, drool dripping into the pillow as coherent thoughts left your head and all you could feel was his cock inside you, making you clench so hard around him it made him moan. Niki's thrusts were slow and deep, and you swore it made you feel him all the way to your stomach. He was buried too deep inside you, each push of his thick cock stretching you further until the pleasure was too much. 

His pace quickened, his cock sliding in more easily because of how wet you were and how he had opened you up. ‘’Look at you,’’ he sneered, giving your ass a firm squeeze. ‘’Taking my cock so well, greedy pussy’s sucking me in,’’ he moaned, low and dirty. ‘’Fucking take it like a good girl.’’

Your moans grew louder and your eyes rolled back in your head as he began to fuck you faster, pounding you hard from behind. You cried from pleasure into the mattress, your pussy tightened and dripped around him, milking him with each thrust that went so far you were sure his tip was grazing your cervix. Niki was fucking you so hard that the bed moved, hitting the wall softly and you could’t do anything but to take it, a moaning mess. 

‘’Not so mouthy now, right?’’ He scoffed, giving you another spank, making you whimper and squeeze his cock harder. ‘’That’s what I fucking thought,’’ he chuckled, burying himself into your cunt faster, with a low groan. 

‘’Niki,’’ you moaned, barely able to form a sentence, not feeling anything but his thick cock and his ruthless pace, the way he was filling you. ‘’Please— I’m gonn—’’

‘’Ah, ah, not until I say so,’’ he warned you, laughing when you whined and sobbed when another spank landed on your ass. ‘’Not until you fucking say this pussy is mine. C’mon, baby, don’t keep me waiting. Say it.’’ 

‘’I-it’s—,’’ you moaned again, cunt stretched out and throbbing around him, every thrust sending you over the edge. He hit your g-spot over and over, making you tremble. ‘’It’s yours—’’ 

‘’That’s right,’’ he mumbled, slamming into your harder, deeper and desesperate; sweat dripping from his temple. ‘’Say I’m not a fucking problem.’’

‘’Niki!’’ You sobbed softly, hardly holding back from shattering. He just hummed darkly, almost amused. You shook your head quickly and moaned again, too gone to even care to lie, your pussy throbbing around his cock, needy and desperate. ‘’You’re not a problem—’’

‘’Cum for me, baby, milk my fucking cock,’’ he ordered, voice rough and husky going straight to your core. The pleasure was so intense that once you reached the peak, it simply destroyed you, leaving you trembling and broken. You were too full, overstimulated, squeezing his cock as your climax coursed through you, leaving you a whimpering mess. ‘’I’m filling this pretty hole until it overflows,’’ he promised, voice used and hoarse. ‘’Beg for it.’’

You looked at Niki from the pillow, eyelashes with unshed tears and a completely spaced out expression from being fucked too good, cheeks flushed and makeup smudged. You blinked slowly and licked your lips, milking his cock with the spasms of your cunt.

‘’Don’t pull out,’’ you gasped softly, reaching for him. Niki didn’t doubt it for a second, holding your hand while slamming into your pussy almost brutally. ‘’I want it inside—please—fill me up,’’ you begged with a broken moan. ‘’Mark my pussy with you cum—’’

Niki cursed under his breath, railing you almost at a punishing pace, using your hole until you were both moaning with raw desperation. You never felt anything so intense before and your body couldn't handle it, making you come for the fourth time with a scream as Niki buried himself deep inside you, coming with a hoarse moan. 

You collapse onto the bed, your knees giving away, your whole body trembling and sensitive. Every part of you was throbbing, used and spent. Niki spilled his load inside your cunt and you moaned softly at the feeling, flooding your womb with hot ropes of cum, making you feel so full. His body covered yours and you could feel his racing heart in your back, staying inside you as you both tried to catch your breath. 

You laid there, enjoying his weight against you, the sensation of his cock filling you, and his hot cum slowly escaping from your hole. Niki moved a little and you moaned, tensing up a little, but he gently silenced you, slowly kissing your neck until you relaxed again. 

‘’Shhh, it’s fine,’’ he said quietly, coaxing you with more soft kisses. ‘’You’re okay?’’

You nodded and sobbed a little, still holding onto his hand. Your mind felt… flying somewhere. A wave of need filling you that you didn't understand, only knowing that you wanted his warmth surrounding you. ‘’Don’t leave.’’

‘’I won’t,’’ he reassured you, slipping out of your cunt carefully. You hissed because of the sensitivity and Niki kissed your shoulder, silently apologizing. ‘’C’mere.’’

Niki settled on his side and pulled you close to his chest, studying your face while drying the wetness from your cheeks with his thumb unhurriedly, fondly. You snuggled into his chest and sighed, too drunk on orgasms to even think, just needing him closer. Niki kissed your forehead, lips lingering there, arms wrapping securely around you, making you completely content and warm. Heart fluttering happily, but that was another thing. 

‘’So? You’re gonna start lying to me?’’

You chuckled tiredly, smiling to yourself with your eyes closed. ‘’No if you keep the good work, Nishimura.’’

‘’I told you I’d be an excellent boyfriend.’’