a repository

The door clicked shut behind him with the familiar sound of keys against metal, followed by the quiet thud of shoes being pushed aside near the entrance.

“Hey,” Seungcheol called automatically, voice warm, already shrugging off his jacket as he stepped inside your apartment

“I brought—” he stopped. No answer.

Usually, even on your worst days, you answered him somehow, sometimes half asleep from the couch, wrapped in a blanket, or from the kitchen telling him to come in but tonight the apartment was dim, silent except for one thing.

A sharp, painful sound from deeper inside. Then another. He froze for half a second before recognizing it.

Vomiting.

His expression changed immediately “...Shit.”

The grocery bag in his hand hit the counter almost carelessly before he moved fast down the short hallway, guided by the sound until he reached the bathroom door half-open.

You were kneeling on the floor. One hand gripping the toilet seat, the other braced weakly against the tiles, shoulders trembling as another wave hit you hard enough that your whole body folded forward.

Seungcheol was beside you in an instant. One hand gathered your hair away from your face, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades, rubbing slowly, steadily.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said quietly, voice lower now, softer, the kind of voice he only used when he knew you were hanging by a thread “I’m here.”

You didn’t answer because you couldn’t.

Another dry heave wracked through you, harsher this time, leaving almost nothing but pain behind. By the time it eased, tears had collected at the corners of your eyes—not from crying, just exhaustion, the strain of it all.

You stayed there breathing hard, forehead nearly touching the toilet seat.

Seungcheol didn’t move his hand.

He just kept rubbing slow circles into your back.

“When was the last time you kept anything down?” he asked after a moment

Your answer came weak “Half a cracker”

He looked at you “Today?”

You gave the tiniest nod. It had been like this for days now. Ever since the nausea had fully hit, mornings were bad, afternoons were worse, and nights somehow became unbearable.

At nine weeks, your body had decided mercy wasn’t part of the plan. And because life apparently wasn’t cruel enough, you were doing it while nursing a heartbreak that still sat fresh under your skin.

The ex-boyfriend who got you pregnant had left more damage behind than just betrayal.

You had found out about the cheating first. The girl from work. Messages. Pictures. Late nights that suddenly made sense. Promises that turned into excuses.

Then the breakup.

Then weeks later, two pink lines you had stared at in silence until your hands shook so badly you nearly dropped the test.

You hadn’t even told many people. Just Seungcheol. And once he knew, he simply… stayed.

Every day after work. Every grocery run.Every doctor appointment. Every time you insisted you were fine and clearly weren’t.

Now he crouched beside you in his office clothes, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, looking like he belonged nowhere near a bathroom floor and yet acting like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

He reached for the cup near the sink, filled it with water, and brought it to your lips.

“Rinse first”

You obeyed because arguing took too much strength. Afterward, he helped you sit back against the wall.

Your skin looked pale. His brows drew together as he pressed the back of his hand lightly to your forehead.

“You’re freezing”

“I’m fine”

“You say that every day”

“I mean it differently every day”

That actually pulled the smallest breath of a laugh from him then his face softened again.

“You should’ve called me earlier”

“You were working”

“And?”

You didn’t answer because there was no answer he would accept.

Seungcheol leaned his shoulder against the wall beside you, still close enough that if another wave came, he’d catch you before you fell forward again.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you whispered, voice rough, “I hate this.”

Not the pregnancy, not exactly. The helplessness. The nausea. The loneliness that sometimes hits harder than the sickness itself.

“I know”

“I throw up and then I cry because I’m hungry, then I try eating and throw up again.”

He nodded like this was a serious medical report “Terrible system”

“Very bad design”

“We should file a complaint” that made you smile faintly despite yourself.

A weak thing, but real. Seungcheol noticed because his own expression softened immediately, relief flickering there like he had been waiting for even that much.

Then your face changed again. Another wave. He reacted before you even bent forward, hair already gathered, hand steady on your back while your body tensed again.

This one lasted longer. When it ended, you were shaking.

“Okay,” he said firmly, decision already made “No more bathroom floor”

“I live here now”

“Not tonight”

Before you could protest, he stood, reached down, and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.

“Seungcheol—” He lifted you easily, you barely had strength to resist anyway

“I can walk”

“You nearly tipped sideways five seconds ago”

“I had balance”

“You were hugging a toilet”

“That counts”

He laid you gently onto the couch, arranged the blanket over you, then disappeared into the kitchen. You heard cabinets opening, the sound of something being unwrapped. He returned with ginger tea, plain crackers, and that same look he’d been wearing more and more lately.

Concern sharpened into quiet determination.

“Tiny sip,” he instructed

You obeyed because again, arguing required energy you did not possess. He waited while you drank then handed you half a cracker.

“Slow”

You took a bite. After a minute, he exhaled quietly. You leaned back, exhausted. He sat beside you but not too close, giving you space while still staying within reach.

Your voice came small after a while “You don’t have to keep doing this every day”

He didn’t even look at you when he answered

“Yes, I do”

“No, you don’t”

That made him finally turn. His eyes held yours steadily.

“Yes,” he repeated, gentler now, “I do.”

Because underneath all his calm, there was something else there. Something he never forced into words.

Not now. Maybe not yet.

But it existed in every grocery bag he brought, every pharmacy receipt tucked into his wallet, every hour spent sitting beside your bathroom floor after work like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured

“For what?”

“For being… like this.”

That answer made his expression harden.

“You’re growing a whole person while surviving heartbreak and barely sleeping. You’re allowed to throw up and be miserable.”

A tear slipped before you could stop it. You wiped it quickly but he had already seen. And because Seungcheol had always known exactly what to do when you were one breath away from breaking, he simply reached over and wiped the next tear before it fell.

“No apologizing tonight” he said quietly

You swallowed hard then another whisper “I didn’t think it would feel this lonely”

That finally cracked something in his face, because that, more than anything, was what he hated. How you kept carrying pain like it belonged only to you.

His voice lowered, “You’re not alone”

Simple. Certain. No hesitation. The kind of promise that sounded dangerous only because he meant it completely.

And sitting there, wrapped in a blanket, stomach unsettled, body exhausted, heart still bruised—you believed him.

Because every day since everything fell apart, he had shown up. Without fail. Without complaint. Without asking for anything back.

=

The office was loud in the usual end-of-day way—keyboards clacking, muted conversations near the glass meeting room, someone laughing too hard at something near the pantry.

Seungcheol barely noticed any of it.   His attention stayed fixed on the phone lying beside his keyboard. Screen dark. No new message.

He tapped it awake for what had to be the fifth time in ten minutes.

Still nothing from you.

His brows pulled together. You had texted earlier that morning that you needed to go out for a few hours—something about work paperwork you couldn’t delay anymore and he had replied immediately

Cheol: Text me when you get there. Text me when you leave. Call if you feel sick.

You had sent a thumbs up but that had been hours ago. He checked the time again. Then your chat.

Then the time again.

“Still playing baby daddy?” The voice came from his left. Lazy. Amused. Entirely too entertained. Seungcheol didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

Wonwoo leaned one shoulder against the divider of his desk, coffee in hand, glasses low on his nose, wearing the exact expression of a man arriving solely to be annoying.

Seungcheol finally lifted his eyes. The glare he gave him was immediate.

Wonwoo looked delighted by it “That look means yes”

“It means leave”

“But if I leave, who’s going to listen to you pretend you’re not one text away from driving across the city because she hasn’t replied in two hours?”

Seungcheol glanced down at his phone again before he could stop himself and Wonwoo caught it instantly smirking wider.

Wonwoo took a slow sip of coffee “You know, from an outside perspective, this is fascinating”

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, jaw tight “Do you have work?”

“Yes. But this is more interesting”

His thumb hovered near your contact before locking the screen again and Wonwoo watched the whole thing like a nature documentary.

“There it is again,” he murmured “That face”

“What face”

“The one where you look like you’re calculating whether calling her would be supportive or overbearing”

Seungcheol finally looked up “Why are you here?”

Wonwoo ignored that “You’ve been doing this every day for weeks now”

“She’s sick”

“She’s pregnant,” Wonwoo corrected mildly “And you are acting like an expectant husband in a medical drama”

“She lives alone”

“And?”

“And she needs help”

Wonwoo gave him a long look then deliberately sat on the edge of the desk

“You know what I enjoy most?”

“I’m not interested.”

“The fact that after all these years, you still think nobody can tell.”

Wonwoo had watched the entire thing happen in slow motion. Watched Seungcheol fall quietly and permanently long before anyone said it aloud. Watched him keep it to himself because timing never lined up, because friendship mattered more, because you smiled at someone else first.

And then you dated someone else. Seungcheol had stepped back exactly the way he should have.

No crossing lines. Just distance. Respectful.

Even when Wonwoo knew every time your name came up, something changed in Seungcheol’s face. Then the breakup happened. The cheating. The office girl. And Wonwoo also still remembered that night clearly because he had been there when Seungcheol found out.

The way Seungcheol stood so suddenly his chair nearly hit the floor. The look on his face that had made Wonwoo genuinely wonder whether he needed to physically stop him from doing something illegal.

“I’m going to kill him.” Direct. Calm. Which somehow sounded worse.

Wonwoo grabbed his sleeve immediately and said, “Prison is inconvenient”

“He cheated on her.”

“Yes, and murder remains dramatic”

“He cheated on her” Seungcheol repeated, voice lower, angrier.

Wonwoo had almost believed he would actually do it.

“You know,” he said lightly, “if someone didn’t know better, they’d think you’ve been waiting for this your whole life”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexed, “Be careful”

“See? Threatening. Very paternal.”

Another glare. Wonwoo smiled behind his coffee cup. Then his gaze dropped when Seungcheol’s phone lit up.

Seungcheol snatched it up. Wonwoo laughed under his breath because of course he did.

You: Sorry. Threw up in the clinic bathroom. Phone was in my bag. I’m okay now. Going home soon.

The tightness in Seungcheol’s shoulders eased but only slightly.

His fingers were already typing

Cheol: Clinic? Why clinic? Are you alone? Did you eat? Send location. I’m coming.

Wonwoo leaned enough to catch the edge of the screen then sighed dramatically.

Seungcheol stood, already grabbing his jacket.

“You’re leaving?”

“She’s at a clinic.”

“She said she’s okay.”

“She threw up in public.”

Wonwoo spread his hands “Right. Obviously life-threatening”

Seungcheol shoved his phone into his pocket “Do your work”

Wonwoo watched him move around the desk. Then added, because he truly could not resist, “If she ever realizes you’ve loved her since forever, I expect front-row seats.”

Just enough that Wonwoo caught the warning in his face. But also the truth.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, voice less teasing now, “I think she already trusts you more than anyone.”

Then his phone buzzed again. Your location. And another message

You: Don’t panic. I’m just tired.

Too late. He was already walking.

“Tell HR I left.”

Wonwoo called after him, grin returning “Should I also tell them parental leave is approaching?”

This time Seungcheol didn’t even bother answering.

Just lifted one hand without looking back—half warning, half dismissal—while already dialing your number the second he reached the elevator 

By the time Seungcheol reached the clinic, the evening traffic of Seoul had already thickened into slow-moving lines of headlights and brake lights stretching along the road.

He barely noticed any of it. The moment he turned into the curbside lane, his eyes found you immediately.

Sitting alone on a bench just outside the clinic entrance. One hand resting near your stomach without thinking, shoulders slightly hunched, looking tired in the way that had become too familiar lately—like your body was spending energy faster than you could recover it.

The second he saw you, he parked badly enough that another driver honked.

He ignored it, already crossing toward you.

Your head lifted at the sound of hurried footsteps, and before you could even greet him, he was standing there, brows drawn tight, scanning your face like he expected to find evidence you hadn’t mentioned.

“Why are you sitting outside?” he asked immediately

You blinked up at him “Because I was waiting.”

“You could’ve waited inside.”

“I wanted air”

“You threw up again?”

“A little”

“A little,” he repeated flatly, like the phrase personally offended him. You almost smiled.

He crouched just enough to meet your eyes properly “Are you dizzy?”

“No.”

“Headache?” “No.”

“Can you stand?”

That one made you laugh softly, tired but real “Yes, Seungcheol.”

Still, he took your bag before you could reach for it, then offered his hand like he didn’t fully trust your answer. And because arguing with him in this mood never worked, you let him help you up.

The walk to the car was slow. Not because you couldn’t manage, but because he kept adjusting his pace to yours so precisely it was impossible not to notice. At the passenger side, he opened the door first. Waited until you sat. Then leaned in, buckled your seatbelt himself, checking that it sat comfortably before closing the door gently.

By the time he got into the driver’s seat, you were already watching him with that quiet look that always made him pretend not to notice.

He started the engine. Only pulled away once he was sure you were settled.

For a few minutes, the car filled with soft heater air and city lights sliding past the windows.

Then he glanced at you.

“So.”

You leaned your head lightly against the seat “So?”

“What did the doctor say?”

You exhaled slowly “That apparently I’m dramatic”

He looked over immediately “She said that?”

“No,” you said, deadpan. “She said what I think is excessive nausea is apparently normal.”

His mouth tightened “Throwing up all day is normal?”

“Unfortunately, yes”

“That seems poorly designed”

“I told you.”

“What else?”

You looked out the window for a second, replaying the appointment

“I told her I can barely keep food down some days. She said small meals, bland food, ginger, rest… and she said if it gets worse, I might need fluids.”

“You didn’t tell me that part in the text.”

“Because I’m not at the fluids part”

“You still should’ve said it”

You looked at him sideways “You were already panicking.”

“I was not panicking”

“You left work in ten minutes”

“That’s efficiency”

That got the faintest smile from you.Traffic slowed at a light. He used the pause to glance over again.

“What else did you do today?”

“Two client meetings”

“You went to both?”

“I’m still employed”

“You looked exhausted yesterday”

“I looked exhausted because your tea tastes like boiled sadness”

He finally made a quiet sound that almost counted as laughter.

“It kept your crackers down.”

“Barely.”

You continued, voice softer now, tired enough that words came slower.

“First meeting was okay. Second one I almost had to excuse myself because someone opened tuna kimbap in the room.”

His face changed immediately. “You almost threw up there?”

“I survived.”

“That is not surviving.”

“I survived enough.”

Another pause. Then you added, almost absentmindedly, gaze still out the window:

“On the way here I passed a street cart.”

“Hm?”

“The egg bread one.”

He glanced at you, you were still looking outside.

“It smelled so good,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “I’ve been craving it for days.”

That finally made him turn his head slightly.

“Egg bread?”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter “The little ones from street vendors.”

“Why didn’t you buy some?”

You gave him a look “Because five minutes later I threw up in a clinic bathroom.”

A fair answer but he had already heard the important part.

Craving.

And unlike most people, Seungcheol treated any food you wanted lately like urgent medical information. Especially because wanting food and keeping food down were two very different things, and when your body asked for something specific, he paid attention.

He said nothing for the next minute. Just drove. Then suddenly signaled right. You noticed immediately.

“Why are we turning?” No answer.

“Seungcheol.” Still nothing.

“You’re not—”

He pulled over near a corner lined with evening vendors, warm lights glowing beneath small carts where steam rose into the cold air.

And there it was. The smell reached even the car. Fresh bread and egg.

He parked. Unbuckled.

“You cannot be serious.”

He already had one hand on the door.

“You wanted it.”

“That was not a request.”

“It sounded medically important.”

“It absolutely did not.”

But he was already out.

You watched through the windshield as he crossed toward the cart without hesitation, speaking briefly with the vendor, hands in his coat pocket while waiting.

Streetlight caught against his profile. Hair slightly messy from rushing out of work. The kind of scene that should not have made your chest tighten the way it did.

But lately everything he did landed somewhere you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Because there was something dangerous about kindness when you were already fragile.

And Seungcheol had been too kind for too long.

A few minutes later he came back carrying a warm paper bag.

The smell filled the car instantly the second he opened the door. He handed it over carefully.

“Small bites first"

You looked at the bag, then at him “You really stopped"

“You wanted it"

“I mentioned it”

“You mentioned it twice”

“I did not”

“You did in your head loud enough” Despite yourself, you smiled.

A real one this time. Small, but enough that something in his face softened immediately, almost unconsciously.

You took one careful bite, for the first time all day, your expression changed into something close to relief.

He noticed instantly “Well?”

You chewed slowly “It’s good.”

“Stay there,” he said immediately, eyes still on you like he expected a sudden reaction. “Don’t eat fast.”

You laughed softly through the second bite.

