ᴿᵉᵐʸ

she was beautiful, like the steady hum of the earth beneath bare feet, grounding and gentle, yet full of quiet power. like the way a flower opens itself to the sun, unashamed, vulnerable, reaching toward something greater. her beauty wasn’t loud or boastful; it whispered, it lingered. 

she was as beautiful as the silence after a storm—still, yet trembling with the memory of chaos. as beautiful as a secret only the stars know, a story written in the folds of the universe, unseen but felt. she carried galaxies in her eyes, constellations formed of hopes, dreams, and unspoken fears. 

there was beauty in her strength, the kind that didn’t demand attention but radiated from her being like the warm embrace of the sun. she was as beautiful as the moments when time seems to pause—when the world holds its breath, watching her, captivated. 

and yet, her beauty was also in her fragility. she was a glass heart, reflecting the world in shards of light, even as cracks ran deep. she was as beautiful as a bird learning to fly, uncertain and trembling, yet full of endless potential. 

she was beautiful in her laughter, like bells ringing in a faraway chapel, calling out to anyone who could hear. she was beautiful in her sadness, like the ocean at twilight, depths unfathomable but so achingly serene. 

her beauty was in the stories she told, the love she gave, and the dreams she dared to chase. it was in the way she looked at life, even when it hurt, with eyes that sought wonder and hands that still reached for the stars. 

she was beautiful, like the way the moon kisses the ocean, constant yet fleeting, a reflection of something greater. and though the tides of life pulled her away, though time threatened to erode the memory of her presence, she remained beautiful. 

beautiful in the way she lingered, like the scent of lavender on a breeze, like the trace of music in the air after the last note is played. 

beautiful, as if the world had poured all its grace, its pain, its joy into her being and asked her to carry it. she did, and she was radiant. 

and that’s how i thought of her. 

while to her, i was just an acquaintance, a project partner, a shadow.. someone who wrote stupid poems about her, some artist, that she didn't know, painted her all the time.

another face in a sea of people who passed her by without a second thought. 

but her? she was my muse. she was— is my.. everything. 

even when she didn’t realize it. 

even when she thought nobody was watching her, locked in the music room, tears glistening from her eyes and cheeks as she quietly sobbed. her hands, so steady and graceful when she played the piano, trembled as she cradled her face. her shoulders shook under the weight of something invisible yet suffocating. i wasn’t supposed to be there. i wasn’t supposed to see her like that. but i did, and i couldn’t look away. 

the girl who wore her smile like armor was falling apart in the silence of that room, and i felt like i was intruding on a sacred moment. her tears fell, one after the other, as if her sorrow was endless, as if she had been holding it all in for too long. and even in that moment—especially in that moment—she was still the most beautiful thing i’d ever seen. 

her beauty wasn’t diminished by her pain; it was amplified by it. it was raw, unfiltered, as if her soul had broken through the surface to show the world that she was human, that she wasn’t untouchable, that she was hurting. and all i wanted to do was gather those pieces of her, the ones she thought were too shattered to be whole again, and hold them in my hands like they were precious. 

i watched as her fingers traced the keys of the piano, not to play but to ground herself. her breathing was uneven, her chest rising and falling in stutters as she fought to compose herself. she didn’t know anyone was there. she didn’t know i had come back for my forgotten glove, only to find her, the girl i’d quietly loved, unraveling before my eyes. 

and maybe that’s why i couldn’t bring myself to leave. because she didn’t let anyone see her like this. because she always carried herself with this unspoken grace, this quiet strength, like she didn’t want to burden anyone with the weight of her sadness. but here she was, alone, crumbling, and i felt it like a punch to the gut. 

i wanted to say something. anything. but the words stuck in my throat, heavy and inadequate. what could i possibly say that would make her pain less sharp, her tears less bitter? so, i just stood there, a coward in the doorway, watching her world fall apart. 

when she finally lifted her head, i saw it—the way her eyes, swollen and red, carried the kind of sorrow that only comes from loving and losing, from dreaming and breaking. her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to speak, but no sound came. she just sat there, staring at the blank sheet music in front of her, like it held all the answers she couldn’t find. 

and in that moment, i realized something. she didn’t need someone to fix her. she didn’t need someone to tell her everything would be okay. she just needed someone to see her. to really see her, without judgment or pity, without expectations. to understand that even in her brokenness, she was whole. 

so, i stayed. not close enough for her to notice me, but close enough that, if she looked up, she wouldn’t feel alone. i leaned against the doorframe, my heart aching with every breath she took, and i stayed. 

because even if she never saw me, even if she never knew how much i cared, i wanted her to feel something—anything other than the emptiness i saw in her eyes. 

and maybe that wasn’t enough. maybe i was just a boy with a glove in his hand and feelings he didn’t know how to articulate. but it was all i had to give. and for her, i would have given everything. 

and then, the next time i saw her was at the indoor court, where our basketball team was practicing under the golden embrace of the muted rays of the late afternoon sun that shone through the big window.

she was there, sitting on the bleachers with two of her usual friends, her laughter bright and carefree, cutting through the humid air like a song.  

she cheered for us as if nothing had happened, her hands clapping with an enthusiasm that drew glances and smiles from the other players. 

but i noticed what no one else did. i noticed the faint redness around her eyes, the subtle swell of her lids—the remnants of a storm she had weathered alone.  

still, she smiled, wide and radiant, as if to say, i’m fine, don’t look too closely.

well, it wasn’t rare for me to see her here, after all, it was him who she was here for in the first place.

him.

he stood a few feet away from me on the pitcher’s mound, his confidence exuding from every movement. he was tall, with broad shoulders and a grin that seemed to light up the field. his uniform fit him perfectly, like he was made for it. the way he carried himself was effortless, like he had the world in the palm of his hand—and maybe he did.  

i watched as he caught her gaze and, with a mischievous smirk, sent a small kiss flying her way. she caught it with an exaggerated motion, her cheeks blooming with a blush that even the sun couldn’t outshine. her friends giggled and nudged her, whispering things i didn’t need to hear to understand.  

he was all that a girl could ask for.  

he had the charm that turned heads wherever he went, the kind that made people want to be close to him just to share in his glow. he was quick-witted, always ready with a joke that left everyone in stitches. he was the kind of guy who made you feel like the most important person in the room when he looked at you, even if you weren’t.  

and on the court, he was a force to be reckoned with. his hoops and dribbles were sharp, fast, and clean—so perfect it was almost infuriating. he didn’t just play basketball; he embodied it, like the game was an extension of him.  

the team loved him. we loved him. the crowd adored him. and she… she looked at him like he was the sun, like she could orbit around him forever and never tire of the warmth.  

and me? i was just the captain of the team, the one calling the shots, shouting instructions, holding it all together. but i wasn’t the one she was watching. i wasn’t the one making her laugh, the one who made her cheeks flush that particular shade of pink.  

it was him.  

i hated how much i admired him. how could i not? he was everything i wasn’t. where i was quiet, he was bold. where i hesitated, he dove in headfirst. where i stood in the shadows, he basked in the spotlight with ease.  

and maybe, just maybe, i hated how happy he made her.  

because when he sent her that kiss, when she caught it with a grin so wide it looked like it could split the sky, i realized that i couldn’t give her that. not the way he did. not with that ease, that confidence, that undeniable presence that turned her sadness into laughter in an instant.  

so i watched from the sidelines, pretending i didn’t see the way she lit up for him. pretending i didn’t care that she was cheering for someone else, that her heart was somewhere i could never reach.  

but the truth was, it tore me apart.  

because i knew what no one else did—that she cried alone in music rooms, that her laughter was sometimes a mask, that her beauty wasn’t just in her smiles but in her pain, her strength, her vulnerability.  

and i knew, deep down, that he didn’t see her the way i did.  

he saw her as the girl in the stands, the one who cheered him on, who caught his kisses with a laugh. but i saw her as the girl who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and still found a way to dance beneath it.  

but as someone close to him, i knew he loved her. even if he couldn't process it as much, but he really did.

and yet, despite everything, i couldn’t hate him. not really.  

because he made her happy. and wasn’t that what i wanted, too?  

still, as the ball dribbled under his hands, the perfect angle passing square through the basket hoop, and the crowd erupted in cheers, i couldn’t help but wonder:  

what if she turned her gaze my way, just once? would she see me standing there, waiting for her? or would she still only see him?

well, that's what he was, he was just.. him.  

christopher bang. or rather, chris.  

her boyfriend.  

my… best friend.  

the words sat heavy in my chest, suffocating and sharp, like shards of glass i couldn’t swallow. chris, the guy who had been by my side through countless games, late-night talks, and stupid jokes only we found funny. chris, who knew my secrets, my struggles, my dreams. chris, who had always been my biggest supporter on and off the court.  

chris, who had her.  

he was the kind of person who didn’t need to try to make people love him—they just did. with his easy laugh and soft-spoken wisdom, he had a way of making everyone feel seen, understood. he wasn’t just the team’s star player; he was the glue that held us together, the one who reminded us that we weren’t just players but brothers.  

and he was hers.  

