heyy there, you can call me rai or xyne 🤍 and welcome to my little corner on the internet! 🌟✨ i’m excited to say that i finally decided to post on here after months of debating. english isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for mistakes.
anyways, don’t be shy! feel free to send me requests 📝
✨ update: this blog will now be just for REBLOGS! my old one-shots will stay here as an archive, but I’ve moved my writing to other blogs so it’s more organized:
- Two best friends go on a budget trip to Japan, only to accidentally book a love hotel for their entire stay. What starts as laughter and harmless fun slowly turns into lingering touches, stolen glances, and undeniable tension—until one night changes everything, and they’re forced to confront feelings they’ve been hiding for far too long.
tags: explicit sexual content, consensual sex, multiple rounds, oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), filming with consent, mirror sex, semi-public setting, overstimulation, light possessiveness, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, breast fixation, shower/jacuzzi sex
wc: 11,900
rie's note: this was from last year>< so expect errors ahead! enjoy the ride! like,reblogs, and FEEDBACKS 👉🏻🥹👈🏻are highly appreciated :3 added more scenes hence the lil different writing style heh
You were halfway through your iced americano when Park Sunghoon slid into the seat across from you with the kind of urgency only someone who forgot to buy concert tickets would have.
“I did it,” he said, slightly breathless. “I found the cheapest possible hotel in Tokyo for five nights. I’m talking dirt-cheap.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And by ‘cheapest’ you mean we’ll be sharing a closet with a raccoon family or—?”
“No, no. This place looks fine. Clean. Themed. Cute. I think the rooms are based on trains or something.”
You blinked at him. “Trains?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged, like that explained everything. “It’s called ‘Fantasy Express.’ Kind of a vibe, right?”
“…Doesn’t that sound like a porn parody of the Shinkansen?”
Sunghoon gave you a blank look. “You said budget. I delivered. Be grateful.”
You snorted and took a sip of your drink. “Right. This better not end with me cuddling you for warmth in a windowless shoebox.”
He grinned. “Is that a threat or a promise, bestie?”
You flipped him off, laughing. But deep down, you were buzzing with excitement — not just because of the trip, but because it had been years since you and Sunghoon got away together.
After college, everything changed. Jobs, time zones, relationships that fizzled out before they even began. But Sunghoon was constant. He was the one person who could make you laugh even when you were crying into your broken laptop at 2 a.m. He was the voice note at midnight, the “I made too much ramen, come over,” the comfort in chaos.
So when the two of you finally managed to book this long-overdue trip to Japan, it felt like pressing pause on real life. No deadlines. No drama. Just the two of you, trains, street food, and maybe — if the stars aligned — a little karaoke.
You’d been talking about it since your second year in college. A pinky promise made over shared takoyaki from a food stall on your campus lawn.
“One day, we’ll go. Just you and me. Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka. A no-plan plan.”
You remembered that promise because Sunghoon never broke his.
Which is why you didn’t question it when he said he’d handle the hotel. And flights. And a few “must-see” locations, because even though you called it a “no-plan plan,” you both knew you were the chaotic one.
The night before your flight, Sunghoon came over to help you pack. In reality, he just sat on your bed, eating your snacks and judging your underwear choices.
“Why do you need seven pairs for five days?” he asked, mouth full of chips.
“In case I fall into a river. Or sweat. Or get possessed and pee myself. I don’t know, leave me alone.”
He laughed and reached over to zip your suitcase, fingers brushing yours for a second too long.
Neither of you mentioned it.
The flight was smooth. You watched a rom-com, he watched anime. You fell asleep on his shoulder. He didn’t move.
When you landed in Tokyo, everything felt surreal — the bright signs, the clean air, the sense that something new was about to happen.
The train ride to the hotel was quiet. You scrolled through Instagram while Sunghoon triple-checked the hotel address on Google Maps.
“We’re almost there,” he said, pointing to a small tucked-away building near the corner of a quiet street.
It looked decent. Small. Cozy. A glowing pink sign above the entrance read:
“Welcome to FANTASY EXPRESS — All Aboard the Love Line!”
You stared at it. Then at him.
“Hoon.”
“Yeah?”
“…Did you just book us into a love hotel?”
Sunghoon blinked. Looked back up at the sign. Back at you. “…No?” he tried, voice cracking halfway through. You deadpanned. “This is literally vibrating with sex energy.”
“I thought it was themed!”
“It is. The theme is fucking.”
He dropped his suitcase. “I swear on everything holy, I didn’t know. I just thought it was quirky. It said ‘train carriage rooms’ and had cute colors!”
You stared at him, unblinking. “You booked us into a love hotel. For five nights.”
A silence.
And then, slowly, the two of you burst into uncontrollable laughter — loud, ugly, bent-over laughter as passersby gave you weird looks.
Sunghoon wiped a tear from his eye. “Guess we’re really going on a ride.”
You shoved his shoulder, still laughing. “Idiot.”
The door slid open with a hiss, revealing the room Sunghoon had confidently reserved for five full nights.
You took one look inside and immediately stopped.
“…You’re joking.”
“Nope,” Sunghoon said in a flat voice, already sounding like he regretted every choice he’d ever made.
There were train handles hanging from the ceiling.
The walls had digital screens showing looped footage of Japanese countryside rolling past at high speed.
A faux train announcement played in the background every few minutes: “Next stop… pleasure.”
You turned slowly toward him. “Sunghoon.”
“Okay, wait—just hear me out.”
You stepped in and did a slow, horrified turn.
There was a chrome pole right in the middle of the room.
The bed looked like it was upholstered with actual train seats, complete with seat belts and tray tables. And worst of all, the mirrored ceiling had a blinking LED banner that read:
🚨 “ALL ABOARD — NONSTOP EXPRESS” 🚨
You gaped. “So its really is a love hotel.”
“No it’s not! …Okay maybe. Technically. But—look, I didn’t know! I thought it was just themed!”
“You thought this was a railway-themed budget capsule, and not a sex train hotel?!”
“I didn’t read that far down the listing, okay?! It was cheap and looked… clean! Plus the review said ‘lots of amenities!’”
“Sunghoon. There’s a vending machine for underwear's and condoms next to the door.”
He paused. Looked. “…Okay, I’ll give you that one. You sighed, dragging your suitcase in anyway. “We are going to get diseases just by existing here.”
Sunghoon followed behind sheepishly, dragging his bag. “You know, in a different light, this place is kind of hilarious.”
You turned to him and blinked. “We’re literally sleeping in a porn set.” “A very affordable porn set.”
You flopped dramatically onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling mirror.
He was right. It was funny. And the more you looked at the blinking lights, the mood lighting, and the suggestively placed towel basket beside the bed, the harder it was to stop laughing.
You both ended up bent over, wheezing from laughter as the fake train announcement repeated:
“Passengers, please hold on… for your own safety.”
Ten Minutes Later
“…Wait,” you muttered from the bathroom doorway. “Is that a jacuzzi?”
Sunghoon looked up from his phone. “A what?”
You pointed. “There’s a jacuzzi in here. And… no way. Is that a sauna?” He came over and peeked in. Sure enough, tucked behind the ridiculously clean glass partition was a legit two-person jacuzzi tub with sleek jets, LED lighting, and a discreet shelf of complimentary scented oils. And beside it? A cramped but actual mini sauna, already set to a cozy 45°C.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “They really want people to… marinate before they—”
“Okay! I’m not letting this place win,” Sunghoon cut in. “We are taking full advantage. This shit is expensive in normal hotels.”
You looked at him in disbelief. “You want to use the sex jacuzzi?”
He shrugged. “It’s just a tub. The jets don’t know what’s going on. You want to spend the night pouting, or do you want a hot bath with free tea tree oil?”
You groaned. “I hate that you’re making sense.”
Twenty Minutes Later
You were in the tub first — submerged in warm water, hair tied up, sighing as the jets eased the travel ache out of your spine.
“I feel gross about how good this is,” you mumbled.
Sunghoon was sitting just outside the sauna, half-wrapped in a towel, drinking water. “Don’t get used to it. This is our peak. We’re about to suffer in a train-themed sex chamber for five nights.”
“You say that like it’s not your fault.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Fair.” You watched as steam curled off his shoulders, his skin flushed slightly pink from the sauna. He looked good. A little too good.
You quickly looked away and sank deeper into the water. Nope. Not thinking that.
You were best friends. The kind who shared hoodies and bitched about exes and had matching pajamas from a failed couples Halloween sale. You weren’t supposed to be noticing how broad his chest was, or how low his towel sat on his hips.
He caught you looking. You snapped your head the other way.
A pause. “You okay?” he asked, voice lower.
“Yup,” you replied, too fast. “Just tired.”
You heard him chuckle under his breath. “You’re a terrible liar.”
You splashed water at him. “Go back to your sauna.”
But the heat in your chest had nothing to do with steam.
You both climbed into the ridiculous velvet-upholstered bed and laid side by side, limbs awkwardly angled to avoid touching too much.
The train screen looped soft countryside visuals.
The LED sign above the mirror blinked softly:
“Don’t miss your stop…”
You stared at the ceiling. “Why does this feel like the foreplay part of a drama?”
Sunghoon’s voice was low. “Because everything here is designed for people to fuck.”
You both went quiet. Too quiet.
Then he added, a little too casually. “If you get cold tonight, just say something.”
You turned your head slightly. His profile glowed in the soft red light. “I won’t.”
“I know.” But neither of you moved. Not yet.
You woke up to the smell of grilled fish and miso soup.
Blinking groggily, you turned your head to find Sunghoon already sitting up in bed, hair messy, skin flushed from sleep, and a gleam of childlike wonder in his eyes.
“Room service,” he said simply, holding up a laminated card with neat checkboxes. “And it’s actually good. Like. Too good for this place.”
You sat up, blinking blearily at the silver-domed trays on the fold-out tray table. “Wait—this place has room service?”
“Apparently. I checked last night before sleeping. They serve breakfast to the room for ‘maximum comfort and pleasure.’” He did finger quotes around that last part. “Very suggestive. But also… delicious.”
He peeled the lid off one tray, and the smell immediately hit you: steaming rice, grilled salmon, soft tamagoyaki, pickled vegetables, and even a little matcha jelly cube for dessert.
Your stomach growled audibly.
“Oh my god,” you mumbled, crawling across the bed like a zombie. “I’m never leaving.”
He passed you chopsticks. “See? You talk a big game, but deep down, you’re just here for the perks.”
You dug in. “Mmf—if you booked this place on purpose for this breakfast alone, I forgive you.”
“I’ll take that as my official pardon,” he said, chewing on a piece of miso-glazed eggplant.
For a moment, the room was quiet — just soft clinks of chopsticks, muffled chewing, and the fake train sounds looping in the background.
And then, as always, came the banter.
“So,” you said, mid-bite, “you gonna keep walking around in that towel all morning or…?”
Sunghoon glanced down at himself — still shirtless, his towel hanging loose around his hips as if he were starring in a shampoo commercial. He smirked. “Jealous?”
You scoffed. “Of what? Your man boobs?”
“First of all,” he said, popping a grape into his mouth, “these are pecs. Try not to cry when you see me in real lighting.”
“I’ve seen you in fluorescent kitchen lights eating ramen at 2 a.m. I’ve survived worse.”
“I’ve also seen you drunk with a sheet mask on and mismatched socks, so don’t act superior.”
“Those socks were a fashion statement.”
He snorted. “A cry for help.”
After breakfast and a little too much matcha jelly, the two of you finally started getting dressed.
Or trying to, anyway.
You were standing at the small mirror near the door, brushing your teeth and fussing with your hair when you heard Sunghoon behind you, grunting in frustration.
“What’s your problem?” you asked, spitting out toothpaste.
“Where the hell is the other sock I packed?”
You glanced over and nearly choked — he was half-dressed, hair still wet from the shower, towel hanging on the rack, shirt hanging off one shoulder like a K-drama lead in distress.
You raised a brow. “Check your suitcase. Or maybe the laundry bag?”
He groaned dramatically and flopped onto the bed. “Why does this always happen to me?”
“Because your packing skills are trash.”
“You packed seven pairs of underwear for five nights!”
“Prepared. Not chaotic.”
“Psychotic.”
You tossed a sock at his face. “Shut up and wear this.”
He caught it, looked at the pattern — pastel pink with tiny peaches on them — and grinned.
“Wait… these are your socks.”
“They’re clean. Be grateful.”
He gave you a playful look. “If my feet feel too soft and feminine later, it’s your fault.”
You rolled your eyes. “You could use a little softness.” There was a beat of quiet as you both finished dressing.
And then, almost too casually, Sunghoon asked, “You good with the plan today? Shibuya, food, maybe teamLab Planets?”
You smiled. “Hell yeah. Let’s go get blinded by LED art and overpay for strawberry mochi.”
You grabbed your tote bag, he slung his camera over his shoulder, and together you stepped out into the Tokyo sunlight — blinking against the sudden warmth, the city buzzing with life all around you.
The love hotel’s sliding door closed behind you with a soft mechanical hiss.
“God, being outside feels illegal after that room,” you muttered, stretching.
Sunghoon yawned beside you. “We need to get out as much as possible. If we spend too long in there…”
“…we’ll end up using that pole, and not ironically.”
You said it jokingly, but the second it left your lips, you realized you were both thinking it.
You looked at him. He looked at you.
You both looked away.
Sunghoon cleared his throat and started walking. “Right. Food. Vibes. Let’s pretend we’re not staying in horny train hell.”
You followed, heart doing weird things.
By 10:30 a.m., you were already on your second iced drink and your fifth photo taken by Sunghoon.
"This one’s blurry,” you said, looking over his shoulder as he flipped through the camera roll.
“You moved,” he replied, flicking to the next one.
“I was mid-chew.”
“Exactly. Candid.”
“You got my molar in HD.”
He laughed, slinging the camera back over his shoulder. “You’re welcome. That’s raw content.”
You stuck your tongue out at him and tugged him toward the next street corner, where a little taiyaki cart was steaming golden fish-shaped cakes onto paper trays.
He bought one with custard and one with sweet potato, handing you the first without asking — he always remembered your favorite.
The day passed in a colorful, unfiltered blur.
From Asakusa’s temple streets to Ueno Park’s shaded paths, you strolled through the buzzing city under soft summer clouds, sharing bites of grilled yakitori, stopping at claw machines, and laughing until your stomach hurt every time Sunghoon got scammed by a vending machine.
“Bro,” he groaned as his Pocari Sweat got stuck halfway. “I just wanted electrolytes.”
“That’s what you get for bullying me about my socks.”
“They are ridiculous.”
“And now they’re your lucky socks, so shut up and suffer.”
He grinned, defeated, as you shook the machine for him until the drink finally dropped.
He brought the good camera — the one he only took out during special trips or when he really wanted to remember something.
At first, it was just the usual:
Colorful alleyways, Vintage signs, Cats in front of bookstores and Neon billboards starting to glow as dusk rolled in
But then the lens kept shifting toward you.
He’d tilt the viewfinder just slightly to the left whenever you were sipping your drink, or smiling up at a paper lantern, or holding up a peace sign in front of a giant tanuki statue.
He didn’t make a big deal out of it.
He never did.
Just snapped quietly, a small smile on his face, pretending to be adjusting settings every time you caught him in the act.
“Stop taking pictures of me looking ugly,” you said as you leaned against a vending machine at golden hour.
“You never look ugly,” he replied without thinking.
You blinked. He clicked his shutter.
You smacked his arm. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Park.”
“I was talking about the vending machine, actually.”
“Oh, screw you—”
By late afternoon, the two of you were barefoot, wading through glowing water and walking across mirrored floors.
The floating flowers, the endless lights, the reflection of stars above and below you — it all felt surreal.
Sunghoon was quiet most of the time, too busy adjusting focus, waiting for the exact second a projection shifted, or the water stilled, or your silhouette lined up against the light.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, crouching low.
You stood still, bathed in blue and purple.
A single glowing lily floated past your ankles.
Click.
When he finally looked up from the lens, his expression was soft, like he’d forgotten where you were — like the whole room was quiet just for a second.
You waved your arms. “Earth to perv?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, standing up and brushing dust off his knees. “Just… this lighting’s good.”
“Mm-hmm. You’re not slick.”
Dinner was ramen from a tiny shop hidden in an alley where no one spoke English and the broth was so rich it felt illegal.
You walked off the food through quiet backstreets, with neon signs humming above your heads and laundry flapping on upper balconies.
Sunghoon carried your bag without saying anything.
You bought him an ice cream without asking.
It was so easy. The kind of night you wanted to fold up and keep in your pocket forever.
At one point, you stopped to take a photo of your own — just a snapshot of him in the warm city light, licking ice cream and grinning.
“Got you,” you said, triumphant.
He raised a brow. “You finally captured my beauty?”
“No. I finally got proof you like vanilla.”
“You said you wouldn’t judge.”
“Too late.”
The fake train ambiance greeted you again as you entered the room — soft station chimes, muffled track sounds looping on the hidden speakers. You kicked off your shoes with a groan and threw your bag down like it betrayed you.
Sunghoon collapsed face-first on the bed. “We’ve walked 23,000 steps. I checked.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“My knees are 47 years old now.”
You laughed as you peeled off your socks. “Okay, Grandpa. Want me to book us an onsen for tomorrow?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the frosted-glass door in the corner.
“…wait. We still haven’t used the sauna together.”
You followed his gaze.
The in-room sauna and jacuzzi setup was tucked into the corner like an afterthought — sleek, surprisingly clean, and wildly over-the-top for the price. You hadn’t dared touch it yet.
You raised a brow. “You serious?”
He was already standing.
“I’m not walking like a gremlin tomorrow. Sauna it is.”
The small wooden sauna heated up quickly — enough for the two of you to sit side by side, towels wrapped around your waists, foreheads already glistening.
It smelled like cedar and something citrusy.
“I feel like we’re in a rich person’s armpit,” you muttered.
Sunghoon cracked up, head tilted back, eyes closed. “I feel like we’re about to get a motivational TED Talk from a man named Daisuke about financial freedom.”
You snorted. “We are literally boiling ourselves in a love hotel sauna. What freedom?”
There was a pause.
Then—
“This is nice though,” he admitted. “Like… surprisingly.”
You hummed, wiping sweat from your brow. “We deserve it. That yakitori hunt was a whole workout.”
A beat passed.
“Also, you were sweating this much at the gacha machine, so I feel like this is just your brand.”
“Don’t come for my capsule toys. They bring me joy.”
“Your suitcase is full of tiny plastic sushi. Let that sink in.”
After the sauna, you both flopped into the jacuzzi — towels still on, bubbles swirling lazily, the overhead lighting dimmed to a soft purple glow.
You leaned back against the edge and sighed so dramatically that Sunghoon mimicked it seconds later.
“Haaaaa~”
“Haaaaa.”
“…Why do you sound like a dying anime girl?”
“Why do you sound like a wounded elk?”
You flicked a handful of bubbles at him, and he retaliated by splashing water into your face.
By the time you both settled down, your cheeks hurt from laughing.
He nudged your foot underwater. “Hey. For real.”
You looked over.
“This whole day was perfect. Thanks for not letting me book some sad capsule hotel instead.”
You smiled softly. “Thanks for accidentally giving us the weirdest five days of our lives.”
A pause.
You both sank a little deeper into the water, the bubbles rising quietly between you.
Nothing else needed to be said.
Not yet.
After the sauna and jacuzzi, everything felt heavier — your limbs loose, your muscles relaxed, your brain pleasantly fuzzy in the best way.
Sunghoon handed you your toothbrush like always. Same side of the sink. Same rhythm. You brushed shoulder to shoulder, bumping elbows whenever one of you leaned over to spit.
You wore your oversized shirt — the one with faded cartoon prints and sleeves too long for your arms.
He wore a black tank top and gray sweats, his hair still damp and curling a bit at the nape.
It looked domestic.
Dangerously so.
You didn’t comment on it.
The sheets were still warm when you both flopped down again — you on your side of the bed, Sunghoon sprawled diagonally, legs halfway off the edge like a kid after a sugar crash.
"What do we watch?” you mumbled, tugging the blanket over your legs.
“I found a channel earlier that only plays weird food documentaries,” he said. “One of them was about a guy in Osaka who makes noodles with his feet.”
You blinked.
“That sounds unappetizing.”
“And yet I couldn’t look away.”
He flipped on the TV, and soon enough, soft narration in Japanese filled the room. Onscreen, a slow montage showed close-ups of dough, broth, and a man lovingly caressing noodles like they were his own children.
You both stared.
Then:
“His foot game’s strong,” Sunghoon muttered.
You snorted, smacking his arm. “Stop.”
A second later, he tilted the screen toward you and snapped a photo of your mid-laugh face.
“Delete it,” you said.
“Nope.”
“Sunghoon—”
“That’s a top-tier smile. Archive-worthy.”
You reached for the camera.
He held it just out of reach, laughing as you tried to climb over him, only to lose your balance and flop onto his side of the bed.
He oofed softly as your elbow landed against his stomach.
And then…
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
You were both breathing, barely, quiet again except for the soft murmur of the food show and the faint rumble of train sounds from the wall speaker — still looping, still somehow comforting.
Your head rested near his shoulder. His arm lay beside you, palm up.
You didn’t think about how easy it would be to lace your fingers through it.
Because that wasn’t the point.
Not tonight.
Eventually, you mumbled, “I’ll fall asleep right here.”
“Good.”
“Then you’ll complain that I drool.”
“I always do. Doesn’t stop you.”
“…True.”
A beat passed.
Then Sunghoon shifted slightly, pulled the blanket over you too, and said, soft as a sigh:
“Night, dummy.”
You smiled into the pillow.
“Night, Hoon.”
You both woke up later than planned.
To no one’s surprise, the blackout curtains plus the post-sauna coma plus the gentle train track sounds had knocked you both out cold.
When you opened your eyes, Sunghoon was already awake beside you, scrolling on his phone with bedhead and one eye squinting at the light.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he greeted without looking.
You groaned and threw the blanket over your face. “Why are you always so chipper in the morning?”
“I already ordered breakfast. It’ll be here in ten.”
That made you peek out
“Pretty good options. Surprisingly tasty too.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Did you ate already?”
“I may have had a mini croissant. For science.”
The tray rolled in like a hotel drama — miso soup, boiled eggs, tamagoyaki, rice, fruit, juice, and coffee, all neatly arranged in little porcelain dishes.
“This is way too fancy for a place with a pole in the corner,” you whispered.
Sunghoon burst out laughing. “We should eat on the pole.”
“Try it. Break your back.”
You sat cross-legged on the bed, carefully pouring soy sauce into the tiny saucer while Sunghoon buttered his toast like an old man at a countryside inn.
It was… cozy. Stupidly cozy.
He took a photo of the spread — and then one of you holding a strawberry between your lips.
“You’re so annoying,” you said.
“Smile,” he replied.
And you did.
You both dressed quickly — jeans and sneakers, matching windbreakers by accident (he insisted you copied him), camera packed again.
The plan today was Shimokitazawa, the artsy thrift-store-filled neighborhood that smelled like espresso, vinyl records, and dreams of quitting your job.
You wandered between secondhand shops and cafés, trying on sunglasses, picking up ugly mugs, posing in front of graffiti.
Sunghoon’s camera was out the entire time — and even though he pretended he was just testing settings, you saw how he always pointed it at you when you weren’t looking.
You caught him once.
He didn’t deny it.
“I like how you look when you’re not trying.”
You blinked.
He looked away, adjusting the lens. “Lighting’s better.”
“…Right.”
It was small.
You reached for a cold canned drink at the exact same moment.
Your fingers brushed his. Barely. Briefly.
But it lingered — just a half-second too long.
You felt it. So did he.
Neither of you said a thing.
You were sitting on a bench outside a vintage bookstore, sipping soda while he reviewed the photos on his camera.
“What are you deleting?”
“Blurry ones.”
“Let me see.”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Because some are mine.”
“…Some?”
He paused.
Then smiled a little — not in a teasing way this time.
“Some are just for me.”
You didn’t ask what that meant.
You just let it sit there between you.
Warm. Quiet. Weightless.
But not really.
You returned to the hotel a little earlier than Day 1, shoes dusty, legs tired, hands full of little finds — enamel pins, a thrifted shirt, a random keychain he insisted matched your vibe.
In the jacuzzi again. This time quieter. You both leaned back and let the water do the talking.
Later, you brushed your teeth side by side again, yawning into your sleeves, shoulders bumping gently.
You climbed into bed first. This time, when he laid beside you, you noticed how close your hands were on the blanket.
Not touching.
Just… close enough. You didn’t pull away.
Neither did he. It started small.
Just a joke, really. After another long day out — this time at the Shibuya Sky deck and walking through Harajuku — you’d peeled off your jacket and complained about how sweaty you were.
“You’re melting,” Sunghoon commented, flopping dramatically onto the bed while you stood near the mirror, tying your hair up.
“You’d melt too if you had boobs trapping heat.”
He snorted. “Do you want me to confirm that or—” You threw a pillow at him.
“Okay, but real talk,” Sunghoon said as the door hissed shut behind him. “This sauna is saving my life. I’m starting a petition to install one back home.”
You chuckled, stepping inside after him in your towel, feeling the warm steam immediately cling to your skin.
Tonight felt hotter somehow — and not just because of the temperature.
Maybe it was how Sunghoon looked right now. Hair swept back slightly damp, skin already glowing, the soft edge of his collarbone visible. His towel was secure but low, and he sat with one arm resting over the wooden bench behind you, casual, almost… cocky.
“So,” he started, turning slightly toward you. “You gonna keep avoiding the fact that you made a noise when you sat down yesterday?”
“I did not.”
"You groaned like you were starring in a drama.”
You blinked at him. “Are you being flirty right now?”
He smirked. “Would it work?”
You gave him a look.
He laughed, leaning his head back against the wall. “Relax. I flirt with everyone.”
“…No, you don’t.”
He looked at you again, slower this time.
You felt it — that shift.
The quiet drawl in his tone when he said, “Right. I don’t.”
Ten minutes in, the steam got thicker.
You leaned forward to reach for your water bottle, not realizing your towel had come a little… loose.
You tugged it quickly and pressed it tighter to your chest, but the damage was done.
Sunghoon’s eyes had flicked down.
And then—back up.
He cleared his throat and smirked. “…Nice catch.”
You threw him a glare, cheeks hot, but not from the heat.
“Don’t be gross.”
“I’m not being gross,” he said, tilting his head lazily. “I’m just observant. It’s part of my charm.”
“Your charm is a menace.”
“Yeah?” he said, voice dropping just enough to make your skin prickle. “Still keeping me around, though.”
Later, while drying off, you were both laughing over a dumb quiz show playing on the love hotel TV, towels replaced with your usual comfy clothes. But the air still hadn’t gone back to normal.
You sat on the bed, brushing your hair.
He sat behind you, watching something on his phone, absently letting his fingers toy with the end of your shirt hem.
You didn’t realize he was doing it until he stilled.
Then—
“You always wear this one,” he said softly. “It’s got a little hole in the back.”
You turned to look at him.
“You’re really paying attention, huh?”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“I always do.”
There was no laugh this time. No grin. Just the warm glow from the room lamp and the way his eyes dropped for a second — from your face, to your lips, to your collarbone — before he looked back up.
You swallowed.
He looked way too close all of a sudden.
And yet, not close enough.
You stood up.
Quickly. Casually.
“I’m brushing my teeth.”
“Okay,” he said behind you, quiet… amused. “Run away, then.”The night settled in earlier than usual — maybe because you both agreed your legs needed a break, maybe because the city lights felt better admired from the bed with snacks and cold drinks.
You kicked your feet up, pulling the blanket over your lap while Sunghoon scrolled through the hotel TV’s library.
"We’re not watching something sad,” you warned.
“Why not?”
“Because every time we do, you start doing that emotional whisper voice after.”
He raised a brow, amused. “‘If I die, tell my cat I loved her’ isn’t emotional. It’s factual.”
You snorted and popped a grape into your mouth.
He settled on a coming-of-age romance film — something soft, slow, with golden lighting and friends-to-lovers tension that hit a little too close.
You didn’t comment.
Thirty minutes in, the movie faded into the background. You were half-focused, shoulder-to-shoulder with Sunghoon beneath the same blanket, a bowl of chips between you.
He reached over to grab one, and his fingers brushed yours again.
This time, you didn’t move away.
Neither did he.
You felt him glance at you — not a quick flick, but a lingering stare.
“…What?” you asked, not looking at him.
"Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m admiring.”
Your heart thudded once.
“…What?”
He smiled slowly, eyes dropping to your mouth. “I said nothing.”
Somewhere between the third snack break and the movie credits, Sunghoon nudged your leg.
“Truth or dare?”
You looked at him sideways. “What are we, twelve?”
“Pick.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Truth.”
He leaned back against the headboard, one arm behind his head.
“Have you ever thought about kissing me?”
Your breath caught
He didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t smirk.
He just watched you — calm, unreadable.
You stared at him, pulse ticking louder.
“…Is that a real question?”
His voice dropped lower. “You chose ‘truth.’”
The silence stretched. You felt it thick in your throat, in the space between your knees touching beneath the blanket.
Then, softly—
“Once or twice,” you admitted.
His lips curved, slow and smug.
You shoved his shoulder, embarrassed. “Okay, your turn.”
“Dare,” he said immediately.
You blinked. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to lie.”
You stared at him.
“…Fine. I dare you to—”
“Kiss me.”
Your breath stalled.
“What?”
“I dare you to kiss me.”
He said it casually, but you saw the way his hand gripped the blanket — the slight twitch in his jaw, the sharp inhale he tried to hide.
You licked your lips slowly.
“Sunghoon—”
"It’s just a game, right?” he said, voice velvet-soft.
You looked at him.
At his eyes. His mouth. His flushed cheeks and the way he was so close but not making a move.
Like he was giving you control.
And that scared you more than anything.
Because suddenly, the game didn’t feel like a game anymore.
You leaned in.
Just a little.
Just enough that he felt your breath.
But before your lips touched, you pulled back and whispered, “Next round.”
He exhaled sharply, a chuckle slipping out — part relief, part frustration.
“You’re evil.”
You smiled.
“Just playing the game.”
“I’m sleepy,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.
The tension from the game still clung to your skin, warm and heavy. Your heart was doing too much—pounding like you just ran up a hill instead of almost-kissing your best friend.
You tugged the blanket up and turned on your side, facing away from him.
Or so you thought.
Because as you lay back on the pillows, eyes half-lidded and breath evening out, your gaze landed somewhere else.
Above you.
The mirror on the ceiling.
You blinked.
It was such a stupid, love-hotel thing to have, and you hadn’t even paid attention to it since the first day. But now?
Now you saw everything.
You.
Sunghoon.
Lying side by side, under the same blanket, bodies close enough to share heat.
His head tilted toward you slightly, lips parted like he was going to say something—but didn’t.
Your breath caught.
The image in the mirror wasn’t what friends looked like.
It wasn’t casual. It was intimate.
Too much.
Not enough.
You shifted, just barely.
And in the reflection, you watched Sunghoon do the same.
His hand moved above the blanket.
Closer.
Not touching you—but hovering near your waist.
You felt his knuckles brush the hem of your shirt, barely there.
Goosebumps rose instantly.
Your eyes flicked up again—to the mirror.
He was watching it too.
Watching you.
“…Sunghoon,” you said, barely audible.
He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t blink.
“I know,” he said softly, like he already knew what was in your chest. “You’re sleepy.”
But he still didn’t pull away.
Instead, he let his fingers rest lightly against your side—just enough pressure to make you feel it.
His voice dropped, rougher now.
“But if you weren’t…”
Your stomach twisted.
“If I wasn’t?” you asked.
He met your eyes in the mirror.
“I’d kiss you,” he murmured. “And this time, you wouldn’t stop me.”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
The air between you was thick. You felt the heat from his body, the blanket suddenly too warm. His words echoed, burning a hole into your chest.
Still, you didn’t move.
Not away.
Not toward him.
Just… there. Caught.
Heart racing.
Eyes locked in the reflection.
And then—
He pulled his hand away slowly.
A soft breath left your lips.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispered.
You closed your eyes.
But you didn’t sleep for a long, long time.
Not with his voice still in your ear.
Not with his hand still ghosting your skin.
And not with that mirror burning above you, showing you something you couldn’t unsee.
“C’mon,” Sunghoon said, tugging your wrist gently as you both stepped out of the taxi and into the Tokyo night. “We’re not leaving Japan without at least one club night. Live a little.”
You gave him a look. “You’re the one who googled ‘clubs that don’t have a cover fee’ and filtered by ‘low noise.’”
“Exactly,” he grinned. “I’m a responsible party animal.”
You snorted, but let him guide you in.
The club was tucked away under a neon sign and a set of stairs, with a cozy, crowded feel—dark corners, glowing drinks, and music that thudded deep in your chest.
He ordered you both something sweet and sparkling. The kind of drink that made your lips sticky and your smile looser.
It was supposed to be harmless.
Just a night out.
You wore a black dress—Sunghoon’s pick, actually, from earlier that day.
“I’m not letting you pack a bunch of oversized hoodies for a night out,” he said back in the hotel. “Show some skin. It’s Japan. Everyone’s hot.”
So you did.
And now?
Now you were paying for it.
Two drinks in, you danced near the edge of the floor, swaying with the beat, laughing with Sunghoon beside you. His hand hovered low on your back—not touching, but close enough to be there if you stumbled.
Until he stepped away for a second to use the bathroom.
And they showed up.
Two guys—tall, confident, clearly a little tipsy.
“Hey, you alone?” one of them asked, smiling too much, eyes dipping low.
You smiled politely, shaking your head. “I’m with someone.”
“Oh?” The second guy grinned. “Boyfriend?”
Before you could answer, you felt it—a hand on your waist. Warm. Familiar.
Sunghoon.
“No,” he said smoothly, his voice sharp behind you. “She’s with me.”
You blinked, surprised by the edge in his tone.
Sunghoon wasn’t the jealous type. Or at least, he’d never acted like it before. Not when guys checked you out. Not when they flirted harmlessly.
But tonight?
He wasn’t joking.
One look at his face and you knew.
The guys backed off, muttering something in Japanese you didn’t catch. But you didn’t care. Not when Sunghoon’s fingers stayed on your hip even after they were gone.
You turned to him.
“…You okay?”
He stared at you for a second.
Then he laughed—short, breathless.
“You have any idea how you look tonight?”
You blinked. “Sunghoon—”
“No,” he said, pulling you gently toward a quieter corner of the club. “I let you out in that dress and thought, yeah, sure, I’ll be normal about it. But then I see guys eyeing you like they have a shot and suddenly I’m—”
He cut himself off.
You stared.
“Suddenly you’re what?”
He looked at you. Really looked.
And for the first time tonight, there was no filter.
“I’m not normal about you,” he said simply. “Haven’t been for a long time.”
Your heart stuttered.
The music faded into nothing.
“…Sunghoon.”
“I know,” he said, eyes flicking to your lips. “We’re best friends. This whole trip’s been fun. Flirty. Safe. But tonight?”
He leaned in.
“Tonight, I want to make it clear.”
Your back hit the wall, gently.
Not rough.
Not rushed.
Just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You’re with me,” he whispered, lips barely brushing your jaw.
And you didn’t move.
Not away.
Not at all.
The cab ride back to the hotel was dead silent.
Not because there was nothing to say.
Because everything had already been said — in the way Sunghoon looked at you when those guys tried flirting at the club, in the way his hand gripped your waist like it belonged there.
And in the way he whispered, low and rough:
“You’re with me.”