He finally started driving again, slower now, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift while occasionally glancing over to make sure you were still okay.

=

By week eleven, the nausea had not disappeared but it had changed shape. Less violent some days, more unpredictable on others.

One morning you could keep toast down. That same afternoon the smell of rice nearly sent you running to the sink.

And the cravings. those had become something else entirely.

At first they came quietly. A specific food sounding nice. Something easy enough to ignore. But lately, they arrived like full emotional emergencies. Ridiculous in how urgent they felt.

And tonight was worse because it had started small—just a passing memory of roasted sweet potatoes from a street cart earlier that week.

The smell of caramelized sweetness in cold air. Soft steam rising when broken apart. Then your brain had decided that was now the only thing in the world that mattered.

By eleven-thirty, you were still trying to reason with yourself.

You drank water, ate half a cracker. You told yourself normal people did not call someone near midnight because of sweet potatoes.

By eleven-fifty, your eyes were burning.

By eleven-fifty-six, you were sitting cross-legged on your bed staring at your phone like it had personally offended you.

This was absurd. He had already come by earlier.

And now here you were.

Hovering over his name. Your rational mind said wait until morning, the craving said absolutely not.

Your thumb pressed call before dignity could intervene.

The ring barely lasted long enough for regret to settle. He answered immediately.

“Hey.” His voice came low, rougher than usual, like he had been lying down but not asleep yet.

And immediately sharper after half a beat 

“What happened?”

Because you never called this late not unless something was wrong.

You opened your mouth but nothing came out at first because suddenly saying it aloud felt embarrassingly childish.

He waited exactly one second “Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Did you throw up?”

“No.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Are you crying?”

That made you blink because your voice had betrayed you that fast.

“No.”

A pause.

“That sounded suspicious.”

You covered your face with one hand “This is stupid.”

“Okay,” he said, already sounding like he was sitting up “Tell me the stupid thing.”

You almost hung up, like actually considered it but the craving had already won and apparently pregnancy removed all remaining pride.

“I want roasted sweet potatoes.”

For a moment it was just silent, then he speaks again

“What?”

Your eyes squeezed shut “I want roasted sweet potatoes.”

Another silence but thhis one shorter “Right now?”

Your voice dropped into a miserable mumble.

“Yes.”

“It’s midnight.”

“I know.”

“You called me because of sweet potatoes.”

The shame deepened “Yes.”

Then the worst possible thing happened. He laughed. Not mocking. Just sudden, warm laughter he clearly failed to stop in time.

Your offended voice came immediately “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“You are laughing.”

“I’m failing.”

“You’re horrible.”

That only made him laugh quieter, softer, like he was smiling now and somehow that made it worse because now you were genuinely close to tears again.

“Forget it,” you muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

That changed his tone instantly “Hey.”

You stayed quiet. He heard the shift anyway and when he spoke again, his voice softened.

“You’re really upset.”

“It’s hormones,” you said, hating how fragile that sounded. “And I can’t stop thinking about it.”

A pause.

“I tried not to call.”

That did something to him, enough that the smile left his voice completely. Because he could picture it too easily, you alone in your apartment, trying to be reasonable while your body and emotions ignored reason entirely.

He looked at the clock beside his bed.

11:58 PM. Weekend. No meetings tomorrow.

Decision made instantly.

“Stay there.”

You frowned “What?”

“I’m coming.”

“No.”

“I’m already getting up.”

“Seungcheol, no, that’s insane.”

“You called me at midnight sounding like you might cry over a sweet potato.”

You heard movement already.

“Do you know how many street vendors are still open right now?” you asked weakly

“I’m about to find out.”

“You should sleep.”

“You should stop sounding like this over root vegetables.”

You made a noise halfway between protest and embarrassment but he ignored it.

“Unlock your door.”

“Cheol—”

“Unlock it.”

The first thing Seungcheol realized after getting into the car was that midnight in Seoul made cravings significantly harder to solve than cravings at six in the evening.

The second thing he realized was that you had sounded genuinely close to tears over roasted sweet potatoes which meant turning around and going back to bed had never been an option.

The roads were quieter than usual, city lights stretched long against the windshield, convenience stores glowing at corners while most street vendors had already disappeared for the night.

His phone sat mounted near the dashboard, screen still lit from your last message:

You: Drive safe. If you can’t find any, it’s okay.

He had not answered because he already knew that if he texted back, you would tell him to forget it and he was not forgetting it.

Not after the way your voice cracked around I tried not to call.

His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel while he slowed near another corner where a vendor usually parked during colder nights.

Empty so he kept driving. Another block and still nothing. A third turn near the station, still nothing except closed shutters and a delivery scooter disappearing down an alley.

He exhaled through his nose.

This was ridiculous.

Entirely ridiculous.

And yet he was still scanning every side street like finding one specific roasted sweet potato cart determined the outcome of the night because if there was one thing he had learned these past weeks, it was that pregnancy ignored dignity, schedules, and logic equally.

One minute you were insisting you were fine the next minute egg bread became urgent enough to reroute traffic.

Tonight apparently sweet potatoes had won.

He checked the time.

12:11 AM.

Then finally, near the far side of the station entrance, he saw the faint orange glow of a small cart tucked beside a closed newspaper stand.

Steam rose under a yellow light.

A woman in a padded jacket sat behind it, peeling foil from freshly roasted sweet potatoes.

Relief hit harder than expected. He pulled over immediately. The cold hit the second he stepped out, but he barely noticed, already crossing toward the cart.

The woman looked up when he approached. Older, sharp-eyed, the kind who missed nothing.

“You’re lucky,” she said before he even spoke “I’m closing.”

“How many do you have left?”

She lifted the foil lid, revealing a few still warm inside “Enough if you’re quick.”

“I’ll take four.”

That earned him a glance “Four?”

He nodded “Big ones.”

She began wrapping them carefully, hands practiced and quick. At this hour the street was almost silent except for distant traffic and the soft crackle of heat from the cart.

Then she asked casually, like it was obvious conversation 

“Your wife sent you out this late?” the question landed without warning.

He should have corrected it immediately. Normally he would have. Instead, because his mind was still partly on you sitting alone at home trying not to cry over food, he answered without thinking.

“Craving.”

The woman looked up again, smile already forming.

“Ah.” One knowing sound “Pregnancy cravings?”

He hesitated only half a second then nodded once.

“...Yes.”

Her smile widened instantly, amused in that particular way older women often were when they believed they understood a story before you explained it.

“Aigo, then the wife won tonight.”

His hand paused halfway to his wallet. The wife.

Simple words. Ordinary. Harmless. And yet something about hearing it in relation to you landed strangely deep—so sudden that for a brief second he forgot to answer at all.

Because the image came too easily. Too naturally.

You at home in oversized sleep clothes, probably sitting on the couch waiting.

Half annoyed at yourself for calling. Half relieved he came. Your tired face lighting slightly the moment he handed you what you wanted.

And against all reason, the woman’s sentence fit that picture too neatly.

As if it had always been waiting somewhere in the background, dangerous only because he had spent years refusing to let his mind stay there too long.

He paid. The woman handed over the paper bag, sttill warm.

“First child?” she asked casually. 

The answer should have been complicated. Impossible, even.

But what came out was quieter than expected.

“...yes”

He bowed politely, took the bag, and turned back toward the car.

Cold air again. Warm paper in his hand. Inside the car, the smell of roasted sweet potato filled the space almost immediately.

He sat there for one second longer than necessary before starting the engine.

The woman’s words still annoyingly present.

The wife won tonight.

And worse, the fact that he had not corrected her, but not because explaining felt inconvenient, not because it was late.

But because for one selfish second, hearing it had felt... good.

Too good.

His fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel. He knew exactly where lines existed.

You were vulnerable. Pregnant. Recently hurt and he had spent years learning how to put what he felt in a locked place where it would never burden you.

That had not changed, would not change. 

=

By twelve weeks, Seungcheol had accepted two things as fact.

First: pregnancy cravings did not obey logic.

Second: once you wanted something, pretending you didn’t usually ended badly—for you, for your stomach, and for whatever fragile patience he still had left watching you suffer through it.

Which was exactly why, three days after the midnight sweet potato incident, he had stood in your kitchen with both arms crossed and told you in a tone so unnecessarily strict that you had nearly laughed in his face:

“If you want something, call me.”

You had leaned against the counter, chewing slowly on toast

“It was midnight.”

“I don’t care.”

“It was a sweet potato.”

“I still don’t care.”

“You looked personally offended.”

“I was.” That had earned a full laugh from you. When you laughed harder, he only narrowed his eyes.

“I mean it.”

“You’re making cravings sound like emergencies.”

“They become emergencies when you wait until you’re almost crying.”

That shut you up faster than expected.

Because unfortunately, he was right.

And Seungcheol, noticing your silence, softened only slightly.

“It’s better to see you eat than hear you throwing up all day.”

Simple sentence. Matter-of-fact.

So from then on, you tried. now and then, he’d get random messages that made absolutely no sense without context. Which was exactly why, during lunch with Wonwoo, his phone buzzing on the table immediately pulled his attention.

Wonwoo noticed because Seungcheol always looked first when your name appeared.

Your message was short:

You: Do grapes that taste like cotton candy actually exist or is that internet lying again.

You: Because if they exist I suddenly need them

Seungcheol stared for half a second then typed back without hesitation.

Cheol: They exist. I’ll stop by after lunch and bring some.

Send. Phone down. He reached for his water again like nothing happened.

Across from him, Wonwoo had watched the entire exchange with zero shame.

Then slowly put his chopsticks down “No.”

Seungcheol ignored him.

“No,” Wonwoo repeated, leaning back now, deeply entertained. “Absolutely not.”

“You didn’t even ask if she’s joking.”

“She’s not joking.”

“You answered in under five seconds.”

“She wants grapes.”

“Cotton candy grapes,” he said, “You’re really leaving lunch to hunt specialty fruit because she texted two lines.”

“I said after lunch.”

“That changes nothing.”

“It changes timing.”

Wonwoo gave him a long look Then, with complete seriousness:

“That kid is going to look like you.”

Seungcheol finally looked up. Flat stare.

“No.”

“Genetics be damned,” Wonwoo continued, fully committed now. “At this point the universe owes you resemblance.”

“That is not how biology works.”

“No, but emotional investment should count for something.”

Seungcheol went back to eating Which only encouraged him.

“Imagine the baby comes out with your glare.”

“Eat your lunch.”

“Or your stubbornness.”

“Wonwoo.”

“Tiny angry eyebrows.”

That finally pulled the smallest exhale through Seungcheol’s nose—the closest thing to amusement he would allow.

Later he dropped by the store quickly, getting 2 bags of grapes before going to your place. The moment you opened the door wearing that unmistakable expression. Slight scowl, tired eyes, brows drawn together like the day had personally offended you.

“You took long.” that was your greeting. Just immediate complaint but he only chuckled. 

Seungcheol held up the paper bag “You asked for specialty grapes.”

“You said after lunch.”

“It is after lunch.”

“You still took long.” But even while saying it, your eyes were already on the bag. And he knew that look now.

The exact moment irritation started losing against curiosity.

He stepped inside without comment, slipped off his shoes, and handed the bag over.

You took it immediately, opened it standing right there near the entryway. Plucked one grape, bit into it and right before his eyes, the entire mood changed.

A complete, absurd one-eighty.

The scowl vanished. Brows relaxed. Then came that small hum—soft, involuntary, pleased enough that it almost sounded like you forgot he was there.

He stared for half a second then laughed under his breath because honestly, there it was again—that strange little victory he kept collecting lately whenever food stayed down and made you smile instead of grimace.

By the time he finished washing his hands and stepped toward the living room, you were already curled into the couch with the bowl in your lap, eating one grape at a time like you had discovered treasure.

Another quiet hum.

He leaned one shoulder against the kitchen doorway, watching.

“It’s good?”

You looked up, cheeks slightly full, and nodded immediately. Too happy to even answer properly.

He chuckled.

Your expression made it impossible not to.

“Internet didn’t lie,” he added.

Another nod. Then a tiny, almost suspiciously satisfied

“They actually taste like cotton candy.”

“Mm.”

You reached for another grape. Mood entirely restored.

And it struck him again how dramatic the shifts had become lately, how fifteen minutes ago you had looked ready to reject human interaction, and now one bowl of grapes had apparently repaired the universe.

He moved into the kitchen, setting down the extra pack he had bought because Wonwoo had unfortunately been right.

Behind him he could still hear occasional soft sounds of approval every few bites.

He was rinsing a glass when your voice came again.

“Hey, Cheol.”

Something in the tone made him look over immediately. You were no longer smiling quite the same way but still holding the bowl, fingers slower now, thoughtful.

He stayed where he was.

“Yeah?”

You hesitated “I have a scan next week.”

He turned fully “What kind?”

“The one where they might tell me the gender.”

Then your eyes dropped to the grapes again.

“I don’t want to go alone.”

That was all it took.

He was moving before you even looked up again.

Kitchen forgotten. By the time your gaze lifted, he was already crouching in front of the couch, one hand resting lightly against the edge near your knee, face level with yours.

Close enough that his attention felt immediate, complete.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, absurdly, he could already hear Wonwoo’s voice:

Look at you. One sentence and you’re kneeling like a proposal scene.

Which was annoying because from the outside, maybe it did look painfully obvious.

He ignored that thought.

“What day?” he asked first

You blinked, slightly caught off guard by how fast he answered.

“Thursday.”

“What time?”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Which clinic? Same one?”

You nodded slowly. He repeated it once under his breath, already memorizing.

Then his expression softened. That steady, reassuring smile he used only when he knew you were asking for something that cost you more courage than it should have.

“I’ll come if you want me to.” No hesitation

“You’re not busy?” The pout appeared too—small, tired, almost guilty.

As if asking already felt like asking too much and that expression did something dangerous to his chest every single time.

Because you still asked like he might say no. Still asked like you hadn’t learned yet that if it involved you lately, he rearranged things before considering inconvenience.

His smile deepened just slightly.

“I can move anything.”

“You don’t even know what you have that day.”

“I know what matters first.”

The words came too naturally. Too honest.

He noticed it right after saying them. So did you, judging by the way your eyes stayed on him a second longer than usual.

He added more lightly, “It’s one appointment.”

You looked down again, picking another grape but not eating it yet.

“I just…” A pause “I don’t want to sit there by myself if they tell me.”

He understood immediately. Not the scan itself. The moment. The weight of hearing something important and having nobody beside you to look at first.

Nobody to share the first reaction with.

And suddenly crouching there, looking up at you from the floor, he felt that familiar sharp pull again—that impossible mixture of tenderness and restraint that had defined nearly every day lately.

Because it would have been so easy to reach for your hand right then.

Too easy.

Instead he kept his voice steady.

“You won’t be alone.”

That made you finally eat the grape still in your fingers.

Slowly.

Then after swallowing, quieter:

“Okay.”

He stayed there another second longer than necessary. Just because your face had softened again. Because relief looked gentler on you than exhaustion ever did.

Because this close, with afternoon light catching across the couch and the bowl of ridiculous grapes in your lap, he understood exactly why Wonwoo never stopped teasing him.

It probably was obvious.

Painfully obvious.

Especially now—him crouched in front of you like your next sentence might determine his entire week.

Still, he didn’t move until you looked at him again and asked:

“Did you buy only one pack?”

He blinked. Then almost laughed.

“Check the kitchen.”

That earned the smallest smile.

A real one.

And when you smiled like that, even something as ordinary as buying extra grapes somehow felt absurdly worth it 

=

By the time Thursday came, Seungcheol already knew two things before you even said a word.

First—you had barely eaten breakfast.

Second—you were nervous enough that your silence felt louder than usual.

The drive through morning traffic in Seoul had been mostly quiet, not uncomfortable, just filled with that specific kind of tension he had started recognizing in you lately.

You answered when he asked simple things. Short replies. Small nods. 

But your fingers kept moving. Twisting the edge of your sleeve. Checking your phone without reading anything.

Looking out the window, then away again.

And by the time the two of you sat in the clinic waiting area, that nervous energy had settled fully into your body.

Your knee bounced fast enough to shake the chair slightly.

One hand kept drifting to your nails. Picking.

Tiny repeated motions.

He noticed immediately. He had seen that habit before, long before pregnancy, long before heartbreak—always the same when your thoughts got too loud.

And always bad enough that if nobody stopped you, you’d keep going until skin broke.

You probably didn’t even realize you were doing it.