i should’ve been happy for them. i told myself that over and over. be happy for them, hyunjin. he’s your best friend. she deserves someone like him. someone better than you.  

but no matter how many times i said it, the ache in my chest didn’t go away. it gnawed at me, relentless and cruel, every time i saw the way she looked at him. like he was her whole world.  

and chris? he looked at her the same way.  

i saw it in the way his eyes softened when she was around, in the way his grin widened just a little more when she laughed. he adored her, protected her, loved her with an openness i couldn’t even bring myself to admit i wanted.  

i hated him for that.  

and i hated myself more for hating him.  

because chris didn’t know. how could he?

i had never told him about the way my heart raced every time she walked into a room, the way i memorized the sound of her laugh, the way my hands itched to brush the stray strands of hair from her face.  

i never told him about the nights i stayed up replaying every conversation i had with her, wondering if i’d said enough or too much. i never told him how i couldn’t breathe when she smiled at me, even if it was just in passing.  

i never told him because it didn’t matter.  

she was his. and i? i was just the captain of the team, his best friend, the one who should’ve been cheering them on from the sidelines.  

instead, i was standing here, on the court we both loved, pretending that every stolen glance at her didn’t feel like a betrayal. pretending that i wasn’t breaking a little more each time she caught his flying kisses and smiled at him like he was the only thing that mattered.  

because he was the only thing that mattered to her.  

and i was just the shadow.  

i tried to ignore the way my gaze lingered on her as she sat on the bleachers, her laughter carrying over the cheers and the sound of the dribbles. i tried to ignore the way her smile faltered for just a second when she thought no one was looking, the way her fingers fiddled with the hem of her shirt like she was trying to hold herself together.  

i tried to ignore it all. but it was impossible.  

because i saw her. i always saw her. and i couldn’t unsee her, no matter how much it hurt.  

but chris was my best friend. and she was his.  

so i clenched my jaw, gripped the baseball tighter in my hand, and forced myself to look away.  

because if there was one thing i knew for certain, it was this:  

i would rather break my own heart a thousand times over than let either of them know how much i was breaking inside.

and soon enough, practice had ended, and the sound of sneakers squeaking on the polished wood faded into the hum of low conversations and the occasional thud of a stray basketball.

i wiped the sweat from my face with the hem of my jersey, my throat dry despite the water i’d just gulped down. my chest heaved as i caught my breath, leaning against the wall near the bleachers. my teammates had already started to disperse, their laughter echoing as they shoved each other toward the locker room.

but i stayed back, as i always did.

because she was still here.

she stood at the far end of the bleachers, laughing with him, who had his arm slung casually around her shoulders. her eyes sparkled in the dim light, her laughter ringing out like a melody that didn’t belong in this sweaty, chaotic gym. she was radiant, even in the simplest way she carried herself—like she belonged to a world far gentler than this one.

chris leaned closer to her, whispering something that made her tilt her head back and laugh louder. he smiled at her, that easy, confident smile of his, the one that said he didn’t have a single doubt in his mind that she was his. and why would he? he had everything—a charm that drew people in without effort, a talent that made him the pride of the team, and her.

i clenched the water bottle in my hand, the plastic crinkling under the pressure. i told myself i should look away, that i had no right to watch her like this, but my feet stayed rooted, and my gaze lingered.

i didn’t even notice the footsteps approaching until a voice, bright and effervescent, cut through my thoughts.

"hey! hyunjin, right?"

startled, i turned to see a blonde guy standing a few feet away, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his sweatpants. his hair was an impossible shade of gold, soft and messy, like sunlight had woven itself into every strand. his face was alight with a grin so wide it could’ve lit up the entire gym, and freckles danced across his nose and cheeks like constellations on a canvas.

"uh… yeah," i managed to mumble, taken aback.

he tilted his head slightly, his smile never wavering. "i’m felix. we share a couple of classes, i think? history and, uh… literature? or something like that."

i nodded slowly, vaguely recalling his face in the back row, but we’d never exchanged more than polite nods in passing.

"anyway," he continued, his voice light and lilting, "i just wanted to say—you were amazing out there. the way you move on the court? it’s like… i don’t know, art or something."

i blinked, unsure how to respond. compliments weren’t something i was used to, especially from someone who had no reason to notice me. "uh, thanks," i said awkwardly, scratching the back of my neck with a faint smile.

the sunshine guy's grin widened, and he gave a little laugh, as if my reaction amused him. "seriously, though! you’ve got this… i don’t know, this elegance when you play. like you’re not just playing to win—you’re playing to express something. it’s cool."

i stared at him, caught off guard by the sheer earnestness in his voice. there was no hint of sarcasm, no undercurrent of competition—just genuine admiration. it was disarming, the way he looked at me, his eyes warm and unassuming, like he truly meant every word.

before i knew it, we were walking together, his deep voice filling the space between us as we headed toward the locker rooms. he kinda talked with his whole body, his hands gesturing animatedly, his steps light, almost bouncy.

he told me about how he wasn’t much of a basketball fan but had come to watch the team play and ended up being more impressed by me. he mentioned how he loved the way i dribbled, how i always seemed to find the perfect opening. "it’s like you see the game differently than everyone else," he said, his tone laced with wonder.

i didn’t say much, but felix didn’t seem to mind. he carried the conversation effortlessly, his words tumbling out in a cheerful, unfiltered stream. his voice was soft but lively, like he couldn’t contain his excitement about even the smallest things.

when we reached the locker room doors, he stopped and turned to me, his hands tucked back into his pockets. "well, i guess this is where i leave you," he said with a little shrug, his smile still firmly in place.

"thanks for the talk," i said, feeling a strange warmth settle in my chest.

"anytime," he replied, his grin softening into something more sincere. "see you around, hyunjin. keep playing the way you do, okay? it’s inspiring."

with that, he turned and walked away, his golden hair catching the light, his footsteps light and unhurried.

i stood there for a moment, staring after him, his words echoing in my mind.

okay, conversing with a literal golden retriever wasn't on my schedule, but i'm not complaining.

the next few days unfolded like a gentle spring breeze, carrying the blonde closer into hyunjin’s orbit with an ease that felt both foreign and comforting. he seemed to appear everywhere, his sunshine-drenched smile lighting up hallways, classrooms, and even the spaces hyunjin hadn’t realized were so dim before.

it was strange, this feeling of someone so effortlessly making themselves a part of your days, like the way sunlight filters through curtains uninvited but welcome all the same. felix had a knack for filling silences, his words tumbling out in cheerful, rambling tangents that somehow made sense by the end. and though hyunjin usually thrived in solitude, he found himself listening more, responding more, even smiling more.

of course, she still lingered in his mind sometimes—a soft, bittersweet memory of something unattainable. but with felix around, the ache dulled. it wasn’t that he forgot her; it was that he didn’t feel quite as hollow. his presence was like a patch of warm sun on a chilly day, an undeniable comfort that didn’t demand anything in return.

felix, for all his bubbliness, seemed to bring out something softer in hyunjin too. perhaps it was the way he carried himself, light and delicate, or the way he spoke with a sincerity that felt unguarded, untainted by cynicism. whatever it was, hyunjin found himself treading carefully around him, as if felix were made of spun glass and the last thing he wanted was to leave a crack.

—

it was seungmin, felix's roommate, who told him about the rooftop.

"felix? he’s probably up there," seungmin had said nonchalantly, shuffling through his locker, as he glanced at the guy. "he likes the quiet. eats lunch there a lot."

hyunjin had hesitated at first, unsure if he was intruding, but curiosity won out. so here he was, climbing the worn staircase that led to the rooftop, the faint sound of the bustling school below fading with each step.

when he pushed open the heavy metal door, there he was.

he was sat cross-legged on the stony floor, leaning against the low wall that lined the rooftop’s edge. a neatly packed lunch box sat in his lap, and his golden hair gleamed in the midday sunlight, almost too bright to look at. he was popping a grape into his mouth when he noticed hyunjin, his eyes lighting up with a smile that was as welcoming as it was disarming.

"oh hey, hyunjin," felix said, his voice soft and lilting. "didn’t know you’d be here too."

"ah… i, um…" hyunjin stammered, suddenly feeling awkward, like he’d just walked into something private. he shifted the strap of his crossbody bag and glanced around, unsure of where to place himself. "seungmin told me you were here."

felix chuckled, gesturing to the spot beside him. "well, come on then. no sense standing there like a lost puppy."

hyunjin let out a small laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he moved to sit beside him. he settled onto the floor, his back against the wall, and pulled out his sketchbook and pencil from his bag.

"i… thought maybe i’d sketch," hyunjin said, his voice quieter now. he glanced at felix, who was now chewing thoughtfully on a slice of apple. the sunlight hit felix’s face at just the right angle, illuminating the constellation of freckles across his cheeks and nose.

felix looked over, curiosity sparking in his honey-brown eyes. "you sketch?"

"yeah, a lot." hyunjin responded, lowering his gaze to the blank page that sat on his lap. "guess i never really mentioned it, huh?"

"i guess so," the blonde's eyes lightened in admiration, "so is that your artwork on the phonecase then?"