The words looped in your head the whole ride. And when you stepped into your room — the one with the ridiculous train-themed decor, mood lighting, and giant mirror above the bed — it was over.
The second the door clicked shut—
He kissed you.
Not like a friend.
Not like someone testing the waters.
Like he knew what you tasted like.
Like he needed it.
His hands were everywhere — cupping your face, sliding down your waist, pressing into your lower back until your bodies were flush. You were barely able to keep up with his mouth — all tongue, teeth, urgency.
You gasped when his lips left yours to nip your jaw.
“Sunghoon—”
“I told you,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I’m not waiting anymore.”
He walked you backward toward the bed, kissing you between every step.
You fell onto the mattress, breathless, heart racing. The mirror above showed your reflection — the two of you tangled in shadows and heat, your thighs parting instinctively as Sunghoon leaned over you.
“You don’t know,” he whispered, nose brushing yours, “how many nights I’ve watched you sleep in this bed.”
His hand slid under your dress, fingertips grazing your thighs.
“Thinking about this.”
You gasped when he squeezed your leg, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You’re soaked through,” he murmured.
“I’ve been—thinking about it too,” you admitted, cheeks warm.
That was all he needed.
Sunghoon yanked off his shirt, revealing the hard lines of his chest, the trail of muscle down his abs — you stared shamelessly.
He noticed.
“Like what you see?”
You nodded.
“Use your words, baby.”
“I like it,” you whispered, eyes blown wide. “I want all of you.”
He groaned. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”
Then he was kissing down your neck, tugging your dress off slowly, his mouth dragging over every new inch of skin.
“No bra?” he murmured against your chest.
“You told me to wear something easy to take off,” you whispered.
His eyes burned.
“I was joking,” he growled, “but fuck, that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said.”
His tongue circled your nipple before sucking hard, making your hips buck.
“Sunghoon—”
“Be patient,” he said, sliding your panties off. “I’m going to make you cum on my tongue first.”
Then he was kneeling at the edge of the bed, pulling your legs over his shoulders, and diving in.
You cried out.
He licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’d just tasted heaven.
Then again. Slower.
His fingers gripped your thighs, keeping you open as he licked you deep — tongue teasing your folds, swirling around your clit, then flattening with just enough pressure to make your legs shake.
You tangled your fingers in his hair. “Sunghoon, please—please—”
He paused, pulled back just enough to speak.
“Say it again.”
You moaned. “Please, Sunghoon—make me cum—please—”
“Good girl.”
He dove back in, and you were gone.
Your orgasm ripped through you, thighs clenching around his head as you came with a broken moan of his name.
He didn’t stop — he kept licking, slow and lazy now, lapping up everything you gave him until you were panting, trembling.
He crawled back up your body and kissed you — letting you taste yourself on his lips.
Then you felt him.
Hard. Heavy. Pressing against your thigh.
You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, and his head dropped to your shoulder with a groan.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “If you touch me like that, I’m gonna lose it.”
You smirked, kissing his jaw. “Then lose it.”
He laughed — low and rough — then pulled back to line himself up.
You were still soaked. Still twitching from your first orgasm.
He met your eyes, voice hoarse.
“Tell me you want this.”
“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”
He slid in with one deep thrust.
His hips rolled into you, slow and deep.
One thrust — thick, stretching, deliberate.
You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders as he filled you to the hilt.
“Fuck, Sunghoon—”
“I know,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “You’re perfect like this.”
He stilled inside you, chest heaving. You could feel how hard he was — how much restraint he was using just to not lose control.
Then he pulled back.
And pushed in again.
Deeper.
Your breath hitched.
Above you, the mirror reflected everything — the way your body arched into him, how your mouth parted when he bottomed out, the tension in his jaw as he watched you take him like you were made for it.
You whimpered.
“Look up,” he said softly.
You did.
And your entire body shivered.
The sight was unreal.
His body between your legs.
The way your back curved.
The way your nails pressed into his skin.
Sunghoon leaned in close, lips dragging across your jaw.
“Now imagine if you could see this again.”
You blinked, dazed. “What?”
He reached for his phone.
Tossed a look toward the dresser, a sly smirk playing on his lips.
“I brought the tripod.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You’re joking—”
“Nope.” He was already sliding the legs out, adjusting the angle toward the bed. “Consent. One hundred percent. Just for us. Just for tonight. I want to remember everything.”
Your thighs instinctively squeezed around his waist.
He placed the phone on the stand, hit record, and returned to you.
Settled between your legs again.
Caged you in with his arms.
Kissed you like it would never be enough.
“This okay?” he whispered against your lips.
You nodded, eyes wide, chest rising.
“Say it, baby.”
You swallowed. “Yes. I want it. I want you.”
He groaned — guttural, raw.
Then he started moving.
Long, slow strokes at first.
His hips grinding into yours, dragging over every sensitive spot with maddening precision.
His hand slid under your lower back, lifting your hips slightly — angling you better, deeper — until you were gasping his name.
“God—Hoon—”
“You hear that?” he rasped, breathless. “That sound you make when I hit here—”
Thrust.
You cried out.
“—that’s going to ruin me.”
His thumb brushed your clit in tight circles while he fucked you, rhythm getting messier — your thighs slick, sheets twisted, the air thick with skin and heat and moans.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “Look at how fucking pretty you are when I’m inside you.”
You forced yourself to glance up at the mirror again—
And it was filthy.
Your eyes glassy.
Your body bouncing gently with every stroke.
Sunghoon — hair messy, jaw clenched, sweat slicking his chest — completely lost in you.
His thrusts got faster.
Your fingers clawed at his back.
You were getting close again. Too close.
“Sunghoon—Hoon—I’m—”
“Let go,” he growled. “I want to see it. Want to see you cum all over me.”
His hand gripped your thigh tighter, holding you in place as he slammed into you, dragging your orgasm out until you were moaning shamelessly, your body shaking under him.
You came hard.
Eyes rolling.
Toes curling.
He groaned loudly, head dropping to your shoulder.
Then he pulled out suddenly — tugged his cock in his fist once, twice—
“Where?” he panted.
“Stomach,” you gasped. “Please—”
And he spilled with a sharp grunt, hot ropes across your skin, your belly, his hips still twitching from the force.
The room was silent except for your panting.
You both stared at the mirror.
Then each other.
Sunghoon let out a soft, broken laugh.
“...We’re fucked.”
The room was still warm.
The soft buzz of fake train sounds from the speaker had long since faded into the background, replaced by only your uneven breathing and the low whirr of the air conditioner above the bed.
Your body was still tingling.
Muscles relaxed, core aching in the best way, thighs sticky with the aftermath of everything you just shared.
Sunghoon was lying beside you — one arm tucked under his head, the other draped lazily across your bare stomach. His fingers traced little, absent-minded shapes there, gliding through the mess he’d left on your skin like he couldn’t bear not to touch you.
He looked wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes soft. Lips red from kissing too hard.
But the way he was looking at you now?
Completely different.
Like the teasing and jokes were stripped away.
Like he was finally seeing you.
And maybe for the first time—you were really letting him.
“You okay?” he murmured.
His voice was soft, a little hoarse.
You turned your head slowly, looking at him. “Yeah. More than okay.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Good.”
Then, quieter, “Because that... wasn’t just for fun.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I mean—” he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, looking up at the ceiling. “I know we’ve been friends forever. I know this trip was supposed to be, like, low-budget ramen and chaotic sightseeing and those vending machines you’re obsessed with, and I definitely didn’t mean to—book a fucking love hotel—but—”
You cut him off with a quiet laugh, rolling over to face him. “Hoon.”
He looked at you, eyes wide.
Your fingers reached up, brushing his hair from his forehead.
“I know it wasn’t just for fun.”
You paused.
“...Did you really mean everything you said tonight? At the club? Back here?”
His gaze didn’t flinch.
“Every word.”
Your breath caught.
“You’ve... thought about this?” you asked, almost shy. “Us?”
He nodded slowly, like he was afraid he’d scare you off. “For longer than I should have.”
You swallowed, heart thudding.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
He smiled, soft and bittersweet. “Because I didn’t think I had a chance. You’re...you. You flirt with ramen vending machines.”
You laughed, burying your face in the pillow. “I do not.”
“You do,” he teased. “You called that one in Shibuya a good boy.”
You giggled.
Then his fingers stilled on your stomach.
“But the second I saw that guy at the club looking at you like you weren’t the most precious thing in the room... I snapped. I couldn’t keep pretending.”
You looked up at him. “And now?”
He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours.
“Now I want to be the only one who gets to touch you.”
Your breath caught.
“I want to take you on real dates. Hold your hand in public. Make you breakfast. Wake up beside you without wondering if I crossed a line the night before.”
Your chest ached — in the best way.
You wrapped your arm around his neck, pulling him closer.
“Then let’s do that.”
His brows lifted slightly.
“Yeah?” You nodded. “You idiot. I’ve wanted this too.”
He smiled — slow and real, the kind that reached his eyes.
And then? He kissed you again.
Gentle this time. Lingering. No rush.
Just the start of something real.
When you finally broke apart, curled in the sheets, your limbs tangled—
Sunghoon rested his cheek on your chest, humming softly.
“We’re kind of gross,” he mumbled sleepily.
You blinked. “What?”
He pointed up lazily.
You looked. And laughed. The mirror.
Still foggy. Still showing your bodies — flushed and messy and completely tangled up in each other.
“Let’s clean up,” you whispered.
Sunghoon groaned dramatically. “Can’t move. Dead. Died from your pussy.”
You smacked his arm with a pillow. “Romantic.”
He grinned.
Then he sat up—still shirtless, still glowing—and stretched.
As you slipped off the bed to grab your robe, something caught your eye.
That little panel near the bathroom. The one that looked just a little too clean. Too new.
You padded over, curiosity tugging.
Pushed it open— And found the train.
“Sunghoon…”
Your voice was breathless, laced with awe and disbelief as you stared into the hidden room tucked behind the bathroom mirror.
He came up behind you, still shirtless, eyes scanning the strange, atmospheric glow pouring out of the secret space.
“…What the hell?” he murmured, stepping in beside you. The small room looked exactly like the interior of a luxury train car.
Gold-trimmed velvet seats lined both sides.
The projected windows showed nighttime scenery rushing past, as if the whole place were actually moving.
And above it all? Mirrors. Full-length. Perfect angles.
“Did you book this on purpose?” you whispered.
Sunghoon laughed quietly, slipping his arm around your waist. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
You turned to look at him, still flushed, still warm and full from earlier.
He stared back at you—his gaze darker now, hungrier.
“You know,” he said, voice low, “we can’t just find a secret room like this and not do something stupid.”
You shivered.
“Define stupid.” His lips ghosted your neck.
“Take off your robe,” he murmured.
You blinked. “Here?”
“Here,” he said, nodding toward one of the seats. “There.”
Then he tilted your chin toward the mirror above.
“So you can watch.” Your stomach flipped.
He pulled you inside gently, guiding you toward the plush velvet seat like it was a throne.
“Sit,” he said, voice deeper now. “Right here. Legs open.”
You did. Robe sliding down your arms, bare underneath.
The second you sat, the coolness of the velvet against your thighs made you gasp.
Sunghoon dropped to his knees between your legs, spreading them wider, mouth just hovering over your center.
He looked up at you once—dark eyes, flushed cheeks, messy hair. Yours.
“I didn’t get enough of you earlier,” he murmured. “Wanna taste you right. Wanna take my time.”
You whimpered.
Then his tongue was on you. Sunghoon devoured you.
Tongue slow and firm, licking up every drop, nose pressed into your folds, mouth working you open until your head fell back and your hips jerked against his mouth.
You glanced up, dazed—and moaned when you caught the mirror reflection.
Everything. Your legs trembling. Your hands gripping the seat. His messy hair buried between your thighs.
He glanced up mid-lick, locking eyes with you through the mirror.
“Keep looking,” he said, mouth shiny. “I want you to see what you do to me.”
He sucked your clit into his mouth then—hard. You gasped, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
“Oh my god—Sunghoon—!”
“You gonna cum again, baby?” he whispered, licking slow circles again. “Right here, in this fucked-up train fantasy room?”
You moaned—loud, desperate.
“Say it.”
“Yes—please—yes, I’m gonna—fuck—”
He flicked his tongue in a perfect rhythm, and when his fingers slid inside you—two, slow, deep—you shattered.
You came on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head, crying out as he licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him.
When you finally stopped shaking, he kissed the inside of your thighs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up.
Still on his knees. Still hard.
But now? Smiling. Smug. Possessive.
“Still alive?” he teased. You gave a breathless laugh. “Barely.”
“Good,” he said, standing. “Because I’m not done with you.” He pulled you up to your feet and spun you to face the mirror.
Your reflection was glowing—lips parted, chest heaving, legs weak.
Sunghoon pressed up behind you, cock dragging along your ass as he leaned in to whisper:
“Bend over the seat.”
You obeyed—bare hands gripping the backrest, legs shaking as he kicked your feet further apart.
He stroked himself behind you, tip brushing your folds.
“Look how ready you are,” he murmured. “Already dripping again.”
He slid in with one thrust. You both moaned. You watched in the mirror as he grabbed your hips and began to move—slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch inside.
Then harder. Faster. Filthy.
The sound of skin slapping, your breathy moans, his rough grunts—it was insane. His hand slid around to grip your throat gently, tipping your face toward the mirror again.
“Watch, baby. Watch me fuck you.” You did.
And it was the most erotic thing you’d ever seen.You—bent over, mouth open in shock. Him—behind you, wrecked, hips snapping, muscles straining.
And you couldn’t last. You were already so full. So overstimulated. So his. “I’m—gonna—again—”
“Do it,” he panted. “Cum for me. Make a mess. I’m right behind you.” You came again—harder this time, louder, a cry ripped from your throat as your body clenched around him.
And with a final groan—“Fuck, yes”—he came too, spilling deep inside you, his hips twitching, hands gripping your waist tight as he gave you everything. You collapsed onto the velvet seat, breathless, shaking.
Sunghoon leaned over you, arms wrapped around your waist from behind.
You both stared into the mirror. Sweaty. Marked. Ruined.
“…Best love hotel ever,” you mumbled.
Sunghoon laughed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
“Welcome to the last stops, baby.”
The water steamed around you, warm and humming, tiny waves lapping at your sides as you sank back into the love hotel’s private jacuzzi.
The bathroom light was dim, glowing low and amber, reflecting off the tiled walls like candlelight.
You barely had time to close your eyes before a pair of arms slipped around your waist from behind.
“Round three,” Sunghoon murmured into your shoulder.
“Already?” you whispered, dazed. “You’re serious?”
“You’re mine now,” he said simply. “I’m never gonna be done.”
You moaned as he pulled you back into his chest, your legs floating around his hips, his hands sliding across your stomach beneath the water.
Then higher.
Until he had your breasts cupped in both palms.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “I’m obsessed.”
You bit your lip, gasping as he started to play with them — thumbs brushing your nipples, squeezing gently like he’d been waiting to get his hands on them all night.
“I always noticed,” he confessed, pressing kisses to the back of your neck. “Every time you stretched in front of me, every time your shirt clung to them when it rained—"
“Sunghoon—”
“—and now they’re mine,” he said, voice rough with need. “So I’m gonna touch them whenever I want.”
His mouth trailed down your neck, then he reached around, shifting you to straddle his lap in the water.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he muttered, lowering his mouth to your chest.
Then he kissed your breasts—slow, wet kisses, tongue flicking across your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.
You let out a soft moan, your hands burying in his wet hair. He groaned into your skin, pulling your body even closer until your tits were pressed to his face. His voice was muffled. “I could live right here.” You giggled breathlessly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m obsessed,” he corrected, licking again. “Let me worship you.” You felt his cock harden again beneath you, hot and heavy in the water.
“Sunghoon…”
“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered, mouth brushing your chest. “One more. Just one more.”
He reached under the water, lining himself up, and slowly eased you down onto him — warm water swirling around your waists as you sank onto his cock, inch by thick inch.
You both groaned. It felt so full like this. So warm. Slippery. Intimate. His forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your waist.
“Move for me, baby,” he whispered. “Nice and slow.”
You rolled your hips, riding him gently in the water, the movement easy and fluid with the water supporting your weight. And he couldn’t stop watching your chest.
“Fuck,” he moaned. “Bounce for me, just like that. Look at them—"
Your tits bounced with every movement, droplets clinging to your nipples, glistening under the soft light. His hands returned to them again and again — massaging, squeezing, sucking one into his mouth as you moved on him.
You whined. “You’re too into this—”
“I warned you,” he growled. “They’re mine now.”
Then he grabbed your hips, took over the pace, thrusting up into you as the water splashed gently around you. Slow, deep strokes. His cock dragging against your sensitive walls, your body already so used to him but still twitching at the stretch. You clung to him, lips brushing his. “You feel so good.”
“I want you to cum on my cock like this,” he breathed. “Wanna feel you clench around me again.”
His hand slid between your bodies, thumb brushing over your clit under the water — slow, tight circles until you were gasping again.
“Cum for me, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “While I’m buried inside you. I want to feel it.”
You did. With a broken gasp, body trembling in the bubbling heat, your walls tightened around him, clenching so hard he swore under his breath—
“Fuck—yes—fuck, you’re perfect—”
And then he came too, moaning into your mouth as he spilled inside you again, his arms tightening around you as if he couldn’t let you go. You stayed there, clinging to him, your body spent and warm, water lapping gently against your skin.
He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your boob. Again.
“Seriously?” “What?” he said innocently. “They’re the love of my life now.”
The water steamed around you, warm bubbles churning against your skin as Sunghoon's hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you flush against his hard body. His lips trailed hot kisses down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to send shivers racing through you despite the heat. "Mine" he growled low, voice rough with need, his cock already throbbing against your thigh, slick with the jacuzzi's warmth and his own arousal.
You arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders as he lifted you slightly, the water sloshing around your waists. His mouth captured yours in a fierce kiss, tongue plunging deep, claiming every inch while one hand slid between your legs. Fingers parted your folds, stroking your clit with firm circles that made you gasp into his mouth. He didn't tease for long—Sunghoon never did when possession burned this hot. Two fingers pushed inside you, curling to hit that spot that had your walls clenching around him.
"Fuck, you're still so wet for me," he murmured against your lips, pumping his fingers faster, thumb grinding your clit. The water made everything slicker, hotter, your body responding with desperate bucks against his hand. But he wasn't done worshipping yet. Withdrawing his fingers, he brought them to your mouth, pressing them past your lips. "Taste yourself. Taste how much you want this." You sucked eagerly, tongue swirling around his digits, eyes locked on his darkened gaze.
Satisfaction flashed in his eyes as he pulled his hand away, replacing it with the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. But instead of thrusting in right there, he stood fully, water cascading off his toned chest and abs, muscles flexing as he hauled you up with him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the jacuzzi's edge pressing into your back for leverage. "Not like this," he said, voice husky. "I want to fuck you standing, feel every inch of you gripping me while I hold you open."
He shifted, one arm banding around your back to support you, the other guiding his cock. The tip breached you slowly at first, stretching your pussy with that delicious burn as he sank in inch by inch. You moaned, head falling back, the steam-filled air thick with the scent of sex and chlorine. Water lapped at your joined bodies, but it was nothing compared to the heat building where he filled you completely, balls pressing against your ass.
Sunghoon groaned, hips snapping forward in a sharp thrust that buried him to the hilt. "God, yes—tight like this, just for me." He started a rhythm, powerful and unrelenting, each drive lifting you slightly against him, your breasts bouncing with the force. His free hand roamed, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, then soothing it with his mouth, sucking the peak between his teeth. You clung to him, nails raking down his back, urging him deeper.
The standing position let him angle just right, his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting your g-spot with every plunge. Water splashed around you as he fucked harder, possessive grunts escaping him. "No one else gets this. No one else fucks you like I do." His pace quickened, hips pistoning, the slap of wet skin echoing in the steamy enclosure. Your pussy fluttered around him, building toward that edge, clit grinding against his pelvis with each thrust.
He sensed it, shifting his hold to free a hand, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed in tight, fast circles, matching his brutal rhythm. "Cum for me. Milk my cock while I fill you up." The command pushed you over, orgasm crashing through you like a wave, walls spasming as you screamed his name. Sunghoon followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, hot cum flooding your pussy in thick spurts. He held you there, both panting, his forehead pressed to yours as the aftershocks rippled through.
But even spent, his grip didn't loosen. "We're not done" he whispered, already hardening inside you again. "I want more".
Sunghoon's cock twitched inside your still-pulsing pussy, the mix of his cum and your juices leaking down your thighs into the bubbling water. He didn't pull out yet, instead rocking his hips in slow, deliberate grinds that kept the friction alive, his mouth crashing back onto yours. The kiss was messy, tongues tangling with renewed hunger, his teeth nipping at your lower lip as he swallowed your whimpers. "You feel that?" he rasped between breaths, one hand cupping your ass to tilt you higher on his shaft. "I'm gonna fuck you until you're ruined for anyone else."
He thrust up again, harder this time, the water churning wildly as he bounced you on his length. Your oversensitive walls clenched around him, every slide sending sparks of pleasure-pain through your core. You gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss to beg, but he silenced you with another deep plunge, his free hand tangling in your wet hair to yank your head back. His lips attacked your throat, sucking marks into the skin—dark bruises that would linger as proof of his claim.
The rhythm built fast, his hips snapping with possessive force, cock stretching you wide with each entry. Your clit rubbed against his base, the pressure coiling tight despite the fresh ache from your first climax. "That's it, take it all," he growled, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise. You shattered again sooner than expected, body trembling as another orgasm ripped through you, but he didn't stop. Sunghoon kept pounding, chasing his own release while your pussy fluttered helplessly around him, overstimulated nerves firing wildly.
"Fuck, yes—squeeze me like that," he grunted, finally spilling inside you with a guttural moan, hot ropes of cum painting your walls anew. He held you impaled, panting against your shoulder, but his cock stayed buried deep, semi-hard and insistent. Slowly, he lowered you both back into the jacuzzi, the warm jets massaging your joined bodies as he pulled you onto his lap facing him.
His hands roamed your back, tracing the scratches you'd left earlier, before cupping your face for a slower makeout. Lips brushed softly at first, then deeper, his tongue exploring lazily while his hips shifted beneath you. You felt him thickening again, the third round stirring as he broke the kiss to murmur, "On your knees. Show me how much you need my cock."
You slid down eagerly, the water lapping at your chest as you positioned yourself between his spread thighs. His erection stood proud, veined and glistening with your combined fluids. Wrapping your hand around the base, you leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the salty mix of cum and arousal. Sunghoon's fingers threaded through your hair, guiding you gently at first. "Suck it. Take me deep."
Your lips parted, sliding over the head, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed down, taking more with each pass. The jacuzzi's bubbles tickled your skin, adding to the sensory overload as you worked him with your mouth—tongue swirling along the underside, hand stroking what you couldn't fit. He groaned, hips bucking slightly, fucking your face with controlled thrusts. "God, your mouth... so fucking good. Look at me while you do it."
Eyes locked on his, darkened with lust, you hummed around his length, the vibration drawing a hiss from him. Saliva dripped down your chin, mixing with the water, as you deepthroated him, throat relaxing to accommodate his girth. His grip tightened, possessive, holding you there for a moment before letting you pull back for air. "Enough." he said hoarsely, hauling you up for another searing kiss, tasting himself on your tongue.
He spun you around then, pressing your back to his chest, legs draped over his as he positioned you. One arm locked around your waist, the other parting your thighs wide. "Spread for me," he commanded, fingers dipping into your soaked pussy, scooping out some of his cum before rubbing it over your clit. You moaned too cock drunk to speak, arching into his touch, but he was already lining up his cock, slamming home in one fluid motion.
This angle let him go deeper, the head of his dick battering your cervix with every upward thrust. Water splashed over the jacuzzi's edge as he fucked you relentlessly, his mouth on your neck, biting and licking. "You're mine to use"he whispered hotly, fingers returning to your clit, pinching and rolling it until you were sobbing with overstimulation. Your body betrayed you, hips grinding back despite the intensity, chasing the building pressure. "Yours only-fuck— yours." You managed to replied back.
He didn't let up, pace brutal, cock dragging against your g-spot with precision. The coil snapped violently—your pussy gushed around him, squirting in forceful arcs that mixed with the jacuzzi water, soaking his thighs. "Fuck, yes—squirt for me, baby," he praised, thrusting through it, prolonging the waves until you were a trembling mess.
Sunghoon came with a roar, flooding you once more, his body shuddering against yours. He held you close through the aftershocks, kisses turning tender, lips brushing your temple, your jaw. "All mine,"he murmured, finally softening and slipping out, cum trickling from your abused pussy.
Exhausted, he lifted you effortlessly, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you to the nearby lounge chair. The steam still hung in the air as he settled beside you, pulling you into his chest. His arms encircled you possessively, one hand stroking your hair as your eyelids grew heavy. "Sleep now" he whispered, voice soft and kissing the top of your head. You drifted off to the rhythm of his heartbeat, safe and claimed in his embrace.
The scent of miso soup and freshly baked melonpan woke you before sunlight did.
You blinked against the soft morning glow spilling in through the patterned blinds.
The mirror above the bed was foggy now from the jacuzzi steam the night before — a quiet, ghostly reminder of everything you’d done in this ridiculous love hotel.
The sheets were wrapped around you like a cocoon, and when you turned over, the space beside you was empty. But only for a second. Because then Sunghoon walked in, shirtless, hair a mess, tray in hand. Room service.
“Good morning, superstar,” he grinned. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes. “You ordered food?”
“I ordered everything.”
He plopped the tray down on the bed — steaming rice bowls, tamagoyaki, cut fruit in flower shapes, and melonpan fresh enough that you could smell the butter. Two iced coffees sat sweating in the corner. You blinked. “You remembered melonpan?”
“You moaned about it in your sleep,” he teased, climbing back into bed. You slapped his chest lightly. “You’re lying.”
“Maybe,” he grinned. “Maybe I just like hearing you moan.”
You groaned, flopping face-first into a pillow. “Stop talking.”
He chuckled. “That’s rich, coming from someone who begged me in a fake train room last night.”
You threw the other pillow at him.
He caught it mid-air. “I’m keeping this one. Smells like your shampoo.”
You peeked out from under the sheets, still flushed.
“Are you… always like this in the morning?”
“Only when I wake up with my favorite person naked beside me.”
He leaned over to kiss your cheek.
Then your shoulder. Then your chest.
You shoved him back with a laugh. “Eat your breakfast.” “I’m trying, but my meal’s hiding under all those blankets—ow, okay, I’m done—!”
He handed you a cup of coffee like it was the holy grail. You drank. Grateful. Warm in more ways than one. After a moment of silence, your voice dropped.
“So… this isn’t just a one-time thing, right?”
Sunghoon didn’t hesitate.
“Babe. I came like a dozen times and cried into your neck. You’re not getting rid of me.” You snorted into your cup. He reached across the tray, brushing your fingers with his.
“I mean it. I want you. All the time. After we go home. Even when you’re being annoying.”
You narrowed your eyes. “When am I annoying?”
“Specially when your annoying,” he smiled. He reached for his phone and, without asking, snapped a picture of you wrapped in blankets, coffee cup in hand, cheeks flushed from laughter.
You groaned. “No—delete that—!”
“Nope,” he grinned, adding it to an album. “This is my favorite version of you. Hair messy, barely alive, and mine.”
You went still. Then softly, “Yours?”
He looked up. “Of course.” Then quieter.
“...Always hoped you’d be.” You leaned in and kissed him slow. Sleepy. Full of a new kind of sweetness.
“Okay,” you whispered. “So what now?”
Sunghoon leaned back against the headboard, arm around you.
“We’ll finish the trip,” he said. “Take more pictures. Eat ridiculous food.”
Then, with a cheeky grin:
“See if the other rooms here have different themes. Maybe one with clouds? A plane? Hospital bed—?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay, but hear me out—”
You shoved a piece of fruit into his mouth.
He chewed, smug.
Then he laced his fingers through yours.
“I want to do this every year,” he said seriously. “Travel. Get lost. End up somewhere weird.”
As a chaebol, you always knew you wouldn't choose your husband. It would always be your parents' choice, not yours. A buisness marriage. Since your 6th birthday, you've been promised to Soobin, the heir of the Choi family. Over the years you became friends. But can't there be more than just friendship ?
Wc: ~12.3k
Warnings: Arranged marriage, Chaebol family dynamics and high society pressure, parental pressure and family conflict, emotional vulnerability, possessiveness, protectiveness, mild sexism/objectification (not from Soobin), power imbalance themes (family + societal, not between Soobin and reader), smut, making out, p in v, protected sex, oral f receiving, fingering, handjob.
You’ve known Choi Soobin your whole life. That’s not an exaggeration. Not in the "we went to the same school" way or the "our parents were friends so we saw each other sometimes" way. No, you’ve literally grown up with him, stitched into his days like a second shadow. The first birthday you actually remember, the one with the giant cake shaped like a castle, he was right there, wearing a crooked paper crown and making you laugh so hard you spat juice all over your expensive dress. When you went to Jeju for summer vacation as kids, you spent hours together on the beach, digging useless holes in the sand while your parents sat under parasols and talked business.
You can’t think of a single version of your childhood that doesn’t have him in it. That’s what it means to be born into families like yours: chaebol families. Dynasties. Empires disguised as people. Your life is never really your own; it’s an asset, a piece on a chessboard. Everyone knows it, but nobody ever says it out loud. Not at the long dinner tables, not in the marble hallways, not in the black cars with tinted windows.
But you always knew. Because when you were still young enough to think ten years was forever away, your grandmother leaned down and said it so casually, so naturally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world: "One day, you’ll marry Soobin."
Promised. That’s the word she used.
At first it didn’t mean anything. You were six years old and more concerned with whether Soobin would let you win at board games. (He didn’t. But he always slipped you the extra piece of candy when no one was looking, so you forgave him.)
But as you grew older, the promise became less of a whisper and more of a fact. Your families said it at parties with knowing smiles, with champagne flutes raised high. Your teachers at school looked at the two of you and shook their heads fondly. Even your classmates teased you about it, though not cruelly. It was just… obvious. It was the story everyone had already written for you.
And maybe it should’ve felt suffocating. Maybe it should’ve made you want to run away. But it didn’t, because it was Soobin. Tall, gentle, awkward Soobin. The boy who lent you his notes in high school because he knew you hated math. The boy who carried your bag without being asked when you sprained your ankle in PE. The boy who, even when the world expected him to be perfect, would trip over his own feet and laugh at himself before anyone else could.
So when the engagement was finally announced, you weren’t shocked. You didn’t cry in your room, or curse your family, or dream of some secret romance that would sweep you away from all this. You just nodded. Because this wasn’t some stranger. This wasn’t a hostile takeover. This was the same boy who used to sneak you strawberry milk from the corner store, the same boy who let you copy his answers during boring summer tutoring, the same boy who knew you better than anyone else ever could.
You're now 23 and two months ago, you married him.
The wedding was exactly what you’d expect when two conglomerates decide to tie themselves together with silk ribbon. Endless flowers flown in from Europe, tables so tall with champagne glasses they looked like crystal towers, a guest list packed with politicians and CEOs. Your dress was heavy, glittering, the kind of thing little girls dream about until they realize how exhausting it is to actually walk in.
And beside you, through all of it, was Soobin. His hand steady in yours. His eyes darting to yours every time the cameras flashed, a silent check-in: you okay? And every time, you nodded back.
The tabloids loved it. They called it the alliance of the year, the perfect pairing, the future of chaebol dynasties. Your parents smiled wider than you’d ever seen. The stock prices went up.
But under all the noise, all the spectacle, the truth was quiet: you and Soobin were married now.
And surprisingly…it wasn’t bad.
It’s been two months, and the mansion is still absurdly large for two people. The kind of place with three kitchens and a hallway long enough to echo when you walk down it. You used to feel small in it, like the house itself was swallowing you whole. But now there are slippers by the door that aren’t yours. There are mugs in the cabinet that aren't yours.
Sometimes, when you’re walking through the garden, you’ll hear his laugh drift through the open window of his study. And suddenly it feels less empty.
The truth is, you’re not unhappy. You’re not strangers fumbling through awkward silences. You’re not enemies forced to play nice. You’re not even in denial. You just…are. Comfortable. Steady. Friendly.
Because who else in the world would understand this life like he does? Who else would get the endless galas, the suffocating weight of expectation, the way your last name feels more like a brand than your own? He’s the only one who’s ever seen the parts of you that exist outside of all that, the real you, the messy, quiet, human you.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
Your mornings together are strangely domestic. Not in the sitcom way, not in the “we’re cooking pancakes in matching aprons” way. More like: you wake up to sunlight spilling across the bed, and Soobin is already awake, sitting with a book open, his glasses sliding down his nose. He looks up when you stir, and he smiles in that small, sleepy way that makes your chest ache a little.
"Morning" he’ll say, voice low, gentle.
And you’ll groan, roll over, and accuse him of waking up early just to be smug about it. He never denies it, but he always laughs.
Breakfast is a table way too big for two people, lined with dishes no normal person could finish. But it doesn’t feel ridiculous anymore, not when you’re sitting across from him. Sometimes you tease him about looking like a staged magazine spread: Heir to the Choi Empire, photographed in his natural habitat. He always goes along with the joke, tilting his chin and pretending to look aloof until you’re laughing so loudly the maids startle.It’s not love. Not yet. But it’s something.
And at night, when the day’s obligations are finally over, the two of you walk the garden together. You don’t always talk. Sometimes it’s enough just to match your footsteps, to breathe the same air under the glow of the moon.
But when you do talk, it’s easy.
"Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we hadn’t been promised to each other?" you asked him once.
He thought about it, long and serious, like he always does. And then he said "I don’t wonder about marrying someone else. I wonder if we would’ve found each other anyway."
You’d stared at him, heart aching in your chest.
"I like to think we would have" he added, quiet, almost shy.
And the worst part (the best part) was that you believed him.
The bed is big. Too big.
It was imported, of course. Some custom Italian designer your mother-in-law mentioned with pride as though you’d appreciate the craftsmanship. It could easily fit four people if it wanted to, maybe even six if you tried hard enough. But it’s just the two of you.
You, on one side. Soobin, on the other.
The mattress dips gently under his weight, a subtle reminder that he’s there, close enough that if you rolled over just a little, you could tuck yourself into the space where his warmth lingers. But you don’t. Not really. Because even though you share a bed, you don’t actually touch. Not when you climb under the sheets at night, not when you both shift and turn in your sleep, not even in the hazy, half-awake mornings when it would be so easy to just...reach out.
His body is a steady presence beside you, always within reach, but there’s a line drawn between you, invisible but sharp, and he never crosses it.
You don’t either. At least, not on purpose.
At first, it made sense. You weren’t in love. You weren’t strangers, but you weren’t lovers, either. This wasn’t some passionate whirlwind romance; this was a promise, a duty, a friendship sealed with wedding vows. The world didn’t need to know that when the cameras stopped flashing and the door shut behind you, you and Soobin just quietly agreed to go to bed. Together. Separately.
But then the weeks turned into months. And now, every night, you find yourself lying there, staring at the ceiling, wishing. Wishing for something simple. Not the grand gestures, no sweeping kisses in the rain, no cinematic declarations of love. Just…closeness. His arm draped over your waist. His breath warm against your hair. His fingers tangled with yours under the sheets. Cuddles. That’s all you want.
But every time you shift a little closer, every time you let your hand hover just inches from his, Soobin subtly moves. Not harshly, not with rejection, but with quiet, careful distance. As if to say: we’re friends, remember? And you hate that it stings.
