jake's back is facing you. which never happens. shoulders slightly hunched. hair sticking up in twelve different directions like how it usually is after he has a deep sleep. and body too still for someone supposedly asleep.

"jake."

"mmhm." his voice is muffled into the pillow. suspiciously meek. like a man trying his very best to sound casual while he is, in fact, actively panicking.

you squint at the back of his head.

"now why did you just text me while laying right next to me."

a pause. then a short exhale.

"...i didn't want you to get mad."

you push yourself up onto one elbow, the blanket sliding down your shoulder, still staring at the back of his head even though he clearly refuses to turn around.

"okay," you say slowly. "next question. why would i be mad."

you watch his shoulders tense.

"...so," he drags out, "hypothetically speaking."

"...hypothetically speaking what."

jake finally rolls over to face you. and it's all big brown eyes, shining and wide, cheeks puffy with sleepiness, and all unfair. his hands immediately reach for yours.

"i may have," he says carefully, squeezing your hands tight in his, "booked our dinner reservation for the wrong day."

you stare at him.

"what."

jake winces.

"it's not what you think though—"

"jake—"

"—you know, technically, it'll still be valentine's day. just...adjacent."

"jake."

"it's tomorrow."

you sit up fully in bed now, legs crossing under you and the blanket fully falling into your lap as he just lays there, staring up at you.

"tomorrow?"

jake scrambles upright immediately, moving closer on his knees in the bed. his hair stays up in the same twelve directions and his cheeks are slightly pink and he just is soft. and you try your best to keep your straight face on. but he looks so stupidly cute.

"it was so confusing, baby—" he defends, words tripping over one another now. "and it was late, and the website was like glitching and—"

"valentine's day is the same date every year, jake."

"I KNOW—" he blurts, horrified as his hands immediately finds yours again, settling into your lap, thumbs squeezing your fingers in a desperate little rhythm. "—i know."

you slowly remove your hands from his and fold your arms instead, fighting the smirk on your face as you lift a brow, "how did you book the wrong date? it's not that—"

"okay, okay, but listen. it's that one restaurant you really wanted to try."

you stop.

"the one with the tiny little salad forks," he blurts, hands flying up to cup your face. "and the cloth napkins that they lay out in your lap for you so you feel like royalty. and the butter that comes in like, the little dollopy swirls. and the waiters wear those tight vests."

you press your lips together, trying your hardest to fight the smile growing on your face.

"you remember that?"

"of course i remember that," he scoffs, genuinely offended. "you talked about it for like twenty minutes straight after we walked past it."

"okay, that was one time."

"it was a very passionate one time."

you roll your eyes but shift closer to him without thinking.

"and," he continues quickly when you still look unimpressed, "it's physically impossible to get a reservation there on actual valentine's day unless you book, like, six months in advance and then i thought what if we ended up sitting next so some guy proposing with a violinist and she starts crying and everyone starts staring while i'm just trying to eat my steak."

you stifle another laugh right as jake lunges forward, warm palms still squishing your cheeks as he starts peppering frantic kisses everywhere.

your cheek. your forehead. your jaw. the corner of your mouth.

"jake—" you gasp, laughter slipping out despite your best efforts, "—stop—"

"please don't be mad," kiss. "i promise i know what day valentine's day is," kiss. "i swear my finger just slipped," kiss. "i love you so much," kiss kiss.

you're fully laughing now, trying to push him back but not actually putting in the effort as he tackles you gently back onto the pillows, your hair going everywhere as his weight settles over you, warm and solid and annoyingly comforting.

"look," he says softer now, hair falling over his eyes as he hovers over you, brushing his thumb over your cheek. "we'll do a cute breakfast date today. and i'll take you out to whatever else you want to do. eat. buy. whatever."

he leans closer, voice dropping as his forehead brushes yours.

"and tomorrow, we'll get all dressed up and pretend we're fancy and i'll pull your chair out and we'll eat with the tiny salad forks."

you don't say anything for a moment. you let out a soft sigh, hands weaving into his messy hair. "...you know i'm not actually mad, right?"

jake collapses into your arms, face burying into the crook of your neck, voice muffled against your skin.

"i know," he says into your skin. "but i still feel bad."

he pulls back just enough. his lips are pushed into the smallest pout, his eyes are wide and warm and just a little glossy in that way they get when he cares too much. you prop yourself up slightly and press a soft kiss right in the center of his pout.

"i don't like it when you pout," you whisper against his lips. "don't pout."

jake hums softly, the sound vibrating against you before he kisses you back, deeper this time, slower, like he's trying to memorize every way your lips fit against his like it's the first time all over again.

his hands slide up your waist, broad palms settling warm against your ribs, thumbs brushing the slowest circles over the thin fabric of his own shirt you wore to bed last night. you can't help the tiny smile that curves against his and he feels it immediately, a soft huff of air escaping him in a half laugh, half sigh as he nudges you back into the pillow.

he follows you down without breaking the kiss, bracing himself on your forearms beside your head. his hair falls into his eyes again, soft and messy, tilting just head just slightly to press himself deeper, sweeter, as one of his hands leaves your side to cup the back of your neck, fingers threaded gently into your hair to hold you in place. his thumb brushes the sensitive skin just behind your ear and you feel yourself shiver before you can stop it and he must feel it too, because he makes another one of those low, pleased hums against your lips.

when you finally part—just barely, just enough to breathe—his breath is warm and unsteady against your lips.

"don't pout," you whisper again, smiling now.

"'m not," he murmurs, voice wrecked and fond and so full it makes your chest ache. "definitely not pouting anymore."

you giggle quietly and guide his head down into the crook of your neck, fingers threading through his hair as he settles there without hesitating. he cheek presses against your chest, arms slipping securely around your waist, holding you close enough that you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing slowly match yours. you press a gentle kiss into his hair, your hand smoothing over his back as you swear you can physically feel him melt into you, warm, heavy, safe. like home.

"happy valentine's, jakey."

jake grins against you, not lifting his head, clearly planning on staying exactly where he is for a very, very long time.

"happy valentine's day, pretty."

no doubt m. list ⭑ full m.list

“p-please…” jake is whimpering.

you’ve been teasing him all day — wearing the shortest shorts known to mankind with half your asscheeks exposed, not wearing a bra which exposed your hard on nipples through your sheer clothing, poking your butt out a little extra when you bend over on the kitchen counter.

now, you had his hands tied behind his back with a rope, hands roaming all over his bare upper chest and abs gently. he reacts at every touch, whimpers at every touch.

"please what?" you teased, your voice laced with seduction.

"please, mommy... please touch m-me," he pleads. god, how you loved his pleas. without further hesitation, you knelt down on the soft bed in between his legs, a playful grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

he gazes at you in awe as you slowly pull down the waistband of his sweatpants, your movements slow and deliberate. torturously slow. when his sweatpants were finally off, you could see the hard on that was straining against his tight boxers.

your mouth started to water at how big his erection is. god, you could never get used to how big his dick is. you bent down, leaving lingering kisses from his thighs and slowly to his clothed boner. he groans, reacting to every kiss that you leave.

"so responsive," you cooed. as a reward, you kissed him on the lips. the kiss was anything but gentle. it was hungry, like a man that was starved all day. his tongue intruded your mouth, devouring it with hunger. meanwhile, your hands had travelled down from his abs to his clothed boner.

you squeezed it softly at first, which caused him to groan into your mouth. then, your hands started to move, palming him through his boxer. his mouth stopped kissing you. instead, it was hanging wide open, whimpers and groans coming out as you palmed him hard at a fast pace.

"f-fuck, mommy... i'm not gonna l-la—" cum spurt right out from his tip. a wet patch formed on his boxers, staining them. it was an absolute beauty to see.

"i'm not done, baby. i'm just getting started," you saisd huskily as you tugged down his boxer, revealing his flushed and angry cock. you wrapped your hands around his thick girth and swiped your thumb across his sensitive tip.

"it's s-sensitive..." he winces, squirming away from you. however, you kept going. your hands started pumping his shaft, squeezing it after every two pumps, causing him to let out choked moans.

"mommy, please... i'm close..." the pornographic moan coming out from his mouth as he choked out a warning. a second wave of orgasm crashed over him as thick ropes of his cum spurted all over your hand, landing on his stomach. his heavy panting continue as your hands continued to pump. he whimpers from the overstimulation.

just as your hands slowed down and he thought that you were finally going to stop, you licked his still leaking tip. he hisses at the sensation, overstimulation taking over. you continued licking long stripes from the base of his shaft, up to his tip, over and over again.

then, you latched your mouth onto the head of his cock. the warmth of your mouth around him felt so good, he was ready to cum for the third time. you started pushing your head down, taking him into your mouth fully until your nose had nuzzled against his crotch.

you moaned at the feeling of his tip hitting the back of your throat, the vibrations against his throbbing and sensitive cock sent a shudder down his spine. lord, you were killing him. your head started bobbing up and down as you started deepthroating him, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly, causing you to gag a few times.

the sensation was all too much for jake, who had already cummed twice prior to this. now? he's on his third orgasm. the wave of orgasm crashed over him again as you continued slurping on his cock, like your life depended on it. he came, hard. he was thrashing around on the bed, his legs shaking uncontrollably as you continued sucking, swallowing all of his hot juices that filled your mouth.

“p-please…” jake is whimpering.

you’ve been teasing him all day — wearing the shortest shorts known to mankind with half your asscheeks exposed, not wearing a bra which exposed your hard on nipples through your sheer clothing, poking your butt out a little extra when you bend over on the kitchen counter.

now, you had his hands tied behind his back with a rope, hands roaming all over his bare upper chest and abs gently. he reacts at every touch, whimpers at every touch.

"please what?" you teased, your voice laced with seduction.

"please, mommy... please touch m-me," he pleads. god, how you loved his pleas. without further hesitation, you knelt down on the soft bed in between his legs, a playful grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

he gazes at you in awe as you slowly pull down the waistband of his sweatpants, your movements slow and deliberate. torturously slow. when his sweatpants were finally off, you could see the hard on that was straining against his tight boxers.

your mouth started to water at how big his erection is. god, you could never get used to how big his dick is. you bent down, leaving lingering kisses from his thighs and slowly to his clothed boner. he groans, reacting to every kiss that you leave.

"so responsive," you cooed. as a reward, you kissed him on the lips. the kiss was anything but gentle. it was hungry, like a man that was starved all day. his tongue intruded your mouth, devouring it with hunger. meanwhile, your hands had travelled down from his abs to his clothed boner.

you squeezed it softly at first, which caused him to groan into your mouth. then, your hands started to move, palming him through his boxer. his mouth stopped kissing you. instead, it was hanging wide open, whimpers and groans coming out as you palmed him hard at a fast pace.

"f-fuck, mommy... i'm not gonna l-la—" cum spurt right out from his tip. a wet patch formed on his boxers, staining them. it was an absolute beauty to see.

"i'm not done, baby. i'm just getting started," you saisd huskily as you tugged down his boxer, revealing his flushed and angry cock. you wrapped your hands around his thick girth and swiped your thumb across his sensitive tip.

"it's s-sensitive..." he winces, squirming away from you. however, you kept going. your hands started pumping his shaft, squeezing it after every two pumps, causing him to let out choked moans.

"mommy, please... i'm close..." the pornographic moan coming out from his mouth as he choked out a warning. a second wave of orgasm crashed over him as thick ropes of his cum spurted all over your hand, landing on his stomach. his heavy panting continue as your hands continued to pump. he whimpers from the overstimulation.

just as your hands slowed down and he thought that you were finally going to stop, you licked his still leaking tip. he hisses at the sensation, overstimulation taking over. you continued licking long stripes from the base of his shaft, up to his tip, over and over again.

then, you latched your mouth onto the head of his cock. the warmth of your mouth around him felt so good, he was ready to cum for the third time. you started pushing your head down, taking him into your mouth fully until your nose had nuzzled against his crotch.

you moaned at the feeling of his tip hitting the back of your throat, the vibrations against his throbbing and sensitive cock sent a shudder down his spine. lord, you were killing him. your head started bobbing up and down as you started deepthroating him, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly, causing you to gag a few times.

the sensation was all too much for jake, who had already cummed twice prior to this. now? he's on his third orgasm. the wave of orgasm crashed over him again as you continued slurping on his cock, like your life depended on it. he came, hard. he was thrashing around on the bed, his legs shaking uncontrollably as you continued sucking, swallowing all of his hot juices that filled your mouth.

it’s been a few days since you had sex with jungwon, aka your best friend of 10 years. you were honestly starting to regret it. what if he’s just thinking this is a casual arrangement? is this a friends with benefits situation? what the hell are we? what if this ruins the friendship? so many negative thoughts echoed through your head, causing you to freak out and shut down.

woniee 😽♥️

Today 10:35 AM

hey

can we talk?

Today 12:44 PM

are you thereeee

Today 3:28 PM

yn?

what’s going on

are you avoiding me

Today 7:01 PM

??

helloooooooooooooo

you felt bad — of course you did. but, how were you supposed to face jungwon with all your overthinking? you didn’t want him to even know that you had these thoughts, let alone burden him with them. that was until he showed up at your apartment 3 days later.

knock knock.

you woke up to incessant knocking on your door. groggy, you rubbed your eyes and groaned in annoyance before getting up to open the door. much to your surprise, there stood jungwon, his hair a mess, and his eye bags evident.

“j-jungwon?” you stuttered, your voice obviously surprised. your eyes squinted at him, hase clouding your groggy eyes. what the hell is he doing here at 8 in the morning?

“can we finally talk?” he asks, a hint of desperation in his voice. reluctantly, you said yes and let him in. he plopped himself down on the couch. you were trying to avoid this. you thought, maybe if you let it simmer for a few days, the overthinking would go away.

“why have you been avoiding me, ignoring all my texts? did i do something wrong? was all that just a mistake? did you just think it would have been awkward afterwards?” you were bombarded with his questions. you just stared blankly at him, unable to answer. it’s not like you didn’t want to, it’s just that you couldn’t. his facial expression was a mix of frustration and worry.

“say something, anything. please,” his desperate plea made you crack. at first, it was a choked sob. then, it turned into a full breakdown.

“i’m sorry, won. i—“ his hands engulfed you in a tight and reassuring hug before you could even continue what you wanted to say.

“don’t cry, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to make you cry.” he caresses you gently, pressing a kiss to your head. you sobbed into his arms, unable to vocalise whatever has been sitting on your mind for the past few days.

jungwon knew, just from how you trembled into his arms, that you weren’t gonna tell him whatever was going on with you. therefore, the only way he knew how to handle this, was to tell you about what was going on with him.

“yn, i don’t know what’s going on with you but i do know what’s going on with me and i need you to know.” he pulls apart from the hug, his both hands now cupping your face, as gentle as ever.

“10 years. i’ve known you for 10 whole years. that’s a decade, yn. i’ve literally seen you in all your phases in life and you’ve seen mine. i’m going to risk it here when i say this but… that sex wasn’t just sex to me— it never would be because you mean too much to me for it to be meant as just sex.” he was looking deep into your eyes, eyes sparkling with love. he looked at you like you were the only one — his only one.

“what i’m trying to say is, that was the first time i’ve ever made love to someone. and i want to keep doing it if that person is you,” he finally confesses. holy shit that was hot.

instead of answering him, your lips collided with his as you pulled him in by his hoodie. he was evidently shocked at first, but recovered quick and kissed you back. when the both of you finally pull apart, you were panting for air.

“me too, won. me too,” you finally confessed. jungwon immediately kissed you again — this time, slow and sweet, like he was savouring the moment, savouring you. you climbed onto his lap whilst still kissing him. he groans into your mouth, causing a whirlpool to form in your stomach.

you took off your shirt, revealing your bare and hardened nipples beneath. he smirked.

“damn, nipples so hard already baby? didn’t know i get you like that,” he teased with lazy confidence. shy, you buried your face on the crook of his neck. how could you be so cute and sexy at the same time?

he gently lifts your head off his shoulders. “shy? don’t worry, baby. i’ll let you know just how you get me,” he drawled, looking deep into your eyes lustfully. you giggled slightly before teasing, “so needy.”

“yeah? well, i’ll be your needy.”

the both of you take off the rest of your clothing, leaving you guys bare and naked. you sat there on top of him, feeling the most vulnerable than you had in a while.

“i know we’ve already done this once, but this time it feels more… raw,” you admitted, feeling a little nervous. “more raw than the last time?” he joked.

you swatted his shoulders weakly, to which he chuckled. “kidding, baby. i know it does because i feel the same way. we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. i don’t want you to feel like i only want you for lust. i want you because i want to be able to call you mine, experience life with you as a partner, be a boyfriend to you.” his reassurance made the butterflies in your stomach flutter wilder than ever.

tears started welling in your eyes again, this time of happiness. “i’m ready, won. with you, i always will be.” you kissed him, a gentle and loving kiss which quickly turned into something deeper — something more desperate.

his hands roamed your body, every inch and every curve, like he was memorising every crevice of you. like he couldn’t handle not touching you. like touching you was grounding him. you felt him massaging your boobs. he pinches your nipple, hard, earning a little yelp from you.

the kiss shifted from your lips down to your neck, to your collarbones and right down to your nipples. he licks your sensitive bud, making you moan out, pleasure surging through your body and straight to your core. this made jungwon harder than ever, hearing you moan for him. his erection poked you at your inner thighs.

your hands reached for his hard on, palms wrapping around his thick girth, causing him to whimper into your boobs. he bit on your nipples and started sucking one boob while your other boob was being massaged with his hand.

you started pumping your hands, to which his hips start involuntarily thrusting into your hand. his other hand glides down to your naked clit and hovers slightly above where you needed him most. he inserts one finger in, your hips buckled, breath hitched upon the insertion.

meanwhile, he was fucking your fists hard and fast, moaning and whimpering for you to pump your hands faster. you did as told and moved faster. your thumb covered the slit on his tip, putting slight pressure on it. the sensation sent him over the edge, making him cum right into your hands. his hips stuttered and hot ropes of cum spilled out continuously.

“shit shit shit, i need to be inside you now.”

with that, he pulls his fingers out which was then quickly replaced by his still rock hard dick. he nudges his tip in between your wet folds, covering his tip with your slick. the both of you winced upon the contact.

“ready?” he pushes his dick into your cunt, bottoming out in one swift thrust. giving you little to no time for recovery, he starts thrusting into you, pace merciless. he curses as he continues thrusting his hips into you hard, sounds of his balls slapping your asscheeks and your moans echoed through your living room.

“god i love your pussy,” jungwon moans loud. “god i love you.”

the tension in your stomach pooled thicker and you felt close to the edge. with one last thrust, the both of you came at the same time with no warning. he cums into you for the second time, letting both your juices mix.

he pulls out slowly, which causes both of you to wince at the pain. suddenly, you missed having his cock stuff you full.

jungwon helps you to the shower and the both of you took a bath together, nothing sexual but sensual. it took the both of you an hour to get out of the shower as you were both so tired from the intense sex earlier. he lends you his sweater to wear which was slightly oversized on you but he loves the way it looks on you. he loves the way you look like his.

the both of you climbed into your bed and cuddled.

“i love you too, won.”

m.list , prev | next

but what no one really tells you—what none of those parenting books or late night reddit threads or overly cheerful pediatricians mention? is how much kids also sharpen your life. how they turn it into something precise. measured. carefully arranged so nothing spills over.

jake’s mornings start the same way every day. alarm at 6:12AM (not 6:10, too early. not 6:15, too risky). coffee brewed before the sun is fully up. socks paired and re-paired because somehow they never match. and then a five year old’s voice drifting down the hallway asking questions that absolutely do not need to be asked before sunrise.

he packs lunch with muscle memory. apple slices. sandwiches. no peanut butter because of that one kid in class with an allergy whose mom sends passive-aggressive emails. a juice box that he knows will come back unopened. a sticky note with a doodle and a message that he pretends is just something he does because it’s cute, and not because his daughter reads them like they’re the law.

and life is…fine. quiet. predictable in the way that feels earned, safe, and steady. and jake likes it that way.

which is exactly why, when sim jiuen barrels full-speed down their apartment hallway one afternoon after being picked up from school—ignoring every rule jake has ever taught her about inside voices and walking feet—jake already knows something is about to go wrong.

this is what he gets for disrupting the routine.

for the record, routines are sacred. they are survival. and today, jake had broken it—slipping an extra sugar cookie into jiuen’s lunchbox this morning because she looked particularly sleepy and small at breakfast and he felt particularly soft and he’s clearly trying to uphold his title as World’s Best Dad.

an avoidable mistake. a sugar-fueled one.

“ji—slow down!”

but it’s too late.

because right as she rounds the corner, there’s a collision. a gasp. and then a very loud, deeply concerning thump.

and because jake is 1) tired, 2) a father, and 3) a man who works out maybe twice a week on a good month, he’s too out of breath from sprinting after his child to fully process what’s happening at first.

one hand is still gripping jiuen’s backpack, the bright pink, aggressively sparkly thing swinging wildly by his side—while his free hand instinctively goes to his hair, attempting to smooth down what he’s fairly certain is day-two-and-not-washed.

but he finally looks up. and that’s when he sees you.

jiuen stands directly in front of you, eyes blown wide, hands planted firmly on your knees like she’s just discovered something monumental, maybe life-altering even, in her very impressive five years of existence.

you, on the other hand, have a cardboard box labeled kitchen??? in messy marker, the question marks thick and uneven like you added them after the fact, once you realized you had absolutely no idea what was supposed to go in there. your hair is pulled into a messy knot that’s surrendered in multiple places—stray strands loose around your face in that very specific way that suggests nothing except moving day exhaustion, and you’re blinking down at his child like you’re not entirely sure what just ran into you either.

jiuen grins.

“hi!” she says immediately, the bright smile on her face saying she’s completely unbothered by the concept of personal space or strangers.

jake closes his eyes. just briefly. just long enough to mentally sigh and add stranger danger refresher to tonight’s ever growing list of things he’s probably forgetting to do as a parent. but when he opens them again—he feels it. the shift. the stutter. the barely there change in the air, like the moment right before something tips over and the trajectory of everything changes.

because now the confusingly labeled box that was in your hands sits abandoned on the floor beside you, and you’ve crouched down in front of jiuen without hesitation, meeting her at eye level like it’s second nature. your smile mirrors hers—it’s warm, wide, completely unguarded—and jake doesn’t process what you’re saying at first, but it’s the way your voice sounds. the way it doesn’t feel practiced or forced or overly polite in that adult talking to a child way.

and that’s when he knows.

jake already knows, deep in his bones, with the certainty of someone who’s survived long enough to recognize danger when it’s standing right there in front of him—that whatever calm, careful rhythm he’s built for himself?

you’re about to ruin it.

because here you are, and now that jake’s actually looking—he takes you in.

you can’t be that much younger than him, judging by the faint, familiar look sitting just beneath your eyes, the kind that doesn’t come from staying up too late partying or bad decisions, but the quieter kind. the kind that comes from long days, early mornings, and figuring out in real time how to answer when life already started asking things of you.

your cheeks are pink and flushed, probably from hauling boxes up and down all afternoon, and there’s a soft sheen to your skin that tells him it has nothing to do with sweat and effort and everything to do with the fact that you just…look like that. it’s subtle and unassuming, the kind of natural glow from within that isn’t trying to be noticed—and yet somehow demands jake’s full attention anyways.

and your hair, despite the chaos of it, falls perfectly around your face anyways—enough for jake to have to blink twice when he finally sees your face—and you’re wearing nothing but a simple white tank top and shorts, casual and effortless in a way that feels almost illegal considering there is, in fact, a five-year-old child living directly across the hall from you and this is, very clearly, meant to be a family-friendly building.

jake swallows hard. he feels his pulse kick somewhere hard and low all because he’s witnessing the new neighbor’s tank top cling to her like second skin, and he almost wants to scold himself for acting like a pathetic thirteen-year-old-boy discovering girl's shoulders for the first time.

he has to look away. he has to. because if he doesn’t, he’s going to stand here like an idiot, staring, while his five-year-old watches and the hallway slowly catches fire.

life is…fine. this is fine, completely fine. a normal reaction to the new neighbor. nothing to read into. except his brain, traitor that it is, offers the deeply unhelpful thought that if you look like this on moving day? then jake might be absolutely, unquestionably screwed. and he hasn’t even learned your name yet.

he clears his throat, once. then again.

“uh—sorry,” he starts, gesturing vaguely between you and the small human still beaming up at you like she’s already won at life at the age of five. “she, um. she runs.”

jiuen starts nodding enthusiastically. “i run really fast!”

jake sighs, squeezing his eyes, “too fast.”

you giggle, the sound soft and surprised, like you hadn’t expected this interaction—and it immediately makes something in his chest tighten in a way he does not appreciate.

“it’s okay,” you say easily, pushing yourself up from your crouch. “honestly the highlight of my day.” your eyes flick briefly to the box still sitting near your feet. “you know how it is, moving day.”

jake’s eyes follow yours to the box before looking back at you, humming in agreement, “yeah, that…pretty much tracks.”

then there’s a beat. a small pause where he knows he should say something else. introduce yourself. be normal. adult.

instead, what unfortunately comes out is, “you’re…uh—new.”

brilliant.

you tilt your head at him, a small look of amusement on your face, like you’re very aware of the obvious fact and are choosing to be kind about it.

“is it the boxes,” you tease lightly, “or the fact that i look disheveled and smell like cardboard?”

jake pauses for another beat before he exhales a quiet laugh. “…little bit of both?”

then, realizing he’s still standing there like an idiot, he straightens slightly and finally does the thing he should’ve done ten seconds ago. “i’m ja—”

“i’m jiuen!” the tiny human standing between you and jake beats him to it with enthusiasm, thrusting her hand out toward you, grin wide and eyes crinkling at the corners, clearly thinking this moment is about her and not her dad. “and that’s daddy!”

your smile softens immediately as you look back down at the little girl, taking her hand and giving it a very serious shake.

“well, hi jiuen,” you say warmly. “that’s a pretty name for a pretty girl. nice to meet you.”

your voice is gentle, easy. the kind that makes jake have to consciously remind himself that he needs to keep breathing because he’s being weird for no reason and this is simply what nice people just sound like.

then, slowly, you lift your gaze.

“and you too…” you add, eyes flicking back up to his, lips curling faintly. “…daddy.”

forget about breathing.

jake thinks he forgets how lungs work. literally.

he lets out a breath that sounds more like something he’s been holding in for too long by accident.

“jake,” he says, clearing his throat and finally extending his hand. it’s awkward. a little stiff. like it’s been a while since he’s introduced himself to someone who isn’t five years old or a teacher. “i’m jake. we, uh—we live right there.” he nods towards his apartment door, unnecessarily.

you glance down at his hand, then back up at him, smiling as you take it.

“y/n,” you reply easily. then you tilt your head, gesturing toward your obviously still open door, “and i live right there.”

and something small and traitorous flutters in jake’s chest at that. at how light your voice is, like you’re not overthinking this at all—like you aren’t at all aware of the way his pulse is racing, or how thoroughly you’ve already disrupted any sense of balance he thought he once had just by standing there.

he shifts his weight awkwardly before glancing down at the box still sitting by your feet. then at the few others stacked haphazardly just past your open doorway. then back at you.

“do you, uh—” he starts, already regretting it halfway through. “do you need help with those?”

it’s an offer he makes automatically, reflexively. years of carrying groceries one-handed while holding a sleepy kid with the other have rewired the way his brain works permanently.

you follow his gaze and smile, shaking your head.

“i’m okay,” you say simply, “i think i’m gonna call it a night anyways, it’s been a long day.”

“i can help!” jiuen then announces, voice loud and enthusiastic as she’s already stepping forward like she’s ready to carry the entire box herself.

jake gently grabs the back of her collar, halting her mid-step, her back softly thudding against his legs with an oomph. “you helped enough today.”

she pouts. “but y/n needs help.”

and jake has to pretend that your name doesn’t sound different coming from her voice, like it already belongs there.

you giggle softly, “i’ll survive, promise. but thank you, jiuen.”

jiuen studies you seriously, like she’s deciding whether or not to believe that. then her face brightens again, sudden and sincere. “you’re really, really pretty,” she says as if this is important information you should have. “do you wanna come over?”

jake’s head snaps up.

“ji—”

you blink. then laugh again, this time a little louder, glancing at jake with amused surprise.

“wow,” you say, looking back to smile at jiuen. “that’s very generous of you.”

jake clears his throat. “she’s…friendly.”

you tilt an eyebrow at him. “that’s one word for it.”

“daddy says i’m really good at making friends," jiuen nods proudly.

he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, muttering, “i say a lot of things.”

you tilt your head, watching him with a soft smile before you bend slightly back down to match jiuen’s height. “hey,” you say gently. “i think you should probably get some rest, yeah? you had a big day.”

jiuen considers this seriously. then sighs long and dramatically. “okay.”

jake feels relief for only exactly half a second. because then his karma—small, loud, and wearing light-up sneakers—points a finger between the two of you, “but you have to come over soon!”

you glance up at jake again, eyes bright with amusement, but laced with something else jake refuses to acknowledge for his own sake.

“i’ll…think about it,” you say, and he tries to ignore the tone behind it. 

jake feels like he should say something. anything. step in. regain control of the situation.

but instead, he hears himself say, “she’s usually in bed by eight.”

he has no idea why he said that.

why. did. he. say. that.

a flicker of surprise crosses your face before it softens into something small and knowing.

“good to know.”

jiuen beams, clearly satisfied—and clearly oblivious—finally allowing herself to be guided inside. jake opens the door, nudging her gently forward, but she looks back one last time.

“bye, y/n!”

“bye, jiuen!” you reply warmly, just as the door closes.

and suddenly, it’s just the two of you in the hallway. everything settles differently now, thicker somehow. enough to make jake shift his weight again, sliding his hands into his pockets, very aware of how close you’re standing. close enough to notice the faint scent of laundry detergent and something citrusy and…yeah, cardboard.

“well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “i’m right across the hall. if you, uh…need anything.”

you meet his gaze, smiling softly. “i’ll remember that.”

another pause. and not awkward exactly, but just the kind of linger that happens when neither of you is in a hurry to be the first one to leave.

eventually, you step back towards your door, fingers brushing the doorframe as you turn.

“i’ll see you around, jake.”

jake nods immediately, too fast, eyes wide in a way he can’t seem to control.

“yeah. see you around.”

and as your door closes, jake stays where he is for a beat longer than necessary, pulse racing. because this—this is another thing they don’t teach you about kids:

sometimes, they know what belongs to you long before you do.

jake learns that life goes on. it always does.

no matter the disruption—no matter how unexpected, how citrus-scented, how unfairly and distractingly pretty that disruption might be—life keeps moving forward. coffee still brews. mornings still come too early. a five-year-old still needs lunch packed and hair brushed and shoes tied.

life goes on, yes. but change? change has a way of slipping in quietly. unannounced. making itself comfortable before you realized it’s even there.

a few days pass. not enough time for anything to really change drastically. not enough time for routines to fully unravel or for habits to break. but just enough time for jake to become aware of you in the quiet, peripheral way when people notice things and pretend they don’t matter.

like in the damp little cluster of wet shoes you leave outside your door after it rains, lined up neatly like you meant to deal with them later and absolutely did not. or in the simple welcome mat you’ve placed outside your apartment, like it’s always been there. or in the way certain evenings suddenly smell like garlic and butter and something warm and familiar drifting from across the hallway, making him pause and think, oh. someone’s cooking.

and it definitely isn’t him.

but you.

he hasn’t actually seen you much, though. no hallway run-ins. no brief waves or awkward small talk. not even a coincidental meeting in the lobby or the package room. just evidence of your alleged existence, scattered quietly around him like proof he keeps pretending not to collect.

which is fine. good, even. he tells himself that.

until one evening, everything takes a turn. and that turn comes in the form of his own blood—powered by fruit snacks, unfiltered opinions, and, apparently, a complete disregard for social decorum.

she’s already tired. a long day of coloring inside the lines (mostly), playing house on the playground jungle gym, and surviving on dinosaur nuggets and chocolate milk finally caught up to her. her backpack is slipping down one shoulder, sparkly shoes half-scuffed from dragging her feet, energy running on stubbornness and stubbornness alone.

and jake’s already bracing for it. he tightens his grip on jiuen’s hand, mentally flipping through his usual de-escalation techniques when the typical evening meltdown comes. calm voice. eye level. he likes to think he’s good at this whole parenting thing. a professional, even.

they make it exactly three steps down the hall.