He watched for half a minute. Then without ceremony, he reached over and took your hand. Warm fingers wrapping gently but firmly around yours before your nails could catch skin again.

The motion startled you enough that your head turned instantly.

Eyes lifting to him, already ready to protest and he knew that look too.

So before you could say anything, he answered casually, voice low enough not to draw attention.

“You pick at your nails when you’re nervous until it bleeds.”

You blinked. Your mouth opened then closed.

Then came the small, almost defensive mumble “I don’t do it that much.”

He gave you a look. You knew better than to argue with that look ecause both of you knew he was right.

Still, he didn’t let go. And this time—you didn’t pull away. Your hand stayed where it was in his.

At first maybe because you were distracted. Then because, little by little, the warmth helped more than you wanted to admit.

Your knee slowed too.

Around you, the waiting room stayed busy in quiet clinic ways—soft footsteps, low voices, pages turning.

From anyone sitting across the room, the picture likely looked obvious.

A couple waiting for an appointment.

Because there you were: seated close enough that your shoulder occasionally brushed his arm, your bag resting on his lap because he had taken it from you the second you tried carrying it yourself, and your fingers still loosely caught in his hand like neither of you had properly acknowledged it.

At one point you leaned slightly toward him.

Not fully just enough that your shoulder settled against his arm.

Then tugged lightly at the side of his sleeve.

“Did you check if parking expires?”

He looked down “Two hours.”

“You checked?”

“Before we came in.”

You nodded like that answered something important.

And somewhere in another version of this morning, if Wonwoo had witnessed any of it, Seungcheol knew exactly what expression he would wear:

Hopeless. Completely hopeless.

Because yes, from the outside it looked obvious. From the inside too, if he was being honest.

The dangerous part was how natural it felt. Holding your hand. Carrying your bag. Watching every little nervous movement like it mattered as if his body had already learned its role before his mind allowed it.

Then the nurse called your name imediately your fingers tightened around his.

He only stood, still holding your hand until you were fully on your feet. Then picked up your bag too.

Inside the scan room, the light dimmed. You climbed onto the bed slowly, still visibly tense. He stood near your side, bag set aside, hands in his pockets now only because he needed somewhere to put them.

The technician smiled politely, professional and calm, beginning routine questions before applying gel across your stomach. Cold enough that you startled.

Seungcheol immediately looked over “You okay?”

“It’s cold”

The technician laughed softly “Always cold”

Then the screen flickered. Shapes appeared. Movement. That strange grainy image that somehow still made everything feel impossibly real.

For a second, nobody spoke. The technician focused. Measured. Clicked through angles.

And Seungcheol, who had come here prepared to simply sit quietly and support you, felt something shift unexpectedly when he saw movement on the screen.

A tiny shape. Small but real.

His chest tightened before he had words for why. Beside him, your hand found the edge of his sleeve again. Without looking, you tugged lightly. A nervous habit.

Then the technician smiled slightly. “Well…” A pause. Another angle.

“It looks like a girl.” The room went quiet. Just long enough for the sentence to land fully.

A girl.

You blinked first. Eyes fixed on the screen.

“...A girl?”

The technician nodded, still smiling “Yes. Very likely.”

And suddenly your face changed. All the tension from earlier loosened at once into something softer—something caught between disbelief and emotion.

A tiny breath left you that sounded dangerously close to tears. Beside you, Seungcheol forgot entirely that he was supposed to stay detached from moments that did not belong to him.

Because hearing girl hit him harder than expected too.

Not his child. Not his place. And yet standing there, watching your eyes shine while staring at that screen, all he could think was how impossibly small she still was.

How fiercely you had already fought through weeks of nausea and exhaustion for someone not even born yet.

And before he realized it, he smiled.

You turned your head then, finally looking at him instead of the screen. And because emotion made honesty simpler than usual, you whispered

“A girl” Like you needed to hear it again from someone beside you.

His eyes met yours “A girl,” he repeated gently.

Your fingers tightened once more around his sleeve and this time neither of you let go because for one suspended moment it felt less like surviving another appointment and more like something tender neither of you quite knew how to name yet 

=

By twenty-one weeks, asking Seungcheol for help no longer felt like crossing some line you had once drawn out of guilt.

At first, every favor came with hesitation. Every request felt heavier than it should have, because somewhere in your mind you still heard yourself saying he has his own life, he shouldn’t have to keep doing this, you cannot keep leaning this much.

But time had a way of softening resistance when someone showed up often enough that their presence stopped feeling borrowed.

He still came after work. Still checked if you had eaten. Still carried things you could absolutely carry yourself and ignored every complaint about it.

And somewhere between week twelve and now, the guilt had thinned into something harder to define. Not gone. Just quieter.

Because lately his presence had become... natural. The kind of natural that only became noticeable when you caught yourself expecting him before he arrived. Or when your first instinct at seeing something funny, annoying, exhausting, or strange became I should tell Cheol.

That should have felt ordinary—he had always been your best friend but lately you noticed things you had spent years deliberately not naming.

Things that became harder to ignore now that he stayed so close to your daily life. Like how absurdly unfair it was that someone built like him moved so carefully around you.

Broad shoulders. Tall enough that in crowded places people stepped aside without thinking. That serious expression strangers always mistook for coldness. The glare that made people straighten immediately when aimed their way.

And yet the moment you spoke, even mid-sentence, something changed.

His brows eased. His mouth softened slightly. His attention sharpened in that complete way that made the rest of the world look temporarily unimportant.

You had told yourself for weeks that it was simply kindness. Because that was safer.

Kindness fit. Kindness explained midnight sweet potatoes, clinic visits, grapes that tasted like cotton candy, carrying your bag, waiting through appointments, remembering what food stayed down and what smell made you nauseous.

Something else… that was harder. So you kept choosing kindness.

Even while lately, more and more often, you caught yourself noticing things that made the explanation thinner.

Seungcheol picked you up earlier than usual under the excuse that he had things to do at home anyway and you might as well stay there instead of being alone all day.

You had argued, naturally

“I’ll be fine at my apartment”

“You said that last week and then forgot lunch because you fell asleep sitting up.”

“That happened once”

“You threw up twice before noon”

“That is unrelated”

“It is exactly related”

And somehow, as always, you ended up in his car anyway.

Now his apartment looked suspiciously prepared for your arrival. Extra pillows stacked on one side of the couch. A folded blanket already placed within reach. Water bottle on the coffee table. Snacks lined neatly beside it.

You also chose not to comment because if you did, he would shrug like it meant nothing so instead you settled into the couch, one leg tucked carefully under the other, phone in hand, while he moved around the apartment doing errands he claimed he had ignored for too long.

Laundry first. Then something in the kitchen. Then you heard drawers opening somewhere deeper inside. And because apparently distance no longer stopped either of you from continuing conversations, he texted you even when he’s just in the other room

Seungcheol: Why is your hand inside the snack bowl but you’re not eating?

You: Are you spying on me?

Seungcheol: Reflection from the TV

You looked up instinctively toward the blank television and narrowed your eyes.

“Creepy”

From the other room, his voice came back calm “Eat.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. Your shirt had ridden slightly upward from how you were sitting, exposing the soft curve of your stomach. One hand rested there absentmindedly, fingertips moving without thought the way they had lately whenever you sat still too long.

You were halfway through typing another complaint about his hoodie collection when the apartment door opened. You barely registered it.

A click. Then footsteps.

Jeon Wonwoo appears with one iced coffee in hand, clearly meant for Seungcheol, and had already stepped fully inside before his eyes landed on the couch.

Then stopped. Because from his angle, what he saw was: You stretched comfortably across Seungcheol’s couch. Pillows arranged around you like someone had built a nest. Snacks spread on the table. Your hand resting over your stomach. Your shirt slightly lifted enough to make the pregnancy obvious.

And the overall atmosphere of someone entirely at ease in another person’s home.

Wonwoo blinked once. The amusement arrived first. Then confusion. Then dangerous understanding.

Seungcheol, unfortunately, caught that exact expression immediately and the glare he shot him could have stopped traffic.

A very clear: Don’t you dare.

Wonwoo looked delighted “Ah.”

That one syllable alone sounded criminal. You finally looked up.

“Oh. Hi.”

Wonwoo lifted the coffee slightly like proof he came peacefully.

“Hi”

Seungcheol spoke first, voice flat “You’re early”

“I can leave,” Wonwoo said, not sounding like he meant it at all

“You should”

“But then I’d miss whatever this is”

You frowned faintly “What do you mean, whatever this is?”

Wonwoo looked at you. Then very deliberately at Seungcheol. Then back at you.

“This looks… domestic”

Seungcheol immediately moved forward, taking the coffee from his hand harder than necessary.

“It looks like she’s resting”

“It looks,” Wonwoo corrected mildly, “like you kidnapped a pregnant woman and built her a comfort station”

You almost laughed. Seungcheol did not.

“She didn’t want to stay alone.”

“Mm” Wonwoo’s gaze dropped to the table again

“Sit down or leave”

You looked slowly toward Seungcheol. He refused eye contact immediately, suddenly very interested in placing coffee on the counter.

Wonwoo saw your expression shift and nearly smiled to himself. So naturally he stepped deeper into it. He sat in the armchair opposite the couch like he had arrived specifically for entertainment.

“You want coffee too?” Seungcheol asked you immediately, changing subject

“No”

“Tea?” “No”

“Fruit?” “I’m not a zoo animal”

Wonwoo leaned back “He asks like that every ten minutes?”

“Yes” you answered before Seungcheol could stop you

“Because she forgets to eat”

“Because he acts like I’ll vanish if unsupervised”

Wonwoo looked at Seungcheol again, slow and deeply entertained.

“You know, if anyone walked in right now, they’d assume this is his wife.”

Silence. Immediate silence. Your eyes widened just slightly. Seungcheol looked ready to physically remove him.

Wonwoo, sensing impact, added calmly “Especially with the hand on the stomach.”

You looked down instinctively, your palm still rested there. You pulled your shirt down at once.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, not because of you, but because Wonwoo had noticed the exact thing he had spent all morning pretending not to stare at.

Then, suddenly a small movement under your palm.

You froze. The shift came again. Tiny but unmistakable.

Your breath caught “Wait”

Everything changed instantly. Both men looked at you. You stared down, hand pressing lightly. There it is again.

You looked up too fast, eyes wide.

“I think—” Seungcheol was beside the couch before you finished. All annoyance gone. Wonwoo forgotten.

“What?”

“She moved”

His expression changed in real time. Softened so quickly it almost hurt to look at.

“Now?” Y

Y&ou nodded. He crouched immediately in front of you, instinctive, like every serious thing involving you now pulled him lower, closer, gentler.

“Again?”

“I don’t know, wait—” You inhaled sharply and without thinking, your hand caught his wrist and placed it there. Right over the curve.

For one suspended second no one moved. Seungcheol went absolutely still his large hand under yours. Then… another tiny movement. Barely there but enough.

His eyes lifted slowly to yours and whatever he felt in that moment showed too clearly.

Wonwoo, for once in his life, did something rare. He stayed quiet. No teasing. No smug I knew it expression spoken aloud, even though it absolutely lived in his eyes. He only leaned back deeper into the chair, coffee untouched in his hand, watching the two of you as if instinct told him this was not a moment to break.

Your entire focus stayed on the small place beneath your palm. And Seungcheol’s hand remained there too, large and impossibly careful under yours, like even breathing too hard might disturb something fragile.

Then another tiny movement. Your whole face changed instantly. Mouth parting into that smile he had come to recognize as the dangerous kind, the kind that hit him directly in the chest because it appeared without effort, pure and unguarded.

“That’s so weird,” you whispered. Then softer “But also… she’s alive.”

Your hand stayed over his and now you were smiling fully, looking down at your stomach like you had just met something miraculous and ordinary at once.

Seungcheol looked at you instead bcause this expression was worth every sleepless midnight run, every worried clinic wait, every swallowed anger from months ago he refused to revisit.

For a dangerous second, he forgot Wonwoo existed entirely yhen Wonwoo finally spoke, voice light enough not to shatter the softness.

“Oh—it’s a girl? Congrats.” The word landed like a pin through a bubble. Instantly both you and Seungcheol looked up.

The moment broke just enough for awareness to return. You realized your hand was still over his. Realized how close he was crouched between your knees.

Realized Wonwoo had watched the entire thing. Heat rushed straight into your face.

Seungcheol cleared his throat first and stood up immediately, too quickly almost, like distance would fix whatever had suddenly become obvious.

“Yeah,” you answered, voice smaller than before “A girl.”

He busied himself with the pillows which did not need fixing, then the blanket folded even though it had already been folded.

Wonwoo watched this performance with enormous internal satisfaction. He said nothing but the smile he bit back was criminal.

“You found out recently?” Wonwoo asked, shifting attention to you because clearly Seungcheol needed several seconds to remember how normal people behaved

“A few days ago”

“How are you feeling?”

You shrugged “Hungry half the time. Sick the other half. Emotional for no reason.”

“Not no reason,” Wonwoo said mildly

“Yesterday I almost cried because my toast was uneven.”

“That sounds valid”

And just like that, conversation settled easier. You asked about work. Wonwoo told you stories—mostly exaggerated, likely to annoy Seungcheol, which worked because every third sentence from the kitchen came with corrections.

You laugh at Wonwoo’s stories, the sound carried through the apartment easily.

And each time it did, Seungcheo who was pretending to do anything except stand there listening, felt that quiet shift inside him he no longer knew how to control.

Because hearing you laugh here, in his place, had started to feel far too right.

Dangerously right.

=

If there was one thing Seungcheol noticed more clearly once you reached twenty-eight weeks, it was exhaustion. Just constant in small ways that added up enough for him to track without meaning to.

You moved slower now, sat down more often mid-conversation. Paused before stairs like your body negotiated whether the effort was worth it. And lately, no matter how much sleep you got, there was always that same heaviness behind your eyes by late afternoon.

Which naturally meant he adjusted around it without announcing he was doing so. If you had somewhere to go, he checked the time you’d finish. If you needed errands, he offered to drive. If you said you could take a cab, he ignored that entirely.

And tonight was no different.

You had gone out with friends for dinner. Something he had actually encouraged because lately your world had become too clinic-home-work-repeat and he knew you needed voices other than his around you.

Still, he parked nearby before your agreed pickup time anyway because he also knew how quickly your energy dropped now once evening came.

When you finally came out, two shopping bags hung from your wrist and your face already carried that unmistakable tired softness.

He was out of the car immediately

“Why are you carrying those”

“I have hands”

“You also have a back that complained yesterday”

He took the bags before you could argue. You got into the passenger seat muttering something about him being dramatic, but your voice lacked force.

By the time your seatbelt clicked in, he already knew you were exhausted.

The drive started with your usual attempt to stay awake. You talked while staring half at the window, half at the bags now in the backseat.

“They bought so much,” you murmured

“What did they get?”

“One bought tiny dresses”

“Mm.”

“And socks. More socks. So many socks”

You continued, words slower now “One bought this rabbit blanket…”

A pause “And this weird plush thing that plays music”

“What kind of music?”

“I think lullabies? Or maybe forest sounds. It sounded expensive.”

Another pause “And someone gave diapers which honestly felt the most practical.”

Your speech had begun to blur slightly between thoughts he noticed immediately. You kept talking anyway, stubbornly.

“They kept saying she’ll be spoiled already and she’s not even here yet…”

A small yawn interrupted you then another. Your hand moved over your stomach automatically.

“She kicked after dinner too much. Maybe she liked noodles.”

Silence lasted a few seconds then nothing after that. He glanced sideways. Your head had tipped slightly toward the window. Eyes closed. Asleep.

The city outside kept moving, headlights streaking softly over the windshield, but inside the car everything quieted instantly.

And for a moment he kept driving the route toward your apartment by habit.

One turn then another. Then at the next intersection, his hands stayed on the wheel while his mind ran through the practical facts he had already lost to.

You were asleep. deep enough that waking you meant making you walk upstairs. Your apartment meant stairs from parking to lobby because the elevator on your floor had been unreliable this week.

His apartment was closer from here. Fewer stairs. Softer couch. Extra pillows already there because somehow they had never really left after last time.

He exhaled once. Then took the turn toward his building.

Just for tonight, he told himself. For you and the baby.

Nothing else. Not because seeing you asleep beside him made something dangerous settle too naturally inside the silence or because your hand remained loosely over your stomach in sleep like even unconscious you protected her.

Not because there was something painfully domestic about driving with you like this.

No. Practical. Only practical.