Sometimes you catch yourself wondering if he notices. Like when you’re brushing your teeth side by side in the ensuite bathroom, and you glance at his reflection in the mirror. He looks calm, collected, as though nothing about this arrangement is strange. As though sleeping side by side without ever touching is perfectly normal.
Or when you’re both curled up on opposite ends of the couch, reading, the quiet of the house pressing in around you. You want to scoot closer, lean your head on his shoulder. But you don’t. Because you already know he’ll gently shift away, not enough to be cruel, but enough to remind you of the line.
It’s not rejection. Not exactly. It’s worse. It’s care. The kind of care that says: I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to take advantage. I don’t want to blur something you might regret.
But what if you wouldn’t regret it? The thing is, you can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be. All those years of friendship mean you already know him, the way he likes his coffee, the way he fidgets when he’s nervous, the way his laugh cracks when it’s really genuine. You already know him better than anyone else.
So what would be so wrong about leaning into him at night? What would be so wrong about asking for a little more warmth, a little more closeness?You’re married, for God’s sake. You wear the ring. You share the name. You stand beside him at every gala, every business dinner, every press event. People look at you and see a couple. They don’t see the gap between you in bed. They don’t see the way your fingers ache to reach for his.
They don’t see how much you want.
One night, the yearning gets the better of you. You’re lying on your side, staring at the shadow of him in the dark. His back is turned, broad and solid, his breathing slow, steady. The kind of rhythm that says he’s either asleep or pretending very, very well. Your hand twitches against the sheets. Just a little. Just enough to brush the edge of his side if you dared to reach.
You think about it. God, you think about it. And then you let your hand fall back, curling into yourself instead. Because you know what will happen. If you touch him, he’ll shift away. If you reach for him, he’ll gently set you back. Not cruel, not cold, just firm. Just Soobin. Drawing that same line he’s always drawn: we’re friends. I won’t cross it. I won’t let you cross it either.
And so you stay put. The distance between you becomes heavy, louder than the silence. You stare at the ceiling, heart aching in a way you can’t even explain.
But here’s the thing about yearning: it doesn’t go away just because you ignore it. You start noticing little things. The way his arm sometimes drifts across the middle of the bed when he’s half-asleep. The way his warmth seeps through the sheets and brushes your skin when you both turn at the same time. The way his voice softens when he says goodnight, even if it’s just a whisper in the dark. You want to reach across that invisible line so badly it hurts.
But Soobin doesn’t. He never does. And you wonder, late at night, when your chest feels tight and the silence feels endless, if he doesn’t want to.
The cruelest part is that he’s still Soobin. He’s still the boy who lets you steal the last dumpling at dinner. The boy who always walks on the street side of the sidewalk without thinking. The boy who makes you laugh so hard you forget what you were stressed about. He still cares for you, still looks out for you, still makes the whole weight of your life feel a little lighter just by being in it.
But he won’t touch you. Not the way you want. Not even a little. And maybe it shouldn’t matter. Maybe it’s selfish to want more when you already have so much. But when you’re lying awake in the middle of the night, staring at the shadow of his body just inches away, it feels like the only thing that matters at all.
So the bed remains too big. The line remains uncrossed. And you remain caught in the middle of wanting and waiting, wondering if one day he’ll finally reach across the space between you. Or if you’ll be the one who breaks first.
You’d been through countless dinners like this before. The polished silverware, the endless wine, the hushed but razor-sharp conversations that weren’t really about family at all, but about power. You’d sat through dozens of them with your own parents, smiling until your cheeks ached, nodding at comments you didn’t agree with, answering questions that weren’t questions but commands disguised as polite curiosity.
But somehow, walking into the Choi mansion that evening, the weight on your chest felt heavier than usual.
Maybe it was because it had been two months since the wedding, and tonight wasn’t just you being scrutinized, it was you as Soobin’s wife. The official daughter-in-law. The new extension of the Choi family name.
You smoothed the front of your dress as the butler opened the tall doors, the sound of your heels clicking too loud against the marble floor. Beside you, Soobin’s hand hovered close enough that you could feel the warmth of it, but he didn’t take yours. Not here. Not under his parents’ roof.
"Ready?" he murmured under his breath.
You nodded, though your stomach had been twisting all afternoon.
His parents were already waiting in the grand dining room, seated at the head of the impossibly long table. Crystal chandeliers glittered above. His mother’s jewelry caught the light. His father looked up from the glass of red wine in his hand, sharp-eyed even in his casual indifference.
"Finally" his mother said, her smile tight. "We were beginning to wonder if marriage had made you both tardy."
Soobin bowed slightly, polite, measured. "Traffic" he explained simply, before gesturing for you to take the seat beside him.
You sat, folding your hands neatly in your lap, back straight. You’d been trained for this, in a way. Years of practice had taught you how to smile without showing discomfort, how to look attentive even when you wanted to disappear.
The first few courses passed in silence, the clink of silverware against porcelain the only sound. But of course, it didn’t last.
"So" his father began, swirling his wine "two months already. How are you finding married life?"
You opened your mouth to answer, but Soobin beat you to it. "Comfortable" he said easily, as if that was the only word that mattered.
His father arched a brow. "Comfortable? That’s all?"
Soobin smiled faintly. "It suits us."
His parents exchanged a look, one of those silent, wordless glances that carried entire conversations. You kept your gaze lowered to your plate, pretending not to notice.
And then, as expected, his mother turned the topic where it was always destined to go.
"It’s time you start thinking about the future" she said, her voice smooth, rehearsed. "An heir. Or heirs, preferably. You both are young, healthy, there’s no need to waste time."
The words made your fork freeze mid-air. Heirs. Of course. You’d known it was coming. You’d known it from the moment the engagement was announced, from the way people at galas whispered not about the wedding but about what would come after. Your body, your life, reduced to an expectation.
But even expecting it didn’t stop the sting.
You set your fork down carefully, keeping your expression neutral.
His mother continued, as though she hadn’t just tossed the weight of an entire future onto the table like another dish to be served. "And of course, there’s the matter of your public presence. Charity work, hosting events, managing appearances. You’ve been doing...fine so far." She said the word with a little tilt of her head, a dismissal wrapped in silk. "But the press will be looking for more from you. More polish. More perfection. The wife of Choi Soobin must embody our family’s standard."
Your pulse thudded in your ears. You wanted to sink into the floor, to vanish into the glittering chandelier light above.
Because of course this was how it went. You weren’t a person to them. You were an accessory, a vessel, an extension of their empire. A trophy.
You swallowed hard, trying to will your face into calmness, but your chest ached with something sharp.
And then, for the first time in your life, you heard Soobin’s voice cut through the air, not soft, not hesitant.
"That’s enough."
The table went silent. You turned to him, startled. His gaze wasn’t on you, it was fixed on his parents.
"What did you say?" his father asked, his tone icy.
Soobin didn’t flinch. "I said that’s enough. She’s already doing everything asked of her. More than enough. She’s been dragged into every dinner, every event, every gala. She smiles, she answers your questions, she plays the role. And now you sit here and tell her she isn’t perfect enough?"
His mother’s expression tightened. "Soobin..."
"No" he interrupted, sharper than you’d ever heard him. "No more. We got married because you all decided it was best for the families. Fine. But she’s my wife. She’s not your project. She’s not your accessory. And she’s not here to be lectured like she’s never enough. She already is."
Your breath caught. The chandelier light blurred in your eyes, your throat tightening as you tried to process the words leaving his mouth.
His father’s jaw clenched. "You’re being emotional."
"I’m being honest" Soobin replied calmly, though there was a harshness beneath it. "If you can’t respect her, then you’re not respecting me either."
The silence that followed was deafening. His mother placed her wine glass down with a controlled little click. "We’ll continue this conversation another time."
Soobin stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "No. We won’t."
Then he turned to you, his expression softening instantly, and held out his hand. "Come on. We’re leaving."
You hesitated only for a second before slipping your hand into his. His grip was warm, steady, grounding. Together, you walked out of the glittering dining room, past the butlers and maids frozen in shock, out of the heavy mansion doors.
The car ride back was quiet. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. Your hands were folded in your lap, but you could still feel the ghost of his hand in yours, still feel the way your heart had been thruming in your chest from the moment he spoke up.
You kept replaying it in your head, over and over. The way he’d looked at his parents, unflinching. How he defended you. The way he’d said you're already enough. You hadn’t realized until now how badly you’d needed someone to say it.
By the time you reached your own home, your throat felt tight, heavy with unspoken words. Soobin closed the car door behind you. He turned, eyes immediately searching yours.“
"Hey" he said gently. "You okay?"
You opened your mouth, but the words tangled. "I…I don’t know."
His expression softened, and he stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was afraid to scare you off. "You don’t have to listen to them. Not tonight. Not ever, if I can help it."
You blinked fast, your chest aching. "But they’re right. About the expectations. About-"
"No." His voice was firm. He reached out, and for once, he didn’t stop himself. His hands found your shoulders, warm and grounding. "Don’t say that. Don’t let them make you believe that. You’re already perfect."
The words hit you like a tidal wave. Perfect. Not for the cameras, not for the press, not for the family name. Perfect for him.
Your vision blurred as tears filled your eyes, and you lowered your head, embarrassed. But Soobin tilted your chin up gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"I mean it" he whispered. "You don’t have to do more. You don’t have to be more. You’re already enough, just as you are."
Your throat closed, your breath catching. And in that moment, standing in the quiet glow of your home, you let yourself believe him.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the ache in your chest eased. Because Soobin, your Soobin, your best friend, your husband, wasn’t just drawing lines to protect you. He was standing on your side.
Gala nights always feel the same. The chandelier light blinding, the air heavy with perfume and champagne, the endless murmur of voices that all sound the same: sharp, polished, and calculating. Everyone dresses like royalty, but you know better. These aren’t kings and queens. They’re hunters. Sharks in glittering gowns and tailored tuxedos.
And tonight, you are the newest piece of bait in the water.
"Remember" Soobin murmurs beside you as the car pulls up to the hotel entrance "it’s just a few hours. We smile, we greet, and then we leave."
You nod, clutching your clutch a little too tightly. His hand rests lightly on your back as the chauffeur opens the door, guiding you out into the blinding flash of cameras. For a moment, you want to lean into him, anchor yourself in the quiet steadiness he always carries, but there are too many eyes on you. So you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and step into the hall.
The first hour is a blur of introductions. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve bowed politely, how many times you’ve heard the same compliments dressed up in different words. Beautiful couple. Beautiful bride. So radiant. So graceful.
You know they don’t mean you. They mean the idea of you. The package you present standing beside Choi Soobin, the way your gown clings in all the right places, the way your smile looks like it was practiced in the mirror (because it was).
Soobin never strays far. Even when he’s shaking hands with an executive, even when he’s laughing at a politician’s dull joke, his eyes flick toward you. Just a glance, but enough. You can feel the tether between you, invisible but taut, pulling you back to him no matter where you drift.
It should make you feel safe. And it does. Mostly. Until you start noticing the other looks.
The first man is harmless enough, at least on the surface. Mid-fifties, balding, with the kind of smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He shakes Soobin’s hand, praises the merger, then lets his gaze slide to you. It lingers. Too long.
You feel the weight of it on your skin, crawling, leaving something dirty behind. You force a polite smile anyway, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. But you see the way his eyes trail over your dress, slow and greedy, before he finally looks away.
The second man doesn’t bother with subtlety. Younger, maybe mid-thirties, handsome in a too-perfect way. He laughs too loud at his own jokes, leans too close when he speaks to you, his gaze shameless as it drags down your figure.
"Soobin" he says, clapping your husband on the back "you really lucked out. Didn’t know you had such good taste."
You stiffen, your cheeks burning, but before you can even react, Soobin’s hand is at your waist. Tight. Firm. The man notices. He smirks, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes flick to you one last time before he slinks away.
Soobin doesn’t say a word. But his hand doesn’t leave your waist.
As the hours drag on, it only gets worse. Everywhere you turn, someone is staring. Some openly, some behind the rim of their champagne flutes. You can feel their eyes tracing you, dissecting you, judging you like you’re not even real. You hate it. You hate how exposed you feel, how powerless. You hate that your smile has to stay fixed, that you can’t call them out, that you can’t do anything but endure it.
But Soobin sees. He always sees. You can tell by the way his jaw tightens when another man’s gaze lingers too long. By the way he positions himself just slightly in front of you, his broad frame blocking their view. By the way his arm finds its way around your shoulders, around your waist, pulling you into his side like he’s daring anyone else to look.
It’s subtle, almost invisible to anyone else. But you feel it. The possessiveness.The protectiveness. The unspoken promise: She’s mine. Don’t even think about hurting her. And God, it makes your chest ache.
At one point, while he’s momentarily pulled aside by a board member, you find yourself cornered by another man. Older. Wealthier. The kind of person who thinks his power allows him to do anything.
"You really are stunning" he says, his voice low, slimy. "Soobin’s a lucky man. Though, I suppose…luck has nothing to do with it, hm? Arrangements like yours are always…strategic."
The implication burns. You open your mouth, ready to respond, when a shadow falls over you. Soobin. His hand slips into yours, threading your fingers together firmly, unmistakably.
"Excuse us" he says, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "We have somewhere to be."
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just pulls you away, his grip protective, his stride long and determined. Only when you’re safely in a quieter corner of the hall does he stop. He turns to you, his eyes scanning your face, his jaw still tight.
"Are you okay?" he asks, softer now.
You nod, though your throat feels tight. "I’m fine."
He doesn’t look convinced. His hand squeezes yours, grounding. "I hate the way they look at you. Like just a trophy wife, a woman that got lucky to get married to me."
Your breath catches. He’s never said it out loud before.
"I know I can’t stop it" he continues, his voice low "but I want to. Every time I see it, I want to..." He cuts himself off, exhaling hard, shaking his head. "You’re not theirs to look at like that."
Something in your chest twists. Because you’ve wanted closeness. You’ve wanted warmth. You’ve wanted him to look at you as more than just a friend. And right now, in his words, in the way his grip tightens like he’ll never let go, you can feel the start of something more.
Something protective. Something possessive. Something that feels dangerously close to want.
The rest of the night, he doesn’t leave your side. Not for a second.
Every handshake, every smile, every polite conversation, you’re close to him. His arm around you, his hand at the small of your back, his gaze cutting sharp whenever someone’s eyes linger too long.
And you can’t help but feel it. The shift. Because this isn’t just duty. This isn’t just politeness. This is Soobin staking a claim.
By the fourth hour of the gala, your cheeks are starting to ache from smiling. The air is too warm, the champagne too sweet, and the voices all blend together in a single blur of names, titles, mergers, deals. You’ve shaken so many hands your skin feels faintly numb. And all the while, you can feel the eyes. Some curious, some calculating. Some wandering.
Soobin’s hand stays at the small of your back, a light pressure that never quite lets you forget he’s there. He hasn’t said much, he doesn’t need to. His presence is enough, a steady anchor in a sea of artificial glitter and teeth.
But then you feel it. A new gaze. Heavier. Hungrier. You know it before you even look up.
The man is older, maybe late forties or early fifties. Silver hair slicked back too neatly, a tailored suit stretched over a body gone soft from indulgence. He carries his glass like an extension of his hand, tilting it lazily as he steps toward you with the kind of confidence only obscene money and unchecked arrogance can buy.
You’re standing alone for a rare moment, Soobin pulled into conversation a few feet away and the man seizes the opportunity.
"My, my" he says, his voice oily, words slured as if drunk. "So this is the famous bride."
You bow politely, lips pressed into that same polite smile you’ve worn all night. "It’s an honor to meet you."
But you don’t miss the way his eyes trail down your frame. Slowly. Shamelessly. You want to shrink, to fold yourself into nothing, but you can’t. Not here. Not with so many people watching. So you stay still, spine straight, smile fixed.
"I must say, Soobin has excellent taste" he drawls, stepping closer, far too close. "I’d heard you were beautiful, but they didn’t do you justice. You’re even more exquisite in person."
The words make your skin crawl. His gaze doesn’t leave you, lingering on the neckline of your dress, the curve of your neck. You shift slightly, trying to put a little more space between you, but he only leans in.
"Tell me" he continues, his voice low, invasive, "are you finding married life… fulfilling?"
Your throat tightens. "I..." You glance toward Soobin, who’s still deep in discussion with two executives, his profile sharp under the light. He doesn’t see you. Not yet. You force a smile anyway. "We’re very happy, thank you."
But the man doesn’t take the hint. He chuckles, swirling his drink, eyes never leaving you. "Happy, yes. But satisfied?"
Your stomach turns. You take a half-step back, trying to keep your tone even. "Excuse me, I should..."
His hand darts out, fingers brushing against your arm to stop you. "No need to run off so quickly. I only wanted a little of your time."
The contact is brief, but it feels like a brand against your skin. You stiffen, panic flashing in your chest, when suddenly, his hand is gone. Because Soobin is there.
It happens fast. One moment, the man’s fingers are on you. The next, Soobin’s grip is wrapped around his wrist, firmly, pulling him back with a force that leaves no room for argument.
"Don’t touch her." Soobin’s voice is quiet, but it slices through the din of the gala like a blade.
The older man blinks, surprised, then tries to laugh it off. "Ah, Soobin. I didn’t see you there."
"You saw her" Soobin says flatly. His grip doesn’t loosen. His height towers over the man, his shoulders squared, his presence suddenly sharp in a way that makes the air around you tense. "And you touched her."
Around you, a few people glance over, curiosity flickering in their eyes. But most look away again just as quickly: no one wants to get in the middle of a chaebol son’s temper.
The man shifts uncomfortably, trying to free his wrist. "Come now, it was nothing..."
Soobin’s jaw tightens. "Don’t. Pretend it was nothing."
He finally releases the man’s wrist, but only to step closer, placing himself directly between you and him. The message is clear: a wall, immovable, impenetrable.
The man laughs again, brittle this time. "You’re overreacting. I was simply being friendly."
Soobin tilts his head slightly, his expression calm but cold. "If that’s your idea of friendly, then I suggest you keep it far away from my wife."
The word wife lands heavy, final. The man falters. His smile slips. He clears his throat, mutters something about needing another drink, and disappears into the crowd with his pride in tatters. And just like that, he’s gone.
But Soobin doesn’t move. He stays standing in front of you, tall and steady, his shoulders tense. His hand lingers at your waist now, not the polite, guiding touch he usually offers, but something firmer. Protective.
You realize you’ve been holding your breath.
"You okay?" he asks finally, his voice softer now, turning back to look at you.
You swallow, nodding quickly. "I...I’m fine."
His gaze lingers on your face, searching, like he doesn’t quite believe you. His hand squeezes lightly at your side. "Don’t lie to me."
The words nearly undo you. Because you weren’t fine. You’d felt cornered, trapped, like prey under a predator’s gaze. And if Soobin hadn’t stepped in...
Your chest tightens. "I just… I hated the way he looked at me."
Soobin’s expression darkens, his jaw clenching. "I did too."
Something about the honesty of it makes your breath hitch.
"I wanted to..." He stops himself, exhaling hard, like he’s fighting to hold something back. Then, quieter: "I wanted to make sure he’d never look at you again." Your heart stutters.You’re not used to hearing him like this. Not your gentle, patient Soobin, who always draws the line, who always insists you’re just friends despite the ring on your finger. This is different. Closer.
For a moment, you wonder if anyone else can feel it, the tension radiating off him, the way his hand hasn’t left your waist, the way his body is angled like he’s ready to fight anyone who dares come near.
It feels like a claim. It feels like protection. It feels like something more.
By the time the gala ends, you’re running on fumes. Your face aches from smiling, your hand feels numb from shaking so many others, and your feet, God, your feet are screaming. The heels you’d chosen to match your gown were stunning under the chandeliers, but after four hours of standing, walking, and twirling through conversations, they’re starting to feel like medieval torture devices.
You don’t complain, of course. Not out loud. Not here. You’ve been raised to know better. So you keep your spine straight, your head high, and your lips curved into that picture-perfect smile as the last goodbyes are exchanged, the last congratulations murmured. You let Soobin guide you through the glittering crowd with his hand at your back, the two of you weaving toward the exit.
But the second the massive doors close behind you and the cool night air hits your skin, you can’t help it. A small groan escapes you, soft, almost pitiful, as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.
Soobin hears it immediately. He glances down at you, brows furrowing, the sharp protectiveness from earlier melting into something softer, gentler. "Are you okay?"
You nod quickly, out of habit. "I’m fine."
"You’re not fine."
"I’m-"
"Please" he says, the word carrying that quiet firmness he always uses when he knows you’re hiding something. His eyes flick down to your shoes. "Your feet hurt."
Heat creeps into your cheeks. You don’t know why it feels embarrassing to admit it. Maybe because you’ve been trained to never show weakness in public. Maybe because you hate that he notices everything, even the things you try to hide.
"...They’re just a little sore" you mumble.
Soobin’s lips press into a line. Then, before you can even process what’s happening, he crouches down in front of you.
Your breath catches. "Soobin...what are you..."
"Stay still." He’s already reaching for your ankle, fingers brushing against the strap of your heel. With surprising ease, he unclasps it, sliding the shoe off your foot. The relief is immediate, sharp enough to make you sigh out loud.
He glances up briefly at the sound, his expression unreadable, before repeating the motion with your other shoe. Both heels dangle from his fingers a moment later, and you’re standing barefoot on the cool stone steps, your gown brushing the ground.
It should feel awkward. Indecent, even. But the only thing you feel is your heart, pounding too fast in your chest.
"You didn’t have to" you start, your voice embarrassingly small.
"Yes, I did" he interrupts simply. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he straightens, slips one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and lifts you off the ground.
You gasp, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders. "Soobin!"
"Shh" he says softly, not looking down at you as he carries you down the last few steps. His hold is steady, effortless, like you weigh nothing at all. "Your feet need a break."
You should protest. You should tell him to put you down. You should laugh it off, pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
But you don’t. You can’t.
Because something about the way he’s holding you, like it’s second nature, like he was meant to, is undoing all the walls you’ve carefully kept in place to avoid getting hurt.
The car is waiting at the curb. Soobin lowers you gently into the leather seat on the passenger side, careful not to let your gown catch, setting your heels beside you. Then he slides in next to you on the driver side, closing the door with a soft click. The city hums outside, neon lights casting colors across the tinted glass as the car pulls away from the gala. But inside, it feels quiet. Intimate.
You sit with your bare feet curled beneath you, the cool leather against your skin. Your hands twist nervously in your lap, the memory of his arms around you still burning into your body.
"You didn’t have to carry me" you murmur finally, unable to handle the silence.
"I know" he says simply.
Your chest tightens. "Then… why did you?"
Soobin leans back against the seat, his gaze fixed out the window. His profile is sharp in the passing light, but his voice is softer than you expect when he answers. "Because I wanted to."
The words are simple. Too simple. But they hit you harder than anything else tonight. You look down quickly, your cheeks heating, your fingers curling tighter in your lap. Your heart feels too big for your chest, pulsing rapidly.
The car ride stretches on, filled with silence but not empty. Not anymore.
You can feel him there beside you, close enough to touch. You can smell his cologne, expensive, clean, familiar. You can sense the weight of everything that went unsaid at the gala still hanging between you.
Your throat feels dry. You want to speak. You want to thank him again, not just for carrying you, but for everything, for stepping in when that man cornered you, for standing up for you in ways no one else ever has, for seeing you in a way that makes you feel less alone.
But the words won't come out. So instead, you sit in silence, watching the city blur past, your heart beating frantically.
And beside you, Soobin stays quiet too. But his hand, resting on the armrest between you, is close enough that if you reached out, just a little, you could slip your fingers into his.
You don’t. Not yet. But the thought lingers. You glance at him once, twice, before finally finding your voice.
"Thank you."
He turns his head, surprised. "For what?"
"For…earlier." You look down at your hands, fingers twisting together nervously. "For stepping in. For...protecting me."
His expression softens, just slightly. "You don’t need to thank me for that."
"I do" you say quietly. "You didn’t have to. But you did."
Soobin’s gaze lingers on you, unreadable. Then he exhales, leaning back against the seat.
"I’ll always step in" he says simply. "No one gets to treat you like that. Ever."
You want to reach out, to take his hand, to tell him how much it means. But you don’t. Instead, you sit in silence, the distance between you feeling shorter than ever. Something fragile.
By the time you get home, it feels like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. The mansion is quiet. The staff had gone to bed hours ago, leaving only a few lamps glowing to light your way inside.
You slip out of your gown in your shared walk-in closet, the heavy silk pooling at your feet. Your jewelry goes next, then the makeup, until all that’s left is the soft cotton of your pajamas and the faint ache in your muscles. You scrub at your face in the mirror until you look like yourself again, not the glittering wife of Choi Soobin, not the porcelain doll paraded through the gala. Just…you.
When you step into the bedroom, Soobin’s already there, changed into his own pajamas, simple, loose-fitting. His hair is damp from a quick shower, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his skin looks flushed and warm.
For a moment, you just…look at him. Not the heir of the family. Not the perfect son. Just the boy you grew up with, the one you’ve known all your life. He glances up when he feels your gaze and offers you a small smile, the kind that’s reserved only for you.
"Tired?" he asks quietly.
You nod. "Exhausted."
He doesn’t push further. He never does. Instead, he simply pulls back the duvet, a silent invitation for you to climb into the bed you’ve shared for two months without ever really sharing it.
You slide in carefully, settling onto your usual side, the cool sheets freezing your skin. The mattress dips as he joins you, the familiar distance stretching between you once again.
It should feel normal by now. Comforting, even. But tonight… it doesn’t. Tonight the space feels unbearable. You try to sleep. You really do. But your body is too aware of itself, too aware of him. Of the way his breathing sounds in the dark, steady but a little uneven. Of the way his presence radiates heat under the sheets. Of the way the silence between you feels heavy.
Finally, you turn your head slightly, peeking at his silhouette.
"Soobin?" you whisper.
He shifts slightly, enough that you know he’s awake. "Hm?" His voice is soft, a little rough from tiredness.
You hesitate, chewing at your lip, your chest tightening with nerves. You want to ask, but how do you? How do you put yearning into words without breaking the fragile balance you’ve kept for so long?
Your voice is small when it finally comes. "Can I…sleep closer to you?"
The silence that follows nearly swallows you whole. For a terrifying second, you think he’ll say no. That he’ll remind you of the line, the friendship, the duty. That he’ll gently set you back where you belong, as he always does.
But then, slowly, you feel the mattress shift. He lifts his arm, the duvet rustling faintly, a quiet opening. Your breath stutters. And then you move, tentative but determined, closing the space between you and curling carefully against his side.
His body is warm, solid, real. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady under your ear. His arm settles around you, not hesitantly, pulling you closer as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. "You’re shaking" he murmurs, voice low.
"I’m not" you whisper back, though you are. Every nerve in your body is alive, buzzing with the reality of him holding you for the first time.
"You are" he says gently. His hand rubs a slow circle against your back, soothing, grounding. "Hey. It’s okay."
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. "It’s just…I’ve wanted this for so long" you admit quietly, so quietly you almost hope he won’t hear. "Just this. To be close."
Soobin goes still for a moment. And then, just as softly: "Me too."
Your heart stops. You tilt your head up slightly, searching his face in the dim light filtering through the curtains. His eyes are already on you, unreadable but warm. "You have…?"
"I didn’t want to push" he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. So I kept my distance. But if you want this…" His arm tightens around you, just a little. "Then I do too."
Something inside you unravels. Relief, affection, longing, it all floods through you at once, overwhelming you. You bury your face against his chest to hide the tears threatening to spill, but he notices anyway.
"Hey" he murmurs again, tilting his head to press the lightest kiss to the top of your head. "You don’t have to be perfect with me, remember?"
Your throat aches. "I know" you whisper. "It’s just…I didn’t think you wanted this."
His chest rumbles with a quiet sigh. "I wanted it too much. That’s why I was careful."
You let out a shaky laugh, half-cry, half-disbelief. "So we were both suffering for nothing?"
"Pretty much" he says, a wry smile in his voice.
The absurdity of it makes you laugh for real this time, muffled against him. His arm tightens around you, his body shaking slightly with his own soft laugh.
And then the laughter fades, leaving only warmth, silence, closeness. You curl tighter against him, your bare feet brushing his legs, your body fitting into the shape of his like it was always meant to. His hand strokes absentmindedly through your hair, a steady rhythm that makes your eyelids close.
For the first time since your wedding, since the cameras and the vows and the expectations, you feel like you can breathe. For the first time, the bed doesn’t feel too big.
You drift toward sleep like that, wrapped in his warmth, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his breath a gentle whisper against your hair. And just before sleep pulls you under completely, you hear him murmur, so soft you almost think you’re dreaming: "You’re perfect."
The strange thing is, nothing really changes and yet everything does.
You still wake up in the same bed, still share the same routines, still go through the same obligations of two people born into chaebol families. The staff still bow when you pass through the halls. His phone still buzzes endlessly with meetings and decisions.
But now, there’s this. This secret sweetness. This undercurrent of joy. This quiet revolution between the two of you. Because now, when you wake up, Soobin’s arm is already around you. Not just draped politely, not the hesitant closeness from that first night you broke the invisible line, but solid and warm, curling you into his chest as though his body is the only place you belong. His face nuzzles against your hair in sleep, his breath soft on your skin, and sometimes you wake to the press of the faintest kiss against your forehead, placed unconsciously before his eyes even open.
And when he does open them, when those sleepy eyes meet yours in the first light of morning, it’s like the entire world softens.
"Morning" he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, lips curving into a smile that’s just for you. And you can’t help it, you smile back, every single time.
During the day, the difference shows in smaller ways. When you pass him a coffee, his fingers linger on yours longer than they need to, and the contact makes your chest flutter. When you’re walking through the gardens together, he sometimes reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers with his like it’s second nature. The first time he did it, you almost tripped from how casual he was about it, as though this wasn’t something you’d been secretly longing for, as though it hadn’t taken months of restraint to get here.
At the weekly family dinners, when his parents drone on about expectations, you feel his knee press against yours under the table. A grounding touch, steady, silent reassurance. Sometimes he glances your way, the tiniest lift of his brow, the corner of his lips quirking when he catches your stifled sighs. It’s almost conspiratorial, like you’re two kids again, sharing secrets across the dining table.
And then there are the kisses.
They’re not constant, not yet, Soobin is still Soobin, careful and deliberate, not one to fling passion out into the open carelessly. But now that the line has been crossed, he doesn’t stop himself when the moment feels right.
A kiss on your temple when he passes you in the hallway. A soft peck on your lips before he leaves for the office. A lingering kiss in the kitchen when you’re both trying to cook something ridiculous together, laughter spilling between you as flour dusts your hands.
Each one feels like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky.
One evening, a week after that first kiss, you find yourself on the balcony outside your bedroom. The air is cool, the city lights glittering like jewels in the distance, and you lean against the railing, letting the breeze wash over you.
You hear the soft slide of the glass door and turn your head just as Soobin steps out. He’s changed into something comfortable, his hair slightly damp from a shower, a faintly tired but soft expression on his face.
"Cold?" he asks, stopping beside you.
"Not too much."
Without a word, he slides his arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. The gesture is so natural, so easy, that you have to bite back the giddy smile threatening to bloom. For a while, you stand there together in silence, watching the city below.
Then Soobin exhales slowly, his chin resting atop your head. "You know… I didn’t think I’d get this."
Your brows furrow. "Get what?"
"This. Us. Like this." His thumb strokes absentmindedly against your hip. "I thought marriage would always just be…an arrangement. A contract. Duty."
You look up at him, heart squeezing at the vulnerability in his voice. "And now?"
He meets your gaze, and the answer is obvious in his eyes before he even speaks. "Now it feels like the first thing that’s really mine."
Your throat tightens, and before you can think better of it, you rise on your toes and kiss him. It’s slow, unhurried, full of quiet promises. His hands slide up your back, holding you close, and the world seems to melt away until it’s just the two of you and the taste of something sweeter than you ever thought you’d have.
The weeks that follow are full of little moments like that. Moments where joy drowns out all the pressure and expectations. There are late-night talks sprawled out across the bed, the two of you whispering about old childhood memories, about dreams you were too afraid to share before.
There are quiet car rides where his hand rests on your knee, absent but deliberate, like he needs to feel you there beside him. There are stolen kisses in the library, laughter muffled against his lips when one of the staff nearly catches you tucked between bookshelves.
You’ve always known him, as a friend, as a partner, as someone bound to you by family ties. But now you’re learning him in new ways: the little hum he makes when he’s focusing on a crossword puzzle, the way he always drapes a blanket over you when you fall asleep reading, the surprisingly terrible doodles he makes in the margins of his notebooks.
And you think maybe, just maybe, this is what love feels like.
One night, after a particularly long day, you’re curled on the sofa together, your head on his chest as he absentmindedly traces shapes against your arm.
"Soobin?" you murmur, breaking the silence.
"Hm?"
"Are you happy?"
His hand pauses for a moment. Then he tilts his head, looking at you, his expression softening.
"Yeah" he says finally. "I am. With you, I am."
Something inside you warms at the confidence in his tone.
And when he kisses you, slow, deep, filled with quiet devotion, you believe him completely.
The first brush of his lips against yours is as soft as ever, but tonight, it doesn’t end there. Tonight, he doesn’t pull away after a heartbeat. Tonight, when you sigh into him, his hand slides from your shoulder to cradle the back of your head, deepening the kiss.
Heat sparks low in your stomach. You respond instinctively, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer. The kiss grows sloppier, more insistent, the two of you finding a rhythm that makes the rest of the world blur.
Soobin makes a quiet sound into your mouth, half sigh, half something deeper, and it shoots straight through you. His thumb strokes against your jaw as his lips move against yours with more certainty, like he’s finally allowing himself to give in.
You’ve kissed him before, plenty now. Sweet, lingering pecks that left you smiling like a fool. But this…this is different. This is hungry. This is months of restraint finally slipping.
Your breath stutters as his tongue brushes against yours, hesitant for a moment until you part your lips for him. The contact sends a shiver down your spine, your body melting against his.
His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat pounding hard, quick as yours, proof that he’s just as swept up as you are.
When you tilt your head, deepening the kiss further, his fingers thread into your hair, holding you to him like he’s afraid to let go. It’s dizzying. It’s intoxicating. It’s Soobin everywhere, overwhelming.
You lose track of how long it lasts, how many times you break for air only to dive back in, lips finding each other again and again like magnets.
Your fingers find their way into his hair, tugging lightly, and the low groan he lets out makes heat flood your cheeks. The sound is unlike anything you’ve heard from him before, raw, unguarded, uncomposed and you swear you’ll replay it in your head for days.
It’s messy. It’s breathless. It’s perfect.
By the time you finally part, your head is spinning, your lips numb, your body humming with the aftermath of it all. You collapse against his chest, your forehead pressed to his shoulder. His arms circle around you instantly, holding you close, as if sealing the moment. He presses one last kiss to the top of your head, soft again now, tender.
And in that quiet aftermath, wrapped up in him, you realize something certain: You don’t ever want to go back to the days before this.
It’s not perfect. Of course it isn’t. There are still the endless demands from family, the suffocating expectations of heirs and image, the looming shadows of duty that neither of you can entirely escape.
But now you face them together. And somehow, that makes all the difference. Because now, when the days are heavy, you have his hand to hold. When the nights are long, you have his arms to curl into. And when the world feels like too much, you have the reminder that in the midst of it all, you’ve found something real. Something joyful. Something yours. Something that feels like love.
The first sign is the silence.