“—I WANT Y/N TO COME OVER FOR DINNER.”

jake freezes mid-step.

“ji,” he hisses quietly, already crouching to her level, hands gently but firmly holding her arms. “inside voice.”

“no,” she says and definitely not with her inside voice. her tone wobbles dangerously, “you never invite her. you promised!”

“i didn’t promise,” jake says carefully, whispering now as he glances instinctively toward the neighboring doors. “she just moved in, and we don’t—”

“I LIKE HER,” jiuen announces, louder now, voice climbing as tears prick the corners of her eyes. “AND YOU’RE BEING MEAN.”

the hallway suddenly feels too long. too narrow. too echoey. jake can feel it. he can feel his neighbors’ heads turning from behind their doors with curiosity.

“okay,” he says, taking a deep, slow breath, attempting calm. he gives his daughter a stern look as best as he can. “let’s go inside first, and then we can talk about—”

“no!”

jiuen stomps her foot. once. then again. then repeatedly, her palms now balled into fists at her sides.

“I WANT HER. I WANT THE PRETTY NEIGHBOR OVER NOW.”

“shhh—ji—”

“she’s really pretty, daddy,” she adds, as if this is the final, irrefutable point he can’t argue against.

jake squeezes his eyes shut. this is happening. in public. in the hallway.

“please, princess—” he whispers again, desperation slipping through despite his best efforts as he tries, and fails, to gently steer her tiny body toward their apartment door. “we can talk about this after dinner.”

“I DON’T WANT DINNER,” she cries. okay. she’s crying now. this is happening. “I WANT HER.”

and then—

your door opens.

jake’s soul leaves his body.

you step out, brows furrowed, hair loose and down this time, concern softening your face as you take in the scene in front of you: a very teary-eyed five-year-old, a very stressed dad crouched beside her, and one very sparkly pink backpack abandoned on the floor.

“uh,” you say gently, one eyebrow lifted. “everything okay?”

jake stands up immediately, mortified. “i am so sorry. she’s—she’s just tired. i’m so sorry.”

you smile, amused more than anything, walking towards jiuen and crouching down in front of her before jake can stop you.

“hey,” your voice cuts in softly, gentle and grounding all at once. one hand lifts instinctively to wipe the tear slipping down jiuen’s cheek. “what’s going on?”

jiuen sniffles dramatically. “daddy said you’re not allowed to come over.”

that’s when you tilt your head up and glance at jake, eyes bright with humor, mischief flickering there like you’ve already decided to enjoy this.

“wow,” you say lightly, “that’s harsh.”

jake blinks. he feels his ear’s burning already.

“it’s not—” jake starts, panicking. “i didn’t—”

jiuen turns back to you, another tear rolling down, another sniffle, “he’s being mean.”

you nod like this is serious business. “well, that's not good.”

jake lets out a quiet groan. he briefly considers banging his head against the door. just once. for clarity.

“and now,” jiuen continues, voice trembling again, “he said you can’t come over ever.”

jake’s head snaps up. “that’s—what? that’s not—”

you stifle your giggle, pressing a hand to your chest as you gasp softly. “ever?”

jiuen nods quickly.

the hallway suddenly feels very, very small.

“well,” you say thoughtfully, glancing between the two of them before your gaze settles back on jake—your smile turning into very specific kind of dangerous. “i do happen to have some free time tonight.”

jake stiffens. he silently prays to whatever higher power that might still be listening that this is a joke. that this is where you laugh it off and go back inside and pretend none of this ever happened.

“and,” you continue, tone easy, playful, teasing, “if daddy doesn’t mind me crashing dinner…”

and then jiuen’s face lights up instantly.

“YES!” she cheers, grabbing your hand with both of hers and tugging it excitedly.

jake opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again.

“i—uh,” he clears his throat, scrambling. “i mean, you don’t have to—”

“it’s okay,” you shrug, standing now, still smiling at him, still holding jiuen’s small hand in yours. “i don’t mind.”

jake looks at you. then looks at his daughter. then back at you again. and realizes—too late—that this is his fate. that his fate is being emotionally blackmailed by his own flesh and blood, simply because she has perfected the art of puppy eyes and is currently holding hands with the pretty neighbor who smells good and laughs easily. and so, how exactly is he supposed to say no?

he exhales slowly, the sound less about the situation at hand and more so about grounding himself because in a few seconds you’re about to be in his apartment. with him. and with his child. and it suddenly feels like a much bigger deal than it should.

“…okay,” he says finally, voice a little strained. “dinner sounds good to me.”

jiuen’s already tugging you toward the door, bouncing on her heels as she waits. jake unlocks the front door and steps aside to let you both in, his heart thudding a little harder than it should over something as simple as letting someone inside.

“uh—” he starts, then stops as he follows you in from behind, because welcome to my humble abode feels both too formal and wildly insufficient when you’re already stepping past him.

and jake's apartment is nice, he'd like to think. spacious, but not in a way that feels empty. it’s cozy and lived in, in the way that matters. the kind of space that’s clearly been shaped by routine rather than decoration. there’s a shoe rack by the door with pairs in varying sizes—tiny sneakers with light up soles shoved randomly next to bigger ones. a half-folded jacket draped over the back of the couch like it was meant to be put away and simply wasn’t. crayons and coloring books stacked neatly on the coffee table, and next to them, a lone plastic dinosaur guarding the tv remote.

you glance around politely, curious but not nosy, and jake suddenly becomes painfully aware of everything.

the family calendar stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets. the crooked drawing taped beside it, stick figures holding hands under a sun that’s a little too big, labeled ME & DADDY in uneven marker. the faint smell of laundry in the air because he forgot, again, to move the wet clothes into the dryer this morning, and the small pile of plates still in the sink from breakfast, abandoned sometime between packing a backpack and tying shoes.

it’s not messy. it’s not spotless either. it’s real. you smile at the thought.

jiuen kicks her shoes off immediately, shoving them toward the corner of the rack before darting into the living room like she owns the place (and, well, she does). you hesitate for half a second, then slip your own shoes off, lining them neatly by the door as jake watches.

“sorry,” he says beside you, gesturing vaguely at the space like he could somehow explain it. “it’s…not usually this chaotic.”

you shake your head, smiling, “it’s cute.”

and that word—small, simple, probably something you said out of politeness—lands somewhere in his chest and stays there.

there’s a brief moment of silence after that, just long enough for jake to realize he should probably, definitely say something, considering you’re just standing there now, inside his apartment, and he’s doing a very poor job of pretending he isn’t staring.

“i’ll be in the kitchen,” he finally says, pointing toward it as if it isn’t directly in front of the both of you. he gestures again, unnecessarily. “make yourself at home, jiuen usually watches her show while i prep dinner.”

you hesitate for a second, like you’re deciding where you belong in the space, before trailing after him anyways as he heads towards the kitchen.

“i can help,” you offer.

he shakes his head immediately, “you’re a guest.” he’s already pulling things out of the fridge—chicken, leftover vegetables, a half-used bottle of sauce.

you arch a brow, leaning lightly against the counter, watching him with an expression that’s equal parts amused and thoughtful, “i invited myself over, jake.”

jake lets out a small laugh, defeated.

fair. 

“okay, fine. you can, um—wash and cut the vegetables, if you want.”

jiuen’s head immediately pops out of nowhere as she climbs onto her chair at the dining table, chin propped on her hands as she watches from across the kitchen bar.

“daddy never lets me help cook,” she states casually. then, after a thoughtful pause, adds, “he must really like you.”

jake chokes on absolutely nothing.

“i—princess,” he says, recovering far too slowly, eyes avoiding yours, “that’s because you can barely reach the counter.”

you laugh, the sound easy and warm, already rolling up your sleeves as you move toward the sink. you grab the vegetables jake set out without asking, rinsing them carefully under the water like you’ve done this, in his kitchen, a hundred times before.

and everything after that kind of falls into something that almost feels like routine.

not the routine jake’s used to, no. not the familiar soundtrack of a cartoon playing too loudly in the living room while he stands at the stove, squinting at his phone and failing spectacularly to follow a “simple” cooking tutorial that somehow requires three different pans just because jiuen had a specific craving. no, tonight is different.

instead of high-pitched characters singing nursery rhymes, it’s jiuen’s voice carrying across the kitchen as she narrates her entire playground adventure from today to you—you, who’s listening, genuinely, and reacting to all the right parts. instead of jake cooking alone, there’s the soft steady sound of you chopping vegetables beside him, your elbow slightly bumping against his in a way he doesn’t seem to mind.

he pretends not to notice the way you cut everything into careful, bite-sized, jiuen-sized pieces without being asked. pretends not to notice the way you slide the vegetables into the pot he’s currently stirring, easily and unintrusive, like you already know where things go. the way you move easily in his kitchen, not hesitating, not hovering…just fitting.

dinner itself goes smoother than jake expects. which surprises him, because he’s not exactly known for being smooth—especially not in situations like this. especially not when his own child is a small ball of chaos and he’s never quite figured out what to do when he’s in unfamiliar situations. and having someone like you sitting at his dining table—like it’s normal, like you belong there—definitely counts as an unfamiliar situation.

nothing about this is normal. and it’s not because you’re sitting in his usual seat besides jiuen (because she insisted, and as has been clearly established, jake is powerless against that), but because he can’t remember the last time it was just him, his daughter, and someone else at this table.

maybe last month, when his parents surprised them and showed up with new toys and enough meal prepped food to last weeks. but that doesn’t count. that was grandparent obligation. this feels different.

“do you cook a lot?” you ask from across the table. 

“eh,” jake shrugs, spoon clinking awkwardly against his bowl of rice. “enough to keep us alive.”

“that’s impressive,” you tease. “high bar.”

he huffs a laugh before he can stop himself.

and the conversation slips easily into place after that, weaving itself between the sounds of jiuen slurping her soup and attacking her noodles with her newly acquired chopstick skills. you ask about where he’s from. he asks why you moved. how long he’s lived in the building. what you do for fun. what he does for a living.

and jake answers carefully, not guarded, but deliberate and thoughtful. like he’s choosing his words because he hopes they land somewhere that matters to you. and you do the same. nothing heavy, nothing rushed. just the quiet sense of two people learning each other in real time. observing. taking mental notes. letting something small and unspoken take shape between them without neither noticing it.

jiuen’s stories find their way into the conversation too, popping up between bites and questions.

“and then,” she says proudly, pausing dramatically, “i colored outside the lines.”

you gasp at her. “a rebel.”

jake shakes his head, lips twitching, “i raised a menace.”

you grin at him, the look sharp and playful, “she gets it from you, doesn’t she?”

he pauses, eyes narrowing slightly, something playful yet unreadable flickering there before he recovers, “hey.”

you just smile back, innocent.

dinner eventually winds down slowly, but not all at once. just in the way that good things do, stretching themselves out like they’re reluctant to end. plates get cleared, except jiuen’s, who casually pushes hers towards jake across the table as if asking him to finish it for her like this is a long-standing silent agreement.

her stories taper off into softer commentary. words replaced by yawns. her head droops, then rights itself up, then droops again. the kitchen light hums quietly overhead, and somewhere in the living room, the clock ticks steadily, marking time neither of you seem eager to acknowledge.

eventually, jake stands and gathers the plates, stacking them carefully in the sink like he’s buying himself time.

“alright,” he says, glancing at the clock before turning to jiuen. “bath time.”

she groans instantly, slumping dramatically in her chair. “already?”

“yes, already,” he replies, tone firm but familiar, the kind of stern that doesn’t actually mean he’s serious. you catch the exchange and smile before you can stop yourself. “say goodnight to y/n.”

and jake barely has time to process it before jiuen hops off her chair and goes to where you’re standing in the kitchen, wrapping her arms around your waist without hesitation and pressing her cheek against you like this has always been happening. like this is normal, and you’re not the neighbor he met only last week, standing in his kitchen, quietly rearranging his sense of self.

it shouldn’t hit him the way it does. but it does, and he fails to ignore it. something about the way you instinctively hug her back, one hand resting between her shoulder blades, the other smoothing over her hair—like you’ve done this before and like you’ll continue doing it. it makes something in jake’s chest shift, something unfamiliar. and terrifying.

not because he’s standing in his own apartment, surrounded by the life he’s already built for himself—but because suddenly, somehow, that feeling of home seems to be tied to a person that, for once, isn’t the five-year-old little human he raised.

but to you.

jake’s throat tightens.

“goodnight, jiuen,” you murmur softly. “sleep well, okay?”

jiuen pulls back just enough to look up at you, short arms still looped around your waist. “you’ll come over again?”

you smile at her. “if your dad lets me.”

she turns and squints at the innocent man caught off guard, standing not too far behind her. “you better.”

jake exhales, something like a laugh slipping out, “go get ready.”

she grins, satisfied, and soon disappears down the hallway, calling out, “goodnight, y/n!”

and when she rounds the corner, it’s suddenly quiet again.

jake clears his throat just to fill the air. “well,” he says, breaking the stillness. “that was fun.” he says it because he means it. and he hopes, quietly, that you don’t hear it as just politeness.

“it was,” you agree, just as softly, not moving from where you stand. “you’re really good with her, you know.”

something warm creeps up jake’s neck. he shifts, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides as he searches for a response that doesn’t feel too much for a moment like this.

“oh—” he starts, then shrugs lightly. “i mean. i try. most days.”

you let out a small laugh, but nod, watching him with an understanding that feels deeper than the moment calls for. then, you simply add, “she’s lucky.”

jake rubs the back of his neck. and because he doesn’t know what to say and panicks, he then gestures toward the door, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing in front of him and because his five-year-old is just down the hall. “i can, um—walk you back.”

he immediately realizes how ridiculous that sounds when you live ten feet away. maybe less. but he hopes you say yes anyways.

“yeah,” you nod, moving to slip your shoes on as he opens the door for you. “thank you.”

he walks beside you for all ten feet of it, close enough to feel your warmth, but far enough to keep things safe. he stops in front of your door, hands slipping back into his hoodie pockets.

“well,” you say quietly, turning to face him. “thanks for having me.”

he smiles, small and genuine, eyes steady on yours, “thanks for inviting yourself over.”

you laugh under your breath, eyes flickering away for a moment before finding his again. there’s a pause again, as you both seem to register the natural lack of space between you, the shared breath, the way neither of you is in a hurry to end this.

eventually, your hand finds the doorknob behind you. it lingers there for half a second before you turn it.

“goodnight, jake,” you say, glancing back at him one last time.

“goodnight,” he replies, and it comes out quieter than he intends.

your door closes with a gentle click.

and jake is left there, exhaling slowly, staring at the wood of your door like it might finally offer him answers it didn’t the last time he stood in this exact spot only days ago. days ago, when he was actively choosing to ignore the feeling that stirred in his chest the moment he first saw you at the end of this hallway, white tank top, hair up, kitchen??? box and all. but now—whatever this is, whatever slipped so quietly into his life—it’s asking him to notice it. and this time? jake doesn’t think he wants to look away.

he sighs quietly to himself, retreating back to his own apartment and silently shutting his door before turning around.

and nearly jumps out of his skin.

“—JESUS, ji—”

and jiuen is standing right there. at the end of the hall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“you told me not to ever use God’s name in vain,” she says sternly, marching towards him with purpose before planting herself in front of him.

jake ignores her. “why are you staring.”

“i’m not staring,” she says defensively, folding her arms again. “i was waiting.”

“for what?”

“for you.”

he sighs tiredly, “i thought i told you to start the bath.”

she tilts her head, studying her dad with an intensity that makes him deeply uncomfortable. then, very matter-of-factly, and very much ignoring what he just said, “i like her.”

jake rubs his face. “you’ve mentioned.”

“she’s really pretty.”

“yes,” he mutters, sidestepping her and continuing down the hall. “you’ve mentioned that too.”

jiuen spins around to follow him and squints. “so you don’t think she’s pretty?”

jake stops. slowly, he closes his eyes, debating if he wants to choose peace for the night.

“princess,” he says carefully, opening them again, “that’s not what i said.”

“that wasn’t an answer.”

he exhales through his nose. then—

“she is,” he admits quietly. “she’s pretty.”

jiuen gasps. an actual, audible gasp. the light enters her eyes again.

“i knew it,” she says, spinning around once before marching toward the bathroom, a new bounce in her step. “i knew you were acting weird, daddy.”

“i was not acting weird, what—”

“you were,” she insists. “your voice did the thing.”

“what thing.”

“the thing where you don’t talk a lot because you’re nervous.”

jake nudges the bathroom door open and flicks on the light, his voice deadpan, “you are five.”

she hums casually, climbing onto the little step stool by the sink, legs swinging as she watches jake start the water. “when is she coming over again?”

“okay, woah—,” jake stares at the running water, dipping a hand to check the temperature. not too cold, not too hot. “slow down.”

“she can help me color,” jiuen continues, completely ignoring his attempts at creating boundaries. “and we can watch movies. and she can sit by me again.” a pause. then, thoughtfully, and very seriously, “and maybe she can sleep over and stay for breakfast.”

jake freezes.

he looks back at her, at the way her feet swing innocently, like the implication of what she just said won’t casually rearrange his entire life’s trajectory.

“breakfast?” he repeats.

“yes,” she nods, very seriously. “pancakes. my favorite.”

he turns back to the tub, now squeezing bubble bath into the water like this conversation is not happening. “you’re planning very far ahead, princess.”

“she said she might come over again.”

“she said she’d think about it.”

jiuen hums, unbothered. “that means yes.”

jake snorts, hands now guiding her towards the tub. “you’re very confident, ji.”

she beams up at him with nothing but the unfiltered opinions and innocence of a five-year-old, “i like her, daddy.”

he pauses again, looking down at her with something in his expression softening in a way he doesn’t bother to hide anymore.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “i know.”

and silently, to himself, he acknowledges the part he hasn’t said out loud yet. the part he’s been circling around since the hallway.

me too.

jiuen steps into the tub, splashing immediately. “she feels nice.”

jake blinks. “…feels nice?”

“yeah. she hugged me,” she states like it’s obvious. “and she smells good.”

his chest tightens. he ignores it. clears his throat. “okay. bath.”

she giggles as he hands her a toy, distracted and already moving on. until, “daddy?”

“mm?”

“you should be nice to her.”

jake swallows, eyes squinting. “i am nice.”

“no,” she says, humming thoughtfully, head tilting. “nice nice.”

jake closes his eyes again.

“bath,” he repeats, voice tired but fond and full of something else knowing he’s not ready to name quite yet.

something warm, something hopeful. and something that already feels a little like home.

jake tries—really, really tries to snap everything back into place. 

tries to pretend that he didn’t lie awake far longer than he should have that night, staring at the ceiling long after jiuen had fallen asleep, replaying moments he keeps telling himself don’t mean anything. tries not to linger on the sound of your laughter, or the way you soften without thinking around his daughter. the way your eyes light up when you smile. the careful sincerity in your voice, like you choose your words because you mean them.

he tries. tries to get back into the rhythm over the next few days. back into the carefully constructed routine he’s spent years perfecting. because routines are reliable. predictable. safe. and whatever you are, you are none of those things.

but he doesn’t know if he even seems to mind anymore.

6:12AM. the alarm goes off exactly once. coffee brewed. mismatched socks. apple slices packed into tupperware, a peanut-butter-free sandwich wrapped just right.

and one cookie.

only one. no matter how small and cute jiuen looks this morning in her uniform, hair clipped back with the ones she picked out, coat buttoned up crookedly because she insisted on doing it herself. no matter how she smiles up at him over her breakfast pancakes with crumbs on her lips and sleepy eyes.

he cannot and will not risk another sugar-fueled sprint down the hallway. he has learned his lesson.

the routine continues. he grabs his keys, her backpack, checks the clock, and out the door. jiuen’s hand slips into his automatically as they step into the hallway, her fingers small and warm and safe in his palm.

and then your door opens.

jake stops.

you step out in workout clothes, hair pulled back, ear buds dangling loosely around your neck. there’s a brief second where all three of you just pause. like the universe is giving him half a second to prepare.

he does not.

he cannot, because you’re standing there, wearing that, and looking like something he has no business imagining at 7:15AM in the morning with his five-year-old daughter holding his hand.

“oh!” you say softly, surprised, but smiling. first at jiuen, then back up at jake.

jiuen lights up, the sleepiness in her eyes immediately fading. “good morning!”

“good morning, jiuen,” you reply, crouching just slightly so you’re closer to her height. “you look very official today.”

she beams, both hands holding the straps of her backpack proudly, “i have school.”

“i can tell,” you reply seriously. “very important business.”

jake watches the exchange like he’s witnessing something sacred and mildly terrifying. like this is a glimpse into a life that feels far too close for comfort.

you straighten up, your eyes moving to him now. “—and good morning, jake.”

“morning,” he manages, and his voice lower and rougher than usual. and he hopes you blame it on the early hour and not the fact that he feels a strange and unfamiliar heat pooling low and tight in his gut just from seeing you like this.

it’s too early for this. too early for you to look good in the way no one warns you about. fresh. awake. effortless. like you didn’t even try, and somehow that makes it worse.

“are you guys walking over?” you tilt your head, ponytail sliding over one shoulder as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, the motion small but enough to make the cropped hoodie on you ride up, exposing another small inch of the curve of your waist and the faint dip where your leggings sit low on your hips.

jake’s eyes drop before he can stop them. automatic, unintentional, but fully unavoidable. he forces his gaze back up. too late. the image is already burned in.

“uh—” he clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “yeah. it’s not too far from here.”

jiuen then tugs at his hand, suddenly bouncing slightly in place, “wait—are you walking me too, y/n? is that why you’re here?”

jake’s head snaps to you above jiuen’s head.

you look back.

and for a split second, something unspoken passes between you. a question, an invitation, then, like crossing a line neither of you were ready to acknowledge out loud, you smile.

“yeah,” you nod easily, smiling at jiuen like this was always the plan and not, in fact, a three-mile run. “totally.”

jiuen’s smile stretches wide.

jake doesn’t miss the way your eyes flick back to him, gentle and reassuring. he knows the look on his face gives him away—eyebrows lifting just slightly, mouth pressing thin in that i am so sorry way.

you answer it with nothing but a small smile in your eyes. and something in jake warms at that. something subtle that he definitely didn’t need to contribute towards his already confusing feelings, but now undeniable and evidently, there.

and that’s how it happens.

that’s how the three of you end up walking together down the block together, the morning air still cool and damp with dew, the neighborhood waking up around you. a dog barks somewhere in the distance. the sun still hangs low in the sky. a school bus passes by.

jiuen chatters the entire way. about school. about her favorite color (it was pink yesterday, purple today). about how she’s very fast at running but not allowed to race in hallways anymore, not after the incident.

and jake watches as you listen—nodding, reacting, laughing at all the right parts like every detail matters. because to jiuen, it does. he catches it from the corner of his eye, pretending he’s focused on the traffic lights and crosswalk signals instead of the way you lean in just a little when jiuen speaks. the way your attention never wavers. and the way his heart beats a little quicker at the view.

“do you run, y/n?” jiuen’s small voice cuts in, peering up at you as her hand still swings lightly in jake’s larger one.

“sometimes,” you answer. “mostly when i think too much and my brain needs to quiet down.”

jake smiles to himself before he can stop it. you catch it.

“what?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, already half-smiling.

“nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “that just…yeah. that makes sense.”

because it does. because he understands the need to outrun your own thoughts—how they can pile up when you slow down. the constant calculations. the quiet questions he never says out loud ever since five years ago.

is he doing enough? is he doing too much? is she happy? is he happy?

because it’s not just his life he’s trying to keep steady anymore. it’s hers. every choice carrying some sort of weight, every mistake feeling like it echoes louder and lingers longer when you’re responsible for another human being.

so yeah, he gets it. gets the impulse to move. to breathe. to find a rhythm that drowns out the noise if even for a little while.

you don’t push for more. you just look at him for a second longer, soft and curious, like you’re piecing something together without needing him to explain it out loud.

jiuen skips a few steps ahead, then suddenly stops short, gasping dramatically as she spins back around to the both of you.

“today’s friday!” she exclaims like everyone is supposed to know what that means. “it’s movie night!”

she then plants herself directly in front of you, halting both you and jake mid-step.

“you should come join us!” jiuen’s eyes grow wider as she stares up at you with excitement.

jake pauses. 

he really should’ve seen this one coming. 

a quiet sigh slips out as he makes, again, a mental note to have a conversation with his daughter about asking dad for permission before inviting people over. 

he looks at you. then back at her. then squeezes his eyes shut and questions how he somehow raised a child completely unburdened by social anxiety.

this is on him. absolutely his fault.

“—okay, look,” he cuts in quickly, both hands already on jiuen’s shoulders and turning her back around towards the school’s entrance in the short distance, “we’re here. let’s get you to class.”

at the school gates, it’s chaos in the way only elementary schools can be. kids everywhere, backpacks too big for their own bodies, parents lingering, coffee cups in hand and sleepiness in their eyes.

and jiuen forgets everything the moment she spots her friends. she’s gone in an instant, running towards a small cluster of just-as-tiny-beings already show-and-telling their new bracelet, new hair clip, look what my mom packed for my lunch today!

but then, just as quickly—they all notice you.

“jiuen—” one of them whispers but it’s not really a whisper because they’re five and so, naturally, it’s loud and clear, “—is that your mom?”

and jake chokes. actually chokes. he inhales wrong, coughs hard, eyes flying wide as his head snaps towards you before darting back to the small cluster of children now openly staring at where the two of you stand side by side.

“what—no—” he starts, words tangling somewhere between his brain and his mouth because how did he let himself get in this situation?

but you’re already laughing, instinctive and bright, lifting a hand to cover your mouth like you’re not entirely sure what the correct response is either when both of you clearly know what it is.

“no,” jiuen shakes her head firmly, turning back to her friends matter-of-factly. “she’s my dad’s really pretty lady friend.”

jake stops breathing.

oh. god.

there’s a collective pause.

then—

“ooooh,” a random kid says—jake doesn’t know which one, but he’s pretty sure it’s the same kid with the peanut allergy and passive-aggressive mom. “she looks like a mom.”

“yeah,” another voice adds from the group. “can she play with us?”

jiuen perks up immediately, spinning back toward you and jake, eyes shining. “can you?”

you giggle and crouch slightly, meeting her at eye level like this is the most reasonable request in the world.

“maybe later,” you say softly. “after daddy picks you up. then we can do movie night.”

jake swallows.

hard.

you really need to stop calling him that. for his own mental health. for his continued ability to function normally. especially in public.

and especially when you just naturally included the casual we in your proposition and he’s now too busy short-circuiting to register it. the easy way you already folded yourself into their evening like it was already decided by fate itself.

he might’ve missed it entirely if jiuen didn’t light up on the spot, joy and excitement blooming all across her face.

“YES!” she cheers. “you’re going to love movie night!”

and jake barely has time to recover before she spins on her heel, throwing one last wave over her shoulder.

“bye, daddy! bye, y/n!”

and just like that, jake’s left standing there, mind several seconds behind his body, very stunned and very well aware of the fact that you’re still standing next to him.

“so…” your voice slips in quietly as you turn to look up at him. you tilt your head, expression open and curious in a way that looks innocent—but jake is starting to think there’s nothing accidental about the way you do that anymore. “movie night?”

he blinks, needing a moment to fully reenter his own body. “uh—yeah. yeah. if you’re down, i mean.” he clears his throat, instinctively straightening up. “she, uh…she gets excited quickly. just kind of throws ideas out there without thinking.”

you give him a smile. soft, small, understanding. “she’s five, jake. she’s not supposed to think too much.” a light shrug. “that’s kind of the magic of that age.” then you pause, like you’re deciding whether to say the next part. “plus, i technically invited myself over. again.”

jake lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze drifts briefly towards the school doors before finding its way back to you. “well—” he exhales. “clearly, jiuen loves you. so…you’re welcomed over anytime.”

the words settle between you.

between the way he’s standing just a little too still and how you haven’t stepped back and the quietness of the early morning where everything feels a little too real.

you study him for a beat, something amused and unmistakably intentional flickering in your expression. like you’re deciding how honest you can be. deciding just how far to push.

“mmm,” you hum softly, the corner of your mouth lifting. “is that for before or after eight?”

jake’s breath stutters. his thoughts derail, scattering somewhere between what you’re implying and the way you’re looking at him right now—like you’re aware of the line and choosing to hover right at the edge of it.

he searches for words. any words. something smart, something adult.

something that doesn’t give him away—but maybe gives him away just enough. enough to let you know that he’s thought about it. about what crossing the line would look like, about what after eight might look like.

nothing comes. his mind is both painfully blank and full in the worst way.

and before he can even attempt to say something smooth, something that might maybe, maybe help his case, at all—

“alright, well,” you say casually, stepping back like nothing just happened and jake isn’t standing in front of you and having thoughts he shouldn’t be having this early in the morning in front of his daughter’s elementary school, “—gonna go on my run now.”

you adjust your earbuds, already moving to turn away.

“i’ll see you later?” you add over your shoulder, looking back at him one more time, and it’s just long enough to make him wonder if this moment meant the same thing to you as it did to him.

and he really hopes it did.

jake nods quickly, chest tight, thoughts scattered. “yeah,” he says. “yeah. later.”

and as he watches you jog away, something in jake finally settles.

which says a lot, because jake has never been good at certainty. he doesn’t really know how to fold fitted sheets. doesn’t know how to answer when jiuen asks questions that start with why and end somewhere completely out of his realm. still doesn’t know what her kindergarten teacher means when she insists on a five-subject notebook versus two-subject on the school supply list.

jake’s spent most of his life figuring things out as he goes. adjusting, learning by necessity.

but this? this, he knows.

because as he watches your figure grow smaller down the block, his thoughts still stuck where you left them—on the way your voice dripped sweet but dangerously only a minute ago and the look in your eyes enough to say more than he needed to ever hear—

jake understands something with nothing but clarity.

he now knows nothing about you is coincidental anymore. not the timing. not the teasing. not the way you look up at him then pull away like you know exactly what you’re doing.

and that jake doesn’t just want movie night.

he wants it all. everything that has to do with you.

you, not as a passing thought or a harmless curiosity or the girl-across-the-hall, but as something chosen. something built, something real, something that feels like home.

he wants what comes after eight. before eight. and everything in between.

jake is at a crossroads.

which feels dramatic. but also, accurate, considering he’s currently standing in the middle of his living room, staring down at his couch like it might give him all the answers he’s been silently begging for.

and the couch in question has definitely seen better days. one armrest sinks a little too much, the springs on the far end squeaks faintly if you sit down too fast, and there’s a barely noticeable dip in the middle from years of movie nights that were really just him and jiuen slowly falling asleep to whatever animated movie was playing.

but now it’s suddenly important. because tonight isn’t just movie night.

it’s movie night.

and jake is painfully aware of two things:

one — he does not know how to host another adult without spiraling.

two — he does not know how to be around you without spiraling.

which makes the idea of hosting you in his apartment, for the second time no less, an objectively terrible plan.

and yet.

he’s still standing there, staring at the couch, questions firing off in his head in rapid-fire.

which seat is y/n going to take? is it weird if i sit directly next to her? should jiuen sit between us? is that too domestic? or somehow less domestic? do people think about this? do normal people actually think about this? would she want a blanket? an extra pillow? does she get cold easily? what movie snacks does she like? why didn’t i ask what snacks she like?

jake looks down at the coffee table. the bowls are out. popcorn in one, chips in another. napkins neatly stacked. remote control placed intentionally at one end of the table, positioned just right so it doesn’t look like he tried too hard (he tried very hard), but also so it’s clear he’s not the kind of man who loses the remote every night and blames it on the couch gaps like a liar.

this is stupid, he tells himself. he’s being stupid.

“y/n’s here!”

jiuen’s voice rings through the apartment before jake even has time to look up, her tiny hand already swinging the door open with the enthusiasm of someone who has never once her life considered stranger danger.

