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

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

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

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

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

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

you: hi you sell right

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

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

This was not how the structure worked. Nope.

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

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

riki: ???? is this a test loll

you: ? its a question

riki: u fr????

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

riki: 3pm behind the science building

you: ok thanks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“What kind.” he repeats.

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

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

You bristle. “So?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it makes it worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, he’s 6’1.

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you say too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.

“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.

“Mhm.”

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

Until he bumps into someone.

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

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

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

His name on your mouth does something stupid to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t usually look,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Specific.”

“He’s with his friends.”

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

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

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

Riki blinks. “The stuff?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”

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

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

He really, really knows better.

Which somehow makes it worse.

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

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

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

You: bathroom upstairs

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

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

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

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

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

“Like this?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you say, breathless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He quickly looks away, trying not to smile. 

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

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

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

“Is that so bad?”

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riki exhales, then lifts it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”

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

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

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

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

Riki blinks. “No.”

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

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

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

Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re where you’re supposed to be.

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

Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, you push the door open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.

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

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

He tilts his head. “Should we?”

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

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

“Probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall. 

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

Your boyfriend is cheating on you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Outside,” he says easily.

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

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

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

Your smile falters. “What about him?”

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

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

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

What the fuck is happening?

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because this is new information.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You notice. You just don’t say anything.

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

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

“Thanks. For caring.”

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

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You tell me.”

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

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

“No.”

“Just me?”

His mouth twitches. “You asked.”

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at you for a moment.

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

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

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

“How?” he snickers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightens.

“With me,” he adds.

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

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

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

“I just guessed one fucking thing.”

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

“With me?”

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

You huff. “You’re so annoying.”

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

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

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

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

So you take control of things you can handle.

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

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

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

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

“Are you a virgin?”

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

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

“You always ask things like that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.

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

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

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

“And?”

“And you look like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really,” you agree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “Why not?”

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

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

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

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

“This is so fucked,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.

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

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

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

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

“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”

“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,” 

The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.

“You think I’d use you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”

You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Ask me when we’re not high.”

Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”

Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer. 

“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.

“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”

You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods,  agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.

Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you. 

The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.

“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”

Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.

He looks away first.

PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.

He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.

You’re already looking too.

It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.

Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”

Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”

Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”

“Okay.”

The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.

“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.

“I am.”

“You’re really not.”

Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.

He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.

Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.

You bite back a smile.

When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.

Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.

His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.

Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.

You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.

His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"

You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."

He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."

Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.

And that he’s enjoying the view.

You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."

His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."

The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.

In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board. 

You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.

You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.

This is so inconvenient.

“Babe.”

Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.

“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.

You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”

“Yeah, but where?”

You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.

“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.

Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.

He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little. 

Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.

Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).

You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.

You just feel tired, especially on the way home. 

Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.

Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.

Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth. 

Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.

you: he actually sucks so bad like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance

You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.

You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you. 

Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.

And maybe that makes you painfully average.

Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.

You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.

Until something taps three times against your window.

Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.

Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.

You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame. 

You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.

Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.

For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.

 “Hi.”

You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.

“You sounded sad.”

“Is that supposed to be an answer?”

“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”

The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.

This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.

Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.

Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”

Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”

He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.

So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.

“I got you these.”

Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.

Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.

You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.

“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”

He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”

You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”

“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.

You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.

“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.

You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”

He raises his brows. “That means yes.”

You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”

Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.

The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.

You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.

You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”

“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”

You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.

Which is not good at all.

He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.

You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.

This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.

You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.

You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume.  “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.

Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.

Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”

Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.

You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was high.”

“And what’s your excuse now?”

Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.

Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.

You are none of those things anymore.

Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses. 

Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”

Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully. 

You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text. 

Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?

You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly. 

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.

His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.

Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.

Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.

“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”

His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.

He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.” 

Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck. 

For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.

Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.

That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.

He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”

“I need to do something.”

His brows pull together. “Right now?”

You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.

Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.

He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.

The call rings twice.

Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.

Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”

There is a pause. “What?”

You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”

You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.

He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.

Your eyes widen. “Riki.”

He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”

On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone. 

Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.

That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure. 

The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.

Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.

You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours. 

“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.

His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.

You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.

Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.

Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you. 

"Words, baby," he whispers.

He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.

You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."

Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor. 

Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.

He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.

You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.

“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward. 

You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.

And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs. 

His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.

Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.

You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”

You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him. 

“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.

You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?” 

You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.

And he’s still too fucking long. 

You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.

Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”

You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths. 

Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.

“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”

He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.

“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.

“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches. 

Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”

You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt. 

“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.

Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,” 

His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”

Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.

Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears. 

“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”

The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.

“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.

He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him. 

Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you. 

“W-what are you —” 

“On your stomach.” 

You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”

You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought. 

“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.

You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.

“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.

Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.

You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm. 

Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.

You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.

Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely. 

Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”

“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.

“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder. 

You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.

Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.

Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.

“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw. 

“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.

You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”

WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.

Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful. 

He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.

You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.

He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"

He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.

“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”

You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”

Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”

Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.

Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”

He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.

“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”

You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”

He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you. 

You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.

"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.

Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.

“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.

You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.

A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.

You’ve also started to believe that Sunghoon and Jay have developed a personal vendetta against you. To make it sound more complicated, you do not care whether Jake and Riki go to parties, usually waving them off with a simple, “It’s none of my business, do what you want.” Except Jake has stopped going altogether, despite your repeated encouragement for him to exercise his individuality, because apparently he would rather spend his Friday nights watching animal documentaries with you.

No hate from the boys of course, they just think you’ve stolen their man from them.

With that, Jake had also met your father formally a month ago over dinner, even though formally was a loose term considering your father already knew him as the Sim boy from charity galas and those adult conversations where surnames mattered in the financial sense. 

Still, you had done it properly by telling your father ahead of time, warning Riki not to say anything stupid that involved 100 bucks, and also warning Jake not to say anything charming enough that your father would invite him golfing (he did, they have one scheduled next weekend).

The dinner itself had gone well at first. Your father was polite, Jake was polite, Riki, by some divine intervention, managed to go full minutes without mentioning illegal outsourcing or the fact that Jake had once technically been hired to romance you against your knowledge.

For most of the meal, your father asked Jake about school, soccer, his parents, his plans for college, and Jake answered because he’s always been charismatic and charming the way networking was always going to be an easy thing he can do (your dad was already smiling differently at him like he was that golden jackpot son-in-law). He was respectful, but not stiff; confident, but not cocky. He somehow managed to make your father look interested in a conversation that did not involve stocks, real estate, or golf.

The most unsettling part that might have made you twitch a little — mostly because some still really mad part can’t help but act out — your father turned to you and asked about one of your classes, and when you answered, he actually listened. Not the distracted kind of listening he usually did, where his eyes were on his phone and half his attention remained somewhere else. He actually looked at you and asked a follow-up question like he was interested, and not because it was another thing to check off his to-do list. 

You told him about a professor you didn’t like, and he laughed. For a while, it felt normal, and close enough that your chest loosened far more than you would have let it. 

You started thinking that maybe it was not too late. That maybe your relationship with your father was not something permanently broken, maybe things could recover slowly through dinners and questions and laughter that did not need an audience to exist — which was stupid.

Then your father smiled across the table and said, “See? This is good for you. I should’ve gotten you a boyfriend years ago. Maybe you would’ve smiled more and mothered Riki less.”

Then you go back to hating him.

You return to that one crime documentary about the daughter who killed her father and start understanding the cinematography on a deeper level. Especially when he keeps smiling like he did not just undo fifteen minutes of character development and storyline progress.

However, because your life had recently developed the irritating habit of becoming emotionally productive, you did eventually understand what happened. It took a very long conversation with Jake in your room that night, where you sat on your bed with your arms crossed. He was careful not to sound like he was defending your father too much, because he was fond of living.

“I’m not saying you have to forgive him,” Jake said.

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying maybe he’s trying.”

He did not tell you your father deserved anything or to let it go. He didn’t flatten the years of hurt into one inspirational sentence and expected you to make it easier for a father that made your life harder. He only said that your dad had been home more recently, that he had been asking about your classes, that he had started remembering Riki’s schedule, that maybe it was too late, or maybe it wasn’t, but either way, he was trying.

“But,” he added, “you might want to know what happens if you try too.”

So, against your better judgment and several documentaries, you decided to try his advice. Not because your father had earned a dramatic reunion scene in the rain or because one decent dinner could undo years of making you the emergency contact for everyone’s inconvenience, but because maybe you owed it to yourself too.

So you stopped actively ignoring him when he was in the house, which was a humanitarian effort, really.

You smiled when he entered the kitchen. Sometimes you even stayed there instead of pretending you suddenly had urgent business upstairs, and also answered when he asked about school. You laughed once when he made a decent joke, then immediately regretted encouraging him because he spent the rest of dinner trying to be funny.

You also agreed to play golf with him one of these days, which Riki called “the most disturbing thing he’s ever heard in his life,” and Jake called it “progress”.

The house became slightly less cold in the places where your father stood. Which was how your father ended up hosting another barbecue in the middle of spring.

Someone’s wife had brought pasta salad in a glass container large enough to feed a small province, but most of the guests were still your father’s friends, which meant executives with white hair and expensive watches that actually were there for casual gatherings in t-shirts and shorts.

You had been standing with them for maybe seven minutes because, weirdly enough, you were fond of them. They were like uncles who had seen you grow up, called Riki “little man” even after he outgrew half of them, and still somehow believed you were fourteen.

Mr. Han tilts his head at you like he suddenly remembers something very important. “Do you remember Beomgyu? He’s in college now,” he says, “Business administration. Very sharp boy.”

Another one of your father’s friends nodded beside him. “Good head on his shoulders.”

Mr. Han looks back at you with a smile. “You could learn a few things from him, you know. Business, discipline, networking. He also plays pickleball now,” he adds, like that is meant to sweeten the offer. “Very popular these days.”

“Right,” you say, because what else were you supposed to say to that? Congratulations to Beomgyu and his racket?

Your father, standing a few feet away with a beer in hand, laughs and shakes his head. “Han.” he points at him lightly. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just saying, they’re around the same age.”

You laugh again, awkward and thin, because this is still technically a barbecue and not a marriage market with grilled meat. “I’m sure Beomgyu is great.”

You take a sip from your cup and consider walking away blatantly right now, until a very familiar arm settles over your shoulders.

“Pickleball?” Jake says easily, stepping into your side like he had been there the whole time. “He’s already where the board members are.”

Your head turns slowly, but Jake does not look at you. He only kept smiling at them, pleasant and entirely shameless. 

That earns him a smile from Mr. Han, then a point with the same hand holding his beer. “Exactly. Smart guy.”

Your father laughs like Jake has just said something personally rewarding to him, then steps closer and claps a hand over his shoulder. “Jake Sim,” he says, and somehow says it with the same pride as he would introduce his favorite child (Jake is his favorite child now). “You know his father.”

Recognition moves through them almost immediately. “Ah,” Mr. Han says, nodding. “Sim’s youngest son.”

“The one in engineering?” another asks.

Jake smiles politely. “Trying to be.”

Your father looks far too pleased. “He’s dating my daughter.”

Then Mr. Han’s expression shifts into something amused and knowing, because old men truly hear two surnames in one sentence and start seeing stock prices. “I see,” he says, looking between you and Jake. “So that’s where your head is at. Very strategic.”

“Tying the families early, aye.” one of the other men says.

Jake’s arm stays around your shoulders, but you feel him laugh under his breath. 

You stare at him, deeply irritated by the fact that he had arrived twenty minutes late and immediately became the most likable person anyway. They started asking him about engineering, golf, and whether he had considered business on the side, and Jake answered smoothly while keeping his arm around your shoulders. Every few seconds, his thumb brushed lightly against your upper arm, calm and absent, as if he had not just inserted himself into the middle of a soft-launch arranged marriage attempt.

You let him talk for another minute, then you step on his shoe when it’s enough.

Jake’s smile does not move, but his arm tightens around you and you can see the slight twitch on his face. “Ow.”

You smile at the men. “Excuse us for a second.”

Before anyone can answer, you take Jake by the wrist and drag him away from the drinks table, past Riki and his girlfriend, who were sitting on the outdoor couch with matching plates of barbecue.

Riki looked up. “Trouble in paradise?”

You ignore him and continue pulling Jake toward the side of the patio, near the narrow space between the house and the garden wall where the noise from the backyard softens. The second you’re out of view, you pinch his side.

Jake flinches, laughing. “Okay, okay.”

“You’re twenty minutes late. You said you were on the way!”