Normally, when Soobin comes home, there’s at least some kind of soft acknowledgment: a muttered "I’m back", the faintest of smiles, the quick loosen of his tie as he enters the bedroom you share. Not always cheerful, he’s not the type to bubble over, but steady, familiar.
Tonight, there’s none of that. Tonight, the door shuts with a low thud, heavier than usual. The sound makes you glance up from where you’re curled on the sofa, a book open in your lap. You catch sight of him as he steps inside: shoulders hunched, tie askew, hair mussed in a way that isn’t charming but messy.
"Soobin?"
His eyes lift to you, and you’re startled by how tired he looks. Dark circles beneath his eyes and there’s a tightness around his mouth that hasn’t been there before.
"You’re still up" he says, his voice low, rough around the edges.
"I was waiting for you."
Something flickers in his gaze, too quick to understand, before he looks away. He crosses the room in long strides, shrugs off his suit jacket, and drops onto the other end of the sofa with a heavy exhale.
The silence stretches. You study him, worry gnawing at your chest. "Rough day?"
"That’s one way to put it" he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Back-to-back meetings. Arguments. The board’s restless, the investors are restless. My father-" His jaw tightens. "He never thinks anything I do is enough."
Your heart aches at the sadness in his tone.
"Soobin…"
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands rubbing down his face.
Without thinking, you shift closer. You reach out, laying your hand gently on his back. The contact makes him freeze for a second, like he isn’t used to it. Then he exhales, some of the tension removing from his shoulders under your touch.
"Want to talk about it?" you ask softly.
His head shakes slowly. "Not really."
"Then don’t" you murmur. "You don’t have to. Just…let yourself rest."
For a moment, you’re not sure he’ll let you. For a moment, you think he’ll brush you off, stand up, retreat into the shell of duty and self-control that’s been drilled into him since birth.
But instead, he leans. His body tilts until his shoulder presses against yours, heavy, grounding. You slide your arm around him instinctively, and he lets you, his weight shifting until his head drops onto your shoulder.
The breath you let out is shaky, but you hold him anyway. Your fingers find their way into his hair, brushing lightly, soothing. His eyes flutter shut, his breathing slowing bit by bit.
You whisper his name once, softly. He hums in response, too tired to do more.
"You don’t always have to be perfect" you murmur, stroking his hair. "Not with me. You know that, right?"
For a long time, he doesn’t answer. You start to think he’s drifted to sleep, but then "Why do you always know what to say?" he mutters, voice muffled against your shoulder.
A small smile curves your lips, though your chest feels tight. “Because that's what I like to hear for myself."
That earns you the faintest huff of laughter, warm against your skin. But then, before you can react, he shifts. He kisses you deeply.
He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, something caught between relief and need, and suddenly the kiss deepens. His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until your body presses against his. It’s dizzying. Overwhelming.
It happens so suddenly you almost think you imagined it. One moment you’re still on the sofa, wrapped in the warm haze of the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours like he can’t bear to let go. The next, Soobin is pulling back, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. Not just affection. Something deeper. Something hungrier.
And before you can speak, he scoops you up. Your breath catches as your world tilts, his arms sliding beneath your knees and back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He rises smoothly, holding you as though you weigh nothing at all, though you can feel the tension in the strength of his grip. His suit jacket is gone, but he still smells faintly of cologne and the long, exhausting day he’s carried on his shoulders.
"W–What are you doing?" you whisper, though your arms instinctively loop around his neck.
"Taking you to bed" he says simply. His voice is low, steady, but there’s a tremor under the calm, a crack in the perfect composure he’s always carried.
Your heart stutters at his words, your pulse hammering in your ears. Soobin carries you down the hall, his long strides unhurried but certain, every step echoing through the mansion. The two of you have walked this hallway a thousand times before. But this time feels different. Charged. Each step is weighted with something that makes your breath catch, makes you bury your face in the crook of his neck just to steady yourself.
You can feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek, quick and uneven. He’s not as calm as he looks.
When he pushes open the door to your bedroom, the air shifts. It’s familiar, the soft lamplight spilling over the spacious room, the linen sheets tucked perfectly over the bed.
Soobin sets you down gently on the mattress, as though you’re made of glass. He lingers for a moment, his hands still at your waist, his tall frame looming over you. His eyes search yours, dark and uncertain and full of something that steals the breath from your lungs.
You should speak. You should say something, break the tension, make sure you’re both on the same page. But the words catch in your throat, because you want this. You want him.
And then he leans down, and your mouth meets his before you can think. The kiss is different this time. No hesitation, no testing. It’s deep and desperate, the kind of kiss that says I’ve been waiting for this longer than I can admit. His hands slide up your arms, cradling your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a tenderness that makes you ache.
You cling to him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. The world narrows to just the two of you, to the warmth of his body pressed against yours, to the way he sighs into your mouth like he’s finally letting go of something he’s been holding back.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his breath uneven. His forehead drops against yours again, but this time his hands are trembling where they cradle your face.
"Are you sure?" he whispers, his voice rough.
The question triggers something in you, because it’s so him. Even now, even here, he’s giving you the choice. He’s always drawn the line, always kept you safe, even from himself. And for the first time, you push past it.
"Yes" you breathe, your voice steady despite the rush in your veins. "I’m sure. Soobin… I want this. I want you."
For a moment, he doesn’t move. His eyes search yours, looking for any flicker of doubt. And when he finds none, when he sees the certainty in your gaze, something inside him breaks.
His mouth is on yours again, fiercer this time, his hands sliding down to your waist as he presses you back into the mattress, his hips grinding against yours. You gasp into the kiss, the sound swallowed by his lips, and you swear you can feel the years of restraint unraveling in every movement, every touch.
The kiss deepens, turning messy and heated, as though he’s memorizing the taste of you. His hands trail over you with reverence, never rushing, never taking without asking.
"Good ?" He asks.
You nodded, though your mouth felt dry. "Yeah, just... nervous. In a good way."
He knelt in front of you, his large hands resting on your knees, thumbs tracing small circles over your skin through your thin pants.
"Me too" he admitted, his eyes meeting yours with raw honesty. "I've wanted this for so long, but I don't want to rush you."
You reached out, cupping his face, feeling the warmth of his skin under your palms. His cheeks flushed slightly, and you leaned in to kiss him. It was slow, his lips soft and tentative against yours, but as your fingers threaded into his hair, it deepened. His tongue slipped past your lips, and a low groan escaped him when you tugged lightly on his hair.
Soobin's hands slid up your thighs, gripping your hips, his body pressing flush against yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle hardness growing in his pants brushing against your lower belly. It sent a thrill through you, a mix of excitement and nerves.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Tell me if you want to stop" he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Anytime."
"I don't" you whispered back, your voice breathy. "I want you."
That seemed to ignite something in him. His hands found the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, his knuckles grazing your sides as he peeled it off. You raised your arms to help, and when it was gone, his eyes darkened as they roamed over your exposed skin, lingering on the lace of your bra.
"God, you're beautiful" he said, almost reverently.
You felt exposed, vulnerable, but the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing in his world, made your confidence surge. You reached behind to unhook your bra, letting it fall away, and Soobin's breath hitched. His hands cupped your breasts immediately, thumbs brushing over your nipples, which hardened instantly under his touch. He leaned down, taking one into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak while his other hand kneaded the other.
A moan escaped you, your head falling back as pleasure sparked through your body. His mouth was hot, wet, and insistent, sucking and licking with a fervor that made your core ache. You arched into him, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Soobin... that feels so good."
He hummed against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. Switching to the other breast, he gave it the same attention, his free hand sliding down to hook into the waistband of your pants. He tugged them down slowly, along with your panties, exposing you inch by inch. You got shy, now completely bare before him, and he straightened, his gaze hungry as it traveled down your body.
"Your turn" you said, your voice bolder than you felt. You grabbed his shirt, pulling it over his head, revealing his smooth chest, the toned abs that you'd only glimpsed before. He was lean but strong, muscles flexing under your touch as you ran your hands over him.
He kicked off his pants and boxers in one fluid motion, and your eyes widened at the sight of him. He was long and thick, the tip already glistening with pre-cum, veins prominent along his shaft. He was bigger than you'd imagined, and a flicker of apprehension mixed with your arousal.
He noticed, his expression softening. "We can take it slow" he assured you, stepping closer to wrap his arms around you. His erection pressed against your thigh, hot and hard, but he didn't push. Instead, he kissed you again, putting a pillow under your head.
He hovered over you, his weight supported on his elbows. His lips found yours once more, then moved down, kissing your collarbone, your sternum, down to your navel. He parted your thighs gently, settling between them, and you felt his breath fan over your core.
"Soobin..." you breathed, a mix of embarrassment and need.
He looked up at you, eyes locking with yours. "Can I taste you? Please?"
The plea in his voice made you melt. It was so him, your Soobin.
You nodded, and he didn't hesitate. His tongue flicked out, tracing a slow line along your folds, and you gasped at the sensation. He groaned at your taste, his tongue delving deeper, his lips wrapping around your clit as he sucked gently. His tongue circled the sensitive bud, then dipped lower, pushing inside you with shallow thrusts.
Your hips bucked involuntarily, pleasure building rapidly. "Oh fuck, Soobin... right there." One of his hands held your thigh open, the other sliding up to tease your entrance with a finger. He slipped it in slowly, your wetness making it glide easily, and curled it upward, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his mouth never leaving your clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, his fingers pumping in and out, scissoring to prepare you, while his tongue lapped and sucked. You could feel the knot tightening in your belly, your breaths coming in short pants.
"I'm gonna... Soobin, I'm close..." you whimpered, your hand fisting in his hair.
He hummed in encouragement, increasing the pace, and it pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you, waves of ecstasy pulsing through your body as you clenched around his fingers. He worked you through it, his tongue gentle now, until you were trembling and oversensitive.
Pulling back, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He crawled up your body, kissing you deeply, and you tasted yourself on him, making you moan into his mouth.
"You taste amazing" he whispered, his voice rough with desire. His cock was pressed against your thigh, throbbing, and you reached down to wrap your hand around it. He hissed at the contact, his hips jerking forward. You stroked him slowly, feeling the smooth skin thumbing the slit to spread the pre-cum. He was so responsive, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he panted. "If you keep that up, I won't last."
You smiled, feeling empowered. "I want to make you feel good too, like you did for me."
He shook his head, kissing your neck. "Next time. Tonight's about us, together."
He reached over to his nightstand, pulling out a condom from the drawer. You watched as he tore it open with his teeth, rolling it down his length with ease.
"You had condoms in your drawer?" You ask.
"I mean, I kinda hoped we'd do this soon. And we don't plan on having kids yet."
He positioned himself between your legs, the tip pressing against your entrance.
"Ready?" he asked, his eyes searching yours.
"Yes" you whispered. "Please, Soobin."
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. The stretch was intense, a delicious burn as he filled you completely. You gasped, nails digging into his back, and he stilled when he was fully seated, his hips flush against yours.
"Fuck, you're so tight" he groaned, his voice strained. "You feel incredible."
You nodded, breathing deeply, the fullness overwhelming but perfect. "Move, please."
He started with slow thrusts, pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in, each movement deliberate. The friction was exquisite, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he picked up the pace.The room filled with the sounds of your bodies, skin slapping against skin, wet and rhythmic, mingled with your moans and his groans. He buried his face in your neck, sucking hickeys into your skin, his hands gripping your hips almost hard enough to bruise.
"Harder" you begged, and he obliged, slamming into you with more force. Each thrust sent jolts of pleasure through you, building toward another orgasm.
Soobin's control was slipping, his thrusts became erratic, deeper, his breath hot against your ear.
"I'm not gonna last much longer" he admitted, one hand moving between you to rub circles on your clit.
The added stimulation was too much. "Me neither...come with me."
A few more thrusts, and you shattered again, your walls clenching around him like a vice. He followed seconds later, groaning your name as he spilled into the condom, his hips stuttering as he rode out his release.
He collapsed beside you, both of you panting, sweaty and spent. After a moment, he disposed of the condom and pulled you into his arms, kissing your forehead. "That was... amazing. Are you okay?"
You smiled, snuggling into his chest. "More than okay. That was perfect."
And in that quiet aftermath, wrapped up in him, you realize something certain: the marriage you once thought would only ever be duty and friendship has become something else entirely. Something real, something warm, something that feels like a home you never knew you were waiting for.
Soobin’s hand strokes down your back, his voice low but sure when he murmurs “We’ll be okay, you and me.”
And as you melt into him, heart light, you believe it.
Maybe this arranged marriage won’t be so bad after all, not when it’s him, not when it’s you, not when you have each other.
summary. after a fall in the field, his polo career is at risk. you're the sports therapist assigned to his recovery.
pairing. jay x reader.
warnings. sports injury, physical therapy, animal accident, mentions of animal death, grief, guilt, arranged marriage, family pressure, slow burn, cheating themes, storm and thunder, pain, recovery, emotional vulnerability, angst, broken engagement, family fallout.
word count. tba.
the sun bore down with a merciless weight, making the field shimmer and the air ripple with heat. every blade of grass felt like a needle beneath your shoes as you trailed after the coach.
“just…be patient with him,” the coach muttered, his eyes never leaving the figure in the distance. there was a caution in his voice, brittle and uncertain, as if jay might snap from across the field. “he’s been like this ever since the fall. angry. shutting everyone out. his arm isn’t healing, not the way he wants.” the coach’s words faltered, grief flickering across his features. “losing that horse broke something in him. i don’t know if will mend.”
you nodded, knuckles whitening around the clipboard. the reports ran through your mind: torn ligaments, missed tournaments, and the final, brutal note: the horse he’d ridden for years, put down after the accident.
on paper, it was clinical. out here, under the oppressive sky, it was raw, almost unbearable. you wondered if anything you did would make a difference.
a sudden, furious shout slashed through the heavy air. jay’s voice echoed across the field, all edges and anger. he swung his mallet, wild and desperate, nothing like the clean precision you had seen in old footage, and the ball skittered off into the weeds. swearing, he yanked the reins so hard the new horse sidestepped in panic, eyes rolling. the mallet crashed to the ground, the sound flat and final.
“that’s him,” the coach sighed. “good luck.”
you approached, nerves thrumming.
jay refused to meet your eye, his jaw clenched so tightly you wondered if he’d crack a tooth. his chest rose and fell in harsh bursts. sweat carved lines down his temple, and even at this distance you could see the rigid, unnatural way he cradled his right arm, as if it was something foreign, something broken he didn’t want to claim.
he looked utterly exhausted and frustrated, a shadow of the athlete whose charming smile always made headlines and lit up social media after a win. here, stripped of the crowd and the cameras, there was nothing left of that easy confidence. only fatigue and anger and sadness.
no proof that he used to be golden. gold that people desperately seek, gold that the world took, gold that they steal.
“mr. park,” you called, forcing steadiness into your voice as you crouched to retrieve his mallet. “i’m here for an initial inspection. just to see how your arm’s holding up.”
nothing. his eyes flicked past you, toward the empty stands.
“can you lift it for me? just to shoulder height.”
he exhaled through clenched teeth, the sound harsh and brittle. after a pause that stretched uncomfortably, he jerked his arm upward, stopping halfway with a wince that twisted his face, rage and pain flickering in his eyes.
“where’s the pain? elbow? shoulder?”
no answer. just a glare at the horizon.
“fine,” you murmured, stepping into his space, feeling the heat radiate off him. “let me check. squeeze my hand as hard as you can.”
his grip nearly bruised your fingers, raw strength but wild and uneven. you wrote it down, lips pressed into a thin line, trying not to show how much it hurt.
“do you feel numbness? tingling?”
silence.
the golden boy didn’t even react, and perhaps that was the worst part.
“any sharp pain when you swing?”
another pause. “obviously,” he bit out, low.
you pretended not to notice the hostility, scribbling notes. “how bad is it, mr. park? one to ten?”
silence. no reply. just the reins creaking in his hands as the horse tossed its head.
“play nice,” coach told him, then stepped away but stayed close enough to watch.
jay occupied the far end of a battered bench by the stables, his injured arm cradled protectively against his thigh. he avoided your gaze, staring somewhere beyond the paddock. every muscle in his body was strung taut with defiance, a living barricade daring you to cross.
you set your bag at your feet and crouched, bringing yourself eye-level with him. “alright,” you began, voice gentle but firm. “today’s just about beginnings. simple movements, stretching out the tension, coaxing your muscles to remember trust.”
silence. no acknowledgment.
with care, you reached for his arm, your fingertips light against his sleeve. “i’m going to lift now,” you murmured, watching for the telltale flicker of pain. “tell me if it gets worse.”
he gave a curt nod, jaw set like stone.
you eased his arm upward, feeling the resistance in every trembling muscle. his shoulder fought the motion, a silent battle beneath your hands. “you’re gripping too hard,” you whispered. “let the tension go. this isn’t a contest.”
he let out a muted scoff, but you saw the subtle shift. his breath left him in a slow, controlled stream, surrendering bit by bit.
you kept your tone light, as if you weren’t both fighting gravity and memory. “distraction helps,” you said, conversational, “so, have you always been a morning trainer, or is this something new?”
“i’m not here to make friends,” he snapped, eyes finally locking with yours, sharp as flint.
the coach shifted behind you. “jay,” he warned, voice edged.
you lifted a hand in silent reassurance, not bothering to glance at the coach. “it’s alright,” you said. “i’m not after friendship. i want to help you move through the pain. distraction keeps your body from seizing up. trust me.”
he looked away again, lips pressed thin.
you allowed the silence to linger for a heartbeat before breaking it with your own calm, methodical voice. as you rotated his shoulder, you narrated the movement, “see how that tugs? that’s your muscle searching for old patterns. soreness is good. a dull ache means you’re healing. sharp pain is a warning. dull means progress.”
silence. silence. silence. still nothing.
“now, squeeze my hand,” you instructed, placing your palm against his. you watched the struggle ripple across his face, his grip erratic: first a burst of strength, then a sudden weakness, as if the memory of power fought with reality.
“that’s better,” you observed, offering a small, encouraging nod. “feel any pain?”
a long pause, then, “no.”
you jotted the answer in your notes, careful not to show your relief at his response. “good,” you said quietly. “that means your nerves are clear. we’ll keep building from here.”
he fell silent, but allowed you to continue, his breath rasping through each new stretch. you filled the space with your voice, refusing to let quiet become a wall. “this is just a gentle flexion. hold it for ten. don’t focus on the strain. think about the letting go. your body is relearning safety.”
when at last you lowered his arm and checked the clock, you were surprised. barely twenty minutes had trickled away.
“that’s it for today,” you announced, tucking your notes away with practiced efficiency.
jay’s head whipped around. “that’s it?” disbelief colored every syllable.
“that’s right.” you rose to your full height, not flinching from his glare. “we go slow. rush a ligament, and you’ll tear it again, maybe worse. we’ll add weight and resistance once your arm remembers how to move.”
he barked a bitter laugh, surging to his feet. “you’re wasting my time. i don’t need someone coddling me with baby exercises. i need to get back, fast.”
you held his gaze, steady and unyielding. “if you think i’m not enough, find someone else. but this is the program that will save your arm, and maybe your career.”
his jaw clenched, eyes bright with something that almost hurt to witness. “you don’t know what it’s like to lose everything in one stupid fall. i can’t.” he broke off, shaking his head, voice rough. “i don’t have time to crawl back. i need to be ready.”
you softened, but only a fraction. “let me help you do this right. i’m not fighting you, mr. park. if you push too fast, you’ll land right back at zero, or worse.”
the coach finally stepped in, his voice a hard edge. “jay, giver her a chance. you won’t get anywhere if you keep fighting the people trying to get you back on that field.”
there’s a crack in his surface, electric midnight eyes. his gaze flickered between you and the coach, frustration rolling off him in visible waves. at last, he exhaled sharply, muttered something you couldn’t catch, and spun away. his boots scraped the earth as he stalked toward the stables, leaving only silence in his wake.
you arrived ahead of time, boots crunching quietly across the grass. the coach was nowhere to be seen. but jay was there, a solitary figure outlined against the fence. his silhouette tense, his good hand white-knuckled around the reins of a restless horse.
you hesitated a moment before calling out, “you're early. did you not sleep last night, or were you just eager to get this over with?” your attempt at lightness hung awkwardly in the air.
silence, silence, silence. he released the reins, shoulders stiff, and turned toward the battered bench where you always worked together.
you set your bag down, scanning the empty field. "where's coach?" you asked, voice low.
"not here." jay dropped onto the bench with a heavy thud, stretching his legs out in front of him. "it’s just you and me today."
there was a weight to his words. a warning, not an invitation. still, you crouched beside him, sliding the strap of your bag off with practiced ease. "alright. we’ll start the same as always. basic stretches. keep building tolerance."
he said nothing, just sat hunched, brows drawn together, jaw clenched as if holding back a storm.
"lift your arm for me," you instructed, voice gentle but firm. "slow. just to shoulder height."
he obeyed, his face unmoving beneath that permanent scowl. carefully, you guided his arm, rotating it at the shoulder. his muscles resisted, tense and unyielding beneath your hands.
"you're still holding tight," you murmured, barely above a whisper. "try to let the shoulder go."
he exhaled sharply through his nose, still silent, his gaze fixed somewhere far away.
you filled the silence with words meant to comfort. "this injury won’t end your career, jay. you know that, right?"
his head snapped toward you, eyes fierce and wounded. the look in his eyes are terrible. terrifying. "don't."
"don't what?" you asked, keeping your tone even.
"don’t talk to me like you know what this is. just do your job." his voice cut through the air, sharp and brittle and harsh. "you’ll never understand what it feels like. to lose everything in one fall." he stopped, jaw trembling, eyes darting away as if the words themselves might hurt him.
you wonder if he had anymore gold to give.
you let his words hang in the air, heavy as the silence. quietly, you said, "i know one thing, though. if you want to recover, you have to believe it's possible. i can show you the program, the stretches, the exercises. but if you’ve already decided you’re broken, your body will listen."
his gaze bore into you. as if he was trying to sink your image fully. all the contours on your face, depths, highlights, sinking in, popping out, slopes, textures, tones.
his glare faltered. the fight in his eyes faded, replaced by a shadow of something you couldn’t quite name.
he didn’t answer. just turned away, lips pressed together.
you continued to move his arm, narrating each motion. "this one rebuilds your range of motion. a dull ache means you’re making progress. we'll add resistance soon, but for now, this is how your body relearns trust."
still, he said nothing, nothing, nothing. but he didn’t pull away.
when you finished, easing his arm back into his lap, the silence stretched between you like a drawn bow. for once, he didn’t snap. he only sat, eyes fixed on the ground, unusually still.
you packed up your things slowly, glancing over at him. "same time tomorrow?" you asked, voice tentative.
he doesn't answer. for a long moment, only the sound of the restless horse and the distant wind fill the space between you. you watch him for a sign. a nod. a word. anything. but he just stares at the ground, jaw set.
you shoulder your bag. "i'll be here," you say quietly. the words hang in the air, softer than a promise, as you step away.
he offered no answer. just the faintest twitch along his jaw.
but he didn’t leave. not yet.
weeks slipped by, and the rhythm of recovery changed in quiet increments. each morning, jay rolled his shoulder and flexed his fingers, the ache in his arm easing, though the silence around him lingered like a second shadow.
you guided him, gently and persistently, through stretches, resistance bands biting against muscle. then, at last, the coach relented: jay could return to the field.
from the sidelines, you watched with the coach as jay swung into the saddle, reins drawn taut between knuckles gone white. sunlight poured over the field, heavy and golden, while cicadas droned somewhere unseen.
“he’s improved,” you murmured, eyes following the way jay coaxed the horse into a careful trot. there was tension still in every line of him, but now it was harnessed. controlled, not forced.
the coach folded his arms, eyes never leaving jay’s silhouette, studying the boy that used mirror the sun. “you know… no one’s managed to get him this far before.”
you blinked, surprised, glancing over. “what do you mean?”
“he’s burned through so many therapists,” the coach said, voice low, shaking his head. “some walked away, some he drove off. jay wasn’t always this angry. he’s furious with himself, mostly. for that one moment of carelessness. for letting the fall happen. it cost him more than just his arm.” the coach’s gaze drifted to the far fence, voice thinning to a whisper. “he lost the horse he raised. when jay’s arm gave out, he couldn’t hold the reins. the horse went down, too.”
your gaze found him again. he was guiding the horse into a slow run, posture rigid, every movement precise. but you saw it; the flicker in his eyes, the pinch at his brow, the heaviness that clung to his hands whenever he closed them around the lead.
golden. but he’s sad now.
he’s quiet, sunken, and shaded.
“he blames himself,” the coach murmured, almost to himself.
there was nothing you could say to that.
then, in a blink, your heart lurched. jay’s horse faltered, a hoof skidding in the dirt. he pitched forward, nearly unseated, panic flashing across his face.
“jay—” the coach called, but jay was already reacting.
he steadied himself in an instant, one hand stroking the horse’s neck as he leaned close, words slipping out in a hoarse whisper. his face was drawn, panic flickering behind his eyes, but his voice, when it broke through, was raw and trembling “easy, easy. i’ve got you. i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry.”
you stood frozen watching him stroke the horse’s mane, apologies tumbling from his lips again and again. quiet, desperate, meant for ears that could never truly answer.
beside you, the coach’s expression shifted, grief and understanding flickering across his features.
in that moment, you understood. it wasn’t just he injury that had broken jay, it was the guilt. the weight of loss he kept tucked out of sight, where no one else could reach it.
crownless prince, he saw the universe for a moment and the next, it’s gone.
later on, night draped itself around the medical facility, muffling every sound but the distant thump of bass that vibrated across the field. a reminder that life carried on elsewhere.
you slipped inside, careful not to let the door creak, footsteps soft against the floor. the lights overhead hummed as you made your way to your station, heart pounding with quiet urgency.only when your hand closed around the tool you’d left behind did you finally exhale, relief shivering through you like a gust of cold air.
“we’re not supposed to have a session right now, are we?”
you froze, breath catching as you turned.
jay stood in the doorway, a silhouette etched in the spill of light from outside. gone was the familiar training gear, but in its place, a suit clung to his lean frame, jacket undone, tie askew. his hair was carefully styled, then ruined by restless hands. the air around him shimmered faintly with whiskey and something heavier. regret, maybe, or damned at the birs of exhaustion.
you lifted the tool slightly, sheepish. “no. just forgot something.”
his gaze drifted past you, settling on the glass building that glittered cross the field. windows pulsed with light, silhouettes swirling behind them. a ballroom in motion, alive with laughter and the clink of crystal.
the sponsor gala was a world apart: investors, family friends, socialites swirling in designer gowns. servers moved like shadows between them, trays of champagne balanced high, while camera flashes burst like distant stars.
“are you staying for the party?” he asked.
you glanced down at yourself, plain t-shirt, jeans, trench coat, and let out a dry laugh. “do i look like i belong in there?”
his eyes lingered on you, unwavering, and for a moment, you felt transparent beneath his gaze.
jay, beautiful, quiet, sunken, and shaded.
somewhere in there, he’s still golden.
when he finally spoke, his voice was stripped, almost tender. “doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. you’d outshine them all.” the words landed heavier than you expected.
you blinked, unsure how to respond.
jay blinked too, dragging a hand over his face. “sorry. too much to drink.”
you cleared your throat. “i should go.”
but instead of stepping aside, he moved into the room, crossing the distance with slow, heavy steps. he sank onto the bench, elbows on his knees, head bowed. for the first time since you had known him, his anger had burned away, leaving only a raw, bone-deep weariness.
“you good?” you asked carefully.
“yeah,” he muttered. “just… tired.”
you lingered, watching him. “what’s wrong?”
he gave you a faint, defeated smile. “pretty sure listening to me complain isn’t part of your job description.”
you crossed your arms. “neither was putting up with you snapping at me all the time, and i’m still doing it.”
that pulled a soft chuckle from him, though it didn’t last long. you found yourself appreciating it so much. to hear him laugh.
silence stretched before he spoke again, voice low. “do you ever wonder what would happen if you just… stopped following the rules? if you stopped doing what was expected of you?”
you tilted your head. “are you planning to become a criminal now?”
he shook his head. “no. i mean… what if i stopped being who everyone thinks i am? the interviews, the sponsors, the family obligations. it’s all been picked for me. sometimes i wonder what would happen if i just said no.”
your voice softened, careful. “i thought you loved polo.”
“i do. i love the game.” his gaze found yours, stripped bare of pretense. “but everything behind it, the pressure, the spotlight. it’s like i’m wearing a costume i can’t take off. sometimes i wonder if any of it is really mine.”
you shifted, clutching your coat tighter. “that doesn’t mean you stop being you.”
jay met your torn stare as you observed him, trying to detect what it is currently going through your brain. then he exhaled and leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “forget it. i’ve had too much to drink.”
you didn’t push further. adjusting your bag, you nodded once. “get some rest, mr. park.”
“it’s jay.” he corrected.
you shook your head. “jay, then.”
“y/n.”
you paused at the doorway.
his face was masked in shadow, but his words cut through the hush. “one day, i’ll step out of the part they wrote for me.” his eyes locked with yours, fierce and vulnerable all at once.
you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. so you left.
the tool in your bag was feather-light, but his words settled over your shoulders. an invisible weight you’d carry long after you stepped back into the night.
the stables exhaled as you slipped in after work, the lingering scent of hay and leather rising to greet you. darkness stretched long between the stalls, but you moved through them like a familiar ghost, your pockets heavy with sugar cubes.
one by one, you offered each horse a small sweet, your voice soft as you murmured to them, their velvet muzzles pressing into your palm, ears flickering in silent conversation.
when you reached jay’s horse, you lingered, letting your hand rest on the mare’s neck.
“you did a good job today,” you whispered, your breath stirring the short hairs by her ear. the horse’s eyes fluttered closed as you stroked her head, slipping her an extra treat. she pressed her weight into your palm, a deep trust in the way she leaned, and a soft smile tugged at your lips.
“do you always stop by the stables after work?”
you turned, heart quickening.
jay stood at the entrance, framed by the last golden shaft of evening sun making him look like he had a halo, a coil of hose slung over one shoulder and a battered bucket of brushes and bottles in the other. damp hair clung to his forehead, and his shirt, darkened by sweat, hugged the lean lines of his body. for once, he looked calmer, as if the day’s rough edges had been smoothed.
the horse shoved its head harder into your hand, answering for you.
his lips twitched before nodding. “guess you two are already well-acquainted.”
you let out a small laugh. “certainly know more about her than i do about you.”
his head shook, almost amused. without replying, he set the supplies down and started brushing the horse’s mane, movements methodical. his eyes never left the strands.
“i’ve been an ass,” he said suddenly, low. you could see the tired lines across his face. “most of the time.”
you tilted your head, brushing it off with a soft tone. “you’ve been angry. frustrated. you’re struggling with the outside and with yourself. that’s a lot for anyone to carry.”
he stilled.
“but,” you added softly, “you have to remember… choosing anger as a response is still a choice.”
for a moment, he just stared at the brush in his hand, as if your words weighed more than the bristles.
then he nodded, a slow, reluctant acceptance. "aside from being a sports therapist, are you also an actual therapist?" the faintest glimmer of humor flickered in his eyes, like sunlight on water now. "you always know what to say."
you shook your head, smiling faintly. “no. i’ve just been there before.”
he glanced sideways at you, brows furrowing. “what happened?”
you shrugged, picking up another brush from the bucket. “i was an equestrian. but that dream had already ended. back injury.”
this time, he looked at you, really looked, as if seeing past the person you presented to the ache beneath. the sharpness in his gaze softened, his features shifting into something close to understanding. "i'm sorry," he said, and the words sounded like they cost him something.
i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.
you chuckled, brushing the horse’s coat. “why are you sorry? it’s not your fault.”
“i just am,” he said simply, and there was no fight in his voice this time.
you nodded quietly, accepting it. after a moment, you asked, “so, why are you cleaning her yourself when there are caretakers?”
jay’s hand slowed through the horse’s mane. “because i like doing it. makes a relationship with her that isn’t just about riding. it’s like… making a friend at work. work and outside fun are different. there are boundaries.”
“boundaries,” you repeated, amused. “so brushing is like… after-work drinks?”
that got him to huff a quiet laugh. “something like that.”
he crouched, pulling the hose closer, and motioned for you to take the small stool. you sat down, brushing dust off your pants. then suddenly, his hands closed around the edges of the stool.
you startled slightly as he dragged it back, dragging you with it, the legs scraping against the ground. he leaned close, his arm brushing your knee as he shifted the stool a safe distance away.
your breath caught. his head dipped just enough that the scent of horse and fresh sweat, earthy and clean, rose from his shirt, vivid and real. for a heartbeat, the world shrank to the small space between you, filled with unspoken questions.
“you’re in the splash zone,” he murmured, voice low but edged with amusement. his eyes flicked to yours. soft, roaring thunder. holding for just a second too long before he pulled away.
and then, just as the words left him, the horse shook herself violently, spraying water in every direction. jay twisted instinctively, shielding you with his body, leaving his back drenched instead.
you burst out laughing, clutching the stool. “i think she likes you better soaked.”
he turned, water streaming from his hair, droplets sparkling in the stable’s muted light. but there it was, a grin, wide and boyish, stripping years from his face and leaving him momentarily unguarded. "she did that on purpose," he protested, but laughter trembled in his voice.
“she’s smarter than you give her credit for,” you teased.
he shook his head, still grinning. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”
“of course,” you shot back. “i stayed dry.”
the laughter lingered, floating between you like dust motes in the sun, before fading into the silence. jay leaned against the stall, his smile softer now, shadowed by something uncertain. "are you coming next week?"
you blinked. “you don’t have an appointment next week.”
“i know.” his eyes held yours, steady and searching. “but… what if something happens to me?”
you tilted your head, trying to keep your tone teasing despite the weight in his voice. “what, like another horse decides to soak you?”
he didn’t laugh. he just kept looking at you, gaze steady and unreadable. the air in the stable shifted, no longer playful but dense, charged with anticipation and something unnamed.
“yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “something like that.”
the arena thrummed with anticipation the moment you arrived, the crowd’s chatter and the relentless flicker of camera shutters weaving a restless tapestry overhead. coach strode at your side, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s, scanning the expanse of emerald grass and freshly painted lines.
“he’s right there,” coach muttered, his voice gravelly, nodding toward a tight knot of reporters whose microphones glinted in the late sun.
jay stood at their center, immaculate in his polo whites, his smile as polished as the silver cups displayed in the clubhouse. he shone under the sunlight, glimming like a universal dream.
the journalists circled him, a swirling mass of questions ricocheting off one another, hungry for soundbites about the prince of polo’s fabled comeback. their voices merged into a single, insistent roar.
“vultures,” coach grumbled under his breath. “every last one.”
but then, amid the chaos, jay’s gaze broke free and found yours. his smile changed. less practiced, unexpectedly warm. he lifted his hand in greeting, momentarily oblivious to the reporter repeating his question, intent only on you.
your heart ached, a sharp burn spreading like a wild flame.
later on the whistle blew. the game began in a blur of pounding hooves and sunlit dust.
jay rode with the elegance of someone born to the saddle. every swing clean, every turn precise, as if the months away had only honed his hunger. yet, as the minutes wore on, you saw the strain in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his mallet, the subtle hitch in his right arm.
coach cursed softly, his words nearly lost in the din. “he’s pushing too hard.”
and sure enough, jay was sidelined, frustration etched deep in his features as he cantered off toward the stables, head bowed.