He repeated that twice before parking. He hated waking you abruptly, so he touched your shoulder lightly first.

“We’re here”

A sleepy sound. Your eyes opened halfway, confused.

“My apartment?”

“No. Mine.”

That woke you slightly more “Why”

“You fell asleep”

“I can still go home.”

“You can also sleep first”

You looked at him for exactly three exhausted seconds before losing the argument simply because staying awake clearly cost too much energy.

He unbuckled your seatbelt when your fingers fumbled once, took the bags, walked slowly beside you to the elevator because now your steps had that familiar late-night heaviness.

Inside his apartment, the lights stayed soft. You barely reached the couch before another yawn overtook you.

“Sit,” he said

He already had water on the table, blanket unfolded, pillows adjusted. You watched him with half-open eyes, too tired now to comment on how practiced he had become at this.

Then your hand pressed lightly to your stomach

“She moved”

“Too much?”

“No… just saying hello, maybe.”

And exactly as expected, before he even returned from setting the bags aside you were already asleep again. One hand tucked near your face. The other still over the curve of your stomach.

Seungcheol stood there longer than necessary. Then quietly adjusted the blanket higher over your shoulder.

Just tonight, he told himself again. He let you sleep on the couch for exactly seven minutes before deciding it was a bad idea because even from where he stood in the kitchen doorway, he could already see the angle.

Your neck bent wrong. One arm trapped awkwardly under you. Lower back unsupported. And he knew what that meant tomorrow. complaints about stiffness, one hand pressing your side, that small wince you tried to hide when standing too quickly.

So eventually he crossed the room quietly, before kneeling slightly beside the couch.

“Hey” Nothing.

A second softer touch “Wake up”

Your brows moved first then your eyes opened halfway, unfocused and heavy with sleep.

“What…”

“You’ll sleep on the bed”

A tiny frown. Too tired even for full resistance.

“I’m okay here”

“No, you’re not” he added, gentler “Come on.”

You only gave a sleepy sound that might have been an agreement and pushed yourself upright. He stayed close automatically while you stood. One hand hovering near your elbow without touching unless needed.

You shuffled toward his room with that slow exhausted pace he had seen more often lately.

By the time you disappeared into the bedroom, he grabbed a spare shirt and comfortable shorts from his drawer, things loose enough not to bother your stomach and took the blanket from the couch too.

He gave you privacy long enough to change, waiting outside a moment before knocking lightly and stepping back in.

And then he stopped. You were already on his bed, settled against the pillows. His oversized shirt hanging loose enough that it slipped over one shoulder. The sight hit him so unexpectedly that for one suspended second he forgot to breathe.

You looked not like a guest. You looked like you belonged there in a way his mind accepted far too easily. Like the room had been waiting for that exact picture, like you had always been meant to soften the sharp edges of that space simply by existing inside it.

And because exhaustion had softened your face, because your eyes were already closing again, because the room was too quiet and too warm… something dangerous slipped through the cracks he usually kept sealed shut.

A thought. Not new. Just louder tonight.

That in another life—

another timeline—

this could have been ordinary.

You in his bed. Late night. Soft breathing. A child growing between shared futures instead of broken ones.

And before he could stop it, another thought followed. The selfish one. The one he hated every time it surfaced. There had been one ugly, human flash of something he never forgave himself for:

He wished, for one impossible second, that the baby had been his.

Not because he wanted to erase what happened. Not because he resented her existence.

Never that.

But because the idea of you carrying a child and it belonging to someone who hurt you had ignited something violent and helpless in him he still refused to examine too closely.

Because some reckless part of him had thought:

If it were mine, I would never make her carry this alone.

That thought had terrified him enough to bury it immediately. Especially because you were grieving enough already. Especially because love—his love—had no right to become another weight on your shoulders.

So he buried it. Deep.

Every day after. Under clinic visits. Under grocery bags. Under late-night cravings. Under pretending that all of this was simple friendship stretched a little farther because circumstances demanded it.

Because saying it aloud can change everything.

He could survive loving you quietly, what he could not survive was losing you.

The truth he had made peace with, quietly, alone, was this. That baby girl did not belong in his mind to the man who made you cry. Never to him.

In Seungcheol’s heart, she existed as yours. Entirely yours. And because she was part of you… because she would carry your smile, your voice, your habits, your softness somewhere he already loved her too.

Enough that raising another man’s child did not even feel like sacrifice if it meant protecting what was yours.

You shifted slightly then, pulling him back from thoughts he never let linger long.

Your eyes half-opened “You’re staring.”

His expression reset immediately “I’m checking if you need another pillow.”

Then another yawn. He moved closer anyway, adjusting one pillow behind your back until the angle improved.

“You’ll feel better like this.”

You made a quiet sound of approval already drifting again. As he pulled the blanket properly over you, your fingers caught his wrist lightly.

“Stay until I sleep,” you murmured.

And because refusing was impossible, he sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

Your hand loosened but did not fully let go. Within minutes your breathing deepened again.

Sleep taking you completely and Seungcheol sat there in the dim room longer than he should have watching the woman he loved sleep in his bed,

Telling himself once more that silence was kinder than confession, even while his heart had already crossed lines his mouth never would 

=

When morning light pushed faintly through the curtains, the first thing Seungcheol noticed was warmth at his arm. Your hand still clutching his sleeve.

He looked down for several quiet seconds and that same dangerous thought threatened again. So carefully he loosened your fingers one at a time. He stood slowly, pulled the blanket higher over your shoulder then left the room before he could look too long.

The gym was supposed to fix his head. Routine, he told himself. So he trained harder than usual. Longer too. Enough that muscle fatigue should have replaced whatever sat in his chest.

It did not.

Which was exactly why when Wonwoo spotted him there, one glance was enough for suspicion.

“You look like someone lost an argument with himself”

Seungcheol grabbed water “I’m working out”

“You’re punishing dumb decisions”

And somehow not an hour later,  Wonwoo sat in the passenger seat while they drove back toward the apartment because even while pretending calm, Seungcheol kept checking the time.

“She’s probably still asleep” Wonwoo said

“She sleeps lighter lately”

“You know that like a husband” Silence. Wonwoo let that one go. Rare mercy.

Back at the apartment, Seungcheol unlocked the door quietly, expecting silence.

So they stayed in the kitchen, voices lower than usual. Wonwoo leaned against the counter, watching his friend with the kind of patience that only existed because he had watched this same story unfold for years.

“Just tell her”

“No” Seungcheol didn’t even look up.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose “You’re rearranging your entire life around her”

“She needs help”

“You know what week every appointment is”

“She forgets dates”

Wonwoo waited until Seungcheol looked up then said it plainly

“And you still think pretending this is only practical is believable?”

His jaw tightened “It doesn’t matter what I think”

“It matters if you’re in love with her” That word stayed in the kitchen heavier than either admitted aloud usually.

Seungcheol looked away first “She doesn’t need that right now”

Wonwoo’s voice stayed calm “She deserves truth and you deserve to stop acting like loving her is some crime”

That hit harder than expected.

Seungcheol’s answer came lower now “If I say anything and she pulls away, what then”

Wonwoo said nothing immediately because there it was. The real answer.

Not fear of rejection. Fear of absence. Fear that one confession could cost the place he already had beside you.

Then quieter, Wonwoo said “You think staying silent protects her. Maybe it protects you”

“She’s pregnant. Hurt. Trying to survive all of this. I’m not putting something selfish on top of that.”

Wonwoo frowned “Loving someone isn’t selfish”

“Now it is”

The kitchen fell quiet and neither of them noticed the bedroom door had opened slightly.

That you had woken earlier than expected, you had stepped closer at the sound of voices and caught only fragments.

Tell her. You deserve it. She deserves truth. Rearranging your life around her.

If I say anything and she pulls away…

Fragments without the whole. Fragments sharp enough to cut wrong.

Of course. Of course eventually this became too much. Of course there was a truth he wasn’t saying because how could there not be?

You were in his apartment. Sleeping in his bed. Calling him for cravings. Clinic visits. Rides home. Every week more of his time. More space. More care.

And suddenly all the things you had allowed yourself not to question arrived together, ugly and loud. You were asking too much. Holding him too long in a role that was never his. You and your baby were not his responsibility.

For one ugly second another thought came—one worse because it hurt before you could stop it.

Someday there would be someone else here. A woman who belonged naturally in this apartment. A woman he loved openly. A child that was theirs.

Not borrowed moments. Not careful boundaries. Not obligation dressed as kindness.

That image came so quickly it stole your breath. And before you realized it, tears had already gathered.

So you did what pride always made you do first. You cleaned evidence. Changed clothes. Washed your face.

By the time Seungcheol checked the room again, expecting sleep you were sitting at the edge of the bed, shoes on, bag beside you.

That alone made him stop “You’re awake.”

You nodded without looking long enough at him “I should go home”

His brows pulled together immediately “What?”

“I stayed too long”

“You were sleeping”

“I’m okay now” your voice sounded controlled in that way he recognized instantly as dangerous.

He stepped closer “Did something happen?”

“No.” A lie too quick. You stood before he could block it, adjusting your bag strap though he immediately took the bag from your hand out of habit.

“I’m taking you home”

That should have sounded ordinary. Usually it didbut today it landed differently because all you heard underneath was what your own mind had already decided. He doesn’t have to.

And maybe that was the part that hurt most. That you had started forgetting he never had to do any of this at all.

You looked away quickly before your eyes betrayed anything again.

“I really don’t want to keep bothering you.”

That made him still completely because the sentence came from nowhere.

His voice lowered immediately

“You’re not bothering me”

You gave the smallest smile. One that convinced neither of you.

But you nodded anyway and said nothing more because if you did, you were afraid your voice would break again first. 

The moment he dropped you off he knew something was wrong, you didn't even look back when you got out of his car. Arms crossed over yourself as if you're physically holding yourself together.

Not even a quick goodbye.

The streetlamp flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. You pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders, checking the time on your phone screen for the fifth time in two minutes.

9:14 PM.

A very old blue jeep is parked halfway down the block, engine off, exactly where the dropped pin had indicated. As you approach, the driver’s side door clicks open.

Vernon steps out, casually pulling back the hood of his dark sweatshirt. He looks even more handsome than in the picture he sent earlier, which only makes you more nervous. His relaxed, unbothered posture immediately contrasts with your stiff and coiled tension. He leans against the car door, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches you close the distance.

You stop a few feet away, practically vibrating with nerves. “Vernon?”

“Yeah.” His voice is low, carrying a slight rasp. He doesn’t move toward you, leaving a comfortable gap between to let you dictate the space. “You’re Chan’s friend.”

“Y/N,” you supply quickly, voice slightly breathless.

It was Chan who gave you his number after seeing you have an anxiety attack. He said Vernon was the seller with the best prices and the best products, that his stuff would definitely help you relax, and that he was a reliable guy.

Which is what brought here.

Vernon offers a small, crooked smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He pause, his eyes scanning the empty street before settling back on you. “Chan said you’d be reaching out. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up after our texts earlier.”

“I... yeah.” You bite your lip hard, wrapping your arms around yourself against the night wind. “I’m sorry if the timing was weird, I just really needed to find a way to settle my head tonight.”

He nods slowly, his expression understanding. Vernon doesn’t treat your confession like a burden or a business pitch; he just listens. “No need to apologize. Chan’s a good guy. He wouldn’t have sent you my way if he didn’t think I could help you out.”

Vernon shifts his weight and reaches into his pocket. You instinctively flinch, taking a quick half-step back. The movement is entirely involuntary, a byproduct of the buzzing, suffocating anxiety that had driven you out here in the first place.

He freezes, slowly pulling his hand back out empty and resting it visibly on the roof of the car. His expression shifts, the casual politeness melting into something far more observant, and surprisingly gentle. He takes in the way your shoulders are practically up to your ears, the way your hands grip your phone and arms like a lifeline, and the wide, panicked look in your eyes.

“Hey,” Vernon says softly, dropping his voice a register. “Take a breath. You’re okay. I’m not here to make things harder for you.”

“I know, I just—” You swallow hard, embarrassed heat rising to your cheeks. “I’m not really used to this. Meeting strangers in the dark. It’s… a lot.”

“I get it. But you don’t have to look at me like I’m about to bite. You’re making yourself self-conscious.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening even further. “I am?”

“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, and he scratches the back of his head. “Don’t be, though. It’s a compliment. Most people around here try too hard to look like they aren’t feeling anything.”

The tension in your chest doesn’t vanish, but the sheer directness of his gaze makes the frantic buzzing start to slow.

Vernon finally reaches into his pocket again, moving slowly and deliberately this time, and pulls out a small paper bag. He holds it out, stretching his arm far enough that you don’t have to step completely out of your comfort zone.

“Here. The mellow option, like you asked. Should help quiet things down.”

As you reach out to take it, your fingers briefly brush against his. His skin is warm against the chill of the night air.

“Thanks,” you murmur, finally feeling the tight band around your chest loosen.

“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and opens his car door, but pauses before sliding into the driver’s seat, looking over his shoulder one last time. “Get home safe. Let me know if you need anything else. And seriously, breathe. You’re doing fine.”

As his taillights fades down the empty street, you stand on the sidewalk and take your first full, deep breath of the entire day.

“Sorry for the odd hour,” you say for the thousandth time, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself. “I just… I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut up. It’s okay if you want to charge me a delivery fee or something for the trouble.”

You’d been buying from Vernon for about a month. Almost every Tuesday, you left him a message to drop your usual order. Today, however, was Thursday, and you had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours without managing to close your eyes for even a single second. So you figured, why not see if he was awake and willing to sell you something strong enough to finally put you down?

And after a month of buying from him, you had decided it was okay to let him come up to your building floor instead of making him meet you out on the street. He had proven himself to be surprisingly reliable—exactly like Chan had promised you—, after one day when you could barely get out of bed, and he’d offered to bring your order up himself.

Now he was standing in the hallway of your building, looking like he hadn’t gotten much more sleep than you had, yet somehow far more awake than anyone had the right to be at this hour. And the craziest thing of all? He looked incredibly handsome, while you are pretty sure you looked hungover despite not having consumed a single drop of alcohol.

Vernon lets out a low, easy breath, shaking his head. “You’re good. I don’t sleep much anyway, so you’re not exactly interrupting a deep slumber.” He reaches into his pocket, his movements slow, as if he’s in no hurry at all. “Tell you what, I’ll give you the loyal customer discount tonight, Bambi.”

You blink, the name catching you off guard. “Bambi?”

He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze softening as it fixes on yours.

“Yeah.” Vernon tilts his head, studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart skip. Then he points at his own eyes with his index finger. “It’s the eyes. Yours are big and curious… like you’re seeing the world for the first time.”

You feel a flush of heat creep up your neck, and you look down at your slippers, trying to deflect. Vernon does that quite often; making you blush so hard you never know where to hide your face, that is. You don’t even know if that’s his actual intention or if he’s just naturally nice.

“If that’s the case, then I must look like a really tired bambi. Bags under my eyes and everything.”

Vernon chuckles, the warm sound seeming to fill the empty hallway. “You still look cute, though.” He shrugs, far too casually for your liking. “Just… don’t go bolting into traffic or anything like that. I need my favorite customer in one piece.”

The blush deepens, spreading across your face until even your ears feel hot. You duck your head further, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

You wanted to know if he was genuinely flirting with you or if it was just something he said to all his clients. You were still confused about how you felt about those two possibilities, but the first was the only one that made your stomach do those strange, fluttery little flips.

“Oh, I’ve got a new indica blend coming in next week,” Vernon continues, his tone slipping back into his usual seller mode. “I’ll bring some by. It’ll help you sleep like a rock, I promise.”

You manage a small, shy smile, finally looking back up at him. “You’re like a specialized pharmacist at this point. Should I be tipping you extra, or will a thank-you card do it?”

A slight smile appears on Vernon’s face, and he straightens up and takes a step back, preparing to head toward the elevators, but he pauses to look you in the eye one last time, making sure the panic has truly subsided. The teasing light in his expression fades into something sincere and unexpectedly sweet.

“Neither,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “You being less anxious is enough for me. That’s the only tip I need, Bambi.”

He turns to leave, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder and leaving you leaning against your doorframe.

The phone screen goes dark, but the words “anything you want” seems to burn brightly behind your eyelids.

For the past twelve hours, you’d been pinned to the mattress since your alarm first went off in the morning. But those three words from Vernon acted like a sudden shot of adrenaline straight to your heart, breaking the paralysis and making you throw the heavy duvet off and practically scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with an urgent slap.