“I was.”

“From where? Another country?”

Jake lifts the paper bag he had been carrying and pulls out a small white box. He watches your face carefully, already trying not to look too pleased with himself when familiarity settles slowly. “Compensation.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What is that?”

“Open it.”

Your suspicion weakens immediately, which is unfortunate and frankly humiliating. You take the box from him and open it to find the dessert you like from the bakery across town, the one that was annoying to get because parking was terrible and the line was always long for being a local icon.

You look up at him. “You drove across town?”

He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant but his perfectly straight teeth are flashing you already. “They had one left.”

You try to keep glaring at him, but the dessert is sitting pretty in your hands and he’s looking at you like he knows exactly how close he is to forgiveness. You hate that a smile is threatening to curve on your lips, so you shove the box against his chest instead. “You’re still late.”

He steps closer, smiling softly now. “But compensated?”

You look up to argue, but he’s already leaning in. His hand comes to your waist first, gentle and sure, and then he kisses your forehead.

He pulls back with the smallest smile. “Hi.”

You stare at him, though with a glare. And because you’re a woman of discipline and emotional restraint, you pinch his side again, which makes him laugh and catch your hand before you can do it a third time. 

Jake looks down at you, still smiling. He lifts the hand he already caught, turns it over, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

By the time the two of you return to the backyard, the whole place has settled into something warmer and looser. The adults are spread across the patio with beer bottles and paper plates, sunglasses pushed into white hair, laughing too loudly. 

You stay close to Jake without thinking too much about it. Sometimes your shoulder leans briefly into his when one of your father’s friends makes a joke. Or sometimes Jake’s arm is around the back of your chair while you eat the dessert he brought you, his body angled toward yours without even noticing it.

When you reach the grill, your father immediately starts explaining some trick about heat zones, and Jake listens because he is apparently very committed to being everyone’s favorite. He demonstrates what he learned by shifting a few pieces of meat to the side and saying something about indirect heat and the physics behind it.

For about six minutes, it works — until one side comes out almost burnt. He gives you a wounded look, which you ignore.

Eventually, the two of you end up in the lounge area by the pool with Riki, his girlfriend, and a few other people around your age. The outdoor couches are low and wide, arranged under the shade with plates balanced on knees, bowls of fruit on the table, ribs stacked on paper trays, and drinks sweating in the heat. 

Everyone talks to one of your family friends about college plans, thumb moving slowly as an absent habit now. You lean back against the armrest with a plate of fruit in your hands, listening while Riki complains about how everyone keeps asking what course he wants to take as if your father hasn’t already pretty much decided his career trajectory and started informing stakeholders.

The backyard is warm, the pool is bright under the spring sun, Riki is happy beside his girlfriend, and Jake is sitting there with your legs over his lap. Every now and then, when he thinks no one is looking, he leans in close enough to kiss your temple or the side of your head, quick and quiet, like he still enjoys getting away with it.

You keep telling him people can see. He keeps doing it anyway.

In the middle of one of the most boring stories ever told, a familiar voice comes from behind you.

“Don’t tell me Nishimura finally brought out the famous ribeye.”

You go still.

Your whole body reacts before your brain fully catches up, your shoulders dropping, your face changing so quickly that Jake notices it before he even turns his head. One second you are beside him, half-listening to someone talk about golf club renovations, and the next, you are staring past everyone like a celebrity just walked back into the yard.

A guy stands a few feet away from the lounge area, sunglasses pushed into his hair, one hand in his pocket, smiling beside his father, whom he has very clearly outgrown in height.

You literally gasp. Riki looks up too, and his expression shifts with recognition.

The guy’s smile widens when he sees you. “There she is.”

You do not even think (that is the first strange thing).

You just stand so fast the plate of fruit almost tips from your hand, set it down somewhere without looking, and cross the space in three steps. He opens his arms at the same time, like he already knows you are coming, and you walk straight into them.

It is not a polite hug, first and foremost.

Not one of those stiff family-friend greetings where everyone performs affection for the parents watching. It is both arms, no hesitation, your face pressed briefly into his shoulder, his hand landing at the back of your head for half a second before sliding to your upper back.

Woahh.

The kind of hug that says this has happened a lot before. The kind of hug that does not ask permission because, at some point in your life, permission had already been given.

Jake stays seated. His hand, still resting near the arm of your chair, slowly curls against nothing.

Because you do not hug people like that.

You barely hug your own father without looking like you are surviving an obligation. You act like affection is something to tolerate, not step into. But here you are, laughing into some guy’s shoulder like your body remembers him before you remember to be difficult.

The guy leans back first, still holding your arms lightly as he looks at you. “You got prettier.”

You hit his chest immediately. “Shut up.”

And you smile, which isn’t polite nor controlled, not the little smug one you give Jake when you know you have won something.

Jake’s hand, now empty on his lap, curls once against his knee.

Riki stops talking mid-sentence when he realizes who it was, his girlfriend also looks. The guy laughs as he holds you. “Wait,” he says. “Did you get taller?”

Your smile drops. “Shut up. You know I’ve been this height since I was fifteen.”

He laughs, then reaches up and ruffles your hair.

Jake’s eye twitches because as far as he knows, that was his thing that he can only do to you. Turns out he doesn’t know a lot at all!

You laugh, and Jake’s mouth stays in a polite line while he psychoanalyzes the guy that got to tease your height, hug you, touch you, and mess your hair — which feels like a shit ton of information to process right now. The guy finally lets you go, but he keeps one hand briefly at your shoulder, squeezing once with old familiarity. 

“I missed you, scary girl.”

Now he gets to say I miss you?

You giggle again, softer this time, before you ask him about college, about where he’s staying now, about whether business school has successfully humbled him. He tells you he’s fighting back with bad expectations that hit his pressure points. You ask about his mother, his younger sister, the dog they used to bring over when you were kids, and he answers each one easily, like no time has passed at all and the two years between you was nothing.

Jake stays seated for another second, not because he is upset.

Obviously not.

He is a mature and reasonable person, someone who understands that family friends exist and that not every man who hugs his girlfriend needs to be interrogated the way you used to with people.

Still, the way you keep smiling at him feels like he needs to be the way you used to operate. He’d really appreciate it by asking his background prior to the name.

Before Jake can stand, Riki clears his throat beside you. “Wow,” he says flatly. “No one missed me?”

The guy looks over at him, and his face brightens again. “No way.”

They do the manly dap up, pulling him into one of those half-hug greetings boys do. “Little Rik,” he says, laughing. “You’re as tall as me now?”

Riki immediately stands straighter. “Taller, actually.”

“You were literally up to my shoulder last time I saw you.”

You laugh, and Riki points at the guy like this is a legal offense. “See, this is why I didn’t miss you.”

“You definitely missed me.”

“I missed your mom’s cooking.”

The whole thing is familiar in a way that makes the air around you shift, because it’s lived in and the exact setting that didn’t make you feel out of place before. It’s the kind of familiar that does not need explanation, because Riki is smiling, you are laughing too easily, and the guy fits in like someone who used to belong there.

Riki glances at you when the other one’s distracted, eyes moving from you to Jake, then back to you with the expression of someone saying, Are you stupid?

“Oh,” you say, turning quickly.

Jake smiles when your eyes find him, but there is something slightly off about it. Unfortunately, you don’t notice things when you’re too excited.

“Jake,” you say, reaching a hand toward him. “Come here.”

He does. Very normally, or at least that is what he tells himself.

You glance between them, still smiling in a way that is not exactly helping Jake’s current emotional stability. “Jake, this is Hyunjin,” you say. “My childhood friend.”

Hyunjin turns to him fully.

“And Hyunjin,” you continue, shifting closer until your hand brushes Jake’s arm, casual but clear. “This is Jake.”

You pause for half a second.

“My boyfriend.”

For a second, Hyunjin only stares, then his jaw drops. “No way.” he points at Jake, then at you, looking genuinely stunned in a way that is far too dramatic. “Someone is dating you?”

You scoff, offended. “What the fuck?”

“No, I mean, good for him.” Hyunjin looks Jake over, then nods like he is congratulating someone for surviving a difficult licensing exam. “Brave guy.”

Hyunjin then steps forward, offering his hand, which Jake takes and it immediately turns it into another dap. Jake follows smoothly because he is Jake Sim, and because social skills do not abandon him just because his girlfriend has apparently been hugging men from her childhood with the comfort of a weighted blanket.

“Nice to meet you, man,” Hyunjin says.

“You too,” Jake answers.

Usually, Jake’s charm comes easily.

It is one of the more irritating things about him, actually. He can walk into a room where nobody knows him and somehow make himself feel familiar within ten minutes. Warm smile, easy laugh, eye contact, just enough confidence to make people comfortable without making them want to humble him.

Today, however, that version of Jake has apparently taken the afternoon off.

He stands beside you, smiling when he is supposed to, nodding when Hyunjin says something, but none of it lands right. The timing is there, as well as the expression, so technically, the boyfriend is functioning.

Emotionally, he is not.

You are too distracted to notice, too caught in the weird rush of Hyunjin being there at all, of seeing someone who knew the house before it became something you had to manage. Before Riki became less like your brother and more like your full-time unpaid internship, and before your father became someone you even ever had to forgive.

Hyunjin looks around the backyard like he still knows the map of it.

That is what Jake notices first.

Not just the hug, though God knows he noticed the hug. He noticed the way you walked straight into it without thinking, the way your face pressed briefly into Hyunjin’s shoulder, the way his hand landed at the back of your head like he had touched you there before and survived it.

Jake noticed all of that.

But now Hyunjin is looking around your backyard and naming things. Small and stupid things that should not matter, except they come out of Hyunjin’s mouth like he has had them stored somewhere safe for years.

And you smile, not polite nor amused in the controlled way you get when someone makes an unfunny joke. It is easier and younger than that. A smile Jake has seen before, but rarely, and usually only after working very hard to earn it.

Hyunjin gets it by remembering a broken swing.

Great. Fantastic. Jake was hoping for exactly that.

He smiles too, because everyone else is smiling, and he is not insane. He is perfectly normal.

Hyunjin knows things Jake does not.

That is normal too — obviously. People have histories, childhood friends exist, memories do not expire just because someone gets a boyfriend.

Jake knows this. He also hates knowing this.

Hyunjin looks back at you with sudden recognition, like another memory has just come loose. “Do you still know how to make your mom’s mango strawberry smoothie?”

Your smile shifts before you can stop it.

It goes softer, sadder at the edges, like the memory has touched something old enough to still hurt. The word mom has always existed in your house like a glass sitting too close to the edge of a table. Everyone knows it is there, and they move carefully around it. Nobody wants to be the person who knocks it over.

But Hyunjin says it so easily.

You let out a small laugh, looking down at the cup in your hand. “I haven’t made that in years.”

Hyunjin’s face warms with the memory. “Your mom used to make a whole pitcher every time we came over.”

Jake smiles because everyone else smiles.

Normal boyfriend behavior. Healthy. Stable. Very mature.

Except Hyunjin knows what your mother made when the house still sounded like children running around and someone calling from the kitchen. Hyunjin knows your mother as a person who made pitchers of smoothies, who had routines people can remember without making the room go quiet.

Jake only knows her through half-sentences you never finish.

My mom used to… I don’t know, it’s not important.

And then you stop every time.

Jake has never pushed because he knows better. He knows that part of you is locked, and he has been standing outside it with both hands in his pockets, pretending patience does not ache.

Then Hyunjin walks in and the door opens.

Not for Jake. For him.

Jake looks down at his shoes and decides, very calmly, that he possibly hates fruit as a category.

“You should make it again sometime,” Hyunjin says, still smiling. “I’ve been craving it for years.”

You look at him, and for a second, you seem younger and smaller, somehow — but never weak. Just closer to a version of yourself Jake has only ever met in pieces.

You shrug, trying to make it nothing. “Maybe.”

Hyunjin leans back. “I’d pay good money.”

“You cannot afford me.”

He laughs as you laugh. Jake also makes a sound that might count as laughter.

Before Hyunjin can answer, your father calls him from across the yard. He excuses himself with a small laugh, stepping away from the lounge area and toward the adults. His father is already near yours by the grill, both of them smiling like they are about to discuss something boring and expensive.

You turn toward Jake then, finally. Your hand comes to his arm, fingers rubbing lightly over his sleeve. “I’ll just go over there for a bit,” you say. “Catch up with the old men.”

You are smiling at him, a little apologetically, like you know you got swept up in seeing Hyunjin again and are trying to make sure Jake does not feel forgotten.