“you should check on him,” coach said, his tone gentler now.
you nodded, slipping away from the noise and the crowd, your footsteps echoing in the quieter corridors behind the stables. you found jay with his back to you, hands moving in slow, gentle circles over his horse’s withers, as if searching for solace in the animal’s steady breath.
“you did well,” you offered quietly.
he turned, the tension in his shoulders slackening just a fraction. beautiful, sunken, and shaded. “you think so?”
“i know it,” you replied, reaching to test the motion of his arm. “see? no overexertion. that’s real progress. any pain?”
jay shook his head, his eyes searching yours as if for reassurance he dared not voice. “i’m glad you’re here,” he said at last.
you tried to make light of it. “who else would put up with you when you need patching up?”
he shook his head, more earnest now. “no, really. i mean it. i’m just… glad to see you.”
your heart was about to detonate.
the words lingered in the quiet, thickening the air. you took a step back, needing space, but he caught you with his voice.
“wanna go for a ride?”
you hesitated. “but your game—”
he shrugged, resigned. “we both know i’m done for today. besides, she’s got energy to burn.”
you protested half-heartedly, but jay’s grin was infectious, and soon you relented. he swung up onto his horse, then reached down, hand outstretched.
you took it, letting him pull you up behind him, your hands finding purchase at his waist.
“ready?” he asked, looking back at you.
“yes,” you began, gripping the saddle. but his hand covered yours, moving it over his waist.
“it’s safer here,” he said softly, almost teasing. “you know that.”
the two of you crossed the fields, the steady rhythm of the horse’s gait soothing the ache of disappointment. the world felt smaller out here, bordered by the scent of rain and the whisper of grass.
“do you miss it?” jay asked quietly. “competing?”
“sometimes,” you admitted. “but i try not to dwell. life doesn’t stop just because one dream fades.”
he was silent for a long time. “that’s your superpower,” he said finally.
you frowned, brow furrowing. “what is?”
“making hardships feel… smaller. like they’re just passing weather. you always know how to quiet the noise in my head.”
“soon enough, you won’t need me for that.”
he made a low sound of protest. “you really believe that?”
“yeah. you’ll recover.”
“no,” he said, voice rough. “that i won’t need you.”
before you could answer, thunder cracked, slicing through the moment.
“we should head back,” you said, nerves prickling.
rain broke, sudden and cold, chasing you to the stables. by the time you arrived, both of you were drenched, laughing breathlessly as jay lifted you down, his hands steady at your waist. the horse shook herself, spraying you both, and you laughed harder, warmth blooming in your chest.
“she’s a jokester, your horse,” you said, pushing wet hair from your eyes.
“she knows exactly what she’s doing,” jay replied, grinning through the rain.
the laughter faded, replaced by a different tension. jay’s hands lingered, his face so close you could feel his breath. he reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. your hearted beated, out if control, out of control, out of control.
“i need to tell you something—”
“jay?” a new voice, crisp and clear, cut through the hush.
you turned. a woman stood beneath the stable’s eaves, dry in a perfect coat, her umbrella a shield against the weather.
she crossed to jay, kissed his cheek, and wiped away the trace of lipstick she left behind.
“you’re soaked, honey. where did you go?” her voice was smooth, practiced.
jay didn’t answer. his eyes stayed on you.
she followed his gaze, her smile polite but razor-edged. “you must be the therapist. i’m f/n, jay’s fiancée.” she slipped an arm around his waist, heedless of his sodden clothes. “i see you’re working overtime to fix him.”
it feels there’s a hole ripped in your chest.
you forced a smile, masking the sting. “we were just talking. about how he won’t need me much longer.”
“y/n—” jay’s voice broke, desperate.
but you were already walking away, heart pounding, not trusting yourself to look back. “until next time, mr. park.”
that night, you scrubbed your skin until it was raw and red.
you worked his arm through the last series of stretches. jay sat on the bench, expression unreadable, gaze somewhere over your shoulder.
“here,” you instructed, adjusting the angle of his elbow. “this is where you should feel it tense. hold for five… four…”
he obeyed silently. for once, he didn’t argue. but the silence wasn’t peaceful. it was something taut, strung between you.
the coach hovered nearby, scrolling through his phone, then suddenly glanced up. “i’ll just take this call. keep up the good work!” he walked a few paces off, phone pressed to his ear.
the moment his back was turned, jay leaned forward, his breath brushing against your temple. “are you really not going to talk to me?”
you didn’t flinch, didn’t look at him. “i am talking to you. one more set.” your voice was calm, clinical.
but when the coach’s voice drifted farther away, jay suddenly stood, looming over you. his shadow fell across your face, the rich scent of his cologne wrapping around you until you had nowhere to look but up.
the room shifts and strains with tension, so close to breaking. always close to something.
“it’s not what it looks like,” he said, low, urgent.
you arched a brow, feigning confusion. “and what exactly is it?”
“we’re engaged, yes. but i’m not in love with her.”
your laugh was short, bitter. “that’s the kind of thing men always say when they’re caught in someone else’s arms.” his brows pulled together, but before he could speak, you clipped, “you’re finished. that was your last session.”
you turned on your heel, striding toward the field.
for a moment, he was frozen, baffled. then—“what do you mean, last session?” his footsteps pounded behind you.
“you’ve completed the program, mr. park,” you reminded him briskly. “your arm’s healed. good as new.”
“you’re leaving me.” his voice wasn’t angry this time. it was raw.
“you mean i’ve done my job.”
“we’re not done, y/n.”
“there’s no we here.”
he caught your arm, gently but firmly, halting you. carefully drew you back to him, hands aching in want. what do you want? what do you want? what do you want? his body towered over yours, eyes burning down into yours. “there is. and you know it.”
you stared at him, pulse quick. “if you don’t feel ready, then hire a new therapist.”
“i don’t want a new therapist. i want you.”
“i’m booked,” you snapped, yanking your arm back.
he exhaled, frustrated. “i don’t mean it like that and you know it.”
you froze, eyes meeting his. his voice was softer now, a desperate tone.
“you’re engaged,” you whispered, pressing a hand against his chest, shoving lightly to create space before walking again.
“she was chosen for me,” he said suddenly, voice breaking through the air between you. “our families arranged it. it’s business, it benefits both sides.”
you stopped dead. “…what?”
“i don’t love her,” jay admitted, each word heavier than the last. his tone wasn’t defensive, it was pleading.
your throat tightened. “why should i believe that?”
“because it’s the truth. ask around. ask coach. please—” he caught up to you, reaching for your hand this time, not by accident, not disguised as anything else. friends. his fingers laced with yours deliberately. “please, believe me.”
you stared at him, heat rushing to your cheeks, but forced your voice steady. “even if it is true, what difference does that make? i don’t like you.”
his eyes darkened, lips twitching into the faintest, pained smile. “i don’t believe you.” he stepped closer, erasing the space between you.
“i’ve never even thought of you in that way,” you said firmly, but your voice wavered.
“liar,” he whispered, his lips so close you could feel the ghost of his breath.
“jay… this is unprofessional,” you murmured, barely audible.
his mouth curved against the edge of yours. “good thing you’re not my therapist anymore.”
and before you could move, his lips pressed to yours. hot, urgent, breaking every line you swore you wouldn’t cross.
time seemed to splinter as his lips claimed yours desperate.
the world dissolved into sensation: his breath, jagged and ragged, mingled with yours, the heat of his body pressed so close you could feel the wild thrum of his heart against your chest. out of control, out of control, out of control.
for a heartbeat, you were marble, stunned by the audacity and the heat of him, your fingers curled helplessly in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at him like a lifeline.
then sensation flooded in: the rough silk of his mouth, the electric jolt as your body moved of its own volition, betraying every denial you had rehearsed. the taste of rain and adrenaline clung to him, grounding you in the impossible moment.
his hand found your jaw, gentle and commanding, thumb tracing the line of your cheek as if memorizing it, tilting your face so the kiss deepened. so you could lose yourself, just for a breath, in the ache you swore you would never admit.
your chest tightened, a storm gathering under your skin. his hand splayed at your waist, fingers trembling almost imperceptibly, as if he was just as close to unraveling as you.
god, it was far too easy to collapse into him, to surrender to the gravity between you, as if you’d been falling for years and only just realized the ground was gone. every muscle in your body seemed crave the shape of his arms around you, the safety and the danger intertwined in his hold.
but reality crashed in. merciless and cold.
somewhere, a door slammed, a distant voice called, and the spell shattered.
with a gasp, you shoved against his chest, tearing yourself away, the force of it leaving your palms tingling. his cologne, his warmth, the echo of his lips. all of it clung to your skin, dizzying and inescapable. your breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, and for a moment all you could do was stare, stunned by what you had let happen.
“jay,” you hissed, taking a step back. “that was—no. we can’t.”
he stood there, lips parted, breathing hard, eyes searching yours. “you kissed me back.”
your cheeks burned, your hands curling into fists. “i stopped it.”
“you didn’t want to.” his voice was steady, quiet. but his gaze was fire, pinning you in place.
“don’t twist this,” you snapped. “this—whatever this is—can’t happen. you’re engaged.”
his jaw flexed. “i told you, it’s not real. it’s politics, family, business. everything but love. you’re the only one i—”
“stop.” you cut him off before he could finish, shaking your head. “you can’t just throw that at me because you’re unhappy in an arrangement.”
he took a step closer, towering again, but softer this time, as if afraid you’d run. “y/n… i meant what i said. i need you.”
you exhaled, forcing yourself to stand firm. “you need a therapist. not me. not like this.”
“you think i can’t tell the difference?” his voice cracked with frustration. “you think i would risk everything just to play games with you?”
your chest ached, but you forced the words out. “risking everything isn’t the same as loving someone, jay.”
for the first time, his confidence faltered. he looked at you like the ground beneath him had shifted, like your words had stolen his balance.
and before either of you could speak again, coach’s voice called distantly from across the field. “y/n! jay! you two done?”
you quickly bent, stuffing your things into your bag, heart pounding. “yes, coach.” your voice was steady, but your hands shook.
jay’s eyes stayed locked on you, unreadable.
as you slung the bag over your shoulder, you met his gaze. “this won’t ever happen again.”
“y/n.”
you stopped, spine stiff, before turning. jay stood there, polo uniform replaced by a crisp shirt and slacks. he looked less like an athlete and more like the heir everyone said he was. more and more out of reach.
but his eyes. they weren’t composed. they were stormy, restless, raging in sadness.
“i told you,” you said flatly. “this can’t happen again.”
“i’m not going to apologize for the kiss.” his tone was sharp, cutting through the night air. “i don’t regret it.”
you exhaled, shaking your head. “then you should be talking to your fiancée, not me.”
“i told you, she isn’t—”
“jay,” you cut him off, voice rising. “you can’t drag me into your mess because you’re unhappy with your life. i won’t be your excuse for why you can’t go through with it.”
his jaw tightened, but then he stepped closer, voice lower, rawer. “you think that’s what this is? you think i want you because i’m cornered? no. i want you because—” his throat worked, the words sticking before finally breaking free. “because when you look at me, you don’t see the title. or the money. or the mistakes. you just… see me. and no one else ever has.”
your chest clenched, but you forced yourself to look away. “that doesn’t change anything.”
“it changes everything,” he countered quickly, desperate. “it means this isn’t one-sided. you feel it too. you can’t deny it.”
you tried to keep your tone steady, professional. “what i feel doesn’t matter. what matters is that you’re engaged, and i won’t be the other woman in your story.”
jay ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “you’re not the other woman. you’re the only woman. the only one i—” he stopped, cutting himself off before the words spilled too far.
silence fell, heavy between you.
finally, you whispered, “you’re asking me to destroy myself for you.” this time your voice broke with the very last word.
“i’m asking you to believe me,” he said quietly, almost begging. “to believe that i’ll find a way out. that i’ll choose you, if you will let me.”
jay was on his knees now, unraveling that much morec and you felt that too, felt the relief and the terror and the exhaustion in that, felt the helplessness in how he clung to you.
you swallowed hard, heart thundering. for the first time, jay didn’t look like the arrogant prince or the angry athlete. he just looked… human. vulnerable.
and that terrified you more than anything.
the storm had never stopped.
rain raged outside, wind howling through the cracks in the ancient barn, each gust making the weathered wood groan and shudder as if it might splinter apart at any moment. water hammered the tin roof in relentless sheets, drowning out all but the frantic heartbeat in your chest.
you ran your hand slowly down the side of your horse’s neck, feeling the quiver of her muscles beneath your palm. her breath hot and panicked as she tossed her head, eyes rolling at each crack of thunder. you whispered meaningless reassurances, words lost to the storm, but your touch was steady, grounding both of you as lightning painted the world outside in stark, blinding white.
your phone was abandoned in your jacket pocket, the screen still buzzing with notifications. the headlines had been everywhere all day:
“prince of polo returns, better than ever.”
“park heir calls off engagement in shocking move.”
“families in turmoil as jay park chooses career, not tradition.”
you hadn’t dared read past the titles.
you knew you had to forget it. the love and the hate. the pain and the anger and the lust. all of it. it rests heavy on your shoulders, insistent and pounding, demanding to be thought about.
you have to bury it all. beat it down to a secret.
“did you see?”
the voice cut through the thunder, and your stomach dropped.
you spun so fast your vision blurred, heart leaping into your throat as you gripped the edge of the stall for support. framed in the barn doorway stood jay, his silhouette carved sharply against the storm.
droplets ran off him in streams, his shirt plastered to his skin and clinging to every line of muscle and exhaustion. his hair was soaked, black strands dripping into his eyes, and those eyes. wild, desperate, searching the gloom until they found you. they seemed to blaze with a thousand unspoken words.
for a moment, neither of you moved, the world narrowing to the space between his trembling form and your frozen one.
“jay,” you breathed.
he stepped into the barn, mud sucking at his boots, each stride heavy with the weight of sleepless nights and impossible choices. he looked older than you remembered, the sharp cut of his jaw tense, shoulders hunched as if he bore the storm itself on his back.
“did you see the headlines?” the words tumbled out, his voice raw and uneven. not with the anger he wore, not laced with pride, but trembling at the edges with something that sounded dangerously close to fear.
you swallowed, words sticking in your throat.
“i broke it off with her,” he confessed, his voice barely carrying over the sound of rain. he took another step closer, leaving a trail of water and mud behind him, the storm raging at his back like a living thing desperate to reclaim him. “the arrangement. the families. all of it. i ended it. i threw it away.” his words were almost frantic, as if saying them aloud made the consequences all the more inescapable.
you shook your head, barely finding your voice. “do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
“yes.” his eyes burned into yours, unflinching. “i’ve done the only thing that felt right. for once.”
the horses shifted behind you, but you couldn’t move, pinned by his gaze.
“y/n…” your name left his lips like a prayer, a plea, soft enough to be lost in the thunder. “i don’t care if i win, if i lose, if they strip everything from me. let them take the trophies, the horses, the name— none of it matters anymore. i can rebuild all of it.” he paused, his breath catching in his throat, voice splintering with the force of everything he’d never let himself admit. “but i can’t—” he choked, shaking his head as if the words themselves hurt. “i can’t rebuild if i lose you.”
the confession hung between you, heavy and trembling with hope and fear.
your chest tightened, his words cutting straight through the walls you hadd built.
“you can say no. you can tell me i’m insane, reckless, selfish. you would be right,” he went on, stepping closer, closing the distance. “but don’t say i didn’t mean it. don’t say you don’t feel it too.”
silence hung thick, the storm thrashing against the barn walls, his shoulders dripping rain onto the dirt floor.
finally, you whispered, “jay… what happens if i let you in?”
his hand reached for yours, fingers trembling. not with weakness, but with the impossible weight of the choice he had made.
rain dripped from his hair, tracing the lines of his cheeks as he looked at you, his eyes shining with the last, fragile hope he dared to hold. you ached to wipe the darkness under his eyes. “then it means everything i gave up… was worth it. every sacrifice, every headline, every sleepless night.”
you stared at him, at the soaked hair clinging to his forehead, at the rawness in his face. beautiful, sunken: and shades. slowly, against every instinct that told you to run, your fingers slipped into his.
and for the first time, jay didn’t look like the untouchable prince of polo, the heir with the world at his feet.
he just looked like a man. witnessing your heartbreaker break into a thousand of pieces.
soaked and shivering, stripped of every armor. who had chosen you above everything he’d ever known. in the silence that followed, the storm became simply a distant drum, and you realized you were no longer afraid.
the sun dipped low, gilding the field in syrupy gold as you lingered at the edge, clipboard in hand, heart ticking with every beat of hooves. jay rode differently today; his swings were cleaner, his focus unbreakable. yet you noticed the tightness in his shoulder, the shadow of old pain. you opened your mouth, ready to call it, when his horse’s hoof struck a hidden divot. in a blur, beast and rider faltered, and the world seemed to tilt.
jay was airborne, a flash of motion, a gasp ripped from your lungs, as he crashed into the dirt, the thud echoing in your bones. his mallet spun uselessly into the grass, a stray relic of the fall.
“jay!” your clipboard hit the earth with a hollow clatter, forgotten as you dashed to his side and knelt in the churned dirt. panic surged through you, sharp and electric. “are you okay?”
for a heartbeat, pain carved deep lines across his face. then, with a ragged breath, he managed a crooked, familiar grin. “worried about me?”
relief crashed through you, sharp and overwhelming, leaving your throat tight. you scowled at him, brushing grit from his sleeve as your fingers checked for injury. “it’s my job, idiot.”
he tried to chuckle, though it twisted into a wince. “unprofessional… calling your client an idiot.”
“unprofessional,” you shot back, gently rotating his shoulder, “is making me think i’d have to call an ambulance because you forgot how to sit a horse.”
he winced, but managed to lift his arm a few inches. “see? still works.”
“barely,” you muttered, but the knot in your chest began to unravel.
his gaze caught yours, softer now, all the bravado stripped away. “you really were worried about me.”
you swallowed hard, rising to offer your hand. “don’t make me regret it.”
he clasped your hand, his grip warm and rough. as you hauled him up, he didn’t let go, just tugged you that much closer, close enough that you could breathe in earth, leather, and the unmistakable scent of him.
“jay,” you warned, but your voice was softer than you intended, trembling on the edge of something new.
his grin spread, slow, a little reckless, but his eyes held only honesty. “what? you’re off the clock now.”
before you could think, his mouth met yours, tentative at first, tasting the promise there. your hand fisted in his shirt, holding tight. the kiss deepened, weeks of tension unraveling in a single, breathless moment. when you finally parted, the world spun, remade.
“still unprofessional,” you murmured, lips quirking despite yourself.
“good thing you’re not just my therapist anymore,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours.
the field was quiet, dusk spilling across the grass. for the first time, neither of you cared who might be watching. it wasn’t about his title or your job anymore. it was just the two of you, finally, together.
pairing: lifeguard!eric x fem!reader!
genre: au, fluff
synopsis: he’s the lifeguard who keeps pretending you’re in danger just to get you to stay and talk to him.
warning/s: none
word count: 2.3k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
💙 the boyz masterlist
lifeguard on duty: part 1, part 2
It’s been a few weeks since you left the resort, but your mind keeps wandering back to the days by the pool, the sunlight sparkling off the water, and Eric’s easy smile as he teased you from his lifeguard stand. His voice, his laugh, the way he always seemed to find an excuse to talk to you—it all feels like a dream, the kind you wake up from and try desperately to hold on to. You catch yourself scrolling through photos from the trip, hoping to hold onto the warmth of those days a little longer.
The thought of him lingers, bittersweet, and you wonder if you’ve made him up in your mind as something bigger than he was. Maybe he was just a charming lifeguard who knew how to make tourists feel special. But the memory of his grin, the way his eyes softened when he looked at you—it feels like it meant more. You shake your head, trying to focus on anything else.
Then one evening, your phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number.
Unknown Number: Hey. This is Eric, the lifeguard who didn’t fake drowning rescues for attention… except I totally did. Hope you’re doing okay.
Your heart skips. For a moment, all you can do is stare at the screen, your fingers hovering above the keyboard. The sight of his name feels surreal, like a piece of the vacation you thought you’d left behind had followed you home.
Finally, you type back:
You: Eric! Took you long enough to text. I was starting to think you forgot me.
His reply comes almost instantly.
Eric: Forget you? Not a chance. I just didn’t want to come off too strong.
You: Eric, you pretended I was drowning multiple times. We’re past that.
His next message comes with an emoji, a laughing face that feels so him, and somehow, you can hear his laugh in your head. It makes your chest tighten in the best way.
The texts come often after that, almost daily. He’s quick to respond, asking about your work, your favorite shows, and the little details of your day. He claims he’s “compiling a guide for when he visits someday,” and the idea sends a quiet thrill through you. You tell yourself to play it cool, but your heart races every time your phone lights up with his name.
One evening, as you’re curled up in bed scrolling through photos of the trip, a video call notification pops up. Eric. Your stomach flips. You hesitate for a moment, then press accept, and his face fills the screen—messy hair, that lopsided grin you’ve been replaying in your head, and those mischievous eyes that seem to see right through you.
“Hey.” He says, his voice as warm and familiar as the sunlit afternoons by the pool. “Figured texting wasn’t cutting it anymore.”
“Eric,” You reply, struggling to keep your grin at bay. “Do you call all the tourists you flirt with?”
“Only the ones I can’t stop thinking about.” He shoots back without missing a beat, but there’s something in his voice—sincerity laced through the playfulness—that makes your breath catch.
“Smooth…” You say, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the warmth spreading through you.
The conversation flows like it always did, easy and natural. He tells you about the resort and how quiet it’s become now that the summer rush is over. You tell him about how life has fallen back into its usual rhythm, though it feels a little emptier than before.
“I miss sitting by the pool and annoying you.” He admits, his tone softening as his gaze lingers on the screen.
You laugh lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Annoying me was the best part of your day?”
“Absolutely.” He leans closer to the camera, his grin fading just slightly as his eyes take on a more serious edge. “It was more than that, though. I just… liked being around you.”
The words are simple, but they hit you like a wave, pulling you under in the best way. You glance away, trying to find your footing. “I liked being around you too.” You admit, your voice quieter than you intended.
His face lights up, and it’s like seeing the sun break through clouds. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks, but the silence feels full, like an unspoken agreement.
“Listen,” He says finally, his voice steady but his fingers fidgeting in the frame. “What if I came to visit? I mean, not right away—I don’t want to freak you out—but… soon?”
You bite your lip, unable to hide your smile. “I think I’d like that.”
“Good,” he says, his grin widening. “Because I already Googled the best coffee shops near you.”
You laugh, shaking your head at his audacity, but your heart feels lighter than it has in weeks. As the call continues, you realize that what you felt at the resort wasn’t just a fleeting vacation crush. It was real, and it’s still there, growing stronger with every word, every smile, and every promise of what’s to come.
Weeks pass, and though you settle back into your routine, the texts and video calls from Eric become a bright spot in your days. His humor, his warmth—they were like little doses of sunlight breaking through the monotony. You talked about everything and nothing—how his lifeguard duties now include chasing seagulls away from unattended snacks, how you’ve been revisiting your favorite books, and the story behind why he became a lifeguard in the first place.
“I liked the idea of saving people,” He says one night during a call, the screen lighting up his features in the dim glow of your room. “Even if now it’s mostly reminding kids not to run or fishing sunglasses out of the pool.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Sounds glamorous.”
“Oh totally. But hey, it got me here, didn’t it? Talking to you?” He smirks, but there’s something earnest in his tone that makes your heart flutter.
He makes you laugh harder than anyone has in a long time, his quick wit and playful charm effortlessly disarming. But some nights, the distance between you feels heavier, an ache that no amount of texts or video calls can soothe.
That evening, after a particularly long day, you find yourself staring at the screen, his face pixelated but familiar, like a beacon of comfort. “Sometimes it’s hard, you know?” You admit softly, twisting the edge of your blanket in your hand. “Knowing you’re all the way over there.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His face softens, his brow furrowing slightly as he leans closer to the camera. “I know,” He says finally, his voice steady. “But I’m not giving up, okay? I’ll figure something out. I promise.”
You nod, his words offering a flicker of hope, but there’s still a quiet uncertainty lingering in your chest. “Okay.” You reply, managing a small smile.
“I mean it,” He insists, his eyes holding yours through the screen. “I don’t care how far apart we are. You’re worth it.”
The sincerity in his voice sends a warmth through you, a fragile but growing belief that maybe, just maybe, this could work.
Three weeks later, you’re startled by a knock on your apartment door. It’s early evening, and you weren’t expecting anyone. Setting down your mug of tea, you cross the room and open the door, only to freeze in disbelief.
Eric stands there, a backpack slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly tousled and his familiar grin bright enough to light the entire hallway.
“Surprise!” He says casually, shrugging like he hasn’t just turned your world upside down.
Your jaw drops, and for a moment, you can’t find your voice. “Eric? What are you doing here?”
“I told you I’d figure something out.” He replies, stepping forward, his grin widening. “I missed you, so I booked a flight. Simple as that.”
Your heart races as his words sink in, the sheer boldness of it leaving you stunned. “You’re… you’re insane.” You manage, but your voice wavers with disbelief and something far softer.
“Insane about you, maybe.” He says, his tone playful but his eyes steady, holding yours like they’re trying to tell you something he hasn’t quite put into words yet.
Before you can overthink it, you close the space between you, pulling him into a hug. His arms wrap around you tightly, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.
“You’re seriously crazy.” You whisper against his shoulder, but you can’t stop smiling.
“Just crazy about you,” He murmurs back, his voice low and warm, sending a shiver down your spine.
You pull back just enough to look at him, your face still alight with a mixture of disbelief and joy. “You really came all this way?”
“Of course,” He says simply, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you were worth it.”
The words make your breath hitch, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your chest tight with a mix of emotions you’re still untangling. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across your face.
“Well,” You say, stepping back to let him inside, “I hope you’re ready for the best coffee in the city because I’m holding onto that list you made.”
“Of course.” He says, his grin matching yours. As he steps inside, you realize that the ache of missing him is finally gone, replaced by the overwhelming certainty that maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something worth holding onto.
The next few days feel like a dream—a whirlwind of laughter and unexpected moments that settle warmly in your memory. Eric is still a bit of a mystery, but in the best way—charming, easygoing, and effortlessly magnetic. He has a knack for turning even the most mundane moments into something special, leaving you wondering how someone like him ended up here, walking through your world as though he’s always belonged.
He insists on seeing everything. His face lights up when you take him to your favorite coffee shop, teasing you relentlessly when you point out the cozy corner where the sunlight hits just right. “So this is the infamous spot,” He says with a playful smirk, leaning back in his chair, his hand brushing against yours as if by accident. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a creature of habit, but now I’m convinced you’ve got secret routines everywhere. Guess I’ll have to uncover them all.”
You roll your eyes, laughing, but there’s a warmth in his tone that makes your chest tighten. It’s effortless being with him, as though the spaces between you were meant to be filled by his presence. And sometimes, when he’s distracted, you steal a glance at him, marveling at how this unexpected connection found its way into your life.
On the third day, you bring him to the park. The late summer sun drapes the afternoon in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the grass. The air feels still, suspended like the world is holding its breath for this moment. You walk side by side along the winding path, fingers brushing now and then, his subtle touches sending sparks that you try yet fail to ignore.
Eric seems particularly mischievous, his mood light and playful. He nudges your shoulder, pretends to swipe your sunglasses when you aren’t looking, and makes overly dramatic remarks about the squirrels darting through the trees. “Look at them! Heroes of the park.” He says, clapping in mock appreciation.
“Stop.” You laugh, swatting his arm, but his antics draw you in like always, leaving you grinning even when you’re trying to act annoyed.
As you cross the small bridge overlooking the pond, Eric suddenly slows, his hand tightening around yours. You stop in sync, turning to face him, your heart skipping a beat at the seriousness in his expression.
“Hey…” He says, his voice softer now, carrying a weight that wasn’t there a moment ago. His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your palm as he meets your gaze, the humor in his eyes replaced with something earnest. “I need to tell you something.”
Your pulse quickens, a knot of nervous anticipation forming in your chest. “What is it?” You ask, your voice quieter than you’d intended.
He hesitates, his brows furrowing slightly as he gathers his thoughts. “I—” He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head as if trying to work up his courage. “I didn’t pull you aside just to mess around or crack another joke. I wanted to talk to you because…” His gaze falters briefly, his vulnerability laid bare, and then he looks back at you, steady and sure. “Because I like you. I’ve liked you for a while. And being here, with you—it’s made me realize how much I want to be a part of your world.”
The confession lands softly, but it ripples through you, filling the quiet space between you both. His tone is devoid of pretense, just raw honesty that makes your heartache in the best way.
You blink, momentarily speechless, the warmth in his words catching you off guard. Finally, a small, shy smile tugs at your lips. “I like you too,” You admit, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them. “And not just now—I think I always have.”
Eric’s grin breaks wide and genuine, his boyish charm returning as he steps closer. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his touch warm and grounding. “Yeah?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as though he needs the confirmation.
“Yeah,” You breathe, your heart racing as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that feels like every unsaid thing between you, every missed opportunity finally finding its place.
It’s not perfect—there are still questions and uncertainties, still miles to navigate between you. But at this moment, as he holds you close and the golden light wraps around you both, it feels like the start of something real. Something worth fighting for.
And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where you’re meant to be.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
a/n: this actually has an alternate ending where it was just really angsty and part 2 ended with him being someone you meet in vacation but i had to feed my delusions for this one lmaoo
pairing: lifeguard!eric x fem!reader!
genre: au, fluff
synopsis: he’s the lifeguard who keeps pretending you’re in danger just to get you to stay and talk to him.
warning/s: none
word count: 2.2k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
💙 the boyz masterlist
lifeguard on duty: part 1, part 2
The resort pool glimmers under the warm sunlight, its surface as inviting as a postcard scene. You’ve barely unpacked your suitcase, deciding that the first order of business on your vacation is to lounge by the water. The air is thick with the sound of splashes and laughter, the perfect soundtrack to a lazy afternoon.
You claim a lounge chair near the pool's edge, setting your bag down and stretching out with a contented sigh. It’s only after you’ve adjusted your sunglasses and leaned back that you notice him.
The lifeguard.
Sitting high on his elevated chair, he was hard to miss. His skin glows with a golden tan, and his hair looks effortlessly tousled, as if the breeze exists just to mess it up perfectly. He wears the standard red lifeguard shorts and a whistle around his neck, but it’s the confidence that he carries that really catches your attention. His shades hide his eyes, but there’s something about the way he surveys the pool that makes you feel like he’s aware of everyone—and everything—including you.
You try not to stare, but when he suddenly stands and blows his whistle, it startles you. “Hey, you!” His voice cuts through the chatter, smooth yet commanding.
You glance around, confused. “Me?”
He nods, hopping down from his post with effortless grace. “Yeah, you. Are you okay?”
“Uh... I think so?” You reply, unsure.
“You hesitated when you sat down,” He says, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “For a second, I thought you might’ve tripped. Gotta make sure my pool guests are safe.”
Your brows furrow as you sit up straighter. “I didn’t trip.”
“Good to know,” He says, grinning now, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. “But just in case, I’ll keep an eye on you. Can’t be too careful.”
Before you can respond, he’s walking back to his post, leaving you blinking after him. His whistle twirls in his hand as he settles back into his chair, but his head tilts slightly in your direction, like he’s waiting for you to look again.
And you do.
By the next day, you’ve all but forgotten about him—until you make your way to the pool again and find him already watching you.
This time, you’re in the water, floating lazily on a pool noodle when his voice calls out. “Careful there.” He says, crouching on the edge of the pool, his shadow falling over you.
You blink up at him. “I’m fine. Just floating.”
“Yeah, but you’re drifting toward the deep end.” He says, pointing dramatically.
You glance behind you, then back at him. “I’m literally two feet from the shallow end.”
He shrugs, an exaggerated motion. “Hey, I’m just doing my job. If I have to dive in and save you, it’s going to ruin my lunch break. And probably yours.”
Your lips twitch as you try not to smile. “Sounds like you’re just looking for an excuse to show off your lifeguard skills.”
“Maybe.” He grins, leaning closer. “Or maybe I’m just making sure you come back tomorrow.”
You bite your lip, unsure if the warmth on your cheeks is from the sun or his attention.
Every single time you have visited the pool, he was there.
One afternoon, as you’re lounging with a book, he walks over, towel slung over his shoulder. “Reading anything good?”
You glance up at him, holding up the book so he can see the cover. “Depends on your definition of good.”
He squints at the title and grins. “Romance, huh? Is the lifeguard the hero?”
You roll your eyes, laughing. “No. He’s not even in the story.”
“Shame. If you need inspiration, I can play the part.” He teases, leaning against the back of your chair. “Heroic, good-looking, saves people in distress... I’m basically made for it.”
You tilt your head, smirking. “Pretty sure this lifeguard spends more time flirting than actually saving people.”
He places a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended. “Hey, I saved someone yesterday!”
“Oh really? Who?”
He falters for a second, then grins sheepishly. “Okay, fine, maybe I haven’t had to save anyone. Yet. But I’d be ready if I needed to.”
“Well, let’s hope you don’t have to.” You say, your tone softer now.
On another day, you spot him talking to a group of kids at the shallow end, showing them how to kick properly. He’s animated, making goofy faces and laughing when they splash him on purpose. You catch yourself smiling, charmed by how at ease he seems.
“Hey, don’t get too comfortable watching.” He calls out suddenly, catching you mid-stare. “I’m still on the clock, you know.”
Flustered, you look away. “I wasn’t watching!”
“Sure you weren’t…” He says, walking over to where you were sitting. He plops down on the edge of your lounge chair, grinning. “You don’t have to lie. I know I’m hard to ignore.”
“Wow. Cocky much?”
“Just observant.” He replies, leaning back on his hands. “You’ve been coming to this pool every day since you got here. I like seeing you around.”
Your breath hitches at the honesty in his voice. “Well, I like being here. It’s relaxing.”
“Good.” He says, his smile softening. “I want this place to feel like your favorite spot.”
On your last full day at the resort, you arrive at the pool later than usual. The moment you step outside, you spot him already waiting. This time, he’s not in his usual chair. Instead, he’s leaning against the railing, his arms crossed, watching you with a mix of impatience and relief.
“You’re late.” He states, straightening up.
“For what?” You ask, laughing as you approach.
“For my daily safety check.” He replies, his tone mock-serious. “I was starting to think you skipped town.”
You roll your eyes. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr lifeguard.”
His expression softens, the usual teasing edge replaced with something gentler. “So, it’s your last day, huh?”
You nod, suddenly feeling a pang of sadness you weren’t expecting. “Yeah. Flying out tomorrow.”
He hesitates for a moment, then steps closer. “You know, I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you all week. Not just because it’s my job.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? So all those ‘safety checks’—”
“—were just me being obvious.” He finishes, scratching the back of his neck. For the first time, he looks a little nervous. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve kind of been the highlight of my week.”
Your heart skips a beat. “I think I noticed.”
He laughs softly, meeting your gaze. “Good. Because I was hoping... maybe tonight, you’d let me take you out? You know, before you leave.”
The words hang in the air, warm and hopeful. You glance down, biting your lip, then look back up at him.
“I think I’d like that, Eric.”
His eyes widen slightly, and he laughs, shaking his head. “I never told you my name.”
You grin, stepping past him toward the pool. “You didn’t have to. I asked around.”
“Looks like someone’s been paying attention too.” He teases, his confidence returning.
And as you sit by the water, his presence beside you, you realize this vacation just got a whole lot better.