Your apartment was the physical manifestation of a terrible mental health week. Half-empty water bottles clustered on the nightstand, clothes draped over every available surface like exhausted ghosts, and a tragic pile of unopened mail sat on the kitchen counter.

“Oh God,” you mutter, grabbing a laundry hamper and sprinting through the living room.

Sweatshirts, socks, and a pair of jeans are aggressively lobbed into the laundry basket. Books that had been discarded on the floor are shoved haphazardly onto shelves. A collection of coffee mugs is swept into the sink and buried unceremoniously beneath a layer of dish soap bubbles just to hide the evidence.

You move at a dizzying speed, pausing only to catch your breath and aggressively fluff the flattened sofa cushions.

Despite the sheer panic of the impromptu cleaning spree, there’s an undeniable warmth spreading through your chest. You’re nervous, yes—your hands shake slightly as you kick a stray pair of sneakers into the hall closet—but beneath the nerves, you’re overwhelmingly happy.

Vernon is coming over. Not just to drop off your usual or make a quick exchange in the doorway, but just… coming over. To keep you company.

It hits you right then, standing in the middle of the slightly less disastrous living room, just how drastically things have shifted between you two. Somewhere along the line, the boundaries had blurred, melted, and completely re-formed into something entirely different.

Lately, he hasn’t just been your plug—he’s been your friend too. And you’ve been texting. A lot.

It had started innocently a few weeks ago, after he dropped off a new indica strain at your doorstep, one that worked a little too well on you. Pleasantly immobilized and entirely trapped in your own head, you had spent twenty minutes staring at your palms before deciding they actually looked like clouds, and texted him to give feedback.

Most people in his line of work would have ignored it, or maybe replied with a laughing emoji. But Vernon had replied three minutes later, and after a single text, a floodgate opened. The sheer relief of not being mocked, of having someone lean into the absurdity of the moment, made you feel unexpectedly safe with him.

The texts didn’t stop the next morning, when you sent a mortified apology and he replied with a picture of a fluffy cloud. From there, it became a daily routine with good mornings, random memes, complaints about the weather, late-night philosophical tangents, and very, very high debates. Vernon had slowly woven himself into the absolute fabric of your day-to-day life.

But today was Tuesday, and normally, by 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, you would’ve texted him for the usual. Except today, you didn’t. And when you didn’t, he texted you first to check how you were doing.

The conversation didn’t take long before Vernon calmed you down in his usual quiet, steady way, and then, casually as always, he offered to come over. And you accepted immediately—even if it was just for him to sit with you and keep you company—which had led you to this moment, where you’re trying to shove dust under the living room rug.

A firm knock at the door pulls you violently out of your thoughts.

Smoothing down your oversized sweater and taking one last, desperate look at the living room to ensure no rogue laundry was visible, you walk to the door and pull it open.

Vernon stands in the hallway wearing a faded gray hoodie with the strings pulled unevenly and a pair of jeans. But it isn’t his clothes that catch your attention; it’s his hands. He isn’t holding a small bag or his phone. He’s holding two massive, grease-stained brown paper bags from the twenty-four-hour diner down the street, along with a cardboard drink carrier balancing two milkshakes.

“Hey, Bambi,” he greets you, his voice carrying that familiar low rasp. The corner of his mouth ticks up into a soft, unmistakable heart-shaped smile. “Hope you like fries, because I bought, like, an insane amount of them.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” you breathe out, the last residual knot of anxiety in your chest instantly dissolving at the sight of him. You can’t believe how absolutely gorgeous he looks standing there in your doorway, looking like he just rolled out of bed, dressed in the most casual clothes imaginable.

“I know.” He shrugs, stepping past the threshold as you step aside to let him in. Vernon kicks his shoes off by the door with an easy familiarity that makes your heart flutter. “But you said you couldn’t get out of bed today. Which means you definitely didn’t cook. And I couldn’t have you passing out on me. I need someone to help me eat all of this.”

He carries the food into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. The smell of hot, salty fries, grilled burgers, and heavy diner food fills the apartment, instantly making it feel infinitely cozier, and your stomach lets out an angry, shameless growl.

You hover awkwardly by the armchair. “I... I really meant it, you know. I don’t have any cash on me. I feel awful making you drive all the way out here.”

Vernon stops unpacking the bags and stands up straight, turning to face you. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his expression softening completely. He reaches out, his warm fingers lightly catching your shoulder, just enough to straighten you and make you look at him.

“I am not here for your money, Bambi.” The sincerity in his voice and eyes pines you to the spot. He has amazing eyes. “Nor am I here to be your delivery guy. I’m here because it’s Tuesday, you were having a bad day, and I wanted to see you. Do you understand?”

You bite your lip to suppress a smile, the warmth of his fingers sending a rush of electricity straight down your spine. “Yeah. I understand.”

He smiles softly. “Good,” he says, letting his hand drop, though his eyes linger for a second longer on your face before he turns back to the food. “Now, grab some napkins, Bambi. We’ve got a situation here with these milkshakes.”

You settle onto the floor, using the coffee table as a dining table. The food is incredible and exactly the kind of heavy, comforting, terrible-for-you meal that bypasses anxiety almost entirely and goes straight to the soul.

“Alright,” Vernon says around a mouthful of fries, leaning back against the base of the sofa. “We need a movie. Something that requires zero brain power but also something we can yell at.”

“Yell at?” you ask, dipping a fry into your milkshake. Vernon watches the fry-in-milkshake maneuver with mild disgust but don’t comment.

“Yeah. A classic. Something where the characters make terrible decisions and we get to judge them from our moral high ground on the floor.”

You scroll through a streaming service for ten minutes before finally settling on Scream.

“It’s the perfect choice,” Vernon argues as the eerie opening music swells through the television speakers. “The ultimate movie about teenagers who think they know all the rules of surviving getting absolutely humbled by another pair of teenagers in a cheap Halloween mask.”

“Sidney is actually smart, though,” you counter, pulling your knees to your chest. “She managed to not get killed in seven out of seven films.”

Vernon scoffs, pausing halfway through a bite of his burger. “Thanks to the power of being the protagonist, of course.”

You shake your head with a laugh. “Well, I stand by my opinion.”

He chews slowly, nodding as he points at you with his index finger. “A woman who stands her ground. I respect that.” You let out a small giggle, and Vernon swallows before continuing. “But she ran up the stairs instead of out the front door, Bambi. She literally locked the deadbolt and then trapped herself on the second floor when she had a clear shot to the yard.”

“It’s a classic trope!” you defend your point, laughing as Vernon rolls his eyes. You feel so at peace in his presence that you no longer remember a single thing that affected you in the last twenty-four hours.

“It’s a death wish! That was the entire problem!”

You eat and argue nonstop, the tension of the day bleeding out of you with every passing minute you spend in his presence. You debate the rules of surviving a slasher, whether you would actually make it out alive in Woodsboro, and roast the characters’ survival instincts.

“I know I would probably die,” you state with conviction, biting the end of the straw, “but it would never be because I went to investigate some strange, suspicious noise. Especially not if I were alone.”

Vernon chuckles, nodding along. “Ditto!”

You grab another fry, pointing it at the screen as Billy Loomis leans through Sidney’s bedroom window.

“Okay, but you have to admit, Billy and Stu are objectively very attractive. The whole ’90s grunge, floppy hair thing? It works.”

He pauses mid-chew. Slowly, his eyes slide from the TV to you, his expression flattening into an unimpressed, deadpan stare. “They look like they haven’t showered in a month.”

“Yeah, but look at the cheekbones,” you insist, another teasing smile breaking through the heavy exhaustion. “It’s attractive.”

“If the attractive is homicidal bedhead, sure.” Vernon scoffs, pointedly taking a long, exaggerated sip of his milkshake. “Good to know your bar is literally on the floor, Bambi.”

He shifts slightly, stretching his long legs out and casually crossing his arms, his tone perfectly nonchalant but carrying a subtle defensive edge.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous of fictional ’90s teenagers,” you laugh between words, the sound bright and entirely devoid of anxiety. It would be completely ridiculous if he were, considering he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a ’90s movie himself.

“I’m deeply concerned for your survival instincts,” he corrects smoothly, not missing a beat, though he aggressively dunked a fry into his ketchup. “Remind me to never let you go to a Halloween party alone.”

As the movie shifts from eerie suspense to full-blown terror, the food begins to take its toll. The frantic, anxious energy that has kept you awake for the last twenty-four hours is suddenly entirely depleted. The apartment is warm, the couch against your back is soft, and the low, steady sound of Vernon’s voice beside you is the most effective sedative you’ve ever experienced.

Without realizing it, you begin to slide sideways. The debate over whether throwing a landline phone at the killer was actually an effective evasion tactic fades into background noise. The edges of your vision blur, the flashing light from the television softening into indistinct, hazy color. With a soft sigh, your head tips over, landing gently against the solid, warm curve of Vernon’s shoulder.

On the screen, Tatum screams. In the living room, Vernon stiffens completely. He had been mid-sentence, ready to deliver a scathing critique of Dewey’s police work, when he feels the sudden weight against his arm. He stops talking immediately, his jaw snapping shut. Slowly, carefully, he turns his head just a fraction to look down.

Your eyes are completely closed, your breathing already deepening into the slow cadence of genuine sleep. Your face, which had been tight with worry and exhaustion when he first walked in the door, is now entirely smooth. The dark circles under your eyes remain, but the tension in your body is gone. You look very peaceful.

Vernon feels a strange, tight pull right in the center of his chest. He glances at the empty takeout bags, the half-finished milkshakes, and you currently using him as a pillow, realizing he’s never been happier to lose a Tuesday night’s worth of business.

He doesn’t dare reach for the remote to turn the volume down, afraid that even the slightest shift in his muscles will wake you. He doesn’t reach for his phone either, which is buzzing in his pocket with texts of customers he no longer cares about.

Instead, Vernon adjusts his posture by a millimeter, shifting his weight just enough to give your head a better angle against his shoulder. He carefully leans his own head back against the sofa cushions, letting out a long and silent exhale.

On the screen, the survivors run for their lives. In the quiet of the apartment, Vernon sits perfectly still, entirely content to stay trapped in this exact position for as long as you need to sleep.

The next day, when you wake up tucked comfortably into your bed, everything is organized, clean, and back in its proper place. And unless you somehow did all of this in your sleep, there’s only one person who could have done it, even if he’s nowhere to be found in the morning.

Vernon drives with an relaxed posture, one hand resting lightly on the top of the steering wheel while the other rests on the center console. He doesn’t press for conversation, letting the low volume of the radio fill the space between you. Every so often, you catch him stealing a quick glance in your direction, his eyes checking to make sure you’re still breathing easily.

About an hour ago, you’d texted him about how awful your day had been, and within minutes he was at your door, ready to take you for a drive to clear your mind.

After a couple of minutes of driving, the dense architecture of the city gives way to the open stretches of the coastal highway. The streetlights grow sparse, replaced by the vast, ink-black expanse of the sky. The air rushing through the slightly cracked windows shifts from the smell of concrete to the sharp and cold scent of ocean mist and salt.

Vernon finally slows the car, the tires crunching against gravel as he pulls into a deserted overlook. The headlights sweep across a wooden barricade before he kills the engine, plunging them into darkness. Out the windshield, the ocean stretches endlessly, moonlight catching the white crests of the churning waves below.

“I didn’t know you liked the beach,” you whisper, pulling your jacket tighter around your frame. The cold seeps through the glass, but the car’s heater still blows warm air at your feet, creating a perfectly cozy contrast.

“I don’t usually,” he shrugs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts his weight, turning slightly in his seat so he can look at you. “During the day, it’s a nightmare. Too crowded, too loud. But at night… it’s different.”

You nod slowly, looking out at the horizon. “It makes everything else feel really small. The ocean, I mean.” You tilt your head slightly, stealing a quick glance at him before continuing. “You look out there and realize how massive it all is, and suddenly worrying about emails or… or literally anything else just feels completely irrelevant.”

“Exactly,” Vernon agrees, leaning his head back against the headrest. He watches the water for a long moment, his profile sharp against the dim light filtering in from the moon. “We construct this entire, agonizing reality inside our heads.”

He pauses, a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes looking thoughtful.

“You ever think we’re just brains in jars imagining stuff?”

You blink, caught entirely off guard by the sudden existential pivot. A laugh bubbles up in your chest, breaking the solemn quiet of the car. “Brains in jars? Really? That’s where we’re going at three in the morning?”

“I’m serious,” he defends himself, though the corner of his mouth is ticking upward. “Think about it. How do you know any of this is real? Your brain is just locked in pitch-black darkness inside your skull, hallucinating a reality based on electrical signals. For all we know, we’re just sitting on a shelf in some laboratory, running a simulation.”

“Well, if this is a simulation,” you counter, turning to face him completely and pulling your knees up onto the seat, “then the developers seriously need to patch my software. The anxiety settings are dialed way too high, and the executive dysfunction glitch is making the gameplay terrible.”

Vernon laughs properly then, the sound that echoing in the small space of the Jeep cabin, his gums on full display. “I’ll submit a bug report for you. Tell the admins to turn down the overthinking slider and boost the serotonin drops.”

You want to tell him that this happens every time you’re in his presence, but you aren’t sure if it’s acceptable to flirt with your plug. It’s been two months since you met, and you’re still amazed by how being with him shuts down your nervous system and makes you forget everything. Even if it’s just a phone call, hearing Vernon’s voice calms you like no weed or medicine ever could.

“Please do,” you smile back, resting your cheek against your knees. “But honestly… even if we are just brains in jars, I think I’m okay with whatever hallucination this is right now. It’s the quietest my head has been in days.”

The teasing amusement in Vernon’s eyes softens, melting into something more tender. He reaches across the center console, his fingertips lightly brushing your arm before settling on the edge of your sleeve. It’s a grounding touch, anchoring you to the present moment.

It’s strange how entirely safe you feel sitting in a dark car on a deserted cliffside with a guy who, on paper, you barely know. But looking at him now—the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the attentive way he listens to every word you say, the quiet intelligence in his eyes—you realize he isn’t just a guy or your plug anymore. He’s becoming someone indispensable.

“I really appreciate this,” you whisper softly. You look down at his hand, which is still resting near yours on the console. “You didn’t have to stay with me today, and you definitely didn’t have to drive me out here. So… thank you, Vernon.”

The name hangs in the air for a second. Vernon doesn’t flinch, but a subtle shift ripples through his posture. He’s quiet for a long beat, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against the fabric of your sleeve.

“Hansol,” he corrects quietly, his voice dropping into a register so low it’s almost a whisper.

You frown, blinking in confusion. “What?”

He lifts his gaze, his eyes locking onto yours, a small smile on his lips. There’s a vulnerability there he usually keeps buried under layers of nonchalance and cool detachment. “My name… it’s Hansol.”

“Oh,” you breathe out, a rush of embarrassment suddenly heating your cheeks. You pull your hands back slightly, feeling suddenly stupid. “Sorry, I thought everyone just called you Vernon.”

The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. Could Vernon be his moniker? A professional handle used to keep a safe distance between the guys selling drugs and the people buying them? That wouldn’t be unusual in his line of work.

But Hansol doesn’t let you retreat. He shifts his hand, catching your fingers gently before you can pull away completely. His skin is warm, his grip steady and reassuring.

“Some do. It’s my middle name,” he explains, his gaze unwavering. “But people close to me call me Hansol.”

He pauses, letting the weight of that categorization settle between you. He’s drawing a line in the sand, officially pulling you across the boundary from client to someone close to him. You bite your lip to suppress a smile that wants so badly to form on your lips as the thought settles, the bucket of ice water from seconds ago already beginning to warm.

“You don’t have to,” he adds, an uncharacteristic hint of shyness briefly flickering across his features. “I just don’t mind it from you.”

Your heart does a violent stutter against your ribs. The sheer intimacy of the admission is overwhelming. You look at his hand holding yours, then back up at his face. He is waiting, giving you the space to decide what to do with the information.

“So you’re saying I’m close to you?”

Hansol doesn’t hesitate, leaning in just slightly, his thumb continuing the slow circle over your knuckles. “You text me at 1 a.m. and I show up every time. You slept on my shoulder the other night. We’ve talked about everything and anything at this point. I’d say we’re close, Bambi.”

You feel the air leave your lungs. It isn’t just the words; it’s the matter-of-fact way he says them, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. He’s acknowledging the bond you’ve built in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, admitting that you’re more than just his client, while you try to ignore the butterflies battering against the walls of your stomach, desperate to escape their cage.