Which should help (it does not). Jake is currently very aware of the fact that your hand is on his arm, but your attention is already halfway across the yard.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding once. “Go.”

Your smile softens. “I’ll be quick.”

Hyunjin says your name from across the yard, and your head turns immediately. You squeeze his arm once, then walk away.

He watches you go because, unfortunately, he has eyes and no survival instinct.

You slide easily into the small circle with your father, Hyunjin, and Hyunjin’s dad. Your father laughs almost instantly at something Hyunjin says, clapping him once on the shoulder with that proud, familiar affection that makes Jake’s jaw tighten before he can stop it. Hyunjin’s father gestures between you and Hyunjin with his beer bottle, saying something that makes you roll your eyes and smile anyway.

Jake stands there, suddenly feeling very stupid.

Great. Really great.

He returns to the lounge area with Riki beside him, sits down, and reaches for the beer on the table. He takes a long drink, which Riki watches over the rim of his cup. “Damn. Slow down, man.”

Jake lowers the bottle, eyes still across the yard. “I’m fine.”

Across the yard, Hyunjin says something to your father. Your father laughs again. You stand between them with your arms crossed, smiling in that slightly exasperated way Jake loves.

He takes another drink, deeply bothered by a conversation that does not involve him. His jaw tightens, fidgeting with the bottle in his fingers. “They seem really close.”

Riki grimaces immediately before he picks up a piece of fruit from the bowl, mostly so he has something to do with his hands while choosing exactly what words to say. “Yeah, our families were really close.” he gestures vaguely with the fruit, like that should explain anything. “Our parents used to joke about them getting married after college.”

Jake goes very still.

“Mostly joke,” Riki adds, which is somehow worse.

The backyard noise continues around them, and Jake watches it happen with the emotional stability of a man reading his own autopsy report. Because he feels like he’s dying as they speak right now, as Hyunjin looks at you with a smile because he was never scared of you. 

“What does that mean?” he asks.

Riki makes a face. “I mean, our dads were close. Same circles, same charity things, same boring conversations about properties and expansion and whatever. They thought it would be good if the families stayed connected.”

“Through marriage.”

“It was rich business people insane, yeah,” Riki says, like this is an important legal distinction. “They kind of kept pushing her to date him.”

The sentence fucks Jake up with a fucking Ak up his ass at this point, and the trigger pulls when he hears Hyunjin laughing with your father over the goddamn music.

Family plans, apparently, that involve marriage jokes the adults obviously actually meant.

“She thought it was stupid. Hyunjin too, I think. They were close, but not like that.”

Jake says nothing.

Riki leans forward a little, lowering his voice. “Bro, I’m telling you this as someone who has made many mistakes involving your relationship and a couple hundred dollars. Don’t be dumb.”

Jake exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “I’m not being dumb.”

Riki looks at him for a second longer, then slowly glances at the beer bottle in his hand. “Okay.”

Jake leans back into the cushions, which is not the body language of a man doing well. It is the body language of a man who has decided to sink into outdoor furniture and let spring swallow him whole. He keeps his eyes across the yard, watching you talk with your father, Hyunjin, and his dad like this is all very normal and not a psychological test.

Beside him, Riki and his girlfriend have gone back to their own conversation, which should be less irritating because it has nothing to do with him, except they have started doing that thing where they speak quietly and smile too much at each other. Jake watches it happen for three seconds and then takes another drink.

He has a decent tolerance, usually. But apparently his tolerance does not account for emotional sabotage through childhood friends and smoothie history, because after almost half an hour, his head starts to feel pleasantly unclear in a way that is not helpful at all. 

Across the yard, Hyunjin says something that makes you laugh again. That makes Jake look down at the bottle in his hand and decide the beer is responsible for the shitty jerk in his chest.

“Dude,” Riki says.

His girlfriend looks at the bottle, then at Jake, with gentle concern. “Maybe slow down?”

Jake sits up a little. “I’m slowed. And comfortable.”

“And very obvious too.”

Before Jake can respond, your shadow falls over him. You are standing in front of the couch with one hand on your hip, eyes moving from his face to the bottle in his hand, then back again. “What are you doing?” you ask.

“Sitting.”

You narrow your eyes at Jake, and he smiles up at you like he is very normal and not currently being held together by jealousy, ribs, and fermented grain. Then your hand reaches down for his. “Come on.”

He looks at your hand, then at you. “Where?”

“We’re playing billiards.”

Riki sits up while Jake processes that that was an actual sentence said to him. “Dad’s table?”

“Hyunjin brought it up.”

Riki’s girlfriend brightens a little. “That sounds fun.”

You tug Jake’s hand. “Up.”

He lets you pull him to his feet, mostly because refusing would be suspicious and also because your hand is warm around his. The moment he stands, the yard tilts for half a second, though not badly — just enough that he becomes very aware of the fact that maybe he should have listened when Riki’s girlfriend told him to slow down.

You notice immediately, your hand tightening around his. “Are you okay?”

Jake nods. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

He nods again, then leans down before you can say anything else. His forehead brushes yours, warm and a little unsteady, though his smile is still soft enough to make your concern shift into something else.

“Yeah,” he says. “I just missed you.”

You blink before you giggle, which is probably unfair to him. Your hand lifts to his cheek, palm settling against his very warm skin. His eyes are focused on you with that specific heaviness that makes your suspicion return immediately. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

He shakes his head. “No.” His smile grows slightly, lazy at the edges. “I just feel warm around you.”

Riki makes a noise from the couch. “That was disgusting.”

His girlfriend elbows him lightly. “It was cute.”

You ignore them and press a kiss to Jake’s other cheek, mostly because he is being stupid and warm and looking at you like you are the only thing in the backyard that has managed to make sense all afternoon.

He stares at you with a strange, softened expression, because you’re softer today. Somewhere in the reasonable part of his mind, Jake understands that you are allowed to be sweet to him without it becoming a federal mystery. You are his girlfriend.

Still, it feels different right now. It has no resistance in it, no insult tucked into the corner, no eye roll, no little shove afterward. Just your hand on his cheek and your mouth against the other, easy and warm — which should make Jake happy. Unfortunately, it also makes him suspicious, because apparently jealousy has turned him into someone who sees affection and thinks it’s too easily given.

Did Hyunjin do this?

That is an insane thought.

Did seeing Hyunjin make you softer? Did laughing with someone from before make the house feel easier? Did remembering your mother through mango strawberry smoothies loosen something in you that Jake has been trying, carefully and quietly, to reach for months?

Was Hyunjin the reason you were smiling like this? Was Hyunjin the emotional WD-40?

Terrible thought. Horrible and deeply undignified.

Jake smiles, but it comes out bitter and sharp at the edges. “Why are you so happy?” he asks.

For a second, the backyard noise fades strangely around you. “What?”

“I mean,” he says, then stops. “You just. You look really happy.”

Your brows pull together. “And that’s bad?”

“No,” Jake says quickly. “No, it’s not bad.”

He should say more after that, like something normal, preferably. But nothing comes to the brain that’s usually reliable enough for charm and math and conversations, which simply sits there with its hands folded.

Your expression stays confused for a moment longer before you sigh. You pat his chest once, light and dismissive, but your mouth still curves a little like you do not fully mind him being weird. “Come on, you’re on my team.”

The pool table sits in the sunroom. Riki picks the least chipped cue stick, and immediately starts chalking it like he is about to get serious. Jake, for the first time in thirty minutes, feels something close to purpose. 

Because billiards, he can do.

Billiards is math, angles, force, control, clean shots — his area. This is where he can stop being a jealous idiot with a beer bottle and start being impressive again. A man with skill and composure, a man whose girlfriend will watch him sink a perfect shot and remember that he is, in fact, her boyfriend.

You pick up a cue stick and walk around the table, studying the rack like you know exactly what you are doing. Jake watches, already softening despite himself, because you look focused in that way that always makes him want to kiss you and also stay out of your path. A complicated emotional position, but he has adapted.

“You’re breaking?” Hyunjin asks, amused.

You glance at him. “Do you have a problem?”

“No,” he says. “I just remember how bad you were.”

You hit Hyunjin lightly with the back of your stick, just against his arm, and he laughs like he expected it. Worse, he looks at you while laughing, like getting hit by you is part of the experience he’s so familiar with.

Terrible start for Jake, actually. He feels like he’s breaking.

You scoff and turn back to the table, leaning down to line up your shot. Jake’s attention immediately gets divided between your form, Hyunjin’s face, and the strong moral belief that Hyunjin should stop knowing things.

You break the rack, the cue ball hits the triangle, the balls scatter weakly, and all the balls stop nowhere near a pocket. For half a second, everyone is quiet, until Hyunjin laughs so obnoxiously loud.

You turn and point the cue at him. “I will hit you harder.”

Great. Jake’s convinced you’re actually hitting on each other.

Jake steps forward, calm and polite and completely deranged in a quiet way he never ever is. “Solids or stripes?”

You look at the table. “We haven’t decided teams.”

“I thought you said I was on your team.”

“I did. But we’re five—”

“Good.” Jake circles the table once, assessing the layout with too much seriousness for a backyard game. “Then we’re solids.”

And that makes the room go quiet, horribly quiet enough that you make eye contact with Riki. Neither of you says anything, but the conversation is clear.

You turn back to Jake, trying not to look amused before the game even really began. He leans over the table, lines up his shot, and hits the cue ball cleanly. One of the solids drops into the corner pocket.

Hyunjin lets out a low whistle. “Okay.”

Jake lines up the next shot and sinks another one.

Riki looks at you. “Your boyfriend’s kind of intense right now.”

You look at Jake, who is already walking around the table with his cue in hand, studying angles like there is money on the line. “I’ve noticed.”

Jake misses the third shot by a little, the ball knocking against the edge of the pocket before rolling away. He straightens, jaw working once like the table has betrayed him.

Hyunjin steps forward. “My turn?”

Jake moves aside with a polite little gesture. “Go ahead.”

Hyunjin takes his shot and gets one stripe in, clean enough that he looks pleased with himself to even look at you. “See? Still got it.”

Riki reacts. “You’re pretty good.”

Hyunjin shrugs. “Used to play here.”

Jake’s hand tightens around his cue because of course Hyunjin used to play here, of course the pool table has lore, of course every object in this house has apparently been emotionally notarized before Jake ever arrived in your life.

Hyunjin laughs, and Jake decides, with full awareness of his own pettiness, that he now has to beat him badly.

Hyunjin then leans for his next shot, although this one he misses. 

Jake says, very calmly, “Tough angle.”

Hyunjin looks at him, amused. “Was it?”

You step up next, deciding to ignore all the tension that’s not supposed to be there, and lean over the table to line up your shot. Jake watches from beside you, one hand around his cue as you hit the cue ball, and it rolls past the pocket by barely an inch.

Jake immediately steps closer. “You rushed it,” he says.

You stare at him for a second, already irritated. “Did I ask?”

Hyunjin, leaning against his cue on the other side of the table, smiles a little and says, “Yeah, she hates being coached.”

Jake looks at him only for a second, but you catch it. The quick glance, the small clench in his jaw, the way he immediately looks back down at the table like he is trying to make his face behave.

“I know,” Jake says.

Riki’s girlfriend clears her throat, probably sensing that the room needs another person to do literally anything else. She reaches for Riki’s cue and steps forward. “My turn!”

She leans over the table, takes barely three seconds to aim, and hits the cue ball cleanly. One of the solids rolls straight into the side pocket.

Riki immediately stands straighter. “Yup. That’s my girl.”

You laugh, and his girlfriend looks pleased in that quiet way, trying not to smile too much while Riki points at the table like he contributed to the shot through moral support.

Jake goes next when she misses the next. He gets one in, of course, because physics is on his side the way emotional instability isn’t. The next shot does not go as well though, it hits the edge of the pocket then rolls away.

You make a small sound to tease. “Tragic.”

That gets the smallest real smile out of him, which feels like progress until Riki takes his turn and misses so badly the cue ball barely touches anything. Everyone laughs at once, and he turns to his girlfriend immediately like he needs major reassurance that she still thinks he’s attractive.

“That was the table,” he says.

She pats his arm. “Sure.”

Your turn comes again after that, so you move around the table, trying to ignore the fact that Hyunjin is watching with that amused little look like he already knows whether you are going to miss.

You lean down and study the shot, and Hyunjin shifts beside the table. “If you angle it a little more to the left, you might get it.”