That evening, the resort takes on a magical glow, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun sets. Eric is waiting for you by the entrance to the pool, with no lifeguard whistle or red shorts in sight. Instead, he’s wearing a simple white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark jeans that hug his figure just right. He’s still unmistakably Eric, but the sight of him like this feels different—more personal.
When he spots you approaching, his smile stretches wide. “Wow,” He says, looking you up and down appreciatively. “You clean up nice.”
You glance down at your outfit—a sundress you’d packed on a whim. “Says the guy who looks like he walked straight out of a resort catalog.”
He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
You smirk. “Good to know.”
The resort’s lights twinkle around you as he leads you away from the pool area, down a cobblestone path that winds toward the beach. The soft sound of waves grows louder with each step. When you finally reach the shoreline, you see a small picnic set up—a blanket spread out on the sand, with a basket and a lantern casting a warm glow.
“You did this?” You ask, your voice was soft with surprise.
“Well, technically… I bribed a coworker with lunch to help me set it up,” He admits, scratching the back of his neck. “But the idea was all me.”
Your heart warms as you take a seat on the blanket. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
He sits down beside you, leaning back on his hands as he gazes at you. “I wanted to. You’re leaving tomorrow, and I wanted tonight to feel... special.”
For a moment, the only sounds are the waves lapping at the shore and the distant hum of resort music. Then he reaches into the basket and pulls out a bottle of sparkling juice and two glasses. “Don’t judge me for the juice. I figured it’d be safer than sneaking wine out of the staff lounge.”
You laugh, taking the glass he hands you. “I think it’s perfect.”
He raises his glass. “To the tourist who made this lifeguard’s week.”
You clink glasses, the gesture feeling surprisingly intimate under the dim light. “And to the lifeguard who kept pretending I was in danger just to talk to me.”
He winces playfully. “You make it sound so bad.”
“Wasn’t it?”
He chuckles, lowering his glass. “Maybe a little. But you can’t blame me. The first time I saw you, you looked so... different from the usual crowd. You weren’t loud or demanding. You just... seemed like you were really enjoying yourself. I wanted to get to know you.”
His honesty takes you by surprise, and you find yourself smiling. “And here I thought you just liked blowing your whistle at people.”
“Only when it gets your attention.” He says with a grin.
The conversation flows easily as the evening deepens. Eric asks you about your life back home, your favorite places to travel, and what brought you to the resort. You find yourself telling him things you wouldn’t normally share with someone you’ve just met—like how you’d needed this trip to reset and recharge.
“You know…” He says, leaning closer, “I’ve worked here for two years, and I’ve never met someone who makes me wish I was the tourist instead of the staff.”
You tilt your head, surprised. “Why’s that?”
“Because you make this place feel new,” He says simply. “Like I’m seeing it for the first time through your eyes.”
Your breath catches at the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, you’re unsure how to respond. Then, before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and touch his hand.
“You make it hard to leave.” You admit softly, your voice barely louder than the gentle waves lapping against the shore.
Eric’s eyes soften as he turns his hand palm up, his fingers brushing yours before lacing them together with a tender ease that makes your chest tighten. “Then don’t.” He murmurs, the simplicity of his words carrying a weight that leaves you breathless.
A quiet laugh escapes you, tinged with disbelief, as you shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know,” He replies, his voice steady but gentle, like the calm before a storm. His thumb grazes over yours, a touch so light it feels like a secret shared only between the two of you. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t hope.”
His words settle in the space between you, hanging in the warm summer air, before he flashes you that familiar boyish grin. “Besides, didn’t that sound like something straight out of a movie? Pretty smooth, right?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, light and unrestrained. “Ridiculously smooth.” you tease, your smile lingering as you meet his gaze. But beneath the playful banter, something unspoken lingers, a magnetic pull that makes the idea of staying feel just a little less impossible.
Later, as you walk back to the resort, the sound of the waves fading behind you, Eric stops suddenly. “Wait.” He says, turning to face you.
“What is it?” You ask, looking up at him.
“I have to ask,” He says, his tone a mix of nervous and hopeful. “When you leave tomorrow... will you remember me? Or will I just be the lifeguard who blew his whistle too much?”
You step closer, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his question. “Of course, I’ll remember you,” You say softly. “How could I forget?”
He exhales, his relief evident. Then, before he can overthink it, he reaches out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is warm, lingering just long enough to make your pulse quicken.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not going to forget you.”
The moment hangs in the air, charged with unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings. Then, with a soft smile, he drops his hand and steps back.
“Come on,” he says, his voice lighter now. “Let me walk you back.”
As you fall into step beside him, you can’t help but think that this trip was more than just a vacation—it was the start of something you’ll carry with you long after you’ve left the resort.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
pairing: soccer!athlete!sunwoo! x fem!reader!
genre: college/sports au, fluff
synopsis: he’s the star athlete who’s failing his classes, and you’re the tutor who’s secretly rooting for him in every game.
warning/s: none
word count: 4.4k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
💙 the boyz masterlist
The library hums with the quiet rustle of pages turning, the faint scratch of pens against paper, and the soft murmur of distant conversations. It was one of those rare moments when the space feels like a sanctuary of focus and solitude.
You were tucked away at your usual spot by the window, bathing in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun as it streams through the glass. Your advanced calculus notes were spread out before you, the flow of equations and functions running across the pages in an elegant, ordered chaos. You’re completely absorbed in your studies, your mind was lost in the rhythm of the numbers. As a second-year student taking some fourth-year courses, you’re used to this level of intensity. You thrive in it, actually—this was where you feel the most at ease.
But then, just as you reach that sweet spot where everything clicks, your concentration shatters.
“Hey.”
You blinked, startled, and glanced up, your focus instantly slipping. Standing across from you, framed by the soft afternoon light, was none other than Kim Sunwoo—the campus heartthrob and the captain of the football team. He’s still dressed in his practice gear, his damp hair sticking to his forehead as if he barely had the time to towel off. His jersey clings to his frame, evidence of his sweat that still lingers from a brutal practice.
Your heart skips a beat, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s really talking to you.
“Uh… hi?” You manage, a bit flustered and completely caught off guard. He’s the kind of guy who’s always surrounded by a crowd, effortlessly charming everyone in his orbit. The fact that he’s even acknowledging you—let alone approaching you—is enough to make you second-guess yourself.
“You’re the genius, right? The one double majoring in engineering and business?” He asks casually, sliding into the seat across from you without waiting for an invitation. His grin is warm and effortlessly disarming, and it makes the tension in your chest loosen, just a little.
“I wouldn’t say genius…” You mumble, still trying to process why he of all people is talking to you. You’ve only ever admired him from a distance—watching him lead the team from the sidelines, laughing with his friends, living in the kind of popularity that always seemed out of reach. But here he is, sitting across from you like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Well, people do…” He says with a casual shrug, leaning back in his chair like this is some routine conversation. “And I need your help.”
Your mind races, but you can’t quite make sense of the words. "Help with what?"
“A business subject, specifically financial accounting,” He admits, rubbing the back of his neck in that endearing way that makes him seem both self-assured and slightly nervous at the same time. “I’m… uh, kind of failing. Coach said if I don’t pull my grades up, I’m benched for the next game.”
That explains it. You've heard the gossip about his academic struggles and the things he dismisses and never really takes seriously. But it’s hard to reconcile that image with the confident, and seemingly almost larger-than-life guy sitting in front of you, with an easy smile and charisma that practically drips off him.
“And you think I can help?” You ask, genuinely skeptical. You don’t mean to sound dismissive, but it’s hard to imagine that the star athlete sitting here, needs help with something as simple as financial accounting.
“You’re the best in our batch from what I’ve heard. Aren’t you the one constantly at the top every semester?” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus, you look like you’d be patient with someone who has no idea what they’re doing.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do you even have your notes or a textbook?”
His grin falters slightly, and he reaches into his bag, pulling out what can only be described as a crumpled, well-worn piece of paper. “Define ‘have’...” He says, his tone light and teasing but with just a hint of embarrassment.
You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Why should I help you?” You’re trying to stay firm, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—earnestly, with that classic charm—that makes it harder to keep up the tough exterior.
“Because I’ll owe you one. Big time,” He says, leaning forward and flashing that mischievous grin of his. “Anything you need—coffee, snacks, a shout-out during my next game, maybe even a personal cheerleader for a day. Just name it.”
Your mind races as you weigh your options. Tutoring the school’s most sought-after athlete wasn’t exactly how you imagined spending your afternoons, but there’s a genuine sincerity in his request that catches you off guard. It’s buried beneath the layers of his charm, but it’s there, even though he’s still throwing in a joke or two to lighten the mood.
Against your better judgment, you find yourself nodding. “Fine. But if I’m helping you, you’re going to put in the work.”
His grin widens, victorious. “Deal. When do we start?”
You agreed to meet Sunwoo after his football practices, your schedules aligning only in the brief window of time he has before dinner, which—predictably—doesn’t exactly help your already tight study routine. The first session is supposed to start at 4:00, but by 4:10, you’re already glancing at the clock, half-annoyed and half-amused at the fact that he’s not here yet.
Then, at 4:22, he saunters into the library, still in his practice gear, looking like he just came from a photo shoot instead of a sweaty football field. His hair’s damp, and his jersey clings to his frame in a way that makes it seem like he’s carrying the weight of the entire team’s expectations on his shoulders.
“Sorry, practice ran late,” He says with that easy, apologetic grin, sliding into the chair across from you like he’s done this a hundred times. His football bag thuds onto the floor, and he pulls out a crumpled worksheet, practically throwing it on the table like it’s his treasure map to success.
“Let me guess—that’s your homework?” You ask, eyeing the crumpled worksheet in Sunwoo’s hands. The paper was a mess of half-filled blanks, crossed-out answers, and, unsurprisingly, a doodle of a soccer ball in the corner.
“It’s… a work in progress,” He says, scratching the back of his neck. The sheepish look on his face was almost convincing, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth gave him away.
You arch an eyebrow and smooth the paper flat on the table. “Right. And by ‘progress,’ you mean barely started?”
“Hey,” He protests, pointing to a single circled answer. “I got one question right.”
You sigh dramatically but can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Congratulations. Truly groundbreaking stuff.”
He snickers, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated stretch. “Thank you. I do my best.”
Shaking your head, you pull out your own neatly organized notebook. “Okay, we’re starting with financial accounting basics. Do you at least know what debits and credits are?”
Sunwoo tilts his head, considering your question far longer than necessary. “Sure,” He finally says, grinning. “Like how much credit I get when I assist a goal, and how much debit when I accidentally trip someone?”
“Sunwoo,” You deadpan, giving him a pointed look.
“Fine, fine,” He relents, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m kidding. Teach me, little Ms. Genius.”
You roll your eyes but feel the familiar warmth of amusement in your chest. “Alright. Let’s see if I can work some magic here. First, a debit increases assets, while a credit increases liabilities or equity.”
His brow furrows. “So… debit is good, credit is bad?”
“Not exactly,” You explain, tapping the page for emphasis. “It depends on what type of account we’re talking about. For example, cash is an asset, so if you receive money, you debit cash.”
Sunwoo nods slowly, his lips quirking into a playful grin. “So if you buy me pizza later, I should debit my stomach?”
You give him a withering stare, but a laugh slips out anyway. “Focus, Sunwoo. I’m trying to help you pass, not fund your junk food cravings.”
“I’m focused!” he insists, sitting up straighter. “Okay, debits are assets. Got it. What about credits?”
“Credits usually decrease assets but increase liabilities or equity,” You continue. “Think of it like… borrowing money. You’d credit a loan payable account.”
His eyes light up as if a lightbulb has gone off. “So, if I borrow your notes, I’m crediting myself with brilliance?”
You groan, pressing your palm to your forehead. “Sure, let’s go with that. But if you fail this, you’re debiting your pride, got it?”
Sunwoo laughs, the sound is rich and infectious. “Deal. But if I pass, you owe me pizza.”
“Fine,” You agree. “But only if you stop doodling soccer balls on your homework.”
Sunwoo isn’t as hopeless at financial accounting as you expected. Sure, his worksheets are a chaotic mix of half-finished answers, random doodles, and scribbled-out calculations, but once you break down the concepts, he picks them up surprisingly fast. To your surprise, beneath his playful facade lies a quick, analytical mind.
“You’re catching on faster than I thought…” You admit during one of your sessions, watching as he confidently balances a trial balance and identifies adjusting entries. His usual carefree demeanor is replaced by a quiet concentration, his brows furrowed in thought as he scribbles in his notebook.
He glances up at you, flashing that trademark grin. “Is that your way of saying I’m secretly a genius?”
You smirk, tapping your pen against the table. “I’m saying you’re not as hopeless as you let on.”
Sunwoo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand, eyes gleaming with pride. “Admit it—you’re impressed.”
“By your ability to survive this long without understanding what a balance sheet is? Sure,” You tease, crossing your arms.
His laughter spills out easily, filling the quiet room. The sound was warm and unexpectedly contagious. For a moment, the piles of accounting worksheets are forgotten as you both laugh, the space between you feeling lighter, more natural.
But as much as you enjoy the easy banter, something nags at you. You’ve been tutoring Sunwoo for weeks now, and his progress is undeniable. So why had he struggled so much before? After a particularly productive session where he breezes through preparing financial statements, you decide to ask.
“You know,” You say, closing your textbook, “I don’t get why you were doing so badly before. You’re obviously not dumb.”
He hesitates, the grin slipping from his face. For a moment, something shifts in his eyes—a flicker of vulnerability that catches you off guard. He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
“Honestly? I didn’t care,” He admits, voice softer than usual. “Business classes, university—it’s always just been something I had to get through. Football is what I love. That’s where I feel like I matter. Everything else just felt… pointless.”
The honesty in his words caught you off guard. You nod slowly, pieces of his personality clicking into place. “So, why are you trying now?” You ask gently.
He meets your gaze, and for a moment, there’s something unreadable in his eyes. Then, with sincerity that makes your heart stutter, he says, “Because you’re helping me. And… I want to impress you.”
The room feels suddenly too quiet. His words linger between you, heavy with meaning. The confident, easygoing Sunwoo you’ve come to know feels distant now, replaced by someone real and vulnerable. And that shift leaves you momentarily speechless.
“Sunwoo—” You start, but he cuts you off with a quick grin, the moment slipping through your fingers.
“So, what’s next? Depreciation schedules?”
You blink, the weight of the moment still pressing on you. But the lightheartedness in his voice eases the tension, and you can’t help but smile. “Sure, but let’s take a break first. I need a minute to process the fact that you seem to care about this stuff now.”
He chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Deal. But after the break, I’m holding you to that coffee you promised.”
“Fine,” you agree, shaking your head but smiling. The earlier vulnerability may have passed, but something between you feels different now—softer, warmer. An unspoken connection that lingers in the space between words.
And as Sunwoo leans back, chatting casually about the next soccer match, you can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to care, too.
Your tutoring sessions settle into a rhythm that feels surprisingly natural, even as Sunwoo manages to keep you on your toes. He starts showing up on time—well, almost—and he brings a notebook now, though “organized” wouldn’t exactly describe it. The first few pages are a chaotic mix of finance notes and doodles—sketches of footballs, little comics of him outrunning defenders, and random reminders like “Buy snacks” or “Stretch before practice.” It’s so distinctly him that you catch yourself smiling more often than you’d like to admit.
One afternoon, as you’re reviewing his balance sheets, you glance up and notice something unexpected. Sunwoo is fully immersed in the work, pencil tapping rhythmically against the table, his eyes scanning the numbers with an intensity you rarely see. His brows knit together in concentration, his lips pressed into a faint line, and there’s a quiet determination in his gaze that feels almost foreign. Usually, it’s his playful charm that fills the space between you, but now, this peaceful focus leaves you momentarily off balance.
Your attention lingers on the small details: the way his hair falls over his forehead, the soft curve of his lips as he mutters through the numbers, and the subtle smile that lights up his face when he balances a tricky equation. It’s not his usual cocky grin but something softer, something more real. You’re so distracted that you lose track of what you’re supposed to be doing.
“You’re staring,” He says suddenly, his voice pulling you back to reality. He doesn’t even glance up, but his tone is laced with that infuriating smugness that never fails to surprise you.
Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you look down at your notebook in a desperate attempt to recover. “I—I wasn’t staring,” You stammer, suddenly flipping through pages as if searching for a lifeline. “Just… making sure you’re actually doing the work.”
“Cheating? Wow,” He replies, leaning back in his chair with a dramatic flourish. “I thought you trust me little ms genius.”
“I think just enough of you,” You quip, though the warmth in your face betrays your cool tone.
“Admit it—you were checking me out,” He says, leaning forward with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes.
“Excuse me?!” Your jaw drops, and your voice pitches higher than intended.
He smirks, tilting his head. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You were totally zoning out.”
“I was not,” You insist, though the way your heart races under his gaze says otherwise. “You’re just… distracting. That’s all.”
“Distracting, huh?” His brows lift, his grin widening. “Should I take that as a compliment?”
“It wasn’t meant to be one,” You mutter, burying your face in your notes again. His chuckle—rich and self-assured—draws a groan from you. “Focus on your ledgers, Sunwoo.”
“Fine, fine,” He relents, though his grin lingers. “But for the record, I think it’s cute how flustered you get.”
Over the next few weeks, his grades start to climb, and you’re no longer surprised by how quickly he picks up concepts. Despite the occasional distraction or messy doodles, Sunwoo proves to be sharper than you initially thought. One afternoon, as he finishes a worksheet, you glance up and comment offhandedly, “You’re smarter than you let on.”
He pauses, looking at you with a raised brow. “Why does that sound like a backhanded compliment?”
“It’s not,” You reply, twirling your pen thoughtfully. “I just mean… if you gave the same effort earlier, you wouldn’t have been failing.”
His gaze drops, and for a moment, the usual playful glint in his eyes dims. “Sometimes it’s really hard to focus when your mind’s stuck on other things,” He admits, his voice quieter, carrying a hint of something you can’t quite place.
Curiosity gets the better of you. “Like what?”
His grin returns, lighter but teasing as always. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You roll your eyes, shaking your head as the moment shifts back into familiar territory. But then he catches you off guard. “Tell me something. Why do you always come to my games?”
You freeze, your pen slipping from your fingers. “What?”
“You’re always there,” He says, softer now, his voice almost hesitant. “Fourth row, right side of the bleachers. You cheer the loudest when I score.”
Your cheeks burn under his steady gaze. “I—uh… well, it’s just…”
“You’re secretly my biggest fan, aren’t you?” His grin widens, boyish charm in full force.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” You manage, though the unsteadiness in your voice betrays you.
He laughs, the sound rich and carefree, and leans back in his chair with a satisfied look. “For the record, I like it. Knowing you’re there makes me want to play better.”
His words leave your heart fluttering in a way you can’t explain. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re adorable,” He replies, shooting you a wink before finally picking up his pen to return to the worksheet. His mischievous smile lingers, though, and you find yourself fighting a smile of your own.
As he scribbles answers, a comfortable silence settles between you. But underneath it, something has shifted. The teasing feels lighter, the moments warmer, and for the first time, you catch yourself wondering if there’s something more to the steady rhythm of your tutoring sessions—and if you’re okay with finding out.
The day Sunwoo’s grades officially improved, he walked into our study session with an energy drink in hand and a smug grin stretched across his face. “Guess who aced their exams?” He asked, voice full of that playful confidence you’d come to recognize.
You couldn’t help but grin back. “That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you.” You didn’t think you could get any more proud, but here he was, looking like he’d just conquered the world.
“Proud enough to come to my game this weekend?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes gleamed with an eager hope you hadn’t expected. It caught you off guard, a sudden heat rushing to your cheeks.
“I already go to all your games.” You reminded him, trying to act casual, even though your heart was suddenly beating a little faster yet again.
“Yeah, but this time, I want you there as more than just a fan.” His voice dipped a little lower, and he rubbed the back of his neck, uncharacteristically shy. “More like… my good luck charm.”
You blinked at him, your mind racing. You hadn’t expected him to say something like that. You felt the butterflies flutter in your stomach, your pulse quickening as you stared at him, unsure how to respond. “Sunwoo…” was all you managed to get out.
He met your gaze, “I like you,” He said simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “And yeah, I’ve probably liked you since the first time I saw you sitting in the bleachers. I’ve just been waiting for the right time to tell you.”
Your brain has short-circuited for a moment. The words didn’t quite register at first. But the look on his face—open and vulnerable, like he was holding his breath, waiting for you to say something—melted you from the inside out.
“You know this is wildly unfair, right?” The words escaped before you could stop them, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw the vulnerable smile tugging at his lips.
“Why?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, a teasing glint back in his eyes. “Because you like me too?”
Your heart did that thing again—the one that made you want to hide your face. You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still amazing,” He said softly, his voice tender now as he gently pulled your hands away from your face. His smile softened, and there was something new in his gaze—a quiet, affectionate sincerity that made your stomach do flip-flops. “So… game this Saturday? Then after-party with me after we win?”
You sighed, trying to act unaffected, but the smile on your face betrayed you. “Fine. But only because I want to see how much better you’ve gotten.”
“Oh, I’ve gotten better, alright.” He gave you a wink, his grin back in full force. “And it’s all thanks to my favorite tutor.”
You couldn’t stop smiling. The way his grin never seemed to fade, the way his energy felt like it could light up the whole room—it was impossible to resist. You tried to focus on the math problems in front of you, but your thoughts kept drifting to his words. The more you thought about it, the more you realized how much you liked him too.
The day passed in a blur, with Sunwoo’s usual playful teasing and his not-so-subtle attempts to make you laugh. You found yourself laughing more than you expected, your heart feeling lighter than it had in a while. The session felt more like hanging out with a friend than tutoring someone, and you liked it that way.
As the day came to an end, and you packed up your things, Sunwoo didn’t stop grinning. Honestly, neither did you. It felt surreal, but it also felt right. The thought of seeing him at his game on Saturday, maybe cheering for him a little louder, maybe catching his eye in the crowd—well, it made the whole idea of math tutoring feel like the most fortunate thing that ever happened.
As you headed out, with the faint echo of his voice calling out another joke behind you, you couldn’t help but think that maybe this was the beginning of something much more than just passing a subject.
Saturday arrived sooner than you expected, and by the time you found yourself walking into the stadium, you could already hear the muffled roar of the crowd. Your heart fluttered with anticipation, though you tried to keep it under control. This wasn’t your first time attending one of Sunwoo’s games, but this time felt different. This time, he had asked you to be there as his good luck charm and there was an added weight to the request that made you nervous in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
The bleachers were crowded, and you spotted Sunwoo warming up on the field, his focus entirely on the game. You took your usual seat in the fourth row, right side, where you knew he always seemed to glance at when he needed a boost.
The game started, and the energy in the air was electric. You cheered louder than usual when Sunwoo made a perfect pass, but it wasn’t until he scored the winning goal—his triumphant smile lighting up his face—that you felt a rush of pride that wasn’t just for the game but for him.
As the game ended, with his team victorious, you made your way toward the exit, where players would be heading for the after-party. You texted him, “Great game, Sunwoo!” With a few celebratory emojis, trying to play it cool.
A few minutes later, you saw him approaching, his grin wide and unmistakable as he jogged over to you. He didn’t even wait to catch his breath before speaking. “You actually came,” He said, eyes sparkling with an almost childlike surprise. “I didn’t think you would.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I came. Didn’t you ask me to be here as your lucky charm?”
He leaned in, his voice dropping a little, though his grin never wavered. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who was excited about the game.”
“Excited?” You shot him a teasing smile. “You were the one who was about to pass out from nervousness before the match started.”
“Hey, I’m only human,” He shot back, his smirk still intact. “And now look who’s here. My good luck charm.”
You couldn’t help the blush creeping up your neck at his words. “I’m just here to see the game, Sunwoo.” You teased, but your words fell flat against the warmth in his eyes.
His gaze softened. “And I’m seriously glad you’re here. I think having you in the stands made a difference.” He paused, leaning in a little closer, his voice lowering to something softer, almost intimate. “You’re important to me.”
The sudden shift in his tone really sent your heart racing. You tried to play it off, brushing your hair behind your ear as if you weren’t caught completely off guard. “It was just a game, Sunwoo. You played great, but—”
“No, it’s more than that.” He gently took a step closer, his hand brushing against yours in a quiet, intimate gesture. His thumb traced over the back of your hand lightly, the touch sending a thrill up your spine. “It’s because you’re here. I like having you around. It makes everything better.”
You could barely keep up with the way your heart was thundering in your chest, or how the simple touch of his hand had your stomach doing flips. You cleared your throat, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. “Well, you’re definitely winning me over with all this charm.”
Sunwoo chuckled softly, his grin turning playful again. “It’s not just charm. It’s the real deal.” He gave you another wink, his confidence returning, but there was something behind his eyes—something more vulnerable—that made your chest tighten.
Before you could respond, he reached for your hand, fingers wrapping around yours with a softness that felt different from his usual flirtatious nature. “So, the after-party. You coming right?”
You nodded without thinking, the excitement bubbling up again. “Yeah, I’ll come. It’s the least I can do as a good luck charm.”
Sunwoo’s face lit up at your words, and you couldn’t help but smile as he practically bounced on his feet. “I’m definitely keeping you around.” His grip on your hand tightened just a little, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to shrink, leaving just the two of you standing there, a little closer than before.
The way his fingers gently interlaced with yours made your heart skip a beat, the simple contact sending a flood of warmth through your body. It was silly, but it felt like something had shifted between you two, something that went beyond tutoring sessions and game victories.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
a/n: hellooo i'm back, kinda... lmaoo. this has been marinating in the drafts ngl, but i finally decided to post it and idk if i like it lol also because it was like 3am when i wrote this a months ago
pairing: xavier x fem!reader
genre: fluff, maybe little angstprompt: “because if you told them, maybe it’d make things complicated. and maybe they’d never look at you the same.”
warning/s: none
word count: 2.1k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
💜 love & deepspace
Things We Don't Say: Part 1, Part 2
Xavier laid on the couch scrolling through his phone and with one leg resting over the armrest; he was relaxed. He was also tossing a stress ball, he found somewhere, in the air from his other hand and routinely catching it. His lips turned into a smile as the faint light coming from the screen of his mobile phone illuminated his face from below which formed a shadow on the corners of his lips.
A few feet away, She felt agitated as she picked up the leftovers from the takeout dinner, throwing a few containers in the stack and clapping repetitively. The sound of spoons and forks being placed on the table broke the silence.
Xavier’s head lifted briefly to look at her as he said in a matter-of-fact voice “You know, you’re not as scary as what you think you are.”
She stopped her movement to wipe her forehead, the wet cloth still in her right hand. Gradually, she pivoted her body and raised one of her eyebrows in comment. “Oh really? And why do you think I’m scary? I was expecting the very opposite of it.”
He let out a laugh and directed his gaze back to the stress ball he was holding. “Your death glares, the snappy comebacks, the way you complain angrily alone when people annoy you to a certain point. All of them are very intimidating.” He grins even bigger if possible. “Let me tell you a secret. It’s cute.”
A hue of pink overtook her cheeks, she cursed inside her mind because she couldn’t stop it. She turned around and continued walking to the table, trying to wipe a clean spot. “I wasn’t aiming for ‘cute.’" She rolled her eyes at him.
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Doesn’t mean it’s not true."
She didn’t respond, but her grip on the cloth tightened as her heart betrayed her with a subtle flutter.
Later, when Xavier had drifted off to sleep, sprawled across the couch in a way that defied comfort, she found herself standing over him.
The stress ball had rolled onto the floor, long forgotten, and his phone was still on his hand, though the screen was now closed. The usual sharpness in his features was softened by sleep.
Her hand hovered near his hair, having the urge to brush away a stray strand. But she hesitated, her fingers curling back to herself.
"Goodnight, idiot…" she whispered instead, draping a blanket over him with care. She turned to leave, her footsteps soft against the floor.
Just as she reached her room, his voice—quiet and laced with drowsiness—made her pause.
"Goodnight, princess."
Patrolling the city streets of Linkon was second nature to the both of them by now. The faint buzz of the overhead street lights hummed in their ears, and the occasional whistling of the wind against the buildings, filling the silence. Her senses were usually sharp and accustomed to every possible threat, but tonight, her focus seemed to have lingered away. She found her gaze drifting towards Xavier more often than she liked to admit—the confidence that exuded him when he walks, and the way his laughter bounced off the quiet alleyways.
“You’re off your game,” he teased as he effortlessly taking out a Wanderer she’d nearly missed. He turned to her with a grin, wiping his blade clean. "What’s on your mind?"
"Nothing," she said too quickly, adjusting her grip on her weapon. "Just distracted by your constant chatter."
Xavier raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical but amused. "Sure. Blame me for your slip-ups."
They continued forward, their boots hitting against the pavement. Despite her momentary lapse, they still moved in perfect sync when it mattered, taking down threats with ease. It was like a dance they knew all too well—one that required no words, and only trust.
When the last Wanderer had disintegrated, Xavier leaned against a wall, his breathing steady as he surveyed the now-clear alley.
“Not bad,” he said with a lopsided grin. "But you owe me lunch for almost making me cover for you back there."
Y/N rolled her eyes, "In your dreams."
He smirked, leaning just a bit closer. "Every night, princess."
The nickname hit her like a punch to the chest. Her glare only made him laugh harder.
"You’re so annoying.” she muttered.
"And yet, you still keep me around," he shot back, his grin unwavering.
“You’re literally a partner that was assigned to me.” She mumbled.
He started walking ahead, leaving her to recover. "Come on, we’ve got some more ground to cover."
She lingered for a moment, her gaze still fixed on his retreating form. The way he seemed to command the space around him—it left her feeling something. She sighed as she shook her head, pushing the thoughts away, and hurried to catch up.
When Xavier showed up at her door the next evening, he had a bag of takeout in one hand and his ever-present smile on his face, her first reaction was confusion.
“What’s this for?” she asked, taking the bag from him. The aroma of both their favorite dishes wafted through the air, making her stomach grumble.
He shrugged, leaning against the doorframe with the kind of aura which made it impossible to look away. "Just thought you deserved a break," he said lightly. "Besides, consider it as my apology for calling you out the other day."
Her lips twitched upward, despite her attempt to stay neutral. "Apology accepted." She stepped aside, motioning for him to come in.
As they settled on the couch with their dinner, the mood has shifted into something more easy and familiar. Xavier was recounting a mishap involving another pair of hunters, his animated gestures and sarcastic commentary drawing genuine laughs from her. She adored it when she was able to be like this with her.
Though he painted the scene so vividly like she could almost see the chaos unfold, no matter how much she laughed, her mind refused to stay present.
Instead, it wandered—to the way he seemed to fit so seamlessly into her life. The way his laughter softened, or how his presence made everything feel less daunting. She caught herself staring more than once, her gaze lingering on the sharp lines of his jaw or the warmth in his eyes as he teased her.
"You’re staring again.” Xavier suddenly said, pulling her away from her thoughts.
She froze, nearly dropping her chopsticks. "No, I’m not."
“Sure…” he hummed, leaning back against the couch with an infuriatingly knowing smile. "You’ve been weird lately. Spill."
“There’s nothing to spill.” she insisted, her voice tighter than she intended. She shoved a bite of food into her mouth to avoid further questions.
But Xavier wasn’t buying it, he knew her. As he leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand as he studied her. "If you say so. But just know I’ll get it out of you eventually."
She rolled her eyes, but her heart was racing, and she hoped that he wouldn’t notice. He always seemed to have a way of reading her, of breaking down her defenses with nothing more than a just look.
That following night in the city felt different. The streets that were usually alive with distant noise or the occasional scuffle, were unusually quiet, leaving only the sound of their footsteps to fill the silence. But it wasn’t just the silence pressing down on her; it was the tension simmering between the both of them, it was unspoken but also impossible to ignore.
Yet still, she found herself stealing glances at Xavier whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.
Every move he made seemed to be magnified—like the way his hand rested casually on his weapon or the way his brows furrowed. Her chest tightened with every stolen glance, the weight of her unspoken thoughts seemed to be growing heavier with each step.
Finally, after hours of circling the topic in her mind, She stopped abruptly in the middle of the empty street. "Xavier," she said, her voice firmer than she felt. "I need to tell you something."
He turned to face her, his expression shifting from curious to concerned. "What’s up?"
Her hands trembled as she clenched them into fists at her sides. Every instinct of hers screamed to keep walking, to bury the truth and protect whatever fragile balance they had. But she couldn’t anymore. Not when it felt like every moment she held it in felt like it was slowly tearing her apart.
"That hypothetical thing we talked about the other day," she began, her voice quieter now. "It wasn’t about Zayne or anyone else."
Xavier’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. He simply watched her, his gaze steady and patient.
"It’s you," She admitted, the words tumbling out before she could even stop them. "I was talking about you." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Xavier had said nothing, and his expression was unreadable. It felt like the ground was slipping from underneath her, and her chest began to tighten with anxiety. Had she ruined everything? Their friendship?
He took a step closer, closing the space between them. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than she expected. "Wait—me? You’re serious?" She nodded, unable to meet his gaze as she looked away. "I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to mess this up. Us. Our friendship."
Xavier's hand lifted, moving her chin until she had no choice but to look at him. His usual playful demeanor was gone, replaced by something softer and more serious.
Her breath hitched, the warmth of his hand grounding her. "Are you not mad?"
“Mad?” He chuckled, his forehead leaning against hers. "I’m just wondering what took you so long to tell me."
Her eyes widened, surprise flashing across her face. "You knew?"
“I had a hunch and didn’t want to assume,” he admitted, a hint of his signature smile returning. "But hearing you say it… that’s different."
The tension between them has shifted, replaced by something lighter, almost electric. The city around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them standing in the dim glow of the streetlight.
“So…" Xavier said, his voice low and teasing again, "does this mean I get to call you my princess and actually mean it?"
She groaned, shoving him lightly in the chest. "You’re an idiot."
He caught her hand in his, holding it firmly as his grin softened into something warmer. "And you love it anyways.” he replied, his voice softer now, almost reverent.
She couldn’t argue. Not anymore at least.
The days that followed had a shift so small, almost unseen, yet undeniable. Xavier’s teasing touches lingered on her arm or shoulder and felt like it was a silent promise with the press of his fingers. His usual nicknames, once a source of exasperation, carried a softer weight now.
At sundown one day, where the city skyline was covered in hues of orange and pink, they found themselves perched on top of a rooftop. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain from a passing storm. Her boots scraped against the concrete as she stretched her legs out, her gaze fixed on the sun setting below the horizon. As Xavier sat beside her, his body was close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him despite the chill in the air.
For a while, they didn’t speak. The world below hummed softly with life—distant sirens, the occasional bark of a dog, and the sound of wind whistling in the air. It was peaceful.
“You know,” Xavier finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was lower than usual, almost thoughtful. "You make this whole saving-the-world thing worth it."
She turned her head, startled by the sincerity in his tone. His face was illuminated by the soft glow of the fading light in the sky. Her chest tightened at the sight.
“You’re such a sap,” she teased, but her voice wavered slightly, betraying the effect his words had on her.
Xavier’s lips curved into a small smile, and he leaned closer, propping an arm on his knee. "Maybe. But always and only for you." His eyes held hers, steady and unwavering, and she felt as if he could see through every wall she’d ever built around her.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to exhale fully, and to let the moment wrap around her like a blanket. In that instant, it didn’t matter that the world they lived in was harsh and unforgiving. It didn’t matter that tomorrow would likely bring more chaos and danger. What mattered was the way he looked at her, as if she were the center of the universe.
She leaned back on her palms, her gaze returning to the sky. "You’re just so annoying, you know that?"