"yeah, actually," hyunjin muttered, "it's nothing much, though."

"i'd say it must really mean something to you. i'd beg and pay thousands to see your pieces," he giggled excitedly, staring at the guy with the brightest smile in the universe.

hyunjin's eyes shifted awkwardly, meeting his bright ones as he absorbed the genuineness in the blonde's eyes and smile.

"so what do you usually like to draw?"

"anything.. random," hyunjin replied quickly, looking down once again. "but i usually end up drawing flowers, um, people, and happy moments."

felix hummed in understanding, his focus returning to his lunch. for a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the soft rustle of the breeze and the distant sounds of the school below creating a cocoon of peace around them.

but hyunjin couldn’t stop glancing at felix out of the corner of his eye—the way his lips curved as he smiled to himself, the way his fingers carefully plucked a grape from the box, the way the sunlight seemed to adore him, draping him in a golden glow.

"felix?" hyunjin said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet.

felix turned to him, eyebrows raised in question. "mhm?"

hyunjin hesitated, his grip tightening on his pencil. his heart thudded in his chest, and he cursed himself for how awkward he felt. "i… i wanted to ask if… you’d let me sketch you. like—be my muse. but i mean—that’s only if you’re okay—"

felix’s face lit up in a way that made hyunjin’s breath catch. "me? really?"

hyunjin nodded, his gaze dropping to his sketchbook. "you just… you look—" he paused, feeling the words stick in his throat.

beautiful? ethereal? like you’ve been kissed by sunlight itself?

"—interesting," he finished weakly.

felix let out a soft laugh, and hyunjin dared to look up, only to find felix grinning at him with an almost childlike delight.

"i’d be honored," felix said, his voice warm and sincere. "just tell me what to do."

hyunjin swallowed hard, his fingers trembling slightly as he poised his pencil over the page. "just… stay as you are. you’re perfect."

the words slipped out before he could stop them, and his cheeks flushed immediately. but felix didn’t tease him for it. instead, he just smiled, leaning back against the wall and tilting his head slightly, his golden hair catching the sunlight again.

and as hyunjin began to sketch, his pencil capturing the gentle curve of felix’s jaw, the scattered freckles, the light in his eyes—he realized that for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about anyone else.

only him.

the day had slipped into late afternoon, the golden hour casting a soft glow over the campus as students trickled out of the buildings. hyunjin adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, his footsteps slow as he made his way across the courtyard. it had been a long day—lectures, practice, and a lingering exhaustion he couldn’t quite shake—but at least it was over.

the quiet shuffle of his sneakers on the pavement filled his ears until a familiar voice called out from behind him, bright and lilting.

"hyunjin! wait up!"

he turned to see felix jogging toward him, his blonde hair catching the sunlight in a way that made it almost shimmer. he was all literally energy, even after a full day, his smile as wide as ever.

"hey," felix said, falling into step beside him, slightly out of breath. "i thought that was you. heading home?"

"yeah," hyunjin replied simply, his voice low, though he found himself softening as he looked at felix.

felix’s grin didn’t falter, and he adjusted the strap of his own bag. "long day?"

"something like that."

they walked together for a moment, the conversation easy, as felix filled the air with his usual cheerful chatter. he talked about how the lecture on renaissance art had gone completely over his head, how he’d spilled coffee on his notebook but somehow managed to save his notes.

hyunjin listened quietly, nodding here and there, letting felix’s words wash over him. there was something soothing about felix’s voice, a buoyancy that felt almost contagious, like he could lift the weight of the world just by talking.

but then hyunjin’s gaze shifted, just for a second, drawn by the sound of a familiar laugh.

there she was.

she stood a few steps ahead, just off the main path, her head tilted back as she laughed at something her friends had said. chris was there too, with his arm casually draped over her shoulders, his expression as confident and easy as ever.

the sight tugged at something deep in hyunjin’s chest, a sharp reminder of what he’d tried so hard to bury. but before the ache could settle, before felix could notice the flicker of something in his eyes, hyunjin turned back.

he quickened his pace.

felix, ever the observant one, picked up on it immediately. he glanced at hyunjin, a hint of curiosity in his eyes, but if he had any questions, he didn’t voice them. instead, he jogged a step to match his longer strides, his usual cheer slipping back into place.

"you know," felix began, his tone light and almost casual, though there was a faint undercurrent of nervousness, "i was thinking… my roommate says i bake pretty good brownies. and, well, i was planning on making a few batches tonight."

hyunjin slowed slightly, glancing at felix.

felix scratched the back of his neck, his grin faltering just a little, though his voice stayed steady. "i mean, if you’re not busy or anything, maybe you could come over? you know, hang out. have a taste-test session or whatever."

hyunjin blinked, caught off guard by the invitation. felix’s words were casual enough, but there was something in the way he spoke, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, that made him realize he might actually care about the answer.

for a moment, hyunjin hesitated. the idea of spending more time with felix, of stepping into his world, felt strange and unfamiliar. but at the same time, the thought of walking home to an empty apartment, of being alone with his thoughts, felt heavier.

"are you sure?" hyunjin asked finally, his voice quieter than he intended.

felix’s grin returned, brighter this time, like he hadn’t expected hyunjin to even consider it. "of course! it’s no trouble at all. i mean, unless you hate brownies. in which case… who even are you?"

hyunjin let out a small laugh despite himself, shaking his head. "i don’t hate brownies."

"good," felix said with mock seriousness, pointing a finger at him. "because i don’t think i could be friends with someone who does."

"friends, huh?" hyunjin murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

felix tilted his head, his expression softening. "yeah. friends."

hyunjin exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening just a little. "okay. i’ll come over."

felix’s face lit up, the kind of smile that could chase away the darkest of clouds. "great! you won’t regret it, i promise. my brownies are kind of legendary."

as they continued walking, felix started talking again, his words spilling out in that familiar, giddy way. hyunjin found himself relaxing more with each step, the weight of the day beginning to lift.

the streets were quieter now, bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun. felix walked with a light bounce in his step, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. hyunjin walked beside him, his longer strides slowed to match felix’s pace.

"so, how did you get into baking?" hyunjin asked, his voice breaking the comfortable silence between them.

felix turned his head toward him, his grin widening. "oh, you know. it started with cookies. my older sister, rachel, loved baking, and she taught me when i was a kid. at first, i was terrible—like, really terrible. burnt everything. but i kept at it because, well, cookies, you know?"

hyunjin nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "i can see that. you seem like the kind of person who’d persevere for cookies."

"hey, cookies are worth the effort," felix shot back, laughing. "and then i branched out. muffins, cakes, brownies—pretty much anything sweet. now it’s kind of my thing. therapy, i guess. plus, helps keep seungmin's sass in check."

"therapy?" hyunjin raised an eyebrow.

"yeah, like… when the world feels too heavy, i bake," felix explained, his voice softer now. "measuring ingredients, mixing, smelling something warm and sweet in the oven—it just makes things feel a little lighter, you know?"

hyunjin glanced at him, his chest tightening at the sincerity in felix’s tone. "i get that. for me, it’s drawing."

felix’s eyes lit up. "oh, yeah! you’re amazing at it. i mean, i’ve only seen a small portion of your sketches only today, but i bet they’re incredible. like, real talent. i can barely draw a stick figure."

hyunjin chuckled, shaking his head. "thanks. it’s… kind of like what you said. it helps me process things."

felix nodded thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to the sidewalk ahead. "that’s cool. i think everyone needs something like that, you know? something that feels like home."

they walked in silence for the moment, the sounds of the city filling the space between them.

when they finally reached felix’s building, he stopped at the entrance and turned to hyunjin, his expression softening.

"thanks for coming," felix said, his voice quieter now. "i wasn’t sure if you’d say yes, but… i’m glad you did."

hyunjin felt a strange warmth spread through him at the sincerity in felix’s words. he gave a small nod. "me too."

felix’s grin returned, brighter than ever. "come on. let’s make you a brownie believer."

with that, felix pushed open the door, and hyunjin followed him inside, his steps feeling just a little lighter than before.

—

the kitchen smelled like butter and cocoa, a rich and decadent aroma that only deepened as felix set out the ingredients. the room was modest, the counters slightly cluttered but lived-in, with felix’s cheerful energy filling every corner. hyunjin leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, watching as felix flitted around the kitchen.

"okay," felix began, turning toward hyunjin with a measuring cup in hand. "first things first—have you ever made brownies before? or like.. baked and cooked? at all?"

hyunjin only blinked, "uh.. i once helped my best friend sauté tofu and veggies?" he spoke, unsure.

"and..?"

"and..? oh, i think i burnt the tofu a bit. i didn't realise the stove was on high flame.."

felix smiled, ducking his head slightly as he set the measuring cup on the counter. "alright, rookie. let’s start with the dry ingredients."

he talked hyunjin through each step, his voice soft but enthusiastic as he explained the difference between unsweetened and dutch-process cocoa, how to measure flour properly, and why sugar mattered so much in baking.

hyunjin nodded along, following felix’s instructions, though his eyes lingered more on felix than the ingredients. the way his hands moved, quick but precise, and how his lips pursed when he concentrated—it all held his attention in a way he wasn’t used to.