“Hansol,” you test his name out loud. It feels foreign on your tongue, yet somehow incredibly right.

A small, devastatingly heart-shaped smile breaks across his face at the sound of his name in your voice. “Yeah. That’s it.”

You stayed at the overlook for another hour, the atmosphere in the car fundamentally changed. By the time his Jeep rolled to a stop outside your apartment building, the sky had begun to bruise with the first deep purples and blues of early dawn.

“I guess this is my stop,” you observe hesitantly, not wanting to get out of his car and put an end to the moment.

“Looks like it,” Hansol says. “You gonna be okay today?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I think I am. Thanks to you.”

“Anytime, Bambi.”

You push the door open, stepping out into the crisp morning air, and turn back to look at him through the open door. “Drive safe, Hansol.”

“Always,” he replies, a smile lingering on his face at the sound of you saying his name. Then he leans across the passenger seat, catching the door frame to stop it from closing completely. Hansol tilts his head, eyes lazily tracking over your messy hair and the oversized sweatshirt you’re still wearing. “You looked extra Bambi today.”

The blush is instantaneous. It surges up your neck and floods your cheeks with a furious heat. Your jaw drops slightly, a flustered, embarrassed laugh escaping you as you struggle to find a comeback.

“Shut up!” you finally manage to stammer out, ducking your head to hide your flaming face.

Hansol lets out a low, victorious laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He pulls his hand back, letting you close the door, and you watch his taillights disappear into the morning light, your heart still racing.

Hansol doesn’t have much time tonight. His phone is already vibrating in his pocket with three other drop-offs pinned on his map, but when he reaches your door, his pace slows into effortless strides. He reaches out and gives the wood a lazy but firm knock.

When the door opens, the warm chamomile scent of your apartment spills out into the sterile hallway. You look tired as always but your eyes brightened the second they landed on him, dressed in his usual uniform of neutral colors, a hoodie pulled up just enough to frame his features, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

“Right on time,” you greet him, a smile spreading across your face as you lean against the doorframe where he usually stands.

He doesn’t say much at first, just offers a small, knowing tilt of his head as he hands over the plain brown bag. His fingers brush yours briefly during the exchange, a spark of heat that lingers longer than the transaction warrants.

You take the bag, your brow furrowing as you feel the weight and the shape of the contents inside. You peer in, eyes widening slightly. “Did you mean to put two in the bag?” you ask, looking back up at him.

“Yep,” he answers simply, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet corridor.

“But I only paid for one.”

“I know. The other one is on me.”

You hesitate, confused, chewing on your lower lip. “Is this like a promo, or are you high right now?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, that effortless charm radiating off him even in the dull atmosphere of the hallway. “Neither. You’ve had a rough week. Figured Bambi needed a little extra today.”

“That’s really sweet. But you don’t have to do that.”

He shifts his weight, closing the distance between you by just enough to make the air feel different. You hold your breath, acutely aware of how little space remains. Just a few inches more and your lips would touch.

“I want to.” Hansol’s voice is firm. “You’re not just a client. You know that, right?”

You look down at the bag, then back at him, your heart sinking into a slow, heavy thud. “Yeah. I think I knew that. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“Well, now you can assume a little,” he says, his gaze not wavering. “Also, tell me how that one hits. I picked it thinking of you, Bambi.”

You breath hitches. “You picked a strain thinking of me?”

“Yeah,” he replies nonchalantly, one shoulder rising in a casual shrug, as if he hadn’t just quietly flipped your entire world upside down. “Chill, warm, kinda sweet. Like you. Don’t overthink it.”

You let out a shaky laugh, leaning your head against the wood of the door. “Too late. I’m absolutely overthinking it.”

Hansol checks his phone screen, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his features. “I gotta go. Others are waiting,” he mutters, his gaze falling to your lips for the briefest moment before pulling back up to meet yours. “I wish I could stay longer.”

“Me too,” you admit without hesitating, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t know where this sudden burst of courage came from, but it’s there, and it makes Hansol smile beautifully.

A genuine, incredibly warm smile breaks across his face at your words, not his usual confident smirk, but something entirely soft and real, gums showing and the heart shape of his lips coming back. He begins to back away toward the elevator, his eyes never leaving yours until he finally has to turn around.

He reaches the elevator and presses the button. Just as the bell chimes and the doors begin to groan open, you step out into the hallway, your voice echoing off the walls.

“Hansol!”

He pauses, one foot already inside the elevator. He turns his head, a playful, expectant look on his face. “What’s up, Bambi?”

“Nothing big,” you begin, hands gripping the doorframe behind you. “Just... wanted to know if you ever think about me when we’re not together or texting.”

He doesn’t even hesitate, the metal doors framing him like a portrait. “I think about you pretty much all the time.” he claims. “Even when we are texting.”

The honesty of it makes your stomach flip, the padlock that holds the butterflies in your stomach slowly loosening. “Good,” you manage softly.

“You’re flirting with your plug right now, Bambi,” he points out, his voice dropping an octave, teasing yet dangerously sincere.

“Maybe,” you counter, shrugging as a bit of courage grows. “Is that illegal?”

“Mm, no, not really. Especially if I flirt back.”

“And would you?”

The elevator starts to beep, a warning that the doors were going to close. He steps fully into the car, leaning his shoulder against the back wall, looking at you with a heat in his eyes that makes your knees weak.

“Have been for the past three months,” Hansol confesses, his smirk widening as the doors begin to slide shut. “Just hiding behind a lot of self-control.”

You let out a breathy laugh, your face flushing a deep crimson. “Hm. Self-control’s kinda hot.”

“So is the girl in her doorway,” he shoots back.

The doors click shut, severing the connection and leaving you standing in the hallway with a racing heart and a bag held tight to your chest. Behind those closed metal doors, Hansol is already checking his map for the next stop, but his mind is still back at that doorway.

When Hansol shows up at your apartment a few weeks later, you’re so nervous about the night’s activities that you almost forget how to open the door.

He’s wearing a simple gray shirt and black sweatpants, a baseball cap with the brim facing backward. He smells like soap, faint weed smoke, and something woodsy underneath it all. He leans against your doorframe the same way he’s been doing it for months now, and you are instantly, completely doomed.

Earlier this same day, you’d asked Hansol if he knew how to shotgun after the two of you saw it in a movie two nights before. Gently—and flirtatiously—he explained that it wasn’t that difficult, asking if you wanted to try it next time since it would involve the two of you getting closer than you ever had before.

Hansol always made you feel safe, and you knew he wouldn’t laugh at you, so you saw no reason not to try, even if there was still a chance you’d chicken out.

“You nervous?” he asks after you make room for him to come in. He slips off his shoes and tosses his keys onto the coffee table.

“A little,” you admit, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

His mouth curves lazily, his eyes crinkling just a fraction at the corners. “Cute.”

You roll your eyes, quickly looking away. You have to. Because if you don’t, Hansol will see exactly how hard that single word hits, and then you’ll never recover.

You guide him toward the balcony where you usually light one up. There’s only one beach chair out there, something you bought at a thrift store right after moving in and renewed yourself. The balcony is so small that the chair is practically wedged between the railing and a tiny patio table, alongside a forgotten fern surviving purely on its own willpower.

After a brief, pointless argument about it, you let Hansol keep the chair while you lean against the railing with your back to the city. Your knees bump together with every small, abrupt movement any way, the balcony too cramped for there to be any real distance between you.

Hansol sets the tin on the tiny table and flips it open. You lean in slightly to get a better look at the contents.

“This isn’t your usual stuff,” he says by way of introduction. He’s not looking at you yet, just at the tin as he pulls out the papers, setting everything in order with that unhurried precision of his. “Just so you know.”

You look at it, then at him. “Should I be worried?”

“No.” Hansol says it simply. “I wouldn’t bring something that’d mess you up, Bambi. You just…” He meets your eyes for a second to reassure you even though he already knows you trust him blindly. “Your usual is too mellow for this. You’d just fall asleep on me.”

“I don’t fall asleep that easily.”

He gives you a look so unimpressed it makes you laugh. “You fell asleep the last time.”

You would argue it wasn’t really the weed; it was Hansol. With him, you felt safe enough to fall asleep whenever and wherever, to finally shut out everything that usually kept you awake.

After a couple weeks, it had become a routine: he’d make his deliveries, then stay a while to keep you company until you drifted off. Eventually, you started smoking together, and usually he’d just share whatever you normally rolled for yourself, never seeming too concerned about how hard it hit, just worried that you’d sleep soundly.

Something about the way he speaks, though—matter-of-factly, like he knows you too well by now—makes your chest feel like it’s leaping out of place before crashing back down where it belongs.

“That was different,” you finally say, resting your elbows against the railing behind you.

“You were out in twenty minutes, Bambi.”

“Well, I was tired.”

“You were cooked,” he counters, no judgment in his tone, just a fact. Because—shockingly—he knows your tolerance as well. Of course he does. “This is something in between. Hybrid. It’ll relax you, but it’ll keep you here. You’ll actually feel it without it running you over.”

You look at the bag again. “Where’s it from?”

“Same guy. Different batch.” Hansol picks it up again, turns it once in his fingers with the easy confidence of someone who can read these things on sight. “It’s good. Not complicated. You’ll like it.”

You believe him. That’s the thing about Hansol knowing exactly what you smoke—about him knowing you. He’s never steered you wrong. He remembers what worked, what didn’t, what made you text him at midnight saying never again. He filed it all away somewhere without making it a thing, and now he just knows.

“Okay,” you say, your teeth catching your lower lip.

Hansol smiles, and then he tears the paper with a casual precision that shouldn’t be interesting to observe. It is. You try not to examine that too closely as he spreads everything even, long fingers working slow and deliberate, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he does it, no wasted movement or fumbling. Just ease.

He rolls it between his palms, smoothing it down. Then he raises it to his mouth, the lick slow as he seals the edge, and runs his thumb along it afterward, pressing it closed with the kind of focus that makes you look up at the sky for a second because you have absolutely no business staring at his mouth or tongue.

A few seconds later, he holds it up once, looking quietly satisfied with his work. Then he flicks the lighter, the flame catching small and warm in the dim space of the balcony. He brings it to the tip, cupping his hand around it out of habit even though there’s barely any wind, and draws in slowly, the paper crackling faintly as the cherry burns bright orange and the scent of marijuana slowly surrounds you both.

He holds it in for a moment, then lets it out slowly through his nose, unhurried. A thin ribbon of smoke drifts upward toward the sky before disappearing completely. He takes another drag, longer this time, and leans back into the chair, his head tipping slightly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second like he’s savoring it.

There’s no explaining the reactions moving through your body just from watching him in action. The aching tension low in your stomach, the way your thighs press together instinctively, the strange heat that blooms every time his mouth closes around the joint.

Almost as if he’s reading your thoughts, Hansol looks at you and holds it out. Not pushy or expectant, just offering you, his elbow resting on his knee and the smoke curling up lazily between his fingers. He watches you with that expression you still haven’t figured out how to read, somewhere between patient and quietly amused.

You take it from him and bring it to your lips without overthinking it, one elbow still resting against the concrete behind you, the light breeze pushing your hair back from your face. You wrap your lips around the joint and draw the smoke slowly into your lungs, letting it settle there for a moment and holding it for a beat. The warmth spreads through your chest in a slow unfurl that reaches all the way to your fingertips.

When you exhale, the smoke slips from your mouth in a thin stream, immediately snatched away by the night breeze. Hansol’s eyes follow it for half a second before they drift back to your face.

“There you go,” he says, voice low and approving enough to make heat crawl right back up your neck.

You take one more hit, feeling the night softening slightly, the city sounds below drifting to a different register, the small balcony going quieter around you. Then you throw your head back to exhale the smoke, watching it disappear into the dark sky above you.

When you lower your gaze again, you catch the way Hansol’s eyes have drifted down the line of your throat to your collarbone, lingering there for just a second too long. The look sends another rush of heat through you, and he notices you noticing. His gaze flicks back up immediately, but not before the corner of his mouth curves faintly, subtle and almost guilty, like he got caught staring but doesn’t regret it nearly enough.

You pass the joint back to him, and he takes it from you, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange without either of you commenting on it. Hansol holds it loosely between his fingers and watches you for a moment with that same unreadable patience.

“Feeling it?”

“A little.” You shrug lightly, though you’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about the weed. “Give it a minute.”

Another crooked smile tugs at his mouth as he nods. Hansol brings the joint to his lips, dragging in slowly before blowing another lazy cloud of smoke into the night air. “Good,” he whispers, smoke still curling lazily from between his lips.

You can’t explain why the sight feels so unfairly appealing, heat now unfurling lower in your body at something so simple. It’s not like you’ve never seen him do this before, because you did. Except tonight, everything about Hansol feels amplified somehow; his hands, his mouth, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Even the way he looks at you feels… different, settling somewhere beneath your skin and and camping there.

Hansol takes another hit, the cherry burning bright for a moment before he pulls the joint away. He holds it there, and you watch his throat move slightly as he swallows the smoke. His eyes are half-closed, fixed somewhere out toward the city. He looks completely unbothered in a way that makes you feel the exact opposite.

Then he looks at you as he exhales one more time, his eyes searching yours through the haze. His brows arch slightly, and his voice comes out lower, roughened by the smoke he was holding in. “Ready?”

A wave of shivers travels across your skin like it has nowhere else to go. The butterflies in your stomach aren’t just fluttering anymore, they’re frantic, crashing wildly against your ribs every time your eyes meet his beautiful, inviting brown ones.

You’ve been thinking about this moment in various versions ever since you sent that text this morning. You’ve been thinking about it in the abstract, in the safe, theoretical space of it’s just a thing people do, it doesn’t mean anything, plenty of people do this without making it weird. You’ve spent hours constructing a very reasonable internal argument about proximity and exhaled smoke and the entirely non-romantic history of the practice.

All of that argument completely falls apart the moment Hansol says the word.

You just nod, pressing your lower lip between your teeth again before whispering, “Yeah.”

He explains how everything will work, walking you through each step, and even pulls his phone out of his pocket to show you a TikTok video in case it’s easier to learn visually. And maybe it’s ridiculous, but you love the effort he puts into making sure you feel comfortable, safe, completely at ease with him.

Hansol then sets the joint down on the edge of the glass ashtray. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he shifts in your thrift-store beach chair, making space for you between his knees. Then he taps his thigh twice.

“C’mere, Bambi.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

The balcony is already tiny, but the space between the chair and the railing suddenly feels like a tightrope. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not sure if you heard right, your heart doing a wild, erratic dance in your chest. Once again, Hansol doesn’t pressure you; he just waits, his hand resting casually on his knee, his brown eyes going completely dark and focused entirely on you.

Stepping forward, you slowly let go of your grip on the railing. Before your nerves can make you chicken out, you step into his space and sit down across his lap.

The shift in perspective is dizzying. Suddenly, you’re completely enveloped in his presence, somehow even more than before. The fabric of his shirt is thin enough that you can feel the solid heat of his chest underneath it. His hands move instinctively, settling firmly around your waist to steady you on his lap. His grip is grounding, holding you securely against him.

Looking down at Hansol, you realize just how close your faces are, the kind of close he mentioned earlier. With the brim of his baseball cap turned backward, there’s nothing shading his eyes. You can see every tiny detail of Hansol: the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the heart-shaped curve of his mouth, the tiny freckles scattered across his nose, the intensity in his gaze as he looks up at you.

“Still nervous?” His voice drops so low and raspy it sends another wave of shivers straight down your spine, and you can barely hide the way your body reacts to it.

Your hands slowly find a home against his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “A little more now,” you admit honestly, not finding any reason to lie or hide it.

“Don’t be.” Hansol lets out a breathless laugh that brushes against your lips, the vibration hitting your chest. “I’ve got you, Bambi.”

And you believe him.

Without ceremony, Hansol picks up the joint from the table and takes a long drag before turning fully toward you. When he leans in, it’s slow and unhurried, making you understand immediately that he’s giving you time to adjust, or back out, if you want to. Mostly, because he’s Hansol, and well… he does everything at his own pace while respecting yours just as carefully. Rushing doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.

You lean in too, not much, just enough to show him that everything’s okay, that you are okay with this, that he can proceed however he wants. And you can see the exact moment his expression shifts with understanding, settling in his eyes like he expected nothing less.