Xavier laughed softly. "You say that a lot and yet, here you are, still stuck with me."
She rolled her eyes but a smile present on her face. Maybe, just maybe, love could survive even in the darkest of places.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
taglist (to those who wanted a part 2 <3): @sapphic-daze @melonssoup @elipprs @khioneee
pairing: tattoo!artist!bangchan x fem!reader
genre: tattoo artist chan au, fluff, slice of life, non-idol au
synopsis: he’s the tattoo artist you go to for your first piece, and his calming presence turns the experience into something unforgettable.
warning/s: has little suggestive tone in the end
word count: 3.8k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
❤️ stray kids masterlist
The first time you walked into the tattoo studio, you weren’t sure what to expect. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision—your first tattoo—and while excitement coursed through you, there was no denying the nervous flutter in your chest. Why am I so nervous? I’ve been thinking about this design for years. But still, the unknowns made your palms a little sweaty.
The studio had a surprisingly cozy atmosphere, the kind you wouldn’t associate with sharp needles and buzzing machines. Soft lo-fi music played in the background, like a gentle embrace, and the air smelled faintly of lavender incense, blending with the sterile tang of disinfectant. The low hum of a tattoo machine was like a steady heartbeat, somehow reassuring in its rhythm. This isn’t as intimidating as I imagined.
“Hey, welcome in!” A cheerful voice broke through your thoughts, drawing your gaze to the counter.
You hadn’t expected the effect his smile would have. Your breath hitched slightly as you looked up at the man who greeted you. His blonde hair framed his face effortlessly, his dark eyes holding a warmth that made you feel like you were already at ease—even though your stomach still had butterflies. He’s got that comforting vibe… Tattoos peeked out from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his black shirt, and his smile—bright and boyish—made your nerves ease just a little.
“Here for a tattoo?” he asked, tilting his head in that endearing way.
“Yeah, first one,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt, but your voice cracked slightly, betraying you.
“First-timer, huh?” His smile widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No worries. I’m Chris, by the way. You’re in good hands.”
He reached out to shake your hand, his grip firm but gentle. God, even his handshake feels... steady. “I’m... uh, Y/N,” you said, your voice faltering just a little under the intensity of his friendly gaze.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Chris said, motioning for you to follow him to the consultation desk. “Alright, let’s hear it. What are we thinking today?”
You explained your idea—a small but meaningful design you’d been imagining for years. As you spoke, Chris listened intently, nodding along. His attention was so focused, so present, it made you feel like your idea was the most important thing in the room. His hands moved with easy confidence, sketching on a piece of paper, and you found yourself admiring how naturally he moved, like everything he did was second nature.
“Something like this?” he asked, turning the paper toward you.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at the sketch. It was perfect—better than you’d imagined. You couldn’t help but feel a rush of warmth. Wow, he gets it. He really gets it.
“Wow. Yes, exactly,” you said, the relief in your voice obvious.
“Great,” Chris said, grinning at your reaction. “Let’s get started, then.”
As you lay down on the chair, you suddenly became acutely aware of how your hands fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. The nerves were back in full force, making your heart race. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. What if it hurts? What if I regret it? But then you noticed Chris crouching down beside you, his dark eyes soft with understanding.
“Nervous?” he asked, his voice gentle, as if he could feel the tension in the air.
“Is it that obvious?” you replied, offering a shaky laugh, hoping he didn’t notice how your palms were sweating.
“Just a little,” he teased, his grin mischievous. “It’s totally normal, though. I’ll walk you through everything. If it gets too much, just say the word, okay?”
His words, quiet and reassuring, did something to calm you. His presence felt like a warm blanket on a cold day—comforting, safe. I can do this. He’s got me.
“Alright,” you said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
Chris talked you through every step of the process, his voice a steady, soothing presence as he worked. He asked about your favorite movies, hobbies, and even your most embarrassing teenage trend, his questions light and playful, distracting you from the growing anticipation.
“Wait, you had bangs like that on purpose?” he teased, pausing mid-line to laugh.
“Hey, it was middle school! Everyone was doing it,” you shot back, a small laugh escaping despite yourself. It felt like the first time you’d relaxed since walking in.
The conversation flowed effortlessly, his teasing never mean-spirited, and his laughter was contagious. The moments of nervousness slipped away, replaced by a strange sense of comfort. It’s not so bad. I can do this.
Before you knew it, Chris was wiping away the final traces of ink, setting the machine down with a soft hum.
“Take a look,” he said, holding up a mirror.
You sat up slowly, your heart pounding in your chest as you examined the tattoo. It was beautiful, every detail perfectly captured. Your chest swelled with emotion as you admired it, touched by how he’d brought your vision to life. I can’t believe it’s real.
“It’s amazing,” you said softly, your voice thick with gratitude and awe.
Chris smiled, a hint of pride in his expression. “Glad you like it. You did great.”
That first visit turned into many. You couldn’t help but find yourself drawn back to the studio, whether for another small tattoo or the occasional piercing. Each visit felt like a new adventure, and Chris was always there, his warm smile and easygoing nature making the studio feel like a second home.
“You’re back already?” Chris teased one afternoon as you walked in. “Let me guess—another tattoo?”
“Maybe,” you replied with a grin, leaning casually on the counter. “Or maybe I just missed your charming personality.”
Chris smirked, leaning closer, his elbows resting on the counter between you. “Careful, or I’ll start charging extra for compliments.”
“Oh no, how ever will I afford it?” you shot back, feigning distress.
It became a game between you two, the teasing banter flowing effortlessly with each visit. He’d tease you about your “addiction” to tattoos, and you’d fire back with playful remarks about his “questionable” choice in music—despite secretly loving the lo-fi playlists he curated for the studio.
One day, after yet another session, you found yourself lingering in the studio longer than usual. Chris was wiping down his station, the methodical movements almost hypnotic as he cleaned the tools and surface with practiced care. The warm scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faint hum of the lo-fi playlist that had become a comforting backdrop during your visits.
“You know,” you began, your voice soft, “I’ve been thinking... what you do is really cool.”
Chris glanced up from his work, his brow raising slightly in curiosity. “Yeah? What part of it?”
“All of it,” you replied, gesturing vaguely at the studio around you. “I mean, turning people’s ideas into art they carry with them forever? That’s kind of... inspiring.”
Chris straightened, tossing the used wipe into the trash as he leaned his hip against the counter. His dark eyes softened as they studied you. “Inspiring, huh? That’s a big word.”
“I mean it,” you insisted, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. The nerves bubbling in your stomach felt oddly similar to the first time you walked into his studio. “Actually, I’ve even thought about maybe... learning how to do it myself. Like, as an apprentice or something.”
For a moment, Chris just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—a smile that sent your heart into a flutter. “You? A tattoo artist?”
“Why not?” you shot back, feigning indignation. “I’ve got a steady hand, good taste... and besides I think I’d look great sporting an all-black outfit.” I teased as it was what he was always wearing.
Chris chuckled, running a hand through his blonde waves. “Can’t argue with that,” he teased. “But it’s not all glamorous, you know. There’s a lot of hard work before you get to the fun part—cleaning, learning the machines, practicing on synthetic skin.”
“I can handle it,” you said confidently, your eyes meeting his with determination. “Especially if I have a good mentor.”
“Oh, so now you’re buttering me up,” Chris said with a smirk, crossing his arms. “What if I’m a terrible teacher?”
“You?” You scoffed playfully, leaning against the counter to mirror his stance. “You’re literally the most patient person I’ve ever met. I think I’ll survive.”
Chris’s expression softened at your words, a faint flush of color creeping up his neck. “Alright,” he said after a moment, his tone more serious. “If you’re really serious about this, we can give it a shot. But only if you promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t quit halfway through,” he said, his gaze holding yours. “It’s a lot of work, and it’s not always easy. But if you’re in, I’ll be here to help.”
A grin spread across your face, the excitement bubbling over. “Deal,” you said, sticking your hand out for a shake.
Chris chuckled as he took your hand in his, his grip warm and steady. “Alright, apprentice. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
As the days turned into weeks, your visits to the studio shifted. They were no longer just about tattoos or piercings—they were about learning. Chris started from the basics, walking you through everything with the same care and patience he showed his clients.
“First things first,” he said one afternoon, sliding a sheet of synthetic skin toward you. “Let’s see how steady that hand of yours really is.”
You picked up the machine, the weight of it unfamiliar but not unwelcome. As you leaned over the practice sheet, Chris stood behind you, his presence comforting rather than intimidating.
“Relax your grip a bit,” he murmured, his voice close to your ear. His hand gently adjusted yours on the machine, the warmth of his touch sending a small jolt through you.
“Like this?” you asked, glancing back at him, not realising how close his face was to yours.
“Perfect,” he said, his lips curving into a soft smile.
The sessions were full of moments like that—his hand brushing yours as he guided you, his encouragement when you doubted yourself, the way his eyes lit up when you got something right.
One afternoon, as you sketched a design under Chris’s watchful eye, he let out a low whistle. “You’re a natural,” he said, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
“Coming from you, that’s high praise,” you said, glancing up at him with a grin.
Chris smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Don’t let it go to your head, apprentice.”
“Oh, it’s already there,” you teased, sticking your tongue out at him.
Chris laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. “Alright, alright. Keep at it. But don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you’re charming.”
“You think I’m charming?” you quipped, arching an eyebrow.
“I didn’t say that,” Chris retorted, his grin widening.
“Sure you didn’t,” you teased, returning your focus to the sketch.
It wasn’t just the lessons that made your time in the studio special. It was the quiet moments in between—the way Chris would brew a fresh pot of coffee when the studio was empty, the comfortable silences as you both worked on your own designs, the easy laughter that filled the space when one of you cracked a joke.
That evening, as you packed up for the day, Chris handed you a sheet of designs he’d sketched. “Here,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Thought you might like to practice with these.”
You looked down at the intricate drawings, your chest tightening at the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. “Thanks, Chris. Really.”
He shrugged, his cheeks tinged pink. “You’re doing great. Just keep at it.”
And in moments like that, when the studio lights cast a warm glow around the room and Chris’s smile felt like a secret meant only for you, you realized that this wasn’t just about learning to tattoo anymore. It was about the connection you’d found with the man who’d turned a spontaneous decision into something so much more.
As the weeks turned into months, each passing day, you found yourself more at ease with the tattoo machine in your hand. Chris had been a patient and encouraging teacher, always there to guide you, whether you needed help with technical skills or a morale boost. But today felt different.
You had been sketching a design for the past few days—a delicate piece, bigger than usual but meaningful, that you had planned to tattoo on Chris. The idea of working on him, though, made your stomach flutter with nerves.
You paced the studio floor, glancing at the design again, then back at Chris. He was sitting in the chair, his sleeves rolled up, looking completely relaxed. Too relaxed, you thought. Was he really going to let you tattoo him?
“I’m not sure about this,” you said, walking over to him, the tattoo machine in your hand feeling heavier than it ever had before. “It’s... you know, kind of a big deal.”
Chris tilted his head back, eyes locking onto yours, his expression a mix of amusement and warmth. “What, are you telling me you’ve got the courage to tattoo everyone else but me?”
You laughed nervously, shaking your head. “No, that’s not it. It’s just... this design is, um, kind of personal to me, and the placement is...” You trailed off, glancing at his neck, just below his ear. It felt a little closer than you’d anticipated. The line between professional and personal felt thin there, and you weren’t sure how to navigate it.
Chris chuckled, his voice smooth and steady. “Are you worried I’ll mind the placement?”
“Maybe just a little,” you admitted, your voice softer than you intended. “It’s just... right there, on the side of your neck. Close to your collarbone, and... well, it’s a little more personal than I thought it would be.”
Chris raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You mean suggestive?” he teased, his tone light and playful.
You felt your face heat up, trying to focus on the design in front of you instead of his amused gaze. “Well, yeah, but—”
He stood up, placing a hand gently on your shoulder, his touch reassuring. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice cutting through your nerves. “Listen, if anyone’s gonna do this tattoo, it’s gonna be you. And I trust you. It’s just a tattoo, right?”
You swallowed, your nerves still alive but calming slightly under his steady gaze. “Yeah, but it’s you. You’ve taught me everything. What if I mess up?”
Chris shrugged nonchalantly. “You won’t. And even if you did, I’d still like it, because it’s coming from you.” His eyes softened as he looked at you. “You’ve got a good hand, and a good heart. That’s what matters.”
You bit your lip, still hesitant, but something about his calm confidence made the knot in your stomach start to loosen. His words were always so steady, like an anchor, grounding you when your doubts flared up.
Chris reached for your hand, gently taking the tattoo machine from your grip and setting it down. “We don’t have to do it today if you’re not ready,” he said. “But I think you’re more than capable.”
You met his gaze, the connection between the two of you growing stronger, and with a quiet breath, you nodded. “Okay,” you whispered, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you. “Let’s do it.”
Chris settled back into the chair, his expression calm, almost serene. He closed his eyes as you began to prepare the area, the nervousness in your chest slowly giving way to focus. The placement wasn’t as scary now. It was just another tattoo, and it was your tattoo.
“You’ve got this,” Chris murmured, his voice low but comforting as you traced the outline onto his skin. “I told you, it’s gonna be perfect.”
You let out a shaky breath and began to work, the buzz of the needle filling the space between you. Chris’s steady presence was grounding, his occasional glances at you through the mirror in front of both of you, filled with quiet encouragement.
As you worked, the initial nerves faded into concentration. You were still aware of the proximity of your bodies—his skin so close to yours—but it didn’t feel awkward. It felt... intimate, but in a way that wasn’t about tension. It was about trust.
“This isn’t so bad,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips as you finished a delicate line.
“You’re doing amazing,” Chris replied, his voice soft with pride. “I’m impressed. You make it look easy.”
You shot him a playful look. “Well, I’ve had a great teacher.”
Chris laughed, a deep chuckle that made your heart skip a beat. “Keep that up, and I swear I’ll really start charging you for compliments.”
As you finished the tattoo, you stepped back, wiping away the excess ink. Chris sat up, his eyes immediately seeking out the work you’d done. You held your breath as he inspected it, the anticipation hanging in the air.
“Well?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
Chris’s face lit up with a wide, genuine smile. “It’s perfect,” he said, his voice warm with approval. “I love it. And you did it.”
Your heart swelled with pride, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you felt a wave of relief rush through you. “I can’t believe you let me do that.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your chest flutter, feeling a mix of pride and relief.
And as he stood, admiring the tattoo you had just inked on him, you realized something—this wasn’t just about learning how to tattoo anymore. It was about the bond you shared, the trust, and the quiet moments in between that turned everything you did together into something unforgettable.
He ran a hand over the freshly inked design, nodding appreciatively. “I have to say, I’m impressed. It looks even better than I imagined,” he said, giving you a playful wink.
A smile tugged at your lips. “I’m glad you like it. It was… a little nerve-wracking, though.”
He laughed, brushing his fingers through his hair. “You did great. Seriously, you’re a pro already.” His eyes lingered on you for a moment, the air between you feeling unexpectedly warm.
There was a pause as you both basked in the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. But then, Chris leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. “You know,” he began, his tone teasing, “maybe you can do a pelvic tattoo on me next.”
Your eyes widened at the suggestion, blinking in surprise. “A pelvic tattoo?” you repeated, unsure whether he was serious or just joking around.
“Yeah,” he said, a grin creeping onto his face. “I’ve been sketching one lately. A little something, uh, personal. Thought it might be fun if you did it in your style.” He shrugged nonchalantly, but the playful glint in his eyes betrayed his teasing nature.
You felt your face flush at the thought. A pelvic tattoo? On him? The idea made your heart race, and your cheeks went from pink to a deeper shade of red. What did he mean by 'personal'? The thought of putting something like that on him made your stomach flutter nervously. I’m going to have to look at... that area? You tried to push the thought away, but the blush on your cheeks wouldn’t budge.
“Uh, wow,” you stammered, struggling to keep your voice steady. The nerves from earlier were returning in full force. “That’s… that’s a lot closer than what we just did…”
Chris chuckled, clearly enjoying how flustered you’d become. Why is he enjoying this so much? You asked yourself, trying to focus on anything but the overwhelming sensation of your heart beating faster. “You know you want to,” he teased, leaning in a little closer, his smirk growing. “You’ve got a steady hand, right? What’s a little more skin between friends?”
You shot him a playful, shy glare, but your cheeks burned even more. Why is he making this so difficult? “I don’t know about this, Chris. That’s, uh... pretty bold.” You laughed weakly, trying to keep it light, but the words felt strange coming out of your mouth. Was it bold? Or was it just the idea of it being him that made it feel different?
There was a brief silence, and for a moment, it felt like the world was waiting for you to make a decision. Your mind raced, running through every scenario you could imagine. Design something so personal for him? What if I mess it up? What if it’s not what he’s hoping for? Your confidence in your skills was strong, but something about the intimate nature of the request made your stomach twist with uncertainty.
Chris seemed to sense your hesitation, his playful smirk softening into something more understanding. “Hey,” he said, his tone gentler now. “If you're hesitant about it, I totally get it. It’s personal, I know. But if you're willing to give it a shot, I’d love for you to be the one to make it for me.” His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw sincerity, trust—a lot of trust. “You know you can do it, right?”
Your heart fluttered at the vulnerability in his words, and you couldn’t help but feel a soft sense of reassurance. I can do this. I’ve done this before. But something about it being him made it harder to shake off the nerves. The idea of creating something so intimate for him still felt daunting, but the trust he was placing in you made your doubts seem smaller. He really believes in me... doesn’t he?
“I… I guess I could,” you said softly, glancing down at your hands. The nervous energy still swirled in your chest, but the warmth in his gaze grounded you a little. “It’s just, I don’t know. If it’s so... personal, what if it’s not what you’re hoping for?”
Chris chuckled, tilting his head slightly, his smile genuine. “Like I said, I trust you,” he reassured you. “And honestly, whatever you come up with, I’ll love it because it’s coming from you. Don’t worry about making it perfect. Just make it yours.”
You looked up at him, meeting his gaze. The quiet certainty in his eyes made the fluttering in your chest settle, and for the first time, you felt a little less anxious. He’s not just asking for a tattoo—he’s asking for something I’ll create for him. Something meaningful. “Alright,” you said, taking a deep breath. “We’ll start sketching something out. But no promises.”
Chris’s grin widened, and his eyes twinkled with a mixture of mischief and affection. “That’s all I ask.”
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
pairing: leeknow x fem!oc!
genre: fluff
synopsis: an extended version of a flashback in my skz book, puddles and pitter-patter on chapter 26, from wattpad.
warning/s: none
word count: 1.7k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
❤️ stray kids masterlist
🧡 read more on wp: euphoric ✏️📖
It was a particularly rainy day, and Minho and I found ourselves unexpectedly trapped in a cozy café. We had planned to take a leisurely walk through the park, but the sudden downpour dashed those plans, leaving us no choice but to find shelter. The rain was relentless, the sky darkening with heavy clouds as if nature itself had decided to pause time.
"This is what happens when we forget to check the weather forecast," I chuckled, glancing out at the sheets of rain splattering against the windows. The world outside had transformed into a blur of gray, with puddles collecting on the cobblestone street.
Minho flashed a grin, his eyes scanning the quaint interior of the café. It was warm, with soft lighting and the faint hum of quiet conversation filling the air. The smell of freshly ground coffee beans and baked pastries wafted toward us, making the café feel even more inviting. "Well, at least we stumbled upon this cozy spot," he said, his voice warm and soothing as he adjusted his scarf.
We found a little corner by the window, settling in with our drinks—a steaming cup of coffee for me and a caramel latte for him. The mugs felt comforting against our cold hands, and the warmth seemed to seep into our bones. We sat back in our chairs, the soft clink of cups and the rustling of the café's background noise blending together like a lullaby.
Time seemed to stretch, or maybe it just slipped by unnoticed as we talked. Conversations came easily with Minho, the kind that moved fluidly between topics. We discussed everything from our favorite childhood games to the peculiar habits of our mutual friends. Laughter bubbled up constantly, and with each shared moment, I found myself feeling more at home, as if the café, the rain, and Minho were the perfect blend of comfort.
At one point, Minho's playful grin returned. "Truth or dare?" he asked, leaning forward with a gleam in his eyes. I recognized that mischievous glint—the one that always made me wonder what he was planning.
I raised an eyebrow, already intrigued. "Truth," I replied, bracing myself for whatever he might ask. It was always the unexpected questions that caught me off guard.
Minho pretended to think for a moment, tapping his fingers on the table, then asked, "What's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you?"
I groaned, instinctively covering my face with my hands. "Oh, come on! Do I really have to answer that?" I asked, already cringing at the thought of it.
"Absolutely," Minho insisted, his laughter slipping out before he could even finish the sentence. He leaned back in his chair, clearly relishing in the discomfort he had caused. "Come on, spill it."
With a dramatic sigh, I relented. "Fine..." I said, shaking my head. "So, in middle school, I had this massive crush on a guy in my class. One day, I decided to write him a love letter—super cheesy, I know. But in my nervousness, I ended up putting it in the wrong locker. And naturally, the entire school found out." I covered my face again, the memories still painfully fresh. "It was mortifying."
Minho burst out laughing, and I could hear the genuine amusement in his voice. "That's priceless," he said between laughs. "Did you at least get a little bit of attention from your crush?"
"Not the kind I wanted," I mumbled, shaking my head. "It was like my whole embarrassing moment became a school-wide event."
Minho laughed harder, clutching his stomach. "That’s amazing. I wish I had been there."
"You would’ve enjoyed it way too much," I retorted with a smile, feeling the embarrassment give way to laughter. "Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?"
Minho wiped his eyes, still chuckling. He seemed like he was still enjoying the thought of my middle school disaster. "Dare," he declared confidently, clearly ready to take on whatever challenge I threw at him. I smiled mischievously, loving that he was always up for a bit of fun.
I leaned forward, my eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. "I dare you to sing your favorite song, right here, right now."
Minho blinked, caught off guard for a brief second, but that moment of surprise quickly turned into a confident smile. "Challenge accepted," he said, as if the dare was a mere invitation for him to show off. He set his latte down carefully, taking a deep breath and letting the music fill his mind. I felt my heart skip a beat in anticipation.
Before I could prepare myself, Minho’s voice filled the air, rich and melodious. It was nothing like the playful banter we’d been exchanging, but rather a sincere, heartfelt performance. His voice was smooth, each note floating effortlessly, wrapping around me like a soft blanket. The words seemed to pour out of him with such authenticity that I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
The café had gone quiet, and I could feel all the eyes in the room shifting toward him, but Minho was undeterred. His eyes remained closed as he sang, completely lost in the music, and at that moment, it was as though the entire world had faded away. It was just him, his voice, and me.
When he finished, the room erupted into applause. I joined in with enthusiastic clapping, feeling proud of him, even if he was slightly sheepish about the attention. His cheeks flushed, and he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly a little embarrassed but pleased nonetheless.
"You’re amazing," I said, leaning back in my chair with a smile. "That was incredible."
Minho chuckled, his smile warm and genuine. "Thanks," he replied softly, still looking a little surprised by the attention. "It’s not every day I get dared to sing in public."
"It was worth it," I said, my voice a little softer than I intended. There was something so endearing about Minho’s willingness to step out of his comfort zone for a laugh. It made me admire him even more.
“So,” Minho said after a while, his tone teasing, “what’s your guilty pleasure?” He leaned back in his chair, watching me intently, clearly expecting me to squirm.
I raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting such a bold question. "Guilty pleasure?" I repeated, tilting my head. "What is this, an interrogation?"
He chuckled, the sound warm and comforting. “I’m just curious. Everyone has one.” He took a sip from his latte, waiting.
I hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, fine. I binge-watch old rom-coms. The cheesiest ones.” I felt my cheeks warm slightly as I admitted it, but it was the truth. There was something oddly comforting about the predictability of those movies.
Minho’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Really? I can’t believe that.” His voice was playful, and he leaned forward, genuinely intrigued. “What’s your favorite one, then?”
I grinned, a little sheepish. “I’m not ashamed to admit it. 10 Things I Hate About You is a classic, and I might have watched it a little too many times.”
Minho burst out laughing, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as if trying to contain himself. “That’s so... you,” he said between chuckles, still shaking his head. “It fits perfectly. I can totally imagine you swooning over Heath Ledger.”
“Hey, don’t judge. It’s a timeless movie.” I grinned back at him. "Now it’s your turn. What’s your guilty pleasure?"
Minho leaned back in his chair, taking a long sip of his drink before he answered. “I’m not sure I want to share. I have a reputation to uphold.” He smirked, clearly enjoying the playful banter.
"Oh, come on, you can’t leave me hanging like that!" I prodded, leaning forward in my seat. “If I can share, you can too.”
Minho rolled his eyes, then, with a reluctant sigh, he admitted, “Alright, fine. I guess… I really enjoy cooking.” His expression softened as he spoke, the playful tone dropping for a moment. “Not just basic stuff, but really putting time into the dishes—like experimenting with new recipes and techniques.”
My eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You, cooking? Really?” I’d always thought of him as a more spontaneous, go-with-the-flow kind of person.
Minho smiled sheepishly. “I know, I know, it’s hard to believe, but yeah. I actually find it really calming. Like, I can get lost in it. Cooking gives me a chance to focus, you know?”
I grinned, leaning in. “Okay, now I’m intrigued. What’s your signature dish?”
Minho chuckled, clearly proud. “I make a mean carbonara. It’s all about the sauce—perfectly creamy without being too heavy.” His eyes sparkled with the enthusiasm he had for the dish. “But I can also make a pretty incredible risotto. It’s all about the right amount of stirring.”
I laughed. “Risotto? That sounds fancy for someone who burns their toast every morning.”
Minho rolled his eyes but couldn't help but grin. “Hey, that was one time. And I was distracted.” He shot me a playful look. “Besides, everyone has their weaknesses in the kitchen.”
I smirked. “Okay, I’ll give you credit for that. Maybe I need to let you cook for me sometime.”
Minho’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “That’s a challenge I’ll happily accept.” He leaned back in his chair, clearly amused. “Maybe after this, I’ll cook you a five-course meal.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Five-course? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Minho laughed, clearly delighted with the banter. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.”
As the rain continued to tap against the window, we fell into a comfortable silence. I watched the droplets race each other down the glass, fascinated by how each one seemed to have a life of its own. Minho sat beside me, content and calm. The storm outside had become a distant sound, barely audible over the soft hum of the café.
"You know..." Minho broke the silence, his voice quiet but thoughtful. "Sometimes the unexpected moments turn out to be the best ones."
I turned my gaze toward him, meeting his eyes. There was a vulnerability there, a softness I hadn’t expected. It was a rare glimpse into how much he appreciated these little, unplanned moments. "I couldn’t agree more," I said, my smile gentle. "This rainy day turned out to be exactly what we needed."
Minho’s eyes softened, and he gave me a small smile. "I’m glad we’re here together."
I nodded, feeling the warmth of his words settle into my chest. "Me too," I said quietly, feeling a sense of peace that only his presence seemed to bring. We sat there for a while, the rain still falling outside, but it didn’t matter. At that moment, everything felt right. I wouldn’t trade this rainy day for anything.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
pairing: leeknow x fem!oc!
genre: fluff
synopsis: an extended version of a flashback in my skz book, paws and purpose on chapter 26, from wattpad.
warning/s: none
word count: 1.1k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
❤️ stray kids masterlist
🧡 read more on wp: euphoric ✏️📖
Minho and I decided to spend the day volunteering at a local animal shelter, our hearts set on helping care for abandoned cats who were in desperate need of love and attention. The moment we arrived, we were greeted by the familiar scent of cat food and fresh bedding, mixed with the gentle sounds of purring and the playful swish of tails. The shelter was busy, full of people moving between cages, cleaning areas, and playing with the feline residents.
As we walked in, I could already feel the excitement of being surrounded by all the cats, eager to help them feel loved. A fluffy calico cat darted by, giving me an affectionate rub against my leg. I bent down instinctively, offering a hand for her to sniff.
Minho smiled, his eyes lighting up at the sight of all the animals. "I've always wanted to do this," he said, gently petting a sleek black cat that had come up to him for attention. "It feels good to do something for them."
"It really does," I agreed, my voice soft as I watched a fluffy Persian cat curl up in my lap, purring contentedly. I ran my fingers through its long fur, feeling my heart swell with affection.
Minho and I exchanged a glance, both of us smiling at the simple joy we were experiencing. The shelter was like a little oasis of warmth and comfort, and as the hours passed, we lost ourselves in the rhythm of our work. We cleaned litter boxes, rearranged bedding, and gave the cats their meals. But it was the little moments of connection with the cats that made everything worth it—the way they looked up at us with trusting eyes or rubbed against our hands, seeking attention.
Minho had a natural way with the animals. He was patient, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached out to a timid tabby that had been hiding under a shelf. The cat hesitated for a moment, then cautiously inched forward, drawn to the warmth of Minho’s gentle touch. He smiled as he stroked the cat’s fur, the creature slowly relaxing into his hands.
"You have such a way with them," I observed, watching him with admiration. "It’s like they can sense how calm you are."
Minho looked up at me, his expression soft with warmth. "They just need a little love and patience," he said, his voice low and soothing as he continued to comfort the tabby. "Every cat has its own personality. Some are shy, some are bold, but they all just want someone to trust."
I nodded, struck by how true his words were. Minho’s understanding of animals—his empathy and intuition—was one of the things that had always drawn me to him. The way he spoke about his own cats with such fondness, as if they were cherished family members, made my heart flutter.
As we moved on to another task, Minho shared more about his own pets. "I remember Dori," he began, a fond smile spreading across his face as he carefully cleaned a nearby kennel. "She always found ways to sneak into my closet and hide there, especially when I was looking for something important. I swear, she knew exactly how to make a mess."
I laughed at the image, picturing Dori in one of her mischievous moments. "She sounds like a handful."
"Oh, she is," Minho replied with a chuckle. "But I wouldn’t change it for anything." His tone softened, a hint of affection in his voice as he continued, "Soonie is a sweetheart once she warms up to you. She’s so cautious at first, but once she trusts you, she’s all snuggles. And Doongie..." He trailed off, his eyes lighting up at the thought of his third cat. "Doongie is like my shadow. Wherever I go, he follows. It’s like I’m never alone with him around."
"Sounds like you’ve got a little crew," I teased, grinning at him.
Minho nodded, a small laugh escaping him. "Yeah, they’re my little family. And I’m grateful for them every day."
As we finished up the last round of tasks, cleaning up the areas where we’d worked and preparing for the next group of volunteers, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. The cats had given us so much joy and love, and though it was hard to leave them behind, I knew that our time there had made a difference in their day, even if only for a moment.
Minho and I stood by the door of the shelter as the last few volunteers finished up their work, the day slowly winding down. The sun was starting to set, casting long shadows across the shelter’s yard, and the light was soft and golden.
"It was such a good day," Minho remarked, his voice full of contentment as he turned to me with a smile. The way the light reflected in his eyes made my heart skip a beat.
I nodded, feeling a warm glow spread through me. "It really was," I agreed. "There’s something so special about being able to help animals, especially when you can see the difference you’re making in their lives."
Minho grinned, his expression soft and reflective. "It’s the small things that count the most, right?"
I smiled at him, grateful for this shared experience. "Yeah, it really is the small things."
We walked out of the shelter together, the peaceful evening settling around us like a blanket. As we strolled down the quiet street, the world seemed to slow down, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the stillness.
"I’m glad we did this today," I said, my voice thoughtful. "It’s been so meaningful, spending time here with you. And seeing how much you care about these animals… it just makes me appreciate you even more."
Minho glanced at me, his expression tender. "I’m glad we did too. There’s something about giving back that makes you feel… whole, you know? It reminds you of what really matters."
I nodded, the warmth of his words settling in my chest. "I couldn’t agree more."
We walked on in comfortable silence, the fading light of the sun casting a peaceful glow around us. I felt a sense of gratitude welling up inside me—not just for the experience at the shelter, but for the simple fact that I got to share moments like these with Minho. As we reached the corner of my street, I realized that days like this—days of shared kindness, compassion, and connection—were the ones I would treasure the most.
"See you tomorrow?" Minho asked as we stopped at the end of the street, his voice gentle.
I smiled, my heart full. "Definitely."
As he turned to walk away, I lingered for a moment, watching him disappear down the street, feeling a deep sense of peace and contentment. I couldn’t wait to see what other small moments of connection awaited us in the future.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
pairing: oblivious!xavier x fem!reader
genre: fluff, maybe little angst
prompt: “because if you told them, maybe it’d make things complicated. and maybe they’d never look at you the same.”
warning/s: none
word count: 1.9k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
💜 love & deepspace
Things We Don't Say: Part 1, Part 2
The sun was just beginning to set over Linkon City, casting a soft, orange glow over the worn streets and casting long shadows that twisted around the tall, crumbling buildings. Y/N adjusted her gloves, glancing over at her partner, Xavier, who was leaning against the wall with his eyes half-closed, looking as though he could fall asleep at any moment.
"Are you seriously going to nap now?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “The Wanderers aren’t exactly on a schedule here, you know.”
Xavier blinked slowly, stifling a yawn as he straightened up, brushing a hand through his hair. “I’ll be fine. I’m not sleeping—just… gathering energy.” He stretched lazily, as though preparing for a gentle stroll rather than a battle against dangerous Wanderers.
Y/N smirked, shaking her head. “Right. ‘Gathering energy.’ I’ll keep that in mind when you’re snoring next to me in the middle of a fight.”
Xavier’s usual calm demeanor flickered into a faint grin. “Hey, if I can keep up with you at half-awake, imagine what I’d be like fully alert.” He paused, looking at her with a flash of confidence that was equal parts teasing and sincere. “Besides, you’ve got my back.”
They’d been partners for a while now, each balancing the other’s strengths and weaknesses. Where Y/N was quick and precise, Xavier had a more measured, controlled approach—always calm, even lethargic, until the moment called for action. That’s when he moved with a quiet, deadly efficiency that Y/N couldn’t help but admire.
She rolled her eyes, pulling out her weapon. “Let’s just hope your ‘gathering energy’ doesn’t get us cornered.”
As they moved through the city streets, Xavier’s demeanor shifted subtly, his eyes sharper, movements more deliberate. They kept their pace slow, listening for any signs of Wanderers lurking nearby. The Wanderers were silent predators, blending into the shadows until the last possible moment, and Y/N knew better than to let her guard down.
Soon enough, a flicker of movement in the corner of her vision had her tensing, her hand gripping her weapon tightly. She barely had time to react when a Wanderer lunged from the darkness. But Xavier was already there, moving with surprising agility, his blade slicing through the air in a precise arc. The creature fell, and Xavier looked back at her, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
"See? Not asleep yet," he said, his tone light despite the danger.
“Guess you can stay awake if the stakes are high enough,” she quipped, falling into step beside him as they continued deeper into the darkened streets. “Let’s just see if you can keep that energy up for the next hour.”
Xavier let out a quiet laugh, his voice warm despite its low, sleepy drawl. “For you, maybe I’ll make an exception.” He nudged her shoulder, his gaze softening for a moment before flicking to the shadows ahead.
They fell back into their rhythm, moving in sync as they navigated the abandoned buildings and alleyways. Every so often, another Wanderer would attack, but Xavier was always there, his tired facade vanishing the second his weapon clashed with theirs. Each time, he would meet Y/N’s gaze afterward, a silent affirmation that he was still alert, still with her.