"okay, your turn," felix said, sliding the bowl of dry ingredients toward him.

hyunjin straightened, stepping closer. "what am i doing?"

"whisking," felix replied, holding out the whisk. his freckles seemed to stand out more under the soft kitchen light, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink as hyunjin’s fingers brushed his when he took the whisk.

hyunjin glanced down at the bowl, then back up at felix. "am i supposed to do this a certain way, or…?"

felix giggled nervously, his gaze flitting away before returning to meet hyunjin’s. "it’s not that complicated, i promise. just, uh… here, let me show you."

he stepped closer, his smaller frame just brushing against hyunjin’s side as he placed his hands over hyunjin’s on the whisk. "you want to go in small circles, like this," felix said, guiding his movements. his voice was quieter now, and hyunjin could feel the warmth radiating from him.

the blonde's blush deepened as he realized how close they were, his words faltering. "y-you don’t want to overmix, though. just until it’s all combined."

hyunjin’s heart gave an unfamiliar flutter, his eyes briefly dropping to felix’s face. he noticed the way felix bit his lower lip in concentration, the way his lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks.

"are you hot?"

felix’s hands froze for a second before he quickly pulled back, his face going from pink to scarlet. "n-no, i’m not!" he stammered, avoiding hyunjin’s gaze as he fussed with the edge of his apron.

"i mean- maybe, i don't know, i'll just go get some.. paper napkins, yeah." felix muttered, clearly flustered.

hyunjin chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, but he didn’t press further. he resumed whisking, letting felix regain his composure, as he left the kitchen to get those 'napkins'.

when felix finally came back, his expression was determined, though the pink in his cheeks hadn’t quite faded. "alright, rookie, let’s move on to the wet ingredients."

they worked together, felix explaining and demonstrating, hyunjin following along. at one point, felix reached up to grab a mixing bowl from a high shelf, but his fingers just barely brushed the edge.

"need help?" hyunjin asked, already stepping closer.

felix turned to protest but stopped when he saw how easily hyunjin reached up and grabbed the bowl, his long fingers steady and confident. their eyes met briefly as hyunjin handed it to him, and felix let out a soft laugh, his shoulders relaxing. "thanks. guess being tall has its perks."

hyunjin smirked. "you say that like it’s a bad thing."

they continued, the atmosphere growing more comfortable, even playful. felix teased hyunjin about his whisking technique, calling it 'too aggressive,' while hyunjin shot back that felix was 'too much of a perfectionist.'

as they poured the batter into the pan, felix handed hyunjin a spatula. "here, scrape the bowl."

hyunjin obeyed, his movements slow and deliberate. "is this up to your perfectionist standards?" he asked, glancing at felix with a raised brow.

felix laughed, his shoulders shaking. "i’ll allow it."

when the brownies were finally in the oven, felix leaned against the counter, letting out a content sigh. "now we wait."

hyunjin stood beside him, his gaze drifting to felix’s profile. the golden light from the oven reflected off felix’s hair, making it shine. he looked peaceful, almost ethereal, as he rested his chin on his hand.

"you’re good at this," hyunjin said after a moment, his voice quiet.

felix turned to him, his brows knitting together in confusion. "good at what?"

hyunjin hesitated, his lips quirking into a small smile. "making people feel at home."

felix blinked, his cheeks flushing again, though his smile was soft this time. "that’s… really nice of you to say. thanks, hyunjin."

hyunjin didn’t reply, just nodded slightly, his eyes lingering on felix for a moment longer before looking away.

the next time the two met was after hyunjin’s basketball practice. the court was still abuzz with movement as players cooled down, collecting their water bottles and laughing about plays that went wrong or almost-right. hyunjin wiped his forehead with a towel, sweat clinging to the nape of his neck, when he caught a glimpse of felix sitting in the bleachers.

he was easy to spot—blonde hair glowing under the gym lights, freckles standing out against his flushed cheeks as he beamed at hyunjin, waving excitedly when their eyes met. hyunjin felt his breath hitch for a second, but he masked it with a small smile, lifting a hand in acknowledgment.

as the rest of the team dispersed, hyunjin walked over, the squeak of his sneakers echoing softly. felix hopped down from the bleachers, practically bouncing toward him.

"that was a great game," felix exclaimed, his eyes bright. "you were amazing out there, hyunjin. that shot you made toward the end? unreal."

hyunjin let out a awkward chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "thanks. glad to know i’ve got at least one loyal fan."

felix laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "you’ve got a lot more than just one, trust me. but, uh… if you ever need someone to cheer louder, i’m your guy."

hyunjin tilted his head slightly, studying felix’s flushed face and earnest expression. "you free right now?" he asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

felix blinked, caught off guard. "oh, uh, yeah. why?"

hyunjin shrugged, looking away briefly. "my roommate’s out for the day. place feels too quiet, and i might get a little bored. care for some company?"

felix’s lips curled into a small smile, his cheeks dusted pink. "yeah, sure. i’d love to."

the walk to hyunjin’s apartment was quieter than usual, though not uncomfortably so. felix had asked about the game, his enthusiasm spilling into every question—did hyunjin practice that three-pointer often? was his coach strict? who was the best player on the team?

hyunjin answered each question patiently, his tone soft, almost fond. felix’s excitement was infectious, and hyunjin found himself smiling more than he realized.

when they reached the apartment, hyunjin unlocked the door and stepped aside, gesturing for felix to enter first.

the room was neat but far from sterile. a desk in the corner was cluttered with paint tubes, brushes, and sketchbooks. several canvases leaned against the wall, some completed, others only half-finished. felix’s eyes widened as he took it all in, his gaze darting from the paintings to the guitar propped in the far corner.

"wow," felix murmured, walking closer to the desk. his fingers hovered over a sketchbook but didn’t touch. "this is amazing. i mean, i only ever saw the two you showed me, but—hyunjin, these are incredible."

hyunjin scratched the back of his neck, looking away.

felix gaped softly. "not only are you the hottest guy on the campus’ basketball team," he began, the words slipping out before he could stop them. realizing what he’d just said, his eyes widened, and his cheeks turned bright red. "i mean—g-good looking.. guy on the basketball team,"

hyunjin's cheeks tinted red at the comment.

felix? well his ears still burning. "and.. say you paint, sketch, and play the guitar too? is there anything you can’t do?"

hyunjin followed felix’s gaze to the guitar. "i can’t play much," he admitted, walking over to pick it up. he sat on the couch, the sleek, ash-gray instrument resting comfortably in his hands. "still learning the basics. there’s this one chord i just can’t get right."

felix tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "which one?"

"b major," hyunjin replied, strumming a few notes and wincing when it came out wrong.

felix’s face lit up. "oh, seungmin’s a music major, and he spends half the day playing guitar in our apartment. i might know a thing or two."

hyunjin arched an eyebrow. "really?"

"yeah," felix said, sitting beside him on the couch. "i could help, i guess. there's this song seungmin loves, and i think it has the chord."

hyunjin tried playing the chord again, failing to play it well.

"hold on, i think it goes like this," he said, reaching out to guide his fingers. felix’s touch was warm, and hyunjin found himself watching the way he adjusted the strings in his hands.

"okay, so b major is tricky," felix began, his voice soft but steady. he demonstrated the chord, the sound ringing out clearly. "you just have to press down a little harder here."

hyunjin leaned forward slightly, studying felix’s fingers. "like this?" he asked, mimicking the position.

"close," felix murmured, reaching out to adjust hyunjin’s grip. their hands brushed again, and felix froze for a moment, his breath hitching. "s-sorry," he stammered, pulling back and trying to put some space between them.

hyunjin’s gaze softened, his voice a hushed reassurance. "it’s fine. don’t worry about it."

felix cleared his throat, his cheeks flaming as he looked down at the guitar. "uh, right. try again."

as hyunjin strummed, the chord came out cleaner this time, and felix smiled, the tension melting away. "see? you’ve got it."

hyunjin didn’t reply immediately, his eyes lingering on felix’s face. the way felix’s freckles seemed to glow in the warm light, the curve of his smile, the softness in his gaze—it all felt strangely grounding.

for the first time in a while, y/n didn’t linger in hyunjin’s thoughts. instead, all he could think about was the boy sitting across from him, blushing and laughing softly, and how felix made everything feel just a little bit brighter.

the guitar sat forgotten between them. hyunjin was still holding it carefully, his hands lingering for a moment before he sat straight again, exhaling quietly. felix was still sitting beside him, his legs tucked under himself, a soft hum of contentment escaping as he looked down at his hands, fidgeting slightly.

“thanks,” hyunjin said suddenly, his voice low but steady.

“i-it's nothing,”

hyunjin gave a faint smile, his gaze soft as it settled on felix's flushed cheeks. he didn’t say anything, but his eyes lingered, trailing over his face—those bright, sun-kissed freckles, the curve of his lips, the way his blonde hair fell messily over his forehead.

felix noticed the silence and tilted his head slightly, his expression curious. "what? did i say something weird?"

