stockholm syndrome: feelings of trust or affection felt in many cases of kidnapping or hostage-taking by a victim toward a captor.
₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡
heeseung looked at your sleeping figure lovingly. you were in a deep sleep as he patted your head, tucking your hair behind your ear.
he couldn’t believe he actually had you. he didn’t like drugging you, but he had to so you wouldn’t fight him.
you were easy for him to pick up, put a blanket over your body, as he carried you to his car. thankfully no other students were out since break was coming up and either most have already left or were stuck inside studying for finals.
when he arrived at his townhome he shared with 3 others, he quickly placed you in the basement, where his bedroom was. he was lucky enough to have the basement all to himself and sound proof.
sometimes he wondered if the owner renovated this place for his own twisted purposes.
heeseung had one more class and final the next day, so he was sad to leave you, but made sure you wouldn’t make a noise.
when you awoke, you were in an unfamiliar bedroom, and your hands were bound to the headboard above you, your mouth covered, but your legs and ankles were free.
the room was mostly bare, with a few posters and a game set up. you furrowed your brows trying to remember what happened and where you were.
you couldn’t make a noise or set yourself free, but you noticed you were hungry and had to pee.
your ears perked when you heard footsteps pounding above, then a door open and close outside the bedroom. you didn’t even bother to pretend to be asleep.
when the bedroom door open, your eyes widened seeing lee heeseung standing in the doorway with a smile on his face.
“oh good, you’re up!” he chirped. he left his door open and that’s when you saw a mini living room and kitchen area out there.
he turned to where your attention was then back at you. “don’t worry, we won’t be disturbed. i have my own little studio apartment down here.”
down here? like a basement?
heeseung walked closer but you shook your head begging him to stay away. he pouted. “don’t be like that, baby.”
your head fell back on the pillow and your grumbled, suddenly remembering seeing heeseung in your apartment before he most likely drugged you with that cloth he had over your mouth.
he came closer, his eyes twinkling with excitement. he removed the gag over your mouth but you didn’t scream?
was it fear? or maybe although you were kidnapped by this lunatic you had a feeling, he wouldn’t hurt you.
instead you whispered, “i need to pee and i am hungry.”
if watching and listening to true crime taught you anything, it was to play along with the fantasies of those who weren’t in the right state of mind.
“what would you like to eat?”
you told him your favorite food. “should’ve known, you’re always eating that.” he chuckled.
“how do you know that?”
“your garbage is full of those takeout bags.” he shook his head with a smile.
“can i pee? in an actual bathroom, not a bucket?”
“baby, i’m not some monster that will make you pee in a nasty bucket.” heeseung felt hurt.
“i promise i wont run or fight.”
“trust me, i know you won’t.” heeseung suddenly got serious with his tone. “you won’t like the consequences if you try.”
you swallowed and nodded. heeseung removed the ties from your wrists, and you rubbed them trying to relieve any redness.
heeseung nodded his head for you to follow him and you did. you walked out the bedroom, noticing you all were down in a basement due to the small windows, and the view of the ground mostly. but heeseung had his own space down here which seemed a little too perfect for this.
“the bathroom is that way.” he pointed to a door slightly ajar.
“thank you.” you bowed and ran to the bathroom, really needing to pee. you shut the door, but frowned as there was no lock.
while sitting down, you looked around the bathroom, taking in the small window there was no way you could fit through. well, couldn’t escape from here.
how long would you be here? did heeseung plan to keep you forever? was he worry you would tell someone so he’d kill you afterwards?
no that doesn’t seem like something he would do.
you know heeseung is a pretty quiet guy. keeps to himself, pretty nerdy, but extremely nice.
maybe he’s just lonely.
but why you?
was it because you were nice to him? see, being nice gets you nowhere.
you huffed, washing your hands after using the bathroom, then stepping out, finding heeseung had already ordered and gathered your favorite food.
“oh, um, thanks.”
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
the rest of the day went by quietly. after you two ate, heeseung just wanted to watch movies with you.
you pretended to pay attention as your mind took in your surroundings even more, and your mind wondered to what the hell is going on.
okay so heeseung was being nice, he fed you, gave you comfy clothes of his, and wanted to just watch movies on his couch. he had his arm around your shoulders as you leaned your head against his shoulder.
boyfriend. that’s what! he was treating you like you were his girlfriend. you were right, maybe he was just lonely?
you looked up at him and took in his facial features. you thought, how could not one girl be interested in him? he wasn’t ugly, he was very much cute. why? was it because he was quiet and chose to keep to himself?
if that’s the case why weren’t you interested? your project time with him was fun and interesting. you found yourself laughing at his jokes. he taught you some new things even you didn’t know.
“why are you staring at me?” he asked and he was looking right down at you with a nervous smile.
“just taking in how handsome you are.” you said, which gave him the opposite reaction you thought it would.
he moved his arm from around you and scooted away, a frown on his face.
“heeseung, what’s wrong?”
“don’t lie to me just because you think it’ll make me let you go.”
“im not lying! you are handsome.”
he shook his head. “if i am, why are you just now telling me after i took you? why not tell me before then? you’re just saving your own ass.”
“well because i just—you never really showed any interest. you were so shy and quiet, heeseung.”
“i literally got nervous and stuttered around you.”
“well you aren’t now.” you challenged.
“because im mad.”
“and you look hot when you’re mad and pouting.”
“you’re going too far to keep me on your good side. trust me, i won’t hurt you or kill you, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”
“i’m not worried about that.” you stated. you really weren’t. “you just wanted company, right? you’ve treated me nicely for the past few hours, heeseung. you’ve treated me as if i was your girlfriend.” you stated honestly.
heeseung sniffed, holding back tears. since he was little he felt so alone in the world. parents always working, his own friends too busy for him. only wanting to be his friend because of his parents money. girls only wanted to be near him because of the money as well. so he shut himself off until college.
then it became hard to pop that bubble of his he built around him. he became even shyer than he was before, and kept to himself.
until he met you. you were something different and special to him. just the way you didn’t know who his family was, you treated him nicely like an actual human being. he took note of that when you both worked on the assignment together.
you did something some may call you insane for. you got up from your spot on the couch, then went to straddle heeseung wrapping your arms around his shoulders. you hugged him. it seemed like he truly needed it.
and he did. he hugged you tightly back, burrowing his nose and face into your neck, quietly sniffling.
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
when night time came, he sat up with you still straddling him and walked you to his bed, where you two currently were sleeping together in. heeseung had you wrapped up tightly in his arms as he was afraid to let you go.
you let him, and you let him know that he never needed to stalk you or follow you around. you understood he was scared of getting rejected (once again) but that was a part of life he needed to cope with.
he told you the truth on how he knew your favorite drink, and all your favorites. how he got jealous whenever you talked to another guy that wasn’t him. how he always felt hurt by what your friend said about him, but felt happy whenever you stuck up for him.
he knew he had to make a move before break came, so he did the worst thing possible. he took you.
he took you, basically abducted you out of your own apartment, and you were here letting him cuddle you in his bed, while you ran your fingers through his hair.
you were truly insane. you sighed, wondering why in the hell you weren’t bee-lining to the door and running while screaming.
what happens after this? how were you supposed to be and act normal after this? what, were you supposed to now date heeseung?
“please stop overthinking this, and enjoy the moment.” you heard heeseung say quietly in his sleepy voice.
“i’ll try.” you kissed his forehead and got comfortable to try and sleep.
In which: you’re chilling at the studio with heeseung but suddenly you both want more so you decide to drink him…
contents & tw : smut (MDNI), sexual references, suggestive content, oral (m receiving), tits play, nipple play, pet names? (baby), strong desires, kissing, neck kissing, biting, tell me what’s more…
anlovn ❀ : okay i was so inspired by his live😆, first smut kinda scared but whatever tell me what do you think about it…!
You were in the studio with heeseung. He asked you to come by after your work day, you obviously accepted.
So here you are listening to a new playlist. You are sitting on his thighs, your back against his torso. You are comfortable. His arms are on each side of you, he encircles you a little to be able to access the PC keyboard.
It's quite hot in the room, you wear a light strap top and shorts. Heeseung put his chin on your bare shoulder.
From time to time he places kisses and then whispers things in your ear or he hums the tunes of music, which has always made you easy.
Some sensations come to your lower belly, and you know these sensations very well. You tense up a little, heeseung feels it. So he smiles, he knows very well what to do in those moments.
He brings his arms against your waist and hugs you. He slides his head into your neck and smiles as he kisses you. You can't stop smiling. You close your eyes to enjoy the moment. Your hands cling to his arms.
From time to time he raises his head to slip things in your ear. "I missed you soooo much.", "I couldn't wait to see you again".
You let out a heavy breath. You also feel under you that he is enjoying and succumbing to the moment.
His kisses accelerate, your neck is filled with his saliva. So between your moans you whisper "heeseung...I want you..."
You don't lose a second and turn around to face him. His hands rest on your hips. Yours on his chest. You look at yourself for a long time. The tension rises very quickly.
He looks at you carefully from top to bottom, he smiles "you are so beautiful yn". You smile back and kiss him.
Your hands go up along his torso to reach his neck. This allows you to kiss him more deeply.
You lower your lips to his neck, your hands now sliding under his t-shirt. You feel him under your fingers, his body is hot, he wants it as much as you do.
You hear his little moans, his breath sometimes accelerating when you bite his Adam's apple.
You come back to his mouth. Everything is speeding up.
One of his hands goes up from your hips to your chest, the other remaining in the lower back of your back. His hand caresses over your top. He feels your nipples harden at his touch (fortunately for him you had decided not to wear a bra today).
Then, he gently lowers the top with his hand, revealing your breasts.
He stops kissing you to look at you. You, facing him on his thighs, your tits in front of his gaze, your nipples already hard.
You both blow. "I love you yn" he tells you before taking one of your tits in his mouth. His other hand going up to the unstimulated breasts, he massages it, kneads it, plays with your nipple between his fingers pressing it, pinching it, rolling it.
While, on the other side, he kisses and licks all along your tits. His mouth lingers on your nipple, he sucks it, kisses it, bites it from time to time to hear you scream.
You succumb to his touch, as always. He knows perfectly how to please and excite you.
Between your screams and moans, he lets go of your breasts, breathless. He looks you in the eyes and smiles when he sees you satisfied. The air is very hot in the room not only because of the weather, but also because of your tension.
"Wait two seconds yn, I'm thirsty"
He takes out his banana drink that had remained on his desk. He leans forward to retrieve it.
Your breasts always open in front of his sight so he instinctively puts his head on it when he bends over, your fingers resting in his hair.
He finally straightens up after catching it. He opens the package and starts drinking.
Until today, you didn't think that a man drinking could be so hot and attractive. He knows exactly how to excite you and sincerely you admire that.
He starts drinking and keeps the eyes contact with you. His eyes are completely riveted on yours. You observe him. The room is silent, only the sounds of him swallowing resound.
Your gaze goes down very slowly on his throat. You notice his Adam's apple that rises and falls with each descent. You're like amazed, it really affects you.
So, your eyes slowly rise to his when he stops drinking. You calmly ask him "can i drink you? ”
He smiles at your question letting the suspense last. He bends down to rest the now empty drink. He settles back in the seat, his gaze slowly going up along your body to end up on your eyes.
He smiles "you know how to please me... of course you can"
You don't hesitate for a second, your hands go down his belly. Your hands resting on his pants. You feel that he is impatient, he watches you do it carefully.
You unbutton his jeans, undo his fly. You get off his thighs and get up, your chest still in his sight.
He lifts his thighs to help you remove his pants and boxer. He finally sits down, now uncovered, his cock already hard.
You squat in front of him. You settle down half under the desk. Heeseung begs you, "take me please"
You smile when you see the effect you have on him.
You finally take him, your hand comes to catch his hard cock. You're still trying to get him excited by kneading him. "Please ynnnn" he says in a weak voice.
So, you finally take it in your mouth. You feel every vein of him. You start sucking it with back and forth. One of your hands is placed on his thigh the other caressing the places of his cock that you can't reach.
You take it completely, lick it, kiss it. He moans at your touch.
You bite him slightly sometimes harder, he reacts. "I'm close..." he said with his head stuck in the chair, his back arched.
You step back a little "cum for me baby" and you take it back completely, your movements accelerate, you take it in your cheeks.
His breath quickens, his hand clings to your hair, he pulls a little then, he finally cums in your mouth.
He opens his eyes a little and he sees you, holding what you said rather: you drink him.
He sees your mouth fill up, he wipes the corners of your mouth a little now bleached, it overflows.
He smiles, you swallow.
It excites him even more to see you squatting in front of him sipping him, your tits looks...
But suddenly...
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"Heeseung are you there? We need you"
You let him go all at once. You put your top back up quickly. Heeseung promise you to continue this later...
can you make a heeseung smut drabble with a small chested y/n (she isn’t flat, just more on the small side)
𝗱𝗼𝗹𝗹𝘆 🧸ྀི 𝗹𝗲𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗴
boyfriend!heeseung × small chested fem!reader
warnings ᢉ𐭩 smut, a lot of breast stimulation and nipple play, unprotected sex (don't do this guys), fingering, I think thats it.. ? MDNI
author's notes: this has been in my drafts for a while lol I got so lazy to write it, but here it is. this was kind of hard for me to write bcs I personally do not have a small chest (never had, and not wanting to brag or be disrespectful), so I don't know how it is to have it. anyways, I hope you guys like it!! <3
heeseung was the person that made your insecurities about your chest go away. he was the first boyfriend you ever had that didn't look at your boobs with... disappointment.
quite the opposite... heeseung loved them. he was obsessed with them.
you were both in his room, the series you were both watching on his tv playing lowly. you were sat between his legs, back against his chest, his arms around your waist, your head leaned back on his shoulder.
heeseung was distracted, though. so distracted. his hands went up on your shirt and cupped your breasts over the fabric, making your breath hitch. "baby... im trying to focus..." you mumbled as you blushed.
he smirked against your neck. "focus, then. don't mind me, doll." he muttered before squeezing your boobs again.
it took seconds before his hands were below your shirt (that, in the end, was actually his), gripping your tits as he kissed your neck.
you moaned softly as his hands massaged your flesh, his tongue running through your jaw before kissing over it.
his right hand left your right boob and went down your stomach. he squeezed your hip softly before holding the hem of your shorts. "can I, baby doll?" he mumbled against your skin.
you exhaled shakily. "please..." you begged quietly. he knew that tone; you were probably drenched already.
he didn't hesitate, taking your shorts off together with your pink panties. he pushed your thighs open slowly before his middle and ring finger met your wet pussy. he hummed, fingers rubbing over your entrance slowly. "so wet for me, huh, dollface?"
you blushed again, a low moan escaping you. his left hand went up to your left tit again. your hands gripped his arm, feeling his fingers rub your clit in slow circles.
heeseung kissed your neck softly, his left thumb circling your nipple and his right fingers rubbing your clitoris. he knew how to touch you just right.
he kept rubbing your clit, up and down now, making your thighs shake a bit. you moaned again, gripping his arm tighter.
he then put those two fingers inside you, making you let out a louder moan. he smirked against your skin. it took just another minute before you came hard around his fingers. he sucked them clean, humming. "so sweet, mama."
with your thighs still shaking, he laid you down on your back gently, coming to hover over you. heeseung pulled the shirt off you, letting out a breath. "gosh, I love your boobs, baby." he gripped them, small and perfect on his hands. you blushed once again, which made him smirk. he lowered down, taking your right nipple on his mouth, sucking gently as his fingers played with your left one again. you didn't want to be anywhere else.
heeseung pulled back to take his shirt and sweatpants off together with his boxers. he was so hard, tip red and leaking already. he hissed and sat on his knees between your legs. "can't wait to fuck this pretty pussy, babydoll." he kissed the corner of your mouth before using his hand to rub the tip on your entrance. when he pushed inside, you moaned, hands gripping his shoulders.
he started off slowly, hands on your hips, soft little drags of his cock inside your walls... but that didn't last long. heeseung started to go faster, making you moan louder, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders. he moaned at the feeling, his left hand cupping your right tit to massage it. he put your left leg up on his shoulder, hitting deeper inside you, making you moan loud. his neighbors would probably kill heeseung later, but neither of you cared.
he put his mouth on your left boob, humming. "fuck- so tight for me, doll." he groaned. you knew he wouldn't last long.
heeseung thrust up a few more times before filling your pussy with his cum. you let out a last moan, him sucking your nipple a last time before pulling back and looking at your face. "I can't get enough of these perfect little tits, dolly." he admitted shamelessly with a grin.
heeseung is obsessed with the idea of marking you, he loves making you straddle his lap while he takes his time kissing your neck, especially when you squirm when he sucks at the sensitive spot near your ear.
he’ll travel down your neck to your collarbone, leaving tender, soft kisses before gently sucking on the spot leaving it red and sore. to soothe the pain, he’ll flatten his tongue and lick it over.
he’ll reach your chest, teasing your aching nipple by leaving soft marks right next to it. his free hand sliding up your sides when he finally takes one nipple into his mouth.
not long after, his mouth will find its way back to your neck. leaving another reddish-purple mark at the bottom before crashing his lips onto yours, his tired tongue exploring every inch of your mouth.
you can’t help but grind at his growing hardness, your moans being muffled by his own mouth. his hand on the back of your neck pushing you impossibly closer. when he finally lets go of your mouth with a strand of saliva connecting you two, he’ll gently kiss all the fresh marks he left down your chest.
his soft fingers rub over the mark, his lips leaving one last kiss at the base of your throat before tenderly kissing your forehead, ‘good job baby’.
can you please write pussydrunk hee I need that BAD
dada hee strikes again
Heeseung is completely gone.
He’s been between your thighs for what feels like hours now, face buried so deep in your pussy that the rest of the world doesn’t exist anymore. The bedroom is filled with the wet sounds of his mouth devouring you, long, hungry licks, filthy slurping, and his constant, broken groans like he’s the one getting fucked instead of you.
“Fuck… baby,” he rasps, voice wrecked and hoarse. His strong hands grip the back of your thighs, spreading you wider, almost folding you in half so he can get even deeper. “I can’t stop. I can’t fucking stop tasting you.”
Your back arches clean off the bed when he drags his tongue from your leaking hole all the way up to your swollen clit in one slow stripe, then sucks your clit into his hot mouth like it’s his favorite candy.
“Heeseung—! Ahh—too much—” you whimper, fingers tangled tightly in his dark hair, pulling hard enough to make his scalp sting. But he only moans louder into your pussy at the pain, hips grinding desperately against the mattress because he’s so painfully hard just from eating you out.
He’s drunk, drunk on your pussy, and completely, stupidly addicted.
His tongue pushes inside you again, fucking you with it in messy, eager strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. Every time your walls flutter and clench around his tongue he lets out this broken, needy sound, like he’s dying and being saved at the same time.
“Shit… she’s sucking me in,” he mumbles against your folds, half-delirious. “Your pretty little pussy keeps pulling my tongue in like she missed me. So fucking greedy… just like her owner.”
Two thick fingers slide into you without warning, curling instantly against that spongy spot that makes you see stars. Your thighs start shaking violently around his head as he pumps them slowly, scissoring you open while his tongue flicks relentlessly over your clit.
“Oh my god—Hee—Heeseung—!” Your voice cracks into a high, sweet whine as another orgasm crashes into you. Your pussy gushes around his fingers and tongue, soaking his chin, his lips, dripping down to the sheets.
But he doesn’t stop. He never stops.
Heeseung moans like a man starved as he drinks every drop of your release, tongue lapping messily, fingers thrusting faster to draw it out longer. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide when he glances up at you from between your legs, hair messy, cheeks flushed, mouth and chin shiny with your slick.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groans, almost whining. “Sweeter every time you cum for me. I’m addicted, baby. I need it. Need your pussy on my tongue all the time.”
He pulls his fingers out only to spread your folds open with his thumbs, staring at your clenching, dripping hole like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Then he leans in and licks a long, slow stripe through your sensitive folds again, humming happily when your hips jerk.
“Hee—please— I can’t— I’m so sensitive—” you sob softly, trying to close your legs, but his grip is iron.
“Just one more,” he lies sweetly, pressing a tender kiss right on your clit that makes you twitch. “Just let me have one more. Please, baby. I’ll die if I don’t taste you again.”
You’re a trembling, overstimulated mess, but you nod shakily because the way he begs for your pussy is too hot to deny.
Heeseung dives back in like a man possessed. This time he’s even messier. Sloppy. Desperate. His tongue laps at you like he’s trying to memorize every fold, every twitch, every taste. He sucks your clit, then moves down to push his tongue as deep inside you as it’ll go, fucking you with it while his fingers rub tight, fast circles on your clit.
Your moans turn into broken sobs and whimpers. “Nnghh— Hee—! Feels too good— gonna cum again—!”
“Yes— fuck yes, give it to me,” he growls into your pussy, the vibration sending you over the edge again.
You cum hard, thighs clamping around his head, hips grinding against his face as you ride it out. Heeseung moans loudly, happily, drinking everything you give him like it’s nectar. His fingers keep moving, prolonging it until you’re shaking and crying his name.
Even then, he keeps going, gentler now, but still obsessed. Soft, loving licks through your soaked folds, kitten licks on your clit, pressing slow kisses all over your pussy like he’s worshipping it.
“My favorite thing in the whole fucking world,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust and affection. “This pretty pussy. So wet… so warm… clenching around my tongue like you want me to live here.”
He slides three fingers back inside you slowly, watching with dark, hungry eyes as your walls suck them in greedily.
“Look at that,” he whispers in awe. “She’s hugging my fingers so tight. Greedy little thing. Just like you, baby.”
You’re nearly delirious at this point, body limp and glowing, but Heeseung still looks like he could eat you for hours more.
He crawls up your body eventually, but only after one last long, possessive lick from your entrance to your clit that makes you jolt. His face is glistening, lips puffy, eyes half-lidded with pure satisfaction and need.
He kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, grinding his painfully hard cock against your thigh.
“I’m not done,” he breathes against your mouth, voice rough. “I’m never gonna be done with this pussy. Gonna eat you every single day until you understand how fucking obsessed I am.”
He slides back down your body again, already hooking your trembling legs over his shoulders.
Because Heeseung is completely, utterly pussydrunk.
And he has zero plans of sobering up anytime soon.
You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.
minors do not interact
pairing ── lee heeseung x afab reader
wc ── 28k
content tags ── angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.
WARNINGS ── mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe there’s a little fluff.
nene’s note ── this was meant to be a 15k word fic (don’t ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.
nsfw tags under the cut
SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!
You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.
By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.
Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.
The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.
The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.
"You're late."
"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."
Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."
That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.
The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.
Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.
Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."
"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.
"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.
This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.
Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.
Empty.
You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.
A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.
"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."
She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"
Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"
Your mouth goes dry.
Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"
"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."
She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."
"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"
Silence.
You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.
You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.
You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.
*•*•*
You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.
You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.
It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.
You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.
The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.
"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.
She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.
After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.
"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."
Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."
You blink. "You read my last submission?"
"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."
The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."
She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."
"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."
It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.
The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.
You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.
You answer.
"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"
You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"
"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.
"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."
You frown. "A freak?"
"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."
Your throat dries.
"How many days?"
"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."
You really, really do.
You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.
The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.
It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.
The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.
You check the note your manager texted again:
Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.
Figures.
You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.
The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.
Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.
Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.
You stare at the screen.
What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.
The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.
You step out.
Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.
Unlocked.
The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.
Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.
You hold your breath and step inside.
The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.
You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.
Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.
You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.
Don't go upstairs.
You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.
For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.
You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.
In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.
You pause in front of it.
It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.
By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.
But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.
So you sit.
You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.
You click your pen open and start writing.
Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.
Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.
New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.
You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.
At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.
You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.
The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.
As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.
Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"
Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"
You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—
"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"
You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"
You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"
"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"
You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."
Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."
"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."
Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."
Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."
You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.
And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.
But you're broke. So you move
You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.
Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.
The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.
This is job number two.
You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.
"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.
"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."
Jesus.
You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.
Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.
You wonder what he sounds like.
The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.
You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.
You stop typing.
And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.
You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.
By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.
The apartment is clean. Spotless even.
No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.
And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.
You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"
"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."
You stare. "You what?"
Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."
You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.
Just different.
Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.
Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.
Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now.
but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.
Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.
"I'm sorry."
It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.
You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"
For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.
And the bathroom is yours again.
*•*•*
The next morning wakes you gently.
Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.
You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.
You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.
"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.
She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.
And it tastes like actual heaven.
"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."
It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.
"I missed this."
You glance up.
"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."
And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.
You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.
Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.
Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.
Cee: Well done. Keep it up.
You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"
You show her the screen.
She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"
You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."
Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"
"It's not—!"
"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."
You snort.
"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."
"Us?"
"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."
You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.
You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.
The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.
The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.
Penthouse access. Floor 45.
You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.
Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.
When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.
A man is walking out.
Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.
Okay.
You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.
Movement. Light.
A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.
So, not Heeseung.
You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.
You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.
There's a note.
You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.
You folded the towels wrong.
Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—
You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.
And then you catch yourself.
He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.
You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.
Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.
It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.
And like last time, you finish early.
3:26.
You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.
He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.
Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.
A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.
Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.
You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.
You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.
But then... it happens again.
Your eyes flick to the closet door.
Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.
Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.
It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.
You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.
The door creaks open.
It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.
Not bodies. Not bones.
Photos.
Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.
You blink, stepping in cautiously.
There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place—2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.
You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.
And then another. A close-up this time. His face.
Heeseung.
Your breath catches.
He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.
You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.
A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:
LEE HEESEUNG
It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.
You stare at it for a long moment.
And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.
The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.
He must've been a concert pianist.
You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.
You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.
The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.
The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.
"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."
You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"
She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."
You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.
"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"
You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."
"Old man, then."
You glance at her. "He's not old."
She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"
You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."
"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"
You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."
She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."
"Shut up."
"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.
You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.
"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."
You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"
Her jaw drops.
"And?"
You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.
She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"
"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."
There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."
You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.
First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.
Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.
Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.
There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.
"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."
You smack her arm. "Focus."
She scrolls again—and then pauses.
You feel her go still beside you.
Her thumb hovers over the next headline.
Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.
Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.
"Holy shit," she whispers.
There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.
The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.
He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.
His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—
A violent slam of the keys.
The audience flinches.
He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.
You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.
"That's why," you whisper.
Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."
Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.
Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.
The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.
Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.
Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her laptop down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.
"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."
The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.
"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."
You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.
Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."
"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."
You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."
She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.
The quiet hits fast.
You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.
You freeze.
Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.
You check again.
Then again.
Your journal's not there.
You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.
You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.
Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.
A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.
You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"
She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"
You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"
She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"
You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.
Your throat tightens.
"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"
But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.
You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."
"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.
You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.
Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.
And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.
*•*•*
You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.
It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.
Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.
You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.
Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.