But it wasn’t until they reached an open square, where a group of Wanderers awaited them, that Y/N truly saw Xavier at his sharpest. They exchanged a quick glance, and without a word, they split off, flanking the Wanderers from either side. Y/N moved swiftly, her movements quick and decisive, while Xavier held his ground, conserving his energy until the last possible moment before striking.
As the last Wanderer fell, Xavier lowered his weapon, breathing heavily but wearing a slight, satisfied grin. He turned to Y/N, his expression softening as the adrenaline faded.
“Not bad for someone who was half-asleep,” she said, giving him a teasing smile.
Xavier chuckled, sheathing his weapon. “Told you I’d be fine. Just needed a little extra motivation.” He gave her a lazy wink, and she couldn’t help but laugh, realizing that behind the sleepy exterior was a fighter who could rise to any challenge, especially when it mattered.
As they headed back, Xavier’s steps slowed, and he let out a yawn, his usual drowsy expression returning. Y/N shook her head, rolling her eyes, but there was a warmth in her gaze.
“Come on, partner,” she said, nudging him gently. “Let’s get you back before you really fall asleep on me.”
Xavier just smiled, letting her lead the way as he muttered, “You know me too well, princess.”
As they made their way back through the quiet streets of Linkon City, Y/N found herself sneaking glances at Xavier, feeling her heart soften each time he slowed his pace or stifled a yawn. She knew him as the always-sleepy, almost reluctant warrior, but in their battles, he’d shown her a depth she hadn’t expected—a fierce loyalty, a calm that steadied her even in the midst of chaos. And despite herself, she felt her defenses weaken, her heart-tugging toward him in ways she hadn’t anticipated.
She chuckled softly, watching as he stumbled over a crack in the pavement, catching himself with a lazy grin. His energy had faded the moment they left the fray, but he still walked beside her, yawning but alert, as if protecting her was the most natural thing in the world.
As her thoughts lingered on him, a familiar warmth bloomed in her chest, and she felt a pang of longing mixed with the bittersweet acceptance that it could never be. Their world was dangerous and unpredictable—people like them didn’t have the luxury of letting their guards down, of loving recklessly.
She sighed, looking away as the thought settled. But she couldn’t deny it. A part of her was grateful just to have this: to share the field with him, to have him by her side when they fought and even in quiet moments like this one. His presence was something she cherished, even if it could never be more than friendship and partnership.
Xavier’s voice broke through her thoughts, pulling her back. “Lost in thought?” he asked, a soft, sleepy smile on his face as he tilted his head, watching her with gentle curiosity.
She shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips as she brushed it off. “Just glad you didn’t actually fall asleep back there.”
“Always got just enough energy for you,” he replied, his voice carrying that same easy warmth that always made her feel safe, even when everything else felt uncertain.
And in that moment, with his drowsy smile and the night settling around them, she let herself feel it—the quiet, unspoken feelings that filled her chest. She would hold onto them silently, content to be beside him, to share these fleeting moments and memories. After all, for someone like her, sometimes a shared path was enough.
Y/N unlocked the door to her apartment, glancing back at Xavier, who leaned against the doorway, looking as if he was about to drift off again. She smirked, stepping aside to let him in. “I swear, you’ll burn down your entire kitchen if I don’t cook for you.”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not like I’d do it on purpose. Food just… doesn’t wait for me, y’know?”
Rolling her eyes, she led him into her small kitchen, flipping on the light as she pulled ingredients from the fridge. It was cozy, nothing fancy, but he had a way of filling up her space with his presence. She found herself smiling as she watched him settle at her table, arms crossed, his head resting against them as he fought the urge to sleep.
As she prepped dinner, a comforting silence fell between them, interrupted only by the soft sounds of chopping and Xavier’s occasional, lazy observations. But her mind kept wandering back to their earlier fight, the way they worked seamlessly, the unspoken understanding they shared. Her chest tightened, that same ache rising up—the one that reminded her that, as much as she wanted more, she’d already decided to be content with what they had.
“Something on your mind?” Xavier’s voice broke her out of her thoughts. She glanced over to see him watching her with quiet curiosity, his eyes sharper than usual despite his usual sleepy expression.
She gave him a casual shrug, trying to brush it off, but he didn’t look away. “Just… hypotheticals,” she said, keeping her voice light as she set a pot on the stove.
“Hypotheticals,” he echoed, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds heavy for someone who’s been all smiles tonight.”
Y/N moved around her small kitchen, trying to hide the distraction that weighed on her mind. She’d long grown used to keeping her feelings buried—especially with someone like Xavier, who could read her as easily as anyone. But tonight, as he leaned against her counter, looking at her with that sleepy but attentive gaze, it felt impossible not to say something. Maybe not the truth, but something close enough to ease the ache in her chest.
She paused, stirring a pot absentmindedly, and finally spoke. “Ever think about what it’d be like, where things were… easier?” She let the question hang, her voice light, as if it was just a random thought rather than the weight she’d been carrying.
Xavier raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Easier how?” he asked, his tone lazy but his eyes intent, like he knew she was trying to hide something.
“I mean, imagine if you liked someone,” she began, keeping her gaze on the food as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world, “but you knew it was impossible. You couldn’t tell them. And maybe it’s better that way, so it doesn’t ruin things.”
He was silent, waiting for her to continue, so she did, adding layers to her hypothetical story to keep her heart safe. “So, you stay quiet. You keep it to yourself because, you know, maybe they’d be happier not knowing. Because if you told them, maybe it’d make things complicated. And maybe they’d never look at you the same.”
Xavier chuckled, crossing his arms, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “So… in this ‘hypothetical situation,’ you’re not talking about Doctor Zayne, right? Your childhood friend turned physician? The one you keep telling me about?”
She forced a laugh, rolling her eyes as if that was exactly what she’d meant. “Yes, hypothetically speaking,” she replied, playing along, even though it was Xavier she’d been talking about the whole time.
“Yeah, hypothetically,” he replied, smirking, as if the thought amused him. But the look in his eyes softened, and he leaned in a bit closer. “I don’t know, Y/N. If someone was interested in you, really interested, I think they’d want to know, even if it made things complicated. Sometimes, complications are worth it.”
The humor in his gaze softened, and he tilted his head, giving her that familiar, sleepy look that somehow always saw right through her. “Well, if your friend is anything like me, he’d probably want to know—complicated or not.”
She swallowed, the lump in her throat tightening as his words sank in. “Yeah… maybe,” she whispered, unsure of what to say next.
It was her turn to be silent, focusing on finishing dinner as he watched her. Part of her wanted to laugh at the irony—that he thought she was talking about someone else, when really, every word was about him. But as they sat down to eat, she let herself be content with his presence, deciding that, for now, maybe it was enough to keep her heart safe in her own quiet way.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
a/n: thinking if i should make this have multiple parts or not, feels like it needs it
pairing: leeknow x fem!oc!
genre: fluff
synopsis: an extended version of a flashback in my skz book, chapter 26, from wattpad.
warning/s: none
word count: 1.2k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
❤️ stray kids masterlist
🧡 read more on wp: euphoric ✏️📖
One night, Minho surprised me with a spontaneous idea that took me completely off guard. "How about we get out of the city for a bit?" he suggested with a mischievous grin, his eyes twinkling with excitement. "I know a place. A spot where we can actually see the stars."
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "The stars? You mean the actual stars, not the city lights?"
He chuckled, nudging me playfully. "Yes, the real stars. Come on, trust me."
The drive was quiet, with only the hum of the car and soft music filling the space between us. The city, with its constant buzz, slowly faded away as we drove further into the quiet outskirts. The closer we got to our destination, the more I could feel the tension of everyday life melting away.
Eventually, we arrived at a secluded spot outside the bustling city, far removed from the lights and noise. The ground was soft with a blanket of grass, and the cool night air felt refreshing against my skin. Minho pulled out a soft blanket from the trunk of the car and spread it out on the ground, motioning for me to sit down beside him.
As I settled onto the blanket, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace settle in my chest. The expanse of the night sky stretched endlessly above us, the stars sparkling like diamonds scattered across a velvet cloth. It felt almost surreal—this rare moment of solitude, just the two of us and the vast, silent universe above us.
"This is so beautiful," I whispered, my voice almost reverent, as I gazed at the sky. The stars seemed to be a thousand times brighter here, unmarred by the artificial lights of the city. It felt like I could reach out and touch them.
"It really is," Minho agreed softly, settling beside me on the blanket. His voice was low and gentle, matching the serenity of the night. "I'm glad we came out here."
There was a soft rustle of leaves in the distance, the only sound besides the occasional chirp of crickets. I lay back, resting my hands behind my head, and let the silence settle over us like a warm, comforting blanket. The air smelled of pine trees and fresh earth, adding to the magic of the night. It was peaceful in a way that no amount of city noise could replicate.
We were quiet for a while, each of us lost in our thoughts as we gazed up at the stars. It was one of those rare moments when the world seemed to pause, and time stretched out, allowing us to just exist in the present.
Minho broke the silence first, his voice soft and contemplative. "You know..." He paused for a moment, clearly choosing his words carefully. "I've always had this dream of starting a non-profit organization to support underprivileged children—specifically to help them access education and opportunities that they wouldn’t have otherwise. I want to give them the chance to change their futures."
His words hung in the air between us, and I could hear the sincerity in his voice. It wasn’t just a passing thought—it was something he truly cared about. My heart warmed at the depth of his dream, the way he spoke about it so passionately.
"That's a beautiful dream," I said, turning my head to look at him. "You’ll make it happen, Minho. I have no doubt about that."
He smiled, his gaze still on the stars but his voice softer now, filled with gratitude. "I hope so. But it’s not about what I hope for. It’s about making it real for those kids. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do."
I nodded, understanding the weight of his words. I could see him doing it—his determination, his heart for others. It was a vision I could picture him wholeheartedly working towards. But then, I thought about my own dreams, the ones I hadn’t shared with many people.
There was a brief pause before I spoke, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "I’ve always dreamed of starting a community arts center," I said, my voice gaining confidence as I continued. "A place where young artists from all walks of life can come together, collaborate, and create. I want to provide a space where people can express themselves freely—whether it's through painting, music, dance, or whatever. And a space that fosters a sense of community, of belonging, you know? Art has this power to connect people in ways words can’t."
Minho turned to look at me, and his eyes softened. "That’s incredible," he said, his voice full of admiration. "You really have a way with words, Xena. It’s clear that this is something you’re passionate about. I can already see it coming to life in my mind."
His words filled me with warmth, and for a moment, I felt a little embarrassed but also proud. I had never really shared this dream with anyone in such detail before, but hearing him say that he believed in it made me feel like maybe it wasn’t just some far-off fantasy. Maybe it was something I could actually make happen one day.
We lapsed into another comfortable silence, both of us lost in our thoughts as the night deepened around us. The sky above seemed to stretch on forever, and the stars sparkled more brightly with each passing second.
"I think we should always have nights like this," Minho murmured after a while, his voice softer now, almost as if he were talking to himself. "Where we just get away from everything and focus on what really matters. No distractions. No schedules. Just… us, the stars, and whatever we want to talk about."
I turned to him, a soft smile on my lips. "I agree," I whispered. "It feels so much more meaningful out here, away from everything."
Minho’s gaze met mine, and for a moment, the world around us disappeared. It was just him and me, the stars above us, and the quiet understanding between us. The connection we shared felt like it was woven into the very fabric of the universe, fragile yet enduring.
"I’m really glad you’re here," he said, his voice low but full of sincerity. "I’ve enjoyed every moment of this night."
"Me too," I replied, my voice barely a whisper, but my heart said everything I couldn’t put into words.
We lay there for a while longer, the peaceful stillness wrapping around us. Every so often, Minho would point out a constellation or tell me a random fact about the stars, his enthusiasm infectious. But most of the time, we were content just to be in the moment together, the world outside this small bubble of calm and connection forgotten.
"I’m really grateful for nights like these," Minho murmured after a while, his voice filled with a quiet sincerity that made my heart flutter. "Spontaneous and simple, but they end up meaning so much more."
"Yeah," I said, my voice soft, "me too."
The night seemed to stretch on forever, the stars above and the quiet earth beneath our blanket keeping our secrets, holding us in this suspended moment where nothing else mattered but the space we shared.
And in that peaceful solitude, under the vast, endless sky, I realized that some moments were meant to be cherished, forever etched in the corners of my heart. Tonight would be one of those moments.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
pairing: graffiti!artist!hyunjin x fem!reader
genre: mural artist hyunjin au , slice of life, non-idol au, fluff
synopsis: he’s a graffiti artist leaving stunning murals around the town, and one day, you catch him in the act—and find yourself becoming his muse.
warning/s: none (?)
word count: 2.9k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
❤️ stray kids masterlist
The city buzzes with life, but it’s the art scattered across its streets that truly captivates you. Vibrant murals have begun appearing in unexpected places, transforming dull, forgotten walls into mesmerizing canvases. Each piece feels like a glimpse into another world—ethereal, intricate, and brimming with emotion.
What draws you in the most is the style. There’s something unmistakable about it: the way the colors flow seamlessly, the tiny details you only notice upon closer inspection, and the way every mural seems to tell a story. You’ve begun to recognize the signature, too—a simple yet enigmatic tag tucked discreetly into the corners of each masterpiece: Orion.
The first mural you saw was almost by accident. It adorned the weathered side of an old bakery in your neighborhood, a business you rarely noticed before. But that day, you stopped in your tracks. Spanning the length of the building was a massive field of wildflowers, painted in such vivid detail that it felt almost alive.
Each petal seemed to quiver in an unseen breeze, their colors shifting from soft pastel hues to bursts of golden sunlight. The sky above them wasn’t the typical blue you’d expect; instead, it was a kaleidoscope of soft lavender and peach, like the fleeting moments of dawn. There was a peace to it, a stillness that felt almost sacred.
You remember standing there, transfixed, your breath catching as you took in the scene. The faint aroma of bread and pastries wafted from the bakery door, blending with the faint smell of fresh paint still lingering in the air. You could hear the distant hum of cars on the main road, but at that moment, the mural was the only thing that mattered.
Pulling out your phone, you snapped a picture, unable to resist capturing the beauty of it. But even as you admired the photo later, something felt missing. The image couldn’t capture the way the mural made you feel—calm, grounded, and inexplicably hopeful.
That was the day something shifted. The mural stayed with you, a quiet pull in the back of your mind. You started paying more attention to your surroundings, hoping to stumble upon another one of Orion’s works.
At first, it was casual—a glance here, a quick detour there—but over time, it grew into something more. Wandering the city became a quiet ritual, an escape from the monotony of your routine. With each alleyway, overpass, or side street you explored, you found yourself wondering if Orion had been there before you, leaving behind another piece of his story.
Finding his murals turned into a scavenger hunt, each discovery feeling like uncovering a hidden treasure.
A few weeks later, your quiet routine leads you to another one of Orion’s works, this time on the side of a community center nestled in a bustling part of town. The scene stops you in your tracks, just as the first one did, but in an entirely different way.
It’s an ocean, vast and untamed, stretching across the entire wall. The waves curl with a mesmerizing ferocity, painted in rich hues of turquoise and sapphire. Thin streaks of gold glint across the water’s surface, as if the setting sun has spilled its light directly onto the waves. But it’s not just the ocean that holds your attention.
At the center of it all stands a lone figure—a woman, small and delicate against the enormity of the sea. She stands barefoot on the shoreline, her posture hesitant, almost as if she’s caught between two worlds. Her toes just barely graze the edge of the water, and her hands hang by her sides, unsure whether to reach forward or pull back.
The details are striking. You notice the faint lines of tension in her shoulders, and the way her hair is blown to the side by an unseen wind. Even though her face isn’t fully visible, the emotions embedded in her silhouette are unmistakable.
There’s something achingly human about it, as if the mural has captured a moment of vulnerability that everyone has felt but rarely speaks of.
You step closer, your breath catching. The sound of the city fades into the background as you study the interplay of colors, the way the waves seem almost alive, as though they might surge forward and spill out of the mural itself.
The longer you look, the more you feel the pull of the ocean—its depth, its beauty, its danger. And the woman’s hesitance resonates with something deep inside you.
You linger there, lost in thought, until the sun begins to dip lower in the sky. Even as you walk away, the image stays with you, etched into your mind like a memory.
By now, Orion’s name has started to gain traction beyond just the murals. Social media is buzzing with posts about his work, with locals eagerly sharing sightings and speculating about who he might be. Some say he’s a professional artist moonlighting as a graffiti rebel. Others think he’s an ordinary person with an extraordinary gift.
But none of the rumors interest you as much as the art itself. Orion’s murals feel personal in a way that’s hard to explain. Each piece seems to echo thoughts and emotions you didn’t realize you had. It’s as though he’s painting not just for the city, but for you.
Over time, Orion’s murals seem to multiply, popping up in unexpected places as if the city itself is his canvas. You start to notice them in every corner of your daily life—on the side of a train station, hidden beneath an overpass, even on the back of an old factory.
Each one feels like a secret waiting to be discovered, and you find yourself seeking them out whenever you have a free moment. It’s not enough to just stumble upon them anymore; you’ve become invested, almost like a collector chasing the next addition to your mental gallery.
One weekend, as you wander through the quieter parts of town, you turn a corner and find a smaller mural tucked into a narrow alleyway. It’s so unassuming that you almost miss it, but the burst of color draws your eye.
It’s a bird perched on a slender branch, its feathers painted in a breathtaking array of blues and greens. The strokes are so precise that you can almost see the texture of each plume. Tiny stars are scattered across its wings, so subtle that you have to lean in to notice them.
The bird’s expression is oddly serene, its eyes bright with life. It feels almost magical, as if it might take flight at any moment.
A smile tugs at your lips as you crouch down to examine the mural more closely. The stars hidden in its feathers shimmer faintly in the light, adding an otherworldly quality to the piece.
“That one’s new,” a voice startles you. You glance up to see an older man walking by, his hands tucked into the pockets of a faded coat.
“Showed up last night,” he continues, nodding toward the mural. “Must’ve been him again.”
You nod in agreement, but your mind is already swirling with questions. How does Orion choose his locations? Does he scout them out during the day, waiting for the perfect moment? Or does inspiration strike him randomly, drawing him out under the cover of night?
The idea of him working in the shadows, slipping through the city unnoticed, only adds to his mystique. You can almost picture it: a figure moving with quiet precision, a spray can in hand, the sound of his work blending into the hum of the city around him.
As you step back to admire the mural one last time, you feel a spark of something new—curiosity, yes, but also a growing sense of connection. Orion isn’t just an artist; he’s a storyteller, and you’re beginning to realize that his stories have become a part of your life.
Weeks blend into one another, and Orion’s work becomes a quiet constant in your life. You’ve grown accustomed to seeking out his murals, their beauty an escape from the mundane rhythm of your days. Each new discovery feels like finding a piece of a puzzle, though you’re still unsure what the final picture might be.
Then, one evening, everything changed.
The sun has long since set, and the streets are bathed in the warm glow of streetlights. You’re walking home, the events of a long day weighing heavily on your shoulders, when a faint sound pulls you from your thoughts.
It’s subtle at first—the soft hiss of a spray can break the stillness of the evening. Your footsteps falter, curiosity sparking to life as you scan the area.
The sound grows louder as you turn the corner, your pulse quickening with anticipation. And then you see him.
He’s crouched in front of a half-finished mural, his silhouette framed by the streetlight above. The scene on the wall is already mesmerizing—an abstract swirl of colors that seems to dance and shift as he works. His hand moves with practiced ease, adding a streak of vibrant orange to the composition.
For a moment, you’re rooted to the spot, torn between staying hidden and stepping forward. He seems so focused, so absorbed in his craft, that you’re reluctant to break the spell.
But then, as if sensing your presence, he pauses. His head tilts slightly, and his gaze shifts in your direction.
Your breath catches as his eyes meet yours. In the stillness that follows, time seems to stretch. You’re acutely aware of everything—the faint smell of paint, the distant hum of traffic, the weight of his gaze.
Slowly, he stands, lowering the spray can to his side. He pulls back his hood, and though the shadows obscure part of his face, his expression is calm, almost amused.
“You’ve been following my work,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet confidence.
The statement catches you off guard. “I… yeah,” you admit, your words tumbling out awkwardly. “It’s beautiful.”
His lips curve into a small, knowing smile. “Thanks. Now, are you going to call the cops, or are you just going to stand there?”
The teasing lilt in his voice draws you out of your momentary stupor. “I’m not calling the cops!” you exclaim, a little louder than you intended.
A soft laugh escapes him, the sound warm and unexpected. “Good,” he says, his tone lighter now. “That’s a relief.”
That night becomes a turning point, though you don’t realize it at first.
After your brief encounter, you start noticing him more often. At first, it seems like a coincidence—crossing paths in an alleyway or spotting him finishing up a mural just as you arrive. But over time, the line between chance and intention begins to blur.
He tells you his name eventually: Hyunjin. It feels strange at first, attaching something so ordinary to someone who seems anything but. Yet, he insists on keeping Orion for his art. “It’s not about me,” he says one night. “It’s about the story.”
Little by little, he lets you into his world. You watch him work, marveling at the precision and passion he pours into every stroke. His movements are fluid, almost like a dance, and his focus is magnetic.
“Why murals?” you ask him once, your voice cutting through the quiet of the night.
He glances at you, his gaze thoughtful. “Because walls hold everything,” he says. “History, memories, emotions. They’ve seen everything, and painting on them feels like giving them a voice.”
You notice he never explains his pieces outright, preferring to let people interpret them as they wish. “Art isn’t about answers,” he tells you one evening, his hands smudged with paint. “It’s about questions. The ones you didn’t even know you had.”
But there are moments when his guard slips, when the weight behind his words becomes palpable.
One night, as he works on a sprawling mural of constellations swirling across a deep midnight sky, he pauses to look at you. The stars he’s painted seem to shimmer under the dim light, their glow almost lifelike.
“Do you ever wonder,” he begins softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence, “what people see when they look at you?”
The question catches you off guard. You blink, searching for a response, but before you can speak, he continues.
“Because I think you’re the kind of person who brings light to the darkest places.”
His words hang in the air, and you feel your cheeks heat under his steady gaze. You look away, unsure how to respond, your heart racing in a way that feels both thrilling and terrifying.
In that moment, surrounded by his art, you realize something has shifted—not just in the way you see him, but in the way he sees you.
As weeks pass, something shifts between you and Hyunjin. His murals, once a canvas of abstract emotion, begin to feature small, subtle nods to you. At first, it’s easy to miss—an intricate star-shaped flower tucked into the corner of a painting, or a silhouette that could be mistaken for the curve of your profile.
You’ve always noticed the details in his work, but now it feels different. More personal. It’s as if, with each piece, he’s leaving little breadcrumbs for you to follow, inviting you deeper into his world. But he never acknowledges it, not directly. His eyes might flicker to you briefly as you admire his latest mural, but he remains silent, a quiet observer of your reactions.
You know, though. You know what he’s doing. The connection is undeniable.
One day, he suggests an adventure.
“Come with me,” he says, voice light but with an undercurrent of something more serious. “I want to show you something.”
You agree without hesitation, curiosity and something else—something that feels warmer than you expect—spurring you forward.
Hyunjin leads you to an abandoned warehouse at the edge of the city. The building seems forgotten, its walls weathered and worn, but inside… it’s like stepping into another world. The air smells of paint and possibility, and the walls are alive with color, each mural more stunning than the last.
You wander through the space, eyes wide as you take in the emotion dripping from every brushstroke, every spray of color. There’s a rawness to his art here, more intimate than anything you’ve seen before. Some pieces are soft, others fierce, but all of them speak of longing, of hope, of silent battles and quiet victories.
As you move deeper into the warehouse, your gaze lands on one mural in particular. It’s in the farthest corner, almost hidden from view, as if Hyunjin wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to see it.
It’s a portrait of a girl standing amidst a swirling galaxy of stars. Her face is radiant with joy, her arms spread wide as though she’s embracing the infinite. The stars around her seem to pulse with life, the galaxies intertwining to create something breathtaking.
But it’s the details that stop your breath.
Upon closer inspection, you notice that the constellations aren’t just random—they’re carefully arranged, spelling out words in the sky. There’s a phrase tucked into the corner of the piece, so small and delicate that it could be easily overlooked.
Will you be my star?
Your heart skips a beat, and you slowly turn to Hyunjin, your eyes wide with wonder. His hands are smudged with paint, his usual confident posture replaced with a quiet vulnerability. He’s watching you intently, as if waiting for your reaction, but there’s a nervous edge to his gaze.
“Well?” he asks softly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “What do you think?”
You step closer to him, feeling the warmth of his presence and the weight of the unspoken words between you. Your heart is pounding, your thoughts a whirlwind as you search for the right words. The question he’s asking isn’t just about the mural—it’s about something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten with emotion.
For a moment, you just look at him, really look at him. His eyes are filled with hope, but also with the quiet fear of someone who’s exposed too much of themselves. The vulnerability in his gaze pulls you in, your own feelings mirrored in the rawness of the moment.
And then you smile, softly, teasingly. “Only if you promise to let me keep admiring your work up close.”
His eyes light up, the tension in his shoulders melting as he lets out a quiet laugh. It’s a sound full of relief, the kind that comes from finally letting go of something heavy.
“Deal,” he says, his voice a little breathless. “I promise.”
You step closer, closing the space between you, and for a moment, you both just stand there, surrounded by his art, surrounded by the quiet hum of everything unspoken. You feel a connection to him, to this place, to the stars in his mural. It’s all somehow tied together, a knot you can’t quite untangle but don’t want to.
He looks at you, his lips pulling into a small, tender smile. “You’re the only one who’s seen this,” he murmurs, his words more to himself than to you. “And now… you’re part of it.”
You reach out, gently brushing a streak of paint off his cheek, your fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Then I’ll keep it safe,” you say softly. “And I’ll keep finding you.”
The moment lingers, heavy with promise and light with possibility, as you both stand in the midst of his art—his truth, his vulnerability—realizing that, somehow, you’ve become part of it too.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
pairing: college!student!jungwon x little!older!fem!reader
genre: college au, fluff, with slight angst, slice of life, non-idol au
tags: persistent jungwon, older crush, age gap barely, chasing love, little angst
synopsis: a persistent jungwon with a quiet confidence, is determined to show the person he cares about that age is just a number
warning/s: none
word count: 2.1k
🤍 masterlist: the library ✨📚
🧡 enhypen masterlist
falling into you: part 1 , part 2, part 3
The crisp autumn air nipped at your cheeks as you walked side by side with Jungwon, his hands tucked into the pockets of his oversized coat. It had been a few weeks since you’d agreed to give him a chance—a tentative “okay” after much persistence on his part.
At first, you’d convinced yourself it was just to humor him. To see if maybe, just maybe, there was something to the quiet certainty in his eyes when he told you he wanted to be the one for you. But even now, doubts lingered, stubborn as ever.
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. He was humming softly, the faint melody slipping into the rhythm of crunching leaves beneath your feet. He looked so at ease, so certain. And you? You weren’t sure of anything.
“Earth to you,” Jungwon’s voice broke your thoughts. He tilted his head to meet your gaze, his dimple showing as he smiled. “You’re quiet again. Are you cold? We can head back if you want.”
“No, it’s not that,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I was just… thinking.”
“Uh-oh,” he teased, his voice light. “What’s on your mind? Don’t tell me you’re trying to figure out how to break up with me already.”
“Jungwon,” you groaned, nudging him with your elbow, but your heart clenched at the joke. It was too close to the truth—the indecision, the doubts you carried like shadows.
“I’m kidding,” he said, his voice softening as he glanced at you. “I know you don’t think I’m serious enough sometimes, but I promise I am. About you, I mean.”
You slowed your steps, chewing on your bottom lip. It wasn’t that he wasn’t serious—you knew he was. It was the weight of his certainty that scared you. He seemed so sure of his feelings, while you felt like a storm caught between indecision and fear.
“Hey,” Jungwon said, his voice quiet as he reached for your hand. His touch was warm, grounding. “What’s going on? Be honest with me.”
You hesitated, your throat tightening around the words. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you, Jungwon. You’re younger, and you’re so sure about this. What if I end up being wrong?”
Jungwon’s brows furrowed, but his gaze stayed steady. “Then let me show you I’m not some naive kid chasing after a crush. I know what I want, and it’s you.”
The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. You looked away, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is, though,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re overthinking it. Just let me be here for you. Let me prove to you that I’m someone you can count on.”
The next few weeks were filled with little moments that chipped away at your doubts, like drops of water steadily wearing away at a stubborn stone. Jungwon had an uncanny way of making even the simplest gestures feel like declarations of something deeper. It wasn’t just the grand moments that made you question your hesitation—it was the small, thoughtful acts that lingered in your mind.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting day, you sat down at your desk to find a bright yellow sticky note perched atop your notebook. In Jungwon’s unmistakably neat handwriting, it read: You’ve got this! Proud of you. It was followed by a small doodle of what you assumed was meant to be a cheering cat, complete with pom-poms. You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing for the first time all day. The note was silly, almost juvenile, but it made your chest feel warm. He was thinking of you—even in the moments you weren’t thinking of yourself.
Another time, while walking back from class together, you offhandedly mentioned how much you missed the strawberry tarts from a bakery on the other side of town. “They’re so light, and the filling is perfect,” you had said wistfully, mostly talking to yourself. He nodded along, humming in agreement, but the conversation moved on, and you didn’t think much of it.
A few days later, Jungwon showed up at your door holding a box from that very bakery, his cheeks pink from the cold. “For you,” he said casually, though there was a flicker of anticipation in his gaze as he handed the box over.
“Jungwon,” you breathed, staring at the bag as though it held a treasure chest instead of a dessert. “You didn’t have to go all the way there just for this.”
“I know,” he replied, his dimple making an appearance as he grinned. “But I wanted to.”
The tart was as good as you remembered, but the act itself left a sweeter taste in your mouth.
Those small gestures added up, building a quiet case for why Jungwon was worth the risk. You found yourself smiling more often, the doubts losing their grip on you little by little. But they weren’t entirely gone. In the quieter moments, when the world stilled and your thoughts had room to breathe, they came creeping back.
One night, after a particularly long day that seemed to stretch on endlessly, you sat beside Jungwon on the couch. The faint hum of the TV filled the room as he flipped through channels, seemingly content just being near you. You, however, were caught in a swirl of your own thoughts, the weight of your doubts pressing heavy against your chest.
Without really thinking, the words spilled from your lips. “Why do you even like me?”
The question hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. Jungwon froze mid-motion, the remote suspended in his hand. Slowly, he turned to look at you, his brows pulling together in confusion.
“Why do you think I wouldn’t?” he asked, his voice soft but steady, like he was giving you space to answer.
You swallowed hard, unsure how to explain the insecurities gnawing at you. “I don’t know,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “You’re… you. And I’m just me. You’re so sure about everything, and I’m not. You could be with someone who doesn’t overthink every little thing—someone who knows exactly what they want.”
“Stop,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. He set the remote down, turning fully to face you. His eyes, always warm, seemed to hold an extra layer of intensity as they searched your face. “I don’t want ‘someone.’ I want you. You’re allowed to question things. You’re allowed to be unsure. That doesn’t make you any less worth it.”
His words felt like a lifeline tossed into the chaos of your thoughts, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. Your chest tightened, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak.
“Look,” he continued, reaching for your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and steady. “I know you’re scared. I know you’re worried about hurting me or making the wrong choice. But trust me when I say I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to have all the answers right now.” He paused, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Just… let me be here with you. We’ll figure it out together. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
The sincerity in his voice made your heart ache in a way that was both painful and comforting. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to argue or deflect. Instead, you let his words sink in, filling the empty spaces where your doubts had taken root.
You nodded silently, unable to say much more as your emotions churned. Jungwon smiled, that dimple you’d grown so fond of making its appearance again.
“Good,” he said softly. “Because I’m not giving up on you that easily.”
And for the first time, the idea of letting yourself believe in him didn’t seem quite so impossible.
The turning point came on a cold November afternoon. The kind of day where the chill seeped into your bones, and every breath formed soft clouds in the air. Jungwon had insisted on taking you to an art gallery, practically dragging you out of your warm apartment. His enthusiasm was palpable, even as you grumbled about the weather.
“What are we even doing here?” you asked, tugging your coat tighter around yourself as you followed him into the softly lit gallery. The faint scent of paint and polished wood filled the air, and your curiosity began to spark despite your reluctance.
“You’ll see,” Jungwon said, turning to flash you a grin. His eyes were alight with that familiar spark, a mixture of excitement and mischief.
He led you through the quiet halls, his hand brushing yours as he walked just ahead. You let him guide you, your skepticism fading with each step. Finally, he stopped in front of a photograph tucked away in a corner.
The image was simple but striking—a pair of hands intertwined, their grip firm and unwavering. The background was blurred into soft golden hues, drawing all attention to the connection between the hands. Beneath the photograph, a small plaque bore the caption: Trust is built, not given.
You stared at it, something about the image stirring an ache in your chest.
“It reminded me of us,” Jungwon said quietly, his voice softer than usual. When you glanced at him, his eyes weren’t on the photograph—they were on you. “I know you’re scared. I know you’re hesitant. But trust me when I say I’m willing to put in the work. You don’t have to do this alone.”
His words hung in the air, settling over you like a warm blanket. He wasn’t asking for anything grand. He wasn’t asking you to set aside your fears entirely. He was asking you to let him be there, to take one small step at a time together.
“Why are you doing all this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You turned to face him fully, the photograph momentarily forgotten. “Why go through all this effort?”
Jungwon met your gaze without hesitation. His expression was calm, yet there was an intensity in his eyes that made your heart stutter. “Because I see you,” he said simply. “All of you. The doubts, the fears, the parts you think aren’t good enough. And I want to be the person who proves to you that you’re worth every bit of this effort.”
The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, your emotions too tangled to put into words. But as you looked at him, standing there with his unwavering patience and quiet determination, a small part of you started to believe he might be right.
That evening, the city stretched out before you like a sea of light and shadow. You stood together on the balcony of your apartment, the cool night air brushing against your skin. The muffled sounds of the city below formed a comforting hum, but all your focus was on the boy standing beside you.
“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind. The words felt heavy as they left your lips, but there was relief in finally saying them out loud.
“I know,” Jungwon said softly, his gaze fixed on the skyline. He didn’t look at you right away, giving you space to continue if you wanted to. When his hand brushed yours, it wasn’t a demand—it was a quiet reassurance.
You swallowed hard, the weight of everything you’d been holding back threatening to overwhelm you. But then you looked at him—at his calm, steady presence—and something inside you shifted.
“But I think I’m ready to try,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush before your courage could falter. Your heart was pounding, but your voice was steady. “For real this time.”
Jungwon turned to you, his eyes wide with surprise, as if he hadn’t expected the words to leave your lips. But then his face broke into a smile, bright and genuine, the kind that made you forget your doubts.
“You mean it?” he asked, his voice tinged with a quiet hope that made your chest ache.
You nodded, the weight on your shoulders lifting just a little. “I mean it.”
For a moment, he simply stared at you, his expression a mixture of disbelief and unfiltered joy. Then his hand slid into yours, his grip warm and sure, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.
“I promise you won’t regret this,” he said, his voice full of certainty. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand in a soothing gesture, as if to seal his words.
For the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you felt the walls you’d built around yourself start to crumble. The fear was still there, lingering in the corners of your mind, but it was softer now, drowned out by the steady warmth of his presence.
And as you stood there, the city lights twinkling around you, you found yourself believing him.
find me on:
🧡 wp: goldenrai ✏️📖
🩵 tiktok: raixyne 🎥🎶
a/n: i'm actually debating if i should do a part 3 that's literally just fluff of them