“ji, what did i tell you about opening doors before asking me—“

and then jake stops.

because there you are.

and you’re standing in the doorway like you’ve stepped straight out of a very specific fantasy he absolutely will not get into the details of right now.

you’re wearing pajamas, real ones. not the cute, intentional matching set kind—although he’s not sure he’d survive that either—but soft sweatpants that hang low on your hips and an oversized sweater that he thinks could probably double as a dress if you felt like it. your hair is loose, a little messy in that end-of-the-day way, and in your hand sits a tub of ice cream like this is the most normal thing in the world and not simultaneously his worst nightmare and saving grace all in one.

jake forgets how to blink.

this is…worse than this morning. worse than workout clothes. worse than a white tank top. because this feels intimate in a way his brain absolutely did not prepare him for. this is what you look like when you’re home. when you’re comfortable. when you’ve stopped trying and started existing—unfiltered, unguarded, entirely yourself. like this is the version of you reserved for quiet nights and people you trust.

jake’s brain was not built for this.

every thought he prepared, every carefully constructed plan about seating arrangements and blankets and snacks and emotional readiness immediately disappears. nothing left. not a single coherent thought in sight. just the overwhelming, bone deep realization that movie night was a terrible idea.

“i brought ice cream!” you lift the tub and spoons like a peace offering in one hand, your smile bright and instant.

jiuen gasps, both arms shooting up on instinct before she, evidently, realizes she’s very much too short and settles for grabbing your free hand instead.

“ICE CREAM?” she squeals, already tugging you inside without waiting for permission. “daddy never lets me have ice cream on movie night!”

“that’s because movie night is already ninety percent sugar,” jake says automatically, still standing there with the door wide open like an idiot, “and ice cream makes you sleepy—and also…hi.”

you glance back at him. he’s leaning against the doorframe, watching you in that way he’s started to do without realizing it—like he’s trying not to stare, but he’s memorizing anyway.

you smile at him, soft and knowing, “hi.”

and it all seems casual. seems normal. like this is nothing. like you didn’t just walk into his apartment in your house slippers and soft clothes and that familiar citrusy scent and quietly rearrange his entire evening the way you have been doing ever since you moved in.

“i hope this is okay. i figured movie night deserved ice cream.”

jake finally steps aside, letting the door close behind you. and the apartment immediately feels smaller, in the best way possible. warmer. familiar. like the space shifted to make room just for you.

“yeah,” he says, letting out a small laugh as he follows you and jiuen to the living room. “of course. i’m a dad, not a monster.”

jiuen’s already climbing onto the couch, scrambling straight for the middle cushion—no hesitation, no second thoughts. unlike her own father, who absolutely would have overthought it for the next ten minutes if it were left up to him (and well, he did).

“i’m sitting in the middle!” she’s already making herself comfortable under a throw blanket before she pats the space beside her and points determinedly, “y/n here.”

then the other side.

“and daddy here.”

well, that’s one of jake’s problems solved.

he watches as you sit down next to jiuen without question, turning toward her with full attention like this seating arrangement has always been decided ever since he bought this couch years ago.

“so,” you say seriously, hands folding in your lap as you look at her seriously. “what movie are we watching?”

“we’re watching the princess one!” jiuen announces immediately. “the new princess one!”

“you mean the one we watched last week?” jake asks exasperatedly as he sits down on jiuen’s other side.

“yes,” she replies, unwavering. “but again. because y/n wasn’t here.”

you laugh again, and jake watches the way you tuck your legs beneath you without thinking. the way the tub of ice cream already sits on the coffee table with three spoons laid out next to it, two big, one small. the way that nothing about this should feel normal, but it does.

jake tries not to think about it.

“alright,” you say, reaching for the remote and hanging it to jiuen. “princess movie it is.”

and then everything settles into place, in that quiet, familiar way things do when they’ve been done a hundred times before and will be done a hundred times more. like if a stranger took a good look at the moment in front of them, they might think this is what every friday looks like in the sim household. except it isn’t. this is the first time. and yet, somehow, it already feels like something they’ve been doing for years.

jiuen insists on turning the lights off because “it’s cozier that way,” and jake lets it happen even though he knows she’ll be out cold in forty minutes. she narrates the first ten minutes of the movie, loudly. you react to every single comment like it’s important, nodding when she nods, gasping when she gasps, leaning in when she leans. jake watches that more than the screen. watches the way your hand absently smooths over jiuen’s hair. the way you tilt your head slightly when she murmurs something about the princess’s dress. like it matters that you hear her, like you want to.

the ice cream gets passed back and forth too—jiuen to you, you to jake, jake back to you, then back to jiuen, spoons clinking softly against the tub, the rhythm of it so easy and unthinking it almost feels practiced.

somewhere around the second act, jake realizes his shoulders aren’t so tight anymore, that he feels less hyperaware of your every move and your overwhelming presence. he allows himself to shift comfortably, stretching one arm along the back of the couch until his fingers brush your shoulder accidentally. accidentally, but enough. enough to send a spark through his entire being, but still so light that maybe you don’t feel it. if you do, you don’t pull away. and neither does he.

eventually, right around the forty minute mark like jake had predicted, jiuen shifts. her head dips, body rolling instinctively onto her side. and before anyone can stop it, she’s curled into you, cheek resting in your lap, small legs stretched across jake’s, tangling the three of you together beneath the blanket.

jake adjusts the blanket automatically, careful not to wake her. you don’t flinch at any of it—the closeness, the way it happens so naturally, the strange domestic weight of the moment. he watches from the corner of his eye as your hand keeps moving through jiuen’s hair, slow and steady, until her eyes finally flutter shut.

“she’s asleep,” you eventually whisper, barely moving as your eyes meet his.

jake nods, throat tight as he looks at you. “told you it was the ice cream.”

you let out a quiet laugh, gentle enough not to disturb her, eyes drifting back to the screen. his hand still rests near your shoulder. you still don’t move.

the movie keeps playing, but it’s long forgotten now. everything feels too soft, the room dim, only lit by the glow of the tv and the warm lamp from the kitchen. jake tells himself not to stare. tells him to focus on literally anything else.

he fails.

your breathing eventually evens out and jake realizes you’ve drifted off too—your head slightly tipped to the side now, resting close to where his hand sits on the back of the couch. and you look so soft—unguarded, lashes resting against your cheeks, hair framing your face perfectly. the glow of the tv paints your face in warm light, catching on the gentle rise and fall of your chest.

jake doesn’t move. he just watches. watches the way one of your hands still cups jiuen’s head, fingers absentmindedly threaded through her hair like you’re keeping her safe even in her sleep. the way you’ve leaned towards him without even realizing it. like instinct. like he’s where you belong.

jake looks back at the screen when he thinks he’s been staring for too long, but the movie means nothing now. animated colors flicker past, a princess sings, and he’s pretty sure some frog is talking. he absorbs none of it. all he can feel is the silent weight of the moment. the warmth of his daughter against his leg. the warmth of you just inches away. the fragile, impossible peace of it all.

eventually the credits roll and jake has to face the fact that he’s being selfish. that he’s been sitting here, not moving, just watching you breathe like this moment is something he’s allowed to keep. that’s you’re someone he’s allowed to keep. that you’re more than just the neighbor he just met and somehow already can’t imagine not knowing.

he turns back to you, takes in the vision in front of him one more time, then gently nudges your shoulder.

“hey,” he murmurs as you slowly stir awake. “you can stay. i mean—if you want. the couch—”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, clearly disoriented for half a second before smiling up at him softly. “hey.”

jake’s breath stalls, quiet and helpless, as you look up at him like that. he thinks his heart is going to jump straight out of his chest right here, right now, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“hi,” he whispers back, because he thinks his brain can’t manage to think of anything else in his moment.

for a moment, neither of you move. not because you don’t want to, but because something about the space between you feels fragile. feels aware—of the look in his eyes as he looks as you, and the look in your eyes as you look at him. of how easily this could become something else. of how much it already has. and—definitely not for the first time tonight—jake realizes that, for once he isn’t overthinking about jiuen, or the overly animated princess and talking frog, or the way his couch creaks when someone shifts. he’s only thinking about you.

you eventually rub your eyes carefully before letting out a small yawn. “let me help.”

he watches as you carefully slide one arm beneath jiuen’s shoulders, one under her knees, and lift her from your lap with a slow, practiced ease. she stirs a little, a quiet, involuntary sound leaving her throat as she wiggles then settles to press her cheek against your shoulder, tiny fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of your sweater. you adjust your grip, one hand coming to cradle the back of her head, the other holding her close. she doesn’t wake still—just settles, breathing soft and steady again, like she knows she’s safe.

jake watches it all happen like it’s something holy.

you follow him down the hallway with quiet steps, the apartment hushed around you, the only sound filling air the low hum of the fridge and jiuen’s gentle breathing as you carry her to her room.

jake leans against the doorway of her dim room, heart caught somewhere between his stomach and his throat as he watches you tuck jiuen into bed—smoothing the blanket over her small shoulders, nudging her favorite stuffed animal closer to her chest, pressing a gentle kiss to her head.

“goodnight, princess,” you whisper.

something in his chest cracks open.

by the time you both make it to the front door, everything feels impossibly quiet. you step into the hallway that separates both your places but turn back toward him, lingering just inside the frame of his doorway. jake doesn’t move and neither do you.

“thank you,” you say softly. “for tonight.”

“anytime,” he replies, the word coming out more honest than he meant it to. then, after a pause, “and…thank you for inviting yourself over. again.”

you laugh under your breath, eyes dropping to the floor before lifting back to his. and suddenly, there’s a pause. the kind that stretches. the kind that tells him something is about to happen.

jake steps closer before he can talk himself out of it.

you don’t move away.

you’re close enough now that he can see the small changes in your expression, the slight part of your lips, the way your pupils are blown wide in the dim overhead light. his hand lifts almost on its own, as if he was in a trance from looking at you alone, brushing a loose strand of hair back from your face, knuckles grazing your cheek.

you inhale slightly, your breath hitching sharply as his thumb lingers there, warm against your skin. for a moment, he just stays like that, eyes searching yours, as if memorizing the feel of you, the way you look standing beneath his touch, so still and so impossibly his in this stolen pocket of time.

slowly and carefully, he leans in.

he watches you swallow.

your eyes flicker to his mouth for a brief second before back to his eyes, now wide and dark and wanting.

“goodnight, yn,” he murmurs, voice low and barely above a breath.

“goodnight, jake,” you whisper back, but neither of you move.

his hand settles at your jaw, not even thinking as he lets his body take over, his thumb sliding to rest against your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to part it further. the pad of his thumb is warm, slightly rough from years of holding jiuen’s hand, fixing toys, carrying grocery bags. it feels almost obscene in its gentleness.

your breath stutters, and a tiny, involuntary sound escapes your throat that makes his stomach drop. you’re so close now that he can feel the exact shape of your lips without contact, the faint tremor in your exhale over his mouth like an agonizing tease.

every nerve in his body is screaming at him to close the distance, every ounce of restraint he has gone, especially as he watches the way a small, “jake…” slips out of your lips like a confession, half plea, half surrender as his thumb presses a little harder against your lip. and then he watches as your eyes flutter closed and the way you lean in, lips ghosting his in an aching hover—

“daddy?”

jiuen’s voice cuts through the moment.

you jump apart. jake spins so fast it almost makes him dizzy.

a soft gasp leaves your lips at the same time as a quiet, frustrated curse slips from under jake’s breath as he turns and sees jiuen standing in the hallway outside her room, eyes half-lidded, one hand rubbing at them, her stuffed animal in the other one.

“you forgot to tell me goodnight,” she mutters sleepily, completely unaware of the scene occuring in front of her.

jake inhales sharply through his nose, eyes squeezing shut for a split second in what looks like pure frustration, heat crawling up his neck as he straightens up and eventually settles for something halfway between a sigh and a laugh as he walks over and bends to scoop her up.

“’m sorry princess,” he murmurs, “come here.”

you’re still standing there, frozen, cheeks flushed under the building’s hallway lights, lips parted like you forgot how to close them as you watch him.

“i—um,” you start, voice too high and a little too breathless, “i should…i should go. goodnight. again.”

jake nods quickly, still holding jiuen close. “yeah. yeah.”

you hesitate for just a second longer, eyes heavy as they meet his.

“goodnight, jake.”

“goodnight,” he says one last time before he watches you unlock your door with fumbling fingers and click the door shut behind you.

so jake doesn’t really know how this works.

or more accurately, it’s been a long time since he’s found himself anywhere near this kind of situation.

having a five-year-old daughter tends to do that to a person. dating doesn’t exactly slide neatly into a life that revolves around bedtime routines and color-coordinating outfits and making sure tiny humans don’t put rocks in their mouths. and he’s had…opportunities, sure. maybe not normal ones per say, but they’ve existed.

like back when jiuen was still a toddler and his friends had decided it was their personal mission to get him back into society…by attending mommy and me classes.

“maybe you’ll meet a hot mom there,” heeseung had said once, bouncing a one-year-old jiuen on his lap as she happily tugged on his hair like she discovered uncle hee is her new favorite toy now.

jake had shot him a look so serious that heeseung thought he was about to be threatened.

“do not say that in front of her. and also, those classes are for the baby. and it’s literally called mommy and me. not daddy and me. i’m not going.”

heeseung just shrugged in a way that said well, i tried before going back to making ridiculous faces at jiuen. from the other end of the couch, sunghoon looked up from his phone. “i think you should go. isn’t it supposed to help with development or something? social skills. brain stuff. seems good for her.”

jake slumped back on the couch, muttering, “doesn’t change the fact i’ll be the only dad at mommy and me.”

“so what?” sunghoon shrugged, clearly not having ever experienced the stress of a twenty-something-year-old with the responsibility of raising a toddler. “break the patriarchy or whatever.”

jake stared at him, horrified. “that is not how that works.”

and yet, that following thursday, jake found himself sitting cross-legged in a pastel-colored room, jiuen balanced on his lap, singing songs about farm animals and hand motions and friendship and feelings, surrounded by a circle of moms and their respective mes doing the exact same thing.

and yeah, sure, there were some cute moms. a few of them even approached him afterward, cooing at jiuen like it was their only opening line.

“she’s so cute,” one of them had said brightly. “looks just like you.”

and jake, because he’s jake, had panicked and blurted something about diaper brands. so needless to say, none of those conversations went anywhere.

so yeah, it’s safe to say it’s been a while since jake had anything to do with feelings.

but then you came into the picture. and now jake doesn’t really know how this work. because how exactly do you go back to how things once were after you almost kissed the girl across the hall? the same girl who now occupies far too much space in his thoughts. the one he thinks about when he’s lying awake at night. when he’s packing lunches in the morning. when he’s stepping into the hallway and secretly hoping, every single time, that her door will open.

but that’s just the thing. he hasn’t seen you ever since that night, which he thinks is almost a cruel joke sent from the universe itself, considering just less than a week ago, he froze at the sight of you in workout clothes, half-convinced and half-hoping you were joking when you offered to walk jiuen to school with him.

now? now he’s going out to check the mail a little too often than necessary, even though he’s lived in this building long enough to know deliveries only come on tuesdays and thursdays. he even started looking through the peephole every time the elevator dings, only to frown when it’s just another neighbor, and very much, not you. and yeah, okay, he’s not proud of that one.

but now, he doesn’t know what to do.

because now, it's late at night on a wednesday, rain tapping steadily against the windows, jiuen fast asleep down the hall. and jake should be getting ready for bed too. but because jake is still jake, and old habits die hard, he’s sprawled on the couch, watching late-night reruns of glee when at exactly 9:27PM, the tv flickers once. then twice. then goes dark.

the lamp on the side table follows. then the kitchen light that he had left on.

shit.

jake should’ve expected as much. blackouts always happen during storms, and this building—charming as it is—has never been known for its hasty speed when it comes to generators. that’s why, over the years, jake has learned to invest in a few backup LED lanterns for nights exactly like this.

he sighs to himself as he pushes himself up, already heading for the hall closet. and that’s when an intrusive thought makes its way to his head.

he wonders if you’re okay.

you’ve only been here a few weeks. you wouldn’t know about the power issues. wouldn’t know how long they last. what if you’re sitting alone in the dark right now, rain beating against the windows, the apartment suddenly too quiet? what if you happened to hate the dark? what if you happened to hate storms? the idea twists something in his chest.

he should check in on you. that’s reasonable. neighborly. normal.

except—what if you’re already asleep? what if he knocks and wakes you up just because he couldn’t stop thinking about you? and what if this is a lot less about neighborly concern and more about wanting an excuse to just see you again?

jake stands there, in his own hallway, one lantern in his hand and an extra one tucked away on the bottom shelf of the closet, staring back at him, his heart doing something quite unhelpful to his chest.

and next thing he knows, jake finds himself in front of your door.

he stares at your door, hesitating for just a second. the hallway is dim, lit only by the window at the end of it and the bright red EXIT sign next to it. he looks down at your welcome mat, with the slightly crooked letters that always makes him smile.

he raises his hand, knocking once, then twice. it sounds louder than it should, but then he hears a few footsteps, a soft shuffle.

then the door swings open, and there you are.

“oh,” you’re blinking at him, standing there in a long hoodie and socks, definitely not expecting company. he glances behind you for a second to see your apartment lit by a few candles. “jake?”

“hey,” he manages. for a moment, neither of you move, and jake is thrown back to just a few days ago, when he found himself in his same exact situation, standing so close to you at his doorway. “uh—sorry. i didn’t mean to bother you. the power went out and i…i just wanted to check on you.” he then lifts the extra lantern in his hand, like proof. “you okay?”

you glance past him down the hallway, then back at him. “yeah. i mean, it was kind of scary for a second, but i lit some candles.” a small smile. “you don’t have to worry about me.”

of course he does.

“jiuen?” you ask quietly, eyes flicking to his door across the hall.

“she’s asleep,” he replies. “in bed by eight, remember? didn’t even flinch.”

you nod, relieved. there’s a pause as the rain taps harder against the windows behind you. the candlelights flicker.

“do you…want to come in for a bit?” you ask after a moment. “it’s kind of creepy standing out here.”

jake’s heart skips. “yeah,” he says too quickly, then softens it. “yeah. okay.”

you step aside to let him in, the warm candlelight wrapping around him as he crosses your doorway.

jake hesitates for a moment before toeing his shoes off. he then takes in his surroundings—the way you’ve managed to make the place yours in just the few weeks you’ve been here. a woven basket of throw blankets sits beside the tv stand, a corner of one draped lazily over the side like it was returned in a hurry. a couple of books rest on the coffee table next to a mug with a silly cartoon on it. there’s a tall green plant that looks like it’s actually being watered that’s sitting near your window, and a stack of half-unpacked boxes sit near the hallway, labels scribbled in marker—bathroom, bedroom???, misc—and it makes him smile to himself.

he follows you into your living room, where you’re already moving the laundry basket that was sitting on the couch, clothes half-folded, a stray sock hanging over the edge. “sorry,” you murmur, setting it aside. “i was in the middle of folding when everything went out.”

“it’s fine,” jake says, moving to sit on the couch, trying not to take up too much space even though his knees brush yours when you settle beside him. you tuck one leg under yourself, turning towards him, the soft candlelight painting the entire room and your face in a warm gold that almost makes his heart ache at how soft the entire image is. ”um…so,” your voice is gentle, as if aware but avoiding the tension, “how have you been?”

jake almost laughs. almost laughs, because he’s been anything but okay.

because he doesn’t know how to tell you that ever since friday, his world has been shifted and devastatingly tilted in a way that is just slightly in only your direction. that everything, every small detail, keeps circling back to you in ways he didn’t expect and can’t seem to stop. that on saturday morning, while he and jiuen shared pancakes, he kept wondering if you’d felt it too—that moment where you lips had almost met his—and wondered if you wanted it as much as he did. that on sunday, he thought about knocking on your door just to ask if you wanted to come to the park with them, like that wouldn’t mean something more. how jiuen came home monday morning with a new stick figure drawing—not just ME + DADDY anymore, but ME + DADDY + Y/N. and how yesterday night, he laid there awake, staring at the ceiling, realizing something real and terrifying. how he doesn’t want things to go back to how they once were.

“good,” he lies straight through his teeth, a barely there smile tugging at his mouth because he doesn’t know how else to answer. “i’ve been okay, i guess. you know, work. jiuen. busy.”

“yeah?” your brows knit just slightly, concern flickering in your eyes in a way that makes him feel sick. “you’re taking care of yourself?”

and he nods immediately, like he needs you to believe him.

“and jiuen? she’s been okay?” you ask next, and the look on your face says you genuinely are wondering, and not just asking to be polite.

“yeah. yeah, she’s good.” a small smile sneaks in. “she misses you, though. keeps asking about you.”

you laugh softly, glancing away for a second. “tell her i miss her too.” you pause, as if a thought crosses your mind. then quieter, more sincere, “i really meant it when i said she’s lucky, jake. she really is.”

he just smiles back, not really sure what else to say when the moment settles between you and the air suddenly feels heavier. you then shift slightly, sitting to sit up straighter now, as if giving yourself the mental courage to say what you’re thinking next.

“can i…can i ask you something?” you say carefully.

he looks at you. nods.

“about jiuen,” you continue, almost hesitating. “about…her mom?”

jake lets out a short breath, like he knew this question was always going to find its way here, no matter how much he avoided it and no matter how prepared he was to fully answer it.

“yeah. she—um,” he pauses, eyes dropping to the material of your couch suddenly. “we were young, just…having fun. not thinking too far ahead. and then when it happened, it was a lot. everything changed all at once.”

he swallows.

“she wanted to keep the baby. and i respected that, of course. i still do. but when jiuen came along…it all got real really fast. and i mean, it did for everyone, you know? but i think for her…it was just too much.” his tries to keep his voice steady, but something tight sits underneath it. “so she left. i haven’t heard from her since…and now here we are.”

you don’t say anything right away. you just look at him.

“that’s…a lot,” you eventually say gently. “i’m really sorry, jake.”

he then looks up to meet your eyes, and he shakes his head almost immediately. “don’t be. i mean—yeah, it hurt back then. and it still does sometimes, but not in the same way. and i got jiuen out of it.” a faint smile pulls at his mouth. “and she’s everything. she makes all of it worth it.”

you can hear it in the way he says her name. not anything rehearsed, not anything forced. just true.

“and honestly,” he adds quietly, “it was probably for the best. we weren’t good together. not the kind of people who should’ve been reckless or trying to build a life like that.”

you don’t push, don’t interrupt. you just watch, eyes not leaving his once as if giving him the space to keep going if he needs it—like he needed this safe space to confront his own thoughts that he’s been pushing away for so, so long.

“i think…i think it hurts in a way that—” he says, voice dropping, “—that makes me wonder if i’m doing enough, you know? enough for her, enough for myself.”

you shake your head immediately, as if that’ll physically reject the thought from his own head.

“you are, jake,” you add, soft but sure. “and i know i haven’t been around long, but i see it. she looks at you like you’ve given her everything and more.”

something shifts in his chest at that. and then jake looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s weighing something in his head and tired of holding it in.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “almost.” the words hang there between you, heavy with intent, and your breath catches. just a little, but he still catches it. his eyes don’t leave yours. “but not…everything.”

and that’s when everything breaks.

you inhale sharply, like the truth you’ve been avoiding just brushed against something raw and tender.

“jake…” you murmur, turning away, like if you keep looking at him you won’t be able to stop yourself. “we can’t—”

“y/n,” he cuts in, already leaning forward without even realizing he’s doing it, voice low and urgent, “you can’t tell me you didn’t feel it too. friday. what happened between us, we can’t just pretend it didn’t.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling hard. “i know,” you whisper, breath unsteady. “i know, and it’s not that i don’t feel it. i—i did. i do. it’s just—we can’t—”

“why?” jake asks immediately, closer now, knees brushing yours, searching your face like the answer is written there and he just has to read it right. “why not? because we’re neighbors? because of jiuen?” he can’t help the way his voice cracks a little. “because that clearly didn’t stop us from what almost happened.”

you finally look back at him, eyes wide and honest, mouth parted open and too close to his.

“jake,” you say quietly, almost like you’re begging him to understand and maybe begging yourself too, “it’s because of how much it matters.”

he stops.

“you don’t get it,” you continue, voice trembling now. “if this was just a stupid crush or some harmless flirting, it wouldn’t scare me like this. but it’s not. it’s you. it’s her. it’s—” you gesture weakly between the two of you. “…it’s this.”

“you think i’m not scared?” he says, blinking hard, voice barely above a whisper. “you think i don’t lie awake at night thinking about everything this means? how much it changes everything?”

he leans in even closer, not touching you, but still close enough you can feel the heat radiating off his chest, the faint tremor in his breath against your skin. the light of the lantern flickers across his face, catching the way his jaw clenches, the way his throat swallows hard.

“you make it feel like something’s missing when you’re not there,” he admits, quietly now, almost like he’s afraid the words still break on their own. “like something’s wrong when i don’t see you. you somehow make my own home feel empty without you in it, y/n.”

your eyes shine up at him, your breaths becoming more shallow, more uneven. jake’s gaze drops down to your lips, then back to your eyes. and then, without thinking, his hand lifts slowly, as if he’s giving you every chance to stop him, and settles lightly on the bare of your thigh, his warm touch brushing the sensitive skin just below where your hoodie cuts off.

you let out a small exhale, the sound barely audible. your hand finds his chest, not pushing, but just resting there, feeling the way his heart is pounding just beneath your palm. “jake—”

his other hand lifts, fingertips grazing the line of your jaw before cupping your cheek. his thumb brushes the apple of it, like he’s memorizing the way you look, the way you feel. the way your eyes flutter shut slowly, as if you’re trying to fight against your own restraint. the hand on your thigh starts moving higher, thumb stroking slower circles that make you press your thighs together instinctively. a low, broken sound escapes him when he notices before he breaks all his restraint and leans in, mouth hovering just over the corner of your jaw.

your head tips back against the couch, hands now fisting his shirt as his mouth moves, barely a kiss. the lightest brush of his lips against the side of your throat. then another. and another. each one soft, open-mouthed, each one lingering a second longer than the last. his hand slides higher, fingers curling gently around the inside of your thigh, making your hips shift restlessly. your hoodie rides up just enough that his fingertips brush your bare hip underneath it—and he stills for half a second as he realizes, with a choked sound, that you’re not wearing any shorts underneath the hoodie.

“fuck,” he breathes against your pulse, his teeth grazing the skin there, just slightly, and you let out a small sound before you could stop it.

“jake, please—”

“please what?” he murmurs, lips dragging up to your jaw, then moving to hover over your mouth again. “please stop?” another ghost of a kiss along the corner of your lips. “or please don’t?”

you’re trembling now, twisting the material of his shirt even harder, legs shaking, breaths coming in short, desperate pants.

“you’re…you’re emotional right now,” you barely manage, voice cracking. “you’re confused and not—” another kiss to your neck. “fuck—not thinking straight.”

jake pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, pupils blown, chest heaving, but entirely real.

“no,” his voice comes out rough, needy, and raw and he doesn’t even care. “no, it’s not about that, nothing about us is about that. this is about you and me, and the way you look at me like you want this too. and you know that.” his hand moves higher now, deliberate, slow, until he reaches right where your hip meets your leg and he squeezes hard, making you gasp. “so tell me to stop. right now. and i will.”

and everything stretches thin, the moment frozen in time as you stare at him with your hands still bunched at the chest of his shirt—at the flush on his cheeks, at his parted lips, at the way you can feel his hand shaking with how badly he wants to keep moving, and the way he’s still giving you the out if you want it.

“please,” he murmurs, borderline desperate, eyes dark and pleading. “just—”

you let out one last, shaky breath. then your fingers tighten in his shirt, pulling him forward, and you crash into him.

and everything happens immediately, desperately. his mouth claiming yours, hot and hungry from the wait, tongue sliding against yours with a groan that vibrates through your whole body. you gasp into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer as the dam holding everything, all the tension, all the quiet glances, all the lingering touches, finally broke.

hands go everywhere, one of his fisting in your hair to angle you better against his mouth, the other fully sliding up to grip your ass, easily lifting you until you’re straddling his lap. you moan almost immediately, feeling the hard length of him pressing up against you through his sweatpants, the friction making you rock down instinctively. his head falls back against the couch for a split second—his eyes shut tight and his jaw hangs open in a silent moan before he surges back up to capture your mouth again.

“fuck, y/n,” he pants against your lips, hands sliding up your back, palms hot and rough on your exposed skin. “feel so goddamn good. wanted this—” your lips find his throat. another groan. “—so bad.”

you kiss him harder, moving your hips down harder, faster, as his hand roams greedily—up your sides, cupping your breast, thumb teasing over the sensitive bud until you let out a whimper. you arch into his touch, pushing down harder, the slick heat between your legs soaking through your underwear as all the tension breaks between you two.

jake thinks his head is spinning. or the room, or both. he groans again, deeper, more desperate as he bites lightly at your bottom lip, “god, so responsive,” he murmurs against you, every word punctuated by another kiss, another grind. one hand slides down to grip your ass, squeezing hard and pulling you tighter against him as he guided your movements now, his own arousal throbbing heavy against your core. the other stays tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back so he could have access to your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that leave a wet trail, his teeth grazing your skin, marking you with gentle bites that make you moan louder.

“jake—oh my god,” you break the kiss just long enough to take a breath, but it comes out more like a broken gasp before he chases your mouth again, his own low moans vibrating against your lips. the room is nothing but the slick sounds of your mouths meeting again and again, the faint creak of the couch beneath your shifting weight.

he nips your bottom lip again, sucking it between his teeth, slow and deliberate before releasing it with a pop before going right back in, tongue thrusting deeper, slower this time, like he’s savoring every inch of you, like he can never get enough.

he doesn’t stop. he can’t stop. not when you’re straddling his lap like this, soft skin bracketing his hips, your own heat soaking through and straight onto the material of his sweatpants. not when every desperate roll of your hips drags your swollen core over the thick ridge of him, making him throb harder and feel like he’s going to lose his mind from the friction alone.

jake’s voice fills the air as he groans against the throat, voice wrecked and hoarse, lips brushing the sensitive skin there between words, whispering how good you feel, how long he’s wanted this, telling you to keep going, just like that, don’t stop. his hips buck up, chasing the pleasure, grinding harder, the roughness of his sweatpants scraping deliciously against you. “fuck, you’re dripping all over me.”

his name spills from your lips like you’re in a trance, the sound coming over in broken whimpers over and over, like a prayer you can’t stop reciting. your fingers dig into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as your hips circle faster, desperately trying to chase the building pressure. your hoodie now sits bunched up above your waist, exposing the soft curve of your hips, where jake’s fingers hold you so hard you think it might bruise, but you don’t even care. jake starts to trail his mouth from your lips to your jaw, then down the column of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave blooming marks until you’re gasping his name louder than you mean to. his hands clamp down harder on your hips, guiding you, controlling the pace, pulling you down harder and harder until it almost becomes too much.

you’re both utterly lost in it—frantic, greedy, boundaries dissolving until there’s no longer a place where you end and he begins. every stolen glance, every trembling breath, every moment from the last few weeks narrows to this single point, the way your skin feels under his touch, the sweet taste of him on your tongue, the broken sounds neither of you can swallow down any longer. nothing else processes to jake—not how much time has passed, not how the rain finally slowed down outside, not how jiuen sleeps easily just across the hall, and definitely not how he feels like a trembling teenager on the edge of ruin, so close to pathetically spilling in his sweatpants from nothing more than the friction of you grinding against him. and yet he doesn’t care. not even a little.

at least, not until he pulls back just enough to hear a faint buzz overhead. a small one at first, and then—the lights flicker on.

everything stutters back on in a full, unforgiving snap. the hum of a generator kicks back in, every lamp in the room coming back to life in a single moment. the warm light of your candles and jake’s lantern drowns out almost immediately, replaced by the harsh brightness pouring over everything—your flushed skin, his parted lips, the way your thighs are still shaking against his.

jake blinks, dazed, pupils struggling to adjust and chest heaving. his hands stay still on your bare waist, fingers spread wide, thumbs resting in the soft curve of your waist. and you’re still, very much, straddling him, still pressed flush against the hard line of him, your hoodie scrunched up, your panties exposed and soaked through.

you look absolutely wrecked.

your hair is everywhere from his fingers, lips swollen and glistening, cheeks a deep red. your breaths come in shallow, uneven waves, and your wide, glassy eyes meet his for one beat.

jake thinks, in that split second, that he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

reality rushes in quickly.

“oh god,” you whisper, voice small and cracked, as if the lights stripped away every layer of the moment you two just shared. you scramble off his lap in a frantic rush, legs unsteady, tugging your hoodie down with trembling fingers like it can hide what just happened. “okay—well. thank you for the light. and the…neighborly check in.”

the words tumble out all too fast, too polite, too hollow.

jake just sits there, stunned, like someone pulled the plug on him. his chest rises and falls and he feels something ache. one hand is still lifted, palms up, fingers curled slightly as if he’s still trying to remember the feel of you. but now the air where you were feels too cold and too wrong. he stares at the empty space in his lap, at the slightly damp spot you left on his sweatpants, at the way his body is still vibrating, still aching for you.