Nothing.
Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.
So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—
Faded.
You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.
You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.
The door opens.
And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.
You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.
There.
On the counter.
Your journal.
You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.
You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.
It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.
Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.
An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:
you have no idea.
Your throat goes dry.
You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.
He read it. He read it.
And not just read it—responded.
You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.
This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.
"You have no idea."
You don't.
But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.
Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."
You don't sign it.
You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.
And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.
*•*•*
When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.
You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.
"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"
"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.
"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."
"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"
"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."
"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"
"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."
You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.
*•*•*
You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.
Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.
You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.
Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.
Shirtless.
Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.
The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.
As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."
You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.
"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.
"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.
"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.
And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.
It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.
You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.
Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.
It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.
He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.
Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.
You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.
"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.
You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."
He doesn't flinch either.
"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"
And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.
In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.
You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.
He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?
You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.
He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.
You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."
"I figured."
You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"
He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."
That makes your stomach turn.
You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.
You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.
"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."
That word again.
And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.
You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.
"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.
You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.
You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.
And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"
He blinks.
It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.
He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.
He doesn't answer right away.
Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."
It's almost clipped, controlled.
"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."
You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"
He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."
Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.
Your throat feels a little dry.
"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.
He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."
It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.
You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"
He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."
There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.
Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.
Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.
And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"
He looks at you.
Really looks at you.
And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.
"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.
And you believe him.
Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.
You don't answer.
You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door
He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.
"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.
But you hear it.
And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.
You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.
"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"
You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.
"Then you should go."
You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.
And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.
He just watches you go.
You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.
The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.
Then she turns. She sees you.
And she freezes.
The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."
You blink. "What?"
"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"
You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.
So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.
"I saw him."
She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"
You nod.
"Lee Heeseung?"
You nod again.
She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.
You don't laugh. You can't.
"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.
Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.
"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."
You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."
You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.
"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."
"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."
You nod. "Yes."
"What did you say?"
"I told him he had no right to read it."
"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."
She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"
"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."
"You love that class."
"I know."
"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"
*•*•*
You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.
You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.
You start with the mirrors.
Not because they're dirty. They're not.
But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.
By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.
By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.
By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.
By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.
So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.
Maybe him.
Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.
Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.
Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.
"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."
He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.
"I missed my favorite class."
"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."
He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."
You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.
"What are you making?" you ask.
He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."
Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.
You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"
He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."
"Excuse me?"
He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"
You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.
And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.
You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.
That's insane."
Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.
You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"
He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.
You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.
The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.
And then you ask, "Why every day?"
He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.
"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.
"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."
You inhale, slow and careful.
"And then I read your journal."
You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.
"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."
You stare at him.
He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.
"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."
You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.
He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."
Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.
"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."
You whisper the final two lines without thinking.
"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."
His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.
You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."
You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."
"I know."
"I didn't write it for anyone to—"
"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."
The room is suddenly very still.
You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"
His brow creases. "Do you what?"
"Do I look at you that way?"
He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.
And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.
You blink. "What?"
He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."
"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."
He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"
You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."
That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"
"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."
He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.
You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.
His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.
And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.
It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...
Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.
You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.
And then it happens.
Your eyes meet.
His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.
His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.
And then he pulls back, all too quick and
sudden.
He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.
You flinch at the sound.
"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."
Your stomach drops.
"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."
You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.
And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."
He doesn't say anything else.
You leave quietly.
But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.
You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.
You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.
You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.
"Hello?"
"Hey. Where are you right now?"
You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"
"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."
You stop walking. "What?"
"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."
Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."
"Welcome to my fucking week."
You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.
He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.
Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.
The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:
"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"
Your breath catches.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"
You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.
"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."
"You sure?"
"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."
There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.
"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."
You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."
He hangs up.
You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.
He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.
Was he testing you?
Did he think you wouldn't come back?
You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.
And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.
You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.
The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"
"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.
"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"
You keep walking.
"Did he—?"
"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."
"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"
"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."
She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."
Your face goes hot.
"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."
She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"
You shut the door in her face.
Lock it.
Lean back against it.
Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.
You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.
And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.
Just breathing.
You write,
He said I write beautifully.
Then, slower,
He said he felt restless about not getting a response.
And then,
He pulled away.
The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.
About the poem.
How he remembered every word.
How you finished it together.
And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.
You close your journal.
And press it to your chest.
You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.
It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.
The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.
And then your eyelids get heavy.
You blink hard.
You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—
That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.
You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.
You're so screwed.
Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.
The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.
You tell yourself it's only for a second.
Just one.
Just—
You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"
You blink, brain empty.
You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.
And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.
*•*•*
You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.
Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.
You almost turn around.
Almost.
But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.
You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.
"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."
There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.
"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."
"She's not just cleaning."
There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."
You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."
You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.
And then—
"Didn't think you'd come."
You turn back around.
Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.
You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.
"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."
And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.
"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.
"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"
"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."
He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.
Quiet. Barely a whisper.
"You didn't have to stop either."
Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.
And maybe you didn't.
But you did.
And there's no taking it back.
The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.
Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.
Then you say it again. Softer this time.
"You didn't have to stop."
It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.
Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.
"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.
And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.
The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.
Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.
And just like that, you're alone. Again.
The silence is incredibly deafening.
Your hands are still trembling.
They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.
And he never came back down.
You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.
The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.
"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.
He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"
"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."
He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"
"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."
And you think that's the end of it.
But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."
You freeze.
Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."
He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."
You hesitate.
Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.
But your feet are already moving.
The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.
You can't read his expression.
"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.
"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."
There's a beat.
"I don't want that."
You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."
You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.
He doesn't move.
So you do.
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.
It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—
Nothing.
He doesn't move.
Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.
The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."
That's all it takes.
The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.
And this time, he answers the question
His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.
And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."
That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.
He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.
You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.
He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.
You nod.
That's all he needs.
He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.
Every time you whimper, he presses closer.
Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.
And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.
Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.
One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.
You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.
"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.
He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.
And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.
Intimately.
He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.
Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.
His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.
"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.
Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.
He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.
Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.
You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.
You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.
"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.
He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.
"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.
His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."
Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.
And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.
He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.
Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.
Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.
He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.
"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.
"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."
You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.
His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.
And then—
"Rina," he breathes.
You freeze for half a second.
It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.
But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.
You blink, dazed. "What...?"
But the next second, he's pushing in.
And everything else disappears.
Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.
The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.
"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."
Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.
"Heeseung—move. Please—"
He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.
Maybe he has.
Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.
"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."
You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.
And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.
Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.
"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.
His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.
"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again. You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.
You're both trembling.
Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.
You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.
Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.
"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."
Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.
The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.
He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.
You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.
He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.
There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.
*•*•*
You wake up before Heeseung does.
There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.
Panic grips you first.
Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.
You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.
You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.
What did I do?
Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—
"Why are you sneaking out?"
You squeak.
Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.
You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.
His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."
"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"
"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.
But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.
You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."
You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.
He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."
You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.
Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.
You sigh.
You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.
So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.
Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.
Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.
All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."
"Ji—"
"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"
You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.
"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"
"Jiyoon."
"What?"
"Bye."
You hang up.
Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.
*•*•*
You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.
You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?
It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.
The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.
It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.
Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,
Lee Heeseung Rina
The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.
The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.
The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.
"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.
Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"
You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."
You freeze.
The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.
Rina's not a person.
Rina's a piano.
A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there. Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.
Rina is his piano.
You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.
He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.
*•*•*
You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief, "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.
Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."
You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"
"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.
You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."
Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."
"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."
"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."
"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."
"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.
You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.
You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.
It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.
Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?
God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.
The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.
"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.
And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.
God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.
Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.
He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.
Locked.
Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.
"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.
Once. Twice—
CRACK.
The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.
There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—
Him. Heeseung.
Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.
You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.
You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"
Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.
"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."
He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."
"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"
"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."
You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.
You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.
Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.
You don't flinch.
He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.
You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.
"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.
He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."
"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.
Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.
But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.
"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.
"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.
You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"
He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.
Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.
"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.
His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.
The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.
Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.
Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.
Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.
Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.
He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.
Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.
"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."
He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.
"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,
"My nurse".
You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."
You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.
You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.
Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.
"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.
"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."
And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.
*•*•*
It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.
You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.
You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.
"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."
"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.
You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.
Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"
"Hm?"
"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."
You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.
You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.
And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.
𓈈﹙者﹚𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗬 : Heeseung is a successful and highly regarded businessman in Seoul. You've been seeing each other in secret for several months now. At the beginning, you were the one who got more emotionally involved, the one who felt too much. But now everything has changed. You're the one setting clear boundaries: no deep feelings, no regularity, nothing that could complicate things. Just discreet and controlled encounters.
However, Heeseung has become increasingly insistent. He's no longer the same as before. Now he's the one who wants more, who texts at unexpected hours, who seems to be dying for you. And that doesn't make it easy for you at all… because even though you keep the rules on the outside, deep down you're still fighting against what you still feel.
୨ৎ ֹ 𝐌𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 : Trying this again and hoping Tumblr doesn’t decide to flag it . This is my first attempt at making “SMAU content.” I’m not sure yet if it’ll become a series, and even if it does, I don’t think it’ll be very long since this is my first time doing smth like this. So... I hope u guys enjoy it.
Summary: You adopted a new Hamster Hybrid. Everything’s going fine at the first couple of minutes with him being in your apartment, but some strange noises catch your attention. Will this cute, innocent, and sweet hybrid ever be the opposite? Yes.
Warnings: smut, cussing, mentions of sweating, humping, virgin reader, in heat hybrid/animal, mentions of boners, protective! Heeseung, cum, giving head (m receiving), fingering (f receiving) (if I miss any lmk!)
Genre: smut to fluff
5:29pm
When you at pulled inside the bathroom, the first thing you see is Heeseung, shirtless, with the most perfect abs. You widen your eyes in shock as he corners you between himself and the counter where the sink is. He looks at you with a not so cute and innocent stare, it’s more like an aggressive and an “I wanna eat you” kinda stare. He breaths heavily, sweat dripping down his chin and covering his exposed skin. Suddenly his body weakens, he drops his head at your shoulder, he breaths even heavier as he makes his hands grip onto your waist. “Y/N.. im in pain, help me.” He says against the crook of your neck. You blush and gasp feeling him hump your leg as he moans against your neck.
You decide to make a move realizing what is going on. “Heeseung, you’re in heat. How about you take a cold shower?” You ask softly. “No, I don’t need a shower, I need you” he says aggressively against your neck, you moan softly at his words. “Please, just.. touch me..” He whimpers again. “Hee, I don’t know how..” you look to the opposite direction as him. He grabs your hand and puts it in his abs making you caress his abs. He moans at the touch, “I’m so s-sensitive right now..” he places a soft kiss at you neck. You are currently speechless and don’t know what to do, “i-I.. heeseung.” You try pushing him away but he wouldn’t move an inch. “I’ll help you..” you finally give in.
Heeseung pulls you closer, leaving no gap in between your bodies. “Fuck Y/N, I need you so bad…” You pat his back unsure of what he will do next, “Heeseung, I’ve never done this before.” You tell him quietly as you close your eyes. “I promise to be gentle” he kisses your cheek. He grabs your hand taking you out of the bathroom and into your room. He pushes you done on the bed gently attacking you with kisses on your neck and collar bone. You moan at the feeling of his boner rubbing against your thigh desperate to be touched. Heeseung can’t hold back, pulling down your school skirt. You close your legs as he removes your skirt, he looks at you with a soft look. “Are you not c-comfortable?..” he asks shyly. “S-sorry It was just reflexes..” you spread your legs slowly causing his ears to twitch. The wet, damp spot on your panties just turn him on even more. He moves his hand closer to your clothed cunt, using his ring and middle finger to rub your clit gently with your panties still on. The friction causing you to moan and your hips to twitch. He applies a bit more pleasure against your clit causing you to moan louder. “Does it feels good, Y/N?” He asks with this seductive voice, it drives you insane, so insane you can’t even respond to him just moan as a response. He spreads your legs wider with his hands which are warm, soft, and gentle. He moves your your panties to a side, a string of your arousal connects your pretty pussy with your panties. He continues to rub your bare clit, you arch your back and gag your moans.
He then sticks a finger inside your tight hole, you moan loudly. “Fuck, Heeseung!” You moan making his finger pump in and out of you but slowly. “Does it feel good? You think you can handle another one, pretty girl?” He humps your leg again as he fingers you. “Y-yes.” After your reply, he adds another digit inside of you stretching you out, and fuck, it hurts but it feels so good. Moaning out his name, he speeds up his fingers, he curls his fingers inside of you hitting your G-spot. Feeling that tight feeling form in your stomach, “Heeseung.. I’m close..” you whine arching your back and clenching around his digits. “Cum for me baby.” He says in the sexiest voice ever and speeding up inside you, the knot forming in your stomach snaps, you cum all over his long digits which has you panting and with teary eyes.
Heeseung pulls his fingers out of you, “was that good?” He asks, scared he didn’t do a good enough job. You nod weakly, “I-it was good..” He smiles and pulls you up gently into a hug, “Thank you! Thank you for letting me do this to you, I needed this for a while” he says with his lips on your neck. You can feel the heat of his body calming down, your shaky arms wrap around his neck hugging him back. “I just need one more favor,” he pulls away and looks at you. “W-What’s that?..” He suddenly smirks, “I’m still a bit in heat, will you.. give me.. head?” You can see him blushing as his dick twitches inside his gray sweat pants just him looking at you. “I-I can try, I have never sucked dick before.” You look up at him, “I’ll teach you” he says placing a hand on your left cheek.
He tell you to get up from the bed and get on your knees, which you do. He sits in that edge of the bed in-front of you pulling down his pants along with his boxers to his ankles. His dick moves by its self, you stare at his thick and long shaft but cover your eyes with your hands in embarrassment. He chuckles and moves you hands away from your face, “you don’t need to be shy~” he teases. You blush more, he proceeds to grab his shaft and tap it against your lips. “Open.” He says, you open your mouth and he pushes some of his cock inside of your mouth, the moment he feels your lips wrapped around his little friend, he moans softly. You pull away leaving a confused Heeseung, “what’s wrong?” He raises an eyebrow, “I.. I don’t wanna hurt you.” You say look away from him. “You won’t, trust me, alright?” You nod at his words, opening your mouth and wrapping your plumped lips around his tip as he moans causing you to also moan sending vibrations to his cock, “fuck,” he says is a whimpery voice. You start taking him deeper, bobbing your head up and down his twitching cock. “Just like that, don’t stop”
You kept repeating bobbing your head, “fuck I’m gonna cum!” You stop sucking his cock, you wrap your small hand at the base of his cock and jerk him off, “shit! I’m so close, I’m gonna c-cum baby” he throws his head back, you see strings of his semen fall on his abdomen and chest as he moans. You kiss his tip and he moans again. “Thank you..” he says.
6:21pm
You both have already cleaned each other off, y’all are currently cuddling on the bed with you laying your head on his chest and his arm wrapped around your waist. He kisses your forehead and you giggle kissing him on the lips and he smiles at you cuddling closer. Y’all end up watching a movie. During the movie y’all hear a knock at the door, Heeseung gets protective immediately getting up in front you and walking towards the door.
He open the door and he widens his eyes to see someone familiar, your friend Shuhua and some other hybrid. “Omg hii girly look, i got a cat hybrid, his name is-”
“Jungwon?” A soft voice says.
YAY!! Chapter 2 is here!! Should I post chapter 3? Also, sorry if it’s a bit short!!😊🐹🫶🏼
SUMMARY: you had always wanted to adopt a pet, you wanted the companionship. it just so happens your friend wanted to bring you to an adoption drive. perfect! but it was no normal adoption drive...
word count: 1.1K words
warnings: mentions of zoophilia (basically s*x with animals) - please do not have s*x with animals unless you are AN ANIMAL. let's pretend you aren't educated in hybrids hence you thought about this because really how tf did hybrids came about (like i know it's not real but who was the smart person to even think about mixing animals and humans)
NOTE: yay!! the first episode to the HYBRID UNIVERSE. i lowkey made myself blush imagining the things wrote in here. someone stop me i swear but enjoy!!
it had been a good minute since you started counting down the timing till school ended. you just couldn't wait. your friend mentioned about some adoption drive that was coming to your town.
it was about time you had some company in a form of a furball. you had always wanted a hamster. yeah sure, they might die for stupid reasons but they were still adorable nonetheless.
once the bell rings, you nearly fly out your seats until the teacher mentions about how 'the bell doesn't dismiss you, rather he does'. were all teachers always this snappy? they already finished talking about their lecture like 5 minutes ago.
"alright class, you may-" almost all of your classmates got up and left. you were kind enough to let him finish his words before you left too. you could hear him complaint about the student’s behaviours as you walked out of class.
"okay, lead me to where the cuties are!!" you pulled your friend. she chuckles.
"alright!! but i have a surprise for you! it's not exactly a normal adoption drive."
and boy you were surprised. there weren't much people here but there were tons of people leaving with these strange people who had ears and tails. they walked on two feet but they had these animal features...
"are we at a furry convention?" you asked. your friend smacks your arm.
"they aren't furries, they are hybrids."
"wait. so you mean people fuck animals to get hybrids? because i’m sure it’s not logically possible for humans to be born with animal features." you whisper.
"oh my lord, (name)! why would you say that? that's so wrong." she facepalms, "no one knows how hybrids came about but they are being mistreated. it's really sad."
"oh." you watched everyone leaving with a hybrid. they seem happy with their new owner.
"come on, let's see if we can get you a new friend for adoption!" your friend pulls you in.
there were various kinds of hybrids. even exotic ones like snakes, lions, tigers and many more. you were in awe. they look...mesmerising.
"you mentioned you wanted a hamster right?"
"uh yeah?" you say.
"well, look over there. he is cute. every single girl is surrounding him right now though. he also looks bothered."
you looked over to where your friend pointed at. sure enough, the boy's ears twitched. he clenches his fist in fear, his eyes widened, he backs up slowly but the girls only inched forward. too many girls were getting close to him. you decided to help him out.
"hey, i'm sorry i lost you buddy." you stood beside him. he turns to face you. "come on, let's go sign some papers hmm?"
he tilts his head before nodding slowly. his ears twitching in the process. his adorable small tail moving a little. those girls grumble before walking away.
"thank you." he shyly says. his cheeks flaming up in the process.
"it's no problem. i saw how those girls were practically backing you up."
he scratches his nape shyly, "i don't really handle huge crowds like that."
"it's alright. it's normal, i'm (name)." you say.
"h-heeseung." he voices out.
"it was nice meeting you." you got ready to leave when heeseung grabs your wrist. you turned to him, his doe eyes staring back at you.
"wait! what about the papers?"
"what papers-" oh, he thought you were going to adopt him. you could tell he starts to visibly sadden. "oh right, let's go." you grabbed his hand. he lets you lead him.
"what in the world happened and why is the cute hybrid boy following you around-" you covered your friend's mouth.
"heeseung, this is my friend. she's the one who brought me here." heeseung nods. your friend smiles. "let's go get you adopted hmm?"
"i'm sorry??" your friend says as she follows both you and heeseung to the counter.
you went over to the counter and a older lady comes up.
"hi. oh? heeseung?" the older lady says. heeseung hides behind you shyly. "you're finally getting adopted today? this is a miracle."
"may i ask what do you mean by that?" you asked.
"well...heeseung here is a little hesitant on opening up to people. we tried our best to get him to open up ever since his friends got adopted. however, he has closed himself off ever since and people tend to overlook him since he doesn't really enthusiastically show himself off."
"when we decided to temporary open the adoption drive in this town. everyone noticed heeseung since he has good looks. however, heeseung only hides away. we usually find him crouched next to a wardrobe and not in his hamster form."
"but i see he has chosen you. you are certainly lucky." you feel heeseung hesitantly wrap his arm around your waist and hide his face at the crook of your neck. "maybe really lucky." she chuckles.
you blushed, "ah, this is my first time adopting a hybrid or a pet in general so i'm not too sure of the process."
"it's alright! basically the process is a little similar to adopting a pet. you fill out an application, complete an interview and then meet your desired hybrid. however, we can skip the meeting and application part since you've already met heeseung. we can interview you right now so how about heeseung wait out here-"
"can i j-join? don't want to be alone with people outside." heeseung asks. the lady chuckles.
"i see he is already clingy with you. come on, let's get you interviewed...with heeseung." she smiles.
the lady asks you a few questions. ones that have been simplified since after all hybrids are also human so they don't really have to go through the same process as adopting cats/dogs.
you signed some papers and finalised everything. they mentioned to you to at least get heeseung a medical check up in case he caught anything but they already gave him the appropriate vaccination.
"i can't believe you have a hybrid now." your friend says. you just laughed.
"well, i did say i want a companion." you made it to your apartment, your friend waves to you before leaving. you opened the door.
"welcome to your new home, heeseung."
the boy cautiously looks around. his ears twitching. you hear his stomach grumbling.
"oh you're hungry, let's get you something." you went to grab the packet of ramyeon on your shelf. unfortunately it was too tall for you so you struggled. suddenly, you feel your back being pressed against someone as they reached for the packet.
you turned around, pressed against the counter.
"here." heeseung hands you the ramyeon packet. your heart races, they weren't lying. he is really handsome up close. you blushed.
"uh, thank you. have you tried ramyeon?" you asked. the boy shakes his head, a pout forming on his lips.
"well you're in luck, that's unfortunately the only thing i have now. i haven't had time to do grocery shopping. i'll try to do it this weekend, just tell me what do you like to eat so i can plan."
heeseung nods. he still hasn't move by the way. you feel him cupping your cheeks.
"it's red...are you sick?" he pouts.
"ah, no. it's just hot. let me go put on the air-conditioner." you walked away quickly.
god...how were you going to survive living with him?
synopsis : you can’t take heeseung’s fake gentleman act anymore and finally confront him. unfortunately, it doesn't go quite as you expected as he retorts it against you.
( toxic situationship, dom!heeseung who’s lowkey a dick, kinda bratty sub!reader, mentions of alcohol and smoking, size kink lowkey, petnames, name calling (slut), fingers in mouth, oral f and m receiving, spanking, hair pulling, p in v (unprotected), praise and degradation, teasing!! )
check out my other drabble here!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You didn’t really know what you would call you and Heeseung.
Fuck buddies? Friends? In a relationship? (probably not)
You just knew that you wanted him now. As you sat next to him at dinner, surrounded by all your friends. You couldn’t help yourself from looking at the way his blonde hair fell just above his eyes, how he listened attentively to whoever was speaking, not interrupting, or how his leg kept twitching under the table, in the way he always does when he can’t stay still.
You fought the urge not to rest your hand on his knee, not knowing the boundaries that could be crossed in front of your shared friends.
You also told yourself that was the reason he had barely acknowledged you during the dinner, except for when you arrived and his eyes raked over your body.
He was aware of this. It was kinda hard to miss with how you kept sipping on your wine glass and how your heel “accidentally” nudged on his shoe.
It didn’t bother him though, you looked hot and he wanted to take you home after this. Especially when he thought of last time, you kneeled down in front of him with your eyes watering and your mouth full of his cock.
As he noticed people getting more distracted in conversations, he placed his hand over your thigh.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, flashing that pretty smile.
You turned to him and your eyes flicked down to his hand. “Yea” you replied, trying to seem as normal as possible.
He nodded and his thumb started tracing circles, higher and higher, as he watched your eyes dart between him and your friends.
“You look pretty,” he whispered, leaning closer. He always knew what to say to make you melt.
You smiled and rolled your eyes, slightly embarrassed.
It was probably a combination of the fact that you were, well, surrounded by people, but also the recollection of the last encounter, that was followed by 2 weeks of radio silence by the both of you.
He looked down to where his hand reached the edge of your skirt.
“Heeseung,” you warned. He smirked at the sight of your doe eyes, and then dropped his hand, turning his attention back to his meal. You let out a breath you were subconsciously holding. He was so fucking frustrating.
The worst part was his kindness. He would never leave you shivering and always offered his jacket, always complimented you even when you had no makeup on and your hair was a mess, always carried you when you were drunk, paid for you, held your bags.
But at the end of the day, he acted that way with everyone. All of your girlfriends could testify that he was a gentleman and you had always loved that when you were just friends but now, you wanted him to yourself. Despite how much you hated admitting this, it bothered you to see him treat every girl the same. Like you were nothing special, like you were just the one who had foolishly let him in your pants.
You thought this as you watched him help a girl shell her lobster and you threw more wine back.
Well, you for sure were the only one at that table that knew the sounds he made when he was about to come, or the feeling of his hands cupping your face when he kissed you. Or how his tongue- fuck. You just spilled some wine over your thighs. Real classy.
“Shit.” you muttered and Heeseung turned his attention from the conversation happening at the other end of the table to you. His eyes dropped down and then back up.
You were tipsy. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes slightly watery and you had a stupid smile planted across your face as you dried your thighs off with a napkin.
“Y/n.”
You glanced up and saw Heeseung looking at you.
“What?”
He said nothing and took the napkin from you to help you.
“Let me take you to the bathroom.” he said as he gently grabbed your arm.
There he goes; the gentleman act, the “taking care of you when you’re drunk” act,
you thought to yourself as he excused you and led you out the table to the bathroom.
“I’m fine” you said as you pulled your arm back and rested your back against the wall. He just looked at you.
“I think you’re a little drunk y/n” he chuckled and wet a paper towel under the sink.
“Sure. You’d like that” your voice came out a lot more unsure than you’d intended it.
“What does that mean?” he asked as he leaned down and put his hand on your hip to clean your thighs. As you looked down you kinda forgot what you were gonna say.
“Dunno.”
He chuckled and rose back up. Then he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and you wish you could say you pulled away. But you kissed him.
He kissed you back, smiling, and put his thumb on your chin, pulling down gently to slip his tongue in between your lips. He guided your head back against the wall and stepped between your thighs until you could feel the bulge against his jeans.
You put your hands behind his neck and he pulled you closer by your hips, not interrupting the sudden make-out session against the restaurant bathroom wall.
“Fuck baby, missed you,” he panted against your neck, trailing kisses from there to your collarbone. You felt the heat pooling in your underwear and tugged on his hair to continue kissing him. He smiled as your lips met, tasting the wine on your breath. He pressed one last soft kiss to your lips and pulled away, running a hand through his now messed-up hair.
He fixed it in the mirror and when he noticed you staring: “You okay?”
You pushed off the wall. “I’m fine.” you said, as if you had something to prove and tried to walk as straight as you could to the sink.
“Hey” he said in that soft, concerned voice that always made your knees weak. He turned you towards him as he searched your eyes.
“You sure?” he asked and your eyes widened slightly.
Suddenly someone came in and he stepped back, clearing his throat.
He said nothing more as he left the bathroom.
Later, you were outside the restaurant, smoking a cigarette. You love this weather; the phase when summer is just starting and every evening after sunset you can enjoy the light breeze flowing through your hair and the glow of the sun beginning to soften. You think this moment could stretch out forever by how peaceful you feel.