"no," hyunjin murmured, shaking his head. he looked down, his hands resting on the guitar, fingers curling slightly as if grounding himself.

hyunjin laughed softly, but the sound faded quickly as his eyes found felix’s again. there was something in his chest, something he couldn’t name but felt like it had been there for weeks, quietly growing every time felix smiled, every time he blushed, every time he laughed.

before he could stop himself, hyunjin leaned forward, his movements slow, hesitant. felix stilled, his breath hitching as hyunjin’s face came closer, their noses almost brushing.

"felix," hyunjin murmured, his voice barely audible.

felix’s eyes searched his, wide and vulnerable, his cheeks tinged pink. "y-yeah?"

hyunjin hesitated for a fraction of a second longer, his heart pounding in his chest. then, with a quiet exhale, he closed the distance.

their lips met softly, hesitantly, as if testing the waters. felix let out a small, surprised sound against hyunjin’s mouth, his hand instinctively reaching up to rest against hyunjin’s neck. his fingers trembled slightly, but they held on, anchoring him.

hyunjin’s hand moved carefully to felix’s waist, his long fingers curling gently around him, as if afraid to hold on too tightly. felix tasted sweet, like the faint hint of chocolate they’d snacked on earlier, mixed with something softer, warmer, uniquely felix.

felix’s lips were soft and pliant, moving tentatively against hyunjin’s as if he were afraid of doing something wrong. but when hyunjin deepened the kiss just slightly, tilting his head to fit their mouths together more snugly, felix let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders relaxing.

the kiss grew slower, more confident. hyunjin’s other hand found felix’s smaller one, their fingers intertwining. he squeezed gently, his thumb brushing over felix’s knuckles as he pulled him just a fraction closer.

felix shifted slightly, leaning into hix touch. his other hand slid further into his hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands. when hyunjin pulled back just a little, felix chased him instinctively, their lips brushing again in a way that felt almost desperate.

hyunjin gasped softly, the sound low and warm as he rested his forehead against felix’s. his breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling in time with felix’s.

hyunjin’s heart raced as he pulled back slightly, his breath catching in his throat. his mind scrambled to process what had just happened, the rush of emotions, the spark that had ignited between them. his fingers, still loosely holding felix’s hand, twitched slightly, and his voice came out quieter than he intended.

"'m sorry," hyunjin murmured, his eyes flickering down to the space between them, suddenly feeling like he’d overstepped, like he had done something wrong. his chest tightened with uncertainty, and for the first time in a while, he felt unsure.

felix blinked, and the brief moment of silence felt heavier than it was. he hesitated, but then a soft, reassuring smile tugged at his lips. he reached up to gently cup hyunjin’s cheek, his touch tender, his thumb brushing over the soft skin there.

before he could respond, felix’s eyes softened, and without another word, he leaned in once again, their lips interlocking immediately.

"felix, stop."

you aren't in the mood for this discussion tonight but somehow, it keeps coming up. you envision his pleading eyes: honey-brown, near impossible to refuse. your own gaze fixes on the wall.

his lips pause on your shoulder. "what's wrong?"

you sigh and roll onto your back to face him. the light on the bedside table reflects in his eyes, shimmering with concern.

"nothing. i just… i'm just tired, lix. and we talked about this. i don't know if i'm ready for… that."

he pouts, his lower lip jutting out in that irresistibly cute way. he brings your hand up to his face and kisses your palm.

"we talk about a lot of things." he looks gentle, almost hurt. "but we never actually do it. why are you so scared? you know i'd never hurt you."

"i know —" you rush to speak, before guilt can settle too heavy in your stomach. "i'm not afraid of you. i just worry it will hurt. or… or be messy."

felix smiles, tilting his head so he can catch your gaze. in the soft, warm light his blond hair makes him look even more angelic, his face so close you could count every freckle.

he gently runs his knuckles over your cheek. you shiver at the contact.

"you know how important this is to me, baby. i love you. you know that, right?"

you nod quietly and stare at the ceiling. if there's anything you're sure of, it's that felix loves you. felix was your first and only in every pivotal way, from the moment you met in kindergarten, when a girl pushed you so hard you fell and skinned your knee on the asphalt.

felix had wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug, holding you as you sniffled into his hair. it'd been the beginning of a longstanding friendship and he never strayed far from your side after that. your mothers thought it was sweet, how he clung to you, sulking with envy whenever another kid asked you to play with them.

in high school, when you started showing interest in other boys, felix shut down any attempts at flirting by interjecting himself into the conversation with an arm slung around your waist or a kiss to your cheek. he held you tight as the other guy's smile slowly faded and he was forced to excuse himself to prevent even more awkwardness.

"men are shit, you know that," felix would say. "and you know i only want what's best for you. please don't talk to him again. if you do, i'll think you don't trust me. and you trust me, right?"

you'd trusted him back then. when had felix ever done something that wasn't out of love for you? shouldn't you trust him now?

his hand ghosts down you collarbone, your stomach, your waist. it comes to rest on your hip. he presses a kiss to your forehead, pulling back to look you in the eyes.

"do you love me?"

you nearly stumble over the words in your haste to get them out. "of course i do, lix… i can't imagine a life without you."

how could he ever think otherwise?

his hand slips lower, hovering at the apex of your thighs, not touching you yet.

"it's just confusing me, baby. you say you love me, but you won't let me touch you like that?" felix frowns, eyes unfocused, bottom lip jutting out in a soft pout. "it makes me feel like you don't love me enough. if you really loved me you'd let me do anything."

your heart aches at the thought of hurting him. "t-that's not fair," you stammer.

"isn't it? i'm not asking for much. just let me have all of you tonight. why are you pretending you don't want this?"

"i — i'm… i don't know. i'm just not sure about it. it's… dirty." the words sound feeble even to your own ears. you hate disappointing him.

felix sighs. he traces patterns on your inner thigh and you hold your breath when his fingers trace your slit, rubbing gently.

"i can feel how wet you are, angel." felix props himself up on his other arm, looking down at you. he gathers your arousal and brings it to his mouth to taste.

"so sweet," he hums. "see? you want this. you wouldn't be this wet if you didn't want it."

your face burns hot with embarrassment. "stop it, lix. i'm serious."

"so am i," he grins. his fingers find your clit, rolling the sensitive bud between them. pleasure ignites deep in your core, engulfing the guilt.

"i - i'm just wet because you're touching me," you protest weakly. "it doesn't mean anything."

felix's grin widens. "then what do you want?" he asks, voice dropping even lower. the pressure on your clit has you gasping. it's becoming harder and harder to think of a coherent reply, but felix doesn't seem to expect one anyway.

"you want me to make you feel good?" he peppers you with kisses and trails his tongue along your jaw. you shudder. you're already getting dizzy. "i want to make you feel good. you just have to trust me, baby."

he pushes two fingers inside without warning, curling them against that sweet spot that makes you moan and arch off the bed.

"just like that," he coos, "don't think. just feel. you're so tense. why are you fighting me when i'm making you feel this good?"

"i - hmpf - lix…"

he pulls out and trails his slick fingers further down, circling your tight hole.

"hng... wait —"

"relax," he soothes, kissing you. "i'm going to play with your pussy a little bit, distract you. just breathe, angel. i'll go slow."

he moves between your legs and spreads them wider. after slicking up his fingers with lube he reaches for your clit again, rubbing in tight circles, the pleasure spiking higher. you close your eyes and relax into the feeling.

you jolt when you feel a sudden pressure against your hole. you claw at his arm, then remind yourself to take a deep breath. slowly, felix pushes a finger inside, and you gasp at the foreign feeling. the sharp, throbbing pain is only dulled by the harsh slap felix delivers to your clit.

"oh fuck," you moan, head lolling back. he pushes in deeper, drawing out the slow, aching burn.

"that isn't so bad, is it?" felix says. "you're so tight, baby. i can't wait to be inside you."

he presses another finger to your hole and you shudder. "'s not gonna fit, lix, 's too much —"

"you're doing so well," he shushes you. "we can't go back now."

"but it hurts —"

"it's supposed to hurt a little," felix coos. "it'll feel better soon."

his fingers keep their steady rhythm on your clit, sharp pleasure bleeding together with the pain of his fingers stretching your ass. it's confusing, the feeling of being filled and stretched tight while your empty cunt flutters around nothing.

"you're leaking so much," felix groans, watching the arousal drip onto his hand. "god, you're so hot. you love this, don't you?"

"n-no," you sob. "it hurts."

"liar," he chuckles. "you'd tell me if it really hurt, wouldn't you?"

tears drip down your temples, wetting the pillow. you stay quiet, too focused on the ache of him stretching you open as he adds a third finger. you bite back a whimper, feeling a familiar sensation building in your core despite the sharp sting.

"i know you don't want to disappoint me. fuck, you have no idea how much i thought about this." felix continues, kissing the tears off your cheeks. "you're so pretty when you cry."

"i — i can't do it," you whisper, shaking your head.

"you can," he insists, pulling his fingers out of you. the sudden loss makes you whine, your hips lifting off the bed, chasing his touch. you feel strangely empty.