“y/n—”

you force a shaky smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, stepping back toward the door. your fingers close around the handle too tightly, knuckles white. “check in complete, right?” the laugh you let out comes out thin, fragile. “goodnight, jake.”

he just stares for a second, before he finally exhales, the sound landing somewhere between frustration and something softer, something more broken. slowly, he stands, legs unsteady, adjusting himself with a grimace that does absolutely nothing to hide anything. he walks to you carefully, like he’s fighting the urge to close the distance again and buy more time.

he stops just inside the doorway, close enough that you can still feel him, close enough that the light catches the faint clench in his jaw.

“yeah,” jake says, barely above a whisper. he looks at you, taking in the way your shoulders are hunched now, the way your eyes won’t quite meet his, the way he’s watching you build walls brick by brick right in front of him. “goodnight, y/n.”

and the thing about getting kicked out of someone’s apartment at nearly eleven at night is that there’s nowhere for the feelings to go.

which is how jake finds himself in his own kitchen five minutes later, barefoot on the cold tile, staring into the open fridge like he’ll find a solution in there. the light hums. the shelves are half-empty. the milk is definitely expired. none of this is helpful.

which is how, ten minutes after, jay is now sitting on jake’s couch with a mug of something warm in his hands that he doesn’t remember accepting, while jake sits beside him—knees bouncing, jaw tight, staring at absolutely nothing.

“wait—wait,” jay leans forward, elbows on his knees, squinting like he’s trying to make sense of everything. “so. you almost kiss your neighbor. then you do kiss your neighbor. and then—” he gestures with both hands, “—she kicks you out?”

jake groans, tipping his head back against the couch. “yes. didn’t say anything else. just opened the door and thanked me for the neighborly check in, whatever that even means.”

jay stares at him for a second, like he’s trying to replay the whole thing without knowing the full details and yet trying to figure out where exactly it went off the rails.

“okay,” he says slowly. “so you guys talked.”

jake drags a hand down his face. “yeah.”

“and then…you guys didn’t talk—”

jake winces. “yup. very big jump from talking to…not talking.”

“and then the lights came on and everything…felt too real?”

“pretty much.”

jay leans back against the couch, mirroring jake now. “so…she just freaked out basically.”

jake shifts, one knee bouncing faster now. “i don’t know, jay. maybe. i think we both did.” he exhales through his nose. “it just—everything happened all at once. and i think it all got real, real fast.”

“yeah, well.” jay hums. “that tends to happen when you kiss someone you actually care about.”

jake opens his mouth to argue. stops. closes it again. he pushes up to his feet, pacing two steps before sitting right back down like he can’t get comfortable in his own body.

“this is so fucked,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “why did i even go over there? why did i think that was a good idea? should’ve just left her alone, god.”

jay squints, tilting his head to the side. “i’m getting wildly mixed signals here, man. i thought you wanted something to happen.”

jake exhales, long and tired. “it’s just—this isn’t just some girl. she’s not just someone i met at a bar and can pretend doesn’t exist if things get weird.” he shakes his head at himself. “she lives across the hall. she’s in my kid’s life. she’s in my life.”

his voice is more hushed now as he gestures down the hallway, where jiuen’s door is closed and quiet.

“maybe she was right. because if this goes wrong, it doesn’t just go wrong for me,” he says softer now, “it goes wrong for jiuen. and i can’t—i can’t be reckless about that.”

jay doesn’t say anything right away, just leaning back into the couch and crossing his arms loosely over his chest, looking up like he’s looking for the right way to phrase this without sounding like a jerk.

“okay,” he says eventually, “so you’re just scared of the possibility of this going wrong.”

jake just looks at him. “because it could. of course i’m scared.”

“yeah. i can tell.” jay turns towards him. “but you’re talking about it like you already decided it will.”

jake frowns. “i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to,” jay says matter of factly. “you’re acting like your only two options are: everything blows up, or you don’t try at all.”

jake shifts, restless in his seat. “i want to try. i want this. i want—” jake stops, jaw tightening. “i want her.” he swallows hard. “i just don’t have the luxury of screwing this up, man.”

the expression in jay’s eyes softens just a little. “i know. you’ve got jiuen, i get that. that’s real.” he puts his mug down on the coffee table, looks back at jake. “but jake, you don’t get to shut the door just because you’re scared of what happens if you open it.”

jake goes still.

“you think jiuen doesn’t notice stuff?” jay continues. “she’s smart. she’s watching how you do this. how you let yourself care, how you let yourself—” he hesitates, then says it anyways, “—be happy.”

something in jake’s chest cracks. he looks away, eyes drifting down the dark hallway where jiuen’s door is. where the soft shine of her nightlight bleeds under the door crack like a reminder of her presence.

jake’s spent years doing this. measuring every want against what she needs. every late night, every skipped invitation, every almost. he’s taught himself how to fold his life smaller, quieter, safer. how to make room for her and take up less space himself.

and now here you are.

and you’re just natural. bright, warm, laughing in his living room. sitting at his table. holding his daughter like you’ve always been here. and it feels like something he didn’t know he was missing until it was right there in front of him.

and that’s exactly what scares him.

“no,” jake says quietly, shaking his head. “y/n was right from the start. i shouldn’t have said anything, done anything. i shouldn't have—” he pauses. exhales sharply. “i shouldn’t have let it go there.”

jay opens his mouth, but jake keeps going, everything finally spilling now that he’s started.

“i can’t risk this falling apart, jay," he says. “i can’t. because it wouldn’t just be some bad breakup and awkward run-ins in the package room.” his voice drops, almost to a whisper. “it’s jiuen asking why y/n doesn’t come over anymore. it’s her asking what she did wrong. it’s her losing someone she didn’t even know she wasn’t allowed to get attached to yet.”

jay exhales slowly. “you don’t know that’ll happen, jake.”

“i know it could,” jake lets out a short, humorless laugh. “and that’s enough.” he leans back into the couch, dragging a hand down his face. “i already messed up once,” he mutters. “i don’t get to mess up again.”

jay straightens, tone firmer now, but still low. “that’s not fair. and you know it.”

jake just looks at him.

“this,” jay says carefully, slowly, “is not the same as before.”

and deep down, jake does know it. knows that this is different, that you’re different.

knows that even through a short span of time, he can’t ignore the way everything shifts when you’re around. the way everything feels like this is it. like you’ve found the spaces he built for himself and his daughter and stepped into them without any warning.

and it all feels too close, too comfortable, too much like there could be more than the home he built within these walls between him and jiuen and breakfast pancakes and uneven pigtails and dinners that came from a phone screen propped up on the counter.

and jake knows, deep down, that’s what scares him. not that he wants you, but that part of him that already knows where you fit. and that’s exactly the problem. because knowing where you fit means knowing exactly what it would cost to lose you. 

jake doesn’t sleep much after jay leaves.

he lies in bed, arms folded behind his head and staring up at the ceiling, listening to the soft, intermittent drip of raindrops making slow taps against his windowpane, replaying everything he shouldn’t be replaying. the way you carried jiuen into bed, the way your eyes shine whenever you smile at him, the way your skin felt against his, the way your fingers twisted into his hair with you in his lap, and the way you taste—sweet, dangerous, and still refusing to fade from his memory.

by the morning, jake decides to play it safe. the routine helps, it always has.

6:12AM, coffee, pancakes, one cookie—no matter how jiuen looks at him. jake tells himself that it he keeps moving, if he keeps the day ordinary enough, maybe everything will fall back into place. maybe the feelings will fall back into place. that maybe you’ll slide back into the category he put you in before—neighbor. friend. safe.

and it all almost works. almost.

because, again, the universe works in funny ways. and again, in cruel ways, jake thinks. because right when he thought his day was over, that he managed to get through the entire day without running into you—it just happens.

he’s halfway down the hallway, jiuen’s hand soft and warm in his, her backpack slung over his shoulder because she insisted on carrying it herself and then immediately got tired one block away from school. and they’re only a few feet away from the door when it happens. when your door opens.

jake looks up before he can stop himself.

you walk out into the hallway, keys in hand, hair pulled back like you’re on your way somewhere. you freeze the same way he does, caught mid-step, like the world decided to press pause on this very moment.

for a moment, everything else disappears. the hum of the overhead lights, the distant ding of the elevator, jiuen swinging his hand—it all fades into the background.

jiuen lights up instantly. “y/n!”

you blink once, before your face softens into a smile as you crouch down, arms already opening without hesitation as she gives you a hug. “hi, princess.”

jake feels it in his chest. that small and sharp hit he’s pretending not to notice.

you stand back up and turn towards him. “hey, um—”

he looks away first. at the wall. at the floor. anywhere that conveniently isn’t you. his head already feels too full, his heart moving too fast, and he hates that you do this to him. hates that even without trying, no matter how carefully he stacks his safe mornings and routines, none of it holds when you’re standing right there. as long as you exist in his life.

when he looks back, you’re smiling—it’s small, soft, familiar. like nothing changed, like everything is still there, waiting for him.

jake straightens up instead.

“hey,” he says carefully, measured. “uh—do you have a second? can i talk to you?”

you still at his words, caught off guard, then nod. “yeah. yeah, sure.”

he turns, unlocking his door, guiding jiuen gently inside with a hand on her back. “go wait for me inside, okay? y/n and i need to talk for a minute.”

jiuen pouts immediately, already halfway through the doorway. “fine. but we have to hang out with y/n soon.”

you laugh softly, the sound a harsh contrast from the tension in the narrow hallway, lifting a hand in a small wave as the door closes, “soon, okay?”

when the door clicks shut behind her, jake turns back to you. his eyes are a little too wide, his breaths already a little too shallow. everything is telling him not to do this. to let it go. to let himself have this—just this once.

“listen,” he starts, then stops. runs a hand through his hair. tries again. “about the other night.”

your shoulders shift. your eyes snap to his, sharp and hopeful all at once, as if trying to read what he’s about to say before it comes out. “yeah—actually, i wanted to talk to you about that too. i can’t stop—”

jake cuts in before he loses his nerve.

“i think,” he says, staring at your door across the hall, at the scuffed spot by your feet, at anything that isn’t your face, “i think it was a mistake.”

the word lands.

you stop.

your mouth hangs slightly parted as jake watches you still, the smile on your face fading slowly. he pretends not to see it. pretends not to feel the way something in his chest sinks with it.

“a…mistake?” you repeat, voice smaller now.

jake swallows hard. “yeah. you were right. i shouldn’t have let it go there. i shouldn’t have crossed that line.” his voice tightens. “i just…i wasn’t thinking.”

you don’t say anything for a moment, just searching his face like you’re looking for the part of him that doesn’t mean it.

“this—” he exhales, frustrated, gesturing slightly, “—i don’t even know what this is.”

everything in him is screaming at him to stop. to take it back. to say anything else. that he’s already hurt you enough, he doesn’t need to make it worse.

“it was just…in the moment,” his voice cracks at the end. “it felt bigger than it was and didn’t actually mean anything.”

you hands stay at your side, and jake has to look away when he notices them trembling.

“so that’s all it was to you?” you ask eventually. “just…timing?”

jake almost flinches.

“that’s not what i meant.”

“but that’s what you said.”

jake opens his mouth. stops. rubs a hand over the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor like it might save him from the way you’re looking at him now—eyes shining but not with brightness this time, just hurt.

“i’m just—i’m trying to do the right thing, y/n.”

you let out a small, breathy laugh that doesn’t sound amused at all. “for who?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

“for everyone,” he says quietly. "for jiuen."

your expression softens, but it doesn’t erase the sting in your voice.

“right,” you murmur, nodding like you accept it. “for her. not because it’s easier to walk away.”

jake looks up.

“don’t tell me this is about you being scared,” you continue, voice steady even if your eyes aren’t. “maybe i was too. that’s why i pulled back, that’s why i hesitated.” you pause for a second. "but i can’t turn what happened into nothing now, jake."

everything feels too narrow. too close, too tight, too confusing. jake’s head buzzes, every thought and feeling tripping over the next, trying to gauge how he even let this happen in the first place. how everything flipped, how he’s now the one backing away when you’re right there standing still in front of him.

“y/n—i can’t—we have to, okay?” he hesitates, finally looking back at you, trying to swallow down the tightness in his throat. “i don’t get to…i can’t want things that might break everything else.”

“i get that,” you say, stepping closer to him. “but you don’t get to decide that for me, jake. i’m telling you right now—i was wrong. i don’t want to walk away from this, i want to try. whatever this is.”

and for a second, jake sees it. he sees it all in a rush—the dinners, the couch on movie nights, the walks to school, the way jiuen says your name. how easily his life blended into yours so naturally, how you slid into the quiet, stable routine of his life and made it feel full instead of small, repetitive. and he feels it, too. how much he wants to keep you there. and yet, even though every part of him fights them, he forces the words out.

“i’m deciding for me, y/n,” he lets out in a shaky breath. “we should just—let’s just go back to before. neighbors, normal.”

the word sounds wrong the second he hears it. jake almost wants to laugh. because he doesn’t think anything about you has ever felt normal. not from the first day you stood in the hallway with a box in your arms and shifted his life just a little to the left.

“normal,” you echo quietly. you take a step back.

jake hesitates, then nods. like if he keeps moving, he won’t have to think about what he’s just done.

there’s a long pause.

then you smile. and it’s nothing like the ones you usually give him.

“right,” you say. “i get it.”

and jake hates how relived he feels for half a second. hates how how easy it was for you to say it. hates how wrong it feels that he’s the one who made you say it.

you step down the hall.

“i guess i’ll see you around, jake.”

jake doesn’t say anything, just nods again, because it’s the only thing he seems capable of. and when you disappear into the elevator, jake stays there in the hallway, heartbeat pounding in his ears as the quiet finally catches up him and it sinks in a little too late that what he just protected wasn’t his life, or jiuen’s for that matter.

it was his fear.

the next week is exactly what jake asked for. normal. routine. quiet. but the thing about quiet is that it echoes. everything still passes in the same small, careful way. grocery bags and laundry cycles. cartoons in the morning, bedtime stories read a little too slow because jiuen keeps asking questions about the pictures instead of the words. normal. and yet, jake keeps checking the hallway out of habit, like his body hasn’t quite caught up to the decision his mouth made.

monday morning smells like pancake mix while jiuen sits on the counter as jake flips her mini ones over the stove.

“can y/n come for dinner tonight?” her legs swing innocently, unaware of how hard the simple question hits him.

jake doesn’t look up. “not tonight, princess.”

“tomorrow?”

“she’s busy, ji.”

jiuen hums, not pushing. “okay.”

tuesday, they run into you on the way to school.

“y/n!” jiuen doesn’t even wait for you to turn before her shoes are already squeaking against the floor as she runs into your figure, arms tight around your legs.

you laugh softly, dropping down to her level without thinking, “good morning, princess.”

jake watches the way you smooth her hair back, the way your thumb brushes a crumb off her cheek. when you stand, your eyes don’t fully meet his, “hi, jake.”

“morning,” he answers, too quickly, already stepping back and pointing down the hallway before he mutters something about getting jiuen to school on time.

wednesday is rain tapping softly on the windows and jiuen’s coloring books spread across the coffee table, pages crumbled and curled slightly at the edge from where she spilled water earlier and jake tried to fix it with a napkin.

“daddy, is y/n mad at us?” jiuen asks, like it’s a normal question as she draws a third stick figure onto her paper.

jake freezes. “what?”

jiuen shrugs, picking up a red crayon and scribbling a flower that’s too big to be realistic and halfway floating into the sky. “she doesn’t invite herself over anymore. and you don’t look at her like you used to.”

jake stops. because what does his five-year-old know about looking at someone? about how his eyes used to follow you without him even realizing it? enough for her to notice it?

“she’s not mad, ji,” he says, because it feels like the right thing to say, even if he’s not sure it’s true. “sometimes people just get busy.”

jiuen nods, clearly unconvinced. she adds a sun in the corner of the page and it comes out crooked. “i liked it better when she was here more.”

jake doesn’t answer. because so did he.

thursday night comes with leftover pasta and a show he’s already seen twice, but keeps on anyways because it’s jiuen’s favorite and she laughs at the same parts every time. friday is another elevator ride where he stands on one side and hopes, like an idiot, that the doors will open to you on the other side. saturday morning smells like dish soap and lemon cleaner and five loads of laundry.

and somewhere, down the hall, you’re doing your own version of this.

jake thinks about it without meaning to. you in your apartment, lights turned low, sitting cross-legged on your couch with your own version of your favorite show playing in the background. maybe you made that garlic-and-butter dish you promised you’d share with him one day, and now he may never get to try it. maybe there’s a laundry basket next to you on the couch, clothes half-folded, one sock still missing its pair. maybe you’ve already moved on. or maybe you haven’t.

maybe you think about the way his hand felt on you. the way he said your name like it meant something to him. the way he told you that you felt like home—and then took it back like it hadn’t already settled, soft and certain, somewhere deep inside you.

jake doesn’t know any of this, of course. because his saturday night comes with the soft sound of jiuen’s breathing as he tucks her in. saturday night comes with him lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about all the things he wants to take back. all the things he wishes he did instead.

saturday night comes with a knock at his door.

he sits up immediately, heart already jumping into this throat like, deep down, he knows who it is. he tells himself it’s probably a neighbor. maintenance. someone who got his mail on accident and is returning it. anything that isn’t the thought already forming in his chest.

he walks to the door anyways, and when he opens it—

it’s you.

you’re already standing too close, like you weren’t entirely sure where to put yourself either. your eyes are wide and glassy and looking up at him with a new expression he hasn’t seen before. jake can’t help but rake his eyes over your figure. the way your hair is done nicely, your makeup more intentional, the way your dress fits you tightly enough to convince him that he really needs to teach you about family-friendly-building-etiquette.

he notices everything. your cheeks are flushed deeper than usual. your eyes blink a little slower, your breaths a little softer, a little looser around the edges. the way you sway slightly in your spot.

“y/n?” he says in a low voice as he watches you carefully. “are you…okay?”

you shake your head immediately, too fast. “no—i mean, yes. i mean—” you huff out a quiet, breathy laugh. then as if you’re reminding yourself it’s way past eight pm, your voice drops. “i only had a little wine. i swear. just a few sips. i’m not drunk.”

you stop. swallow. your eyes drop to the floor between you before lifting back to his.

“i tried not to come here.”

jake doesn’t move. he watches the way you swallow, the way your fingers absentmindedly play with the hem of your dress.

“i—i went out tonight,” you continue, eyes steady even though your voice definitely isn’t. “i tried to forget everything, like you wanted. because—because it hurt so bad. what you said, that i meant nothing—”

jake squeezes his eyes shut, as if that could block out your words from his head. he starts to shake his head, but you keep going.

“—i tried to block it out, everything. the way i felt with you, the way you felt. the way you made me feel after only a few weeks but enough to know i want more.”

“y/n—”

“so i went on a date,” you say. and the words land heavy. heavy enough that he lets out an exhale without meaning to.

jake’s jaw tightens before he can stop it. something sharp twists low in his stomach, hot and ugly and very, very real. he hates the picture in his head, hates how easily he imagines you across from someone else, smiling the way you used to smile at him, giving pieces of yourself to a space he thought already belonged to him.

“…and i hated it,” you add quietly. “because all i could think about was you, jake.”

you keep talking, the words tumbling fast now, like you can’t stop now that you’ve started. “then i came back home and i told myself that whatever this is was just…tension or loneliness, or whatever. that i could forget everything. and i—” you stop, breath hitching, eyes now shining wet in the light. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, jake. i know you said we can’t, but—”

and when jake hears your apology, when he sees the way your eyes shine, all his restraint snaps immediately.

he cuts you off mid-ramble, not thinking, just moving. one hand cups your cheek, gentle at first, thumb brushing the damp corner of your eye, before the other slides to your waist and pulls you inside in one sure motion. he backs you up against the door instantly, his mouth finding yours before the door even clicks into place, everything tasting like pent-up frustration, the slight taste of the wine on your tongue, and the confession you just spilled.

you gasp against him, hands flying to his shoulders, fingers digging in to hold yourself up. his body presses flush against yours, hips pinning yours to the door. both hands grip your waist now, thumbs pressing into the soft dip above your hips, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“stop apologizing,” he rasps when he finally pulls back just enough to speak, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard and ragged. “don’t you dare apologize for this.”

he kisses you again—this time softer, slower, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. one hand moves to hold your face, thumb stroking your cheek again, the other still tight on your waist. “i’m sorry,” he murmurs against your lips, voice thick with everything. regret and need and pure desire. “’m so fucking sorry, y/n. i shouldn’t have said what i did. all i think about is you.” his hand on your face slides down your side, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing your outline before settling on your hip, gripping hard enough to make you arch in his hold. “about finally having you.”

you let out a sound at his touch, and it breaks him completely. he crashes back into you, mouth back on yours deeper this time, slower, savoring every second now that he’s finally letting himself have it. “want you so bad,” he breathes against your lips, voice wrecked and low. your hands find their way into his hair, and you tug gently enough for him to groan into your mouth, him tilting your chin up with gentle fingers so he can angle the kiss even deeper.

“i’m sorry, baby,” he whispers between kisses, each one softer and hungrier. “i’m all yours.” his mouth trails down your neck. you moan—quiet but broken enough—and he pauses, head lifting enough to quickly glance down the hall where jiuen’s room is.

“she’s asleep,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “we have to be quiet. think you can do that for me?”

you nod frantically, lips swollen and breathless, and that’s all he needs. he lifts you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. he carries you down the hall with careful, deliberate steps, trying his best not to make any sound as he kicks his bedroom door shut behind him.

the second the door closes, he sets you on the bed like you’re something fragile, his hands lingering at your hips for a heartbeat longer than necessary, thumbs stroking slow, soothing circles over the material of your dress, the warmth of his hands leaving a spark in its trail. his fingers find the side zipper of your dress, and slowly peel the material off completely with deliberate slowness, eyes tracing every new inch of skin revealed like he’s committing it into his brain—the soft rise of your stomach, the delicate dip between your ribs, the way your chest rises and falls faster under his gaze.

“beautiful,” jake exhales a low sound, almost a groan. “so fucking beautiful, baby.” he leans down, pressing hot, messy kisses along your collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to make your arch. one hand cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking the skin there as if grounding you, while the other slips right above the thin material of your underwear, fingers spreading wide over the curve of your ass. he squeezes once, firm and possessive, then soothes the spot with a gentle rub.

your underwear is off in one smooth motion, his hands dragging the fabric down against your thighs, tossing them aside without looking. then he’s back between your thighs, spreading them wide with his palms, your skin cool underneath the heat of his hands as he settles on his knees at the edge of the bed so he can really look at you. his pupils blow wide and dark, but there’s something soft in the way he exhales your name like it’s a prayer.

“god, look at you,” jake breathes, voice wrecked and vibrating against your skin as he leans closer. you involuntarily shift your hips at the sensation of his breath against your thigh, and he lets out a small chuckle before moving back up, as if teasing you. his mouth finds yours again, softer this time, lips parting yours with a tenderness that made your stomach flip, his weight pressed right up against your heat. the kiss deepens quickly, his tongue tracing the outline of your lips before slipping inside, exploring with lazy strokes that sends warmth pooling low in your gut. you sigh into him, hands roaming up his arms, and he lets out an exhale without meaning to. “you’re perfect,” he murmurs against your mouth, his hand tracing the bare skin of your hip lightly.

suddenly impatient, your hands fumble at his waistband, fingers clumsy with need, hooking into the elastic of his sweatpants, already feeling the hard outline of his own arousal straining against it. you tug down just enough to free him, not wasting any time to wrap your hand around the base, the sensation releasing a deep sound from him. jake squeezes his eyes shut as his hips jerk forward into your touch, a bead of precum already slicking your thumb.

“fuck—” he breathed, head dropping to your shoulder, but then his hand catches your wrist, stopping you with a firm squeeze. “not yet, baby. wanna take care of you first.” he moves your hand away and pins it to your side against the bed as he starts to make his way down, his mouth trailing kisses along your jaw, your neck, your chest, leaving light nips that sting just enough to make you gasp. he settles back between your legs, broad shoulders pushing your thighs apart, the heat of his breath fanning right over your core, groaning softly as his eyes fix on the way you’re already dripping for him.

“look at you, so wet for me already,” he whispers, voice thick with awe, thumb brushing lightly over your folds, collecting the slick there and circling your clit with agonizing slowness. “such a good girl, getting all worked up just from kissing me.” he drags two fingers through your folds—slow, teasing, the slick sound obscene in the quiet—the pad of his fingers collecting your wetness, gliding with ease. he watches the way your hips twitch, your breath hitching in short pants. then he pushes them inside, deep and fast, curling just right against that spongy spot deep inside you.

“fuck—jake—”

your head falls back against the pillow as you whimper desperately, already clenching around him instinctively. and before you could even fully process the sensation, his mouth quickly replaces his fingers, tongue flat and broad, licking up a stripe up your center that has you arching off the bed, fingers twisting onto the sheets at your sides. “oh my god—” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as the feeling washes over you all at once. the taste of you on his tongue draws a hum from his throat, the vibration buzzing against your core as he sucks gently, then harder and quicker, his hands forcing your thighs open when they try to close around his head.

“jake—” you gasp, voice breaking, but he just murmurs into you, “shh, baby. let me hear your pretty sounds, just quieter for me, yeah? can’t wake her up.” his fingers then join his mouth again, one slipping inside, then two—curling deep and slow, the wet slide filling the room with obscene sounds. his eyes watch you the whole time, eyes dark and half lidded, praising you between each lick—“fuck, so tight” “gonna feel so good around my cock”—his fingers pump faster now, curling harder, filling up the quiet room quickly before he suddenly plunges a third, stretching you full with a careful twist. “that’s it—open up for me.” jake moves like a man possessed, eyes fixed on where his fingers are moving at an impossible pace now, disappearing in and out of you easily with your arousal spreading everywhere. everything burns so sweetly, the fullness making your thighs tremble, and jake feels your walls flutter around him. “doing so well for me, baby. wanna feel you cum around my fingers first, yeah?”

the pressure builds quickly, jake moving without a care in the world, his tongue circling your clit with precise flicks, the pressure building hot and tight in your belly, his fingers pumping in the same rhythm until he feels you shatter—back arching, a muffled cry escaping you as one of your hands fly to clamp gently against your own mouth. he feels you squeeze around his fingers in waves, walls clenching around his fingers in pulsing grips as he works your through it, tongue gentling but not stopping, lapping up every last drop you release, fingers easing out slower and glistening now until you were limp and oversensitive. “there you go, so perfect—so good for me, baby—”

he sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark and hungry as he watches you sprawled out in front of him, the aftershocks making your hips twitch, your skin flushed and glistening with sweat. a knowing smirk sits on his face as he shed his sweatpants fully this time, his cock springing free, tip already flushed and leaking. he strokes himself slowly, hand slick from your arousal, eyes locked on yours as he settled between your legs again, one hand bracing beside your head.

“you okay?” he instantly softens his demeanor, bringing his free hand up to your cheek, thumb brushing softly as his eyes search your face. you just nod, pulling him down by the hair for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue as he groans into your mouth, his hand now moving down to position himself at your entrance. he stops there for a second, just rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in your slick like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, nudging your clit before pressing just the tip in, then pulling back. your hips lift instinctively, chasing him, but he stays still for a moment, eyes dark yet amused, breath coming in shallow pants against your mouth. “patience, baby,” he murmurs, but his voice cracks at the end, like he was torturing himself too.

“please, please jake—” he hears you mumble softly with a whine and jake just chuckles, but his eyes stay locked on where you connect, watching as he pushes in inch by inch, the stretch burning sweet, both of you gasping quietly in unison. “fuck,” he groans, head falling forward as he sinks in deeper and deeper, the heat of him filling you completely, walls instantly fluttering around him. you moan softly, nails digging into his shoulders, the sharp sting of pain making him inhale sharply.

his eyes fly shut when he finally bottoms out, hips flush against yours and stills—breaths syncing, his forehead on yours, sweat beading at his temple. “so fucking good,” he breathes, voice breaking. “you feel so good.” he starts moving then, slow thrusts at first, the rough drag of him against your walls sending sparks up your entire spine. the pace builds naturally, hips snapping harder, skin slapping softly, the bed starting to creak beneath you.

jake watches the way you bite your lip, cheeks flushed, eyes staying shut at the sensation like you’re struggling to hold yourself back, and he feels himself twitch inside you from the sight alone. he tilts his head, a wicked smile curving at his lips as his hand slides to one of your wrists, pinning it gently beside your head.

“why so quiet, baby?” he murmurs against your ear, voice teasing as his grip on your wrist stays firm, but careful, thumb stroking the inside. “gonna call me daddy in front of my kid all normal, but now you’re shy?”

your eyes snap up to his and widen in surprise at the boldness in his tone as he watches your reaction, your cheeks burning hotter and mouth parting in a silent moan. you squirm under him, too fucked out to even find the words when his thrusts turn harder, sharper, hips snapping with more force, his tip hitting that perfect spot deep inside you over and over again, almost like a punishment.

“jake—”

jake grunts, thrusts faltering for a second. “not jake,” he murmurs, thrusting a little more forcefully at that, “say it. let me hear you.”

“daddy,” you gasp, the word tumbling out shy and needy and he lets out a louder groan, rewarding you with a deeper thrust, his hips now moving in a filthy rhythm, as if out of his own control.

“fuck, yeah—that’s my girl. say it again.”

and you do, the word dripping more confidently this time from your tongue despite the pink on your face as he rises up slightly, still buried deep, knees dipping into the bed to steady himself. his hand stays wrapped around your wrist firmly, the other one now moving to your throat when your moans get louder, fingers wrapping gently, thumb pressing just enough to feel your pulse racing, keeping you in place as he pounds deeper.

“look at me,” he demands softly but everything intensifies quickly, his hips slamming now, skin slapping wet and loud, the bed creaking louder under the brutal force. his hand on your throat tightens just a fraction, possessive but always checking your eyes. “gonna make you feel so good, baby—gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

jake feels himself slipping. just a little, control fraying as the pleasure coils tighter, louder than he should allow in the quiet apartment—knows the low groans and ragged breaths and creaks of the bed are carrying further than they should, but the thought dissolves the second it forms. his mind is a beautiful and wrecked, jumbled haze now, narrowed to the wet, desperate sounds of your whimpers against his ear, the slick velvet grip of your walls clenching around his cock with every thrust, the sharp sting of your nails raking down the muscles of his back—digging in hard enough to leave marks he’ll wear proudly tomorrow and never once regret.

he knows he’s slipping. knows he’s losing himself, maybe a lot more than just a little—because his body now settles fully over yours again, skin sliding together with every roll of his hips. his mouth finds the crook of your neck, lips brushing hot and messy against the sensitive skin there, words spilling out a in low, broken babble he can’t hold back.

“gonna fill you up, baby,” he whispers, voice wrecked and trembling against your pulse, each syllable punctuated by a deep, grinding thrust. “gonna make jiuen a big sister—gonna make you a momma, all swollen and round and mine. you want that? want daddy’s baby?”

the words tumble out raw and reverent, half plea, half promise, his breath hot and uneven against your throat as he presses one last open-mouthed kiss there, teeth grazing just enough to make you let out a whimper, before the rhythm of his hips turns frantic again, chasing the edge with you.

“oh my god—jake, gonna cum, gonna—”

jake watches as your eyes squeeze shut as his words finally push you over, feeling the way your walls flutter harder around him, slick heat suddenly flooding between you as your body arches off the bed as much as his hold allows, thighs shaking, a fresh wave of wetness coating him and dripping down to the mattress. he follows seconds later, slamming deep inside you with a choked moan—spilling hot inside you in thick, pulsing waves, the warmth immediately spreading deep in your core, filling you until it leaks out, sticky and warm around him.

when he finally pulls out, both of you hiss at the sudden emptiness, the wet sound of him leaving you sharp in the air, a string of your combined slick connecting you for a moment before breaking. your body lies spent and boneless, trying to catch your breath. but before you can, you feel jake’s hands on you again and he’s flipping you onto your stomach in one fluid, strong motion, hands rough but careful as they grip your hips, pulling you onto your knees.