“Hey” he approaches and wordlessly asks for a drag. You pass it to him, watching how he exhales the smoke out of his mouth.
“Sorry about..you know” he adds after a while, passing the cigarette back to you as he searches your eyes.
You take it and go back to watching the scene of kids playing soccer unfold in the park in front of you.
“No, I don’t know,” you reply.
“Y/n.” he stares at you and sighs. “I mean about what happened two weeks ago. I should’ve called.”
You watch the group of kids cheer and hug each other as they finally win the game.
“Are you listening to me?”
You turn to him, flicking the cigarette away.
“Yea, you should’ve called,” you shrug.
After a few moments of silence you add “But I didn’t either so I guess it’s okay.”
He offers you a soft smile. “I don’t want to ruin this friendship.”
You look up at him.
“But I think it’s been really good.”
You giggle at that.
“What? Why are you laughing?” he chuckles too.
“It’s been good?”
“Yea- I mean- what we’ve been doing,” he shrugs “I think you enjoy it too.”
You roll your eyes as you remember him making you come twice last time, one on his fingers, one on his cock. He wasn’t wrong.
“Come home with me tonight,” he suggests.
You stay silent for a moment and then nod.
“You aren’t too drunk right?”
You laugh at that and hit his arm. “Hey! I was just a little tipsy. Besides, is sex the only thing you care about?”
He stays silent for a moment before going, “Well..why do you think I’m inviting you over, for a movie?”
You stare at him, processing. “Yea, I know, I was joking.” you add softly.
Fuck, he could at least pretend those aren’t his only intentions. Dickhead.
You should tell him to go to hell and go back home to your cats.
But you don’t.
He leads you into his apartment, hand resting on your lower back.
You don’t know if it’s the shitty response he gave you earlier, or how he made you walk in opposite directions to the car so your friends wouldn't notice but you were feeling incredibly frustrated.
He sits you down on the couch, helping you take your heels off.
Maybe the frustration was more anger at yourself that despite this, you still wanted him.
“I can do it myself.” you push his hand away
He looks up at you
“Y/n.” nothing. “Baby”
You stop and look at him.
“Will you let me help?”
You roll your eyes but let him.
“Such a gentleman. Do you do this to all girls you take home?” you mock and tilt his chin up to you as you look down at him.
His eyebrows furrow in frustration and he pulls away.
“There.” he takes your heels off and stands up, towering over you.
You say nothing and look down at your feet.
“You’re welcome” he adds.
You scoff.
“Do you have a problem y/n?” he asks, running a hand though his hair as he already gets impatient.
“I don’t know, do I?” you look up at him and try to ignore that familiar heat in between your legs at his intense gaze.
“Spit it out. I’m not a mind reader”
Your eyes narrow as you look at each other.
“Are you really that embarrassed of me?”
“What-”
“It’s like if our friends even had a sliver of doubt that we’re-” you sigh, trying to find the right word, “well-fucking, it’d be the worst public humiliation of all time.” You get up and he steps back, as you walk to the kitchen to get some water.
“Here we go,” he mutters.
“I mean, how do you think that makes me feel?” you slam the fridge shut. “You’ve basically been with a different girl every weekend since I’ve known you and you’ve never had any problem informing others but when it’s me it’s a problem? ” You say as you pour it in your cup. “Okay” you scoff and drink.
He’s watching you attentively. Of course it’s a fucking problem when it’s you ‘cause he actually cares about you and doesn’t want to ruin your reputation in the group. But he doesn’t say that.
“It’s like ever since this has started I’m just some sex object to you. Did you even talk to me tonight after 2 weeks of silence if not to ask me to come over here?” you cross your arms as you look at him from across his kitchen.
It’s honestly ironic to him. How you’re yelling at him for being a hedonist when you’ve done nothing but flirt with him the whole night in that ridiculously short skirt.
“-and you know what pisses me off the most?” you continue. “The fact that you still act like you’re this– gentleman when all you do is flirt with every single girl you lay eyes on. I mean did you actually want to fuck me or do you just find me easy?” you rant as you run your hand through your hair.
Actually wanted to fuck you. He thinks to himself.
“Like with Lydia- when you literally shelled her lobster for her, I mean come on,” you scoff and chuckle to yourself.
“There basically isn’t any difference between how you treat me and any other of your female friends.”
He was getting ticked off. It wasn't hard to tell. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed and he was looking at you with that dark gaze that gives you tingles.
“Are you done?” he simply asks.
“..yea” you replied, arms crossed.
“Good, cause lets not pretend you weren’t looking at me the whole night like you wanted me to take you back here and fuck the shit out of you.”
“I- Excuse you?”
“You heard me baby. Don’t act all innocent when that skirt barely covers your ass and every single man in that restaurant was looking.”
You scoff and wave your hand in the air, exasperated. “Fuck you.”
He walks around the table and towards you as you look back, crossing your arms.
His eyes dart down to your low-cut top and your tits almost spilling out of it, as if proving his point.
You notice and scoff, barely walking past him before he grabs your wrist and pulls you right back in front of him.
“Don’t run away.”
“Well what do you want me to do?” you snap back.
His jaw clenches. You can tell he’s holding back.
He looks at you for what feels like an eternity before chuckling.
“Nothing. If im such a dickhead then leave. I don’t wanna force you to be here okay? I’ll take you home.”
You look at him surprised as he starts getting his keys.
“Heeseung”
You stop him and look up.
“Look I’m sorry, okay? I’m–it’s just frustrating.”
He says nothing, waiting for you to continue.
“I hate how you act around others.”
“Well we’re not around others right now are we?” he asks, stepping closer.
You say nothing and let him step closer, suddenly feeling hot.
He tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him. The height difference always turned you on.
“Want me to apologize?”
You say nothing, suddenly feeling small under his touch.
His fingers trail along your side and you shiver.
“Want me to take you home and pretend this never happened? Hm?”
You shake your head, hesitant.
Thats what I fucking thought.
“I don’t wanna go” you pout slightly, suddenly wanting his attention badly, after your growing ache was neglected the whole night.
His fingers stop at your waist and he pulls you closer.
“Then stop fucking talking for two seconds” his jaw clenches as he watches your frown deepen, acting all innocent as if you’re not dripping into your panties.
“And stop looking at me like that” he looks down at your lips
He smooths his thumb over your frown and when that does nothing: “Stop pouting or I swear to god-”
You open your mouth and he swallows.
“Y/n..” he warns and his eyes narrow as he watches your small mouth open in obedience, he pushes his thumb in and you suck on it. He groans at the sight
He pulls it out and immediately replaces it with his lips, kissing you passionately. You put your hand in his belt loop to pull him closer and he grips onto your hips, trying to stop himself from grinding against you. You bite his lower lip and he curses into your mouth. He grabs your hands and pins them to the wall as his mouth works over your neck.
“Heeseung-” you whine as you push your hips forward
“Stay fucking still.” He bites down and sucks on your neck.
“Better? Now everyone can see you’re taken.”
You whine and he sucks more marks into your skin.
He pulls away to kiss you, surprisingly soft, as he lets go of your hands to pull your top off.
You let him and he looks at you in awe before sucking and kissing at your chest. You run your fingers through his hair and tug.
“You’re so impatient” he smirks against your nipple before continuing to circle it with his tongue. You’re just arching embarrassingly into him, before he kneels down and kisses down your stomach.
It's incredible how even knelt down he still arrives at your belly button.
He pulls your skirt up and buries his face in your panties, feeling how soaked you are.
“God you’re such a slut” to which you gasp and whine helplessly.
He pulls your panties down your legs, suddenly acting like he has all the time in the world as he presses a kiss over each fold before pulling your thigh over his shoulder and spreading your pussy out for him.
“Heeseung..”
“Acting all annoyed, dicking at me for half an hour over stupid shit when you’re here dripping, hm? Why do you do this to yourself baby?” He licks a stripe from your hole to your clit and sucks, hard.
You cry out.
“You could have a good boyfriend, who treats you right, takes you out, listens to all your stupid rants,” he collects your slick with his fingers and sucks them into his mouth.
“But here you are.” you make the mistake of looking down at him.
How can he have this much power over you when he’s the one knelt down, with his face in between your legs?
He pulls your thigh higher against his shoulder and dives back in, licking and sucking like he’s addicted to you.
“F-fuck H-heeseung–oh my god” you moan as your head tilts back against the wall and you feel him smile against your pussy.
“You’re so loud” he comments, making you heat up and swallow your moans. He grips onto your hips, holding you close so he can lick firm, precise stripes up and down your pussy, occasionally sucking and bumping his nose with your clit.
You can’t help it as you cry out and tug on his hair when he suddenly plunges his digits into your pussy. You know your legs would probably give out right now if he wasn’t holding you up and that notion just turns you on even more.
“Fuck y/n.. you’re so wet” he plunges his fingers even deeper, causing you to grind your hips against them, trying to find release.
He pulls them out, despite your whimpering, and sucks them clean.
“Not yet.”
You look down, eyes filled with tears as you try to compose yourself.
He doesn’t say anything, just smirks, like your face speaks for itself.
In the bedroom he pushes you against the door as he kisses you like he’s trying to suffocate, and you think he might be by how he smiles in satisfaction when you pull away to breathe.
He leans down to kiss you again before biting your lower lip and tugging on it. You moan at the sting and hit his shoulder. He lets go and hovers over your lips.
“Did you just hit me?” his calm, confident gaze burns into you.
You swallow.
“Hm.”
He just gives you a knowing look, like subtly telling you you’re going to regret that later on.
You know he’s being a dick, but your body isn't cooperating with your mind as you get the overwhelming feeling to make him feel good.
You say nothing and kneel down. His breath catches.
You undo his pants and pull them down, as you don’t break eye contact.
“... what are you doing?” he runs a hand though your hair as he looks at you, conflicted.
“What do you think?”
“You really don't have to– fuck” you press your lips against his clothed dick, sucking as the only thing that seperates you from his skin is the thin layer of his cotton boxers.
You pull away, pouting slightly.
“You don’t want me to?” His eyes widen slightly and he cups your face.
“No no no no baby it’s not that I don't want it- it’s just- I don't want you to feel forced-”
You pull away from his touch, smirking. “I want to.”
You pull his boxers down, moaning at the sight of his dick and his brain short circuits. “Fuck. Okay-”
You wrap your lips around the tip first, earning a shaky moan from him. You whine and suck as he tightens the grip on your hair, making you take more. He groans at the vibration.
You look up at him and the way his head falls back as you suck harder.
Your eyes clam shut as you take his dick deeper in your mouth, and he tenses.
“S-shit” you try to push deeper but end up gagging around his thick length.
He groans and pulls you off by your hair.
“For fuck’s sake y/n would you slow down?”
You try to take him again but he holds you back by your hair. You look up at him, a quiet exchange of looks between you two in which neither of you backs down.
“Y/n. God-” he groans and you suck the tip again, swirling your tongue over it.
Then you wrap your hand around the thick portion of his cock that isn’t in your mouth and start stroking, taking in his groans.
“Fuck–you’re being so good” he moans and thrusts his hips forward, making you rub your thighs together, trying to find some relief for your aching need.
He notices this and tugs on your hair, making you pull off.
You look up and he grins at the sight of your doe eyes.
“Is my baby getting needy?”
You feel your face heat up and nod. He has you under some sort of spell you can’t break and you don’t even realize what’s happening as he slips two fingers in your mouth and makes you suck.
You don’t stop till he pulls out and caresses your cheek.
“Heeseung..” your breath is shaky, your chest rising and falling. You know you look soo pathetic right now.
To him, he’s never seen a sight so beautiful.
“I want you to ride me.”
You crawl on top of him and he smooths his hand over your body until he reaches your clit and rubs circles on it with his thumb as his middle finger runs over your hole, gathering your wetness
“Baby-you’re soaked” he groans.
“Just from sucking my dick?”
“Also from that fucking orgasm that you took away earlier.” you drop your seeping cunt on the base of his dick and grind up and down.
He moans. “Right. I’ve been neglecting you, hm?” his hands settle on your hips, slowing you down. “Bet you’re gonna come as soon as I get the tip inside.”
You look at him, exasperated.
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he grins.
“Maybe I should just let you grind until you cry from frustration.” he holds your hips still.
“Heeseung..” you lean down so you can beg in his ear.
“Please baby...it hurts” you whine softly.
He grins in satisfaction and lightly kisses your neck.
“Mhmm, so you’re not mad anymore?” he tilts your chin so you’re face to face with him, your bodies pressed together.
“No- fuck–” you lean down to kiss him but he holds you back.
“That’s what I thought. Fucking whining for an hour over nothing.” he smacks your ass and you moan, your head dipping down to his shoulder.
“Go on then, ride me. Show me how much you need it.”
You really hated him right now. You hated how he talked to you.
But you craved him so bad.
So with teary eyes from all his teasing you sat up and lined his cock with your entrance. He watched you as his hands gripped your waist, not helping you in the slightest.
You sank down and moaned, your hands on his chest for support.
“Oh my god,” he was the perfect fit. Not too big but big enough to hit the spot as you weakly lifted your hips and sank back down again.
You whimpered at the feeling and he started rubbing firm circles on your clit.
“Come on baby, you can take it.” he urged you to move faster, thrusting up and making you shudder. All it took was another thrust from him.
“Heeseung-” it was too late as you moaned out his name and convulsed around him, grinding up and down and clenching impossibly around his dick.
“Fuck- fuck- fuck-” you whined, eyes shut.
He looked up at you, in disbelief at how fucking perfect you were and how right he was when he said you’d come immediately.
Your movements came to a halt and you opened your eyes.
“I fucking knew it.” he said as he rubbed circles on your clit, and you whined in overstimulation.
You looked down at him and pulled his hand away, already ready for his insults.
“You’re so fucking sensitive. 5 seconds on my cock and you’re already coming,” despite his mean words he’s pulling you down against his chest and caressing your hair.
“It’s okay baby. Don’t worry.” he kisses your neck and his hands drop to your hips.
He’s still inside you and throbbing. He thrusts up and you gasp, holding onto him.
“You can take it, right?” you nod in response.
“Good girl.” he feels you clench around him and groans, thrusting back up.
“You’re so tight-fuck” he moans as you grind back.
“Think you can ride me princess? Come on,” he kisses your neck and you nod as you sit back up. You feel your stomach flutter as you catch his intense gaze.
He’s in the midst of realizing he’s an idiot for thinking he wouldn’t catch feelings.
“Nice and slow.” he groans as he picks your hips up and helps you rise and fall back on his dick.
He’s basically doing all the work but he doesn’t mind.
You moan as you pick up the pace and you watch his eyes roll back in pleasure.
“Fuck-” you whine and dig your nails into his chest as you ride him.
“Sh-shit come here.” he sits up slightly so he’s closer and immediately takes your boob in his mouth. You arch and don’t stop riding him as he pulls you up and down his cock.
He sucks all over your chest and neck, trying to stifle his groans.
He speeds up and captures your mouth in a passionate and hungry kiss.
“I’m so close- fuck y/n”
You relish in his grunts as you bounce up and down and throw your head back.
His fingers find you clit and rub urgently.
“Wanna feel you come--fuck,”
You whine as you get closer and closer and he digs his fingers into your hip.
You look down and the look he’s giving you is enough to push you over the edge. He thrusts up violently into you and pulls you flush against his chest so he can fill you up completely.
In the midst of your moans you hear him groan in your ear:
“F-fuck that’s my baby. All mine. All mine.”
You lift your hips weakly as you watch his cum leak out of you. You say nothing as you flop down beside him, spent.
“Go to sleep. You’re exhausted.” he says as he moves some strands of hair from your face.
You just smile as his words from earlier repeat in your head.
hiiii! may i request a yandere enhypen one shot? its fine if you don't want to!!
- 💘 anon
MAKE IT UP TO ME; LEE HEESEUNG
pairings. yandere!heeseung x fem!reader
wc. 0.9k
warnings. yandere, manipulation, oral (m. recieving), unprotected sex
i hope you like it , you didn't specify which member, so i did heeseung 💓 !
he knew you were gonna come crawling back to him , now you have to make it up to him...
—
you knocked on the door , head hung low as you swipe through the countless number of horrible text messages you were receiving, 'why won't you die' 'you're such a slut , you never deserved heeseung." you frantically started to bang on the door.
heeseung watched you through the peephole , a smirk evident on his face , he knew why you were here , he just wanted to see you stressed. after a while , he opened the door. "hello baby." you didn't say anything , eyes trained to the floor. "did you come here just to stare at the floor?" you held your phone up , showing him the messages.
"those are some pretty mean things princess." he said , biting back his smirk. "did you start this?" he feigned innocence. "no baby , why would you think things like that , maybe they saw you out with beomgyu last night , i told you not to hang out with him , you never did listen." teardrops fell from eyes , that's exactly what heeseung wanted to see.
"why are you here? i thought you didn't want to see me anymore." he smirked , you had said that a few weeks ago , you felt like he was too controlling and you were sick of it , breaking up with him. but now , now he was the only one who would even talk to you. "i...i did but- but what princess?" you bit your lip , standing on the balls of your feet
growing frustrated , he pulled you into his apartment , closing the door , caging you against the door. "spit it out princess." he hovered about you , his body practically swallowing you. "you're the only one who will talk to me , my roommates won't even let me in the dorms , i don't want to go back there." you sobbed , wrapping your arms around him.
"poor baby , they're being mean to you." he raked his hands through your hair , you nodded. "i told you , they were just waiting for a reason to shut you out , i can make this away." he pulled away , caressing your cheek. "is that what you want?" you nodded , "p..please."
"does that mean you'll move back home with me , and listen when i tell you not to hang out with certain people?" you nodded , heeseung's cock grew in his jeans at how fragile you looked right now , he knew image was most important to you , that's why he did it this , that's why he sent those pictures , that's why he sent those pictures of you and beomgyu , no one had known you to had broken up , so it was a perfect set up.
"i..i will , i'll come back , please make it go away." you begged , he loved hearing you beg. "consider it done princess , by tomorrow no one will be talking about this." he said , pulling you into a kiss , his tongue exploring your mouth , biting your lip as he pulled away.
"i'm glad your back princess , but you really hurt my heart , leaving me like you did." he took your hand , guiding it down to his pants. "how about you make it up to me." you looked up at him , your eyes glassy , nose red from crying. "be a good girl , and make it up to me , yeah?" you nodded , and he smile guiding you to the couch.
"good girl."
he watched you sink to your knees , pulling his pants down , watching his cock slap against his stomach , standing tall , pre-cum bubbling at the tip of his red cock. "go ahead , put it in your mouth, princess." you gave his cock a few kitty licks , making him hiss ,"take me all the way in."
you gathered spit in your mouth , spitting on his cock before taking his tip into his mouth. "oh fuck , princess , i missed that mouth of yours , fuck." his head was thrown back against the couch , groaning as you bobbed your head up and down on his cock , he grabbed the back of your head , pushing your head down , your throat flexing around his cock , you gagged , tears wielding in your eyes , cascading down your cheeks.
"that's it princess -shit- i feel so much better already , you promise not to leave me again right." you hummed around his cock making him. "good girl , shit im gonna cum , gonna swallow my cum for me." you nodded , and he began to buck up into your mouth , before pushing your head down to match his , cumming inside your mouth , his warm seed filling your mouth , curse words falling from his lips.
"oh shit baby , don't you ever think of leaving me like that again." he pulled you up , pulling your pants down , along with your panties. "i...i won't." he knew you won't , or at least he knew you'd always run back to him , he'd make sure of it , spreading whatever rumor he had to , to have people shut you out again , sending you running back to him , tail tucked between your legs , he was the only person who loved you , and the sooner you'd realize , the better.
"come on , you aren't finished making it up to me , come sit on my cock." you straddled his legs , sinking down on his cock. "h..heeseung so fucking big." he watched you bounce on his cock , moaning his name. "fuck."
WHO IN ENHYPEN…?
THE CATEGORY IS: Would talk you through it
Ready to find out who's sweet and who's not?
(Masterlist) (mini-series)
HEESEUNG
Heeseung is the ultimate talker. He pins your wrists above your head, stares deep into your eyes, and guides you with that smooth, low voice the entire time. “Easy, baby… breathe with me. Feel how I’m sliding in so slowly? That’s it, relax your pretty pussy for me. Fuck, you’re doing so good taking every inch.” He never stops praising and instructing, his breathy voice getting rougher as he sinks deeper, telling you exactly when to clench, when to moan, and when to let go until you’re falling apart under his words.
JAY
Jay’s voice gets dangerously deep and commanding when he talks you through it. He cups your jaw so you can’t escape his gaze and growls right against your lips, “Look at me, princess. I know it hurts, but you can take it. Slow down… yeah, just like that. Good girl. Feel how full you are?” He mixes filthy encouragement with soft praises, telling you how tight and wet you feel around him, coaching you through every thrust until your legs are shaking and you’re begging him not to stop.
JAKE
Jake is the sweetest yet filthiest talker. He stays close, lips brushing your ear as he fucks you, whispering constantly, “You feel me right here, baby? Right against that spot? Yeah? Let it out, I love hearing you moan for me.” He asks you questions while thrusting, making sure you stay focused on the pleasure: “Tell me how good it feels… You’re squeezing me so tight, fuck. Cum for me, baby, I’ve got you. Just let go.” His voice makes you melt every single time.
SUNGHOON
Sunghoon turns into a soft-spoken menace. Even when he’s stretching you open, his voice stays calm and controlled: “Eyes on me, baby. Don’t look away. You’re taking my cock so well… just a little deeper. There we go. Feel that? That’s all me inside you.” He praises you like you’re doing the most impressive thing in the world, mixing in low groans and dirty observations about how wet you are and how perfectly you’re sucking him in.
SUNOO
Sunoo’s voice is angelic but his words are pure sin. He moans softly in your ear while talking you through every movement: “Mmm, you’re so wet for me already… Can you hear that sound? That’s your pussy taking me so greedily. Relax, baby, let me go deeper… Yes, just like that. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” He keeps praising you in that pretty voice until you’re clenching around him, completely addicted to the way he guides you to orgasm.
JUNGWON
Jungwon has the perfect mix of sweet and teasing. He smiles down at you while slowly pushing in, voice soft but dominant: “Aww, is it too much? Poor baby… but you’re doing amazing. Take a deep breath for me, good. Now let me in a little more. See? I knew you could take it all.” He talks you through the stretch, through the pleasure, and especially through your climax, whispering “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel you” in the most addictive way possible.
NI-KI
Ni-ki is cocky, teasing, and extremely vocal. He loves watching you struggle and talks you through it with a smirk: “Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m only halfway and you’re already falling apart? Cute. Relax this tight little pussy for me… yeah, fuck, just like that. You’re so greedy for my cock, aren’t you?” He keeps going the entire time, never shutting up, pushing you further with every filthy word until you’re screaming his name.
GENRE/CW: smut (multiple scenes), angst, fluff, porn with plot, down bad hee, switch!hee, lowkey subby hee, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), lots of kissing, cunnilingus, blowjob, dry humping, fingering, sexting, phone sex, mutual masturbation, multiple orgasms, marking, crying. mentions of nicknames, messy feelings, lmk if i missed anything!
WORD COUNT: 24.7k words!
SYNOPSIS: Money can’t buy loyalty, and neither can years of friendship. After your boyfriend and your best friend decide to fuck each other behind your back, the only silver lining is Heeseung—the one person who looks as hollow as you feel. It begins as a petty revenge kiss and a no-strings situationship, but what will you do if it slowly turns into something dangerously real?
A/N: hihi loves <3 sorry for the wait, i had to edit a few scenes but here we are now, i hope you guys enjoy the fic, also i love jaem (sorry jaem), moon nics ricey cameo lets gaurrr <3 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <3
It really was a sight to see.
Your best friend pressed up against your boyfriend like they’d invented the concept of gravity, her hands shamelessly roaming under the hem of his shirt while his mouth dragged along the line of her neck.
No shame, not even a flicker of it. To the drunk, sweating crowd around them, it probably just looked like another hazy corner of the party—two bodies tangled in the dim lights, music blasting so loud it swallowed any guilt, if they cared to harbour any that is, but you saw everything.
To be more precise, you found out yesterday when they got bold enough to fuck each other at your boyfriend’s apartment, and oblivious enough to not notice your presence, or your low chuckle at the depravity of the situation. Instead of feeling mad, you felt that bone deep numbness. Why trust anyone at this point?
Emotionally unavailable, the label had never sounded so accurate, but was it truly your fault when you never felt the need to expect anything from him? It certainly was an experience faking your orgasms for him, but you cared on the deeper levels—well, till you found him balls deep inside your now ex best friend.
So you sat there now on the worn leather couch, legs crossed, drink dangling from your fingers, watching them like it was just another Tuesday night show.
“Oh hey—you’re here! Have you seen Mina?”
The voice cut through the haze of music and chatter, slightly breathless. You turned your head slowly, lashes lowering just a fraction as your gaze landed on Heeseung.
He stood a few feet away, tall and striking even in the crowd, dark maroon hair tousled like he’d rushed all the way here. His sharp jaw was tense, brows drawn together in mild confusion as he scanned the room. The leather jacket hanging off his broad shoulders caught the shifting lights, and for a moment, you wondered how he’d react to the news of his girlfriend in the arms of his best friend.
You tilted your head, lips curving into a slow, amused smile that didn’t quite reach your eye,
“yeah,” you said, voice smooth as you clicked your tongue, “right over there.”
You lifted your glass in a lazy gesture toward the corner, and Heeseung followed your line of sight. The shift in his expression was immediate and downright visceral. His eyes widened, pupils blown with disbelief as he took in the scene of Mina’s leg hooked shamelessly around his best friend’s hip, her mouth pressed to the underside of his jaw while his hands roamed with practiced familiarity.
The way they moved together spoke of stolen nights and secret touches—months, maybe longer.
“They’re cheating,” you added lightly, almost conversationally, as if commenting on the weather as you took a slow sip from your drink, “bold choice, doing it in plain sight like this. Guess they figured neither of us would actually show up tonight—I mean, I did mention I wouldn’t.”
Heeseung’s adam’s apple bobbed visible, a flash of hurt brewed behind his eyes, before it ignited this anger within him, “what the fuck—” the words slipped out rather hoarse, broken.
He didn’t really look at you, eyes locked on them as if he couldn’t look away. Before you could say anything else, he was moving, pushing through the dense crowd with single-minded intensity. You watched his retreating back for a moment, that same curiosity curling in your chest. It would’ve been a sight to stay and watch the fireworks, sure, but you just got up.
You wove through the crowd without hurry, heels clicking softly up the narrow wooden stairs, each step carrying you farther from the mess downstairs.