"please," you whimper. you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore.

"shhh, angel, i know," felix soothes you and positions himself between your legs. his cock drags over your folds, thick and heavy. you tense when the tip presses against your rim.

"look at me," felix says, and you focus on the curve of his cupid's bow, the freckles on his nose, the warmth in his eyes... then he starts to push inside.

the burn is back, immediate and intense, worse than before. it's too much, too severe — there's no way he's going to fit. you cry out, your hands gripping the sheets.

"breathe with me," felix coaches as he forces himself deeper inch by slow inch. "you feel so fucking good, baby. see how well you take me? it's because you're mine."

you're crying softly now, overwhelmed by the intensity of feeling so full, so stretched. your pussy is throbbing, traitorously, still clenching around nothing.

"hey, hey," felix coos, leaning down to press kisses against your damp cheek. he grabs your hips, tugging you higher on his thighs. he pulls back slowly, dragging his cock almost all the way out before pressing back in. "why are you still crying, angel? does it feel too good?"

you shake your head. it feels… wrong. "'s too much… i-i can't think."

"cute," felix chuckles, a low sound that vibrates against your skin. he reaches a hand up to stroke your hair. his voice drips with affection, so sweet it makes your chest ache despite his crude words. "i can't believe that after all this time, all it took to make that pretty little head of yours spin is my cock in your ass."

he picks up his pace, each thrust forcing a ragged whimper from your throat. the ache is bleeding into a dull, strange pleasure, swirling low in your tummy.

"you never know what's good for you," felix continues, pressing another kiss to your temple. "and that's okay. you don't have to. you're too dumb to make these kind of decisions anyway. that's why i'm here."

"lix…" you whine, humiliation burning through you not only at his words, but at the way your pussy flutters in response.

"no need to argue with me, baby," he chides gently, reaching down to swipe his fingers through the mess between your legs. you moan at the sudden touch, your body begging for more despite the overwhelming feeling of him stretching you open.

he brings his finger up to show you, your arousal glistening in the low light.

"see? you're so wet for me. my perfect angel."

he pushes his fingers into your mouth, and you taste yourself on them. you suck instinctively, tongue swirling around his digits, thankful for something to ground you.

"good girl," he praises, his eyes darkening as he watches you suck on his fingers. "all you needed was to listen to me because if it were up to you, we'd be missing out on this. i knew you'd love it."

he starts to move in earnest now, thrusts reaching even deeper. harsh jolts of pain and pleasure come together on a growing wave, building and threatening to crest. felix must feel it, too, the way you're thrashing and clenching around him, because he holds your hips down and keeps his eyes locked on the sight of his cock disappearing into your tight hole with every thrust.

"i need to hear you say it. say you love it."

your whole body burns. his fingers tease your clit and you gasp, the touch gone just as quick.

"i — i love it," you moan brokenly.

"love what? tell me, baby. fuck," he groans, "say it."

his fingers trace your pussy, pressing a little harder. you're spiraling, reduced to nothing but the sensation of his cock splitting you open.

"i… i love getting my ass fucked."

your voice is little more than a whisper, but felix looks pleased enough. he pinches your clit harshly, grinning as you twitch under him.

"that wasn't so hard, was it? everything's better when you listen to me. i know what you really want." he teases your pussy, pushing his fingers deep into your neglected cunt. "i know you need to be used like this. you're so much happier when you aren't thinking, aren't you? just a set of warm, sloppy holes for me to play with."

his humiliation words engulf you and you cry out, thighs shaking as your orgasm washes over you.

"that's it," felix coos, not letting up and fucking you through the overwhelming pleasure. "let go for me, angel. you're too stupid to fight it anyway, so why try?"

your world shrinks to nothing but his sweet voice in your ear, telling you exactly what you are.

"mine," he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic, "all mine. my dumb, pretty little slut."

he buries himself impossibly deeper as the tight clench of your ass around him drives him over the edge. you faintly register the sound of your own voice, your mind blank, his weight collapsing on top of you.

your heart races in your chest. there's no way back now. your limbs are heavy, an ache burning between your legs when he pulls away, his cum trickling out of your spent hole. you feel dirty and sore, but felix kisses your sweaty forehead.

"you're really mine now, angel." he smiles and wipes the mascara streaks off your cheeks, erasing the last of your tears.

"all of you."

he mumbles under his breath about deadlines and “noodle anatomy,” so softly you almost think you imagined it. at other times, he just stares at the ceiling, unmoving, as if some divine inspiration might drip down from the drywall. and every now and then, he groans so dramatically it sounds like he’s dying, only for you to find out he’s just trying to draw a bent knee.

he’s quiet. not shy, and not in a way that makes you feel obligated to fill the silence. just… contained. coiled. the kind of quiet that holds weight— his thoughts are vivid and volatile, too loud to voice, so he seals them between the pages of his sketchbooks. it’s safer that way. nothing escapes. nothing catches fire.

you’ve never seen him bring anyone home.

not once. not even after those late-night figure drawing classes, or the weekend studio exhibitions where people tend to get a little too wine drunk and giggly. you’ve never heard him talk about crushes or hookups or even eye someone on the quad. never even caught him flirting. he barely acknowledges strangers in passing, doesn’t register compliments from the girls who sometimes stop to peek through the dorm windows and whisper about “that one hot art guy.”

he doesn’t go out much either, never really parties, barely shows up to campus events, and treats grocery runs like hostile field missions. most of the time, he’s holed up in his room with the door cracked open, back hunched over his tablet or sketchpad, headphones in, eyes glazed over with focus.

there are moments he doesn’t respond when you speak. you’ll knock, pass his room more than once, and the only hint he’s still breathing is the dim glow of his monitor. you pause, staring in, wondering— not for the first time— how long he’s been cooped up in there. whether he’s eaten. whether he’s slept. whether he’s working on something normal, or… something else entirely.

because you know what he draws.

he told you. casually. one night, when you were both cross-legged on the floor, splitting leftover takeout and surrounded by plastic chopsticks and empty bubble tea cups. you asked what his senior portfolio theme was, expecting something pretentious, or maybe poetic.

“manga,” he said, chewing absently.

“oh, cool,” you replied. “what genre?”

“ecchi.”

you raise a brow, confused. “…what’s that?”

he looked up slowly, eyes wide, expression borderline unreadable. “tasteful porn.”

you immediately choked on your noodles.

and that was that.

you never brought it up again. but the image of him calmly saying “tasteful porn” with the straightest face lives in your head rent free. still makes your ears burn if you think about it too long.

what’s worse is that you shouldn’t even be surprised.

but you were. maybe because hyunjin doesn’t quite fit the mold of some guy who spends most his nights hunched over his tablet, painstakingly rendering the way sheer fabric sticks to flushed skin. the way lips part, the way spines arch. he’s too pretty, ethereal even— too clean to be that filthy in private. soft jawline, delicate wrists, lips always stained pink from strawberry pocky. he uses cherry blossom shampoo. wears fuzzy socks. once, you caught him microwaving hot chocolate at two in the morning while humming the sailor moon theme song under his breath.

by all logic, he should be drowning in girls. flirty art majors, clumsy lit students, curious econ girls who like the idea of a mysterious artist boyfriend. he should have people throwing themselves at him, sliding into his dms, leaving their numbers on napkins.

but he’s not.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s because hyunjin is a total, certified goon.

the type of guy who probably jerks off to his own hentai panels with one hand in his sweats and the other still holding his apple pencil so he can make edits mid-stroke.

the type who’s too obsessed with his imaginary girls to even look at a real one.

and unfortunately for you— you’re one of them.

+

you agreed to model for his senior art portfolio last month.

he’d asked you during one of your late-night kitchen run-ins, voice low and uncertain, sketchpad balanced on one knee while he waited for his ramen to finish spinning in the microwave.

“it’s not explicit explicit,” he said, peeking up at you from under his lashes, his thumb absently smudging the corner of a half-finished eye on the page. “it’s more suggestive. tasteful.” his tone wavered between hopeful and rehearsed, like he’d been planning to ask you for a while but hadn’t quite worked up the nerve until now.