Jake moves before you can answer and you feel him behind you before he speaks. “Not left,” he says, voice calm. “You’ll hit the stripe first.”

He’s close enough now that you can smell the beer on him, faint beneath his cologne, so when you look at him over your shoulder you see him watching you carefully, waiting for you to decide whether he gets to stay there.

For a second, neither of you says anything, and somehow the whole sentence is there anyway.

You look at him a moment longer, still mildly irritated, then you turn back to your shot without telling him to move away. Because that is answer enough.

Jake steps in quietly behind you, careful now. He does not crowd you, but he is close enough that his chest nearly brushes your back when he leans over to see the angle. “A little straighter,” he says, low enough that it feels meant only for you. “Not hard. Just follow through.”

You let him adjust the angle, his fingers brushing yours for half a second. It is stupid, how warm your face feels from something that is technically just billiards advice. Stupid, and very inconvenient, and unfortunately not helped by the way Jake’s voice drops when he says, “There. You’re good.”

You stare at the ball. “You smell like beer.”

He smiles behind you, his hand still on yours. “Focus, baby.”

No one else sees it, mostly because everyone else is looking at the table. Jake's other hand drops briefly to your butt, giving it a quick smack before he steps back like he did absolutely nothing.

You freeze for half a second, warmth curling in your abdomen. But you pay him no mind: you shoot. The ball rolls cleanly across the felt and drops into the pocket.

You straighten immediately, refusing to look too pleased. "I would've done that anyway."

When you glance at Jake, it is only for one second but he sees the warmth on your face, the way you look away too quickly, and the tiny effort it takes for you to pretend you are completely unaffected. His smile settles softer, but there is still something smug at the edge of it.

“Of course,” he says.

Jake only smiles and steps closer when you line up for the next shot. This time, you let him hover without making a comment, mostly because the last one went in and you are unfortunately results-oriented. He leans in just enough to look at the angle, one hand resting on the table while the other points lightly near the cue ball.

“A little softer this time,” he says.

“I know.”

“Okay, sorry.”

Still, you take the shot the way he suggests. The cue ball hits yours cleanly, but the angle is off by a fraction, and the ball taps the edge of the pocket before rolling away.

He hums, very softly, but no coaching because he knows you know. 

Hyunjin takes his turn after that, still amused but smart enough not to say anything about whatever just happened. He leans over, lines up the shot, and sinks one of the stripes cleanly. He straightens, grinning. “Watch and learn.”

You scoff. “Luck.”

Jake steps in beside you suddenly, though not abruptly, his arm slides around your waist again, a hand settling low at your stomach. He does not even look down when he does it, he just keeps his eyes on the table, calm and unreadable.

You look at him though he keeps his gaze at the table, nodding when Hyunjin gets it. “Nice shot.”

Hyunjin glances at Jake’s arm around you, then at his face, and Hyunjin’s mouth curves like he is trying not to laugh. “Thanks.”

You lean your shoulder back against Jake’s chest for one second, just enough for him to feel it. When Hyunjin misses the next shot, Jake’s thumb moves once over the fabric of your shirt. 

You do not look at him when you say, “Your turn.” 

Jake’s mouth curves near your temple, like he doesn’t want it to be his turn yet. 

“Impress us.”

“Us?”

You glance at him now. “Me.”

He looks at you for a second longer, and the jealousy does not disappear, not entirely, but it goes quiet. Then he steps away from you, lines up his shot, and sinks the next solid with the kind of calm that makes Riki groan into his drink.

Jake lines up for the next shot with that calm, focused look on his face, which lasts all of three seconds before Riki says something from the side of the table purely to be irritating. It works, because Jake’s shot goes slightly wide and misses the pocket by a long way.

He straightens slowly and looks at him. Riki looks back with his drink halfway to his mouth, suddenly pretending innocence while Jake lifts the cue slightly in his direction to suggest that being hit with the equipment has been a possibility.

Riki’s girlfriend takes her turn, because honestly she has been quietly carrying the game while everyone else deals with whatever strange male pride thing has started happening around the pool table.

You are standing near the side, waiting for your next turn, when Hyunjin ends up on your left and Jake ends up on your right. It is not intentional, probably, but it feels intentional enough that you notice the way they both stand a little too straight beside you.

Hyunjin glances past you toward Jake. “You’re pretty good. You play a lot?”

Jake leans lightly against his cue. “Enough.”

Hyunjin nods. “Could tell.”

“Yeah?”

“You take it seriously.”

Jake’s smile stays polite. “Yeah,” Jake says. “Usually depends who I’m playing against.”

You look between them and see that they’re both smiling, but neither smile is friendly enough to be trusted or even be remotely comfortable to be sandwiched between.

Hyunjin shifts his cue from one hand to the other. “Well, this table has a way of humbling people, so,”

Jake glances at the table, then back at him. “Must be nice. Having all that history with the table.”

Hyunjin laughs under his breath, because that one lands exactly where it is supposed to. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Jake looks at him with the kind of pleasant expression that would pass anywhere else. “But I’m a fast learner.”

Hyunjin raises his brows, more amused that he expected to be.

The silence after that is not long, but it has enough weight to be embarrassing. You roll your eyes. “You’re both acting like kids.”

Hyunjin looks at you, brows knitting like he has no idea what you mean. “What? It’s just small brotherly banter.”

Jake laughs, but it’s cleaner and flatter, polite enough to pass but not warm to belong to him. “Yeah,” Jake says, still smiling. “It is.”

You ignore them, mostly because they are right and you hate that. Then you point your cue toward the table. “Can I take my shot now, or do you two need to finish whatever this is?”

Hyunjin steps back immediately, hands raised. Jake steps back too, quieter. “All yours.”

You take your shot without either of them telling you what to do. The cue ball rolls cleanly across the felt, clips the solid at the right angle, and sends it straight into the corner pocket. You then line up the next one, hitting it softly, and it drops into the side pocket.

Hyunjin laughs. “No coaching needed, then.”

You glance at him, but only briefly, because your eyes move to Jake almost on instinct.

For the record, you do not even mean to do it. You just look at him first, like his reaction is the one that matters most. So when your eyes find his, something in his expression shifts — a bit smug and pleased.

He lifts his brows slightly. “Nice.”

You try not to smile. “Just nice?”

Jake’s mouth curves. “You want more?”

You roll your eyes before the smile can fully happen and shove lightly at his arm. Jake barely moves, but he looks very pleased anyway, which is the problem with him.

The game continues for multiple rounds like that for a while, with everyone getting less serious and somehow worse at the same time. Hyunjin keeps making comments under his breath whenever you line up a shot, Jake keeps giving advice only when you let him, and Riki keeps acting like the table is shitty and therefore needs to be replaced. His girlfriend, unfortunately for his pride, remains the best player by accident, sinking balls with very little effort while Riki stands beside her looking proud of achievements that are not his.

At some point, Hyunjin flicks Riki off after Riki calls one of his shots ugly. Riki flicks him off back, misses his next turn completely, and then has the nerve to blame the table again.

It gets easier after that. People laugh more, the adults call over from the patio every now and then, and Jake actually exchanges a few light messages with the childhood memory shape of a man. Once when Riki took a shot, the cue ball clips the edge of one ball, ricochets wrong, hits the side rail too hard, and somehow jumps slightly before bouncing off the table entirely.

By the time your turn comes around again, the game is barely organized with exhaustion. You lean over the table, aim for the 8-ball, and hit the cue ball carefully. It rolls cleanly across the felt, catches the ball just right, and sends it into the corner pocket with a neat little drop.

Hyunjin claps once, grinning. “Wow. Good job, scary girl.”

You laugh, still pleased from the shot, and Hyunjin lifts his fist toward you. It is automatic enough that you meet it without thinking, knuckles tapping lightly against his before you turn back to the table, still smiling like the whole thing is nothing.

Jake watches it happen, obviously, because it’s not like he can’t.

It is literally a fist bump, an action so harmless it should not mean anything at all. There is no reason for it to land wrong — but it does.

Because you and Hyunjin are apparently a team now. You and Jake won the round, you are on Jake’s team, you chose him, you looked at him first after your shot, you let him help you, and he knows that because he saw it with his own two eyes, which are currently being extremely unhelpful.

Still, Hyunjin says a childhood petname, and you laugh because he doesn’t annoy you. 

Jake should feel like he won, but for some reason, he feels like he just lost.

He sets his cue back against the wall a little too hard, loud enough that you guys look over immediately. Jake ignores it, already stepping away from the table and pushing a hand through his hair like he is only hot from the weather and not quietly becoming unwell near recreational furniture. “I’m gonna check on the food,” he says.

You turn toward him, smile still half-there. “What?”

But Jake is already moving, not even sparing you a proper glance before he steps out and heads toward the grill.

For a second, you just watch him go. He is standing near the grill now, beside your father, who is talking to him about something with tongs in hand. Jake nods at the right places, smiles when he is supposed to, but even from where you stand, something about it looks off. 

Hyunjin looks genuinely confused, which makes the whole thing worse because he really has not done anything wrong. He only showed up, hugged you, remembered too much, and existed near your boyfriend too much.

His mouth curves, but gently this time. “He jealous?”

You stare at Jake. “No. He doesn’t get jealous,” you say, like that settles it. “He’s not insecure.”

Hyunjin shrugs, clearly not convinced but smart enough not to argue with a woman who is already looking mildly irritated. “Okay.”

You look over at Riki instead, who’s standing near the edge of the pool table with his girlfriend beside him, both of them suddenly very invested in doing nothing. Riki meets your eyes for half a second, then looks away with the exact expression of someone who knows something and would rather be medically sedated than involved.

So you give up and cross the yard.

Jake is apparently left in charge of the meat while your father has gone inside to get more sauce. He stands there with the tongs in one hand, eyes on the lamb chop, and when he realizes you’re near, he does not look at you right away, but you see it anyway. The slight pout sitting at his mouth, the stubborn set of his jaw, the very obvious attempt at looking unbothered.

You stop beside him and glance at the grill. “Dad trusts you enough with this?”

Jake flips one piece of meat and does not answer. You wait but he keeps looking at the grill, clearly more invested in it than he is with your presence.

You slowly tilt your head. “Are you ignoring me?”

Jake exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Thought you were busy entertaining your fan club.”

There it is.

You blink once, then press your lips together because laughing feels dangerous. Not because it would hurt him, exactly, but because Jake looks genuinely annoyed, and it is made about ten times worse by the fact that he is holding tongs and standing beside barbecue like a wounded suburban husband.

“My fan club?” you repeat.

He finally looks at you, and the pout is still there, faint but visible enough to ruin his entire case. “Yeah.”

You stare at him. “Hyunjin?”

He looks back at the grill. He flips another rib, then immediately frowns at it. “He’s nice.”

You scoff. “He is.”

“Great.”

You look away to hide the smile that starts pulling at your mouth, because there is no possible way you are letting him know that his sulking is doing anything except making him look ridiculous.

His jaw shifts, and he turns one of the meats again with far too much attention for someone who is not emotionally projecting onto barbecue. “Do you two always act like that?”

You look back at him. “That’s very specific.”

Jake gives you a look, then immediately looks back at the grill, because apparently maintaining eye contact during jealousy is where he draws the line. “You know what I mean.”

You sigh, crossing your arms. “Yeah, kind of. We grew up together.”

He scoffs loudly and dramatically. “Right,” he says, tongs clicking once against the tray. “I almost forgot.”

You stare at the side of his face. “Jake, you sound insane.”

He gives the grill another unnecessary look. “Wow. Good to know.”

You press your lips together again, because now you are definitely trying not to laugh. It is not funny, technically. Your boyfriend is clearly upset, and you should be taking that seriously. But he is also standing there in front of your father’s grill, pouting at lamb chops because another guy called you a childhood nickname.

Jake looks over at Hyunjin across the yard, long enough to make himself worse.

Hyunjin is standing by the pool table still, laughing at something Riki says, his posture easy, his expression relaxed, the whole package annoyingly well-adjusted. He is older than both of you by maybe two years, which is not a lot, but apparently enough for Jake’s brain to start acting like Hyunjin is far more superior in your type list.

You like responsible people. Hyunjin is responsible, the kind that comes with business school and a clean laugh. He also has seniority, not just some random guy trying to impress you now. He is the original file, the older family-friend version, the one who knew you when you were a child, when Riki was small enough to be called Little Rik without irony, and when your mom was still around.

Jake has spent four months learning how to be close to you, and Hyunjin had a decade-long free trial.