Hansol parts his lips and exhales smoothly. The smoke comes out slow, and you inhale it in through your lips exactly the way he taught you to, barely touching him, but close enough that the warmth of his breath folds into yours.

Your eyes close immediately, and you hold it in for a beat, then another, the whole world narrowing down to the inch of space between your mouths, the solid heat of his hands at your waist, and the distant sound of the city existing somewhere far below, fading into something completely irrelevant.

You let it out and open your eyes to find that Hansol still hasn’t moved back. He’s watching you attentively from beneath his lashes, and there’s nothing patient or unreadable about his expression anymore.

Perhaps the marijuana is clouding your better judgment, but the look in his eyes feels different now, focused in a way that makes your stomach do a double twist. He looks like someone who has already made up his mind and is simply waiting for the exact right moment to act on it, maybe searching for the perfect opening before finally giving in to what he’s been holding back.

You suspect it’s the same for him as it is for you.

When his gaze drops to your mouth, you’re convinced this new hybrid he bought is playing tricks on your mind, especially when his eyes linger there long enough to make your breathing go shallow before finally lifting back to yours again.

“Again.” Hansol’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s definitely not a question.

You don’t trust your voice right now, so you just nod.

He picks up the joint again and takes another slow drag, the cherry burning warm between your bodies. You watch his throat move as he holds the smoke in, and it absolutely shouldn’t make you all hot and bothered but it does. His hands still haven’t left your waist, one thumb tracing a small arc just above your hip—probably unconscious, probably not even something he realizes he’s doing—and somehow the touch burns straight through the thin fabric of your shirt

Hansol turns back to you even closer this time. Or maybe you’re the one who moved in closer. Truthfully, you stopped keeping track of who’s been closing the distance first somewhere minutes ago, if the distance between you even really exists anymore.

He exhales, and you inhale him in again, and this time, when it’s over, neither of you pulls away. You stay in the half inch that remains, sharing the same air, and letting the moment stretch itself, his eyes fixed on yours.

There had been a few moments during this strange new friendship with your plug when you’d caught yourself wanting him to kiss you, or wishing you had enough courage to kiss him first. But this was different. Now the desire felt overwhelming, practically screaming inside your head as you stared at his mouth from impossibly close range, silently hoping he could somehow read your thoughts and finally close the tiny distance still separating you.

“Hansol…” His name leaves your lips like a shaky plea. Maybe just to say something, maybe just to fill the space before it you swallows you whole.

“Yeah?” he murmurs back. His pupils are enormous, and just by looking at them, you think he already knows exactly what you’re thinking. “What do you want, Bambi?”

Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders, your pulse so loud you’re convinced he can feel it where your bodie1s are pressed together. “I—” The word catches in your throat before it can fully form.

For a second, all you can do is look at him, at the way his eyes keep flicking down to your mouth, at the patience still somehow woven through the tension sitting heavy between you. And then Hansol’s thumb drags slowly against your waist again, grounding and dangerous all at once, and your breath stutters.

His hand comes up to grip your jaw gently, thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth, and for one dizzy second you’re sure he’s finally going to kiss you. But instead, he keeps you there, close enough to feel his breath against your lips as his eyes lock onto yours.

“Tell me what you want, Bambi,” he breathes, voice rough and impossibly steady at the same time. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Kiss me. Please.”

The words come out almost breathless, but the effect they have on Hansol is immediate. His eyes darken even more, and everything you can’t read in his expression is in his pupils, which dilate even further, if that’s even possible. His thumb brushes once across your jaw, and for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s letting himself fully believe you mean it.

Then his mouth curves faintly at the corner, a flicker of almost disbelieving amusement in his gaze. “Yeah?” he murmurs again, his voice low enough to melt straight through you.

You nod before he’s even finished speaking, and that’s all it takes for Hansol to stop hesitating. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over blindly, pressing the glowing cherry of the joint into the glass ashtray until it goes out completely. The second his hand is free again, it returns to your waist, his grip firm as he pulls you that final, infinite inch closer.

When his lips meet yours, the sheer relief of it makes you exhale a soft sigh right into his mouth. It’s everything you’ve been agonizing over for the past three months, amplified by a thousand.

It starts slow, exploratory and incredibly filled with the same patient precision he applies to everything else. Your hands slide up from his shoulders to tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, right beneath the edge of his backwards cap, and Hansol lets out the quietest grunt against your lips like he’s been wanting this just as badly as you have.

His hands at your waist tighten, pulling you flush against his chest until there’s nothing left between you. He adjusts you slightly so you’re seated more securely against him, surrounded by the solid warmth of his body, a jolt of electricity traveling straight down to your toes at the feeling of him pressed against you.

Tilting his head, Hansol parts your lips with his own, the kiss deepening into something that makes your head spin faster than any pot ever could. He tastes exactly like you imagined: sweet and earthy, like the lingering haze in the air around you, mixed with something unmistakably, comfortingly him.

The feeling of being held so securely, combined with the gentle, creeping warmth of the hybrid strain, makes everything around you fade. The apartment, the city sounds below, the cold night breeze, the small balcony; it all completely disappears. There is only the solid weight of Hansol beneath you, the steady, grounding grip of his hands on you, and the rhythm of his mouth moving deliciously against yours.

The butterflies in your stomach have ignited into a heavy heat that pools low in your belly as his tongue sweeps against your lower lip, coaxing you to open up more to him. You follow his lead blindly, completely lost in the sensation of his hands mapping the curve of your spine and his mouth devouring your every breath.

When you finally, breathlessly, pull back just enough to draw air into your burning lungs, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against the brim of his cap, eyes closed, chest heaving. You can hear Hansol breathing just as heavily, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin along your jawline.

“You okay, Bambi?” he asks into the tiny space between your lips, a lazy, satisfied smile evident in the rough timbre of his voice.

You open your eyes to find him looking up at you with an expression so soft, so completely stripped of that unreadable patience, that it makes your heart ache in the absolute best way possible.

You nod, biting your lip to keep yourself from kissing him breathless again. “Better than okay,” you answer, nodding frantically, your hands sliding down to frame his face as you lean in briefly.

His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering along your jawline. Hansol’s voice is soft when he speaks, a faintly amused crease forming between his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“I’m great,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh, still in disbelief at what just happened. You just kissed. No, you just kissed Hansol. “Didn’t expect tonight to go like that.”

Hansol’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Me neither. Not complaining though.”

Another flustered laugh escapes you, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder for a second to hide your face. “Just so you know... I literally asked you to come over to teach me how to shotgun. Not make out with me on my balcony.”

He hitches you a little higher on his lap. “Okay but... you didn’t exactly stop me.”

“I didn’t want to stop you,” you admit softly, looking back up at him, the honesty leaving you feeling completely vulnerable in his arms.

His gaze drifts down to your lips again, the air crackling with a heat that has nothing to do with the weed. “I want to kiss you again,” he confesses, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “Is that okay?”

You nod, too caught up in the intensity of his stare to manage words. Hansol leans forward, his hand cupping your jaw as he closes the distance between you again. He kisses you slowly once more, as though savoring every second. One hand slides from your jaw into your hair, while the other keeps you firmly anchored against him—not that you plan to go anywhere while he keeps kissing you like that.

You melt into his embrace, losing yourself in the taste of him further. You feel him grin against your mouth, his hands slipping under the back of your shirt to find the bare skin of your back. His palms are warm, and the slow drag of them up your spine makes you shiver. You feel the heat of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it’s not enough. You want to feel his skin beneath your fingers.

When he pulls back this time, it’s only far enough to start peppering your jaw with kisses. Your breath hitches as his lips move lower, skimming down the column of your throat until you can feel the heat of his mouth even through your shirt.

“Hansol,” you gasp against the crown of his head, hands reaching up to push his cap down and thread your fingers into his hair. “The balcony isn’t very private.”

He hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t stop the delicious maddening, drugging kisses he’s placing along your collarbone. “Your neighbors can see?”

A moan escapes your lips when he bites your most sensitive spot. You shake your head, trying to force words out. “Just the people below.”

He pulls back to look at you with a crooked smile. Hansol rests his forehead against yours, hand still cupping your face. “Sorry. I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, not a hint of shyness on his face.

“You have?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.

“Of course I have.” Hansol chuckles, like it’s almost absurd to think otherwise, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “From the moment our eyes met.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “You’re impossible not to want, Bambi.”

Your breath hitches at his words, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “I want you too,” you whisper, suddenly feeling more bold. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you under that shady streetlight.”

His grip on your waist tightens, his lips hovering just over yours. “Is that so?”

“It is.” You nod, unable to tear your gaze away from his.

With a single movement, Hansol stands up with you still in his arms, making you let out a small squeal as you wrap your legs around his waist to steady yourself, your arms linking around his neck, and face burying in the curve where his shoulder meets his neck.

He moves with an easy strength that makes your head spin, carrying you as if you weight nothing at all. The world tilts on its axis, the view of your tiny balcony shifting into a dizzying blur of city lights and dark sky. This side of him is almost enough to give you whiplash, but you can’t help but loving it.

As he moves, you inhale deeply, and the scent of him is a heady, overwhelming cocktail: the clean soap from his shower, the earthy tang of the weed clinging to his shirt, and something underneath it all that is just purely, intoxicatingly Hansol, something you’re still trying to figure out.

You feel him shift his grip, one hand supporting your thighs as he navigates the threshold of the sliding glass door. There’s a moment of slight awkwardness as he sidesteps into the living room, the cool night air replaced by the still, warm atmosphere of your apartment. But he doesn’t put you down. Instead, he kicks the door shut with the back of his heel, the soft thud echoing in the sudden silence.

The only light comes from the faint glow of the city filtering through the windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. It paints his features in soft grays and deep blacks, highlighting the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. In the dim light, he looks less like your friendly neighborhood plug and more like a fantasy brought to life.

The effects of the weed hums pleasantly in your veins, a syrupy sensation that makes everything feel slow-motion and dreamlike. Every nerve ending in your body is awake and singing, amplifying the feeling of his body against yours, the texture of his shirt under your cheek, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.

Hansol crosses the small living room in three long strides and gently lays you down on the cushions of your couch. He doesn’t move away, though. He follows you down, one knee on the cushions between your legs, his hands bracketing your head as he leans over you. His body cages you in a welcome weight that makes you feel incredibly safe.

“You’re suddenly quiet,” he observes, his voice still a low, gravelly whisper.

His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, the simple touch sending a cascade of sparks across your skin. The hybrid strain he brought is doing exactly what he promised: you’re relaxed, your limbs heavy and pliant, but your mind is sharp, hyper-focused on him. Every tiny detail is magnified—the way his eyes seem to drink you in, the sheer heat radiating from his body.

“Just… processing,” you manage to breathe out.

A slow, lazy smile spreads across his lips. “Processing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the space between you. “Us. And the fact that you just carried me out of my own balcony like I was a sack of potatoes.”

Hansol lets out a low chuckle. “A very cute sack of potatoes.” He leans down, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch. “I can process with you, if you want.”

You don’t need to answer. You just slide your hands from his shoulders up into his hair, your fingers sinking into the soft, thick strands. You pull his head down, and this time the kiss isn’t slow or exploratory. It’s hungry, desperate, a release of all the tension that has been building between you for months.

His mouth meets yours with equal force, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours in a slick, heated dance. It’s messy and perfect and everything you’ve been craving. His hands leave the couch, one sliding down your side to rest possessively on your hip, the other threading into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he angles the kiss deeper.

A soft moan escapes your throat, and you feel him smile against your mouth. The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is an almost psychedelic experience. You can feel every texture, taste every note of him, the world narrowing down to the single, explosive point of contact between you, and it feels incredible.

His kisses trail from your mouth, hot and open mouthed, down the sensitive line of your jaw, to the frantic pulse fluttering at the base of your throat. You arch your back, granting him better access, your head tipping back against the cushions. His lips find the soft spot just above your collarbone, the same one he bit on the balcony, and he sucks gently, creating a pleasant pressure that sends a jolt of pure arousal straight to your core.

“Hansol,” you whine, your hips instinctively bucking up against him. The friction of his sweatpants against the thin fabric of your shorts is maddening.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and damp. He doesn’t stop his assault, his mouth moving lower, pressing kisses against the thin cotton of your shirt, right over your heart. You can feel the damp heat of his mouth through the fabric, while his tongue circles your nipple.

“I need…” You trail off at the feeling, not even sure what you’re asking for, just knowing you need more.

He seems to understand perfectly, pushing himself up slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze is dark and intense, his pupils blown wide. Add in the messy hair and swollen lips, and it’s the most insane, delightful sight you’ve ever seen in your life.

“I know what you need, Bambi.”

Without another word, he moves down your body. His hands find the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He pauses for a beat, his eyes asking a silent question. You give a single, shaky nod, and that’s all he needs. Your shorts and underwear are gone in one smooth, efficient motion, tossed onto the floor beside the couch.

The cool air of the room hits your bare skin, and you shiver, a mixture of cold and raw, unadulterated anticipation. He stays there for a moment, kneeling between your legs, his gaze slowly, reverently, taking in the sight of you. The look in his eyes isn’t lecherous; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation, and it makes a fresh wave of heat pool low in your belly.

You like to think getting high has stripped away your usual inhibitions, leaving you feeling bold and open beneath his stare. You part your legs for him, exposing your folds entirely, a silent, shameless invitation. His answering smile is devastating. He leans forward, his hands coming to rest on your inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there in slow, hypnotic circles.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, and you can just make out the slow smile forming on his lips. “Perfect fucking pussy.”

Hansol lowers his head, and his hot breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, making you gasp and buck against his hands. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the top of your mound before his tongue finally sweeps down.

The first touch is electric. It’s a broad, wet slide from bottom to top that makes your entire body jerk. A strangled cry escapes your lips, and your hands fly up, fisting in the fabric of the couch cushions beside your head. He chuckles against you, before he settles in, and you realize with a jolt that his earlier patience and precision have returned, now focused entirely on your pleasure.

If he wasn’t your plug, you’d swear Hansol was a cartographer, mapping every fold and crevice with his mouth. His tongue is relentless, sometimes teasing with light, feathery licks around the edges, other times pressing down with a firm, insistent pressure that makes you see stars and the world dissolves into pure sensations.

You can feel the rough texture of his faint stubble against your inner thighs, the slick heat of his mouth, the gentle pull of his suction. Your hands leave the cushions, searching blindly for purchase. They find his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. You grip him tight, your body starting to writhe as he finds your clit and circles it slowly, deliberately, driving you mad.

“Hansol,” you moan, tugging gently on the hair your fingers are tangled in. He pauses, his mouth still pressed against you, and look up, eyes wide with a mixture of lust and confusion. “Want your hand, too.”

If there’s one thing the night has left you with, it’s the thought of his hands, especially the way it looked while he rolled the joint.

He chuckles, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against your thigh. He pushes himself up, moving from between your legs to hover over you on the couch. The sudden loss of his mouth makes you let out a small, complaining whimper.

“My hand?” he asks, voice not even trying to hide the amusement. He held up his right hand, palm open, presenting it to you like a sacred offering.

And you take it, your own hands trembling slightly as you hold his. You bring it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his palm before turning it over and kissing each of his long fingers one by one. You study his long deft fingers with a devotee’s focus, your gaze tracing the road map of pretty blue veins beneath his pale skin.

Every detail of it turns you on enough so you take the pad of his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it gently, your eyes fluttering shut as your hips rolled up against his thigh in a slow, needy grind. The solid muscle against your bare pussy pulls an even needier moan from your throat.

A deep groan rumbles in his chest, pupils going wider. He leans over you, free hand bracing on the couch cushion beside your head.

“Jesus, Bambi,” he gasp, lips now brushing against the skin of your stomach, sending a fresh wave of shivers through you. “Then let me fuck you with it.”

You release his thumb with a wet pop and let his hand go. He reclaims it, eyes burning into yours, before he moves back between your legs. He doesn’t waste a second, leaning down, his mouth finding your folds again, his tongue lapping at your pussy with a renewed vigor that makes you cry out. At the same time, he slips one of his long fingers inside you.

The sudden fullness combined with the merciless work of his mouth is too much. Your senses overload, a wave of pleasure building higher and higher until you’re certain you’re going to shatter. You writhe against the couch, back arching, hips lifting off the cushions to meet the pressure of his mouth and hand.

“Please.” The word tears itself from your throat before you can think. “Hansol, please.”

He hums in response, adding a second finger and giving a harsh suck to your clit. His fingers curl inside you, hitting a spot deep within that sent a lightning bolt of pure ecstasy tearing straight through your body, while his tongue works faster and harder against your clit.