The upstairs hallway was dimmer, and at the end of it, the balcony door was wide open, letting the night air slip in. You stepped outside, pulling a cigarette from the pack tucked in your jacket, lips closing around it as you flicked your lighter.
First drag hit deep, filling your lungs with that bitter, familiar burn. You leaned against the railing, letting the smoke curl out slow between your parted lips, eyes half-lidded against the wind tugging at your hair.
For a minute, everything felt almost peaceful, comfortable even, then the door scraped open behind you, and Heeseung stepped out, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way up. His hair was messier now, dark burgundy strands falling into his eyes, and his face—god, his face was a wreck. Eyes glassy with everything he was trying not to feel, cheeks flushed, mouth pressed into a thin, angry line.
Without asking, he closed the distance in two long strides and plucked it right from your lips.
A surprised little chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it, and you observed how he took a deep, shaky drag from where your lipstick had stained the cigarette, holding it in for long before he blew the smoke up toward the dark sky. His free hand gripped the railing tight enough that his knuckles went white.
“Fucking hell,” he rasped, voice rough, “how long? Just—tell me how long they’ve been doing this behind our backs.”
“Since at least yesterday,” you said, “I walked in on them fucking in his dorm, didn’t even have the decency to lock the door,” a faint smile ghosted your lips, “I just closed it again and left.”
Heeseung’s head turned toward you slowly, eyes wide with shock, the cigarette nearly slipping from his fingers, “you saw them and didn’t say shit?”
You shrugged, “what was there to say? They wanted each other, and I’ve never been the type to drown myself that deeply anyway. It just felt odd to see Mina do it, that part did affect me, years of friendship drowned for what? A guy.”
Heeseung let out a disbelieving huff, running a hand through his already tousled hair, “Jaemin was my best friend, man. We’ve been tight since freshman year—shared everything. And now this?” His voice cracked slightly, “feels like a fucking knife in the back from both sides. They looked guilty for a second but didn’t even bother following me here to explain themselves, though they did have the audacity to ask me not to tell you.”
You studied him for a moment through his ramble, the way the balcony light cast sharp shadows across his sharp jaw and the pained lines around his eyes. He looked devastatingly undone, yet there was something resilient in the way he stood there, refusing to crumble completely. The sight stirred a spark in your chest—that familiar free-spirited curiosity.
You passed the cigarette back to him after a puff, “people reveal their true colors eventually. It’s pragmatic to accept it and keep moving instead of letting it rot you from the inside.”
Silence stretched between you, thick with shared betrayal. Heeseung took another drag, then offered it back, his gaze lingering on your face with astute observation, like he was trying to peel back the layers of your calm detachment, he just couldn’t understand how you seemed so—unaffected?
You crushed the cigarette against the railing and flicked it into the night. That proactive restlessness bloomed brighter inside you, eyes gleaming with mischievous insight.
“Wanna do something fun?” You asked.
Heeseung blinked, lips parting in surprise, “fun? Like right now?”
“Mhm,” you stepped closer, “are you okay with a kiss, Heeseung?”
His breath hitched audibly, throat bobbing, “a—a kiss?” The word came out hoarse, almost stunned. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering, before snapping back up, cheeks flushing darker, “you serious?”
“Very,” you held his stare, “yes or no?”
“Isn’t that cheating?” He looked devastatingly clueless even mumbling that question, and you raised your brow.
“Yes or no?” You asked again.
He searched your face, the raw pain still churning, but something hungrier kindled beneath it—curiosity. After a beat, he gave one slow nod making you chuckle.
You took his hand and led him back down into the party’s suffocating crowd, and he followed without asking any questions. In the corner, Jaemin and Mina were still shamelessly entangled, her arms looped around his neck, his hands possessive on her hips.
You stepped straight into their space without hesitation, grabbing Jaemin’s arm to pull him back.
The sharp crack of your palm across Jaemin’s cheek echoed through the room, his head whipped sideways. Mina stumbled back with a gasp as the crowd around you froze, then erupted in murmurs and the bright flare of phone screens.
“What the fuck?” Jaemin snarled, clutching his reddening face, eyes blazing the instant recognition hit, “w—wait, Y/N?”
Mina’s face drained of color, “we—we didn’t think you would show up tonight—”
You desperately wanted to laugh, but you maintained your character, cause how were they dumb enough to think that you wouldn’t find out, especially when Heeseung did too.
“Clearly,” you said, getting ready to lie beautifully, “Heeseung told me everything. How long have you two been fucking behind our backs?”
Whispers exploded outward. Jaemin fumbled for excuses, mouth opening uselessly.
“I didn’t expect this from you Mina,” you mumbled, biting the inside of your cheek as tears started forming in her eyes.
“No—listen to me, we didn’t—”
“Whatever,” you continued, a crystalline laugh escaping you, “be happy with each other, I’ll find someone better.”
You turned away from their frozen faces, and Heeseung stood right there, looking completely wrecked. Your eyes met his, like really met them. For a second everything else including the stares, the phones, the bass—faded into background noise.
He looked at you like you were the only person left in the room, and maybe to him, you were.
You stepped in close, sliding your hands up his chest. His heart was pounding under your palms, doe eyes full of trust and anticipation for what was to come. Heeseung’s breath caught, but he didn’t move away. His hands found your waist almost on instinct, fingers spreading wide and warm through your clothes, before pressing in to hold on tighter.
His gaze dropped to your mouth before flicking back up, nodding slightly as he understood the question you asked him earlier.
Which is why you tilted your head and kissed him.
You slotted your lips against his rather softly, just to test him at first. His mouth was warm, faintly tasting of smoke and the drink he’d had earlier. He froze for half a second, stunned at the easiness of it all, then let out this quiet, broken sound against your lips and kissed you back.
The kiss turned deeper fast, hungrier. Your tongue brushed his and he groaned low in his throat, the vibration rolling straight through you. You slid one hand into his hair, tugging lightly at the strands, while the other stayed fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer. Heeseung’s grip on your waist tightened almost painfully so, one arm wrapping further around your back to press you flush against him. His chest rose and fell hard against yours. You could feel every shaky breath, the way his fingers trembled just slightly where they dug into your sides.
It was messy, a little desperate. Tongues sliding, breaths mixing hot and uneven, the faint wet sound of it somehow louder than the music behind. He kissed like he was pouring every bit of hurt and anger and sudden want into you as you took it all, giving the same right back.
When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, Heeseung was completely gone. Lips swollen and shiny, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath, eyes dark and hazy like his brain had short-circuited. A wrecked little sound slipped out of him, half-gasp, half-groan—as he stared at you, dazed and breathing hard.
Your smile embodied satisfaction as you leaned in again and pressed one slow, teasing peck to his parted lips, letting it linger just enough to make his breath hitch all over again.
Jaemin and Mina were staring like they’d seen a ghost with their jaws dropped, faces pale, eyes wide with pure disbelief. The whole party had gone dead quiet around you, everyone watching, phones still pointed your way like this was the best drama they’d seen all year (it probably was).
You laced your fingers with Heeseung’s, gave his hand a light squeeze, and tugged him toward the door.
“Let’s get out of here,” you murmured close to his ear, voice low and a little playful against his skin.
Heeseung didn’t argue, just followed, still breathing hard, fingers gripping yours tight as the door swung shut behind you.
The cool night air hit your heated skin, and for the first time tonight, everything felt wide open again.
A rather loud screech right next to your left ear woke you up, and you wondered if the world had somehow been corrupted by zombies because there’s no other explanation for such sounds, but your friend made it possible somehow.
You jolted, heart kicking once before your brain caught up. Sunoo was practically jumping beside your bed, phone in his hand, “one time—one single time I decide to stay in and catch up on sleep and you create a fucking scene? Gosh, babe.”
Winter shoved the door the rest of the way open with her shoulder, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair still a wild mess from her deep sleep. She planted herself at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at you, “fuck, Y/N,” she said before her tone got softer, “are you okay? I fucking knew that girl was a snake from the first time she came over. And your boyfriend? I always hated him, al-fucking-ways.”
You were still blinking, eyes half open and not willing to adjust to the brightness. Right then, a chuckle escaped your lips at the memory of last night—and you tried to remember the last time you felt so satisfied (maybe never?).
Sunoo dropped onto the edge of your mattress without waiting, “I always said we are your besties. The kind who’d help you hide a body, no questions asked. Ride or die, baby.”
You sat up straight, blanket pooling around your waist, and opened your arms because of course they were right, “come here, idiots.”
They didn’t hesitate, Winter climbing on first, wrapping her arms around you like she could shield you from the whole damn world. Sunoo piled on top a second later, all limbs and very dramatic sighs, squishing the three of you into a tangled heap of familiar warmth.
“Yeah,” you murmured into Sunoo’s shoulder, voice muffled, “you two are stuck with me.”
Winter huffed a soft laugh against your neck, “good, because we’re not letting you deal with that snake ex-bestie and cheating ex-boyfriend shit alone. We’re burning that chapter together.”
Sunoo’s voice came out muffled too, “and—we’re keeping the video forever, that kiss looked cozy girl, what else did you do—”
You let yourself sink into the warmth for a long moment, the bone-deep numbness from yesterday easing just enough to let something real and grateful slip through. The sting of Mina’s betrayal was still there, but it felt distant now—almost coherent in its simplicity.
People drift apart, friendships end. You’d always known that. What intrigued you more was how easily these two could make the weight feel lighter, their amiable chaos wrapping around you like a promise that some things indeed were here to stay.
Meanwhile, Heeseung was suffering.
Jay had shoved his phone into Heeseung’s face, close enough for him to make out, uh, absolutely nothing. It seemed like a blurry mess of lights until Jay yanked it back to show Heeseung a pixel version of you grabbing his jacket and pulling him into what appeared to be a passionate kiss.
The angle caught the exact moment his hands found your waist, the way his shoulders had tensed then eased up all at once. Heeseung’s ears burned red so fast it felt like someone had lit a match under his skin.
“Bro,” Jay said, grinning, “the video is everywhere, especially on the uni insta page for students. Someone made it into a trend—it’s actually insane.”
Before Heeseung could even form a coherent thought, the bedroom door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame, scaring both the boys.
Jake came barreling in, hair still sticking up from sleep, eyes wild, “you bitch—you kissed Y/N? She’s mine—I called dibs on her months ago!”
Heeseung groaned, dragging both hands down his face, “she’s not an object, Jake.”
“Oh fuck you—you know I like her,” Jake shot back, dropping on his knees.
Sunghoon strolled in next, casual as ever, one shoulder propped against the wall. He let out a low whistle and Heeseung wondered what the fuck is wrong with his friends, “so you’re what? Dating now? That was one hell of a plot twist.”
Jay sniggered, not even trying to hide it, “nah dude, you think he can handle someone like Y/N?”
Jake tried to butt in again, “I can—” but the rest of them talked right over him like usual.
Heeseung sat up slowly, the full reminder of the last night coming right back to him. The slap echoing through the room, the way you’d looked at him right before you kissed him, eyes bright with that reckless spark. The way he’d kissed you back like he enjoyed it. He swallowed hard, throat tight.
“Did I cheat on Mina?” He asked quietly.
The room went still for half a second, all three of them looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Jay let out a disbelieving laugh, “she cheated on you while you were still together.”
“Yeah but I kissed someone else literally a few minutes later—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Sunghoon cut in, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Heeseung stared at the blanket pooled over his lap, replaying the kiss again—the heat of your mouth, the way your fingers had twisted in his hair, that soft, teasing peck you pressed to his lips after. It had been the best kiss he’d ever had. The whole situation felt far too complicated for the simple labels his friends were throwing arounf, and yet he couldn’t stop the memory from looping behind his eyes.
Jay sighed, softer this time, leaning back on his elbows, “did it feel good?”
They all looked at him. Heeseung didn’t answer right away, he just swallowed again, the memory burning behind his eyes like it refused to fade.
You on the other hand were absolutely not functioning when Sunoo had a trillion questions lined up for you—all of which consisted of Heeseung. You three had just managed to make coffees when the loud knock interrupted you. A sigh was all you could manage as you opened the door to find your pathetic excuse of an ex standing there with—roses? Wow, he didn’t even have the decency to remember that you were allergic.
He spoke up before you could, “I know i deserved that slap.”
Well, obviously.
“I messed up—I swear I don’t want her.” He was looking at you with that pout he mustered whenever you both had disagreements.
You bit down your laugh, “yeah? So?”
“Take me back, baby, please?”
Right then someone flew past the door, and your mouth hung open as Sunoo straight up landed a kick on Jaemin’s thigh, resulting in him falling down with pain. Now, you laughed freely as Sunoo bent down to warn him, “stay away from her, okay?”
Jaemin turned to look at you, eyes wide, “what—”
“You heard him, we’re over, Jaemin,” you shrugged, wrapping your arm around Sunoo as you both walked inside, Sunoo glaring at man till the door closed shut.
Jaemin stayed on the ground for a few more seconds, roses scattered around him, a thorn making him bleed just enough for him to roll his eyes.
That went well.
The afternoon sun filtered softly through the leaves of the uni garden, casting dappled shadows across the wooden bench where you sat. It had been three days since the party, and the campus still hadn’t let either of you forget it. Random students kept approaching you in the hallways, the library, even the coffee line—some offering awkward condolences, others straight-up calling the slap and the kiss badass with wide-eyed admiration.
You sipped your mango matcha slowly, the garden was quiet now, just the distant hum of students walking between buildings and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. You felt normal, jolly even, like it hadn’t affected you, but even you couldn’t deny how good of a kiss it had been.
Too lost in the pdf in your iPad, you didn’t notice Heeseung approaching until his shadow fell across your lap. He stopped a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, hair still slightly messy and he somehow made it look good.
“Hey,” he said, voice polite as it had always been, “can we talk?”
You looked up, lips curving into an amiable smile, “sure, c’mere sit,” you patted the empty space beside you on the bench and held out your mango matcha toward him, “want some? It’s good.”
Heeseung only cocked his brow, “same straw?”
You blinked innocently, “you’re saying that as if we didn’t make out in front of the entire party three days ago.”
He stared at you for a moment, intrigued cause of your carefree answer, before he reached out and took the cup anyway. He drank without hesitation, the straw brushing his lips where yours had been moments ago, and when he lowered it, the corner of his mouth twitched.
You chuckled, watching the way his shoulders loosened just a fraction, “so—talk, what’s on your mind, Heeseung?”
He handed the cup back, fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary, “I’ve been thinking about that night. A lot.” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, but his eyes stayed on yours, “the kiss, the way you just handled everything. I keep replaying it and I can’t make it make sense.”
You tilted your head, taking another slow sip before answering, “what’s there to make sense of? They cheated, we both saw it. I decided not to let it ruin my night and you were there. The kiss happened—simple.”
He let out a short, disbelieving breath, running a hand through his hair, “It’s not simple for me. Mina was my girlfriend, Jaemin was my best friend since freshman year. And so much happened in like—an hour,” he paused, eyes searching your face, “did it really not mess with you at all?”
You shrugged, “It stung a little actually. Losing Mina as a friend after all those years felt kinda—odd? But drowning in it? Not really my thing.” Your lips curved again, “i’ve never been the type to hand my whole heart over and expect it to stay put.”
Heeseung watched you for a long moment, “you make it sound so coherent,” he muttered, almost to himself, “like it’s all just—logical. Meanwhile I’ve been walking around campus getting stopped by random people asking if we’re together now. It’s been three days and I still feel like my head’s spinning.”
You laughed lightly, “same here, a guy offered to buy me coffee because I deserved better, It’s weirdly entertaining.”
Heeseung’s mouth twitched into a half-smile, the first real one you’d seen from him today, “yeah, even my friend Jake was sort of, how do I even put it? But yeah, he wasn’t thrilled, hes got some crush on you.”
Your eyes sparkled, “wait, isn’t he the cute one with an accent? I like him.”
He shook his head at how you would probably encourage Jake, the thought was rather unsettling, then looked at you again, more serious, “but, y’know—the kiss, that part wasn’t just for show.”
That made you pause for a moment, and you held his gaze, intrigued by the way he was looking at you—like he was trying to figure out how someone could be so calm in the middle of the wreckage.
“So what are you saying?” You asked, voice soft but direct, “you regret it?”
“No,” he answered almost immediately, “I don’t regret it, that’s the problem. It felt good and I keep wondering what the hell that means when everything else is such a mess.”
You leaned back against the bench, letting the sun warm your face for a second, “it doesn’t have to mean anything big, I mean—we both got screwed over.” You watched how pretty he looked under the sunlight, lips slightly red cause he’d been biting them, “maybe we don’t overthink it. Maybe we just—just see where it goes.”
Heeseung took the cup again, fingers brushing yours once more, and this time he didn’t pull away right away, “you’re really okay with that?”
You smiled, “I’m okay with a lot of things, Heeseung. Especially if they feel good.”
Neither of you said anything more for a moment. The conversation didn’t need to be solved today, for now, sitting here with him, sharing the same straw and the same tension, felt like enough.
Heeseung has always been a man of few words, but even those little words seemed to disappear when you were around. And the worst part? You weren’t even aware of it.
You weren’t the one to intrude on anyone’s personal space, and that included Heeseung, much to his relief (or dismay?), he was just—confused.
A week had slipped by since the garden talk, and the quiet tension between you two had only grown heavier. He’d spent the days avoiding Mina’s messages, the knot in his chest tightening every time her name appeared. But you—you were everywhere. In literature class you sat three rows ahead, never together, but he stared. He couldn’t stop noticing the way the light caught the curve of your neck when you leaned over your notes, the soft way your fingers tapped the edge of your pen, the small, absent smile that played on your lips when something in the lecture amused you. Every stolen glance left him more tangled than the last.
Tonight the restlessness had won. He pulled on a hoodie and walked to the 24-hour convenience store near the dorms, craving something mindless like his ride or die—ramen to quiet the noise in his head.
The annoyingly white lights buzzed overhead as he stepped inside, grabbing a basket and turning down the snack aisle, mind still half-lost in yesterday’s class when you’d stretched and your shirt had ridden up just enough to—
He stopped just then, cause you were right there,
standing in the middle of the aisle in soft pink pajama shorts that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs and a matching oversized hoodie that had slipped off one shoulder, you looked unfairly soft and warm, like you’d just rolled out of bed. Your hair was a little messy, and you were reaching up for a pack of strawberry gummies, the hem of the shorts riding higher with the movement.
Heeseung’s mouth went dry, and he wanted to slap himself for acting like a fucking creep.
You turned at the sound of his footsteps, eyes meeting his across the narrow aisle. A slow smile curved your lips, the same one that had been haunting him for days.
“Hey,” you waved at him, like running into each other at midnight in pajamas was the most normal thing in the world, “couldn’t sleep either?”
Heeseung swallowed, stepping closer despite the way his pulse kicked up. The faint scent of your shampoo clinging to your hair, “needed ramen, the boys emptied the fridge I swear,” he groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.
You nodded in understanding, “same lowkey—was staring at the ceiling but then decided to get out.” You tilted your head, looking at him a little closer, eyes tracing the tired lines on his face, “you look like you’ve got a lot going on up there. Want to talk about it while we walk back?”
Heeseung hesitated for half a second, then nodded, “yeah, sounds good.”
You paid for your stuff together, the cashier barely glancing up, and stepped back out into the cool night air. The walk was easy at first, with absolutely no words being exchanged, your shoulders brushed every few steps, Heeseung kept his hands in his pockets, but he could feel the warmth of you next to him, the soft brush of your hoodie sleeve against his every time you shifted.
“Been a week,” he said after a few minutes, “Mina keeps texting, and of course I haven’t answered. It feels weird ignoring her, but answering would feel worse.”
You hummed, glancing at him sideways, “I get that. Sometimes the easiest thing is just to let it sit there until it stops stinging, y’know?” Your arm bumped his again as you walked, and you didn’t pull away, “you holding up okay with all of it?”
He just nodded, granting you a smile which made the corner of your lips lift up too, and he asked you the same, to which you laughed as if nothing had even happened.
It was so nice just walking beside you, even in silence, at this cursed hour of midnight, though Heeseung would argue and say that he felt more awake now than he did the whole day.
The dorm buildings came into view too soon, but then Heeseung saw something that made his steps falter on the pavement, body going rigid right beside you. It made you follow his line of sight, and of course—Mina was there, walking straight towards his building, head down and mind completely focused on her phone. She hadn’t noticed you yet, but it was clear that she was going to approach Heeseung.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, panic flashing across his features in a way you could feel it reach you too.
Before you could provide him with two words of comfort, his hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide and warm through the thin fabric of your hoodie. He pulled you in close, so close that your side pressed flush against his, the heat of his body juxtaposing the chill of the air. His palm was steady but his fingers trembled a little against your hip as you caught the faint scent of his cologne, it was clean and woody, just how you liked it.
“Play along, please?” He whispered urgently against your ear, voice rougher now.
You only chuckled, leaning into him as if you’d done it before, slipping your arm around his back, fingers resting lightly against the small of his back. Your head tilted up towards him, a soft smile curving up as you looked at him. Heeseung was flushed cause, damn were you good at acting.
“Got it,” you murmured back.
Mina looked up at the exact moment, eyes widened at the sight, a gasp leaving her lips as she watched Heeseung’s hand slide lower on your back as you reached his dorm door.
You didn’t even realize you were biting your bottom lip until Heeseung’s gaze dropped straight to it, his breath hitched, thumb pausing on your cheek as his other hand came up to cup your face, warm palms cradling your jaw like he was afraid you might pull away.
“Can I?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper, eyes searching yours.
You didn’t answer, just leaned in, closing the small gap between you, and pulled him into the kiss.
Your lips met his softly at first and Heeseung made a quiet sound against your mouth, his hands cupping your face fully now, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek as he kissed you back. The taste of him was faint, a hint of the cherry juice he must have had earlier. Your own hands slid up his chest, fisting lightly in his hoodie as you tilted your head to kiss him a little deeper.
When you finally pulled back, Heeseung’s eyes were dark and a little dazed, lips parted and cheeks flushed. His thumbs were still stroking your cheeks, reluctant to let go.
Mina stood frozen a few feet away, face pale, cause she swore to herself it was an act, but this? It didn’t seem like one.
Heeseung didn’t look at her, just tightening his grip on your waist and guided you through the door, pulling you inside with him. The warmth of his palm stayed glued to the small of your back the whole way, steady now, like he needed the contact to stay grounded.
Inside the apartment, Jake was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a half-eaten pizza box open on the coffee table, some mindless show playing low on the TV. He froze mid-bite when he saw you, eyes going wide.
You smiled, bright and completely at ease, like showing up at this hour with Heeseung’s arm still around you was the most normal thing in the world, “oh—hey. Jake, right?”
“Y/N? Uh yes—hi, you’re here?” Jake stuttered, making Hee roll his eyes.
You just walked over to him, dropping onto the couch beside him acting all normal though your heartbeat said otherwise, “yeah! Mind if I steal a bite?”
Jake blinked, then grinned like an idiot and lifted the slice he was holding right to your mouth, “here, go for it.”
You leaned in and took a bite straight from his hand, cheese stretching between your fingers as you chewed, “mhm, this is actually good, thanks.”
Jake’s face lit up even more, “right? You can have the whole slice if you want.”
Heeseung stood there watching the whole thing, jaw tight. He lasted about five seconds before he groaned low in his throat, “alright, that’s enough.” He crossed the room in two quick strides, caught your wrist gently but firmly, and tugged you up from the couch, “c’mon.”
You let him pull you up, giving Jake a little wave over your shoulder, “night, Jakey. Thanks for the pizza.”
Jake just waved back, still grinning, “anytime!”
The second Heeseung’s door clicked shut behind you, silence filled the room—it was dim, lit only by the desk lamp, the air suddenly too warm and too small. Heeseung’s back pressed against the door, eyes dark and fixed on you before he walked over and plopped on his bed.
You clicked your tongue, tilting your head at him, “now she’s gonna think we’re dating.”
Heeseung rubbed a hand over his face, looking genuinely sorry, “yeah—I know. I’m so sorry—I just panicked and pulled you into this whole thing. You didn’t have to go along with it.”
You shrugged, stepping closer until you were right in front of him. Then, without warning, you turned and sat right down on his lap, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Heeseung’s breath caught, hands instinctively landing on your hips to steady you, eyes wide with surprise.
“I did kiss you first at the party,” you said, “so it’s kinda my fault too.”
Heeseung’s fingers flexed on your hips, holding you there. He gulped, throat bobbing visibly as he looked up at you, “so, now what?” he asked, voice rough.
You shrugged again, still sitting comfortably on his lap, fingers playing with the collar of his hoodie, “it’s your call, Hee.”
You kept talking as Heeseung pondered deeply about his choices. He didn’t register you saying something about how Jake’s face was priceless because Heeseung wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes had dropped to the exposed line of your clavicle where your hoodie had slipped down, tracing the smooth skin there, then moving up to your lips—still a little shiny from the greasy pizza, slightly parted as you spoke. The way you were sitting on him, the soft weight of you on his thighs—it was too stimulating for him.
He didn’t say anything, just leaned in and kissed you hard, mouth practically crashing into yours, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other staying firm on your hip to keep you right where you were. There was nothing hesitant about it this time—it was hungry, deep. His tongue brushed yours, and he groaned quietly into the kiss, the sound vibrating against your lips. You could feel the way his fingers tightened in your hair, the way his chest rose and fell fast against yours, the way his body reacted instantly to having you on his lap like this.
You kissed him back just as hard, hands sliding up his chest to fist in his hoodie. A soft moan slipped out of you when he sucked on your bottom lip, and Heeseung made this low, wrecked sound in response, hips shifting under you.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, barely pulling back, “this okay? Tell me if you want to stop.”
You shook your head, lips brushing his as you answered, voice already breathy, “don’t stop—keep going.”
He groaned and kissed you harder, tongue sliding against yours as one hand slid under your hoodie, palm warm on your bare back. You rocked your hips down against him and he moaned into your mouth, the sound raw.
You pulled back just enough to speak, forehead resting against his, “we doing this then?” You breathed against his lips, “no strings, just whenever we want or need?”
Heeseung swore you could read minds, “yeah,” he sighed in pleasure, “I want that—you and me, no strings.”
You smiled against his lips and kissed him again, deeper, grinding down slowly, “good fucking boy.”
He groaned louder, the sound vibrating through you as his fingers dug into your thighs, “shit—I’ve been so fucking pent up,” he muttered between kisses, hips rolling up to meet yours, “all week because of you.”
You moaned softly, rocking against him again with a chuckle, “that’s adorable, keep going, yeah? Don’t stop.”
He flipped you suddenly, laying you on your back and settling between your thighs. The new position made you both moan—the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, lips chasing yours mindlessly as his tongue slid against yours, hand tracing higher under your hoodie, hips grinding down slowly.