“think… moody lighting,” he added, as if that would somehow soften the blow. “lace. maybe a garter belt.”

you blinked. “a garter belt?” the words came out with an airy laugh, light and teasing, a little incredulous but not entirely opposed.

he didn’t flinch. instead, he perked up with faux earnestness, flipping his pencil between his fingers like a conductor’s baton, brows lifted in dramatic flourish. “it’s for the drama,” he insisted, as if that explained anything at all. as if drama alone justified sketching someone in lingerie.

yet somehow… you ended up agreeing.

you needed the extra cash, your campus job barely covered groceries, and your last textbook rental had drained what little remained in your savings. but part of you was flattered, too. no one had ever asked to draw you before, and definitely not like that.

but if you were really being honest, a small part of you liked the way he looked at you when you posed.

he made you feel like art. something worth preserving, not just for the shape of your body or the softness of your skin, but for the way you existed in stillness. the rhythm of your breath, the curve of your spine, the light pooling into the hollows of your collarbones. he watched with quiet fixation, eyes moving from page to skin, jaw clenched in concentration, and everytime his pencil scratched against the paper, it’d sent a phantom shiver down your spine.

he made you feel beautiful.

you hadn’t realized you were making a mistake.

not until tonight, when he’d left for his night class and you were rummaging behind his desk in search of your charger, the one you always forgot in his room. you’d been reaching behind a pile of books and folders when your elbow bumped something, knocking it to the floor with a dull, soft thud.

a sketchbook.

black, unmarked, a little worn around the edges. it didn’t look important or any different from the others he always left lying around. you bent down without thinking, planning to toss it back where it came from.

but it had fallen open.

you froze. you told yourself you wouldn’t look, that it wasn’t yours to see.

and then you looked anyway.

curiosity, or something worse, pulled you toward the page.

and there you were.

not soft. not modest. not the dimly lit, “tasteful” pose you’d assumed he’d capture.

you were drawn sprawled out, every inch of you on display. legs spread wide, toes curling into fabric you recognized as your own sheets. your back arched off a pillow from your bed. one hand gripping the edge of the blanket. the other buried deep between your thighs. your face was flushed, lips parted, eyes hazy, mouth frozen in a moan that felt way too specific to be imagined.

and it was detailed. painfully so.

you could see the shading where sweat would gather. the tension in your calves. the wrinkle in your brow. your own hair drawn strand by strand, fanned out like a halo.

your stomach flipped. heat bloomed somewhere low and unsteady.

you turned the page, almost on instinct, heart already pounding.

there were more.

you on your knees, spine arched, wrists tucked behind your back. your head tilted at just the right angle to show off your throat, the delicate notch above your collarbone. the lingerie you wore last week— sheer lace cups, dainty silk bows, garters clipped to thigh-highs—recreated in uncanny, microscopic detail. every clasp, dimple in your skin, subtle ripple of imagined pleasure inked in with a hunger that felt… dangerous.

you stared at the pages, transfixed. breath caught somewhere in your chest, hands beginning to tremble. you hadn’t meant to look, hadn’t planned to turn the first page, let alone the second… but once you did, you couldn’t stop. every drawing felt intimate, obsessive, memorized. the way he rendered you with such aching precision—each curve of your body, every fold of lace, every imagined tremble of your thighs, made it nearly impossible to look away.

it was clear he hadn’t just sketched you from reference; he’d studied you, remembered you. poured hours into capturing the parting of your mouth when you sigh, the subtle shift of your hips in that particular set of lingerie, the way your body folds, stretches, and exists on the page, alive and familiar.

you were still staring when you heard the jingle of his keys at the door. your heart clenched instantly, breath stuttering as you snapped upright, hands suddenly clammy and slick with heat. your thighs instinctively pressed together before you could stop yourself. there was panic, yes, caught red-handed with something you were never meant to see— but tangled beneath it, humming in your veins like a low, slow current, was something far darker. not dread or guilt. something warmer. hungrier. the realization bloomed slowly and thickly at the back of your throat, and you swallowed it down like a secret; what you felt wasn’t entirely fear. it was want.

the door clicks open behind you, followed by the soft creak of the hinge, the muted scuff of sneakers hitting hardwood, and some more indistinct shuffling near the entryway as he drops his things. hyunjin steps inside, expression dulled with exhaustion, shoulders loose, hoodie slipping off one side of his frame. he moves like he always does after a long day— quiet, fluid, like he’s still half inside his head.

until he sees what’s in your lap.

his sketchbook.

his secret.

you.

he halts mid-step.

for a second, he doesn’t say anything. no words, no movement, not even a blink. his eyes trace the shape of the moleskin cover, the way your fingers are curled around the edge of a page, your gaze is wide and locked onto his, like you’ve been caught doing something unspeakable. maybe, because you have.

but the reaction you expect never comes. there’s no stammering apology, flustered excuses, desperate attempt at backpedaling or some pathetic plea to forget what you saw.

instead, he smiles.

and it’s not the kind of nervous, sheepish grin you might’ve imagined if this moment had played out in your head. no. it’s something far more sinister. cooler. slow-spreading and deeply smug, as if this was inevitable and he’s known all along.

“you weren’t supposed to see that,” he says, voice low and smooth, like he’s just commenting on the weather.

he walks toward you with the kind of unhurried confidence that makes your throat go instantly dry, his footsteps soft against the floorboards, eyes never leaving yours. he stops just in front you where you’re still frozen, sketchbook heavy in your hands, heart beating loud enough to feel it in your teeth.

“but…”

his head tilts slightly as he crouches in front of you, long fingers curling over the edge of the cushion near your knee. the shift in posture shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but it roots you in place. he’s close— close enough that you can see the faint flecks of lead still dusted on his fingertips, the faint ink smudge on the side of his hand, the crescent of dried eraser shavings caught beneath his nail.

“…since you have…”

his voice dips even lower now, almost playful. like he’s testing you and he knows you’re too curious to say no.

“do you wanna see the rest?”

you shouldn’t.

you really, really shouldn’t.

but you nod.

and something in him clicks.

he reaches for the book, knuckles brushing your thigh as he takes it gently from your lap. doesn’t ask again or give you time to second-guess. just shifts his weight to sit beside you, so close your knees bump, and flips to the next page with the ease of someone completely unashamed.

the next drawing makes your breath catch.

you— on your stomach, wrists bound above your head with a ribbon that trails off the page. your thighs are spread wide open, panties pushed to the side, one heel still hooked halfway off your foot. you can see your expression sketched in detail, mouth parted, brows drawn tight, eyes looking up with something caught between desperation and bliss.

he turns another page.

this one’s rougher. messier lines, heavier shading. you’re riding something, someone, but only the vague silhouette of a figure is visible beneath you. the focus is all on your body. the way your tits bounce. the tremble in your thighs. the glint of a tongue drawn wet and flicking out from behind your lips. your head is thrown back, hair wild, and between your legs— slick. so much slick. rendered in obsessive strokes that make you shiver.

you blink. “hyunjin, what the fuck—”

“what?” he says lightly, not even looking at you. “it’s art.”

he’s already on the next page.

you reach for it instinctively, trying to stop him, but he only laughs, quiet and amused, and tilts the book slightly so you can see better.

“thought you wanted to see the rest.”

your stomach twists. “how many are there?”

“depends,” he shrugs. “just the ones of you?”

you freeze.

he turns another page. this one’s so filthy your face burns.

you’re gagging on something thick, your hands gripping at the base, tears drawn in delicate lines down your cheeks. your mascara is smudged. your spit is dripping off your chin. there are notes in the margin, little technical observations. ‘make angle of throat curve more exaggerated,’ ‘adjust hand position,’ ‘redraw drool line thicker.’

you glance at him, stunned, but he’s completely calm. flipping through pages like this is the normal shit ever and he’s showing off a vacation album, not a growing collection of depraved, hyper-detailed hentai of you.

“why..” your voice cracks, and you clear your throat. “why me?”

he finally looks at you then.

really looks.

there’s no hesitation in his face. no shame. just a flicker of something deep and unwavering.

“you said yes,” he says simply. “you stood in front of me in that stupid lace and let me stare. what did you think i was gonna do? draw a fucking fruit bowl?”

“i thought it was for your portfolio—”

“it is,” he says, smiling again. “you’re the whole thing.”

you swallow hard. “you should’ve told me.”

he laughs, dry and low.

“would you have still posed?”

you don’t answer. because you don’t know.

he proceeds to turn another page.

this time, you’re bent over the kitchen counter in this one. there’s cum dripping down your thighs.

“you didn’t tell me to stop,” he says softly.

your pulse jumps. “i didn’t know what you were doing.”

“you never asked.”

the silence stretches.

he flips another page. then another. each sketch more obscene than the last. erotic positions you’ve never even imagined. angles that make your skin burn. and he narrates them all with a kind of detached pride, fingers gliding over each line like he’s showing off fine china.

“this one took me all night,” he murmurs, turning the book slightly so you can see the details. “couldn’t get the way your mouth stretches quite right. ended up using a mirror.”

“jesus,” you whisper, barely able to look away. “hyunjin, you’re insane.”

he grins, leaning closer. “and you let me draw you.”

his voice is low. warm. full of something dangerous.

“so what does that make you?”

you don’t answer.

you literally can’t.

because you’re still staring at the next page, and your thighs are pressing together before you even realize it.

+

it’s hard to say who came onto who first.

whether it was you, him, or the invisible thread between you finally pulled taut and snapped— you aren’t sure. but the sketchbook lands somewhere on the floor long forgotten, and then hyunjin’s hands are suddenly on your thighs, warm and steady. the next thing you know, you’re pressed into the mattress of his bed, his body hovering close, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

you’re still breathing hard, dizzy from everything you saw. your body’s betraying you, flushed and prickled with heat, and he sees it. god, he sees everything.

his voice is low, right beside your ear. “you’re still looking at me like i’ve done something wrong.” his thumbs press lightly into the soft flesh just above your knees, parting them further until your legs fall open around him. “but you haven’t said stop.”

you should. you could. your lips fall open like you want to say something, but the words never physically come out.

he chuckles.