“not done,” he pants, and he doesn’t wait for a response before he slams back in all at once, the new angle hitting deeper than before, the stretch making you cry into the fabric of the bed sheets, the fullness overwhelming with his cock dragging new spots that make stars burst behind your eyelids. his hand trails down on your lower back, pressing you into the mattress to hold you steady, arching your back while the other spanks your ass lightly at first, then another one—harder this time, the sharp sting blooming red before soothing it with a slow rub, the contrast making you clench around him, the wet sounds even louder and filthier now.

“c’mon, baby. take daddy’s cock like a good girl,” he mumbles, thrusting relentlessly now—skin slapping loud against skin, his balls hitting your clit with every snap, the headboard of the bed tapping rhythmically against the wall, the wooden floors creaking in protest beneath. he moves to lean over you, chest to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he feels himself twitch violently inside you. “fuck—’m gonna cum, baby. tell me you want it, please—”

“—yes, please, want it so bad daddy—” and then you cum harder this time, walls clamping down around him as your orgasm washes over you in blinding waves. jake follows right after with one last final thrust, spilling deep inside you for a second time tonight, your name and broken praises tumbled from his throat in a rush as he feels his cock swell and twitch against your tight walls—”yeah, take it all” “my perfect momma, so fucking perfect”—hips grinding slow and deep to keep every drop inside, until he finally collapses over you, both of you panting, bodies tangled and slick with sweat, the room heavy with the scent of sex, his heartbeat pounding wildly against your back.

when jake eventually rolls off of you, he pulls you with him without hesitation, your body wrapped into his arms, head buried into the crook of his neck, cheek pressed to the warm of his chest where his pulse still races. his hands are gentle now, soft strokes through your hair, fingertips outlining lazy patterns along your spine. he presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth and it lingers, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise.

the shift is almost a harsh, stark contrast from just a few minutes ago. the same hands that gripped your hips hard enough to bruise now cradle you like something priceless, the same voice that growled filthy commands now murmuring soft, soothing nonsense into your hair. the same guy you met down the hall with eyes that didn't quite meet yours then and nerves in his voice.

“are you okay?” his voice is soft, concern lacing over every word, every feature on his face, as his thumb brushes your cheek and his eyes search yours—pupils still blown, still dark but filled with something tender and protective. your lashes flutter open, just barely, but enough to glance up at him and give him a small, sleepy smile as you nod slowly. exhaustion takes over your body as you curl into him like it’s instinct now, like your body already knows where it belongs, his nose nudging into your hair, his heartbeat steady against your ear, slowing you down with it.

jake exhales quietly, like the moment he's in is fragile. his thumb traces slow circles at the small of your back, and somewhere in that simple motion it hits him. it hits him how wrong he was to think he could ever keep you at a distance, how impossible it feels to imagine his nights without this, without you. how every careful, measured routine he's spent years building suddenly makes sense only because you're standing in it, changing it, softening it.

“good,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

and you’re already drifting when you hear it, soft and hopeful against your skin.

“stay with me tonight, yeah?”

and you do. you stay that night. and the night after. until it stops being a decision and starts being a habit, one that happens naturally.            

and somewhere in between all of that, jake realizes how you've become threaded through each and every one of his routines, soft and steady and unmistakably his. how he wakes up at 6:12AM to you now, your hair in his mouth because you always steal the corner of his pillow in your sleep. how he makes two coffees now instead of one. how you carefully pack jiuen's apple slices into her lunch box and sneak an extra cookie in there when you think jake isn't looking and he lets it happen anyways.

a few months down the line—somewhere between jake learning that you never finish your dessert and you realizing that he rubs the back of his neck every time he gets overwhelmed—you finally teach him your garlic and butter recipe.

it’s a tuesday and it’s nothing special, just one of those in-between days where jiuen has a spelling testing tomorrow and jake forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer, which means you’re in charge of dinner by default.

you show up with your keys in hand, hair twisted into a messy knot from your long day. you kick your shoes off by the door without thinking and they land next to jake’s, tipping one over. and the kitchen eventually fills with the kind of smell that settles into the walls. butter and garlic and something else that’s warm and soft that doesn’t feel like it comes from a recipe.

jiuen hums to herself as she sits at the table, swinging her legs, erasing the same spot over and over again because she likes the squeaky sound the eraser makes. you’re in the kitchen, next to jake and rambling about the most recent thing your coworker did at work to piss you off when you lean over and dip a spoon into the pan he's stirring. you taste it, squint a little, then tilt your head.

“hmm,” you smack your lips. “needs salt.”

jake has already stopped.

he’s just standing there, wooden spoon frozen in his hand, watching the way you continue to move in his kitchen like it’s yours too, now. the way your hair falls out of the messy knot at your neck, soft pieces catching the light. the way you’re wearing one of his sweatshirts—too big in the shoulders, sleeve bunched up so they don’t cover your hands—like you changed into it the second you came home without even thinking about whose it was.

jake feels it then. the quiet, steady shift in his chest, like something finally settling where it was always supposed to go.

you notice and stop what you’re doing, the sink running behind you where the vegetables you were washing sit abandoned now. you glance up at him, a curious smile already tugging at your mouth. “…salt, jake.”

“salt,” he repeats, but his eyes don't move from yours, like the word is foreign to him. like he forgot what the two of you were even doing in this room. he doesn’t move.

your eyes peer with amusement, your cheeks now a degree warmer. you move to close the distance, reaching past him to grab the salt from the cabinet. when you press it into his hand, your fingers linger for a half a second too long.

“there,” you murmur. “salt, in case you forgot what that is.”

jake looks at the salt in his hand. then at you. then, without really planning to, because jake is still jake and doesn’t really think sometimes—

“i love you.”

and the world doesn’t stop. the sink keeps running behind you. something sizzles on the stove. jiuen’s quick footsteps creak somewhere down the hall. the salt still sits in jake’s hand. so the world doesn’t stop, not exactly. but you do.

you turn back to him slowly, like you want to make sure you heard him right. there’s already a smile pulling at your mouth, impossible to hold back.

“yeah?” you ask, soft and quiet, almost teasing.

jake nods, like he’s confirming something for himself even though he's pretty sure he's known all along.

“yeah.”

you just stare at him for a moment. only for a moment, before you close the distance and your hands find their way around his neck and into his hair, and you kiss him. right there in the middle of the kitchen, with the sink still dripping and the smell of burnt garlic in the air because jake didn’t listen and left the stove on for too long earlier. and it’s just a simple, soft press of your mouth against his. warm and easy and familiar. yet jake still fumbles and drops the salt on the counter with a clatter he absolutely does not care about as his hands settle on your hips, pulling you in just enough.

he kisses you back slow, fighting back the smile against you, his fingers pressing in gently to hold you in place. like he’s got nowhere else to be. like he plans on staying right here for a long time.

”—DADDY WHERE DID YOU PUT MY BACKPACK?”

jake stops. he lets out a sound that lands somewhere between a laugh and a groan and drops his forehead against your shoulder. you’re already giggling, your hands still in his hair, your breath warm against his cheek. you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes bright before you give him one more quick, soft kiss.

“i love you,” you say. jake grins.

then you turn and call out, “coming, princess! check mine and daddy's room, ji.”

jake laughs under his breath, low and fond, and squeezes your hips once more before letting you go. he watches you disappear down the hall like it’s the most normal tuesday in the world.

so yeah. they say having kids will change your life. but they don’t tell you many things about having them.

they don’t teach you how to do braided pigtails without watching three youtube videos and still messing up. they don’t explain how to stay calm when you realize your three-year-old can be allergic to strawberries but somehow stay immune to falling off the couch. they don’t tell you how much money to leave as the tooth fairy, or how to sneak a bill under the pillow of a light sleeper, for that matter.

they don’t warn you that one day, your hallway will start to smell like citrus shampoo and butter and garlic. that there will be an extra pair of shoes by the door that aren’t yours or your daughter’s. that your fridge will slowly fill with things you didn’t buy—oat milk you’ll never drink, a bottle of hot sauce you pretend you can handle, a half-eaten container of ice cream that’s now a must have on every friday’s movie nights.

they don’t tell you that home can change shape without you realizing.

it happens in the small ways first.

in the way jiuen starts calling your apartment “the other house.” in the way that jake learns, somewhere between aisle seven and the checkout lane, that different pasta shapes actually matter to you—not for any logical reason, but just because you like how farfalle looks like little butterflies on plates and that makes jiuen smile. in the way movie nights turn into mornings, and mornings turn into you standing in the kitchen in one of his shirts, arguing about whether pancakes count as a balanced breakfast if there’s fruit involved.

it happens in the quiet.

in the way he learns the sound of your keys in the hallway. in the way you learn which floorboard outside jiuen’s room creaks and how to step around it on bare feet at two am. in the way you’ve gotten used to the one cushion that sinks a little too much on the couch and yet find it more comfortable that way—your body naturally curling into the dip, jake’s arm stretched along the back, fingers idly tracing soft patterns on your shoulder on purpose this time while jiuen snoozes away between you.

it happens in the soft moments.

in the way jake lets himself lean into you when he’s tired, head dropping to your shoulder after a long day, face buried into the crook of your neck, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo and the warmth of you like it’s the only thing keeping him stable. in the way you naturally turn toward him in your sleep, your body seeking his even in your dreams, head against his chest, one leg sliding between his, hands fisting loosely in his shirt while he holds you close, palm splayed wide over the small of your back, fingers making lazy circles until your breathing evens out against his collarbone.

and it happens in the intimate moments.

in the way jake knows exactly what makes you feel good—the precise angle that makes your back arch off the mattress, how the slow, deep grind has you gasping his name into his shoulder so jiuen doesn’t hear, exactly how much pressure you like when his thumb circles your clit, in the way he knows the hitch in your breath when he sucks a bruise into the skin beneath your ear, knows how to whisper good girl against your pulse when you’re nearly close to breaking, how to pin your wrists above your head just firm enough that you melt under him, trusting him completely.

in the way you let him fill you completely—each and every time, and he’ll still check, voice low and rough but still nonetheless soft—”you okay baby?” “gonna fill you up, yeah?” “my perfect pretty momma”—even when he’s buried deep inside you, hips rolling slow and deliberate, sweat slicking the space between your bodies, the sheets tangled around your ankles.

in the way you reach for him in the dark after, fingers threading through his, legs still trembling as he pulls you against his chest, lips brushing your temple, murmuring soft nothings until you drift off again, safe and full and his.

and maybe that’s the part they don’t really tell you.

that home isn’t the walls, or the lease, or the schedule you've built for yourself over the years. sometimes, it’s a five-year-old asleep in the middle of the bed, a half-finished bowl of ice cream melting slowly on the nightstand, and you—on the other side of her, already drifting off, fingers in her hair, looking like you chose this. like you chose her. and like you chose him.

and jake thinks, while watching his future fall asleep in front of him, that maybe this is the thing he’s been looking for all along. not just a life. not just a routine. but something that looks a lot like you.

something that looks a lot like home.

꩜｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ & as always,,,,tytytyty for reading! mwahmwahmwah!

⤷ full m.list ⭑ perms ⭑ mail ˎˊ˗

°˖➴ .ᐟ addie ── OK so i'd like to start off with saying last i checked this fic had 15k words...and then suddenly it has 24k... idk what happened honestly . but i ended up LOVING writing this sunghoon bc in my eyes he's a hot, clumsy dork <3 this is my first time ever writing smut so i am so so sorry if it sucks absolute booty hole bc it truly had me spinning in circles...i have so much respect for smut authors bc damn . anyways i hope u guys like, pls let me know what u think & also ty ronnie per usual for beta reading & encouraging me to explore out of my comfort zone heh. HOPE U ALL ENJOY :')

they say you never forget your first.

your first kiss. your first failing grade. your first crush. your first pet’s name.

for park sunghoon? he’ll never forget the first time he met you.

and honestly? he kind of wishes he could.

scratch that—he desperately wishes he could. then he wishes he could self-implode. then, he wishes he could rewind time and never agree to play catch with jay in the first place.

not to be dramatic or anything. but if you had been responsible for sending a football flying at full speed straight into someone’s face, you’d probably want to self-implode too.

and that’s exactly what happens.

it’s a quiet day. a peaceful one, almost. the kind of the day that feels soft around the edges, where nothing’s too bright, too loud, or too complicated. the one that almost makes sunghoon feel like simply a background character in the movie of his own life, which he doesn’t entirely mind either.

sunghoon’s morning starts like most of his mornings do—half productive, half running on pure autopilot. he wakes up to his alarm on time (a small miracle), beats jay to their shared bathroom before he can claim it for his thirty minute long skincare routine (a big miracle), and grabs a granola bar from the kitchen cabinet. said cabinet, by the way, is home to an endlessly growing collection of half-eaten snacks—chips that have gone soft, instant ramen cups with weird flavors no one remembers buying, and a mystery jar of peanut butter that’s been there since move in day.

sunghoon pays half attention in his 9AM statistics lecture (which is about as much as anyone can ask from him on a monday morning), and manages to grab his favorite sandwich from the café before they run out for the day. the café lady even remembers his name this time (although she calls him ‘sungoon’, which he lets slide because she gives him extra pickles).

it’s all wonderfully, boringly normal.

and for sunghoon, that’s saying something.

because his life isn’t exactly filled with chaos—he’s not that guy. but he does have a habit of stumbling into moments that feel like they were written by a sitcom writer and he’s the character created solely for the purpose of comedic relief.

like the time he ran into and tripped over the campus mascot in front of an entire basketball game. or the time he waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at him and then had to commit to pretending he actually did know them. or the time he tried to flirt with a girl at a bookstore and accidentally knocked over an entire table of self-help books on himself.

you get the idea.

still, today feels normal. stable, predictable.

until jay shows up.

jay appears in sunghoon’s peripheral vision exactly how sunghoon predicted he would—hair sticking up in three different directions, wearing an oversized hoodie that may or may not be his sleep shirt, a cup of iced coffee in one hand even though it’s four in the afternoon and, for some reason, a football in the other.

sunghoon blinks up at him from his table in the campus courtyard. there’s an empty sandwich container on one side of him, a half-finished math sheet on the other, and that quiet kind of peace that only comes when you’re okay with the world not doing anything particularly interesting.

jay park ruins that peace immediately.

“what’s that for?” sunghoon asks, nodding at the football in jay’s right hand.

jay shrugs, sipping his coffee before putting it down next to sunghoon’s empty sandwich container. “found it on my way here. thought it’d be fun.”

fun.

sunghoon raises an eyebrow. that’s a bold word coming from jay—jay park, a business major who considers waking up before noon an accomplishment and whose idea of cardio is sprinting into lecture late.

still, sunghoon doesn’t judge. he’s learned his lesson about athletic optimism. the summer he was nine, he tried out for the neighborhood little league baseball team with nothing but poor hand-eye coordination and a dream. one swing, one very unlucky coach, and one black eye later, and sunghoon retired early from all things sports related.

which should’ve been foreshadowing in itself.

sunghoon’s first mistake is catching the football when jay tosses it at him. his second is not immediately throwing it back and walking away.

because somehow, between the caffeine in jay’s bloodstream and sunghoon’s chronic inability to say no to stupid ideas—five minutes later they’re standing on opposite sides of the courtyard, tossing the football lazily back and forth.

and it becomes easy, repetitive. jay’s talking about something mid-throw, probably the new band he’s into or some conspiracy theory about the campus squirrels. but sunghoon’s not really listening, not really. he’s too focused on the rhythm. catch, step, throw. catch, step, throw. it’s almost meditative.

until it isn’t.

because somewhere across the courtyard that smells like grass and cheap coffee, laughter suddenly carries through the air—a bright, unfamiliar kind of laugh that feels like home anyways and that makes sunghoon’s head instinctively turn.

and in that same half-second, jay’s voice calls out.

“yo, heads up!”

sunghoon turns back just in time to see the football not in his own hands anymore.

and it’s definitely not heading towards jay either.

it’s heading towards you.

and before he could do anything about it—the ball collides with your face with an impact so loud that the entire school might as well have witnessed it.

“oh my god,” jay whispers.

“oh my god,” sunghoon repeats under his breath.

“oh my god,” you’re gasping, clutching your nose and stumbling back before you can catch yourself, your butt hitting the grass.

sunghoon’s stunned for a second, arms halfway raised, eyes flickering between you and jay and the football. he runs through a mental list of things that could maybe, possibly, reverse the entire past twenty minutes of the disaster that is his life (spoiler: there aren’t any).

and then he’s moving before he even realizes it, jogging over with wide eyes and a growing pit of dread in his stomach.

“oh my god—are you okay? did i—shit—is your nose broken?” the words fall out of his mouth in one frantic breath as he crouches beside you.

you hand is still pressed against your face as you blink up at the figure above you, your vision disorientated.

and when your eyes finally focus—the face that greets you is devastatingly pretty.

which would be fine under any other circumstance. except for the fact that this is the face of a man who literally just assaulted you via sports equipment.

and unfortunately for sunghoon, the face that greets him is just as devastatingly pretty.

which would also be fine…under any other circumstance.

because sunghoon’s luck with girls isn’t terrible…technically. he’s had his fair share of crushes that lasted two weeks but ended in radio silence. he knows how to flirt when he needs to, knows how to make a girl laugh, knows what kind of compliment lands without sounding weird. he’s even good at the little things—opening doors, letting the girl have the booth side of the table, texting back on time but not too soon, pretending to like matcha even though it tastes like grass to him.

the problem is never getting their attention. he’s grown up around enough of his mom’s friends cooing at him during dinner parties—‘your son is so handsome!’ ‘what did you eat during your pregnancy to get a face like that?’— that he’s well aware he’s got at least one thing working in his favor. so no, getting attention isn’t the issue.

it’s keeping it.

because sunghoon is the kind of guy who accidentally ghosts first. not on purpose, he just forgets. he gets too caught up in assignments, or chores, or reorganizing his t-shirt collection by color again (even though it’s really only three colors: black, white, and a slightly lighter black). he’s terrible at balancing the whole dating thing and college thing and not knocking over self-help book displays in public thing.

and now, apparently, not breaking someone’s nose.

but right now, looking at you—bloodied nose, wide eyes, planted in wet grass and probably mildly concussed—sunghoon can’t think about any of that.

because, somehow, even like this, maybe even especially like this, he thinks you’re the prettiest person he’s ever seen.

which is horrifying.

sunghoon wants to dig a hole right then and there and crawl inside. maybe build a small underground home, maybe live out the rest of his days as a mole person.

“i—i’m so sorry. i swear, it was an accident—he—jay was supposed to catch it—”

that’s when jay conveniently shows up right behind him, a hand lifting up in betrayal, “bro, you looked away—”

“i was distracted—”

“by what?”

sunghoon freezes. his brain short-circuits, because the answer is, unfortunately, you.

he opens his mouth. freezes. clears his throat. tries again. “by…a…bird?”

you finally speak up from your spot on the ground, your head going back and forth at the two bickering guys through your watery eyes, “…a bird.”

“yeah,” sunghoon says, shrugging like this is an everyday conversation. “it was…really big.”

there’s a slight beat of silence where even jay looks like he feels pity for his best friend. then, you squint at him, tilting your head slightly.

“wait—” you start, voice still a little nasally. “you look familiar. have we met before?”

sunghoon stiffens. his entire life flashes before his eyes.

have you met before? god, please not the self-help book incident. or worse—not the person he accidentally waved to thinking it was someone he knew.

he feels his stomach drop. maybe it’s neither. maybe it’s both.

and maybe he should just crawl into the earth now and never come back up.

“that would be park sunghoon,” a new voice cuts in.

you turn your head towards the sound, relief instantly washing over your face when you see the tall boy approaching—baseball cap on backwards, plastic cup of boba in one hand, and a very mild look of concern on his face.

“jake.”

“y/n.” jake’s eyes flick to the scene in front of him: you, still clutching your nose; sunghoon, crouched nearby with a look only a guilty perpetrator could possess; and jay, standing behind him and sipping his coffee like he’s getting free entertainment (and he is).

“…i leave you alone for two minutes,” jake starts flatly, “and you’ve already managed to get injured by my friends.”

“accidentally injured,” jay corrects pointedly and very much unhelpfully.

jake ignores him. “he lives in our building, that’s probably where you’ve seen him.” he then gestures vaguely to both sunghoon and jay with the drink in his hand. “they both do. down the hall from us.”

he reaches down and helps you to your feet in one smooth pull, steadying you by the elbow before turning to the boys. “y/n, meet sunghoon and jay—two of my closest friends since high school, unfortunately. and also unfortunately, our neighbors.”

then he glances back at the pair, who now stand side by side in an awkward pose of guilt and discomfort. “and sunghoon and jay, meet y/n—my new roommate. remember? i told you guys she transferred here a few days ago. i was coming over to introduce you guys but…looks like you beat me to it.”

sunghoon makes a noise. not a normal human noise. a noise that lands somewhere between a startled choke, squeak, and what he thinks a goose being lightly stepped on would sound like. 

because no—he absolutely does not remember jake telling him this. because jake definitely mentioned it, but probably in the middle of a league match when sunghoon was functioning at ten percent brain capacity, half-listening while trying not to die in-game for the fifteenth time:

“new roommate, got it,” he had probably replied at the time, while actually registering none of it.

and now here you are. in front of him. because of course the universe would make you one of his closest friend’s roommate. of course the prettiest girl he’s ever accidentally assaulted with a football now lives ten doors down.

he hovers, like he wants to say something else—maybe something smooth so you think he’s charming, maybe an actual apology so you think he’s not an asshole with awful coordination. but his brain offers him nothing but static.

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. nothing.

he’s spiraling. he wants to evaporate. he wants to scream. but instead of doing any of these things, sunghoon does what any rational, socially competent person would do.

he sticks out his hand. straight. stiff. right in front of you. doesn’t say a word.

you blink. you glance down at it. then back up at him. you squint your eyes past the vision of your other hand still clutching your face, looking at him as if trying to puzzle something together. 

still, with your free hand, you eventually reach forward and give his a small, polite shake. his palm is warm, a little clammy, and you’re pretty sure you can feel him holding his breath the entire time. 

“nice to meet you, park sunghoon,” your voice small but with something else. 

the way his full name rolls off your tongue is smooth, deliberate. just on the edge of playful, but there’s something else beneath it. he can’t tell if it’s sarcasm or sincerity. maybe both. maybe you’re the kind of person who could ruin him with a smile and then apologize while doing it.

either way, it sticks. because it shouldn’t sound like that. like a challenge. like a secret he’s suddenly desperate to learn. and the worst part of it all? he likes it.

and for a second, everything else is tuned out—the sound of the commotion around campus, the breeze rustling the leaves around him, even jay’s straw scraping against the remaining ice in his cup—all sunghoon can focus on is the faint curve of your lips when you say his name. it hits him somewhere low in his gut. strange and foreign and sweet. sweet in a way that could be addicting if sunghoon isn’t careful.

and honestly, he’s not good with things that make him feel like this. because, sunghoon? sunghoon is far from careful. he’s clumsy in life—can’t keep his balance, can’t hold his composure, can’t even throw a football without committing mild assault.

and now he can’t think straight either.

“—and jay,” you nod towards jay, who lifts his now empty coffee cup in a small wave, “but i think i should probably go to the clinic or something.”

jake nudges you gently, which snaps sunghoon out of whatever trance he was sinking into, “yeah. let’s get you checked out before you lose your nose.”

and because sunghoon is sunghoon and definitely not a rational, socially competent person—the best he could manage is a crooked, lopsided smile and a stiff little wave as you turn to go.

you start walking, jake talking quietly beside you, but before you’re too far away, you glance back over your shoulder. and it’s quick, half a second at most—but sunghoons catches it.

a faint smile. the faintest. and he can’t tell if it’s teasing, curious, or dangerous. maybe all three.

either way, it stays with him and he freezes, watching you disappear around the corner, his heartbeat now annoyingly loud in his chest. and he doesn’t know what to think of it. because, again, sunghoon’s luck with girls isn’t terrible…technically. he just doesn’t think he’s ever felt this before. but, to be fair, it’s not everyday you accidentally potentially break the nose of the prettiest-girl-you’ve-seen-turned-neighbor before.

“that…was amazing.” jay breaks sunghoon out of his mental spiral, nudging sunghoon’s arm with his own elbow, smirking.

sunghoon doesn’t answer. he’s too busy replaying every second in his head—the way your hand felt, the way you said his name, the way you threw that half-smile over your shoulder.

and somehow, some way, sunghoon’s wonderfully boring day had accidentally become something else entirely.

and that was the first time park sunghoon sees you.

the second time he sees you, he almost forgets about the entire football fiasco, honestly.

not because it’s anything personal against you. god, no.

but because he remembers something his therapist once said. something about how, apparently, if a memory is painful enough, sometimes the best thing to do is just…repress it. file it away. pretend it never happened altogether.

which, in hindsight, is probably, most definitely, not the best way to handle one’s crippling emotions. especially not crippling emotions involving a girl who looks like the kind of person that keeps you up at night after only exchanging a solid ten (10) words.

but to be fair, sunghoon’s therapist is also a twenty-something year old business major who listens to ‘character development’ podcasts every morning and calls it experience.

so yeah. his therapist is jay park.

which explains why the memory of meeting you now lives in the deepest and darkest corners of sunghoon’s mind—right between the mascot-tripping incident and the little league baseball trauma.

but again—sunghoon has the chronic inability to say no. especially to jay. and you’d think, after years of friendship, he’d know better.

he does not.

which is how he ends up here—standing in the middle of a frat house that’s definitely seen better days, clutching a red solo cup filled with what jay insists is just ginger ale, and silently wondering how to sneak out without anyone noticing.

because parties were never really sunghoon’s thing.

not only because he’s a self-proclaimed introvert. but because they usually involve three things: 1) loud music that usually consists of mediocre 2000s pop songs all mashed up together by a frat brother whose side gig is dj-ing, 2) sticky floors from mysterious substances that he refuses to think about, and 3) some guy named ni-ki who, for reasons unknown to science, keeps losing his left shoe at every function and makes it everyone else’s problem.

or all of the above. usually all of the above.

but now sunghoon’s too many sips deep into his maybe-not-ginger-ale mystery drink, with the floorboards vibrating underneath him, and the crowd of bodies around him moving in an off-beat rhythm to some one direction song.

he also thinks the room might be spinning, but he’s not sure if that’s from the strobing lights flickering across the ceiling or because he accidentally downed half of whatever this drink actually is. he should probably stop. he should definitely stop.

but before he can even gather his thoughts to make any semi-rational decision a semi-drunk person could make, jay shows up and slaps him on the shoulder with the force of a man who’s had one too many more than sunghoon has.

“dude,” jay shouts over the music, leaning in and nodding his head toward the other end of the room. “don’t look now, but—”

which is precisely the kind of sentence that makes sunghoon immediately look now.

and there you are.

you’re across the room, leaning casually against the wall, laughing at whatever jake just said beside you. your head’s tilted back, cup in hand, a strand of hair falling over your face, and sunghoon nearly forgets to breathe.

and you’re wearing exactly what’s going to keep him up tonight. and so, of course, he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

sunghoon’s pretty sure the air conditioning in this place stopped working about an hour ago, but the room suddenly feels suffocating, sweat prickling at the back of his neck and the crowd blurs into a backdrop, the music fading to a distance. all he can see is the curve of your mouth when you laugh—fully, invitingly, the kind that pulls a low heat to his gut—and the way your fingers twist a loose strand of hair absentmindedly, completely unaware of how it draws him in.

it’s not fair. you’re supposed to be a one-time occurrence. the one-time girl he accidentally maimed with a football and might awkwardly bump into while checking mail or when he comes over to visit jake—not someone who looks like she belongs in every dream he’s going to have for the next six months.

and sunghoon hasn’t even had a real first kiss, technically—unless you count that tragedy of spin-the-bottle in the tenth grade where he accidentally bit a girl’s lip and left her mortified and bloody—but all of the sudden, his mind floods with foreign, forbidden thoughts he really shouldn’t entertain. thoughts of closing the distance, backing you against that wall, his hands on your waist, how your lips would part under his, the faint taste of whatever you’re drinking mixing with his, your laughter turning into something heavier, needier. the way your body might arch into him, the soft gasps you’d make if his mouth trailed lower—god, it’s wrong, it’s too much, and sunghoon tries his hardest to veer his thoughts elsewhere. 

but because sunghoon is everything except subtle, jay follows his line of sight and smirks immediately.

“oh god,” jay warns, but the intrigued look on his face says otherwise. “you’re thinking about going over there, aren’t you?”

sunghoon freezes before subtly rolling his eyes, running a hand through his hair, “i just—i should apologize. right? like, properly. you know, be mature about it.”

jay gives a look despite the a playful tone in his slurred voice, “i’m just saying. she might walk away with a new broken bone if you do.”

sunghoon exhales, straightens up, takes a gulp of his drink and coughs from the burn—yeah, definitely not ginger ale. “statistically, lightning can’t strike twice.”

jay blinks. “how the hell are you quoting statistics while drunk?”

“because i’m not,” sunghoon says pointedly, slapping his own cheek once as if that’ll magically sober him up. and he thinks he’s at least…fifty percent sober. hopefully. “see? totally fine.”

he doesn’t stick around to hear whatever jay’s response is—because the second he notices jake disappearing into the kitchen, he’s already weaving through the crowd, heart pounding, brain screaming at him to turn around, and feet doing exactly the opposite.

you notice him before he even reaches you. there’s a flicker of surprise on your face, but it fades just as quickly—shifting into something that looks like amusement. like you were expecting this. like you’d been waiting for him to show up eventually.

“the park sunghoon,” you say once he’s close enough to hear you over the music. and when he is, the space between you feels heavy—maybe it’s from the heat of the room, maybe from the scent of alcohol and sweat. maybe from something else entirely. “i didn’t take you as a party person.”

sunghoon freezes mid-step.

because he thought he knew what he was going to say to you once he got here. maybe something clever, maybe something smooth. but your tone—the teasing ease of it, the way his name sounds in your mouth—it throws him off completely.

his fingers tighten around his cup and he takes another sip, pretending to look casual and not because he suddenly has no idea what to do with his hands. then he lets out a laugh—nervous, stupid, a little too loud.

“i’m usually not,” he manages, trying to sound smooth as he leans a shoulder against the wall beside you. “but jay can be persuasive.”

a small smirk plays at the corner of your lips. “mmm. and the drink?”

sunghoon follows your gaze down to the red solo cup in his hand.

“jay told me it was ginger ale.”

you don’t say anything for a second. then, you let out another hum, reaching out before he can react and taking the cup straight from his hands.

you take a slow sip, your eyes trained on his own over the rim of his cup. it’s deliberate. it’s long. it’s dangerous. and he feels every. second. of it.

you lower the cup, swallow, then make a face. “yeah. definitely not ginger ale.”

sunghoon laughs, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, figures.”

a teasing smile tugs at your lips, “do you do everything jay tells you to?”

his eyes widen immediately. “what? no! no—no, definitely not.”

“uh huh,” you glance past him to where jay’s pretending not to watch the two of you from across the room. very badly. “did he tell you to come over here?”

sunghoon turns, spots jay’s unsubtle wave, and groans. “no, actually. i came over all on my own, i’ll have you know.”

“oh yeah?” you tilt your head, stepping just a little closer—close enough for him to catch the faint citrus of your perfume. “and why’s that, sunghoon?”

he opens his mouth, ready with something about apologizing again, but the words stall.

because here you are. up close. and you’re a little overwhelming—eyes steady, posture loose, smile daring. he thinks he can feel his pulse in his ears.

“because…uh—” sunghoon stops, clears his throat, then smirks, trying to look steadier than his heart feels. “i figured if i’m gonna cause another accident tonight, i should probably make sure it’s worth it.”

you laugh, and he swears it’s louder than the music, “smooth recovery.”

“i’m a fast learner.”

“from jay?”

he grins. “definitely not.”

and the way you smile at that—the slow, curious curve of it—makes him realize he’s in trouble. the kind of trouble he doesn’t exactly want to walk away from.

there’s a beat where neither of you say anything. the music continues to thump all around him, the lights flash across your face in a dizzy rhythm that makes sunghoon’s stomach flip, and you’re standing close enough now that he can smell the faint scent of your citrus perfume and feel the heat from your arm whenever you shift slightly closer to hear him over the music.

and god, it’s suddenly very, very hard to think straight again.

he clears his throat. “anyway. i, uh—i wanted to apologize too. properly, you know. for your nose. for ruining your face—i mean, not that your face is ruined! it’s a great face. a perfect face. or, maybe not perfect-perfect, but y’know, structurally sound—”

sunghoon stops. he thinks he’s never hated himself, alcohol, and maybe a little bit of jay more than he does in this moment.

you stare at him for a long second, lips pressed together like you’re biting back a laugh. then, slowly, the teasing smirk on your face softens into something warmer, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“sunghoon,” you say, his name coming out softer this time. “how about we just start over?”

the noise of the party tunes out again. it’s like the world narrowed down to just you, him, and the faint sound of ‘has anyone seen my left shoe?’ somewhere in the background.