Terrible. Unfair. 

Jake looks back at the grill and flips one meat with unnecessary aggression and drama.

You see all of it and before you can say anything, Hyunjin appears beside you.

He stands there with both hands on his hips, looking far too casual for someone walking into a situation that already has smoke coming off it — emotionally and literally. “Riki and his girlfriend want to try your mom’s smoothie thing,” he says. “You should make it.”

Jake goes very still and then he sighs so loudly that it sounds like he has just been asked to blend his own downfall with ice and honey and evidence, right in front of your father’s grill.

You look at him quickly, but his eyes don’t meet yours.

Hyunjin, unfortunately, does not seem to realize he has just thrown a grenade into the barbecue area and asked if anyone wants a straw. “If you still remember how.”

You open your mouth, but your father comes back at the same time, sauce mixture in hand, completely oblivious to the fact that the three of you are standing in a very strange triangle of old history, jealousy, and grilled meat.

“Here,” your father says, reaching for the tongs. “I’ll take over.”

Jake gives them up immediately.

Your father starts brushing sauce over the ribs, already talking about heat and timing and whatever else men say to impress 20-year-olds with backyard cooking. You stand there, still watching Jake as he runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight.

Then he is already walking toward the house, no glance at you, least of all an attempt to make it look normal. He just turns and goes inside without another word — which is concerning, because Jake never ever gets passive with you.

Your father keeps brushing sauce on the ribs. Hyunjin looks between you and the door, finally starting to understand that maybe something really is off.

Before Hyunjin can even say anything, you turn to him.

“Leave me alone for a while.” It comes out sharper than intended, but you do not take it back. You are too annoyed now, with Jake, with Hyunjin, with the smoothie, with the fact that everyone keeps remembering things out loud like your life is a group activity.

Hyunjin raises both hands, surprised but not exactly shocked. He has known you long enough to recognize when you are about to become unpleasant to be efficient. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Sorry.”

You do not answer, you only turn and follow Jake inside.

The kitchen is cooler than the backyard, the noise outside turning muffled the second the sliding door closes behind you. He’s standing in front of the open fridge, one hand gripping the handle, staring into it like the composure might be sitting behind the orange juice.

“What the hell is your problem?” you ask.

Jake does not look at you. “I’m getting water.”

“You walked out.”

“It was hot.”

“Jake.”

He reaches for a bottle, closes the fridge, then sets it on the counter without drinking from it. Truly natural behavior from a man who definitely came inside for hydration and not because he was one memory mentioned away from combusting truly.

You cross your arms. “Are you seriously ignoring me now?”

“I’m not ignoring you.”

“You left without looking at me.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry.”

“No, keep going. This is very mature.”

He looks at you then, and there it is again. That weird, tight expression, which is not anger exactly, just something more embarrassed than that, which somehow makes him look even more irritated.

“I said sorry.”

“No, you’re being a dick,” you say, genuinely this time and you hold his stare. “And you’ve been acting weird all day. Literally what, over a smoothie?”

Jake looks at you — irritated, unimpressed, still unfairly hot, which feels disrespectful given the situation. 

Then he says, “Yeah. I was jealous.”

You blink, thrown off by the honesty. “What?”

“I was jealous,” he repeats, slower this time. “That’s what you wanted me to say, right?”

You stare at him. “Over Hyunjin?”

“Obviously.”

You laugh once, but it comes out more shocked than amused. “Jake, he’s my childhood friend. He’s basically family.”

“I know.”

“You met him literally today.”

“Yeah, and he already knows more about your life than I do.”

That makes you pause.

Jake looks away first, jaw tight, like he hates that he said it but not enough to take it back. “He knows the dog. The swing, the pool table, the smoothie, your mom. He walks in and everyone just opens up around him like he never left, and you looked so happy.” He exhales sharply. “And I know that’s not a crime. I’m not stupid. I know you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You cross your arms tighter. “Then why are you acting like I did?”

He scoffs. “I’m really not.”

“You walked out.”

“Because I didn’t want to stand there and keep watching it you,” he says, finally looking back at you. “With him.”

Your face shifts. “There’s nothing with him.”

“I know. He didn’t flirt with you. You didn’t flirt with him. Nothing happened but it still felt shitty.”

You look at him for a second, trying to decide whether to be mad or confused. “Because he knows old stories about smoothies?”

“Because he knows old stories I’ve been too scared to ask about.”

That lands in a way that makes you shut up and tighten your arms around yourself.

Jake rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t ask about your mom because I know how you get when people even come close to that. I know you’ll tell me when you want to. I’ve been trying to respect that.”

“And I appreciate that,” you say, voice tightening. “But that doesn’t mean I can suddenly talk about it just because you feel left out. You can’t just force that out of me, Jake.”

“I’m not asking you to suddenly talk about it —”

“It sounds like you are.”

“— I’m asking you to stop acting like I’m insane for feeling something,” he says. “Hyunjin said your mom like it was easy, and you let him. I can’t even say her name without feeling like I’m about to hurt you.”

The kitchen feels too cold now.

Outside, the barbecue is still going, muffled voices and laughter coming through the glass like nothing inside has shifted. Your father is probably still brushing sauce over ribs. Riki is probably eating something he did not cook, living his happily ever after with a girlfriend who isn’t even half as difficult as you.

And Jake is in front of you, looking jealous and hurt and too honest for how angry you still want to be.

“He was there,” you say. “That’s why he knows. That’s it. Not because he’s on some leverage like you’re making it look like.”

“I know that.”

“Good. Also know that he didn’t earn anything like dumb arcade tickets to know ‘lore’ about my mom. He doesn’t get more of me because he knew me first.”

Jake’s mouth tightens. “It felt like he did.”

“Well, he doesn’t. You should already believe me on that!”

“I do,” he says quickly. “I believe you. I just don’t know what to do with the fact that you looked at him like he was home.”

You go still, completely frozen.

His voice drops. “And I was right there.”

You stare at him, the anger in your chest suddenly turning uncomfortable, because that is too close to something you do not want to sort through in front of him.

“Hyunjin isn’t home,” you say. “He just remembers what it used to feel like. And maybe I missed that,” you add, quieter. “Maybe I missed someone remembering it with me. The smoothies, the dog, Riki being small, my dad being different. I don’t know.”

Jake looks at you for a long second, being careful with what you're telling him.

Then he asks, “And I can’t be that for you?”

Your throat tightens. “Jake.”

“No, I’m asking.” His voice stays low, but there is hurt under it now. “I know I wasn’t there. I know I can’t remember it with you the way he can. But I can listen. I can know it now.”

You look at him. “Don’t make me feel bad for not saying everything to you.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“You kind of are.” Your voice rises before you can stop it. “I need time with things. You knew that when we got together. You knew I don’t just open up because someone cares about me enough.”

“I know that.”

“Then act like it.”

“I have been acting like it,” Jake says, sharper now. “That’s the whole point. I’ve been waiting. I’ve been careful. I don’t push because I know you hate it. But today, Hyunjin walked in and touched the exact thing I’ve been scared to even mention, and you looked at me like I was dramatic for noticing.”

You stare at him.

He exhales, rough and frustrated. “I don’t think I earn your pain because I waited. I’m not treating your life like a prize. But I am allowed to feel like shit when someone else gets to stand there and talk about your mom like it’s easy.”

“It’s not easy,” you snap.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. You saw me laugh and thought it was easy. I shouldn’t have to tell you to know that either, because you should.”

“Baby,” he huffs, “I’m not a mind reader.”

Your mouth parts like you have an argument ready, but nothing comes out.

Jake looks at you, breathing harder. “You left me there.”

“I went to talk to someone I grew up with.”

“Right. And completely forgot I was beside you.”

“I didn’t forget you.”

“It felt like it.”

You laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. “So you get to be a dick about it?”

“I wasn’t being a dick. I didn’t disrespect anyone out there. I didn’t say anything to Hyunjin. I didn’t even say anything to you.”

“That’s not the defense you think it is.”

“I walked away,” he says. “That’s all I did.”

“You walked away from me.”

“Because I didn’t want to stand there and keep feeling stupid.”

You stare at him.

Jake’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t trying to punish you. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I just didn’t want to stay there watching you and Hyunjin talk about your whole life like I was some random guy at the grill.”

“You’re not a random guy at the grill — you’re the guy I like. You’re the one who comes over. You’re the one who eats in my kitchen, drives Riki around, and holds me when I don’t want to talk.”

Jake’s face shifts, but you keep going because now you cannot stop.

“Hyunjin knows old things because he was there. Fine. But you know me now. You know when I’m mad. You know when I’m quiet. You know when I’m about to cry and pretending I’m not. He doesn’t get this.” You gesture between you two. “He doesn’t get us.”

Jake stares at you. And then he gets quieter, “But he gets the part I don’t know how to reach.”

You blink.

“That’s what I’m jealous of,” he says. “Not because I think he owns it. Not because I think you owe it to me. I’m jealous because I want to know every part of you, and there’s this huge part I can’t even ask about without feeling like I’m going to hurt you.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I hate that he can stand there and remember it with you,” Jake says, voice rough now. 

“He’s my childhood friend.”

“And I’m your boyfriend.”

“Exactly,” you snap. “So why are you still jealous?”

“Because I love you.”

Both of you stop.

The whole kitchen goes still.

Your mouth stays slightly open, the next argument still sitting there, suddenly useless. He freezes too, eyes on yours, chest rising once like even he did not know the words were coming until they were already out.

Jake looks absolutely horrified.

Not because he regrets it, but because this is probably the worst possible way he could have said it. No perfect timing he planned to do it, no nice romantic moment, just him standing in your kitchen, jealous, upset, holding too much hurt in his hands until the truth slipped out and hit the floor between you.

You blink. “What?”

His jaw works once, and he looks like he might take it back. The whole thing is so violently unplanned that even the universe seems embarrassed.

But then he exhales.

“I love you,” he says again.

He looks at you like he is done pretending this is about Hyunjin, or smoothies, or who knew what first. Like he has finally reached the actual ugly center of it and has no choice but to stand there.

“That’s why,” he says. “That’s why I’m jealous. Because Hyunjin knows a part of you that I don’t,” he says. “And I hate that.”

Your throat tightens.

“I hate that he can say something about your mom and you understand him immediately. I hate that he can bring up some old thing and you just know what he means. I hate that he was there for things I can only guess about.” His voice drops. “And I hate that I’m jealous of that, because I know it’s not fair.”

Jake lets out a breath, almost embarrassed. “But I am.”

The kitchen feels too small again, but not in the angry way anymore. 

“I love you,” Jake says again, softer this time. “So yeah, I want to know those parts too. Not because I think I deserve them.” His eyes flick over your face. “I just want to be close to you there too.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

For once, Jake does not push. He only stands there, looking at you with all that hurt still on his face, but also something warmer now. Something scared and hopeful and very, very him.

“I don’t want Hyunjin erased from your life,” he says. “I just hate that there’s this part of you I want to take care of, and I don’t even know where it is.”

Something about that sounds worse than the jealousy, worse than the smoothie, worse than the fan club comment and the meat abandonment and every dumb thing he has done since Hyunjin arrived.

“I don’t want you to take care of me,” you say, but your voice has lost the sharp edge it had before.

Jake nods immediately, like he was waiting for you to say that, like he understands the difference even if it took him a terrible amount of jealousy and one emotionally damaged barbecue to get there.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

He steps closer, he only reaches for you carefully, hands settling around your elbows, warm and steady. He looks down at where he is holding you, then back up at your face.

“I want to love you,” he says.

Your chest tightens so hard it almost feels inconvenient.

He swallows, but keeps going. “Not fix you, or take over, or push my way into things.” His thumbs move once, barely there, against your arms. “I just want to love you. All of you.”

You stare at him.

For once, there is nothing sharp ready in your mouth, which has been the only thing he can do: disarm you.

Just Jake, standing in your kitchen with the fridge humming behind him, looking at you like loving you is not some heroic thing he is offering, but something he is already doing badly and honestly and trying to learn how to do better.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit.

Jake closes his eyes briefly, and you are standing close enough to feel the way his hands pause around your arms. 

“It’s okay,” he says.

You stare at him. “Jake.”

“I mean it.” His hands loosen slightly, like he is preparing to let go of you before you can ask him to. “You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t say it so you would.”

“I know.”

“I just said it because it’s true. But I don’t want you to feel pressured,” he says. “Especially not after tonight.”

You look at him for a second, then shake your head. “That’s not why I don’t know what to say.”