“that’s what i thought.”

his fingers trail up your bare thigh with an artist’s touch, slow and reverent, tracing invisible lines like he’s mentally drafting his next sketch. his eyes never stray, just stays locked on your face. not your lips, not your chest, but your eyes— studying every twitch and flicker as if he’s trying to memorize how your shame turns into arousal.

and fuck, it’s working…

“do you know,” he says, almost idly, as though it’s just casual conversation. “how many nights i’ve spent drawing you from memory?”

his hand slides higher, dips beneath the hem of your shorts, brushes against the dampened fabric of your panties. his smile sharpens.

“you always wear the cutest little things. i couldn’t help it.”

you choke on your breath when he presses the heel of his palm against your cunt. not enough to relieve anything, but enough to remind you who’s touching you. who’s seen you like this, over and over again, in his head and on paper and in every single fucked-up sketch you were too horrified, and too curious, to stop looking at.

he leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“you don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs, “to spend hours perfecting the way your lips wrap around something thick. or the way your thighs shake when you’re close. i studied that. every twitch. every fold. every drip.”

his tone darkens, the words clinging to you like sweat.

“and it still wasn’t enough.”

he pulls back to look at you, fingers still nestled between your legs, his hand heavy and possessive like he owns what he drew— and maybe he does. he always has.

“you wanna know the real reason i never bring anyone home?”

you blink, mind hazy. “what?”

he slides your panties to the side with maddening precision, but his fingers stay light, barely ghosting over your folds.

“because i didn’t need anyone else.”

you whimper when the pad of his middle finger circles your clit, featherlight and cruel.

“i had you.”

a slow exhale leaves your chest, shaky and broken, and he watches you unravel, patient and quiet, savoring it the way someone might linger on the best part of a page.

then he kisses you without warning.

his mouth is soft at first, almost deceptively gentle. but the moment you lean into it and give in, he deepens it, tongue sliding over yours with the same practiced hunger he puts into his art. he kisses the way he draws: greedy, precise, a little filthy.

your hands fist into his hoodie, and he grins against your lips.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you taste better than i imagined.”

he pushes his fingers deeper between your folds, finally giving you the pressure you need. your hips jolt, a whine slipping from your throat, and that’s when you feel it.

his other hand has moved to your wrist.

he’s guiding it down.

and, fuck, he’s so hard.

you palm him through his sweats, wide-eyed and breathless, and he shudders, grinding into your touch shamelessly.

“you did this,” he says through a clenched jaw. “you and your fucking poses and that look on your face like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.” his hand moves with more purpose now, two fingers pressing inside you slow and deep while his thumb rubs tight, messy circles against your clit. he groans when you clench around him.

“this tight already?” he whispers, nose brushing yours. “and i haven’t even started drawing tonight.”

you try to reply— something, anything— but all that comes out is a pathetic, broken litttle moan.

he smirks, biting your bottom lip.

“so desperate. is this why you went snooping? hoping to find something to get off to?”

you shake your head. “i didn’t- i didn’t mean to—”

he laughs. “no?”

he curls his fingers just right and your whole body jerks, hips stuttering. he hits that gummy spot inside you that already has you seeing stars, mouth falling open around a breathless moan.

“then why’re you dripping all over my hand, sweetheart?”

your face contorts with pleasure, heat rushing to your cheeks as his fingers slowly withdraw, slick and shining. he raises them between you, holding the evidence up for you to see.

“look at that,” he murmurs, softly.

your arousal glistens in the low light, coating his fingers, dripping down his wrist. he slides them into his mouth and moans, eyes fluttering shut for just a second before they snap open again, dark and hungry.

“better than i imagined,” he breathes, already sounding wrecked.

“but we’ll keep going, yeah?”

his hand finds yours again, guiding it back to the bulge straining in his pants— heat pulsing through the fabric, through your palm, through the space between your bodies that’s disappearing by the second.

“you’ve only seen the sketches.”

+

you were half-expecting him to crumble when you climb into his lap.

at least, you wanted him to.

he’d spent the past thirty minutes sounding like the world’s most depraved art school simp, flipping through sketch after sketch like some perverted little museum curator. and now? after everything he’s admitted. you’re wet, twitchy, and riding the high of control. he’s throbbing under you, eyes wide, flushed to the tips of his ears. you think maybe he’ll let you ruin him. maybe he wants that.

but then his fingers dig into your hips. hard.

and the shift is immediate.

his back straightens. his mouth parts, but no breathy little beg ever comes out.

just a low, measured murmur in your ear:

“take your panties off.”

your brain short circuits.

“what—?”

he grips your jaw and tilts your face toward him, gently, never rough, but his touch is firm. decisive.

“you wanna climb into my lap, ride my cock like some spoiled little muse?” he says, tone deceptively calm. “fine. but you’re gonna do it the way i imagined it.”

your breath catches. your heart pounds. your cunt pulses.

fuck.

you strip without thinking. panties discarded somewhere on the floor, shorts shoved down past your knees. he watches, shamelessly, licking his lips once as his eyes drag down your body.

“there,” he says, like you’re finally arranged the way he likes.

he strokes a palm up your inner thigh, fingers ghosting over your folds, smearing slick deliberately. your hips twitch forward, chasing his touch.

he tuts. “so needy. bet you soaked the pages of my sketchbook, didn’t you?”

“hyunjin—”

“don’t act shy now,” he murmurs, voice darker. “you flipped through every page. stared at every filthy little pose i drew you in. legs spread, gagging, dripping.”

his fingers part your folds. dragging through them.

“this wet for me already, and i haven’t even put it in?”

you gasp when he presses the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, not pushing, just teasing, smearing precum over your folds like he’s painting.

“beg,” he says softly.

“hyun—”

“you were bold enough to go through my stuff,” he cuts you off, thumb pressing against your clit in painfully slow circles. “now beg.”

and god, you do.

you don’t even try to hold onto what little pride you had left. not when he’s touching you like that, looking at you like he already owns you, like he’s just recreating a scene he’s drawn a thousand times.

“please,” you whisper. “i want it.”

“say it properly.”

“please, let me ride your cock.”

he grins, smug and breathless, and finally, finally, lets you sink down on him.

and it’s perfect.

so thick you swear it stretches something deeper. you brace against his chest, gasping as he fills you up, each inch a slow, merciless press that has you trembling, mouth agape, nails biting into his skin.

“shiiit,” you whimper. “feels so—”

“tight,” he grits out. “fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight.”

he lets you sit there for a second, fully seated on him, cunt fluttering as your body adjusts, becoming more attuned to his length. you were expecting him to move, to take over.

but he doesn’t.

“go on then,” he instructs. “ride me. show me what you learned from those drawings.”

you start moving, tentatively at first, slow little rolls of your hips— and his hands were simply there to guide you. firm and assured, shaping the rhythm as if he’s sculpting the moment himself, dragging pleasure from you at the exact pace he wants.

“there,” he hisses. “that’s it, just like that, bounce for me- yeah, baby, just like that.”

you ride him harder, chasing the friction, hips grinding down with more purpose as your moans rise in volume, ragged and desperate. and then his hand wraps around the base of your throat. not enough to block any major airways, just holding you there as an anchor.

“don’t cum yet,” he whispers.

you nearly sob.

“hyunjin- fuck, ’m so close—”

his hips buck up into you and your whole body jerks, another sharp gasp leaving your throat as your cunt clamps down hard, tight, pulsing around him, overwhelmed by the sudden depth and force.

“not yet.”

you clench your fists against his chest, thighs quivering, the ache mounting unbearably.

“please, please, i need—”

he shifts, arm wrapping around your waist, and slams you down onto him as he thrusts up again, harder this time, hitting your walls so deep you couldn’t help but scream.

“you think you get to snoop through my private sketchbook, make me beg, and then cum on my cock whenever you want?”

he flips you before you even get the chance to answer. he moves fast, smooth, overwhelming. now you’re flat on your back, and he’s towering above you, hand gripping your thigh, shoving it up against your chest as he sinks right back into you.

“you’re mine now,” he groans. “gonna fuck you until you forget your own name. gonna redraw you like this- cumming around me, crying for me.”

he thrusts deep and sharp and mean.

“gonna sketch you full of my cum.”

“hyun, fuck, please—”

he leans down, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips, almost sweet even as he rails you into the mattress.

“i got you,” he pants. “fuck, baby, i got you. you can cum now.”

and when you do, practically shaking and crying, cunt gripping him so tightly he’s nearly on the verge of blacking out. he follows immediately, moaning against your neck as he spills his thick, hot seed inside you.

he stays there for a moment, still buried deep, panting hard, chest pressed to yours and rising with each unsteady inhale. then he pulls out slowly, eyes fixed on the way his cum spills from you and drips down your thighs, letting out a satisfied hum.

“don’t move,” he says, already reaching for his sketchbook that was left abandoned on the floor.

“hyunjin—”

“shhh,” he coos, “you’re perfect. let me draw you like this.”

he pauses, glancing down at the creamy mess between your legs.

“maybe from memory again.”