“yeah,” sunghoon nods a little, nervous and hopeful all at once, his mouth twitching into an awkward smile. “yeah, i’d really like that.”

and then the conversation lulls into something easy after that. something comfortable. he manages to land a joke that makes you laugh, he learns your major, how you ended up as jake’s roommate—which spirals into a story about being cousins with his last roommate, lee heeseung, who graduated last semester and now moved onto bigger and better things in the adult world. and by bigger and better, we mean he graduated with a biology degree but now works for a music label and spends all his time obsessing over his co-worker-turned-girlfriend.

and everything feels good. it’s casual. it’s normal.

sunghoon feels like he’s floating—like he’s actually managing to exist around you without saying anything stupid about bones or noses or facial structures.

everything is just fine.

until it suddenly isn’t.

because when you turn away to refill your cup, sunghoon straightens up from the wall and blinks. once, twice. the lights all smear together in red and gold and blue. the floor tilts, or maybe he does. either way, his vision sways, just a little, and he can feel his pulse pounding in his head.

and that’s when it hits him. 

oh. oh no.

sunghoon is drunk.

the realization hits him at the same moment you turn back towards him.

your hair catches the light as you move, and your lips part—he can see you saying something, your mouth forming the beginning of a smile—but all sunghoon can focus on is trying his very best to look composed. his fingers dig into the side of the table next to him, the room ripples, the floor hums under his feet.

he blinks hard. again. and again, like that’s somehow going to stop the slow spin that’s started in his vision. it doesn’t. his heartbeat trips over itself. there’s too much heat in the room, too much sound pressing at the back of his skull, too much you in front of him.

“would you want to—i don’t know, maybe one day—”

sunghoon doesn’t hear the rest of your sentence. because suddenly his entire body stiffens. the nausea rises sharp and fast, his breath catches, and his face drops. and you barely have a second to register his expression before he’s leaning forward when—

it happens.

the end to park sunghoon’s dignity.

the music doesn’t stop. the lights don’t even flicker. but for sunghoon, the world falls completely silent as he realizes, in a slow motion way that only seem to exist in horror movies, that he’s just thrown up all over your shoes.

you stare down at your shoes, blinking.

sunghoon stares down at your shoes, horrified.

the silence between you stretches, thick and terrible. somewhere in the background, one direction is still playing, jay is shaking his head in a kind of not-surprised disappointment, and someone trips over a single, abandoned left shoe.

“oh my god,” sunghoon whispers, voice small and hoarse as he stares at the pile of him now covering your shoes. “oh my god.”

he then looks up at you, all glassy-eyed and pale, half-drunk but one hundred percent mortified, “i am so sorry—i swear, i didn’t—your shoes—”

you look down at your shoes again, then back at him, and then close your eyes slowly, not saying anything.

“—i promise i’m not like this normally,” he blurts out, words slurring together. “i—oh my god, i’m so sorry—”

sunghoon sways slightly where he stands, still holding the table for balance, his face stuck in the kind of panic that belongs to someone who’s guilty.

jake appears just in time, two cups in hand, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees the scene in front of him.

“…what the hell,” jake says flatly, eyes darting between you, your shoes, and the man responsible.

and sunghoon can’t even look up. his hand is still clamped over his mouth, palm slightly damp, stomach twisting, throat burning, and mind praying that everyone else around them is drunk enough to ignore the situation.

he risks a glance. immediate regret.

your shoes, the mess, the smell, the whole awful, lingering reality of what he’s done. the sight alone is enough to make sunghoon sway again. his brain, fuzzy and slow, still tries to find the words to form an apology that’s at least fifty percent not pathetic.

you then inhale. “yeah,” you say finally, your voice weirdly calm for someone whose shoes had just been absolutely ruined. “i…i think i’m just gonna go home.”

your voice is quiet, barely above the music, but somehow, it cuts through everything. the pounding bass. the off key singing of the crowd. the ringing in sunghoon’s ears. it’s all he can hear.

jake sighs, glancing between the two of you. “yeah. yeah, that’s probably smart. let’s go.”

he gives sunghoon a pitying look—the kind you give a guy when you’re stuck in between both sides of a battle—before turning to guide you toward the door.

sunghoon still doesn’t move. he just stands there, stuck, heartbeat hammering behind his ribs, in his head, everywhere. his mouth opens like he might say something—apologize again, call out your name, beg the floor to swallow him whole. but nothing comes out.

so he just watches. watches the back of your head disappear into the crowd. watches jake’s hand settle lightly on your shoulder. watches the door close behind you.

he exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face when jay appears beside him. he’s holding a now half-empty cup, the look on his face somewhere between pity and amusement.

“…i told you you were drunk.”

sunghoon pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut, “jay.”

“yeah?”

“shut up.”

jay doesn’t. instead, he hums, “and i told you not to come over.”

sunghoon thunks his head against the wall behind him, “jay.”

“yeah?”

“please stop talking.”

and that was the second time park sunghoon sees you.

the next and third time sunghoon sees you, he knows it’s coming.

sunghoon knew he was going to see you because he’s an observant guy. yes, he sits in the back of class and only speaks when spoken to, but he notices the little things.

like how the guy two seats to his left keeps a family-sized bag of hot cheetos inside his backpack and thinks no one notices. or how the girl in the third row plays papa’s freezeria on her laptop every single lecture, unbothered by the fact that the professor is talking about reaction mechanisms right in front of her.

and how the new girl—the pretty one who showed up one random day with the shiny hair and the voice that always knows the right answers—always gets there five minutes early and sits in the first row. aka, you.

sunghoon has always noticed you.

so yeah, he knew he was going to see you today. chemistry lab is predictable like that. but he didn’t think it was going to be like this—you coming in late, hair slightly frazzled but still somehow shiny, breath just a little uneven from probably speed walking across campus, cheeks warm with the rush of someone running late, eyes scanning the room for an open seat.

because you are never late. but the universe has a weird sense of humor sometimes. and today, it decided to silence your morning alarm all on its own (you smacked it in your sleep and gave yourself twenty-too-many-minutes of snooze time), cut off your shower halfway through rinsing out your conditioner, and let the vending machine eat your last dollar without giving you your granola bar.

so the sight of you hesitating in the doorway makes the entire energy of the room shift just a little for sunghoon. he watches you mumble a quiet apology to your professor before your eyes quickly scan the room for an empty seat. and then his heart stalls for one horrifying second.

because he swears he can hear the universe laughing. laughing at the fact that the only seat available in the entire room…just so happens to be the one next to park sunghoon.

sunghoon, who immediately pretends to be incredibly invested in the periodic table projected on the side wall.

sunghoon, who is currently praying that someone will miraculously volunteer as tribute and take the empty chair beside him out of nowhere. no one does.

sunghoon, who tries his very best to quietly will himself invisible (he has never succeeded at this before. he does not succeed now).

your eyes land on the seat. then on him. and your expression does this tiny thing—something between oh! and oh…and something else that sunghoon cannot, and probably should not, interpret for the sake of his emotional stability.

then, with a small flash of hesitation and what seems like acceptance, you make your way over.

“hey…sunghoon,” you say, voice soft but steady as you pull out the chair.

sunghoon turns his head just slightly, offering you a nervous half smile that feels about three seconds away from collapsing into a full panic.

“hey,” he manages, voice a little too quiet, a little too soft. you slide into the seat, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and the faint citrus scent of you hits him like déjà vu and disaster rolled into one. and because it completely throws him off, he doesn’t even realize what he says next until the words are already out, “so how was your weekend?”

and then he freezes.

so do you. you are mid-bag-unzip. there is a soft still in the air as his words hang in between you two. how was your weekend.

the weekend where he vomited all over you.

sunghoon looks away and mentally slams his head into the table. maybe you didn’t hear him. or maybe he’s hallucinating and didn’t actually say that. or maybe he did actually say that and you’ll pretend it didn’t happen out of pity for him.

none of that happens.

because, eventually, you turn to him fully, a small smile on your face as you casually shrug, “oh, it was good!”

sunghoon stops for a second. he stares. okay. okay, good. maybe we’re safe. maybe this is forgiveness, maybe this is grace.

“—until i had to throw away my favorite pair of shoes.”

and there. it. is.

sunghoon thinks he dies. just a little. or a lot, internally. his eyes shut, his fingers gripping the pen in his hand so hard he swears the plastic actually creaks.

“yeah, um. that’s…fair,” he says back, but it comes out more like a croak. “listen, i’m really—”

“it’s really okay, sunghoon,” your voice interrupts as you tap your pen on the notebook, the tone light and casual and teasing—not at all the sound of someone who recently got assaulted by the same guy twice in the past week. “i mean, i think you just really owe me now, though.”

sunghoon’s eyes snap open. he glances over to look you and—

you don’t look mad. you don’t sound mad. if anything, you look…amused, really. and the tilt in your voice just now sounded almost fond, even. which is objectively worse for sunghoon’s emotional well-being.

sunghoon tries to speak. tries to be cool, collected, charming, normal. tries to ignore the fact that the pretty new girl with shiny hair that usually sits five rows ahead of him is currently still talking to him after he messed up with her twice.

“i—yeah—yes. absolutely. i will. i promise—”

and sunghoon literally does not know what he’s promising, nor does his mind give him the chance to find the words before the professor’s voice cuts through the room, “alright everyone. today’s experiment will be done in pairs. your partner will be the person you’re currently sharing a lab bench with.”

there’s a beat of silence.

because, again, the universe has a very weird sense of humor.

then, a soft inhale. and sunghoon isn’t even entirely sure if it came from him or from you. could be both.

“…so,” you start, turning slightly toward him just enough that your shoulder brushes his, “lab partners?”

and approximately within the next two seconds, park sunghoon goes through all five stages of grief:

denial — no. surely not. she means across the lab bench. diagonally. someone else. fate would never be this cruel to me.

anger — this is jay’s fault. it’s always jay’s fault. why did he convince me to go to that party. why does alcohol exist. this is all jay’s fault.

bargaining — if the universe lets me get through this without causing any physical harm, i will donate to charity. i will recycle properly. i will stop ignoring mom’s text messages. 

depression — i am going to die. right here. in a room that smells faintly of citrus (you), acetone (lab), and sweat (me).

acceptance — okay. okay. we got this. we persevere.

sunghoon swallows. clears his throat, once, then twice. but his voice still cracks like a thirteen year old boy when he turns to you, “lab partners.”

you give a small smile. it’s not mocking, it’s not pitying. just…warm. like you know exactly how nervous he is. like you know how sorry he is. like you aren’t holding the past two disasters against him at all. and sunghoon will take it. he’ll take whatever he can get.

you both stand and begin gathering equipment from the front bench—beakers, pipettes, safety goggles that look like they were designed by someone who has never seen a human face in their entire life.

so when sunghoon returns to the table and tries to put them on, it’s all a tragic scene—the strap catches, the goggles twist, his hair gets stuck. and through it all, you watch with a smile playing at your lips, but you don’t laugh. instead, you step closer, simply tilting your head.

“here,” you murmur, your voice gentle in a way that makes something inside sunghoon want to claw at his own skin. your hands lift, slow and careful, fingers sliding lightly into his hair as you adjust the straps behind his head.

“bend down a bit,” you say, struggling to reach his height, and sunghoon does what he’s told. you finish adjusting the goggles, smoothing down a strand of hair near his temple before your fingers linger for a brief second. the moment is light. short. harmless. but still long enough for sunghoon.

“thanks,” he says in a voice that isn’t really a voice. it’s low and careful, like if he speaks too loud the moment will shatter.

because you’re still close. close enough that he can feel your own warmth. close enough that if he tilted his head forward just a fraction, his lips would be right near your own. and he is trying so hard not to focus on that. he miserably fails.

all he can focus on is your breathing—soft and a little uneven, like you’re not totally unaffected either, which would be insane, because this is you and this is him and the universe should not allow him to have this much hope. that would be cruel.

but then your eyes flick up to meet his, and the world gets quiet for a second, like someone hit pause on everything except the two of you.

sunghoon swallows hard. his eyes dart elsewhere, anywhere, but then it hits him.

it hits him abruptly and mortifyingly, with the force of a preteen revelation:

there’s the subtle sheen of sweat tracing the line of your collarbone, where the lab’s humid heat has your skin glistening just enough to draw his eye to the hollow of your throat, where you’re wearing the tiniest necklace he has ever seen in his life.

and somehow that is the most scandalous thing he has ever encountered.

because it sits there, tiny and delicate and soft—and he thinks back to the way you spoke to him at the party. the way your eyes didn’t back down from his, the way his name sounded from your mouth the first time he met you. like you knew exactly what you were doing. 

you are everything but delicate. and something about that contrast, the softness laced with boldness, the gentle curve edged with something sharp—makes something in sunghoon go frighteningly, beautifully still. because sunghoon realizes he want more.

and not just in that casual, lab-partner-who-lives-ten-doors-down-and-occasionally-asks-to-borrow-sugar way. but in the remember-your-favorite-snack-and-stock-the-pantry-with-it, memorize-your-handwriting, learn-your-schedule-by-heart, hold-your-face-in-my-hands-and-finally-know-what-you-taste-like kind of way. the kind where he’d trace the line of your jaw just to feel your pulse quicken under his touch, where late-night texts turn into confessions whispered into the dark, where the world narrows to just the heat of your breath mingling with his, close enough that one right move could unravel everything else.

park sunghoon is 22 years old but his brain reacts to this realization like he is eleven, standing at the edge of the community pool and realizing that girls have collarbones and the world will never, ever be the same. his ears go hot. his heart beats faster. he looks away.

“no problem,” you clear your throat, stepping back, smoothing down your skirt with your palms. your voice is light again, controlled. but there’s a little curve at the corner of your mouth—like you know.

and somehow, everything after that falls into a quiet, simple, routine. because, in theory, the experiment is simple. measure, mix, heat, observe. nothing that a normal college student with half a functioning brain shouldn’t be able to handle.

which is precisely the issue. because the second sunghoon thinks he’s in the clear, the second sunghoon thinks he can maybe, possibly, start a normal conversation with you, maybe even pretend like the past two incidents never even happened—

you lean slightly over the lab bench, shifting slightly when the edge of your sweater brushes against his wrist. and that’s all it takes.

sunghoon forgets everything he just told himself.

“okay,” you tap your fingers playfully against the table. “we just need ten millimeters of solution A.”

“right,” sunghoon says, nodding immediately.

sunghoon says this with confidence.

sunghoon does not know what solution A is.

his hands are still steady though, surprisingly. he reaches for a beaker, a dropper, a labeled bottle.

“careful,” you say softly, fingers brushing his wrist as you help guide the pipette from one bottle to the other. sunghoon tries to ignore it. he really, really tries. he then looks at you, and you’re already looking at him.

“you’re really focused,” you tease with a small smirk, an eyebrow lifting.

“yeah,” he says without thinking. but he’s focused on you. not the beaker. not the measurement. and most definitely not the very important instruction that says pour ten millimeters and not thirty.

so when he pours—it’s too much. way too much. there’s a hiss, a bubble, a foaming roar before sunghoon could stop it even if he wanted to.

“wait—no that’s too—” you start, but it’s too late. and all sunghoon can do is stand there, and watch. watch as the reaction is already shooting upward, a fountain of foaming mixed colors exploding straight into the air before dropping right back down and directly—

on you.

all over you. from your hair to your eyelashes to your lips to your sweater to the floor.

the entire room goes silent. sunghoon swears he can hear 1) the way the professor closes her eyes slowly, like she’s lived this exact nightmare seven semesters in a row, and 2) someone in the front of class whisper a small, “holy shit.”

and sunghoon is frozen in horror. completely, absolutely, done. wishing death upon himself. his soul leaves his body, watches from the ceiling, and considers not returning.

you blink. foam slides down your cheek in slow motion. “okay..,” you say, very calmly, as though you saw this coming from a mile away and yet still trying to process what happened. “..cool. of course.”

“i—i am so—” sunghoon’s voice breaks as he inhales a heavy breath, the words tumbling before he even knows what he’s apologizing for this time. the explosion? or maybe still the throw-up? the almost-broken-nose moment? “i don’t even know how that—”

you hold a hand up, stopping him mid-sentence. a blob of foam falls from your face.

“sunghoon,” you deadpan, eyes slowly opening. and your expression says it all—not annoyed, not surprised, not even disappointed. just the acceptance of fate. and sunghoon mentally accepts the fact that maybe he should not be allowed within ten feet of you.

“i know,” you sigh, voice strangely gentle for someone covered head to toe in chemicals and is the current center of attention in a room full of people, “and it’s okay.”

sunghoon squeezes his eyes shut. there is nothing he can say. no apology that will undo the last ten minutes, the last few days, the last entire week. no sentence in any human language that can fix this.

maybe this is punishment for that one time he ghosted a girl because she used too many laughing emojis. maybe this is karma coming back. maybe someone hired a witch to curse him. maybe it was jay. honestly, it was probably jay.

your voice breaks him out of his downwards spiral, “i think i need to…go wash this out.”

and because sunghoon is sunghoon and a man powered entirely of panic, impulse, and bad luck—he moves before he thinks. his hands are already tugging his own hoodie over his head, the hem catching awkwardly on his shirt, his hair going everywhere, and earbuds (why did he put his earbuds in his pocket) flying out and clattering to the floor.

but then he’s holding the hoodie out in front of him.

just…holding it. straight armed. eyes avoiding yours and trained on the material in front of him.

and you just stand there, foam still dripping, but now staring at the hoodie. then back at him.

“sunghoon—”

“just take it,” he blurts, his cheeks flushed pink and voice embarrassingly earnest. “please. before the chemicals…seep…or—spread? i don’t know—”

and sunghoon has no idea what happens when lab foam dries on skin. he just knows it sounds bad and cannot, and will not, be the reason you get third degree chemical burns.

but when you take the hoodie from his hands, a small thank you on your lips, you look at him with something soft, something understanding, something that looks real, and not tossed out of politeness or pity. something that makes sunghoon’s heart want to beat straight out of his ribcage.

and when you come back a few minutes after, sunghoon thinks he’s ready.

he is not ready.

because, see, sunghoon did not think ahead (he has never once thought ahead, historically speaking), and therefore he did not anticipate the sheer consequences of his own actions playing out. of him handing you his hoodie. of you actually wearing his hoodie.

but there you are.

and it swallows you whole. the sleeves bunched slightly at your wrists so they don’t slip past your fingers. the hem hits right at the end of your skirt. the collar sits a little wide and off-center because the hoodie is well-loved, and because sunghoon studies in it, because he sleeps in it, and because he chews on the drawstring when he’s stressed—so one string is short and the other is stupidly long, uneven in the exact way only his hoodie is uneven.

your hair is pulled up now, strands slightly damp from the sink, your cheeks pink from your attempt of scrubbing mysterious chemicals off, and you look like you belong in it.

sunghoon’s body has a reaction that can only be described as malfunctioning. his breath catches in his throat, his pulse jumps, and that foreign feeling of something coiling tight and low in his gut comes back, heating spreading uninvited, unwelcomed, but definitely undeniable. 

because you look good. and soft and warm and heartbreakingly casual. like you’ve worn his clothes a thousand times before. like you will wear his clothes a thousand more.

and definitely like something sunghoon could be stupid about for the rest of his life. like there is a universe—maybe just slightly left of this one—where this is normal. where you wash your face at his bathroom sink and steal his clothes on purpose and drink the orange juice from his fridge without asking.

and he would let you. every single time.

so yes, the third time sunghoon sees you—he knows it’s coming. he just didn’t expect to want it this time.

“so let me get this straight,” jay leans over the table with the wide eyes of someone who already heard the story (he did) and is simply here just to see his friend in agony (he is), “…you blew her up?”

sunghoon peers his eyes from across the courtyard table, nearly scoffing, “no, i didn’t blow y/n up.”

“so…you blew up all over her?”

sunghoon throws his hands up exasperatedly, gesturing to his still very intact self, “well, evidently not!”

“okay…so,” jay draws his voice out, slow and unimpressed, dragging the fork through his lunch, “…what did you blow up?”

“why—” sunghoon drags a hand down his face, “—is everyone saying i blew something up?”

jay looks straight at him, chews on his pasta, and does not answer. instead, he pulls out his phone.

“because,” he scrolls through the screen once before turning the screen up to sunghoon, “of this text i got from jake saying ‘sunghoon blew up y/n. eye roll emoji.’”

sunghoon stares. blinks, then stares again.

traitor.

“i blew up our science experiment,” sunghoon mutters through a sigh, pinching his nose like the memory physically hurts him. “all. over. her.”

jay pauses mid-bite. lets it sink in. then—

“oh god,” he bursts into full laughter, “all over her?”

sunghoon ignores him. rolls his eyes.

“jay, it was so bad,” he groans, burying his face into both hands now. “i don’t even know what happened. she was so close to me and her hand brushed mine and it’s like my brain just—” he then looks up and claps his hands together dramatically. “—stopped.”

jay doesn’t say anything.

sunghoon, however and unfortunately, continues.

“and then it gets worse, jay.”

there’s a long beat. jay gives sunghoon a look that tells him there’s no possible way it could get worse. but, once again, because the universe has a weird sense of humor, sunghoon’s existence is living proof that it always will get worse.

jay takes another bite before he nods solemnly, as if gearing up for what’s coming. “alright, lay it on me. what’s next, what else could possibly have happ—”

but jay doesn’t finish.

because at that exact moment—you walk into the courtyard. hair still pulled into a loose ponytail, the sunlight catching in your face like the sun only came out today to make sure you’re seen by the rest of the world, a smile on your face as you walk besides jake.

but none of that matters.

because you’re still wearing sunghoon’s hoodie. his hoodie. and he can’t take his eyes off you. you look like you got dressed in his bedroom. you look like you belong in his bedroom.

sunghoon stops breathing. from beside him, jay also freezes.

“…isn’t that…your hoodie?” his chewing slows down to a a stop, voice going flat. then, just for dramatic effect, “…on y/n?”

sunghoon does not look away. in fact, he’s full on staring. stares like a man witnessing both the holiest and worst moment of his entire life.

“that, jay—” sunghoon says, voice low, hollow, and utterly destroyed, “—is exactly how it gets worse.”

jay looks at you—completely swallowed by the hoodie, laughing lightly at something jake says, fingers tugging absentmindedly at the drawstring.

he looks back at sunghoon and squints.

“…this is bad,” jay starts slowly, nodding as if he totally knows what’s going on but definitely doesn’t, “because…?”

sunghoon turns to him with a look, “BECAUSE, JAY. SHE’S WEARING MY HOODIE. and it makes me—” he gestures weakly, helplessly, and vaguely to himself— “feel things.”

and that’s when jay sets down his fork very gently, the realization hitting him in real time, “oh my god, you like her.”

sunghoon doesn’t respond. he just closes his eyes, inhaling slowly, trying to remember the exact breathing pattern his therapist (again, jay) recommended for moments of emotional crisis (four counts in, six counts out, something like that)—which, by the way, he is strongly considering firing him now because none of his advice ever helps in the moment.

because yes. sunghoon does like you.

he likes you. he likes the way your laugh sounds just a little breathier when you’re trying to not show you think something is funny. he likes the way you talk like you’re choosing your words on purpose, but never too carefully. he likes that you didn’t freak out on him when he, multiple times, was the direct cause of your suffering. he likes the way you look at him like he’s not the complete wreck he is. he likes that you’re kind, but not in a soft, fragile way. kind like you’re aware and like you choose to be.

he likes you, and the only times he has ever interacted with you, he’s probably taken another two years off your lifespan.

sunghoon, by all known definitions, should never interact with you ever again.

“oh wow,” jay continues, laughing now, breathless, delighted, and the worst therapist-slash-best-friend in the world. “no, dude. you totally do. you have a crush on the girl you’re, like—” he holds his fingers up half an inch apart, “—this close to actually killing.”

sunghoon slams his palm on the table and immediately regrets it because it rattles and now people are looking, “shut up, jay.”

jay raises both his hands in surrender, but the smirk on his face says he’s not surrendering at all.

“no, like—think about it,” he presses, leaning in closer. “that’s probably why you keep messing up. you’re nervous around her. like, elementary playground crush behavior. you’re basically pulling her pigtails.”

sunghoon stares at him, horrified. “jay. let’s not compare this to elementary school kids please.”

jay shrugs, picking his fork back up and goes back to twirling his pasta like this is a regular tuesday and not a life-changing-revelation for sunghoon.

“whatever,” sunghoon continues, voice deflated, shoulders sinking, “it doesn’t matter anyway. it’s not like she feels the same way. especially after i—” he pauses and gestures vaguely to the lingering memory of disasters that has defined his existence lately. “all of that.”

he doesn’t specify which disaster. he doesn’t need to. jay knows. you know. the world knows. God definitely knows.

sunghoon rubs a hand over his face, voice growing quieter, smaller. “i should just stop. stop talking to her. stop trying. just…distance myself or something.”

that’s when jay’s fork freezes mid-air. he sets it down and looks at sunghoon like he just suggested he run off to the mountains and join a cult.

“okay. woah. relax, drama queen. absolutely not.”

sunghoon blinks. jay picks his fork back up and points it at him with the authority of something who has never once been correct but speaks confidently anyway.

“first of all, please never say the words distance myself ever again. you sound like an awful romance-novel-series-turned-movie-franchise.”

sunghoon glares weakly from across the table. “i’m being serious, jay. she probably hates me. or worse—” he has to swallow because the next words taste bitter, like something he never wanted to even consider but could be highly likely, “—she’s probably, like, i don’t know—into jake. or something.”

and jay actually physically recoils. his whole upper body leans backwards like someone just threw a raw fish at him and he has to grab the edge of the table to prevent himself from falling back.

he then furrows his brows at sunghoon, eyes squinting, “you’re joking, right?”

sunghoon doesn’t answer. because he is, surely, not joking.

jay looks over his shoulder to where you’re standing across the courtyard—still smiling, hair still catching sunlight, still wearing sunghoon’s hoodie—then looks back at sunghoon with the expression of someone witnessing unprecedented levels of stupidity.

“sunghoon,” he says carefully, slowly, “y/n looks like the kind of person who probably color codes her google calendar and knows the exact expiration date of every condiment in her fridge. and jake—” his thumb points vaguely behind him, “—jake once microwaved a fork because he thought it would make his food taste warmer. the entire reason why we don’t live with him.”

sunghoon just stares. jay nods to himself, like there’s no possible argument to this. “trust me. i don’t think y/n would want to choose that life.”

sunghoon opens his mouth to argue—because at least warmer meals by microwaved-metal sound better than an almost broken nose by football—but then his gaze flicks over jay’s shoulder.

“jay. stop. talking.”

and jay isn’t even talking anymore, but he shuts his mouth anyways. he goes still. sunghoon goes still. then, sunghoon’s eyes widen a fraction, the smallest warning signal.

because you’re coming over. you’re walking across the courtyard next to jake, food in hand, and waving over at the two boys, completely unaware of the quarter-life-crisis occurring only a few feet away.

sunghoon keeps his face still, but his posture changes slightly. he pulls his shoulders back, takes a deep breath, straightens out the water bottle sitting in front of him for absolutely no reason.

“hey,” jake calls out, slapping jay lightly on the back as he drops into the seat next to him, “mind if we join?”

you’re already sliding into the empty spot next to sunghoon, easy, natural, like it’s just what you do. like this is normal. like sitting beside him is just…your place.

“’course not,” sunghoon mutters, politely, evenly, eyes fixed on absolutely anything else that isn’t you. the water bottle, the condensation, the way the light hits the plastic. fascinating stuff, really.

you shift, just a little—knees angled toward him, shoulder brushing close enough that he can feel your warmth, not touching, but enough to notice the space between you.

“hey,” you say. it’s small, soft, casual. it’s nothing dramatic, but yet, sunghoon feels it like someone tugged a string from somewhere deep within his ribs.

he doesn’t look up, just nods.

“hey.” it’s neutral, nothing to analyze, nothing to misunderstand.

if you’re weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t think anything of it. but here’s the thing, you are paying attention. so you offer him a faint smile, the kind that’s quiet, doesn’t demand anything, just acknowledgement.

and sunghoon sees it. his chest goes painfully warm. because he wants to look back. wants to return it. wants to ask how are you in a way that means i’ve been thinking about you and not just saying it to make small talk.

he wants to tell you he keeps replaying the sound of your laugh in his head and wants to say something stupid and honest and reckless like i hope the hoodie’s okay. actually, please just keep it. forever. i don’t want it back.

but instead, he focuses harder on anything and everything else around him. the way jake’s enthusiastically talking to jay about something with his hands. the wrinkled label on the water bottle. jay’s pasta, now stale and definitely cold. everything he doesn’t care about. because, right now, looking at the one thing he does care about feels too dangerous for himself.

and you notice. not in the dramatic why-are-you-avoiding-me kind of way, but in the micro-shift in your posture. the way your smile lingers for half a second longer than it should, like you were waiting for something. the way your fingers tap the edge of the table a few times. the way you let out a small exhale through your nose.

“—thinking just something small at our apartment,” jake’s voice finally cuts in, bright and loud. he’s gesturing big enough to knock jay over if he wanted to. “drinks, music—maybe ni-ki can dj if he doesn’t lose his shoe again.”

jay groans. “one, he is not dj-ing. last time was a one direction blender remix from hell. and two, ni-ki will never not lose his shoe.”

you laugh at that, the sound light, amused, genuine. and sunghoon swears his chest has never felt more tight.

jake continues, eyes wide and excited, “anyways—you guys are coming. this weekend. both of you. no excuses.”

sunghoon nods once, quick and automatic. “yeah. sure.”

your head tilts at that, just slightly—a tiny furrow in your brow, like you can sense something in the air is different.

and sunghoon tries his best to pretend he doesn’t notice. tries to pretend that the sudden distance between you isn’t something he’s actively building with his own hands. but it feels awful.

because he knows what he’s doing. doing the exact thing jay told him not to do—the easy thing. pulling back, shrinking, playing it safe. as if safety has ever saved him from anything.

he swallows hard. his jaw clenches. the collar of his shirt suddenly feels too hot, too tight. but the conversation keeps moving around him anyways—jake rambling about playlists, jay complaining about how he’s going to be forced to help clean afterwards—voices blended together into one long, meaningless sound.

meanwhile, sunghoon is somewhere else entirely. somewhere between panic and longing and the quiet awareness of his own undoing. he finally risks a glance, quick and careful, but just enough to look at you. and you’re already looking back at jake now, laughing gently, the kind that sunghoon could definitely get used to, but—

your fingers still tap against the table. your leg bounces next to his, as if in anticipation, as if aware.

and sunghoon’s chest aches in a way he can’t explain. not to himself. and definitely not to you.

the next time sunghoon sees you, he swears it’s not his fault.

at least, he’d like to think so. but statistically speaking—and sunghoon knows his statistics—it probably was his fault anyways.

the parking lot is nearly empty, close to sunset hour—that small time in between where the sky is barely turning colors and everything looks a little softer around the edges, the campus quieting down in the way it only is when all classes have ended for the week and everyone’s going home.

sunghoon’s already halfway through the lot, keys dangling from hand, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. and he’s so close. dangerously, blissfully close to freedom. to going home, collapsing onto the couch, arguing with jay over takeout before inevitably eating cereal and playing league until his eyes dry out. so, yes, almost free.

almost able to pretend today didn’t happen. almost able to pretend he didn’t, once again, cause minor emotional and physical harm to the girl who has done nothing but exist and be moderately nice to him.

he unlocks his car, swings the back door open, tosses his backpack in with a soft thud. and then—he looks up.

and he sees you.

you’re a little ways across the lot—just far enough that sunghoon could pretend he didn’t notice you if he were a stronger man (he is not), but still close enough to see his hoodie’s sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a frown on your face as your phone is pressed to your ear, and the hood of your car propped open.

sunghoon watches as you pop your head back into your car and turn the key back into the ignition again and again and again—

to no avail. the car stays dead.

sunghoon hesitates. he internally debates. argues with himself for, like, three whole minutes.

he could leave. he could absolutely leave. you haven’t seen him yet. he could get in his car, drive away, go home, take a nice, warm shower even though it has weak water pressure, eat cereal over the sink, and pretend he never witnessed anything.

but instead, he stands there. like an idiot. staring across the parking lot with the look of someone who’s fighting with only himself.

don’t go. she definitely thinks you’re a curse.

go. she’s wearing your hoodie.

don’t go. what if you break the car somehow.

go. now. before she calls roadside assistance and meets a guy who’s better at life than you. or worse, jake.

don’t go. you’re supposed to be distancing. that’s the plan. that’s the safe thing. the smart thing, the—

you look up.

and when your eyes meet his, your expression softens, breaking into something comforting and relieved. like you’re glad to see him. you lift your hand and give a small wave.

and that’s it. that’s the end of sunghoon’s entire distancing plan.

he sighs.

fine. he is going.

he is a moth and you’re the closest open flame and he will simply have to deal with the consequences later.

his feet start to move before the rest of him agrees to it, shoulders stiff, posture trying very hard to look normal and calm and definitely not like he just had a full internal monologue breakdown. you give him a smile when he’s close enough—bright, easy, familiar, somehow—and sunghoon has to physically look away for a beat to reorient his mental wellbeing.