Jake goes still, and he watches you swallow, annoyed by how difficult every word feels. “It’s not because I don’t feel anything.”

His eyes stay on yours.

“It’s because I do,”

You stop at that because that is apparently as far as your vocabulary can go before it starts failing you completely. Big surprise. You have always been terrible with words when it meant your feelings, which is deeply inconvenient for someone who has built most of her personality around sounding like she knows exactly what she is doing.

Jake looks at you carefully, still holding himself back — that makes it worse, because he’s so worth it.

You do the only thing your body seems capable of doing. You hit his chest very lightly, more of a tap than an actual hit, but he still looks down at the spot like you have given him a formal complaint.

“What was that for?” he asks, voice quiet.

You do not answer.

Instead, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to your height. He barely has time to react before you kiss him.

For half a second, he goes completely still, probably because his brain has not caught up yet. One moment you were arguing with him in your kitchen, and the next, your hands are in his shirt and your mouth is on his, giving him the answer you cannot say properly.

Then he exhales against you.

His hands move from your arms to your waist, careful at first, then steadier when you do not pull away. He kisses you back like he is relieved and still scared of being relieved, like he does not want to assume too much but cannot help holding you closer once you let him, pushing his tongue into your mouth and you gasp.

It is messy and badly timed and still a little upset around the edges, with barbecue smoke clinging to his shirt and a water bottle forgotten on the counter beside you. His first I love you is still sitting between you, dramatic and unplanned, but now your hands are curled in the fabric of his shirt, and Jake is kissing you like maybe this is enough of an answer for now.

When you pull back, neither of you speaks immediately.

His eyes open slowly, stuck on your mouth then your eyes.

You look at him for one second, then glance away because his face is unbearable. “Don’t look at me like you won.”

His mouth curves, soft and stupid. “Did I?”

You hit his chest again, just as lightly. “You’re so annoying.”

Jake’s smile grows, but his voice stays careful. “As annoying as Hyunjin?”

Despite yourself, you giggle. It comes out small, caught somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion, but once it is out, you cannot pull it back. 

“No,” you say, still smiling. “You’re more annoying than Hyunjin.”

His brows lift. “More?”

“Significantly.”

He looks down like he is absorbing the insult with the seriousness it deserves. “Wow, after the big three too.”

You roll your eyes instead of answering and pull him down again.

This kiss is softer than the first one, less like an argument trying to find somewhere to land and more a response that speaks for itself. Jake’s hand comes back to your waist, careful, before sliding to your back to pull you closer.

You pull, looking back up at him. “Come upstairs.”

Jake stares at you, but you do not explain, and maybe that is its own explanation.

Your room is quieter, the backyard noise distant through the walls. The second the door shuts behind him, the air changes again, but not in any sharp way. 

When he reaches you, you grab the front of his shirt again. You pull him closer and kiss him again, not to answer everything, but because he is here, and you want him here.

Jake kisses you back gently, hands resting at your waist. When you pull away, he does not chase it — he only stays close, forehead touching yours. 

Your fingers move to the hair at his nape, playing with the ends lightly while you keep your eyes somewhere near his collar instead of his face. Jake stays still, like even that small touch is something he is trying not to react to too much.

You frown. “I hated that. It felt like you were ignoring me.”

Jake looks at you for a second before his mouth curves in that smug and arrogant way.

“You wanted my attention?” he asks, all fake sympathy and quiet teasing.

You shift closer instead of answering, which is already enough of an answer and unfortunately humiliating for you as a person. “Whatever,” you mutter.

Jake’s smile grows, because he obviously enjoys you.

“Whatever,” he repeats softly.

His arms move around you more securely, pulling you closer like he has decided not to waste the opportunity. You let him, because apparently your pride has left the room to get water and will not be returning soon.

You close your eyes for a second, hating how good it feels to be held like this after being mad at him. “I don’t like when you go cold on me.”

He nods.

“You’re not allowed.”

His mouth brushes lightly against your temple. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. It is quiet but doesn’t feel empty, while he keeps you close, one hand slow against your back, the other resting at your waist. Then he pulls away a little, just enough to look at you properly.

You look up at him through your lashes, still frowning a little because it is easier than looking as affected as you feel. His eyes move over your face carefully, like he is checking whether you are still mad.

Then he whispers, “I love you.”

Your breath catches and Jake catches it immediately. Something in his expression changes, quiet and pleased in a way that makes your stomach flip. You just shift a little closer without meaning to, and that is enough for him.

He leans down, bypassing your lips as his meets the soft skin of your neck.

“I love you,” he whispers against your pulse.

The hand on your waist slides down to the hem of your pants, until his hand glides inside and underneath your panties. The pad of his fingers touches your clit, and your bodies tenses against him as a small and soft gasp escapes your mouth.

“Jake—”

He rubs on you softly, while the hand on your back pulls you impossibly closer to him. His long fingers slip in between your folds, stroking from your clit to your hole.

“Compensation, my love.” he says as he kisses your neck, just before he gently backs you against your bed. 

“On your stomach.”

You were better now, in ways that mattered. Not kinder, exactly, not in the way that made you softer or easier to digest, but more patient and less convinced that every person who entered your life needed to be assessed for specific requirements. Maybe you were a bit classist in the sense that it has nothing to do with class, you didn’t care if someone was rich or poor, actually. You cared if they were stupid, careless, or suspicious.

You had learned how to pause and consider how people would react to you. Sometimes. On good days. With enough effort without giving more than necessary — you’d never give in work for people you couldn’t care less about. Your mouth remains a separate legal entity that needs strict supervision, far greater than your own, wherein Jake actually steps in.

Now, he didn’t have you tethered on a leash, because that would mean he had control over you, and Jake doesn’t believe in fairy tales. He also believed in dismantling the kind of patriarchal system that insisted difficult women only became lovable after a patient man sanded them down into something more socially acceptable. So to say your boyfriend has managed to tame you down and has completely changed you for the better of fitting in social codes! is bullshit and is something that would never happen. That was propaganda. That was something a man with a podcast would say.

It was more of… he had emergency preparedness.

Which was why, by the time you finished preparing food, Jake had already arranged the plates on the dinner table to help you out without getting in your way and letting you do your own thing. Forks on the left, knives on the right, napkins folded neatly beside each plate. He even set out water glasses, juice glasses, and, for some reason, wine glasses.

Riki stares at the table. Then at Jake. “Why are there wine glasses?”

Jake scoffs, like Riki was unreasonable. “For drinks.”

“She’s seventeen. She doesn’t drink wine.”

“I know.”

“So why are there wine glasses?”

Jake picks one up and inspects it like this was a very normal conversation. “For juice.”

Riki blinks. “Juice.”

“You can put juice in a wine glass,” Jake says.

Riki only stares at him for a long second before looking at you, as if expecting you to step in and restore reason to the room. Unfortunately for him, you are too busy adjusting the serving dish in the center of the table, making sure it sits exactly where it should.

“It looks nice,” you say simply.

Riki exhales, defeated. “She’s just coming over for dinner.”

You glance up. “I’m aware.”

Still, you leave the wine glasses where they are.

It is not that you are nervous. At least, that is what you tell yourself while wiping the counter for the third time, checking the food twice, and pretending not to notice Jake quietly moving around the dining area in the way he always does now, helping without getting in your space. He knows better than to take over. He only fills the gaps you leave behind, setting down plates, moving chairs, handing you a towel before you ask for one.

“You’re doing too much,” Riki says finally, watching as you wipe the edge of the counter one last time.

“I made dinner because she’s coming here for the first time.” You glance at him, and for once, there’s no sharpness in it. “I want to put effort,” you say. “She’s important to you, so I’m going to treat her like she is.”

Before anyone can say more, the doorbell rings.

Riki freezes dramatically — shoulders stiffen, his hand goes briefly to his hair, and for one second, he actually looks seventeen with his first love, scared because you’re meeting her. Your expression softens before you can stop it, watching him mumble a few things beneath his breath and reach for the foyer. 

You straighten, inhale once, and deliberately relax your face. Your eyebrows loosen first, then your jaw. You try to make your mouth sit neutrally instead of in the natural line that has apparently made several people assume you find their presence uncomfortable. You even relax your cheekbones, which is a ridiculous thing to become aware of, but you do it anyway — only to try and smile anyway.

Jake notices, obviously. He comes to stand beside you, his arm slipping over your shoulders, warm and easy. You glance at him, trying not to ruin your work. “What?”

He presses his lips together, but his eyes are already amused. “Nothing.”

“You’re laughing.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you making fun of me?” You glare at him, but unfortunately, ends up ruining all the work you have just done.

He laughs under his breath and pulls you a little closer, not enough to make a scene, just enough for his thumb to brush once against your shoulder. “No. You just look cute.”

The front door opens, which makes you and Jake both go quiet at the same time, though his arm stays comfortably around your shoulders while you immediately stiffen.

“Relax, okay?” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear him.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re not.”

“I was,” you whisper back, eyes fixed toward the hallway. “Riki is making me tense. You’re also making me tense.”

His mouth twitches. “He’s nervous.”

“He said it himself, it’s just dinner.”

“I know, baby.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m literally holding you.”

“Exactly, now I’m tense again.”

He laughs under his breath, and you glare up at him again, which, unfortunately, ruins your face for the second time. He only looks more amused, his thumb brushing slowly against your upper arm as if trying to smooth the tension out of you by touch alone. From the foyer, you hear Riki’s voice, lower and softer than usual, which makes something inside you pause. He says something you don’t catch, then a girl answers, her voice careful but sweet. There is the quiet sound of shoes being removed, then footsteps moving closer toward the dining room.

Jake’s hand starts moving lightly over your arm, not enough to distract you, just enough to remind you to breathe when he can feel that you’re growing nervous too.

You’re nervous because for the first time since Jake, you care about being liked.

Riki appears in the doorway first, already looking embarrassed before anyone has even done anything. His hand hovers at the small of her back, not fully touching, just guiding her forward like he wants to be careful with her but does not want anyone to notice. That alone makes you want to be nicer immediately, though instinct comes first and you also want to make fun of him.

The girl, neat and pretty, exactly the kind of girl you expected Riki to like. Not loud kind of pretty, or trying too hard to be noticed. Just soft-faced and carefully put together, with her hair tucked behind one ear and both hands holding a small paper bag in front of her. She looks nervous and polite, but not helpless and boring. There is something bright in her expression when she glances at Riki, something that makes his ears go red when he catches it.

He clears his throat. “This is her.” He immediately looks annoyed with himself for a shitty introduction. “I mean, this is my sister.”

The girl smiles at you, a little shy but trying. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”

You make sure your face is still behaving before you smile back, lifting your eyebrows and relaxing your eyes. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

“And this is Jake,” he says, already sounding tired before the sentence is even finished. “My friend. Her boyfriend.”

Jake smiles. “Hello.”

For a second, it goes very well. 

Riki’s shoulders lower slightly and Jake’s arm loosens around you. Riki and the girl steps further into the dining room and she notices the table, the food, the glasses, the napkins, the ridiculous amount of effort you had pretended was casual even though you really did give more than you would.

“This is really nice,” she says, smiling so wide and bright, then seems to remember the paper bag in her hands. “Oh, I brought something. It’s just pastries. My mom said I shouldn’t come empty-handed.”

“That’s sweet,” you say, already nodding in appreciation.

Then she adds, with a small nervous laugh, “Especially if it’s you.”

What the fuck does that mean?

You pause, though it isn’t a big, dramatic thing. To anyone else, it probably looks like you are simply processing what she said like a normal person. But unfortunately, everyone in the room knows you and knows that you are not doing that. Riki freezes first, because he has lived with you long enough to understand what careless words mean to you, his face going blank. 

Then you nod slowly, because the worst part is, you are not even mad. You are curious, deeply curious, academically curious, the kind of curious that has ruined evenings before because you’re an older sister who can’t let things slide.

“Sorry,” you say, still polite. “What does that mean, exactly?”

She looks suddenly unsure. “Oh. Riki just told me you’re a bit unhinged sometimes. So I wanted to put my best foot forward.”

She is smiling, though not plainly rude, she looks like she has said something funny and is waiting for the room to understand it as a joke. Riki seems to understand this too, because he lets out this small, awkward laugh, like he is trying to help her land the joke before you set it on fire. Jake does the same thing, smiling polite and easy, to smooth the room over, but his arm tightens around your shoulders, and he straightens beside you, casual enough that it might pass as posture.