“God, you feel good,” he muttered, pulling you down for another kiss.
You nodded, moaning softly into his mouth, “so do you.”
The room filled with the sounds of lips, heavy breathing, and quiet moans as you kept moving together, hands roaming, bodies pressing closer. The conversation faded into breathy words and soft sounds between kisses, and honestly, both of you didn’t care about much anymore. You both were just two horny adults functioning on a verbal agreement with no rules whatsoever.
Outside in the living room, Jake had just taken another bite of pizza when the first loud moan drifted through the door. His eyes widened with betrayal—the slice slipping from his fingers and landed cheese-side down on the floor with a pathetic splat.
He stared at the closed door for a long second, mouth still full.
“Well—shit.”
You didn’t know that the consequences of spending one night with Heeseung could be so dire, granted you didn’t go beyond some innocent humping which bestowed you with the absolute pleasure of seeing Heeseung desperate and flushed underneath you.
The question bugged you—why would Mina even wish to leave such a beautiful man who’s very willing to provide pleasure?
You were still turning that over in your head as you walked down the hallway, iPad tucked under your arm, one AirPod in, but your mind was elsewhere—which was odd considering you never were the kind to just stand and ponder about random things, during the day time at least. The last time it happened was when you were a kid and Zayn had left One direction.
Regardless, you chuckled at the idea of Heeseung being the one to garner your attention, since you never saw him in that light before—something about friends’ partners being inanimate to you. Either way, you started walking back towards your dorm since the lectures were over, only to be stopped by Mina blocking your path with a scowl on her face.
You raised an eyebrow, “hey?”
“We need to talk,” she huffed, looking rather tired, maybe with the way people stopped the second they sensed any drama, and why wouldn’t they? You both were the centre of it given the circumstances.
“Do we really?” You gave her a lazy look, knowing well it bothered her.
Her jaw clenched. “You kissed Heeseung. In front of everyone. While he was still with me.”
A couple more heads turned. You could feel eyes on you now, phones probably already sliding out of pockets.
You let out a short breath, almost a laugh, “while he was still with you? That’s rich. Last time I checked, you were the one fucking my boyfriend in his dorm with the door wide open. I walked in on you two, actually. So maybe don’t lecture me about cheating.”
Mina’s cheeks flushed, “that’s not the same—”
“It kind of is,” you cut in, keeping your voice even, “Heeseung didn’t deserve to find out like that, neither of us did, but at least I didn’t sneak around for months like a coward. And yeah, I kissed him—I’d do it again. He’s too good for the way you two treated him.”
Mina’s eyes flashed with anger, “you’re no better than me. You basically cheated too—”
“Bro, are you actually serious right now?”
A tall guy with messy black hair and a skateboard tucked under his arm stepped out from the edge of the crowd. You’d seen him around in a couple electives. He looked Mina up and down, completely unimpressed, having seen the scene at the party in flesh too.
“Everyone’s seen the video,” he said, loud enough that the people nearby nodded, “I literally saw you and Jaemin at the party. You’re the one who cheated, leave her alone.”
A girl a few feet away nodded like she agreed. Mina glanced around at all the stares, lips pressed tight, then spun on her heel and shoved through the crowd, practically running toward the exit.
You let out a real laugh this time, almost like you couldn’t believe this was real, that your own friend would turn against you in such a manner. Riki turned to you, one corner of his mouth lifting.
“Damn,” he said, “that was satisfying.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, still chuckling as you started walking again, “thanks for stepping in. You really didn’t have to.”
He shrugged, falling into step beside you, “she’s been trying to change the perception, i saw her lying to my friend earlier. Someone had to say it. I’m Riki by the way, or Ni-ki, whatever.”
“Y/N,” you said, bumping his shoulder lightly, “seriously, I owe you a coffee for that.”
“Bet,” he smirked, already pulling his phone out, “just text me whenever. I’m free most afternoons.”
Ten feet away, half-hidden behind a cluster of students, Heeseung had stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. Jay almost walked straight into his back, headphones on so conveniently, he missed the whole commotion.
“You good?” He asked, lifting one side of his headphones, “Heeseung?” He asked yet again when he didn’t get a reply.
How would he? When Heeseung was deep in thoughts, the tips of his ears red. Everyone knew he was the guy who kept to himself, not the kind to insert himself into a fight—eventually leading to him never getting into a situation where he’d have to defend himself.
But you did it so naturally with not a single hint of him witnessing the scene. It was heartwarming to say the least, the way you defended him so casually but your tone clearly portraying the care you harboured for him, even if it was little (as per Heeseung and his never ending self doubt).
Before Jay could wave a hand in front of his face, Jake came barreling around the corner like he was late for everything in life, backpack slipping off one shoulder. Without missing a beat he lunged forward, locking an arm around Heeseung’s neck and yanking him down into a tight headlock.
“Spill it right now—the hell did you do with Y/N last night, huh? I’m not letting go till you talk, dude, I swear to god—”
Much to his dismay, Heeseung pushed him off with ease, “the fuck? Get off,” he said, staring at Jake who looked like he hadn’t slept at all.
Jay was completely lost, headphones now resting on his neck, “what am I missing here exactly? What even happened?”
Heeseung groaned, “nothing happened—”
“Nah, he took Y/N to his room and then I heard moans. Moans—do you fucking get it? He’s actually fucking her.” Jake ranted, eyes blown wide.
Jay’s eyebrows shot up, “wait, what? For real?”
Heeseung shoved Jake off properly this time, cheeks burning as he fixed his hoodie, “It’s not—fuck, can you not yell that in the middle of the hallway?”
Jake threw his hands up, looking genuinely offended, “I’m sorry, I was trying to eat pizza and process the fact that my dream girl was getting railed by my roommate. You could’ve at least given me a heads-up, man.”
Jay let out a low whistle, finally catching on. He crossed his arms, which had gotten muscular somehow, “so, you and Y/N? Like, actually?”
Heeseung rubbed a hand over his face, ears still red, “we have an arrangement of sorts. No strings attached, that’s it.”
Jake stared at him like he’d been shot in the chest, “no strings? She deserves love, she deserves aftercare and pampering and—”
Jay was never good at hiding his amusement, especially if it consisted of embarrassing one of his friends, “you sure you can actually do the no-strings thing? You’re the guy who gets attached after one good conversation. Remember that girl from school who just smiled at you in the library and you were googling how to ask someone on a date at two a.m.?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Heeseung muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched with his mind drifting back to you.
Jake however, wasn’t done. He threw his hands up again, “I’m serious, I even fucking dropped the pizza slice she ate from.”
Jay snorted, “you’re never gonna let that go noq, are you?”
“Never,” Jake said, dead serious, “that could’ve been our indirect kiss.”
Heeseung shook his head, finally starting to walk again so they wouldn’t be late for class, “It’s fine. We’re both adults, it’ll be okay.”
Jay fell into step beside him, clapping him on the back a little too hard, “yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that, I give it ten days before you’re buying her flowers and writing her name in your notes with hearts around it.”
“Two weeks,” Jake corrected, still sulking, “max.”
Heeseung didn’t bother arguing. He just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, the stupid little smile refusing to leave his face completely.
You, meanwhile, had no idea any of that chaos had just exploded behind you. You groaned, sitting down on the couch, despising the silence that greeted you. Winter had gone to her family home for her cousin’s wedding, and Sunoo had conveniently decided to spend the night over at Hoon’s to torture him with some horror movie.
And you were here, unsure of what to do tonight, and the newfound interest you’d found within your ex’s best friend.
Whatever this was, it was definitely going to be interesting.
Turns out, the night wasn’t about to be boring at all. You had just gotten under the warmth of your duvet as your phone lit up, a text brightening your lock screen. Evidently, you seemed to be lurking in Heeseung’s mind as much as he had started persisting in yours.
Heeseung: you up?
You: that’s such a fuckboy question
Heeseung: oh shit i didnt mean it that way
You: hm? what’s it then
Heeseung: js felt like texting
You clicked your tongue, rolling to your side, phone propped up against your fluffy pink pillow.
You: mhm sure
You: what are you doing rn then
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, then popped up again—a proper reminder of how Heeseung’s personality shone through even through his texting patterns.
Heeseung: just lying in bed
Heeseung: can’t sleep for some reason
A second later your phone vibrated with a picture, a selfie to be precise. It was rather cinematic how Heeseung appeared to look even prettier with dim lights, messy dark hair falling into his eyes, no shirt, just the chain he always wore catching the light. He looked way too good for someone who was just lying in bed, lips slightly parted and swollen like he’d been biting them. The angle showed the sharp line of his collarbone and that adam’s apple, a few marks evident on his skin, courtesy of you.
You stared for a second longer than you meant to, completely zoned in how beautiful a few marks made him look.
You: oh wow
You: don’t you look dashing at one in the morning
Heeseung only let out a breathy laugh, clearly preening under your praise, as if he hadn’t clicked eight pictures just so he could send you the most perfect one, in his standards at least.
Heeseung: your turn
The corner of your lip twitched up as you sat a little, tugged the neckline of your oversized tee down just enough so the soft swell of your tits spilled over the fabric, nipples barely hidden. You angled the camera, snapped it, and hit send without overthinking, knowing that the reply would come within seconds, and so it did.
Heeseung: fuck
Heeseung: you’re actually evil
You laughed under your breath and sent another one right after, taking off your tee fully, letting him know how hard your nipples had gotten already.
You: now you. don’t be shy baby
Heeseung sent back a shot of his hand shoved down his sweats, gripping himself. The outline was obvious, the tip of his cock peeking out above the waistband, flushed and already leaking. Then another one—his hand mid-stroke, thumb smearing the precum over the head. A low, rather shaky breath left his lips in the process, and he swore he hadn’t ever been the type to be so—so evidently horny before.
You’d say you bring out the worst in people, but Heeseung would contradict it with a goofy smile saying how it’s the absolute best. With that thought, he hit sent.
Heeseung: this is what you do to me
Your mouth went dry, the picture being enough for you to spread your legs under the duvet, only to push the duvet away entirely before angling your phone properly to ensure the slick on your cunt would be visible in the picture.
You: see what you’re missing?
Heeseung: jesus christ i’m actually throbbing
You bit down on your bottom lip, absolutely letting the pleasure of having Heeseung in control take over. So, instead of texting back, you tapped the voice message button and held it down.
Your voice came through low and teasing, a little breathy already.
“Aw, poor baby, you’re throbbing just from a picture? C’mon, lemme hear how good it feels, hm?”
You sent it without thinking twice, and he was quick to listen, his dick twitching just as he heard your voice. A few seconds later his voice message came back—husky, a little embarrassed, but clearly turned on.
“Fuck—you’re so mean,” he whispered, which almost came out as a whine, “I’m so hard it hurts. I’m stroking it slow at first, like this—” You could hear the faint, wet sound of his hand moving, “but I keep thinking about how wet you looked in that last pic. Want my mouth on you so bad right now.”
You caressed your clit gently, letting your head fall back at his not so shy admissions. It was hot how he didn’t shy away from speaking his mind.
“Hmm, good boy—keep stroking just like that. Faster now, I want to hear how desperate you sound for me. Tell me exactly what you’d do if you were here.”
His next voice message was even shakier, breathing heavier.
“I’d pull you on top of me, let you grind on my cock while you tell me how you want it. Fuck—I’d let you use me however you want. I’d suck on your tits while you ride me, make you moan my name louder, please take my name, please?”
You let out a soft, breathy moan right into your reply.
“Yeah? You like when I boss you around, Heeseung? Touch yourself exactly how I would. Tighten your grip—I know you’re close already, aren’t you?”
Heeseung’s voice cracked in the next voice note, barely above a whisper.
“Shit—yeah, I’m so close, your voice is driving me insane. Ah, fuck, wanna bury my face between your thighs right now—”
You were breathing harder too, fingers moving faster. You sent one last voice message, letting your voice be sultry.
“Then cum for me, Hee. Let me hear it. I want you moaning my name when you do.”
That did it for him, he could barely even keep the phone in his hand, shivering at the hyper awareness of it all, of you.
Somehow, you knew exactly the predicament he was undergoing, and you decided to spare the poor man, hitting the call button to free his hands. He picked up after a single ring.
“Fuck—you’re actually perfect,” he panted, the wet sound of his hand still audible. “I’ve never been this gone from just voice messages before.”
You laughed softly, sliding two fingers inside yourself with a quiet moan, “then don’t stop. Stroke it faster for me, yeah? Be good, I want to hear every sound you make while you think about fucking me.”
Heeseung groaned, clearly trying (and failing) to stay quiet because of his friends, who were in the living room. “Feels so good but it’s not enough—I keep imagining you riding me, telling me to go harder, shit,—”
“You’re doing so well,” you praised, clenching around your fingers as he moans out your name, “imagine it’s my pussy instead of your hand. I’m so fucking wet for you right now. You’d slide in so easy, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah—fuck, I would,” he whimpered, “I’d let you use me however you want. I’d let you choke me while you ride me, I don’t even care anymore—”
You moaned louder, fingers curling just right, “yeah, yeah, just keep talking like that and I’m gonna cum, be good c’mon, you’ll cum with me, yeah?”
Heeseung’s breathing turned ragged, desperate little sounds slipping out, “i’m so close—gonna—fuck, Y/N—”
You came first, moaning his name all soft and filthy into the phone. He followed right after with a choked groan, trying to muffle it against his pillow but failing miserably, and god knows what would happen if Sunoo (who was there all thanks to Sunghoon) was to witness this.
For a long moment the only thing between you was heavy breathing.
Then Heeseung let out a soft, wrecked little laugh, making you grin lazily, “you did so well, Hee.”
He didn’t expect that, making him whine again, and you swore you could run to see him all flushed and blushing, “you’re so perfect.”
Your breath hitched at his whispered words, gulping as you stayed silent, letting your breathing even out. He was quiet for a beat too, but his mind wasn’t stopping at that.
“Hey, uh I saw what you did earlier, in the hallway, with Mina.”
You blinked, surprised, “wait, you were there?”
“Yeah. I was a little further back, but i heard everything.” His voice dropped, almost like he was in awe, “the way you shut her down for me—defended me like that without even thinking. It was really fucking hot. Couldn’t stop thinking about it all night, that’s why I texted you.”
You let out a low chuckle at how unpredictable he was, “so that’s the real reason you were sending me nudes and moaning my name like a desperate little slut at one a.m., huh?”
If praises led Heeseung to moan, the degradation caused him to cry—not in a bad way of course. It was new for him too, as if he was learning about himself through you. And the voice you heard was beautiful, a broken cry of his desperation.
“I see you’re into degradation,” you pointed out.
“Fucking hell, even I didn’t know,” he breathed out, eyes closing.
You only smirked, getting closer to the phone now.
“Wanna test how it plays out?”
“Why the fuck did Hoon just tell me you’re fucking Heeseung?”
It was rather hard to distinguish his tone when he sounded both impressed and mad. Turns out, he was mad since he didn’t hear it from you first, then, he was impressed with how fast you moved on. Regardless, he didn’t let you live that down, trying to force the group together, only to see Heeseung squirming and you being absolutely normal.
You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, still in the oversized hoodie you’d thrown on after your morning shower, when Sunoo burst through the door, Winter followed, sipping an iced latte and looking far too amused for someone who was supposed to be your emotional support. And so another interrogation session took place, which you survived (somehow).
Other than that, things had been normal. A few changes did occur such as you all having lunch together, even Winter invited her girlfriend, making the group seem livelier than ever. Jake made it his mission to sit next to you each time, and Heeseung—well, he stared at you more than he ate.
That pattern followed you straight into your English lecture later that afternoon. You slipped into your usual seat in the middle row, barely five minutes late, when Riki dropped into the chair right beside you, and you looked up at him, surprised.
Heeseung walked in later, eyes on how you greeted the guy easily, and with that, he almost walked into someone. He could only manage to groan, because why wouldn’t you talk to him? To be fair, you did talk to him, like a friend, but never more, no initiation of any sort. Heeseung was the one who texted first, and he didn’t mind, but with how soft hearted he was, he probably wouldn’t mind you texting first either.
That being said, Heeseung was basically sulk incarnate watching how you made plans to give Riki a coffee for some reason—was it a date? Why would you even like that tall kid? Heeseung knew you better despite the little time he spent with you. It was a given that you didn’t offer much about yourself despite your outgoing personality, but he did know how you played with your nails, how your eyes go wide when you eat something good, and how fucking good you sound moaning his name.
“We’re all going to the cafe,” Sunoo chirped the second you stepped outside after the class, Heeseung following behind to see all his friends standing there too.
You did find it odd how he was silent today, too silent, even worse when he didn’t try to initiate any conversation with you, just falling into step with his friends instead. His hands were shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders a little hunched as the group started moving.
Halfway there he slowed down just enough to tug Jay’s sleeve, voice low and trying way too hard to sound casual, “Hey, can you do me a favour?”
Jay only raised his brow, urging him to continue, “uh, so when we sit down, maybe ask Y/N something that’ll get her talking, like the stuff going on in her life, just anything.”
Jay stopped dead for half a second, then let out a loud, wheezing laugh that practically bounced off the buildings. The sound was so sudden and genuine that you actually turned around mid-conversation with Karina and Winter, eyebrows raised like you were trying to figure out what was so funny. Jay just waved you off, still cracking up as he clapped Heeseung on the back a little too hard.
“You’re actually hopeless,” Jay wheezed, trying to keep his voice down but failing miserably, “just talk to her yourself, what the fuck.”
Heeseung shoved him off, cheeks hot, “shut up, man. Just—just do it, okay? Please.”
They caught up to the rest of the group right as you all reached the café. The usual corner table was free, so everyone piled in. Jake, of course, immediately dropped into the seat next to you like it was his assigned spot now. Heeseung ended up straight across from you, eyes meeting yours, but this time, he didn’t look away. The corner of your lips twitched seeing him this way, and soon, he found himself smiling fondly too.
Jay sat there as a witness to Heeseung’s internal breakdown, and well, happiness caused by two seconds of your undivided attention. In the midst of it all, everyone gave their orders, famished beyond words for some reason. The table was lively still, Jake trying to initiate conversations with you, even though Heeseung had not so subtly kicked him under the table to shut him up.
Jay waited until there was a small lull, then leaned forward with that lazy grin of his.
“So Y/N,” he said casually, like it was no big deal, “what’s the deal with you and Heeseung lately? You two been hanging out a lot or what? He’s been weirdly smiley these days.”
Heeseung’s heart did a stupid little flip, face clearly trying to play it cool, but his eyes were glued to you, waiting.
You took a sip of your drink and shrugged, knowing that if you say anything remotely wrong, Sunoo and Winter would be on your ass about it, “it’s nice hanging out with him, he’s funny.”
Jay snorted at how Heeseung’s smile widened, “funny, huh? That’s all you’re giving us?”
Before you could answer, Jake jumped in, mouth full of his cup ramen, which he somehow got into the cafe, “god, I shouldn’t have gotten Shin, I’m telling you, nothing beats Buldak. You team Buldak too, Y/N?”
Jake immediately turned to you with those big puppy eyes, “c’mon, tell him he’s wrong. Buldak or nothing, right?”
Sunoo and Sunghoon couldn’t even stand this, staring at Jake with the same expression of disgust, his fascination for you was genuinely funny.
You looked up at Hee, who waited for your answer with shiny eyes, then back at Jake again. Maybe teasing Heeseung wouldn’t hurt, right? Especially when he looked so innocent and serious about your input as if it mattered.
“I mean, Buldak is definitely good,” you agreed with Jake, taking another sip of your mango matcha.
Jake beamed at the reply, bumping your shoulder. But Heeseung’s smile faltered for a second, and you almost frowned, not expecting him to surrender, “yeah, fair enough,” he muttered, staying silent the rest of the time, eyes flicking up to you every few seconds, while you observed him openly.
Jay only sighed, and somehow Winter was just as exhausted at the exchange, because Heeseung couldn’t hide his feelings to save his life, and you?
You were missing the point of this little conversation entirely.
When everyone finally started packing up for their next lectures, the group split off in different directions. You noticed Heeseung hanging back a little, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders still hunched as he walked alone. With a chuckle, you jogged a couple steps, and grabbed his hand.
Heeseung startled hard, eyes going wide as he looked down at your fingers laced with his, and how perfect your new acrylics looked, the touch being enough to make a shiver go up his spine, “Y/N—?”
You only walked further, swinging your joined hands, “why so silent today?” You asked, looking up at him with a brow raised.
He let out a small breath, eyes flickering back to where your thumb brushed his knuckles, “it’s nothing, just thinking I guess.”
“Hm, about how I picked Buldak over Shin?” You tilted your head, “you got all quiet after that. Kinda cute, actually.”
Heeseung glanced away, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, “It’s not that, but Jake looked happy, so—yeah.”
“Shin’s my favourite actually, I only said Buldak to see you fight back, but yeah,” you shrugged with a smile.
Heeseung’s head snapped back toward you, surprised, “wait, really?”
“Yeah. Remember that night we ran into each other at the convenience store? You were grabbing Shin too, I noticed.” You pointed out, “and you barely ate anything at the café either. Come over later? We can have ramen together.”
Heeseung’s steps slowed at the implication, and it showed on his face, mixed with the fondness of the simple fact that you noticed such little things. He wasn’t the kind of guy who needed grand gestures, yes he’d appreciate it, but the little things mattered more.
“You—noticed that?” He asked quietly, almost shy.
You hummed, then leaned up on your toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “you can eat something else too if you want.”
That sent him into this mode of short circuiting, and before he could even form a reply, you let go of his hand with a bright, mischievous laugh and took off running ahead across the path, glancing back at him over your shoulder with that same playful grin.
Heeseung stood there for half a second, face burning, your words looping in his head like a damn song on repeat. Then a big, flustered smile broke across his face and he took off after you, knowing he’d catch up to you in no time.
“Fuck,” he yelled, half-laughing as he chased you down the walkway, “you can’t just say that and run—get back here!”
He really hoped it could always stay this easy with you.
You fell on your mattress with a thud, the springs creaking under the sudden weight of both of you. Heeseung landed right on top, chest pressed to yours, mouth already chasing yours in a hungry, desperate kiss that tasted like the faint strawberry from his drink earlier.
His lips were hot and insistent, tongue sliding against yours like he couldn’t get close enough, letting out every bit of his frustration into this kiss. One of his hands shoved under your hoodie and straight into your shorts, two fingers gliding through your slick folds before pushing inside you without hesitation. You gasped into his mouth, thighs falling open wider as he curled them deep, stroking that spot that made your back arch clean off the bed.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he breathed against your lips, and you only sank in further, kissing all the way down to his neck, letting an open mouthed kiss linger on his adam’s apple, feeling it blobbing under you as he gulped in need, as if parched.
Heeseung let out a shaky groan, fingers stuttering inside you for a second before he doubled down, thrusting them deeper, curling harder, “shit—you’re gonna make me lose it just from that.”
You smiled against his throat, sucking lightly, then dragged your teeth over the same spot while your hand kept working his cock in slow, tight strokes. He was throbbing in your palm, hot and slick with precum, hips twitching every time your thumb swept over the head, and you almost moaned cause he was big.
But it wasn’t enough, you wanted him under you, wanted to watch him fall apart.
You pushed at his chest, flipping him onto his back in one smooth motion. Heeseung let out a surprised grunt as you straddled his thighs, yanking his pants and boxers down just far enough. His cock sprang free, flushed dark and glistening, curving up against his stomach.
Wrapping your fingers around his base as you leaned in to give his tip a slow kiss, making him moan shamelessly, “wait—you don’t have to,” he managed to let out.
You looked up at him, lips brushing the wet slit as you spoke, “I know, I want to,” you whispered, “been thinking about having you in my mouth since you were sulking on the way here, just to apologize, y’know?”
Heeseung’s breath hitched, “god—you’re serious?”
Instead of answering, you took him in, lips stretching around the thick head, tongue pressing flat against the underside as you sank down. The taste of him filled your mouth, salty and warm, and you moaned softly around his length.
“Shit—baby,” Heeseung’s hand flew to your hair, holding on like he needed something to ground him, his thighs tensing under you, “your mouth feels—so fucking good.”
You hummed in response, taking him deeper until he bumped the back of your throat. You relaxed around him, swallowing, and he let out a broken groan, hips twitching up before he caught himself.
“Sorry—gosh I didn’t mean to,” he whispered.
You pulled off just enough to speak, lips shiny, a thin string of spit still connecting you to him, “don’t apologize. Fuck my throat if you want to.” You stroked him slow and firm, eyes locked on his, “I can take it, I want you to use me.”
Heeseung’s eyes darkened. He’d never done this before, sure he’d gotten blowjobs, but the permission to take in full control of it? Oh, he swore he was gonna die, “you’re gonna kill me saying shit like that.”
You chuckled and sank back down, taking him all the way until your nose brushed his stomach. You held there for a second, throat fluttering around him, before you started moving, wet bobs of your head, hand twisting around the base.
Heeseung’s head fell back against the pillow, a wrecked moan spilling out, “fuck, fuck—oh my god.” His fingers tightened in your hair, not forcing, but guiding you a little now, testing the waters, “you like this? Being on your knees for me?”
You moaned around him in answer, the vibration making his hips jerk. You pulled off with a gasp, spit dripping down your chin, “I like when you stop being so polite and just take what you want.” You licked a slow stripe up the underside, eyes never leaving his, “you’re always so sweet, Hee, but i also know how desperate you are, won’t you show it to me like a good fucking boy?”
Heeseung’s breath stuttered, it was almost like a switch flipping. His grip in your hair tightened just a fraction more, and when you took him back in, he let himself thrust up a little, shallow and careful at first.
“Like this?” He asked, voice strained, “tell me if it’s too much.”
You pulled off just enough to speak, lips brushing the head, “Harder, I can take it. Use my throat, baby.”
The words seemed to break something in him. He groaned deep in his chest and started moving his hips with more purpose, fucking into your mouth in short, needy thrusts. You relaxed your throat and let him, moaning encouragement around his cock every time he pushed deeper.
“Fuck, fuck—you’re so good,” he panted, voice cracking, “so fucking good at this. Look at you—taking me so deep.” His free hand came down to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek while he watched himself disappear between your lips, “I didn’t know I liked this so much, watching you choke on me.”
You moaned louder, the praise and the way he was starting to lose control making heat flood between your legs. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and Heeseung’s head tipped back again, a string of curses falling from his lips.
“Baby—slow down or I’m gonna cum,” he warned, but his hips kept moving, like he couldn’t stop himself, “you’re really gonna let me cum down your throat?”
You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him fast and tight, lips hovering just over the tip, “let me taste you.”