“car won’t start?” he says, even though he definitely already knows the answer.

you let out a breath, the sound coming out like a laugh as if the situation is somehow funny instead of deeply annoying. “yeah. i think the battery’s dead. or the universe hates me specifically. either one.”

sunghoon’s lips twitch because he’s sure if the universe hates anyone specifically, it’s him. “could be both.”

your smile widens as you look up at him, “definitely both.”

there’s a short pause that falls between you two for a second before you speak up again, “i tried calling the roadside people but it keeps going straight to voicemail, which feels pretty ironic.”

“i’m pretty sure roadside assistance is a scam anyways,” he says, shrugging as he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. “i think they just nap in trucks and hope people give up.”

you laugh at that, fully this time, and it’s even softer, warmer, like the joke wasn’t even that funny but you like the way he said it. and sunghoon is ridiculously glad his hands are in his pockets now, because his fingers twitch at the sound.

and park sunghoon is not a car guy. not even a little bit. he failed his driver’s license test twice. and not even the driving part—he failed the written part. both times. he still has to google which side his gas tank is on. and he’s pretty sure his car is two years due for an oil change.

so what he does next is absolutely logical, because sunghoon is not touching your car with a ten foot pole. what he does is what any rational, non-car expert, guy with a raging crush and a fully functioning car would do in this situation:

“do you…want a ride home?” he offers, though it comes out more like a question to himself.

your lips part just slightly. surprise flickers across your face—and then something else. something unreadable. something that feels like a soft yes. “really? you don’t mind?”

sunghoon nods—casual, casual, very casual—despite the fact that his heart is jumping around in his ribcage at the thought of you sitting in his passenger seat.

“i mean…” he clears his throat, eyes down to the ground just to avoid yours. “we literally live down the hall from one other. i wouldn’t exactly be able to sleep peacefully knowing you got stranded in a parking lot.”

your smile widens a bit more, real and grateful, as you fidget with the ends of the hoodie now. “okay,” you say. “yeah. i’d really appreciate that.”

and that’s how sunghoon finds himself walking you to his car—unlocking the passenger door for you like he was raised by parents who taught him manners (he was) and how to fall in love too fast (he does).

he gets in on his side, starts the car, and the radio is too loud, so he turns it down. then it’s too quiet, so he turns it up again. then regrets everything.

but he starts driving anyways, silence falling in between the two of you. he grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, and he clears his throat just to have something to do.

the engine hums, the sky slowly going from pink to orange around you two, but the one and only thing sunghoon can perceive is your presence in his hoodie in his car.

you look out the window, watching the campus buildings pass. “i always forget how pretty it gets around this time,” you murmur, suddenly breaking him out of his own thoughts.

sunghoon glances at you before focusing on the road again. “yeah,” he says, a little small. “it kind of sneaks up on you.”

you smile, not looking away from the window. and then suddenly, “you strike me as a sunset person.”

sunghoon stills and blinks, keeping his eyes trained on the road. “a what?”

“like…you seem like someone who appreciates that kind of stuff,” you explain, glancing slightly at him. “sunsets. late-night convenience store runs. peeling fruit the slow way. that kind of person.”

sunghoon opens his mouth. then closes it, because he does not know what to do with that sentence.

“i..i guess?” he tries, trying very hard not to panic at the idea of someone, namely you, having thoughts about him. “well, you seem like a…sunrise person.”

you turn to look at him fully now, and you laugh under your breath, “i’m definitely not a morning person.”

“no. not morning,” he says, shaking his head a little. he turns right at a stop sign, his hand loose on the wheel now, almost relaxed. almost. “just…the feeling of starting fresh.”

you don’t say anything right away. you just look at him, eyes trained to the side of his face, as if you’re trying to figure something out.

and sunghoon nearly drives into a parked prius, but he hopes you don’t notice that.

you look back out your window, but your smile stays, “that was weirdly poetic of you, park sunghoon.”

sunghoon swallows hard, but his grip loosens some more. the quiet settles again after that, but now it’s different. lighter, easier. you start talking about the small things, nothing earth-shattering, but something comfortable. something about the terrible on-campus breakfast, the vending machine that stole your dollar this morning, how jake broke your coffee machine after two uses. but the whole time—sunghoon can’t help but think.

think how maybe in another universe, this is normal.

maybe in another universe, you’re always in his passenger seat at the end of the day. maybe he drives you home not out of chance, but because it’s routine. because you’re just in each other’s lives. because this is what you do. because he knows what songs you like to play when you’re tired and which stores you stop at on the way home and how you hum when you think about what you want to eat for dinner.

maybe in another universe, he didn’t meet you by accidentally hitting you in the face with a football. maybe in that universe, he’s…normal. not whatever this is—this mess of nerves and second guesses and catastrophes that only ever seem to happen to him whenever he’s with you.

maybe in that universe, he meets you at one of jake’s parties he throws too often. maybe you’re laughing at something someone said, holding a red cup and leaning against the counter, and sunghoon sees you from across the room the way people see things they were always meant to find.

maybe he walks over—all steady and confident—and says something easy, something light, something that makes your smile bloom slowly and softly at him. not out of politeness, not out of pity because he threw up all over you. just because you want to.

maybe in that universe, he gets the girl. but this is not that universe.

and when the car rolls to a stop outside the building, sunghoon still finds himself walking you to your door.

because of course he does. because he wants to. because he doesn’t know how not to.

you stop in front of your apartment, keys already halfway in the door, and turn to him, meeting his eyes fully.

“thank you,” you say, and the look in your eyes is soft. honest. and something else, something sunghoon can’t quite place and, frankly, is afraid to. “for the ride—” and then you look down, fingers toying with the drawstring of the hoodie, like it means something you don’t have words for just yet, “—and the hoodie.”

and as sunghoon looks at you in the quiet of the hallway—just you, him, the flicker of the dying lightbulb a few doors down, and the pure warmth he feels around you—he thinks there’s a version of this moment where he says it all.

where he doesn’t swallow everything down, doesn’t mistake silence for safety. where he tells you he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the first time you laughed in his direction, that the sound of it still sits in his chest. where he admits that every stupid mistake, every clumsy accident, somehow only pulled him closer.

but instead, this version has him standing still, heart in his throat, pretending that wanting you quietly is the same as not wanting you at all.

so he just nods.

“yeah. of course.”

you smile one more time, soft and unsure, lingering just a beat too long—like you’re waiting for him to say something else, or maybe trying to find the courage to say something yourself.

but then you turn, hand halfway reaching to the door handle, and pause. your fingers hover mid-air. the hallway hums with nothing but silence and the heaviness of everything left unsaid between you two.

sunghoon straightens instinctively, caught off guard by the stillness that follows.

you turn back to him. “can i—” your voice comes quieter this time, hesitant in a new way he hasn’t heard before. “—can i ask you something?”

sunghoon blinks, his throat suddenly dry. “uh…yeah. of course. what’s up?”

“we’re cool, right?” you ask, eyes wide and searching his face. “like…we’re friends?”

and the words hit harder than they should. sunghoon does not know how to answer that. because how exactly does he even define what this is? a one-sided crush? forced proximity? neighbors-turned-accidental-victim-and-perpetrator-turned-friends?

“um—yeah,” he finally says, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “i’d say so.”

you study him for a long second, lips parting like you’re testing to see whether he’s lying. “okay. i just…didn’t know if i did something wrong. you seemed a little off earlier, at lunch.” and your laugh that follows is small, nervous, the kind people use to soften a truth. “and i overthink sometimes, so…yeah.”

sunghoon’s heart twists sharply at that. you, overthinking. you, worrying if you’d done something wrong when he’s the one building the wall between you.

“no,” he blurts before he can stop himself. it comes out too fast, too honest, but he keeps going anyways. “no, you didn’t do anything.” he clears his throat, a bubble of nerves rising too fast. “i just…wasn’t feeling great. long day, you know? classes and…exploding chemicals and stuff,” he exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching.

your shoulders relax, the worry written all over your face fading into something gentler and amused. “okay,” you say with a nod, your smile returning. “just wanted to make sure. friends, then?”

the word stings again, but sunghoon forces a smile anyways. “friends.”

you grin—wide and bright—and it makes something in his chest go weightless and heavy all at once. because, sunghoon realizes, not for the first time, this is what he likes about you, maybe. that you’re not all sharp edges and confidence like he thought. you’re also warmth and thoughtfulness and awkward timing, the kind of person who checks in even when you don’t have to. just because you want to, and just because you mean it.

“i’ll see you tomorrow then?” you say, hand going back to unlock your door. “at the party?”

sunghoon nods. “wouldn’t wanna miss it.”

you look back and smile at him one more time before slipping inside, the door closing gently behind you. sunghoon stands there for a moment, clinging to the warmth of your presence still in the air, lungs tight, and heart somewhere between the pavement of the parking lot and the memory of seeing you for the first time that day in the courtyard.

and he thinks—not for the first time, and definitely not for the last—

in this universe? he is truly, utterly, deeply doomed.

“so you’re really not coming?”

jay’s already standing by the door, shoes on, dressed in what he considers casual party attire, which means a wrinkled overshirt that might be clean, with a white shirt under that definitely isn’t, and jeans he absolutely pulled off the back of his desk chair. his keys jingle in his hand as he leans against the door frame, waiting for sunghoon to fold.

“yes, jay. i’m staying.” sunghoon doesn’t even look up from the couch, eyes trained on the random documentary that he found on the nature channel playing in front of him. “and frankly, you can’t make me go.”

jay lets out a huff. “jake could. and he will. we literally live ten feet away, he’ll drag you by your ankles if he has to.”

“then tell him i’m sick,” sunghoon mutters back, slouching deeper into the couch like he’s trying to merge with it. “like the flu or something.”

jay’s laugh that comes after is a loud, disbelieving, ha.

“that’s so bull. you only ever get sick for two reasons,” he holds up two fingers. “one, when you drink too much, and two, when you get that suspicious ass chinese takeout i keep telling you to stop ordering.”

sunghoon finally looks up from the tv to glare at him. for a second, it looks like he might get up—stand his ground, be a grown man, assert dominance or whatever the sunghoon equivalent is to that.

he doesn’t.

he just grabs the nearest couch pillow and launches it in jay’s direction with zero aim, zero strategy, and zero strength.

jay looks at the pillow. then at sunghoon. “wow,” he says flatly before tossing it back onto the far end of the couch.

“okay, fine,” jay continues, a mix of amusement and pity in his tone, “but you’re really gonna sit here on a saturday night—” he cranes his neck toward the tv, brows furrowing, “—watching a documentary about…dinosaur extinction?”

“dinosaurs are cool,” sunghoon says, eyes narrowing in defense. “plus, i’m tired.”

“no,” jay crosses his arms. “you’re lying.”

sunghoon then lets out a sigh through his nose, because—yeah, he is. but he doesn’t let jay know that. because what he wants to say is that he’s exhausted, but not in the way that sleep can fix. the kind of exhaustion that comes from thinking too much and saying too little. from the drive home yesterday that replayed in his head so vividly he’s starting to remember it like a movie he’ll never get to rewatch. from the realization that every time you smile, something inside him shifts a little, softly, painfully, and permanently.

and that terrifies him. because sunghoon has never been that guy. not the one who gets the girl, not the one who says the right thing at the right time. he’s the background character—the one who holds the door, smiles too late, apologizes too much.

so no, he can’t go to that party. he can’t stand in a crowded room watching you light up the way you do—laughing at something someone else will say, someone else’s story, someone else’s joke, someone who isn’t actively avoiding you for your own good—reminding him of all the ways he can’t have you.

jay stares for a beat longer, studying him like he’s about to bring up the topic sunghoon’s been avoiding all day and night—but he doesn’t. he just exhales, slow and knowing, and reaches for the door. “fine. i’ll tell jake you caught the plague or something.”

and after jay leaves, sunghoon’s not sure how much time passes. the apartment settles into that kind of quiet that lets you hear the hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the clock in the hallway that jay insists adds ambience, the low static of the tv playing in front of him.

sunghoon is still on the couch, now half under a blanket he stole from jay’s room, his eyes fixed on the screen, where a cgi triceratops is doing something probably scientifically inaccurate. but it doesn’t matter anyways because he hasn’t been paying attention for the past forty minutes. because his mind is somewhere else. it’s been somewhere else since you shut your door one night ago, wearing his hoodie and smiling at him like he hadn’t spent the whole day overthinking about you.

and he tells himself—again, again, and again—that this distance thing is good. smart. necessary. that the safest point between your two paths is the one where he never hurts you again. where he removes himself before he ruins something that could’ve been easy, simple, normal.

and sunghoon almost believes it, too.

until his phone buzzes.

it buzzes once, and it’s quick and sharp, yet cuts through his silence. he glances at the coffee table and stares at it. he almost doesn’t want to pick it up, as if he knows who it is and is avoiding the inevitable.

but he reaches for it anyway.

Y/N (11:15PM) : hii sunghoon

and his heart drops. he stares at the screen. doesn’t type. doesn’t move. his thumb hovers just above the message box just as his phone buzzes again in his hand:

Y/N (11:16PM) : jay told me you weren’t feeling well :( i hope everything’s ok

sunghoon inhales sharply through his nose. his jaw tightens. because, no, nothing’s okay with sunghoon. not really. not the kind of ‘not okay’ that he could exactly explain to you, though. it’s not a headache or a fever or whatever lie jay came up with. somewhere more like the ache of wanting something he’s convinced he shouldn’t. something that looks a lot like you.

his brain starts the war almost instantly.

don’t answer. you’re supposed to be distancing, remember? this is the plan.

don’t be an asshole. just say thanks. be normal for once in your life.

sunghoon groans quietly, head hitting back against the couch as he presses the heel of his hand to his forehead.

then your third text lights up the screen.

Y/N (11:18PM) : do you want me to bring anything?

and sunghoon’s brain short circuits completely.

yes. you. here. now.

you standing in his doorway, wearing his hoodie again like it’s the most natural, normal thing in the world. you filling the apartment with that quiet warmth you seem to carry everywhere. you sitting beside him on this stupid couch watching stupid documentaries with him until stupid hours of the night.

but because he can’t exactly put that feeling into logical words, he instead stares at his screen for a little too long, fighting with the part of him that’s screaming to stop pretending he doesn’t care.

he stares long enough at your words that the screen dims, and he has to tap it once just to see your name again.

his thumb twitches—hovering, shaking—because a part of him wants to break the rules he set for himself. wants to answer you. wants to let himself want you.

but he doesn’t.

he shuts his phone off, flips it back down on the table, and pushes it away like it’s the devil himself. his throat burns, his chest hurts. he leans back into the couch, closing his eyes, and exhales—slow, heavy, resigned.

because if he answers, he’ll just want more again. and wanting has never ended well for sunghoon. so he tells himself you’re just being kind, that this is what you do because this is who you are. you care, you reach out, you text first. you say things like hope you’re okay and ask if he needs anything because you ask everyone that. because you’re a friend.

sunghoon sinks deeper into the couch, trying his best to breathe through the tightness that refuses to leave. the clock ticks, the documentary plays, the phone stays face down.

and just when sunghoon finally feels himself settle—

the front door slams open.

“—OKAY. first of all, you’re coming to this party. and second of all, you’re so stupid.”

jake storms in at full volume, the door slamming shut behind him with the force of someone who has no respect for privacy and apparently door hinges. he’s flushed—cheeks pink, eyes bright, hair a mess, which means he definitely pregamed his own party.

sunghoon jolts upright so fast he nearly falls off the couch. “jesus christ—”

but jake is already toeing off his shoes like he lives here, marching across the living room like a man on a mission, and unfortunately for sunghoon, that mission is him.

“dude,” jake says, pointing at him like an accusation, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

sunghoon groans, dragging a hand down his face. this is jay’s fault. this is all jay’s fault. it’s always jay’s fault. jay never locks the door and this is the consequence for sunghoon not checking. this is karma. this is the plague he supposedly caught. he’s never lying again.

“so tell me why jay said you’re sick,” jake even air quotes it. “‘sick.’”

a beat.

“which is a lie, by the way.”

sunghoon glares weakly. “why does everyone just casually know the conditions under which i get sick?”

“because,” jake raises a finger, counting, “one, you only get sick when you drink too much—”

sunghoon mutters, “oh my god—”

“and two—” jake continues, louder, a second finger in sunghoon’s face, “—when you get chinese food from that cursed corner place i keep telling you not to order from. so unless you did either of those tonight, which you didn’t—because they only take venmo and i checked your venmo transactions—”

“why the fuck are you checking my venmo transacti—”

“—you’re not sick.” jake finishes triumphantly.

“you, jay, and i need to have a conversation about boundaries,” sunghoon deadpans at the boy in front of him.

“don’t deflect,” jake snaps at him. “you’re avoiding the question.”

sunghoon slumps back into the couch cushions, silently praying for death. or a sinkhole. or spontaneous combustion. he’s not picky, really.

“i’ll just go to the next one, okay?” he mutters from his spot. “it’s no big deal.”

and jake gives him a look that says he’s offended. like, genuinely offended.

“it is a big deal,” jake squints, marching a few steps closer. “you’re not skipping this just to avoid y/n. what are you, twelve?”

sunghoon instantly shoots upright again, a look betrayal on his face, “i—what, who said anything about—”

“jay.”

sunghoon shuts his eyes. exhales. counts to three.

jay is fired. jay is beyond fired. he is never telling jay anything ever again.

“and also, i just know you,” jake continues, pacing the living room like this is an intervention sunghoon is now apparently a part of. “you can’t keep doing this. moping around, feeling sorry for yourself just because you made a few minor accidents.”

“a few major—”

“—yes, sunghoon. a few minor ones,” jake says, waving a casual hand through the air. “just go to the party, talk to her, apologize. kiss and make up—actually, don’t do that one unless the vibe is right—but you get my point. just don’t sit here doing this sad boy act and torturing yourself.”

sunghoon narrows his eyes at him, because he forgets—he always forgets—how stupidly well jake knows him.

jake, who once sat with sunghoon on the curb after a failed calculus final and talked him out of dropping out entirely by buying him a churro and saying, ‘your brain just had a lag.’

jake, who memorized sunghoon’s stress tells by sophomore year of highschool—right thumb tapping: anxious; left thumb tapping: spiraling.

jake, who once dragged him out of bed at 2AM because he ‘felt in his soul’ that sunghoon needed fresh air and a convenience store slushie.

jake, who has known every single crush sunghoon’s ever had—most of whom sunghoon barely even realized were crushes until jake said something.

so yeah. of course jake sees right through him.

sunghoon looks away, jaw tight. eventually, he lets out a sigh, “jake, it’s not that simple.”

“sure it is,” jake stops, hands on his hips. “you just make it complicated.”

sunghoon looks up then, and his expression isn’t defensive. just resigned—the kind that comes from trying too hard to convince yourself you don’t care that there’s no way you could go back now.

“i’m not going,” he says finally. “end of story.”

and for a moment, jake looks like he might argue again, brows drawn together, mouth opening. but then he stops. his mouth shuts and something soft flashes in his eyes. he lets out an exhale.

“fine,” he turns to the door, already putting his shoes on. “stay here. be mysterious and tortured or whatever.”

sunghoon doesn’t reply. he just watches the glow of the tv flicker across the living room—tiny prehistoric creatures moving across the screen, narrator droning on.

and right as jake is about to leave, he pauses. “oh, by the way—” he adds casually. “she was asking about you.”

sunghoon freezes. his heart does something absolutely violent and traitorous inside his chest.

jake then glances over his shoulder, “she was looking for you, actually,”

and that’s it. that’s the crack in sunghoon’s entire resolve.

because logic means nothing when it comes to you. because distance means absolutely nothing when you’re still thinking about him. and restraint? restraint dies instantly because he can already see it—you, at that party, somewhere in the crowd, wearing something that’s definitely going to make sunghoon stop breathing, holding a drink and smiling at someone who could be him, but isn’t.

jake opens the door. “see you there, yeah?”

sunghoon didn’t really know what the plan was. not really, anyways.

but here he is.

the music’s too loud, the lighting’s too low, tinted red in that way that makes everyone look vaguely better but slightly untrustworthy, and everything smells faintly of fruit punch, cheap beer, and body spray. there’s a sticky patch on the floor that catches the sole of his shoe everytime he shifts his weight, and someone spilled an entire drink near the door but everyone’s pretending they don’t see it.

and now sunghoon’s standing in the corner, yet again, red solo cup in hand, the deja vu washing over from last time. he’s already warm—cheeks flushed from the multiple shots jake forced into his hand the moment he arrived, calling them ‘celebration shots’ for finally showing up. jake took three. jay took one, immediately regretted it, but took a second one anyways. sunghoon took two and was rudely reminded him and alcohol don’t like one another.

now he’s approximately three minutes into a conversation with a classmate whose name he absolutely does not remember but is pretending he does because lying feels easier than admitting he forgot. the poor guy is saying something about his econ midterm, but the words wash over sunghoon like static. because even while nodding politely, even through the chaos of the environment, sunghoon’s eyes find you.

of course they do.

you’re across the room by the couch, cup in hand, laughing at something someone just said. your head tilts back a little, your mouth curves in that way that knocks the air straight out of his lungs. it’s the kind of laugh that makes strangers look your way without knowing why. the kind of laugh that gets stuck in his head for days after.

and, of course, you look good.

unfairly good.

your hair soft under the shifting lights, your cheeks glowing, your sweater hanging just right on your frame. there’s something about you—always something—that makes you look like a secret sunghoon wants to keep, a discovery he wants no one else to find, something he wants to learn slowly, quietly, intimately.

he swallows hard. looks away. then looks back again, because he can’t not.

and then, almost as if you can feel that he’s staring—you glance up. your eyes scan the room lazily, drifting over faces and shoulders and the mess of people. until they land on him.

your expression softens. surprised, but warm. a small, easy smile curves onto your lips—one that says oh, you came, and something else he’s too scared to interpret.

and sunghoon, because he’s sunghoon, and a complete, absolute idiot—panics.

he panics and turns away. pretends to be very interested in the contents of his red solo cup that he knows isn’t even close to edible. nods along to whatever econ-related nonsense the guy in front of him is saying like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.

and he doesn’t see it—but you frown slightly. doesn’t see the way your smile falters, something uncertain flickering across your face. doesn’t see the slight confusion in your eyes before you turn back to your group.

and that’s how it starts. the night spins on just like that—full of almosts and not quites and hesitation.

you find him in the kitchen a little bit later. he’s pouring something that looks just as inedible as before into his cup, and you smile when he notices you.

“hey—i’m glad you made it, you feeling better?”

but sunghoon startles like you’ve caught him doing something wrong. he steps back too quickly, nearly bumping the counter, muttering something along the lines of ‘yeah—i’m okay, fine—’ before he excuses himself to find jay.

later, you end next to him in the circle when jake—who’s already too many shots in—suggests a game of truth or dare. you sit, knee brushing sunghoon’s for a second, before he abruptly stands up, mumbling about needing more ice in his cup before disappearing into the crowd.

and then it keeps happening. you’re mid-conversation with jay and jake, laughing at something ridiculous they just said, when your eyes move across the room, as if your body can’t help but instinctively search for him. when you finally find him again—leaning against the wall across the room, phone in hand, eyes meeting his for a brief second—his gaze darts immediately back down to his phone as if nothing just happened.

you start to notice it—the way he never stays in the same place as you for long, the way he keeps his shoulders angled away from you, the way his smile turns tight and fades when you step too close. the way his eyes flash with something heavy and unspoken before he drags them away from you as if touching you would be dangerous.

you try to tell yourself you’re imagining it, that maybe he’s tired, that it’s the alcohol or the lighting or ni-ki’s loud karaoke or anything else.

your chest feels tight. the air feels heavier than it should. jay is rambling about unplugging the karaoke machine before ni-ki loses his voice, jake is doubled over laughing, red cup in hand that you should definitely take away from him, but none of it feels right anymore.

and it’s ridiculous, really. because you shouldn’t care this much. because, technically, sunghoon is no one to you. just a boy you met recently. a boy who happened to be decent-looking—very, very, decent-looking. who happened to be clumsy in a way that drew you in instead of away. who happened to be your neighbor. your roommate’s best friend. a guy with pretty hands and a nervous laugh and a tendency to panic whenever you tried to flirt with him on purpose.

and, honestly—at first it was fun.

because you’re not oblivious. you’re not dense. you noticed the way he got nervous around you. you saw the way his eyes widened the first time you ever said his full name, the way his breath caught when you leaned in, the way his hands shook the tiniest bit when you wore his hoodie.

and god, you liked it. you liked getting a reaction out of him. liked watching the way he came undone so easily around you.

but now? now that same boy won’t even look at you?

it feels worse than it should. worse than you want it to. worse than anything he’s done so far—and that includes accidentally assaulting you three times.

you tell yourself it’s fine. that it doesn’t matter. that you’re overthinking again, like you always do.

you laugh at something jake says. you clink your cup against jay’s and take another sip just to have something to do ith your hands. you smile, chat, pretend nothing’s wrong.

but then, from the corner of your eye, you see it.

the way sunghoon’s head turns when you laugh, just barely. the way his gaze flickers toward you for a second too long. the way his jaw tightens before he looks away again like he saw something he shouldn’t have.

and that’s when something inside you snaps. the ache shifts sharply, into something close to frustration, confusion and something hot behind your ribs that makes your drink taste too bitter and makes the room feel too loud.

you set your drink down on the table next to you, too hard. it spills over the rim. you don’t even care.

because what is this? what is he doing? and why does it sting so much?

jay says something to you—something that makes jake laugh again a little too loudly, but you barely hum in response, eyes already scanning the room again.

you find him again, now closer to the back hallway, talking to someone you don’t recognize. he looks uncomfortable, like he almost always does, but there’s something else tonight. something distant.

and you’re done trying to figure it out.

you held back, you didn’t push. you swallowed your pride enough to ask him point-blank if you were even friends. you tried to read him, tried to be patient, tried to be understanding.

and now he’s avoiding you? after he’s the one who kept messing up? after he offered you his hoodie? after he drove you home? after everything?

you feel heat bubble in your throat, not from embarrassment, but something closer to hurt. something that feels too close to rejection from someone you barely even know.

you’re done. you’re done wondering. done overthinking. done waiting for him to make the first move.

so before you can talk yourself out of it, your feet are already moving. through the crowd, past the couch, past jay’s raised eyebrows, jake’s knowing smirk, and ni-ki’s off-key singing.

and when you finally get to him, he barely has a second to react before your hand catches his wrist and you’re pulling him into the dim hallway of the apartment that leads to where the bedrooms are. 

it’s quieter here, the thumping bass of the music fading into a distant pulse behind him, like a heartbeat finally slowing down—unlike his own. the air is cooler, laced with the faint scent of spilled beer you’re going to lose your mind over in the morning and whatever cheap air freshener jake sprayed earlier—but it’s still a relief from the chaotic swirl of bodies and flashing lights in the living room.

sunghoon stumbles a little as you tug him along, finally stopping with a soft thump when his back hits the wall. he’s trapped—stuck against the peeling wallpaper and your hand still wrapped tightly around his wrist. his eyes widen, the look on his face equal parts confusion, surprise, and something else, something that makes your stomach flip.

“so are you going to tell me why you’re ignoring me?” your voice comes out sharper than you intended, raw with the sting of it all—the silence, the distance, the hurt flashing in your eyes as you watch him falter.

sunghoon’s mouth opens, then closes, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. his cheeks are flushed pink under the dim lighting, and you can’t tell if it’s from the shots he knocked back earlier with jay and jake or from the way you’re standing so close.

“i—i’m…” he’s stammering, his voice low, almost like a whisper stuck in throat, like he’s afraid the words will shatter everything between you. “i don’t—” 

“because first of all,” you step closer, “you tell me we’re fine, we’re friends, we’re cool, that i didn’t do anything wrong—”

his eyes flicker in panic. breath stutters, chest rising too fast. 

“—and then you ignore my texts. completely avoid me. won’t even look at me. in my own apartment.” you exhale sharply. “i’m confused, sunghoon.” 

and for a moment, neither of you move. the music muffled now, just an echo behind you, and the hallway feels too quiet. too intimate, too charged, like the world narrowed down to just the two of you. you loosen your grip on his wrist, but you don’t drop it. and he doesn’t pull away. he just looks at you like he’s bracing for impact. then, he swallows hard, “i—it’s not like i want to—” 

“...okay,” you cut in but your voice is softer, steadier, “then what is it?” 

you watch as sunghoon takes a breath as if to ground himself before he starts, “it’s just—i…” and suddenly his words tumble, trip, collapse over themself. “i don’t know. i just keep messing up. everytime. like the football, the shoes, the lab, probably somehow your car breaking down had something to do with me, literally everything—” 

“sunghoon—” 

“—and it’s like my body just glitches around you or something,” he blurts, running a hand through his hair. “i get nervous, then do something stupid, then you get hurt, and then i feel like an idiot—” his voice cracks and he has to take a breather before continuing again, “and i don’t know how to get myself to stop screwing up around you. i don’t know how to just be normal. not with you.”

his eyes drop. shoulders tense. he looks like he hates himself for saying any of that out loud.

you don’t say anything. you just look at him, studying the way his cheeks glow that soft pink, the slight part of his lips as he breathes unevenly, the way he looks at you with that raw, boyish vulnerability and nerves.

and then your anger melts into something else. something warmer, deeper, something that understands. something that makes the frustration soften and something that tugs at your chest. 

you step closer, close enough to feel the heat rolling off of him, close enough that he sucks in a breath like you just touched him even though you didn’t. a small smile makes its way to your face as you tilt your head to meet his eyes fully. your eyes flicker down his face—along the cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way he swallows hard under your gaze. 

“okay then…just stop messing up,” you whisper, lips quirking just the tiniest bit. your tone is lighter now, teasing, like it’s the simplest solution in the world. 

sunghoon blinks at you. once, then twice. because you say that as if it’s easy. as if your simple existence being just mere inches away doesn’t set every nerve inside his being on fire. as if his heart isn’t pounding so loud and wild that he’s convinced you can hear it, drowning out the rest of the party around you. as if you’re not looking at him with your glossy eyes and lips, so close to his own, that he doesn’t know if he should kiss you or melt into the ground.

but none of that matters.

because you decide for him.

because the silence is too thick, too charged, and you can’t take it anymore. so before you can even think to stop yourself—

you lean in and close the distance, your lips brushing his in a hesitant, soft way that sends a jolt through you both. and it’s cautious at first, like testing the waters, and sunghoon genuinely believes he’s in a fever dream for a second. but then his hands suddenly find your waist and pull you in closer, and it shifts into so much more.

his lips move against yours with a newfound urgency, one hand sliding up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. his back hits the wall again with the sudden motion, but he doesn’t care. in fact, in this moment, nothing else matters to sunghoon right now.

because you’re deepening the kiss, tasting the faint bitterness of beer on him, mixed with something sweeter, something unmistakably sunghoon, something that pulls you into a quicker, messier rhythm. a low groan escapes his throat, vibrating against your mouth, and it only fuels you further. you break apart for a breath, but only for a second before your lips crash into his again, your hands fisting in his hoodie as you push him harder against the wall. his fingers dig into your hips, pulling you flush against him until the heat between you becomes nearly unbearable.