You, however, are not laughing yet. You are looking at her, a little amused, even impressed. Because she is standing in your dining room, holding pastries with both hands, looking sweet and proper, and somehow still had the nerve to call you unhinged to your face before the dinner you made yourself.

Interesting. Very interesting.

You nod once, slowly. “Okay.” then you breathe. “Calling me unhinged five seconds after walking in is —”

Then Jake’s hand covers your mouth. 

One second you are speaking, the next his palm is gently but firmly over your mouth, cutting off whatever fire had been lining itself up behind your teeth. The room goes silent, then you slowly turn your eyes up to him. Jake smiles at Riki’s girlfriend like this is normal, like he did not just manually mute you in your own house. 

“She thinks you’re funny.” 

You make a muffled sound against his hand.

He glances down. “You do.” He keeps his hand there even when you glare at him.

Riki stares at the two of you with a mixture of horror and resignation. “Yeah. They’re like that. Sorry. It’s kind of their dynamic.”

His girlfriend looks between you and Jake, then at Riki, then back at you. For one second, she seems unsure whether she should apologize, laugh, or leave the pastries on the nearest surface and run — which is what most would consider the safest option, but instead, she laughs. It is small at first, but it turns real when she sees the way Riki’s ears have gone completely red and the way Jake is still holding you like a person trying to keep a cat from knocking a glass off the table.

“I’m sorry,” she says, smiling now. “I really meant it as a joke. I just thought of breaking the ice a little.”

Jake slowly lowers his hand, but his arm stays around you just in case. You hate that, you hate being treated like a rabid animal (you are, in this scenario, you really are). You inhale through your nose and fix your expression with as much dignity as possible. “I know. I understand the joke.” but you’re not laughing.

You nod once, polite. “I just think it’s very brave.” Jake’s eyes close for half a second. “It takes a lot of confidence to walk into someone else’s house shamelessly —”

Jake’s hand covers your mouth again, faster this time around. More resigned, like he knew the first intervention had only delayed the inevitable and was now dealing with the consequences of optimism.

You freeze beneath his palm, offended all over again.

Jake smiles at Riki’s girlfriend. “She appreciates your confidence,” he says smoothly. “And the pastries. We’ll eat them for dessert.”

Your eyes narrow, attempting to talk but your words are muffled. He keeps his hand there.

Riki, who looks like he is aging in real time, turns to his girlfriend with a stiff smile. “Let’s just eat. She cooks great food.”

The sudden rushed compliment makes you pause, which works better than Jake’s hand. Your irritation loosens by half an inch, and only then does he slowly remove his hand from your mouth, before placing both his hands over your shoulders and gently steer you toward the kitchen.

The second you reach the kitchen, you whip your head to him and whisper, “She called me unhinged.”

Jake reaches past you for the serving spoon. “Technically, Riki did.”

You stare at him. “And she repeated it. In my house.”

“She was just joking, baby.”

You grab the bowl of pasta from the counter, still whispering because you are civilized, apparently. “And you covered my mouth twice. That was crazy of you.”

He sighs. “I had to.”

“No, you did not have to.”

“You were about to call a seventeen-year-old shameless.”

When you freeze because he did make a point without having to rub it on your face, he then exhales a laugh and takes the heavier dish from you before you can protest, carrying it like he knows you’ll keep arguing better with your hands heavy. “You’re doing fine. Just be careful with her, she’s new.”

You inhale once, slow enough to remind yourself not to speak in weapons, then head back to the dining room with Jake following behind you, dish in hand and looking far too pleased for someone who had just done censoring. Riki and his girlfriend are already seated when you return. She sits neatly with her hands in her lap, taking in the table with careful politeness, while Riki looks like he has not breathed properly since he opened the door.

You smile again, because she’s new and you don’t want to scare her anymore. Jake catches it and has the audacity to look fond. You then sit across from them while Jake sits beside you, close enough for his knee to brush yours under the table, which you pretend not to notice.

For a few moments, dinner begins normally.

Plates are passed around, the wine glasses are filled with juice, as Jake planned. Riki relaxes little by little, especially when his girlfriend compliments the food and you do not immediately ask her for a detailed explanation of what she means by that — even though you want to ask just that. You only say thank you, which makes Jake glance at you like you have just performed a miracle.

Then Riki reaches for the tongs. “What do you want?” he asks her, voice quieter than usual.

She looks at the food, still shy. “Maybe just some of the crab rangoon bread.”

He nods and puts a few on her plate, carefully enough that you have to look down at your own plate to stop yourself from smiling too hard. Because it is sweet, sweeter than the teenage boy had ever been to anyone.

Unfortunately, Jake also notices. Without a word, he reaches for the tong, mimicking Riki’s careful expression so obviously that when you realize, you immediately swat his hand away.

“Stop.”

Jake bites his lip, trying not to smile. “What? I’m just serving you.”

“Stop it.” you hiss before you give him a look, but he only lowers his head and reaches for his glass, still smiling into it like he thinks he is subtle. He is not subtle. He has never been subtle a day in his life when it comes to annoying you.

Across the table, Riki stares at both of you. “Can you two stop?”

Jake, unhelpfully, says nothing, while you sigh and apologize.

Dinner continues after that, though with the fragile peace of something that knows it has survived two near-death experiences already. Riki’s girlfriend eats carefully at first, then relaxes when you ask if she wants more pasta instead of asking for her full academic history. Riki, to his credit, keeps checking on her without making it too obvious, which unfortunately makes it very obvious. Then she looks around the dining room, her eyes moving from the shelves to the framed photos, the organized sideboard, the little dish near the entryway where keys are kept. “I really like your house,” she says. “It feels so put together.”

You glance up from your plate. “Thank you.”

She smiles, encouraged. “Riki said you did most of the organizing.”

You are in the middle of taking a bite of pasta, which means the thought arrives before the social filter does. You chew once, swallow, then ask very casually, “Did he also tell you why I had to?”

Jake nearly chokes on his juice, the liquid gurgling in the cup though not loudly, but enough that his hand immediately goes to his mouth and Riki looks like he has just aged another five years in front of the girl he likes. Under the table, Jake’s hand lands on your thigh so fast it might as well have been an emergency brake.

You look at him and he looks back at you, eyes wide, expression painfully calm. His hand squeezes your thigh once, gentle but firm, because apparently this is what your relationship has become now. Morse code for please be more careful.

Riki’s girlfriend looks between everyone, confused but still polite. “Oh, I mean, he just said you’re really responsible.”

“That’s one word for it,” you say.

Jake’s hand tightens again, which makes you look down at his hand, then back at him. “What?”

He smiles at the table. “Nothing.”

Riki puts his fork down slowly. “Can we not?”

His girlfriend presses her lips together, trying not to smile, and the effort makes you pause. She does not look scared this time, because if anything, she looks like she is starting to understand the rhythm of the room. She’s starting to understand you beyond Riki’s unhinged stories about you, and for the second time, another person doesn’t feel like scurrying away.

That should embarrass you. And it does, at least a little, because you’ve learned social awareness. So you pick up your glass and take a sip, choosing to let the subject die before it grows bones and starts walking around the table. After a second, you say, “Sorry. Thank you. I do most of the organizing.”

Jake’s hand relaxes on your thigh and Riki exhales. His girlfriend smiles, warm and careful. “It’s nice. It feels like someone really takes care of it.”

That lands softer than you expect, and your spine relaxes so profoundly. For once, you do not make a joke out of it. You only nod, looking down at your plate. “I try.”

Jake’s hand stays warm on your thigh for another second before he lets go and reaches for his glass. He looks across the table, eyes moving between Riki and his girlfriend. “So,” he says, lighter now. “Where did you two meet?”

Riki pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “School.”

Jake nods slowly. “Wow. Detailed.”

You huff a small laugh before you can stop it, and Jake glances at you, pleased with himself. Riki glares. “What else do you want me to say?”

His girlfriend laughs softly, then looks at Jake. “We got paired for a project.” Her shoulders loosen a little more. “He was really serious about it. I thought he didn’t like me at first.”

Jake turns to you, voice low but not low enough. “He’s your brother.”

You nod solemnly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

His girlfriend smiles wider now, looking more comfortable than she had when she first walked in. “It was cute, actually.  mean, he was responsible,” she says. “During the project. He kept checking if I was done with my parts, and he fixed the slides when the file got messed up.”

No one says anything right away, not even Jake who usually teases the shit out of the younger boy. Not because there is nothing to say either, but because Riki looks so embarrassed that teasing him feels too easy, and maybe a little unfair. His ears are red again, his fork held loosely in his hand, his eyes stuck on his plate like looking up might make the compliment worse.

You look at him and feel something quiet pull at your chest.

Responsible and nice.

It is strange hearing someone else say that about him, not because you do not believe it, but because you know him differently. You know the boy who forgets to answer his phone, who leaves his shoes by the door, who argues about curfew every time. You know him as your brother before anything else, the one you have to keep taking care of. But she knows this version too, the one who fixes things, checks on people, and doesn’t freak out when there’s a problem.

You clear your throat and look back at your plate before your face can do anything embarrassing. “That sounds like him.”

When you glance up again, Riki is looking at you. Not shocked exactly, because he is not unused to you caring. His expression shifts, small and unsure, like he does not know what to do with being seen properly by you. Not just as someone you have to worry over, but as someone who could be responsible without you standing over his shoulder. Maybe you have been so busy seeing him as a problem waiting to happen that you forgot he could also be someone else when you were not looking.

Maybe you have been unreasonable, and once the thought settles, you look down at your plate and take another bite before your face can fully betray you.

Jake notices anyway. And so he takes over for you.

He sits back, smiling now. “So, what tricks did he pull out of his ass after the slides? Did he act mysterious? Pretend he doesn’t care?”

His girlfriend laughs, and this time it comes out easier. “A little.”

Riki looks at her immediately. “No, I didn’t.”

“You kinda did.”

You and Jake laugh before you can stop it, and Riki points his fork at you. “Don’t laugh,” he says.

His girlfriend smiles into her glass, clearly enjoying this more than she expected to. The nervousness has not disappeared completely, but it has softened enough for her to look around the family table without looking like she is waiting for someone to test her. 

After that, the questions continue, though you make sure they sound less like a background check and more like actual interest. The stories come out between bites, one after another, most of them harmless, some of them embarrassing, and nearly all of them at Riki’s expense. Jake keeps the teasing light, Riki keeps hating it, and his girlfriend keeps laughing in a way that makes him look down at his plate every few minutes like that will hide the fact that he likes hearing it.

The room relaxes in small things.

Riki stops sitting so straight, his girlfriend reaches for the juice herself, and Jake’s chair shifts closer to yours without either of you saying anything. At some point, you stop trying so hard to manage the room. Jake does most of the talking now, the three of them fall into conversation easily, voices overlapping, laughter coming in small bursts.

You let yourself sit quietly while you continue eating your food, listening more than speaking, watching Riki talk to someone who looks at him like he is not a problem to solve or a boy to keep alive through constant reminders. She looks at him like he is someone she likes, someone she chose willingly.

At some point, his girlfriend glances across the table and catches your eye. You know you could nod politely or look away or pretend you had only been reaching for your glass.

Instead, you smile at her. Not the careful one you had built earlier with relaxed eyebrows and softened cheekbones. But a small and sincere one.

And she smiles back. Something quiet settles between you, not approval exactly, because you are not her teacher and she is not there to pass. Just an understanding that she is trying, and so are you.

Later, when everyone has started moving around after dessert, the room breaks apart naturally. Riki and Jake end up near the sink, arguing over who is actually helping and who is only standing there only trying to look useful, obviously not wanting to get an earful from you. Your brother’s girlfriend gets pulled into the conversation for a while, laughing softly when Riki complains that Jake is “too comfortable” in the house, but eventually the noise settles behind you as you slip out to the front porch with one of the pastries she brought.

You lean against the railing, pastry in hand, and take a small bite. It’s good, soft, sweet, and clearly homemade, which makes you feel slightly worse about almost interrogating the girl who brought it.

The door opens behind you a minute later. You glance back and find her standing there, hands clasped in front of her like she is not sure if she is allowed to join you.

“Hi,” she says.

You swallow. “Hi.”

She looks at the pastry in your hand, then smiles a little. “Is it okay?”

You look down at it, then back at her. “It’s good.”

Her face brightens, visibly relieved. “Me and my mom made them.” She steps out slowly, leaving enough space between you like she is still learning the proper distance. You appreciate that more than you probably should.