Heeseung’s eyes rolled back as he came with a broken moan of your name, hips jerking as he spilled down your throat in hot pulses. You swallowed every drop, working him through it until he was trembling and oversensitive, little whimpers slipping out every time your tongue moved.
When you finally pulled off, lips swollen and shiny, Heeseung was staring at you like you’d rewired his brain. His chest was heaving, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes dark and hazy.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice shot, “I didn’t know I could like something that much.”
You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, smirking as you crawled up his body and kissed him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue.
“You’re learning fast,” you murmured against his lips. “and we’re just getting started.”
So, you were true to your word, because by the time you both stopped, all breathless and spent, it was nighttime. In the midst of everything, you both had managed to fall asleep tangled with each other. Heeseung was the one to wake up first, caressing your cheek as he stared at how peacefully you slept in his arms.
He stayed like that for a long minute, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek, watching the way your lashes rested against your skin. Something heavy settled in his chest—not regret exactly, but a quiet, gnawing guilt that refused to leave him alone.
Carefully, he slipped out from under you, tucking the blanket around your bare shoulders so you wouldn’t get cold. He padded over to the window on quiet feet, pushing the curtain aside just enough to look out at the dark sky. The campus lights glowed faintly in the distance, stars barely visible through the city haze.
Heeseung pressed his forehead against the cool glass, exhaling slowly. What the fuck am I doing? The thought looped in his head. He’d loved Mina—or at least he’d told himself he did. They’d been together for over a year. But even on the best nights with her, he’d never felt this—free, this wanted. With you, you didn’t ask him to be anything other than exactly who he was in the moment, needy, desperate, a little mean when you pushed him, soft when you let him hold you after. Just a hint of your attention made his chest feel too full and that scared the shit out of him.
Because he’d sworn he loved Mina. But this? He wasn’t even sure what to name this feeling anymore, and it felt dramatic when nothing had even happened, just freedom and the best pleasure he’d ever experienced.
The floor creaked softly behind him, making him turn his head to find you sitting up in bed now, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. Without saying anything, you reached for his hoodie that had been tossed on the floor earlier and pulled it over your head. It swallowed you, the hem brushing your thighs as you padded over barefoot to stand beside him.
You leaned your shoulder against the window frame, looking out at the same dark sky. For a moment neither of you spoke.
“You okay?” You asked eventually, voice soft.
Heeseung, however, was in deep thoughts of silent appreciation, because you looked beautiful, you always did, “yeah,” he let out a quiet breath, “I feel like an asshole for even saying this out loud, but—I don’t remember it ever feeling this easy with Mina, even when things were good. With you it’s just different. Like I don’t have to pretend or hold back or be anyone else. I don’t know. That probably sounds stupid.”
You stayed quiet for a second, then bumped your shoulder gently against his, “it doesn’t sound stupid. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel, Hee, it’s valid. You don’t owe her anything anymore, and you don’t owe me some perfect version of yourself either, okay?”
“You’re too nice to me,” he mumbled.
You smiled, looking elsewhere for a moment as you gulped, “that’s what friends are for,” you let out.
Heeseung turned to look at you fully, friends, is that what you were? Because friends don’t do all this. So, Heeseung only managed to muster one question, hoping the reply would be enough of an action to understand if he was truly alone in this or not.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper with the hope to earn even something as little as a nod.
This means something more, you thought. This isn’t just sex anymore, not for him. Truly, Heeseung wasn’t even the kind to do this, so why did he agree to this? You wouldn’t mind being a rebound for him but him getting attached would be a problem. Would it really, though? You should’ve said no, but you found yourself being entranced by the beauty in his eyes.
So, instead you stepped closer, sliding your hands up his bare chest, and tilted your face up to his, “yeah,” you whispered, “you can.”
Heeseung’s breath caught as he cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you were something fragile, slotting his lips onto yours almost achingly gentle, this almost felt like a question and an answer all at once to him.
When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he let out a shaky little laugh, pecking the corner of your mouth once.
The reflection on the window catching on everything you both were too afraid to admit.
Honestly, the fault was yours for not discussing the boundaries or making one of those contracts like they do in the movies or books (though they never work), cause now, you and Heeseung had been hanging around way more often, some witnesses might even confuse this intimacy for dating.
Maybe Heeseung was one of them, because when he texted you to come over, you half expected sex, not sitting alongside him learning League of legends at two in the morning. He was unpredictable to say the least, but he did wear his heart on his sleeve, so you could see the bits and pieces of the things he craved, and right now, he craved your time.
You didn’t mind giving it to him, but it did come with a cost. The second you walked into the room, eyes widening at this small corner of the desk where a mango matcha, a few blue walkers, and a pack of Ferrero Rocher was placed neatly, alongside two packets of cup noodles (just in case).
To Heeseung, it was normal, and you would have agreed had it been some synonym of aftercare, but no. It was just Heeseung being absolutely willing (and needing) to spend more time with you outside of your fancy little arrangement.
He had opened the door with a smile so contagious, you mirrored it as he led you inside. A small corner of his desk was full of snacks, a cup of matcha which he knew was your favourite, a couple of Ferrero Rochers because he saw you eating those during the English lecture. You stood there for a second longer than intended, staring at it all, then at the man who had already made himself comfortable on the spare chair, waiting for you with the same gentle smile he always carried around you, making you gulp for a second before you returned it.
“C’mere? Sit with me,” he said, patting his main gaming chair right next to him, and he half expected you to tease him for doing this, “I swear I’m not trying to be weird, and if you don’t wanna do this we can stop, or you can make fun of me.”
You let out a quiet huff of a laugh and kicked your shoes off before sliding into the chair beside him. Your knee bumped his under the desk and you left it there, the contact warm even through your clothes. Heeseung rolled his own chair closer right away, leaning in from behind you so his chest brushed lightly against your back, one arm resting along the back of your seat while the other reached around to the mouse, and you didn’t notice how he took in your scent with a dreamy sigh.
“We’re playing League of Legends?” You asked, and he nodded.
“Have you played it before?” He asked a little hesitant that you’d say you don’t wish to play or indulge in this.
“Nope,” you said, reaching for the matcha because your mouth suddenly felt dry. The cup was ice-cold, condensation dripping down your fingers as you took a sip, “I’m probably gonna suck at this, just so you know.”
Heeseung let out a small laugh, relieved that you aren’t opposed to this, “that’s fine, we can start from the basics,” he covered your hand with his on the mouse, guiding you through the first clicks. “You just run at people and spin when they get close. Super easy, I promise.”
His fingers were warm over yours, almost careful like he was scared you’d pull away. You felt the way his chest moved against your back when he breathed, the faint brush of his hair against your neck every time he leaned in a little closer to see the screen better.
You clicked around awkwardly and Garen just kind of—stood there swinging his sword at nothing, “this feels dumb,” you muttered, but you were smiling a little, “I look like a robot trying to dance.”
Heeseung bit his bottom lip at the sheer joy of having you play his favourite game, even though you looked lost, confused, and too adorable, “you don’t look dumb. You look cute as hell trying to figure it out.” He squeezed your hand gently and moved the mouse for you, making Garen run forward. “See? Just click on this, okay?”
You tried it and Garen spun like a big metal tornado, actually hitting a couple of the little enemy guys, “oh okay, that was kinda fun,” you admitted, biting your lip to hide the grin. You reached for one of the Ferrero Rochers with your free hand, unwrapped it, and popped it in your mouth. The chocolate melted sweet and crunchy on your tongue, “how’d you know I like this.”
Heeseung shrugged, his shoulder rubbing against yours, “I pay attention to you, sue me.” He took the half you offered him without hesitation, biting it right from your fingers, his lips brushing your skin for a second too long.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the little flutter in your stomach at how brutally honest he was. He pays attention, he set all this up just so you’d feel comfortable doing something he likes. This isn’t what you signed up for, this is him wanting you around, not just in his bed. Stop feeling it. Stop.
The game kept going, as you died a bunch—running straight into the big tower like an idiot, getting smacked by random enemies—but Heeseung never made you feel stupid about it. He’d just lean in closer, chin resting on your shoulder now, arm wrapped a little tighter around the back of your chair, and murmur stuff like, “try backing up a tiny bit next time, yeah?” Or, “you’re getting the spin down though, that last one actually hit three of them, nice.”
You passed him chips from the blue walkers packet, your fingers brushing his every time. He took them without pulling away, crunching quietly while his other hand stayed on the mouse with yours, guiding you through another wave.
Heeseung couldn’t say this out loud but boy was he thrilled. It felt so nice, so domestic to do something so simple with someone (you). He couldn’t help but compare, simply because he didn’t know the basic possibilities of the relationship universe, though you weren’t in one. His ex never spared time for such things, indifferent about his interests, while you were so—sweet.
“You’ve done this before? Teaching someone like this, I mean?” You asked after a while, “or am I getting special treatment?”
Heeseung went quiet for a second, then let out a breathy little laugh against your neck, “special treatment,” he admitted, no hesitation, “and no, it’s my first time teaching anyone.”
You leaned back into him a little more without thinking, the warmth of his chest solid and comforting against your back, the kind of solace that you had never had the pleasure of experiencing before. Was it supposed to be this easy?
The snacks slowly disappeared between you—another Ferrero passed back and forth, the mango matcha cup getting lighter with every sip you took. Heeseung kept talking about random shit that had nothing to do with the game. How Jake had stolen his last ramen again, how he stayed up last night thinking about if aliens eat solid food, or if the Thestrals from Harry Potter can see each other or not.
You told him about the fanpage you had at fifteen, he listened like it was the most interesting thing ever, thumb stroking slow circles on the back of your hand the whole time.
At some point the first game ended. You were still pretty bad, but you weren’t frustrated anymore. Heeseung’s arm had stayed around you the whole time, his chin heavy on your shoulder, breathing warm against your skin.
He didn’t queue another match right away, instead he just sat there for a second, arms loose around your waist, like he was thinking.
“C’mere,” he murmured, voice a little rough as his hands slid to your hips and he tugged you gently, pulling you straight off the spare chair and into his lap like it was the easiest thing in the world. Your back settled fully against his chest, thighs bracketing his, his arms wrapping around you properly so he could still reach everything if he wanted. The chair creaked once under both of you. You fit too well, way too well.
He rested his chin back on your shoulder and clicked into another custom game like nothing had changed, but his arms stayed tight around your waist, like he didn’t want to let go.
“What are we doing, Hee?” You asked in a low mumble.
Heeseung went still, arms locking tighter around your waist like the question had burned him, he was afraid you’d bring it up and that’s exactly what you did. You felt him swallow hard, breath shaky against your neck.
He opted to answer with his actions instead, turning your face toward him with one hand and kissing you, lips pressing firm like he’d been dying to do it. His tongue slid in right away, tasting like chocolate and the mango you’d been sharing all night. He made this quiet, embarrassed little sound in his throat and kissed you harder, fingers sliding into your hair to hold you there.
You tried to pull back half an inch, though absolutely feeling your heartbeat fastening at how good the kiss, the warmth felt, “Hee, wait—”
He chased your mouth instantly, cutting you off with another kiss, deeper this time, tongue lazy and filthy against yours. His hand slipped under your top, palm hot and a little unsteady on your bare waist, thumb stroking slow circles like he needed to feel your skin to stay sane. He was breathing hard through his nose, cheeks burning against yours, but he wouldn’t let you speak. Every single time your lips parted he was right there again, kissing you quiet, desperate and messy like talking would ruin whatever this was.
“Bed,” he mumbled against your mouth. He stood up with you still in his lap, hands under your thighs, and carried you the few steps across the room. The second your back hit the mattress he was on top of you, settling between your legs and kissing you again before you could even breathe.
This time it was slower but no less intense. His tongue moved against yours in these long, deep strokes while one hand pushed further under your top, palm flat on your stomach, sliding up until his fingers brushed the edge of your bra. His other hand stayed tangled in your hair, tugging gently every time you tried to talk. He was so fucking flustered—ears red, breath shaky, little embarrassed groans slipping out whenever you rolled your hips up into him—but he still wouldn’t let you ask.
Every time you opened your mouth he swallowed it with another kiss, and you groaned, pulling him into you deeper, letting him showcase his feelings through whatever this was, and you understood it, but couldn’t stop it or ask any further, because you knew he’d deflect as if it scared him.
As if the only answer he could give was this.
You were decent at saying no, in fact, some might even admit how good you were at it, blunt as fuck. But that ability was limited to the world and it most certainly didn’t apply to this glorious six foot tall man who wished for you to join him at the basketball court. You could have made up some excuse, maybe tell him you have a lab report due, but you didn’t do that—because you wanted to go.
“This is getting ridiculous,” said Winter, watching you change into a loose t-shirt and old shorts, “you hate sports. You once told me basketball was just a bunch of giants running in circles. Now you’re rushing out at night because Heeseung said come watch me play? And you’re dressing up the part too?”
You shrugged, tying your hair up, “It’s not that deep. I’m bored.”
“Sure, tell yourself that,” she mumbled with her brow raised.
Well, she wasn’t exactly wrong, but you didn’t care much as you made your way out towards the court which was lit up by some harsh floodlights, looking over to find some guys already deep in the game. You could spot Heeseung, Chenle, Beomgyu, and Sunghoon—t-shirts sticking to their backs.
Nics (Chenle’s girlfriend) and Moon (Sunghoon’s girlfriend) were already on the bleachers with their chaotic friend, Ricey, who always carried snacks in her bag. The second they spotted you, Nics waved you over with a grin, patting the spot next to her.
Heeseung was mid-dribble when his head snapped in your direction, the ball bouncing once before he caught it against his hip. Even from across the court you could see the way his face softened, that small, stupidly genuine smile breaking through like usual. He lifted his free hand in a quick wave.
“Yo, Y/N’s here!” Chenle shouted, grinning like an idiot as he wiped sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt, “perfect timing, let’s do girls versus boys now.”
Nics hopped off the bleachers first, already pulling her hair up, “final-fucking-ly. Come on, we’re making this four on four.”
Moon laughed and stood up too, nudging Ricey, “you in or are you just gonna sit there eating chips the whole time?”
Ricey popped another chip in her mouth before standing, “I’m in, but if I break a nail I’m blaming all of you.”
You didn’t get a chance to sit as you got dragged into the court. Heeseung jogged over to you, still breathing a little hard, hair messy and damp. Up close he smelled like sweat and that familiar woody cologne, and the way he looked at you made you shiver.
“You actually came,” he breathed, grabbing your arm without thinking much at all.
“Couldn’t let you embarrass yourself alone,” you replied, stealing the ball from his hands just to mess with him. He laughed, eyes crinkling, and for a second it felt like the rest of the court disappeared.
But boy was it chaotic with Moon just distracting Hoon half the time, Nics and Chenle spent the time arguing—which was clearly their way of flirting, meanwhile Ricey was enjoying the drama in the middle of this all. The game was messy, and oh so loud.
You mostly ended up guarding Heeseung, and he was clearly not focused on winning anymore.
The first time you drove past him, he barely tried to block you, just let you slip by with this stupid little smile on his face. When you scored, he was the first one clapping, muttering under his breath, “fuck, that was hot,” loud enough for Beomgyu to hear and immediately start laughing.
“You’re not even guarding her properly!” Sunghoon yelled, hands on his knees, “you just watched her score and looked proud as hell!”
Heeseung didn’t even deny it, just shrugged, eyes still locked on you as you dribbled back.
“She’s fast,” he said, but the way he said it was way too soft, and he wondered why he called you with others around when he should’ve done this one on one, but even then, he was thrilled to see you fit in so well with everyone.
The court lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt, your oversized t-shirt clung to your skin in damp patches, the thin cotton sticking to the curve of your waist and the small of your back every time you moved. Heeseung’s eyes kept dropping to where the hem rode up every time you moved, and honestly? You liked it.
You caught the ball again and drove straight at him. This time his hand found your waist right away, palm warm through the damp fabric, thumb brushing under the hem like he couldn’t help himself. You spun past anyway, shoulder bumping his chest, and laid it up clean. When you landed he was still there, fingers lingering on your hip for a second longer than necessary.
“Shit, you’re good,” he muttered by your ear.
Beomgyu groaned loud enough for everyone to hear, “Heeseung, your hand was literally on her the whole time!”
Sunghoon just shook his head, “I can’t watch this anymore.”
A few plays later you slowed right in front of him, dribbling lazy, then hit him with the pout—bottom lip out, eyes big. Heeseung’s shoulders dropped instantly, “come on, that’s cheating,” he whined, but he was already stepping aside, hand sliding to your hip again as you blew past and scored.
Ricey started cracking up from the fence. “He folded. Let’s fucking go!”
Nics and Moon were dying, “Y/N, you’re actually evil,” Moon yelled, “like—look at him.”
The game kept going like that, every time you got near him his hands were on your waist or lower back, like he needed the excuse to touch you. After one layup he caught you around the middle when you landed, pulling you back against his chest for a second, chin brushing your shoulder.
“You’re killing me out here,” he said quietly, thumb rubbing slow against your side.
You turned your head, “stop letting me win so obviously.”
“Can’t,” he admitted, fingers flexing on your hip, “can’t stop you.”
Final possession got you dribbling right up to him. He stepped up, but the second you gave him the pout he let out a soft laugh and just gave up, both hands settling on your waist.
“Go win, baby,” he whispered, not even trying to hide it anymore as you drove and laid it in clean.
Game over.
Nics scooped you up spinning you once while Moon and Ricey cheered like idiots. The second your feet hit the ground Heeseung was there, arm sliding around your waist and pulling you back against him. His t-shirt was damp against yours, heartbeat steady on your back.
“You’re impossible,” he murmured into your hair, thumb still tracing slow circles on your hip under the hem, “didn’t even wanna stop you.”
You leaned into him, grinning, “you had your hands on me the whole second half.”
“Yeah,” he said, no shame at all, “felt too good.”
Heeseung didn’t get to talk more as a fuming Chenle grabbed his collar and dragged him away for what seemed to be some good beating.
Moon and Nics immediately grabbed your arms at the opportunity and pulled you a few steps away, cornering you near the fence while Heeseung was distracted talking (arguing) to Chenle.
“Okay, spill,” Moon said, “what the hell is going on with you two? Because that was not subtle.”
Nics nodded, still half-laughing, “girl, he had his hands on your waist like every single play. He’s so into you it’s actually funny.”
You tried to play it cool, wiping sweat off your neck with the bottom of your shirt, “It’s not like that. We’re just—hanging out? No strings, y’know?”
They waited for you to say you’re joking, or just laugh, but then none of it came and they gasped, collectively.
“You’re not serious,” Moon deadpanned.
Nics’ eyes went huge, “wait. You’re actually serious.”
Ricey let out a low whistle, leaning against the fence, “damn, Y/N. I thought you were messing with us.”
You shrugged, trying to laugh it off, but the sound came out rather shaky. Your stomach did that stupid little flip again, like your body was calling you a liar before your mouth could. The cool night air on your damp neck suddenly felt too cold, and your t-shirt clung uncomfortably to your skin, “I mean, yeah, that’s the deal. We both said it from the start.”
The words felt flat even as you said them. Your eyes drifted across the court before you could stop yourself. Chenle still had Heeseung in that dramatic headlock, ranting about how embarrassing he was, but Heeseung wasn’t even pretending to fight back. His head turned and his gaze found yours instantly through the mess of hair falling in his face. That soft, stupid little smile tugged at his lips like getting chewed out didn’t matter at all. Just you did.
Your chest squeezed as you looked away, but Moon followed your stare and let out a quiet oh, “girl, look at him right now. He’s getting yelled at and he’s still staring at you like that? Come on.”
Nics nudged your side. “he had his hands on your waist literally every single time you got near him. Called you baby in front of all of us. Folded like a lawn chair the second you pouted. That’s a man catching feelings and not even trying to hide it.”
Ricey nodded, arms crossed, “for real. We were all watching, he was playing how many times can I touch my girl without getting called out.”
You swallowed, heat creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the game anymore, “It’s not like that,” you mumbled but even you could hear how unsure you sounded. The way Heeseung was still looking at you made the label feel thinner than your sweaty t-shirt.
Before anyone could push harder, Chenle finally shoved Heeseung away with one last groan. Heeseung jogged back over, hair wrecked, cheeks flushed, but his eyes were already locked on you again. His arm slid around your waist without hesitation, palm warm and familiar against the damp fabric like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You guys done roasting her yet?” He asked, voice light and a little out of breath.
Ricey snorted, “not even close.”
Heeseung just grinned and pulled you closer, chin brushing the top of your head. You leaned into him without thinking, the solid warmth of his side against yours making that chest-tight feeling even worse. Or better, you couldn’t tell anymore.
Your newfound friends exchanged a look behind his back, but you caught it anyway.
Whatever this was—it didn’t feel like no strings anymore. Not even a little.
Heeseung always thought that his partner would an extension of his very soul, and he never achieved that. Maybe the saying can be moulded into perspectives of sort, perhaps connection wasn’t about mirroring souls but about finding someone who made the fractures feel intentional, beautiful even.
He mindlessly knocked on the door, heart drumming an uneven rhythm against his ribs, not expecting the door to open so quickly, his breath hitching at the sight of you in front of him.
Maybe your partner isn’t supposed to be an extension of you, but rather someone who’d stand on the opposite side of the spectrum and still look like a perfect puzzle when fitted together.
You stood there like a living poem rendered in silk—clad in a breathtaking white gown that slipped over your skin with liquid grace, the delicate fabric catching the hallway’s muted glow, the thin straps tracing the delicate architecture of your collarbones like a lover’s fingertip. It moved with you, shimmering faintly, alive with every subtle shift of your weight. Your hair styled perfectly, lips glossed to a tempting sheen, and the whole vision struck him so viscerally that the air in his lungs simply vanished.
You looked beautiful, like an angel in all white, while he stood in front of you in a black leather jacket, juxtaposing every bit of elegance you exuded.
Heeseung forgot how to breathe quite literally as time fractured around him. His gaze dragged over you in helpless reverence, while a razor-edged thought sliced through the haze. Are you going out? On a date? With someone else? The image of another man’s eyes tracing that same silk, another hand brushing the curve of your waist beneath it, coiled hot and ugly in his chest, stealing what little breath he had left.
“Hee?” You asked with a smile, tilting your head with genuine surprise, “what are you doing here?”
He gulped, forcing his eyes back up and oxygen to cooperate within him, “you’re breathtaking,” he managed, “I forgot what I came for.”
Warmth crept up your neck at the nervousness of the man in front of you, he was adorable—shifting from one leg to the other, playing with his fingers, as if the simple act of standing there might unravel him completely. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, cheeks flushed a soft rose, and those wide, doe-like eyes kept flicking back to the silk clinging to your body. You could practically feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat from where you stood, the way his throat worked on another swallow, the subtle tremor in his shoulders as he tried (and failed) to play it cool.
“I, uh—” Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a small, embarrassed laugh, “I wanted to show you something. I’ve been carrying it around all day like an idiot because I thought you might like it. Figured tonight could be, I don’t know, nice? Just us.”
Your heart gave a small tug, the evening plans you’d been dreading now sitting like a weight in your chest, “god, Hee—I wish I could,” you said softly, “my parents are in town and we have this family dinner thing tonight. It’s one of those non-negotiable things. I was literally about to walk out the door when you knocked.”
Heeseung’s shoulders dropped just a fraction, disappointment flickering across his face before he quickly tried to smooth it over. He nodded, offering you a small, understanding smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, though he was relieved it wasn’t a boy you’d dressed up for, “no, gosh. It’s okay, I hope you have fun.”
He paused, eyes still lingering on you like he couldn’t help it, “but—if you’re not too tired later, maybe we could still meet up? Even if it’s just for a little while. No pressure or anything, I just—I really like being around you.”
All you could manage was a nod, making him smile wider. It was always a surprise at how clearly Heeseung said whatever he meant, and it wasn’t the best thing for your poor heart, which probably matched Heeseung’s pace now. Bidding goodbye was another problem especially when Heeseung stared till you got inside the cab. The dinner was a haze, your mom staring at your zoned out state with a knowing smile.
“Who is it?” She sighed finally, making you look up in horror.
“Mom—no,” you warned, knowing just how interested your family was in gossiping, which didn’t exclude gossip about you by any means.
“What? She laughed, feigning innocence while your dad hid his grin behind his water glass, “I’m just asking. You’ve been smiling at nothing and zoning out all night, now spill.”
Your cousin leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief, “yeah, girl. You look like you’re thinking about someone. Is he cute? Does he go to your uni?”
Heat flooded your cheeks, “there’s no one,” you lied, though the words felt flimsy even to you, “I’m just tired.”
Your mom reached over and squeezed your wrist gently, “mhm, sure. Whoever he is, he’s lucky if he’s got you looking like this. Just don’t forget to eat, okay? You’re glowing, but you’re also not touching your food.”
You groaned, covering your face with both hands as the table erupted into light laughter. The teasing continued with your dad throwing in a dramatic “If he hurts you, I’ll find him” that made everyone chuckle—but you managed to dodge the worst of it, cheeks burning the whole time. By the time dessert came, your family had mercifully moved on, though your mom’s knowing glances never quite stopped.
Meanwhile, Heeseung stood alone on the rooftop of the main university building, the cool night breeze slipping beneath the collar of his leather jacket and ruffling his dark hair. He’d quietly borrowed the keys from the maintenance office earlier—something he wasn’t proud of, but tonight the small rebellion felt worth it. Up here, the view was stunning. City lights stretched out below like scattered diamonds across black velvet, the crescent moon hung low, casting a silvery glow over everything. He slipped an airpod in, letting his playlist fill the silence.
His hand drifted to the inner pocket of his jacket, fingers brushing the carefully wrapped item inside. He’d wanted to show it to you tonight, watch your face light up, maybe steal a few more stolen moments of that easy warmth you gave him so effortlessly.
Heeseung leaned against the railing, staring out at the glittering skyline while the music in his earpods played on, and he wondered if you were thinking about him too, somewhere across town amid the family dinner. He didn’t mind waiting, in fact, he was good at it when it meant so much to him. Regardless, every couple of minutes he’d glance at the door, half-convinced he was being ridiculous for waiting up here like some lovesick idiot.
As he turned back again, the faint creak of the door was heard, and he went still. You stepped onto the rooftop still wrapped in that white silk gown, the wind caught the hem immediately, making it swirl softly around your legs, and when you smiled at him—he felt it right in the center of his chest.
“Hi,” you said, voice quiet.
Heeseung pulled the airpods out slowly, letting them dangle from his fingers, “you—you actually came,” he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them, his eyes moved over you again, helpless, “in that dress, god, Y/N.”
You walked closer, heels soft against the concrete, “told you I would. Couldn’t stop thinking about whatever you wanted to show me,” a small laugh escaped you.