“come on,” you murmur against his lips, your voice breathless as you grab his wrist again, but this time you tug him toward the first door in the hallway—your room—and push it open with your free hand.

the door clicks shut behind sunghoon, and he barely has a moment to take in the surroundings—dimly lit by the small lamp on the nightstand beside your bed, a string of lights laced along the headboard, a stack of annotated books piled on your desk, and a row of succulents perched on the windowsill. it’s all so warm, so utterly you.

that’s all he manages to register within the first 0.5 seconds of entering your room. because you don’t hesitate. your lips crash into his again, more fervent now, hungry, backing him hard against the door until the frame digs into his back but he doesn’t even care. 

sunghoon kisses you like he’s terrified it’ll end if he stops—too much tongue at first, then not enough, teeth clashing in the mix because he tilts wrong, nose bumping yours, a startled little huff escaping him when you nip his bottom lip and he doesn’t know whether to pull back or chase harder. his hands are everywhere and nowhere—gripping your waist tight, then loosening like he’s scared he’ll bruise you, then wandering up your back and fisting your sweater like it’s the only thing keeping him on earth. 

it’s sloppy, breathless, desperate in a way only a kiss can be when the person has waited twenty two years and repressed every memory that came before it. his rhythm falters with every push and pull, chasing your mouth when you pull for air, making these soft, involuntary sounds—half-whimper, half-groan—that he’ll probably overthink about later. 

“park sunghoon,” you whisper against his swollen lips, pulling back just enough that he instinctively follows, chasing, eyes still closed, and completely, utterly, wrecked. your hands knot in his hoodie, “am i your first kiss?” 

sunghoon’s eyes flutter open, hazy and dark with pure want as he looks down at you. “yeah—well, n—” the rest dies when your drag your teeth over his lower lip, slow and deliberate. a broken, needy sound tears out of him and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, “—no. yes? i think.”

“you think?” your hands slide into his hair, nails scraping lightly, and tug just enough to tip his head back. the soft thud of his back hitting the door again doesn’t even register—his arms only tighten around you, fingers everywhere like he’s trying to memorize your exact shape through fabric. “tell me.” 

“technically—” he starts, voice cracking. “there was this girl in tenth grade—” 

you cut him off again with your tongue this time, licking into his mouth slow and filthy, and whatever story he had dies against your lips. he makes another helpless noise, raw and surprised, and tries to copy the motion. his nose bumps yours again, his grip on your hips stutter, and every time he thinks he found the rhythm, you change it, and he whimpers like it hurts. it’s all messy, desperate, and perfect. 

one of his hands slides down—hesitant, then sudden—and cups the back of your thigh. he lifts it experimentally, and when you immediately hook your leg around his waist he groans like he’s been punched. you smirk against him, giving him credit for the confidence you didn’t think he had in him as he pulls you flush against his body. 

“—spin the bottle,” he manages to gasp out when you trail your mouth along his jaw now, nipping at the skin here and there. he tilts his head back, offering more as his eyes flutter closed again, a soft moan on his lips. “i bit her lip and she bled—”

you giggle softly against his jaw, teeth grazing the sharp line of it, and he shudders so violently his knees almost buckle. his voice is strained now, another small gasp cracking from his throat when you roll your hips once, the friction going straight to his core. “—and my therapist told me to repress traumatic memories so i don’t count it.” 

you freeze and pull back slightly, lifting an eyebrow as amusement flickers in your eyes despite the heat pooling in your core. “your therapist?”

sunghoon’s eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, mouth swollen and red and still chasing yours. “uh. yeah. jay. jay is my therapist.”

your lips twitch, a small laugh bubbling out before you can catch it. god.

“fuck. you’re so cute,” you murmur, and the sound of your laugh seems to snap the last thread of any and all restraint sunghoon had left. you crash your mouth back into his the same second he surges forwards, kissing you like he’s drowning and you’re his oxygen, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded at this point. you’re already moving, tugging the front of his hoodie, walking backward, pulling him with you step by stumbling step across the room. 

he follows without question, hands roaming everywhere all at once—up your back, into your hair, down to your ass like he can’t decide what he wants to hold onto most. his mouth never leaves yours, swallowing every soft noise you make, and every time you nip his lip he makes that same desperate little sound and tries to kiss your harder, deeper, messier. 

your legs hit the edge of the bed first, and you tumble backwards with a small thud. sunghoon stays standing at the foot of the bed, chest heaving, lips parted and shiny, hair a mess. his eyes rake over you—lips swollen, hair fanned across your pillow, that infuriating, knowing smirk still clinging to your mouth like you already know exactly what you look like sprawled out waiting for him.

and god, sunghoon thought he knew what living felt like. he thought he was pretty damn accomplished already—decent grades, a color-coded closet, the occasional victory when he plays league with the guys. but this? sunghoon just stares, like this sight of you like this is a religious experience he’s not worthy of. 

he’s never felt more alive.

you prop yourself up on your elbows, tilt your head, and your smirk widens. 

“gonna keep me waiting, park sunghoon?” 

you tease, an eyebrow arched as sunghoon shakes his head frantically in an almost comical, desperate no. he scrambles forward like a man possessed, knees sinking into the mattress before his weight is on you just right, one thigh easily slotting between yours as he leans down to capture your lips again. his hands shove under your sweater, palms hot and trembling against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra like he’s afraid to go higher but dying to.

your hands roam up his back under his shirt, light enough to raise goosebumps, but hard enough to make him arch and grind down with a muffled, broken moan that vibrates straight into your mouth. his mouth trails everywhere, hot and open against your neck, tasting the cool metal of that stupidly delicate necklace, teeth nipping in that perfect, impossible way that hitches your breath and makes you wonder how the hell this could be his first time doing this.

his thigh presses firmer, rough denim rough against your bare skin where your skirt has slightly ridden up, and you can’t help it—you roll up into him, shameless, chasing the pressure, hips circling slow and needy—not sure what you’re after, just something, anything, to relieve the rising ache.

and that makes sunghoon freeze. just for a split second—his mouth hovering over your collarbone, breath ragged and uneven against your skin. you feel it right away, the faint tremor in his hands where they’re gripping your hips, the way his body tenses against yours. he pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes—his own wide, pupils blown but laced with something else—uncertainty and pure, raw, nerves that make your heart twist.

“wait,” he breathes, voice low and rough. his forehead drops to yours, nose brushing, lips so close you can feel the ghost of them against yours, “i…i don’t know what i’m doing.”

and it’s the way the confession spills out. the way it sounds so vulnerable, jagged edges and all. the way his cheeks burn a deeper red that starts to creep down his neck. the way his fingers flex against your sides, like he’s afraid to let you go but equally afraid to keep touching.

the way his eyes hit you—with desire so thick it aches in your core, tangled with that boyish charm that only makes him so much more endearing, more real. you tilt your head up, your hands softening where they clutch his shoulders.

“sunghoon,” you whisper, voice soft but steady, thumb tracing a slow circle onto his hoodie. “that’s okay. we can stop, or we can keep going. whatever you’re comfortable with.”

and sunghoon swallows hard. every nerve he owns is screaming—your body soft and there beneath him, the way your legs are hooked around his waist, it’s all overwhelming, intoxicating, like he’s edged too close to the sun and has absolutely no intention of backing away. and sunghoon’s never been here before, never had anyone look at him like this. but he’s also never felt this way about anyone before. and that’s what makes his heart slam against his ribs.

his eyes drop to your lips before flickering back up. “yeah?” it’s barely a word, more like a pure plea, and god, the vulnerability in it tugs at you harder.

“yeah,” you lean in, brushing your mouth against his in a feather-light touch, not quite a kiss, but just enough to make him chase it. his breath hitches, hands sliding up your waist under your sweater again, hesitant but warmer now, like your words unlocked something for him.

“i just—i really like you, y/n,” his words are so soft and quiet you almost think you made it up. “—and i really don’t want to mess this up. more than i have.” his hands shake slightly on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles over your skin as the confession hangs there between you like something holy and obscene at the same time. 

you lean up and give him a full kiss this time, soft, gentle, and reassuring, then smile against him, shifting your hips just enough against him to draw a sharp inhale from him. “you won’t, hoon,” you whisper, nipping at his lower lip, tugging it gently between your own until he groans. “trust me, you’re not going anywhere.” you fingers weave back into his hair, guiding him back down as you capture his lips again—slower this time, letting him set the pace even as you arch up to meet him.

and sunghoon melts into it, his tongue shyly tracing your lips until you part for him, letting him in with a soft sigh that goes straight to his core. his hands gain confidence, sliding up your sides, palms warm and slightly calloused as they explore the curve of your ribs, stopping just shy of your bra like he’s silently asking for permission. you nod into the kiss, arching your body into his hands, and he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years. fingers shove your sweater up and off in one frantic motion, and the cool air hits your skin the same second his mouth does—and it’s hot, open, starving against your throat. 

your hands go down to the ends of his hoodie, dragging the material up his chest yourself, nails raking over his abs, feeling them tense under your touch. “off,” you mumble into his mouth. 

sunghoon doesn’t hesitate—he takes it off so fast and clumsily, in park sunghoon fashion, that he almost elbows himself in the face but that doesn’t matter. it’s tossed blindly into the corner of your room before he’s back, chest pressing against you, skin already boiling hot. 

his lips find your throat again, this time sucking a small mark just below your jaw, harder than before, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, and when he pulls back to check your face, there’s still that flicker of hesitation, like he’s waiting for you to tell him no.

“this okay?” he murmurs against the bruise he just left, voice wrecked, his hips rolling down experimentally—a slow, grinding press that has you gasping, thighs tightening around him, the rough drag of his pants over your bare thighs sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly. sunghoon’s breath catches—sharp and audible—like he’s just discovered something forbidden, his eyes flicking down to where your bodies connect, then back up to your face, searching, pleading. 

you can’t answer with words. you just arch up even more, grinding your heat against the now obvious length of him, and the broken moan that rips out of his throat is unholy. he starts to move a little faster, barely holding it together as he chases the way you’re arched off the bed. his hands brace on either side of your head, arms trembling faintly from the effort of holding himself up, caging you in the best kind of trap.

you nod, biting your lip to stifle back a moan, your hands sliding down his sides with a firm press. “yeah, just like that,” you whisper, voice laced with encouragement that makes his pupils go wider. “keep going, just feel me.”

he follows your lead, eyes locked on yours, lips parted in awe as he follows your rhythm. “fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours again. another roll, deeper this time, heavier, his hardening length unmistakable through his jeans, pressing right where you need it, drawing a whimper from your throat. “like this?”

“yes, perfect, hoon,” you let out, rewarding him with a tilt of your hips that has him cursing again under his breath, his movements faltering for a second before he steadies himself again. “use your hands, baby. touch me. here.” you take one of his palms and guide it between your bodies and beneath your bra, molding his broad hand over your breast and squeezing it lightly with your own fingers laced over his.

sunghoon’s eyes darken to near black as he stares at his hand on you like it’s a miracle. the hesitation flickers again—he bites his lip hard, eyes darting to yours for that final green light. you nod, arching into his touch and removing your own hand before he finally moves, thumb circling slowly at first, then bolder, pinching lightly until you gasp his name, “sunghoon—yes, harder.” 

he obeys instantly, rolling the bud between his fingers while kneading with a confidence that borders on desperate. the sensation releases another moan from you, this time loud enough that he clamps his free hand over your mouth instinctively, his eyes blown in a panic. 

“shh—people might—” but you don’t let him finish. 

you take his thumb between your lips, sucking it without any hesitation that leaves him choking on a sound that’s half-moan, half-whine, hips now jerking erratically against yours. his hand falls away, replaced by his mouth crashing into yours—messy, all teeth and tongue, swallowing your moans as he grinds harder, faster, the rough drag of fabric and heat coiling tight between you until you’re both chasing that edge, breathless and lost.

sunghoon should be embarrassed, really. the only one coherent thought left rattling around his skull is: 

he’s about to cum in his pants like a goddamn middle-schooler and there’s not a single thing he can do to stop it.

he can’t stop the obscene sounds spilling from his mouth, his gut feels like it’s on fire in the best way possible, and he’s jerking his body against your soaked heat like it’s trying to fight its way through the pathetic fabric. it’s his first time with a girl, and he might not even make it to the first time part at this point. 

“skirt. push it up,” you pant against his lips, and he does, fumbling his fingers to fully hike the fabric to your waist, exposing the thin barrier of your underwear. his hand hovers there, burning over your thigh, inches from where you’re aching and soaked for him. “touch me, hoon,” you urge, not waiting to take his wrist and press his palm right over your wet core, letting him feel the way you’re absolutely dripping through the lace.

sunghoon’s entire body locks at the sensation, eyes in shock, lips shiny and swollen as he stares down at you, chest heaving. “i—fuck, you’re…wet.” the word comes out slowly, almost disbelieving. his fingers flex, tracing the outline of you through the thin fabric. your mouth drops open slightly at the sensation as you buck up into his hand with a sharp whine, nodding.

“yeah, for you, hoon. now rub, like—” you move his fingers for him, showing the motion—slow, firm circles over your clit that already have your legs trembling, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. he easily takes over after two strokes, copying perfectly, his touch turning slick as he presses firmer, learning your body like it’s his new religion. “oh god—yes, right there, don’t stop—”

and he definitely isn’t planning on it. sunghoon’s mesmerized, forehead pressed to your shoulder now, watching his own hand work between your legs like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. his hips keep grinding, chasing his own friction clumsily against your soft thigh, breaths coming in hot gasps against your skin.

“sunghoon—fuck,” you whimper, the praise spilling out as his thumb finds that perfect rhythm on your clit, circles tightening, faster now, the slick sounds filling the room obscenely. he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard, his free hand clamped on the headboard above you to steady himself.

“am i—is this good?” his words come out cracked and rough, raw desperation threading through it as he presses two fingers experimentally against your entrance through the soaked fabric, feeling you flutter and pulse for him. his hips grind down harder in response to your every twitch, the bulge in his jeans now straining, hot and insistent against your thigh. sunghoon’s unraveling—muscles tense, cheeks flushed, abdomen flexing with every roll—but those big, pleading eyes keep flicking up to yours constantly, almost as if begging for reassurance, for you to keep leading him through this fire.

“perfect, baby. so, so good,” you choke out, your hand shooting down to cover his, guiding his fingers to slip right under the edge of your underwear now. “inside—now. curl them up, like this.” you demonstrate with his hand, pushing one long finger past your folds, then two. and he slides in so easily, your arousal coating him instantly. the stretch burns sweetly, and you both moan—his a broken, addicting sound that sends a vibration straight through you.

sunghoon stops again, buried to the knuckles, eyes staring down at where he’s disappearing inside you. “holy shit,” his voice is wrecked, feeling the way you clench instantly around him. “you’re so—tight—fuck, i can feel you—” his fingers twitch inside you, curling just like you showed him, brushing that one spot that makes your eyes roll back instantly.

“right there. right there, hoon. please—” you cry out, back arching off the bed, nails raking down his bare back hard enough that it stings but he doesn’t care. your words give him the confidence to move—gentle thrusts at first, scissoring his fingers gently, learning the slick glide of you around him, then bolder, fast, his thumb never leaving your clit. the dual sensation has you seeing white, the pleasure coiling violently tight in your core, breaths coming in sobs now.

his forehead drops to yours, noses bumping, lips brushing yours in frantic, open-mouthed kisses that are more shared air than anything. “tell me—fuck, tell me what else,” he’s panting against your mouth, his free hand moving from the headboard to palm your breast fully, rolling your nipple between his fingers. “want to make you—cum—please, show me how—”

and that plea—raw, ruined, his—snaps the coil. 

you shatter—walls clamping down hard on his fingers that they stutter inside you, your orgasm rushing through in sudden waves before you could see it coming. “sunghoon—yes, yes, yes—” your cries muffle into his shoulder, thighs shaking uncontrollably, gushing over his hand in a rush that soaks his fingers, his wrist, the sheets beneath you.

sunghoon whines, all high and uneven as he watches you come undone on his fingers, squeezing him like you’re trying to keep him inside forever. his hips jerk forward in messy, desperate snaps against your thigh, cock leaking steadily through his boxers now, chasing friction he’s too wrecked to control. he doesn’t stop—he can’t stop—pumping you through it, thumb grinding ruthless circles over your swollen clit until you’re twitching, oversensitive, thighs clamping around his wrist like a trap, a broken sob ripping out of you that sounds like his name and mercy all at once.

only when your body limps, boneless and gasping, does he ease his fingers out—slow, deliberate, eyes locked on the way your slick coats him, strings of it clinging to his skin as he holds them up to the dim light. his breath stutters at the sight of his glistening fingers, dripping with just pure you. “did i—fuck, did i do that?” 

he doesn’t wait for an answer. brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean with a filthy, broken groan that vibrates straight to your spent clit, making your body jerk again even as you’re still coming down. his tongue swirls, greedy, eyes fluttering shut like he’s tasting heaven and hell at once.

you’re ruined—face flushed, lips bitten raw, hair stuck to your forehead with sweat—but that smirk still clings. you grab his wrist, yank him down hard, and crash your mouth to his, tasting yourself on his tongue—a little salty, a little sweet, but all filthy. “we’re not done,” you murmur, wrecked and hungry, hands already fumbling for his pants. “off—now.”

sunghoon nods frantically, hips lifting just enough to help you shove the material down his legs, boxers tented obscenely, a dark stain already blooming in the front. before he can even process, you hook your fingers in the waistband and drag them down too, freeing him and—fuck. he’s thick, flushed a deep red and curving up toward his stomach, already twitching under your gaze untouched.

he immediately tries to hide his face in your neck, mortified. “don’t—don’t stare like that.” 

you giggle, low and filthy, wrapping your hand around him without warning—one firm stroke from base to tip, thumb swiping through the bead of pre-cum leaking from his slit, spreading it down his length in a slick glide.he immediately bucks into your fist with a choked sob, one hand clutching your shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“baby, you’re gorgeous,” the words drip off your tongue like honey or poison but sunghoon doesn’t know the difference at this point. your thumb swipes over his silt again, and sunghoon has to shut his eyes to restrain himself from finishing all over your fingers right then and there. “feel how hard you are for me? fucking dripping.” 

another stroke—tighter, faster—and his head slams against the pillow next to your head, throat bared, a high, desperate whine tearing out of him.

“touch yourself,” you order, guiding his trembling hand to wrap around yours. “show me how you do it when you think about me.”

sunghoon’s eyes snap to yours, wide and scandalized, breath picking up. “w—what? i—fuck, i don’t—” but his hand moves anyways, wrapping around yours where you stroke him, guiding you together—slow twists at the head, then long pulls back to his base. he’s so responsive, every drag pulling more and more. more moans from his throat, more precum from his tip, leaking steadily over your knuckles.

“good boy,” you praise, and he preens, chest puffing slightly, a desperate whimper spilling out as his free hand braces the headboard above you again for leverage.

“faster—” you tighten your grip, speeding up, and he follows your lead flawlessly, both your hands working him in brutal sync until he’s babbling nonsense pleas mixed in with your name like a prayer he’s too far gone to control. 

then you feel him twitch, once and hard, and you stop cold, releasing him. sunghoon almost pouts at the sudden, aching void—the sharp denial hitting like a punch, but you’re already shifting, too fast to let him dwell.

“not yet—i want your mouth first,” you murmur, sitting up and shoving at his chest until he’s forced back on his heels between your spread thighs, cock bobbing heavy and desperate, flushed dark and leaking. his gaze drops—your face, your bitten lips, then lower to where you’re still exposed, folds swollen and glistening, lace shoved aside and ruined, dripping with the mess he made of you. “get off the bed. on your knees, hoon. want you to taste me.”

he drops instantly—knees thudding against the floor at the foot of the bed, hands grabbing your thighs and yanking you to the edge so fast the mattress springs groan. his face is inches from your core now, breath punching out hot and frantic over your sensitive skin, making you twitch.

he swallows hard at the sight. “i—you need to…show me please,” he’s nearly begging, his voice raspy yet so earnest that it makes your heart stutter at the sight.

you thread your fingers in his hair, guide his mouth forward, pressing his lips to your inner thigh first, letting him kiss and lick small, gentle patterns up toward where you’re aching. “start slow, baby,” you breathe, thighs trembling. “kiss it, then tongue—flat and wide.” 

he obeys like it’s the only thing he was born to do.

lips brush your folds—hesitant, reverent—then his tongue comes out, one broad, filthy lick from your entrance to your clit that punches the air out of your lungs. you immediately roll your hips into his face shamelessly.

“fuck—yes—just like that—suck my clit now—”

and sunghoon doesn’t need to be told twice. he devours you—nose bumping your mound, tongue sloppy and urgent, latching onto your clit with a perfect amount of greed that it pulls a small scream from your throat. he’s messy—chin slick, eyes glassy as he glances up through his lashes for approval, moaning into you every time you tug his hair like he’s on the receiving end. 

“mmph—good?” he mumbles into you, the vibration nearly sending you over, and then—without waiting—he sinks one long finger back inside you, curls it hard, and starts pumping like you taught him.

“oh my god—sunghoon, fuck—yes—” 

your ankles lock behind his head, heels digging into his back, and you ride his face without shame—hips rolling, grinding, fucking yourself on his tongue while he devours you, thriving on every gasp, every quiver, tongue delving deep, lips sucking with starvation. like it’s his last meal and his punishment and his salvation all at once.

sunghoon’s free hand then drops between his own legs —wraps around his aching cock and starts stroking in frantic, sloppy pulls, hips thrusting into his fist in time with the way you’re riding his face. pre-cum drips onto the floor, splattering the wood, and he doesn’t even care—just moans into your cunt like a broken thing, eyes rolling back every time you clench around his finger.

you force yourself up on shaking elbows just to look at the view.

sunghoon on his knees, hair wrecked from your hands, face buried between your thighs, skin slick with sweat that catches in the dim light, mouth shiny with you, pumping his cock recklessly—and those dark, glassy eyes flicking up through wet lashes, begging for approval even as his tongue fucks you into oblivion.

the sight alone almost ends you.

so you decide you’re going to ruin him. and he’s going to thank you for it.

“hoon—fuck—come here,” you haul him up by the hair until his mouth slams into yours, slick with your release, tasting like salt and sin. you feel the heavy, slick weight of his cock pressing against your thigh, twitching wildly with need.

you shove him back with a teasing palm to his chest—flip him in one sharp twist—and he goes down easy, hitting the mattress with a small grunt, eyes huge and black as he puts together what’s about to happen. you straddle him in a heartbeat later, knees digging into the sheets on either side of his hips, hovering just high enough that your soaked heat brushes the flushed head of him—once, twice—drawing a needy, high-pitched whine that rips straight from his chest.

his cock lines up perfectly—throbbing, veins bulging, slick with both of you—and he bites his lip bloody trying to hold back the whimper, hands shaking violently where they clamp your waist for dear life. “wait—shit—i don’t have a condom—”

“sunghoon,” you shoot, voice raw and impatient, already lifting your hips to torture him at your entrance, sinking down just enough to swallow his tip in tight, wet heat. “i really don’t fucking care right now.”

his head slams back against the headboard with a thud, a raw moan tearing free as his hips jerk up involuntarily, trying to bury himself deeper.

“just wanna make you feel good, yeah?”

he nods wildly, eyes pleading—utterly lost, wrecked, and completely yours. “please—fuck, yes please—”

you don’t wait any longer. you drop, sinking down fully in one brutal, merciless move. and the stretch—the sweet, burning stretch of him splitting you open has you both gasping, the pent up tension that’s piled up for days finally shattering into a pure ecstasy that has you blinded.

he fills you to the brim, thick and pulsing, every inch dragging against your clenching walls as you bottom out, your hips now flush against his. you can’t make sense of it—how he’s stretching you impossibly wide, the burn delicious and overwhelming all at once, your body fluttering around him in desperate adjustment. his head snaps back against your headboard again, his throat exposed and veins bulging as he can’t stop the deep moans coming from his chest, hands clamping onto your hips—bruising, possessive, the only way to keep himself grounded.

you collapse forward, forehead to his, breaths mingling in hot, frantic pants. his eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet against his pinked cheeks, lips opening and closing from the pure pleasure, “oh my god—you’re…fuck you’re—so tight—” the words tumble out, his hips twitching up, chasing the sensation, making you both gasp at the jolt.

“shh—stay still,” you whisper as best as you can, hands holding his face to force his glassy eyes open. and you have to collect yourself for a second. because park sunghoon is a vision—lips swollen red, pupils dark and blown, sweat trickling down his temple. “breathe, hoon.” you clench around him deliberately, and he tries his hardest not to snap immediately, his cock throbbing deep inside you. 

“c—can’t—it’s too much—gonna—” his voice cracks, hands scrabbling at your waist, dragging you down harder even as his thighs shake violently under you, every muscle rigid, restraint shattering second by second. he’s pulsing inside you, fighting with everything he has not to cum, teeth gritted, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes because it’s too good, too perfect, too much. 

you lift your hips carefully, just an inch, then sink back down, slow, torturous, letting him feel every slick of you swallowing him whole. “fuck—yes—” his eyes roll back, mouth falling open on a silent moan, his hips bucking up to meet you halfway on their own, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing loud and filthy. “tell me—fuck, tell me if it feels good—”

“perfect, baby. you feel perfect,” you gasp immediately, voice trembling as you finally start moving—hands braced on his sweat-slick chest, nails carving red lines into his skin. “just like this—harder now, hold my hips—help me—”

and he does—fingers pressing as he hauls you down onto his cock as he suddenly slams up, meeting your movements in brutal, punishing thrusts that turn the air filthy, wet slaps echoing, obscene, and unrelenting. the bed starts to creak in protest beneath you, the string lights on your headboard blurring into hazy streaks as the pleasure turns into tears stinging your eyes. 

“hoon, yes, yes—faster,” your voice breaks into sobs, head tipping back, spine arching so hard your breasts shove up into his face. 

he absolutely loses it. 

he’s seventy percent sure he’s blacked out—the rest of him drowning in the symphony of your broken whines, the way your pussy sucks him in like it’s starving, the intoxicating sensation of you around him—every wet clench, every flutter squeezing him. but he’s still determined, feral with it, a man suddenly possessed—one hand flying up to palm one of your breasts hard, rolling the nipple rough enough between his fingers to draw a small yelp from you, the other shoving between your bodies to rub messy, perfect circles over your swollen clit.

 “s—so tight—fuck, so mine,” he chokes out, voice breaking on every thrust. “mine, mine, mine—fuck—please say—” 

his thrusts turn erratic, sloppy, with a new found determination as he chases his release, eyes locked on where he splits you open—you stretched around him, white slick coating his thighs, his balls, every inch of skin where you two collide.

“yours,” you moan, nails digging further into his chest. “been yours ever since you hit me in the fucking face, baby.”

and that does it. sunghoon just breaks. 

back arching off the bed, whole body spasming, a strangled cry of your name tearing from his throat as as you feel him cum hard, his cock pulsing and swelling impossibly thicker inside you, the harsh and hot spurts filling you up quickly. the heat of it, the throb, the way he jerks inside you shatters you instantly after. 

your second orgasm hits you with a sob against his mouth, clamping down viciously around him, milking him dry as you gush—violent, soaking pulses that drench his cock, his lap, the sheets, everything in a hot, filthy flood that leaves you shaking, blinded, ruined.

you collapse together—boneless, shuddering wrecks tangled in the sweat damp sheets that now cling to your skin. his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest, his cock still twitching deep inside as the aftershock ripples through you both. the room spins softly in the dim glow of your lights, the only sounds the distant party you both forgot about and your breathes mingling in a ragged harmony—his chest heaving against yours, heartbeats syncing in a frantic yet slowing pattern.

sunghoon buries his face in the crook of your neck, lips brushing sloppy, uncoordinated kisses, trying his best to catch his breath, each exhale hot against your skin.

“did i—was that okay? are you hurt anywhere?” voice small, vulnerable again despite the literal fact that he’s still buried deep inside you, his release leaking warm and sticky down your thighs, pooling beneath you in an intimate, filthy reminder. his hand moves to stroke your back gently, tracing the curves of your body as if mapping every inch for damage.

you giggle against him, the sound exhausted yet euphoric, vibrating through your chest as you lift his chin with a single finger, tilting his flushed face to yours. the kiss is soft, slow, lingering—tongues lazy and unhurried, a stark contrast to a few minutes ago, tasting all like salt and sex. “hoon, i think you ruined me,” you murmur against his lips, half-teasing, half-serious, your voice strained from the moans he pulled from you.

he lets out a small, relieved laugh, warm and genuine as his hands stay gentle on your back, thumbs circling soothing patterns over your damp skin. you shift slowly, lifting off him with ease, both of you exhaling in a sharp unison at the sudden emptiness.

you don’t pull away far, nestling into his side, draping a leg over his thigh as he tugs your crumpled up blanket over you both. his arm curls around your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy swirls along your arm, the touch sweet and affectionate.

“ruined you, huh?” he echos after a beat, voice muffled as he presses a kiss to your temple, lips curving into a shy grin against your hair. “is that…good ruined or bad ruined? because if it’s bad, i swear i’ll make it up to you—after i make up for your nose. and shoes. and clothes. i’ve got a lifetime supply of apologies, honestly.”

you snort softly, cuddling closer into his neck, inhaling the comfort and warmth radiating off of him as your fingers dance lightly over his chest. “good ruined, idiot. like, the kind where i might not be able to physically get up tomorrow. so now you owe me at least breakfast in bed.”

“deal.” sunghoon chuckles, the sound vibrating through you both, his free hand slipping under the blanket to find yours, lacing your fingers in a loose, effortless hold. “pancakes? or—wait, do you even like pancakes? god, i don’t even know that yet. we should probably fix that before i ruin you again.”

you tilt your head up, eyes narrowing playfully before a small smirk tugs at the corners of your lips, “baby, is that your way of asking me out?”

his laugh melts into a groan as he buries his face into your hair again, arms tightening around you as he pulls you impossibly closer, bodies fitting perfectly together, “keep calling me baby like that and we’re skipping the pancake date—i’m just gonna ruin you all over again.”

your grin widens as you lift a brow at him, a mix of teasing and challenge written all over your face. then, your hand begins its slow, deliberate descent, fingers trailing a lazy path down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, your eyes watching his adam’s apple bob with a hard swallow, his breath catching in anticipation as your hand moves lower and lower.

you part your lips just enough, voice laced sweetly with promise: “deal, baby.”

and after that night, everything kind of falls into an abnormally normal rhythm.

sunghoon did get you pancakes—because he’s a man of promises.

but not until after he ruined you a second time, because, well…he’s a man of promises.

he eventually makes up for the other accidents too. he starts knocking on your door at 8:03AM every morning—two coffees balancing in one hand, a paper bag of something warm in the other, hoodie string still uneven but now on a different hoodie because he let you keep that other one. he starts showing up—after class to drive you home with him, in your texts to ask you which cereal he should buy for the week, in your kitchen, handing you clean dishes while pretending not to stare at the way you hum along to whatever song is playing. 

he starts showing up in parts of your life where you didn't even know he was missing but now that he’s here, you never want to go back. 

and through it all, sunghoon learns you. he learns that you can’t drink iced coffee without stirring it exactly three times first, that you sometimes talk in your sleep, that you always pick the m&ms out of trail mix, that you hate parallel parking but love late night drives, that you laugh with your whole face, and that someway, somehow, between the pancakes and drives and mornings and the softness—you’ve managed to carve out a permanent place in his life without either of you really meaning to.

so yeah. everything becomes accidentally abnormal after that night.

sunghoon still wakes up on time like he always does—but now he gets ready faster, just so he can walk ten doors down the hall and meet you before class.

you still sit next to him in chemistry, but now your hand is slyly trailing up his thigh under the bench table while he’s trying (and desperately failing) to measure 25 milliliters of sodium hydroxide without shaking.

when you’re at his apartment, curled up together on the couch, jay walks by and gives sunghoon a look that says finally.

when he’s at your apartment, head resting in your lap, jake walks by and gives you the same look.

it’s all wonderfully, beautifully, accidentally abnormal. which, for you and sunghoon, feels just right.

so, yeah—they say you never forget your firsts.

your first love, your first kiss, your first time.

for park sunghoon? he’ll never forget the first time he met you.

and honestly?

he kind of really hopes he never will.

꩜｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ ty all again if u made it to the end <3 mwahmwahmwah

m.list here!