For a moment, both of you just stand there, looking at the front yard while the muffled sound of Riki’s voice carries from inside. She breaks the silence as she says, “I’m sorry again. About earlier. The unhinged thing. I really thought it would be funny.” she winces.

“It was funny,” you say. She gives you a look like she does not fully believe you. You take another bite. “Eventually.”

That makes her laugh, small and careful, but real. Still, you notice the slight rigidness of her shoulders, and her fingers when they fidget with one another. She’s trying, that becomes obvious because you don’t recall anyone willingly staying alone in one room with you — not before or after Jake.

You take another bite of the pastry, buying yourself a second before you say anything too sincere. “I’d like to think that I’m not scary all the time.”

She smiles. “I know.”

You try not to snicker. “You don’t know that yet.”

“I kind of do,” she says, then looks embarrassed by her own confidence. “I mean, Riki talks about you a lot.”

You lower the pastry slightly. “Does he?”

She nods. “Yeah. He complains, but not in a bad way.” she says, laughing softly. “It’s more like… he’ll say you’re annoying, but then he’ll mention you picked him up from practice. Or that you made him eat before school. Or that you texted him because it was raining and he forgot an umbrella.”

Inside, Riki says something loud enough to make Jake laugh, and you remain quiet here. His girlfriend looks toward the door, her expression softening in a way that makes you pause, because you recognize that look. It’s the way Jake looks at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

“He acts like he hates it,” she says. “But I don’t think he does. I think he likes knowing someone checks.”

You do not answer immediately, because there is nothing funny sitting close enough for you to grab. No sharp comment or an easy correction, just the truth, standing there on your porch in the shape of a seventeen-year-old girl who somehow sees your brother clearly.

So you nod once. “Maybe.”

She glances at you, then says, quieter, “I like him a lot.” Her eyes widen slightly especially when you look at her, like she has surprised herself by saying it directly. “Sorry. That was sudden.”

“No,” you say with a chuckle. “It’s okay.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I know we’re young, and it’s not like I’m gonna marry him right now or anything. I just wanted you to know I’m not trying to get him in trouble or make things harder for you.”

It isn’t some grand statement, but it makes you freeze. It is actually the plainness of it that gets you, the fact that she says it like she understands there is something to make harder.

You are not Riki’s mom, you have never been his mom, and you will never be his mom. But somewhere along the way, between your mother leaving and your father forgetting the smaller parts of parenthood, you had become the person who checked the locks, remembered his schedule, asked if he ate, picked him up, got mad when he lied, and stayed awake when he was late. You gave up so many normal years to make sure he was safe, and he gave you so much shit in return, so much stress, so much noise.

A boyfriend too, apparently, which was still deeply annoying.

You blink once, but your eyes are already starting to sting.

She notices immediately. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”

You let out a small laugh and look away, wiping quickly beneath one eye with your finger. “No, you’re fine.”

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

You sniff once. “I’m barely crying.”

That makes her smile, nervous but relieved. You both stand there with the porch light above you and the muffled sound of boys arguing inside, just before you take another breath, then glance at her.

“He told me,” she says softly. “Uhm. Just. About your mom. And your dad.”

Your face stills and she rushes to explain, eyes widening. “Not in a bad way. He wasn’t gossiping. He just said you had to do a lot. That you’re strict because you had to be. And I think I understood that more after meeting you.” She smiles a little, almost apologetic. “I mean, yes, you’re scary.”

You laugh despite yourself, and she laughs too. “But not in the way he made it sound. It’s more like...” She pauses, searching for the words. “You were kind of just left with him.”

It ruins you enough for your throat to tighten and your eyes to grow wet again before you can stop them. She looks panicked again, hands up like she wants to hold you. “I’m so sorry. That sounded so sad.”

“No,” you say quickly, laughing under your breath as you wipe at your eye again. “No, it’s okay.” You nod, then look down at the pastry in your hand because it is easier than looking at her. “It’s just weird.”

“What is?”

“Hearing someone say that,” you admit, voice quieter now. “Other than Jake.”

Her expression softens and she laughs quietly, looking down at her hands. “Riki talks about him too.”

You blink. “Jake?”

“Yeah.” Her smile grows a little more embarrassed, like she already knows what she is about to say will sound too sweet. “He said Jake is the only one who can tell you to calm down without making you mad.”

You stare at her as she glances toward the door, then back at you. “I think I get it now. It’s just nice. The way he looks at you.”

You immediately look away. “Okay.”

“I know. Sorry. That was cheesy.”

“It was very cheesy.”

“But very true.”

You take another bite of the pastry, mostly to give yourself something to do that is not react like an idiot. “You’re bold.”

“I’m learning from you.”

That makes you laugh. “You’ll need it,” you say, glancing at her. “If you’re going to be around a lot.”

For a second, her face goes completely still. Because the meaning seems to land, and her whole expression brightens before she can stop it, which isn’t loud or dramatic, just this shy, happy thing that she immediately tries to hide by looking down at her hands.

Riki appears halfway through the door a second later, squinting at the two of you like he has walked in on a meeting he was deliberately not invited to. His eyes move from her face to yours, then immediately to the pastry in your hand. “What are you doing?” he asks, already suspicious. “Are you threatening her?”

You give him a deadpan look. He stares back, of course.

“I’m eating,” you say.

His girlfriend laughs softly and steps closer to him. “She’s not threatening me.”

He still does not look convinced, but his hand finds hers anyway, like he has forgotten to be embarrassed for half a second. She lets him, smiling down at their joined hands, and the sight makes your face do something dangerously close to softening.

Jake then appears behind Riki. He takes one look at the porch, at the way Riki and his girlfriend are standing together, then at you. He steps around Riki and comes to your side, his arm slipping around your waist before he presses a quick kiss to your temple.

Riki’s face twists immediately, while his girlfriend, however, makes the worst possible sound, somewhere between a laugh and a squeal she clearly tries to hold back.

Jake ignores them completely, looking down at you instead. “Can I steal you for a bit?”

You barely get to frown before he guides you back inside with a hand at your waist.

“Steal me?” you repeat under your breath.

“Borrow,” he corrects, smiling.

The kitchen warmer from the leftover food and the light above the counter. Jake brings you there gently, not cornering you exactly, just turning you until your back rests against the counter and he stands in front of you, hands on your hips while yours stay on the pastry.

He only looks at you, then his gaze drops to the pastry on your hands, just before you take another bite. “I wasn’t done.”

“I can see that.”

“It’s good.”

His brows lift, innocent in a way that has never worked on you. Then, without looking away from you, he leans down and takes a small bite from the pastry in your hand. He straightens slowly, chewing while eyes remain on yours. For some reason, that makes your face warm faster than anything else he has done all night.

Then, very maturely, you say, “Ew.”

Jake laughs immediately, the sound low and pleased, because he knows you well enough to hear what you are actually doing. You take another bite from the same pastry anyway, mostly out of principle, and his smile only gets worse. Then he leans closer, pressing his forehead down against your shoulder with a quiet laugh. His hands stay at your hips, warm and steady, keeping you there without really keeping you anywhere.

“You’re so mean,” he murmurs.

“You know what you got into.” You huff, but it turns into something too close to a laugh when he presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then another, higher, near the side of your neck, soft enough to still feel like teasing. You try to keep eating like this is not affecting you at all, but Jake knows you too well, and the small smile against your skin says he caught it.

“Stop,” you mutter, though you make no actual effort to move.

He lifts his head just enough for his mouth to brush near your jaw, playful and warm. “Did she call you unhinged out there too?”

You glare at the cabinet over his shoulder. “No.”

“Did you call her shameless?”

“No.”

His brows lift, impressed. “Really?”

You swallow the bite of pastry and give him a flat look. “I don’t like how surprised you sound.”

His smile tilts. “‘Cause I know what I got into.”

You stare at him for a second before realizing he has only thrown your own words back at you, and you roll your eyes, but the smile slips through anyway. Instead of saying anything, he lowers his face and rests his mouth against your hair. Not quite a kiss, just there, warm and quiet and resting. You sigh and lean into him too, your weight shifting from your feet to him, and Jake takes it without needing to adjust.

“I like her,” you say after a moment.

His lips move against your hair. “Yeah?”

“A lot.”

Jake lifts his head just enough to look at you, and his expression is teasing, but his eyes are too soft to fully sell it. “Wow. A lot?”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes, entirely too pleased with himself. “I thought I was the only person allowed to understand you and survive.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, light and embarrassingly fond. He lets out a faux disappointed sigh, shaking his head but his smile is kinder. “Now there’s competition.”

“She brought pastries.”

“Very strong opening.”

His thumb brushes once at your side, your throat tightens before you can stop it. Jake lowers his voice. “I’m still the one who gets to hold you after.”

You only look at him, standing close enough that the kitchen feels smaller around you, the pastry forgotten between your fingers, his hands steady at your waist. Jake looks at you for another second, like he is waiting to see if you will tell him to stop.

You do not.

So he leans in and kisses you, soft at first, careful enough that you almost hate him for it. Your eyes close before you can think better of it, and the hand not holding the pastry slips up to his shoulder. Then his hand tightens at your waist, just a little, and the kiss deepens enough to make your thoughts go quiet. Your other arm finds its way around his shoulders too, pastry and all, awkwardly trapped somewhere behind his neck.

He laughs against your mouth, a smile pressing into yours. When you pull back to breathe, he does not go far, his mouth drifts to your jaw instead, and you let out a small, helpless laugh before you can stop it.

“Jake.”

“Hm?”

You tilt your head anyway, trying to sound annoyed even though you are smiling. “Behave. They’re still here.”

He pauses against your jaw before he laughs, low and quiet, his forehead dropping to your shoulder again. “These fucking kids, bro.”

You laugh properly this time, unable to help it, and shove at his chest with the back of your hand. You point the pastry at him. “You’re literally twenty.”

Jake lifts his head, face still tucked too close to yours, and shrugs like you have just made his point for him. “Exactly.”

He only smiles, then wraps his fingers around your wrist and gently brings your hand closer to his mouth. He does not even ask this time. He just holds your gaze, entirely too pleased with himself, and takes another bite from the pastry you were very clearly threatening him with.

You stare at him. “You have a problem.”

Jake swallows, still smiling. “You’re my favorite problem.”

Your eyebrows pull together immediately.

His smile drops by half. “Wait.”

“I’m a problem?”

“No.”

“You just said I’m a problem.”

Jake presses his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh because he knows that would only make this worse. His hand is still around your wrist, but now he looks like he has realized he is holding evidence at the scene of his own crime.

“I meant,” he says carefully, “you are my favorite person who causes problems.”

You stare harder. He closes his eyes for a second. “No. That’s worse.” He exhales a laugh. “Okay. You’re not a problem.”

“Good.”

“You’re just a lot.”

You scoff. “Wow.”

“No, no.” Jake’s hand tightens on your hips you try to pull away, though he is smiling too much to look even slightly sorry. “I like a lot. I love a lot.”

Your face warms before you can stop it. Then, because apparently he has decided to make it worse for your health, he shrugs. “I’m greedy.”

A laugh breaks out of you before you can hold it in, sudden and helpless. You turn your face away, but he follows just enough to catch it, smiling like he has been waiting for that sound all night. “You say terrible things.”

Jake’s smile softens, but he still looks entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m being honest.” His hands settle at your waist again, warm and steady. “You’re scary that I like. Mean that I like. Bossy that I like.”

You stare at him for half a second before another laugh slips out, softer this time, shaking your head because he is genuinely ridiculous. “That is not how compliments work.”

“It worked.”

You hate that he is right.

You hate that he is looking at you like that again, like every difficult part of you is something he has already made room for, and does complain about it. Like he is not trying to soften you into something easier. He’s seen it, and still somehow looks at you like you are the easiest choice he has ever made.

So you stop arguing. You catch the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the collar, and pull him down to you. Jake’s breath catches a little before your mouth meets his again.

This kiss starts soft, but only for a second. Then his hand tightens at your waist and your arm slides around his shoulders, the pastry still trapped awkwardly in your other hand, and you cannot bring yourself to care.

Riki and his girlfriend are somewhere outside. The dishes are still in the sink. Someone could walk in and you should probably be thinking about any of that, because it’d be embarrassing to be caught pressed on the counter like this.

But you do not. Your mind goes blank in the simplest, stupidest way, all because Jake is here.

Jake is close, the warmth under your hands, the smile against your mouth, the person holding you like he already knows where all your sharp parts are and has never once thought to let go.

So, for once, you let yourself stop thinking. You just kiss him back.