He took a half-step closer, “I wasn’t sure,” he admitted, “but I’m really glad you’re here. You look—” he trailed off, shaking his head with a soft, almost disbelieving smile, “I don’t even have the words tonight, you’re beautiful.”
It was foreign, the way you felt all mushy inside with a compliment, granted you got those all the time, but this felt new. You stopped just inches from him, close enough to see the way the moonlight caught in his dark eyes, the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks, “show me, then,” you whispered.
Heeseung’s breath caught for the briefest moment. Then he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out a small box wrapped in simple paper, tied with a slender black ribbon. He placed it gently into your waiting hands, his fingers brushing yours with a lingering warmth that sent another quiet flutter through you.
You untied the ribbon, letting the paper fall away until the snow globe rested heavy in your palms. Inside the delicate glass sphere, a tiny couple danced beneath an invisible sky—her in a flowing white dress that mirrored the silk clinging to your body, him in a dark jacket that echoed the leather draped across Heeseung’s shoulders. Their hands were joined, bodies turned toward one another in quiet, perfect harmony. When you tilted the globe, soft white flakes swirled around them like the first gentle snowfall of winter, catching the moonlight in tiny, luminous sparks.
A rush of something overwhelming bloomed low in your stomach, as if butterflies unfurling their wings until your chest felt too full, too light. You looked up at him, eyes wide and shimmering. “Heeseung,” you breathed, “this is us. The dress, the jacket, it’s exactly like us.”
He bit his bottom lip, smiling shyly as he nodded, eyes soft with affection that he never failed to display. “Yeah,” he murmured, stepping closer until the globe rested safely between your bodies, pressed lightly against the silk over your heart, “I know it’s a little cheesy, but when I saw it, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
It was yet again when he had rendered you speechless so beautifully, a small smile still graced your lips, and you couldn’t hide it, you didn’t wish to hide it, “it’s not cheesy, it’s beautiful, Hee. Thank you.”
You held the globe for another heartbeat, letting the tiny flakes swirl and sparkle inside the glass, before you turned gently and set it on the wide concrete railing
Heeseung watched you, nervous as he reached into his pocket, pulling out one of the earpods and holding it out to you between two fingers, “dance with me?” He asked, voice hopeful, “I’ve had this song on repeat—uh, I kept imagining what it would sound like with you here.”
It was as if you were facing the real tale of the entanglement after the initial surface level attraction had worn off, which should’ve made it worse, right? But Heeseung, unlike any other potential love interest you’d met, shone brighter after revealing himself day by day.
You took the airpod from him without a second’s hesitation and slid it in, that familiar, timeless melody of Everybody Loves Somebody filling your ear like an old friend crooning about love that finds you when you least expect it. Heeseung’s fingers brushed yours as he took your hand, threading them together with a quiet certainty that made your breath hitch. His other palm settled at your waist, warm through the silk, and he drew you in until your bodies met, like they’d been waiting all along. You let your free hand rest against his chest, right over the steady thud of his heart beneath the leather.
Heeseung let out a soft, breathy laugh, “fuck, I actually feel stupid right now,” he muttered, “I’ve never danced before.”
You laughed, leaning into his scent further, “you’re doing great, Hee.”
“Yeah?” Another dorky chuckle rumbled through his chest. He adjusted his hold on you, thumb moving in a slow, absent circle at your waist, “I don’t know, lately I keep catching myself doing shit I never thought I’d do. Like stealing keys to a rooftop, buying a snow globe because it reminded me of you. It’s weird, I feel like I’m figuring out all these parts of myself I didn’t even know were there.”
He stole keys, the thought itself made you chuckle again. You’d once read somewhere that the act of loving someone doesn’t stop at accepting them but furthers by coaxing their selfhood out of them—it felt that way for you too because who would have thought you’d be dancing with someone at a rooftop wearing a gown?
You squeezed his hand gently, “I like that,” you said, “I like that you’re figuring it out with me.”
The proximity was perfect, yet your bodies kept on gravitating towards each other every few steps, and eventually the melody began to fade. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, the position mirroring that of the snow globe miniatures. Taking another step, you leaned forward just enough to slot your lips against his, almost as if breathing each other in, lips parting at the same time before pressing into a gentle peck. Heeseung exhaled shakily against you, his hand tightening at your waist for a second like he was trying to remember how to breathe.
When you finally drew back, you gave him that smile you knew he couldn’t resist. You slipped the airpod out of your ear and dropped it into his open palm, fingers brushing his one last time. At the same time you reached over, picked up the snow globe from the railing, and tucked it carefully against your chest.
“Night, baby,” you whispered as you turned toward the door.
Heeseung just stood there, completely still, breathing a little harder than before. His eyes were wide and utterly lovestruck as he watched you walk away. The rooftop door clicked shut behind you, but he didn’t move for a long time—just stayed right where he was under the moonlight, that dazed, helpless smile slowly taking over his face.
You were panting as Heeseung pressed his lips on the base of your spine, sending a shiver up your back. He hadn’t been patient pulling you in his bed, turning you over to unzip your dress. He groaned with each kiss as if he was pleasuring himself instead of you while savouring every inch of skin exposed.
Heeseung pressed his forehead against the middle of your back for a second, breathing hard, “you’re trembling,” he whispered against you, “is my mouth really making you feel that good?” He kissed between your shoulder blades, then higher, until his lips brushed the nape of your neck, “tell me, baby. Tell me how wet you are right now just from this.”
“So wet,” you gasped, pushing your hips back against him, “Hee—please.”
He let out a broken groan and shoved your panties to the side with impatient fingers, not even bothering to pull them off. The thick head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance, hot and heavy, before he sank into you in one long, relentless thrust.
“Fuck,” he groaned, the sound guttural as he bottomed out, stretching you wide, “you’re soaking my cock, baby. So fucking tight and wet for me.” He pulled back slowly, then drove in again, harder, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room, “listen to that. Hear how greedy your pussy is for me?”
You cried out, fingers clawing at the sheets as he set a deep, punishing rhythm, each stroke dragging perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you.
“Heeseung—oh god, yes—” your voice broke on a moan, tears of overwhelming pleasure already stinging your eyes, “harder—please, I need it harder.”
Heeseung cursed under his breath and fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with filthy precision, “like this?” He panted, voice hoarse “you want me to ruin this pretty little pussy? Tell me how good it feels, baby. I want to hear you fall apart.”
“It feels so good,” you sobbed, pushing back to meet every thrust, “you’re so deep—fuck, Hee, I can’t—”
The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, white-hot and devastating, until it finally snapped.
“I love you—” the words tore out of you, raw and desperate, “Heeseung, I love you—”
He froze mid-thrust, buried to the hilt inside you, body going completely rigid.
“What?” His voice was barely a whisper, shocked and trembling.
You whimpered, hips twitching helplessly around his cock, the confession spilling out again in a blurry, broken rush, “I love you, I love you so much—”
Heeseung pulled out suddenly, making you whine at the loss. In one swift motion he flipped you onto your back, hovering over you with wide, dark eyes and a chest that heaved like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice hoarse and shaking as he stared down at you, one hand cupping your jaw, “look at me and say it again, baby. Please.”
Your eyes were glassy, lips parted on a shaky breath, but the words seemed to have blurred, your face disappearing right in front of his eyes as you said, “I love—”
He woke up with a sharp, ragged gasp, bolting upright in his own bed, heart slamming violently against his ribs. The room was dark and silent except for his own frantic breathing. Sweat slicked his skin, and when he looked down, the front of his sweatpants was soaked with a warm, sticky mess.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, dragging a trembling hand down his face, cheeks burning with heat.
It was hard for him to contain himself when this is all he could dream of the past six days, feeling it deep despite it being a dream. Wet dream was fine really, but the confession that echoed? Yeah, that definitely made Heeseung feel eccentric because he needed to hear that for real despite the terms of the relationship between you both. It was bound to bloom into something more.
You two had fallen into a rhythm that didn’t need a label really. He showed up outside your lectures with your stupidly specific drink (matcha), the one with the exact ratio you liked, because he’d paid attention the one time you made a face at the wrong version. You’d started leaving your oversized hoodie at his place just so you could steal his instead and he could wear yours, the sleeves swallowing your hands while you lounged on his bed scrolling through your phone. He noticed how you always tugged at your bottom lip when you were thinking too hard, how you stole the last sip of his drink without asking, how your shoulders relaxed the second you kicked your shoes off after a long day. You noticed the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose when he was tired but too stubborn to admit it, the soft little hum he made when something tasted exactly right, the way his eyes lingered on you a beat longer than necessary whenever you laughed at something dumb he said.
You weren’t calling it dating, you weren’t calling it anything. But you also weren’t fighting it. You’d never been the type to deny yourself something that made you feel good, and Heeseung made you feel good in a way that snuck up on you. So you let yourself have it without the complications of overthinking.
Later that morning, Heeseung walked across campus still half-dazed from the dream, that stupid, lingering smile refusing to leave his face. The memory of your voice saying those three words kept looping in his head, well, until a voice didn’t wish to hear ruined his train of thoughts.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the thief.”
Heeseung slowed to a stop and turned. Jaemin stood there with his arms crossed, wearing the same smug, pissed-off expression he used to think was charming.
Heeseung let out a dry, humorless scoff, “thief? That’s fucking hilarious coming from the guy who was literally balls-deep in my ex while we were still together.”
Jaemin stepped closer, eyes narrowing, “whatever helps you sleep at night. You really think you’re gonna keep her interested?” His voice dripped with condescension, “Y/N doesn’t do soft boys. All that cute shit you do, y’know? All that bringing her drinks, playing with her hair, looking at her like she’s the only person in the room? She’ll get bored so soon. She needs someone who can actually keep up with her, not some pathetic, whipped little romantic who gets all starry-eyed at the sight of her.”
Heeseung forced out a dry laugh, “yeah sure, keep telling yourself that.”
Jaemin stepped even closer, that ugly little smirk twisting his mouth, “you’re playing house while she’s used to getting fucked properly, I’m sure you’re not offering much to at all, you’re nothing but a rebound to her,” he scoffed once, and walked away.
But the damage was done, because yes, Heeseung was soft, almost a whipped little romantic who let you take the lead when things got heated, how you pinned his wrists down or told him exactly how you wanted him, and how much he fucking loved giving in to you. The dream from this morning flashed behind his eyes again, your voice breaking on those three words while he was the one completely undone above you. Now it all felt suddenly pathetic, like something Jaemin could point at and laugh at.
Jealousy, envy, insecurity, these were the things he didn’t wish to feel, and gladly so, he never felt that with you, so why was an outsider here to remind him of his so called weaknesses? It felt like a spiral how he skipped the next lecture and pondered on Jaemin’s words. Did you actually not enjoy your time with him? Was he enough? Did you want a more intense relationship? Was it just a rebound?
He couldn’t find the answers to any of those questions, and managed to ignore every single text and call that came his way, letting himself cool down on the rooftop yet again.
What he essentially forgot was how communication wasn’t a part of the relationship but the very pillar that ran practically any relationship on this earth, this being the very first instance of him not being able to express himself—something he did so freely around you.
And so, the day passed without him replying to you.
You felt the absence like a missing pulse.
“You look crazy checking your phone every two minutes,” Sunoo pointed out, and you huffed, grabbing your phone again to stare at the unread texts you’d sent him through the day.
The screen glowed mockingly in the low light of your dorm room, the blue bubble of your last message still floating unanswered beneath the others, heeseung? talk to me. you okay? i’m coming over if you don’t answer. Just silence that didn’t sit right with you.
Sunoo flopped dramatically across the foot of your bed, legs kicking up behind him, while Winter perched on the windowsill, she watched you with that knowing tilt of her head, the one that always preceded a lecture of affection.
“Babe,” she said, “he’s been ghosting the group chat too, something’s off. Like, capital-O off.”
You set the phone face-down on the blanket, but your fingers still twitched toward it. Sunoo nudged your ankle with his socked foot.
“Go, seriously, and if he’s being a dramatic little shit, tell him Sunoo said to grow a pair and answer his damn phone.” His grin was bright, “you’re so in love it’s pathetic.”
Your lip only twitched, and you didn’t admit nor deny it. It was too early to even overthink what happened, was he drowning himself in self destruction while embracing pain for absolutely no reason? Regardless you frowned with disdain, pushing yourself up to actually do something about the situation, choosing to wear his hoodie he gave you a few days earlier.
You didn’t bother fixing your hair or changing out of the soft shorts you’d been rotting in all evening. This wasn’t about looking put-together, it was about the fact that Heeseung had never once left a message on read without answering, in fact, he was the one who usually texted first, shared his problems, and discussed any and everything this world has to offer. Whatever had him locked down like this, it had teeth, and you were done waiting for him to chew through it alone.
By the time you reached there, a feeling of nervousness washed over you. Jake pulled the door open almost immediately, like he’d been hovering behind it. His eyes were wide, hair sticking up in about six different directions, and he looked so relieved to see you that it almost hurt.
“Jesus Christ, you’re here,” he sighed, stepping aside so you could slip in, “he got back from class and just shut down. Told me to fuck off when I asked if he wanted pasta. Jay tried the concerned roommate bit and got the door slammed in his face. This isn’t—he doesn’t do this, y’know?”
You nodded, throat tight, “I know.”
Jake hesitated, then added almost sheepishly, “if he’s being a dick, tell him I said to stop being a dramatic prick or i’ll take you away, or whatever.”
You gave him a chuckle and headed straight for the bedroom door, hoping that it wouldn’t be locked. It wasn’t, thankfully so, and you pushed the door open before you could talk yourself out of it. Heeseung sat on the edge of the bed in those black sweats that hung too low on his hips, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. The silver chain sat against his collarbone, rising and falling with these tight little breaths. He looked exhausted, hollowed out even.
He heard the door and his head snapped up.
For a second his eyes went wide, like he couldn’t believe it was really you standing there. The whiplash of emotions was too much, especially when you were clad in his hoodie with sadness gracing your pretty face that he really always wished to see happy. He stood up so fast the bed creaked, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled you against him like he’d been waiting to do exactly that all day.
His hands were rough as he grabbed your nape the second the door closed shut behind you, breathing hard as your lips parted to ask a question, but he only closed his eyes, slid his hand up to your head as he pushed you against the door, pushing his lips against yours in a messy claim.
He can be rough, he can be the one to give you pleasure, of course he can. His fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted it, tongue sliding in deep. You tasted the faint cherry from whatever he’d been drinking, felt the way his chest heaved against yours like he’d been running.
“Missed you,” he mumbled right into your mouth, the words half-bitten off by another rough kiss, “fuck, I missed you so bad today.”
“Heeseung—wait, what the hell happened—” you tried, but he swallowed the question with his mouth, sucking on your bottom lip hard enough to sting before dragging his teeth down the side of your neck. His free hand shoved under the hem of the hoodie, palm sprawled over the expanse of your waist, fingers digging in like he needed to feel skin right now
“Shh,” he breathed against your throat, voice wrecked, “don’t talk. Just—let me.” He sucked a mark right below your ear, like he was stamping proof that you were here, that you were his. His hips pressed forward, pinning you tighter to the door, and you could feel how hard he already was through his sweats.
The force of him made your breath hitch, your back flush against the cool wood while every inch of him burned insistent. He was never like this, not with you. Heeseung had always been careful, as if afraid that wrong move would make you slip away. But tonight something had snapped in him, and the way his fingers trembled just slightly against your skin told you he knew it too. He was trying to prove a point—to himself, to the ghost of Jaemin’s voice still echoing in his head—that he could be the rough, ravenous version he thought you wanted.
He spun you around so fast your palms slapped against the full-length mirror on the back of his closet door. The cool glass kissed your bare chest, making your nipples tighten instantly. Heeseung’s chest pressed flush to your back, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing your head up so you had no choice but to look at your own reflection—parted lips, eyes already glassy.
“Look at yourself,” he rasped, “look how fucking pretty you are when you’re like this for me.”
His other hand snaked down your stomach, fingers dipping between your thighs without warning. Two thick digits pushed inside you in one smooth glide, curling instantly against that spot that made your knees buckle. You gasped, forehead dropping forward until it rested on the mirror, but Heeseung’s grip on your jaw tightened, yanking you back up.
“Eyes open, baby. Watch, yeah?”
It most certainly was hot to see him take control, but you couldn’t understand the sudden switch, the implications, your mind was too foggy with the way you’d missed him through the day. Heeseung was too in his head, as if on some mission to make you feel good—which he always achieved, yet was not satisfied.
He pumped his fingers slow and deep, twisting them on every drag out so you felt every ridge, every knuckle. The wet, slick sounds of your pussy taking his fingers echoed obscenely in the quiet dorm room. In the mirror you watched it all: the way your lips parted on a shaky moan, the flush crawling down your neck to your chest, the way your tits pressed and flattened against the cool glass with every rock of your hips. Heeseung’s reflection behind you was devastating—dark hair falling into his eyes, jaw clenched tight, that chain around his neck swaying every time he thrust his fingers harder.
“God, you’re so deep already,” you whimpered, hips rocking back to meet his hand, “keep going like that, yeah, just like that, Hee.”
Heeseung groaned low, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second before he forced himself to look up again, as if in pain, “that’s it. Fuck, listen to how messy you sound. You’re dripping down my wrist, baby. Such a good girl for me.”
You bit your lip, eyes fluttering, but he tapped your jaw again.
“Don’t close your eyes. Want you to see how pretty you look when I finger fuck you like this.”
“Bossy tonight,” you teased breathlessly, even as your thighs started trembling, “I like it, but you’re gonna make me cum already if you keep rubbing my clit like that.”
“Good,” he rasped, thumb circling faster, fingers curling relentlessly, “cum for me. Right now. Let me see it.”
You moaned his name loud, walls fluttering and clenching around his fingers as you came, slick coating his hand. Heeseung kept working you through it, slower but deep, murmuring against your neck, “that’s my girl—fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Look at you shaking for me.”
He pulled his fingers out slowly, then brought them to your lips.
“Taste yourself, baby, hm? C’mon, open up.”
You sucked them clean, eyes never leaving his in the reflection, and he cursed under his breath the second your tongue swirled around his fingers.
“Fuck—you’re gonna kill me.”
Before you could catch your breath he dropped to his knees behind you, hands gripping your hips and yanking you back so your ass arched toward his face.
“Keep watching the mirror,” he said, voice hoarse with need, “I want you to see me eat this pussy like I’ve been starving for it.”
Then his mouth was on you, as filthy as he could manage. His tongue dragged slow and broad from your clit all the way up, and you moaned loud, hands sliding down the glass.
“Oh my god, Hee—”
“Mhm, fuck, you taste even better after you come,” he groaned against you, the vibration making your legs weak, “spread your legs a little wider for me, baby. Let me get deeper.”
You did, pushing back against his face. His tongue fucked into you while his nose nudged your clit, then he sucked your swollen clit into his mouth hard.
“Yes—right there, don’t stop,” you panted, “your tongue feels so fucking good, baby, keep sucking like that.”
Heeseung moaned into your pussy, one hand reaching around to rub your clit while the other spread you open wider, “tell me how much you like it,” he mumbled between licks, voice desperate, “tell me you love my mouth on you.”
“I love it—fuck, I love your mouth, Hee. You’re so good at this—shit, I’m gonna cum again if you keep going like that.”
He sucked harder, tongue flicking fast, fingers joining to curl inside you, “then let go again, right on my tongue. I want to feel you fall apart while you watch yourself in the mirror.”
Your second orgasm crashed over you even harder, a high pitched moan leaving your mouth, almost as if you were chanting his name like a mantra, thighs shaking violently as you came on his tongue, and Heeseung licked you through every pulse, slow and greedy, humming happily like he couldn’t get enough.
You were still trembling when he finally pulled away, breathing hard against the inside of your thigh. His eyes met yours in the mirror for a second, looking all desperate, almost frantic before he stood up and turned you around. His hands were shaking as they gripped your waist.
“Come here,” he said, voice rough, like the words were being dragged out of him. He kissed you immediately, with the need to taste the way you’d just fallen apart for him, “bed. I need you on the bed right now.”
You nodded, legs still unsteady, and he didn’t wait. He lifted you, your back hitting the mattress a second later. He climbed over you fast, knees bracketing your hips, but instead of diving right in he paused, hovering above you, chest heaving. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, and for a split second you saw the soft Heeseung underneath all that intensity—the one who always checked on you, the one who was terrified of messing this up.
“You really want this?” He asked, voice cracking a little even though he was trying to sound sure. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he couldn’t stop himself, “all the way, me inside you. Tell me you want it, baby, please.”
“I want it,” you whispered, reaching up to pull him closer by his chain, “I want you, Hee. Stop holding back.”
He let out a shaky breath and nodded, like he was steeling himself. He shoved the rest of his clothes off as you watched the pretty boy in front of you. It was clear how he wanted to prove a point, and you were gonna let him, granted he wasn’t in the mood to talk, his faint muscles flexing was distracting you as well, but yeah, you were letting him take control.
He gripped your thighs and spread you open wider, breathing hard as he tried not to stare to the point he starts drooling because, lord, you looked absolutely stunning all spread out on his bed, looking up at him with need, bottom lip bitten. He lined up, the blunt head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, and for a second he just stayed there, breathing hard, eyes flicking up to yours like he was still fighting whatever storm was in his head.
“Tell me again,” he said, “tell me you want this.”
“I want this,” you breathed, pulling him down into a messy kiss, tongues sliding deep right away, “I want you inside me, Hee. Stop thinking and just take me.”
He groaned into your mouth and pushed forward.
The first inch stretched you open, slow and thick. You both gasped against each other’s lips.
“Fuck—you’re so tight,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, hips trembling as he held still, “just the tip and you’re already gripping me like that. You okay?”
You nodded quickly, nails dragging lightly down his back, “keep going, I can take more.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time, almost desperate, and rolled his hips forward on the second thrust as another inch sank in. The burn was sharp but so fucking good your back arched.
“Shit—baby,” he groaned, voice cracking. He sucked a hard mark right under your jaw, teeth grazing your skin as he pushed in a third time, slower, letting you adjust, “you feel—gosh, you feel unreal, i’m trying not to lose it already.”
Your nails dug in harder, scratching down his shoulder blades as he gave one more careful thrust and finally bottomed out, hips flush against yours. The full stretch made you moan loud into his mouth, legs tightening around his waist.
Heeseung stilled completely, breathing ragged against your neck, trying not to whimper, “talk to me. Does it hurt? Tell me the truth.”
“A little,” you whispered, “but I love it. You feel so deep already. Move, baby, I need you to move.”
He started with slow, deep rolls of his hips, grinding against you on every stroke like he was still trying to stay in control. But you could feel the tension building in his body, the way his fingers dug into your thighs a little harder each time.
“Yeah? Like this?” He asked, voice rougher now as he snapped his hips forward a little sharper, “you want me to fuck you harder?”
“Harder,” you moaned, nails raking down his back again, leaving red lines, “don’t be gentle tonight. I want all of it.”
He dropped his head to your neck and bit down hard, sucking yet another dark mark into your skin as his hips suddenly slammed forward. The thrusts turned brutal, the bed creaking loudly under you. His chain slapped against your chest with every snap of his hips. He was fucking you like he’d been holding back for months—desperate, almost punishing strokes that knocked the breath out of you.
“Fuck—fuck, baby,” he groaned against your throat, voice completely wrecked, “you’re taking me so fucking good. This pussy is mine tonight. Mine.”
You cried out and he kissed you again, tongues sliding messily while he pounded into you without any rhythm left. His hips stuttered, slamming harder, faster, completely mindless now, like every doubt in his head was being fucked out with every brutal thrust.
“Shit—I can’t—can’t slow down,” he panted, “you feel too good, gonna fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”
He was gone—eyes hazy, sweat dripping down his chest, hips snapping wildly as he lost himself inside you, chasing that raw, desperate need to prove he could be everything he thought you wanted. His chain bounced wildly against your chest, his fingers digging bruises into your thigh like he needed something to hold onto.
You were right there with him, body tightening, moans spilling out against his mouth, when the intensity tipped over into something too much, too fast. Your hand shot back, fingers digging into his hip.
“Heeseung—stop. Stop for a second.”
He froze mid-thrust, buried to the hilt, every muscle locking up at once. His breath hitched hard against your neck. For a long second the room was just the sound of both of you breathing, ragged and uneven. You could feel the panic crashing over him.
“Fuck—did I hurt you?” His voice cracked, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes already glassy with tears that spilled over when he blinked, “shit, I’m so sorry—I got too rough, I didn’t mean to, I was trying so hard not to be soft and I just—fuck, I thought if I fucked you harder you’d want me, you’d stay, I—”
His lip trembled. Another tear slid down his cheek and landed warm on your skin. He looked completely shattered, still deep inside you, like the idea that he might have hurt you was breaking him apart right there.
You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs gently brushing the tears from under his eyes, “baby, shh. You didn’t hurt me,” you whispered, voice soft, full of warmth, “not even a little. I promise. You feel so good, Hee. C’mon breathe with me, okay?”
He stared at you, eyes wide and wet, lips pressed tight together like he was trying not to fall apart completely. He gave the smallest shake of his head, refusing to speak at first.
You leaned up and kissed him, just a gentle press of your lips until he softened into it, a shaky little exhale leaving him. When you pulled back you kept your forehead against his, thumbs still stroking his cheeks.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “I can feel it, baby. Something’s been eating at you. Please talk to me.”
Heeseung swallowed hard, eyes fluttering shut for a second as another tear slipped free. His voice came out small, cracked, almost ashamed.
“Jaemin cornered me after class,” he whispered, “uh—he said I’m too soft, fucking whipped. That I’m just a pathetic rebound and you’d get bored of me in a week because someone like me could never keep a girl like you. Said you need someone who can actually fuck you right, not some gentle loser,” his breath hitched, “I just—I didn’t want to be that guy anymore. I wanted to prove I could be what you need, I know this isn’t what you wanted, our whole FWB thing.”
You stayed right there, forehead pressed to his, thumbs still gently wiping his tears as you looked at him with nothing but softness in your eyes, heart hurting at how the guy who makes you the happiest was reduced to some loser by your pathetic excuse of an ex.
“I like you exactly how you are,” you let out, heat creeping up your neck, the position only making you feel more with his cock still buried deep in you.
“Y—you like me?” He gasped as you licked his tear away, “really?”
“I do, Hee. I forgot about the whole no strings arrangement long back, I found myself wanting to spend more time with you, and who am I to deprive myself of happiness?” You chuckled, “you can’t force your feelings to go away, or change yourself, y’know? Fuck Jaemin, he doesn’t know shit, he could never make me cum and he definitely could never make me feel the way you do.”
Heeseung let out a shaky, broken exhale, his forehead still resting against yours as fresh tears welled up, “I thought—I thought I was ruining everything. I was so scared you’d realize I’m just the rebound, and you’d leave. I didn’t want to lose you, so I tried to be someone else tonight. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
You shook your head, “you didn’t ruin anything, Hee, not even close. You could never ruin this. I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere, I don’t mind you being rough or soft, yeah?”
He swallowed hard, “I don’t want to be rough, I never really did. I just, I thought that’s what you needed from me. But I want to be soft with you, can I—can I do that? Please?”
You couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped you, the sound made his lips twitch, and then he was smiling—small, shy, and so genuinely relieved it made your heart squeeze. He immediately hid his face in the crook of your neck, embarrassed, his breath warm against your skin as he let out a quiet, shy laugh of his own.
“Stop laughing at me,” he mumbled into your neck, but you could hear the smile in his voice, the way his shoulders relaxed.
“I’m not laughing at you,” you whispered, still chuckling as you threaded your fingers through his hair, “I’m laughing because you’re adorable, and I like you like this. Exactly like this.”
Heeseung lifted his head just enough to look at you again, eyes still glassy but now shining with something brighter as he managed another kiss, pouring every unsaid feeling into it. When he pulled back, his voice was soft.
“I love you,” he breathed out, “I’m so in love with you. I don’t want no-strings, I want everything. Mornings where I wake up and you’re stealing my hoodie. Nights where we fall asleep tangled up like this, and I want all of it with you.”
You smiled against his lips, heart so full it felt like it might burst, “I’m falling in love with you too, Hee, I want all of that with you too.”
He whined, kissing you all clumsy, rolling his hips in long, loving strokes that made you feel every inch of him. The pace was unhurried, like he wanted to savor every second.
“Feel that?” He whispered, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on you, “I love being inside you like this. I love feeling you around me—so warm, so perfect.”
You moaned softly, legs wrapping tighter around him as you rocked up to meet his slow thrusts, “you feel so good, baby.”
Heeseung smiled again with a giggle, hiding his face in your neck for a moment before kissing along your throat, “you’re so beautiful,” he murmured between kisses, “the way you look when I’m inside you, the little sounds you make, I could stay like this for hours. Just loving you, just making you feel good.”
His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning it gently above your head while the other slid down to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, tender circles. Every thrust was accompanied by quiet words—I love you, you feel incredible, never letting you go, whispered against your skin like prayers.
You squeezed his hand, “I love how you make me feel safe, don’t ever change, okay?”
“I won’t, I promise, i just want to make you feel loved. Every single day.”
The room filled with nothing but the soft creak of the bed, your quiet moans, and his gentle praises. He kept the pace slow and deep, grinding against you on every thrust so your clit rubbed perfectly against him. His lips never left your skin—kissing your neck, your jaw, your mouth, your collarbone like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.
“You’re everything to me,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion as he rolled his hips again, “I’m so lucky you’re mine. So fucking lucky.”
“I’m the lucky one, baby. Now keep loving me just like this, I never want this to end.”
Heeseung smiled against your mouth, eyes shining with pure adoration, and did exactly that—loving you slow, deep, and full of so much tenderness it felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.
Just the two of you, and the moonlight in the room.
MEANWHILE:
You shushed Heeseung for the nth time as he smiled against your palm, but you were serious, peering down the hallway from the narrow alcove where you’d both hidden behind a pillar.
“Stop smiling, you’re going to get us caught,” you whispered, though your own grin was fighting to break free.
Heeseung only chuckled quietly, pressing a soft kiss to your wrist, “can’t help it. You look so adorable trying to be all serious.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt warm as his arms stayed wrapped around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder.
The classroom door finally swung open. Students spilled out, and then Jaemin stepped into the hallway, laughing loudly with his friends.
The second you saw him, you stepped out without hesitation, you lifted the chilled cup and poured the entire icy matcha straight over his head from the first floor, the aim being too good to your surprise.
Jaemin gasped, stumbling back as green liquid drenched his hair and hoodie, “what the fuck—”
Loud laughter exploded from the crowd around him. Phones came out instantly, people whistling and clapping, and you didn’t stay to admire your work.
You grabbed Heeseung’s hand and ran, both of you sprinting down the side hallway until you ducked into an empty stairwell, breathless and laughing.
“Oh my god, his face,” you wheezed, back pressed against the wall.
Heeseung leaned over you, one hand beside your head, smiling so beautifully it made your knees weak—eyes crinkled, full of pure adoration and joy.
“You’re insane, taking revenge for me again,” he said softly, “and I’m so in love with you.”
You reached up, cupping his cheek. He leaned in and kissed you sweetly, so full of everything you two had become. When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he was still smiling that same breathtaking smile.
“I love you,” he whispered.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, grinning, and you did mean it with your whole heart as you proceeded to say.
‘just one more baby cmon’ heeseung has been at it for hours, his hand practically glued to your clit as he continues to make you orgasm for the nth time of the night.
‘don’t close your legs please, open up for me baby’ your legs are shaking, eyes red and filled with tears. the pleasure is too much, ‘heeseung.. just wait a bit please, i cant-‘
you’re still talking, to heeseung this means you arnet pleasured enough and all he wants for you is to be so overwhelmed with pleasure you can’t even think about anything else but him.
how can he stop when you look so cute squirming and begging around his fingers? your glossy eyes and flushed cheeks just look too pretty for him to stop.
he occasionally swallows your moans and protests with his mouth, but he loves to hear you beg. he’ll increase his hands pressure and speed just to see you squirm a little more.
your hands fly to grab his wrist, ‘please just a minute’ your voice breathless and heart racing, ‘i’ll wait for a minute baby, but then i’m not going to stop’
you can’t even feel your legs anymore, even a light touch of his fingers are enough to make your oversensitive cunt cum, but he still thinks you aren’t pleasured enough.
written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊
✷ lee heeseung's been too busy preparing for his comeback to notice how neglected you feel, so with jungwon’s help, you decide to make your boyfriend just a little jealous to remind him what he’s been missing !
🗯️ 内容 explicit sexual content ♫ 18+ ⸝⸝ intended for mature audiences | minors do not interact ᯓ established relationship, angst with happy ending, jealousy trope, emotional neglect, possessive behavior, heavy emotional reconciliation, comfort after conflict, petnames, dirty talk, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, protected p in v, multiple orgasms !
⟶ featuring ⋮ jungwon (enhypen)
EL’S ✷ BUBBLE : YO THIS IS ACTUALLY SOOOOO SO ASS I'M SORRY i've actually had this rotting in my google docs for a few days & i was hesitant on uploading because i wanted to fix it (spoiler alert: i couldn't and so i didn't) but here we are . . . requested, thank you so muchi! (anon if you're reading this i swear when my requests open back come back asap i'll make a better fic) ╯︿╰ mweheheh lovelots guys
The plan wasn't even yours, technically. It was Jungwon's.
"You're telling me he hasn't called you in five days?" Jungwon had said over the phone, his voice laced with the kind of righteous indignation only a best friend could muster. "Not even a goodnight text?"
"He's been busy with preparations," you'd said, and you hated how small your voice sounded. How practiced the excuse was. "The comeback is kind of—"
"Man, I love Heeseung-hyung, I do, but he's been 'busy' for three weeks straight."
A pause.
Then, carefully: "What if we give him a little push?"
You should've said no. You should've been the bigger person, waited it out, trusted that Heeseung would come back to you the way he always did, apologetic and warm and yours.
But three weeks of falling asleep to a cold, empty side of the bed will make anyone a little petty.
So here you are.
It started with a text. Simple, casual, deliberately breezy.
You: babyy i’m going shopping with wonnie today ☺️ i need new clothes for the season
You watched the typing bubble appear. Disappear. Appear again. Then—
Heeseung: ok have fun
Two words. No question about where. No ask to join. No I miss you, can I come?
You almost caved right there.
Almost called him and said please, just come with us, I just want to see you. But Jungwon's voice echoed in your head — he needs to realize what he's taking for granted — and you locked your phone and went to meet your best friend.
Jungwon was already waiting outside the department store, hands shoved in the pockets of his oversized jacket, that easy cat-like smile spreading across his face when he saw you. He pulled you into a hug immediately, warm, familiar, the kind of hug best friends share without thinking.
"Operation Make-Heeseung-Jealous is a go?" he murmured against your hair.
"Operation Make-Heeseung-Jealous is a go," you confirmed, and he laughed, pulling back to ruffle your hair.
"Let's make him suffer."
The shopping was genuine. You did need new clothes, and Jungwon had impeccable taste, steering you toward things you'd never pick yourself — soft knits in cream and slate, a slip dress in deep burgundy that made him whistle low under his breath.
"That one. Heeseung will lose his mind."
"That's the point."
What made it work was that Jungwon was naturally clingy. He linked arms with you while walking between stores. He rested his chin on your shoulder while you examined price tags. He tugged at the hem of your shirt when he wanted your attention, your name slipping out softly before he caught himself, and you'd laugh and swat at him and he'd grin, unrepentant.
None of it was new. None of it was unusual.
But none of it had ever been done in front of Heeseung before.
Because Heeseung was there.
You'd given him permission, of course. When he'd texted back that one-word reply, you'd pushed: you can come watch if you want thoo baby, see that wonnie and i are just friends.
He'd said fine, and you'd sent him the address, and now—
Now you could feel him. Not see him, not yet, but feel him. That particular prickle at the back of your neck, that subtle shift in the air that meant Lee Heeseung had entered your orbit.
You didn't turn around. Neither did Jungwon. But his hand found the small of your back, guiding you toward the café down the street, and you let him.
The café was warm and golden, exposed brick, mismatched furniture, fresh pastries. There was a sofa section near the window, roomy, cushioned, space for three.
You looked at it. Then looked at the small two-seater table near the corner.
"The table," you said.
Jungwon raised an eyebrow. "There's literally a sofa right there."
"More room for bags." You were already walking toward it.
He stared at you for a long beat. Then something knowing flickered in his eyes, and he followed without another word.
The table was small. Intimate. Your knees bumped under it, and when the waitress came, Jungwon leaned in close to look at the menu, his shoulder pressing warm against yours.
From outside, through the café's wide front window, you could see him.
Heeseung. Sitting on a bench across the street, a cup of convenience store ramen balanced on his knee, chopsticks moving mechanically from cup to mouth. His jacket was too thin for the weather. His hair was messy, like he'd rushed out without fixing it. He was staring at the café, at you, at the way Jungwon was leaning into your space, talking close, smiling that soft smile he reserved for people he actually liked.
And Heeseung's jaw was so tight you could see the muscle jumping even from here.
You looked away. Took a sip of your iced tea. Let Jungwon steal a bite of your cake and pretend-scold him for it, swatting his hand away with a laugh that was only half-performative.
This was the thing about Jungwon, he made it easy. Easy to laugh, easy to lean into his touches, easy to forget that the whole point of this afternoon was the man across the street eating ramen and watching his girlfriend smile at someone else.
But you didn't forget. You couldn't. Not when you could feel Heeseung's gaze like a physical thing, heavy, hot, and increasingly frayed at the edges.
A week earlier, the apartment was dark when you had gotten home. Not unusual lately. Heeseung's shoes were by the door, his practice bag dumped haphazardly on the floor, a half-empty water bottle on the counter. Signs of life, but barely.
You found him in the bedroom, sprawled face-down on the bed, still in his practice clothes. His breathing was slow and even, not quite asleep, but close. The kind of exhaustion that settled into the bones.
You sat on the edge of the bed and ran your fingers through his hair. He stirred, just barely.
"Hey. When did you get home?"
"Mm. An hour ago." His voice was muffled by the pillow. "Sorry. Meant to wait up."
"It's okay. How was practice?"
"Long." He turned his head just enough to look at you, one dark eye blinking up blearily. "I keep messing up the bridge section. Made me run it like thirty times."
"You'll get it. You always do."
He hummed, eyes already fluttering shut. His hand found yours blindly, squeezed once, then went slack.
You sat there holding the hand of a man who was too tired to hold you back.
That was the thing. It wasn't that Heeseung didn't love you. You knew he did, knew it in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way his eyes found you across any room like you were the only fixed point in a spinning world.
But knowing didn't make the quiet hurt less. Didn't make three weeks of being second priority feel like anything other than what it was.
You pulled the blanket over him and went to sleep on the couch.
Three days later, you called him during his lunch break, something you never did. He didn't pick up. Called again an hour later. Voicemail.
By the time he finally called back, nearly midnight, you were already in bed, already hollowed out.
"Hey, sorry, my phone was on silent—"
"It's fine. Go to sleep, Heeseung. You sound tired."
A pause. "…Are you mad?"
"No. I'm just tired too." You swallowed. "I haven't seen you in two weeks. I haven't talked to you in longer. And I know you're busy, I know, but—"
"I know," he said, voice thick with something like guilt. "Just—one more week, okay? The showcase is Saturday and then I'll have time. I promise."
One more week. You'd heard that promise before a dozen times.
"One more week," you repeated.
"One more week," he confirmed.
You hung up and stared at the ceiling for a very long time.
It was the next morning that you called Jungwon.
By the time you and Jungwon left the café, the sun was already low, painting the street in shades of amber and rose. Jungwon carried most of your bags, gentleman that he was, and walked close enough that your shoulders brushed with every step.
Heeseung was no longer on the bench.
You felt a sharp pang of — something. Disappointment? Relief? The game had gone on long enough, and some part of you had been waiting for him to snap, to cross the street, to walk in and say mine the way he used to in the early days when jealousy was still something he wore openly.
But he'd just sat there. Eating his ramen. Watching. Silent.
Jungwon must've sensed the shift in your mood, because he glanced down at you and said, gently, "Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah," you said. "Just—"
A hand closed around your wrist.
Not rough. Not aggressive. But firm. Unmistakable. The kind of grip that left no room for argument, no space for questioning who this hand belonged to, because your body recognized it before your mind did, recognized the long fingers, the familiar press of a silver ring, the warmth that was entirely, unmistakably Heeseung.
"We're leaving," he said. His voice was low. Controlled. The kind of quiet that was louder than shouting.
Jungwon stopped. Looked at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung, and something passed between the two men, some wordless exchange you couldn't quite parse, before Jungwon's mouth curved in a barely-there smile.
"I'll drop the bags at your place later, Y/N," he said. And then, softer, just for Heeseung: "Take care of her, hyung."
Heeseung didn't respond.
His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, and he steered you, walked you, fast and silent and unrelenting, down the street, around the corner, into the parking garage where his car was waiting.
The drive home was silent.
He didn't turn on the radio. Didn't look at you. His hands gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, knuckles pale, jaw set so hard it looked painful. The only sound was the engine and the quiet, measured rhythm of his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, like he was counting each exhale to keep himself steady.
You watched his profile in the dashboard light. The sharp line of his nose. The tension in his brow. The way his throat moved when he swallowed, like he was physically holding words behind his teeth.
You should've apologized. Should've explained. Should've told him it was a setup, a scheme, a stupid, desperate attempt to make him see you again.
Instead, you said nothing.
Because some part of you, the part that had spent three weeks being ignored, wanted him to break first. Wanted him to be the one to reach. Wanted to know, with absolute certainty, that he still wanted to.
The apartment door barely closed behind you before Heeseung turned around.
He looked wrecked.
Not angry, though there was anger there, banked low and smoldering behind his dark eyes, but wrecked. Like something had been pulled taut inside him for hours and was finally, finally about to snap.
"Three weeks," he said. His voice was quiet. Almost steady. "Three weeks I barely looked at you. Three weeks of—of running on no sleep and barely eating and missing you so much it felt like my chest was caving in, and you—"
He stopped. Pressed his lips together. Looked at the ceiling.
"You sat at a table for two," he said. "You let him touch you. You laughed for him. And I was sitting across the street eating some cheap ass cup ramen, watching my girlfriend act like I didn't exist, and I couldn't—I couldn't even—like—"
His voice cracked. Just barely. Just enough.
"Baby," you whispered.
"Don't." He pointed at you, finger trembling. "Don't call me baby right now, I'm so—I'm so fucking—"
He stopped again. Exhaled hard. His hand dropped to his side.
"You were punishing me," he said. It wasn't a question.
You held his gaze. "Of course I was."
A sharp breath. "Because I was busy."
"Because you made me feel like I didn't matter, silly."
Silence.
Heavy, thick, and suffocating, and for one terrible second you thought he was going to walk away—thought you'd pushed too far, played the game too hard, broken something that couldn't be glued back together.
Then Heeseung moved.
He closed the distance between you in two strides, hands finding your face, tilting your head back, and his mouth was on yours, hungry and desperate and aching, the kiss of a man who had been starving for months and was finally, finally allowed to eat.
"You matter," he said against your lips. "You matter, you matter, you matter so much—"
His hands were everywhere. Sliding from your face to your neck, your shoulders, down your arms, pulling you against him like he was trying to press you into his skin.
You could feel his heartbeat, fast, erratic, and racing, or maybe that was yours, you couldn't tell anymore, couldn't tell where you ended and he began, not when he was kissing you like this, not when he was constantly whispering I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry between breaths like a prayer.
"Bedroom," you managed.
"Bedroom," he agreed.
He laid you down like you were something precious. Which was almost funny, given the way he'd looked at you in the café, like he wanted to take you apart piece by piece, but here, now, in the dim light of your shared bedroom, his hands were gentle as they slipped off your clothes. Layer by layer, careful and unhurried, like he was unwrapping something he'd been afraid he'd lost.
His fingertips dragged down your sides, slow and reverent, leaving trails of heat in their wake. He paused at your hip, pressed his thumb into the soft skin there like he was checking if you were real, if you were solid, if you'd dissolve under his hands the way he probably feared you would.
"I forgot," he murmured, pressing his lips to your collarbone. The word vibrated against your skin, low and rough. "I forgot what you felt like."
"You see me every day," you breathed.
"Seeing isn't touching." His mouth moved lower, dragging hot and slow down the center of your chest, tongue dipping into the hollow of your sternum. "Seeing isn't this, you know."
His hands gripped your thighs, firm, possessive, spreading them open, and he settled between them like he belonged there. Like it was the only place he'd ever belonged. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, then a third higher up, and each one sent a bolt of anticipation straight to your core.
Then his mouth—
God, his mouth.
He ate you out like a man making up for lost time. No teasing, no tentative buildup, just the flat of his tongue pressing hot and wet against you, dragging up in one long, devastating stroke that made your spine arch clean off the mattress.
A broken sound tore from your throat, half gasp, half moan, and he groaned against you in response, the vibration shooting through your core like electricity, pooling hot and liquid at the base of your spine.
"Mmm, you taste so good," he muttered, half to himself, and then he was everywhere, tongue circling your clit with a precision that made your thighs shake, lips dragging slick and obscene against your most sensitive skin, jaw working with a determination that made your head spin. He was devouring you. Taking you apart with his mouth the way he didn't have the words to do with his voice.
"Heeseung—"
"Fuck, say my name again with that pretty mouth of yours, baby." The command was muffled against you, rough and desperate.
His tongue found your clit and circled it, slow, deliberate, maddening, and you fisted the sheets with both hands because there was nothing else to hold onto, nothing else to ground you, not when he was licking into you like this, not when he was making those sounds between your thighs. Low. Hungry. Almost wrecked, like he was the one being undone.
He slid two fingers inside you, slow at first, just to the first knuckle, letting you feel the stretch, then deeper, curling them upward until he found that spot, and your vision went white at the edges.
"Heeseung, baby—"
"Again." He curled his fingers again, pressing, and his tongue flicked harder against your clit. "Say it again."
"Heeseung, please—"
"Please what exactly? What are you talking about?" He pulled back just far enough to look at you, to see your flushed cheeks and parted lips and the way your chest heaved with every ragged breath, and his eyes were so dark, so blown with want, that the sight of him alone almost pushed you over the edge. "Use your words and your wish is my command."
"I'm gonna—please, I'm gonna come—"
"Mmh, that’s it—come for me, baby," he said, and his mouth was back on you before you could process the words, fingers and tongue working in tandem now, relentless and precise, and the coil in your stomach wound so tight you thought you might shatter—
You did.
The orgasm hit you like a wave breaking, sudden and all-consuming, and you heard yourself moan his name, heard it crack and fracture in the quiet room, felt your walls clench around his fingers and your thighs tremble on either side of his head.
He worked you through it, mouth softening just slightly, fingers gentling but not stopping, not stopping, and the pleasure crested and crested again and didn't recede, just shifted into something sharper, brighter, and way too much.
"Heeseung—wait, I just—ah—I can't, it's too—"
"You can." He looked up at you then, lips swollen and glistening, and his eyes, blown-wide, fierce with something raw and unguarded, made your breath catch. "You can take it. You let him touch you all afternoon. You can take this."
The words landed somewhere between accusation and plea, and they sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core despite, or maybe because of, the guilt that flickered through you.
He didn't give you time to respond. His mouth was back on you before you could draw breath, and this time there was nothing gentle about it. He licked into you with long, broad strokes, his fingers curling and uncurling inside you, and the overstimulation built like a second tide coming in, fast and inexorable and impossible to fight.
Your hands flew to his hair. You weren't sure if you were pushing him away or pulling him closer. Your body didn't know either, bucking into his mouth one second and squirming away the next, every nerve ending firing at once until the pleasure and the ache blurred into one overwhelming, consuming sensation.
"Mine," he whispered against your oversensitive skin, and the word vibrated through you like a second pulse. "You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours—Heeseung, I'm—oh my god—fuck—"
The second orgasm ripped through you harder than the first.
Your back bowed off the mattress, your thighs clamped around his head, and you might've screamed, couldn't tell, couldn't hear anything over the rushing in your ears and the devastating, unrelenting pressure of his mouth still on you, still working, still taking, even as you shook and whimpered and felt tears leak from the corners of your eyes because it was too much, it was too much, and he wasn't stopping—
"Heeseung—please, I can't—please—"
He pulled off with a wet sound that should've been obscene but just made you ache for him. His fingers slipped out of you slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, whimpered again when he pressed a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, then another to your hip, each one impossibly gentle after what his mouth had just done.
He rose above you, and you caught a glimpse of his face, lips swollen and wet, cheeks flushed, eyes wild, and then he was stripping off his shirt, reaching for the nightstand drawer with hands that shook just slightly, and the sight of his bare skin, lean and toned and so familiar, made something in your chest crack wide open.
He rolled the condom on with practiced efficiency, and then he was between your legs again, and the head of his cock pressed against your entrance and you both stilled.
"Look at me," he said.
You opened eyes you didn't remember closing. He was right there, close enough to count his eyelashes, close enough to see the wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes, close enough to see the way his jaw was clenched so tight it trembled.
"I'm sorry," he said.
And then he pushed inside.
The stretch was perfect and overwhelming and exactly what you needed. He filled you slowly, inches that felt like miles, until he bottomed out and his forehead dropped to rest against yours and you could feel him shaking, actually shaking, with the effort of holding still.
"Don't move," he breathed. "Just—give me a second."
"You're the one who said look at you," you whispered back, and he let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost, and rolled his hips, and the shift pressed him impossibly deeper and dragged a moan from both of you at the same time.
Then he started to move.
He was slow at first. Deep, measured thrusts that dragged against every nerve ending you had, his hands braced on either side of your head, his breath warm and unsteady against your lips.
Every stroke was deliberate, pulling almost all the way out, then sinking back in so slowly you could feel every inch, every ridge, every place where your bodies met and held and refused to let go. A claim. An apology. A promise all tangled together into something that made your chest ache worse than the three weeks of silence ever had.
"You feel so good," he said against the corner of your mouth. "Forgot how good you feel. Fuck."
"Then don't forget again," you managed, and his hips stuttered, just once, before he found his rhythm again.
But the slow didn't last.
Couldn't, maybe, not with the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
His pace quickened, thrusts growing harder, deeper, more urgent. The sound of skin against skin filled the room alongside your shared, ragged breathing, and the headboard started knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm that you'd be embarrassed about later but couldn't bring yourself to care about now.
"Say you're mine," he panted, hips snapping forward.
"I'm yours—"
"Say it again." Harder now. Deeper. His hands found yours and pinned them above your head, fingers lacing through yours, holding you in place.
"I'm yours, Heeseung, I'm—oh—"
He hit a spot that made you see stars, and he did it again, and again, adjusting the angle until every thrust ground against that spot and you were sobbing his name, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, deeper, more.
The pressure was building again, a third time, impossibly, and you were so oversensitive from before that every stroke was a razor's edge between pleasure and pain, and you didn't know which one you wanted more.
"Nobody else," he said, and his voice was wrecked, ragged and low and breaking at the seams. "Nobody else gets to touch you like this. Not Jungwon. Not anyone. Just me. Say it."
"Just you—only you—Heeseung—"
"That's right." He drove into you harder, faster, and you could feel him losing the last threads of his control, could feel it in the way his rhythm faltered, in the way his hands tightened around yours, in the way his breathing fractured into something desperate and uneven. "Only me. Fuck—only me—"
Your third orgasm crested without warning.
No slow build this time, just a sudden, blinding rush of sensation that crashed over you and pulled you under, and you clenched around him so hard he groaned, long and guttural, and his hips jerked forward erratically, chasing his own release.
"That's it," he said, voice cracking. "That's it, baby, one more—you feel so good, you're so good, mine—"
He followed you over the edge a moment later, burying himself deep and going rigid above you, a broken sound escaping his throat, half-moan, half-sob, and his whole body shuddered as he came, fingers squeezing yours so tightly it almost hurt, and he collapsed onto you with the full, unguarded weight of his body.
For a long time, neither of you moved.
His breathing was ragged against your neck. Your fingers traced absent patterns on his back, sweaty, trembling, still hovering in that hazy space between too much and just right.
Finally, he lifted his head. Looked at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression open in a way it rarely was, stripped of every defense, every careful wall he kept between himself and the world.
"Three weeks was too long," he said quietly. "I'm not doing that again."
"Okay."
"I mean it. I don't care how busy it gets. I'm coming home to you. Every night. Even if it's just to fall asleep on the couch. Even if it's just for ten minutes."
"I'll hold you to that," you said.
He kissed you. Soft this time. Slow. The kind of kiss that wasn't trying to prove anything, the kind that just was.
Then he pulled back just far enough to look at you with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
"You planned that. With Jungwon."
You bit your lip. "…Maybe."
He stared at you. Then he dropped his head back onto your chest and laughed—a real laugh, exasperated and disbelieving and warm.
"I'm going to kill him," he mumbled against your skin.
"You'll thank him," you corrected, running your fingers through his hair. "He's the reason you're here right now."
A pause. Then, grudgingly: "I'll thank him later. Right now I'm still mad."
"Right now you're naked in my bed," you pointed out.
"Right now I'm grudgingly naked in your bed," he clarified, and you laughed, and felt him smile against your skin.
Three weeks was way too damn long.
But this, him, here, present, was worth every petty scheme.
Even the table for two.
⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
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