You grip his hair like an anchor against the raging sea of pleasure he’s created, pulling him closer, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp as the wave crests. “Oh, god, I’m—I’m gonna—”

He seems to take that as a challenge, tongue flicking even faster, fingers curling inside you with precision until they find the spot that undoes everything. The wave doesn’t crest so much as collapse, and then you break completely.

Your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, white-hot supernova of pleasure that rips a scream from your lungs, no room for thinking of anything as trivial as your neighbors. Your body convulses, your inner muscles clenching tightly around his head. You grip his hair tighter, hips bucking wildly as the waves of pleasure roll through you, one after another, leaving you utterly breathless and spent.

Hansol doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and soothe you through the aftershocks until your trembling subsides and you melt into the couch, a boneless, quivering mess.

He finally pulls away, and you let out a weak whimper at the loss of contact. He moves up your body, his face slick, lips swollen. He looks impossibly pleased with himself, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. He leans down and captures your lips in a wet kiss, and you can taste yourself on him, the flavor musky and sweet and incredibly erotic.

When he pulls back, you’re panting, your mind a blissful, hazy fog. “Wow,” is all you can manage to say.

He giggles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re very welcome, Bambi.”

You lie there for a moment, letting the last delicious tremors of your orgasm fade, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. The need to reciprocate, to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he just gave you, is practically a primal urge. You reach out, your hand landing on the front of his sweatpants. You can feel the thick, hard length of him through the soft fabric, and a fresh wave of desire cuts through your post-orgasmic haze.

“My turn,” you whisper, your voice husky.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, then swing your legs over the side of the couch. You sit up and look at him, at the hunger in his eyes. Without a word, you slide off the couch and onto your knees on the rug in front of him. Hansol’s breath hitches audibly while you reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fingers fumbling slightly.

He covers your hands with his. “You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

You just look up at him through your lashes, meeting his intense gaze, and give a slow nod. He removes his hands and leans back against the couch, giving you complete control. You pull the string, loosening the waistband, and then slowly peel the gray fabric down his hips, revealing the taut line of his stomach and the trail of thin hair that disappears below. You push the sweatpants down past his knees, along with his black boxer briefs, freeing him.

He is beautiful. Long, thick, and perfectly straight. A single, clear bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip, and your mouth waters. You reach out a tentative hand, fingers wrapping around his velvety length. Hansol groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the floor, his hips twitching involuntarily.

You lean forward, your hair falling around your face like a curtain, and take him into your mouth. You start slowly, your tongue tracing the prominent vein that runs along the underside of his cock, following it all the way to the head. He tastes like an incredible mix of salt and musk, and you take him deeper, lips creating a wet, tight seal around him.

Hansol hisses through his teeth, hands coming up to fist in your hair, but his grip is gentle, reverent, nothing like the desperate way you clung to him moments ago.

“Shit, that’s it,” he breathes, the words barely holding together when you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.

You soon find a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, one hand stroking the base of his cock in time with the movements of your mouth. You love the feeling of him filling your mouth, the way he pulses and hardens even further against your tongue. You love even more the sounds he makes, the low, broken groans and sharp intakes of breath that tell you exactly how good you’re making him feel.

He starts to move his hips, a slow, rocking motion that pushes him deeper into your throat with each thrust. You gag slightly, but it’s a good feeling, a feeling of being completely taken, completely used for his pleasure. You take him as deep as you can, your throat muscles contracting around him.

“Fuck, Bambi,” he grits out, his head thrown back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut. And you take a moment to appreciate this stunning view of Hansol. “You’re so good at this.”

His praise sends a thrill through you. You pick up the pace, your hand and mouth working faster, more desperately. You can feel the tension building in him, the way his whole body has gone rigid, his hips bucking more insistently against your mouth. You can feel the tell-tale pulse at the base of his cock that signals he’s close.

Just as you think he’s about to let go, he pulls back, his hands gripping your shoulders. “Wait, Bambi,” he gasps, his chest heaving. “Stop. I wanna be inside you.”

Hansol pulls you up from the floor, his movements urgent. You’re on your feet, swaying slightly, his hands firm on your hips. He doesn’t let you go. Instead, he hooks his thumbs into the hem of his own shirt and rips it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor.

Before you can fully process the view of his bare chest, his hands are at the hem of your shirt. His fingers are scorching hot against the skin of your stomach as he pulls the fabric up and over your head, eyes never leaving yours as he lets your shirt fall to the floor beside his.

The air is cool on your bare skin, but his gaze is molten hot. It drops from your eyes to your chest, and his breath hitches. His pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of his irises until they’re almost black. He looks at you with a kind of raw reverence that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word a prayer. “Bambi, you’re… incredible.”

He closes the small distance between you, and his hands, those beautiful hands you were just worshipping, come up to cup your breasts. The feeling of his palms against your skin makes you gasp. He holds you with a surprising gentleness, his thumbs stroking over your nipples, coaxing them into tight, aching points. You moan, your head falling back as you arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.

That sound seems to break whatever restraint he had left. He pushes you back gently, your legs hitting the edge of the couch, and you tumble backward onto the cushions. He follows you down immediately, settling between your parted thighs, his bare chest pressing against yours.

“You’re still so wet for me,” he growls against your lips, his hand sliding down between your legs to confirm his words. Your slickness coats his fingers instantly, and he circles your clit with his thumb, making you whimper.

“Please, Hansol,” you beg, your nails digging into his broad back. “I need you inside me. Now.”

He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, teasing you. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a possessive glint. “Look at me, Bambi.”

You obey, your eyes locking with his. The connection is intense, electric.

And then Hansol pushes forward.

The feeling of him entering you is breathtaking. He moves slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by glorious inch. It’s a perfect, snug fit, a feeling of completion. You let out a long, shuddering sigh as Hansol sinks into you all the way to the hilt. He stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, letting you adjust to the size of him. He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You feel… perfect.”

The sensation of being filled by him is almost overwhelming. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the incredible heat of him deep inside you. It’s as if your bodies were made for this.

He kisses the tip of your nose before saying, “So polite.”

He begins to move, in a rhythm that has your head spinning. He pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of his withdrawal a sweet torture, before thrusting back in, burying himself deep inside you again. Each thrust is a wave of pleasure, building on the last. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your face as he fucks you.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Your moans mix with his grunts, creating a pornographic symphony in your living room. The pace quickens, his slow thrusts turning faster, harder, more frantic. He’s no longer the patient, gentle Hansol you know; he’s a man driven by pure need, and you meet his energy with your own, arching your hips to meet his every powerful thrust.

The friction is building, the pleasure coiling tight and hot in your lower belly. The couch creaks in protest beneath you, the only sound apart from your panting breaths and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking a new bruise into your skin as he thrusts into you relentlessly.

“You’re so tight,” he groans into your ear, his voice strained. “So fucking good, Bambi.”

You’re close again, so close. The world is nothing but a blur of sensations: the feeling of him filling you, the heat of his skin, the scent of his sweat, the sound of his voice calling your name.

“Hansol, I’m—I’m close!” you cry out, your voice breaking.

“Me too, baby,” he pants, his thrusts becoming deeper, even more frantic, slamming into you with a desperate intensity. “Come for me. Let me feel you come apart around me.”

That’s all it takes. His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his cock deep inside you, push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, even more intense than the first. Your vision whites out, a scream tears from your throat, and your inner muscles clench around him in a powerful, milking release.

You can feel that your climax triggers his, but instead of driving deeper, he rips himself out of you with a wet, slick sound that echoes in the quiet room. The sudden feeling of emptiness makes you gasp. In a single, fluid motion, he positions himself over you, his hips hovering above your stomach.His eyes are squeezed shut, face a mask of pure pleasure as his body goes rigid. You watch, mesmerized, as thick, hot ropes of his cum splash across your belly.

Hansol collapses beside you on the couch, his chest heaving as he shudders through the last aftershocks of his own release. He pulls you into his side, one arm wrapping securely around you. You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

You look down at the pearly mess cooling on your stomach. Slowly, you lift a hand and dip your index finger into the thickest part of it. The texture is sticky and still warm. You lift your finger, your eyes finding his in the dim light, only to discover Hansol already watching you, his own gaze heavy-lidded and curious. You hold his gaze as you slowly bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the tip clean.

A groan escapes his throat, a sound of pure, astonished pleasure. His arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer until your bodies are flush against each other. “You’re going to be the death of me, Bambi,” he rasps, his voice with a mixture of exhaustion and renewed desire.

He buries his face in your hair, and you melt into him, tangled together in a heap of sweaty limbs. The hazy, blissful fog of the weed settles over you like a warm blanket, cocooning you in the aftermath of pure, unadulterated bliss. His body is heavy and grounding next to yours, and you’ve never felt more safe, more sated, in your entire life.

The night was nothing like you expected, and everything you never knew you wanted.

But just then, an afterthought—one that doesn’t belong in this moment at all—surfaces and slips out before you can stop it. “Was that just because we were high?”

The light in Hansol’s eyes instantly softens, replaced by a profound, heavy sincerity that pins you to the spot. He reaches up, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch incredibly gentle.

“Absolutely not,” he says, his voice steady and absolute. “At least not for me. I wanted you the first time I saw you. I just didn’t wanna mess up what we had, but being around you is kinda messing me up anyway. In a good way.”

Your heart skips a beat, a massive wave of warmth blooming in your chest. The butterflies have completely escaped their cage by now, flying far, far away.

“So what are you saying?” you ask softly. “You like me?”

“A lot more than I could describe probably.” Hansol nods, his brown eyes shining. “But yeah, I do like you. You’re stuck in my head all the time, Bambi.”

You look at him, a wide smile breaking across your face, completely erasing any residual trace of executive dysfunction or anxiety. “What if I like you back?” you tease, tilting your head and resting your chin on his chest.

Hansol’s smile turns incredibly bright, a boyish expression of pure relief taking over his features as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you closer.

“Then I’m the luckiest plug in this city.”

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!! 💗

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @bmo-bri @chromequette @codeinebelle @paradiseoflosers @tinyelfperson @dcrlingyou @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @haaruki @bath1lda @hoshstruck @wubbz05 @jihoonsbbygirl @smiileflower @tastyluvr @gyuguys @nerdycheol @christinewithluv @jesauiin @ughokmyg @raggedypansexual @caratcak3 @ateez-atiny380 @meowchella @jeonsfries @whoisbaek15 @damnedangel98 @sumzysworld @theidontknowmehn @mingyuuulover @andreethier @sarabencze @weepingsweep @minhui896 @blaycke @miyx-amour @pl4netx1a @ohwowzersthatscool @ahuiahoe @bee-the-loser @im-gemmy @ssamarzi @my-neurodivergent-world @wonsrat @starmy-143 @wonu13 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @nonuverse @gyuhao365 @healingmv @coupsarchive

jisung doesn’t remember the last the he’s listed so intently to someone talk.

honestly, jisung’s never really been one to actively listen, but fuck- there was just something about the way your lips move around each spoken word that makes it so ungodly difficult to pay attention to anything else.

it doesn’t help that he’s had his eyes on you for longer than he could remember. ever since the first day you strolled into to his music theory class at the start of the semester, jisung has been, for lack of better words,dying to get his hands on you.

there’s just this… itch whenever he’s around you. it’s bone deep, too far below the skin to be satisfied easily. you’re just so perfect— kind, funny without even trying. and don’t even get him started on how good you are in the recording studio. jisung didn’t even know he could get turned on from watching someone mix a beat. but hey, they say college is where you learn things, right?

and trust, jisung has learned a lot.

for example: jisung has learned that he’s a dirty fucking perv.

an example of the example: there have been numerous times when you’ve been ranting about how bullshit your biased professor is—how he never grades your work fairly no matter how hard you work on it—and jisung will sit there wondering if your as expressive in bed as you are here.

he hopes you are. god, he would lose his mind…

speaking of you in bed, jisung has thought of you with his hand down his pants more often than anyone would constitute as normal. but honestly, can you even blame him?

you laugh at his jokes with a smile that makes his chest tight, and you somehow manage to smell like vanilla and something sweeter every single time you lean over his shoulder to look at his laptop screen.

it's honestly a miracle he hasn't combusted yet.

well, he has. many times, actually. but you get what he means.

but today? today is different.

today you're sitting cross-legged on his bed (his bed, jesus christ), textbook open in your lap as you complain about your latest assignment, and jisung is trying his absolute hardest to focus on his own textbook.

try as he might, all he can think about is how easy it would be to close the distance between you two. how easy it would be to kiss you, to make you let out pretty little noises, to force his cock down your throat and—

“hey ji,” you say suddenly, snapping him out of his daze. he sends a quick thank you to whatever higher being there may be that you hadn’t caught his staring. “can i talk to you about something?”

jisung looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor with a grin as if he hadn’t just been picturing the 69 different ways (pun intended) he could get you to take him. “sure.”

he watches as you take a deep breath, clearly debating on following through on whatever subject was on your mind. when another second ticked by without a response he arched a brow, fixing you with a look in hopes it would push you to hurry up.

you see it and promptly stick your tongue out at him. you both smile. you let out another exhale.

"i, uh…" you start, and jisung notices the way your cheeks flush slightly. "i went on a date last night. it was nothing like, crazy, yknow? just something a friend of mind set up."

oh.

jisung's stomach drops.

awesome.

"oh yeah?" he manages, keeping his voice in a careful neutral even though he feels like he's been kicked in the chest by some fuckass kangaroo. “and how’d that go?"

does he actually care? hell no. is he trying to be a good friend? sure, keyword there being trying.

you fidget with the corner of your textbook. "it was… fine, i guess? he was nice enough. we got dinner, talked for a bit." you pause, and jisung watches as your blush deepens. "and then we, you know… went back to his place."

jisung's grip on his pen tightens. he's not sure he wants to hear this, but he can't exactly tell you to stop now.

"and?" he prompts, hating how strained his voice sounds.

you let out a frustrated sigh. "and it was… underwhelming? like, really underwhelming." you're not looking at him now, focused instead on picking at a loose thread on his comforter. "we fooled around a bit, and he seemed really into it, but i just… i don't know. i didn't feel much of anything."

"what do you mean?" he's not sure if the relief flooding through him makes him a terrible person or not. his vote is no.

"i mean…" you trail off, clearly embarrassed. "he tried, like, touching me and stuff. it just felt… weird? not bad, just- nothing special, i guess. and then when things got more intense, i just kind of laid there thinking about my grocery list."

despite everything, jisung lets out a laugh. it’s short, cut off by the glare you shot his way.

"and the worst part," you continue, voice getting quieter, "is that he finished and then just… rolled over and fell asleep. didn't even care if i, you know…" you let make a vague gesture with your hand to make up for your lack of words.

"if you came?" jisung supplies, watching you nod a moment later.

"yeah. that." you finally look up at him. "is it supposed to be like that? because if so, i really don't get what all the hype is about."

jisung feels something twist in his chest—something between anger at the asshole who couldn't be bothered to take care of you and a dangerous, selfish hope. "no," he says, and his voice comes out a little sharper than he intended. "it's definitely not supposed to be like that."

"really?" you raise a brow, tone unamused and doubtful.

"really," jisung confirms, and before he can stop himself, he adds, "if a guy can't even make sure you finish, he doesn't deserve to touch you in the first place."

you laugh, but it's a hollow sound. "i mean, i don't know if i'd even know the difference." you shrug, trying to play it off casually even though jisung can see the genuine frustration in your eyes. "it's not like i've ever… y’know. gotten off before."

a beat passes.

jisung blinks. "wait, what?"

"yeah," you say, picking at the thread again. "not from someone else, not from myself. nothing."

"but—" jisung stops himself, trying to process this information. "didn't you have a boyfriend in high school?"

"yeah, for like a year and a half," you confirm. "but that doesn't mean i came. we fooled around, sure, but it never really… went anywhere for me."

jisung feels like his brain is short-circuiting. you—perfect, beautiful you—have never experienced an orgasm? it seems almost criminal.

"i think maybe i'm just not built for it," you continue, voice small. "like, maybe i'm just… glitched or something. everyone talks about how amazing it is, but i just don't get it."

"you're not glitched," jisung says immediately, more forceful than necessary. you look up at him, surprised. "trust me, you're not. you just… haven't been with anyone who knows what they're doing."

"maybe," you say, though you don't sound convinced.

jisung swallows hard.

his heart is pounding, and he knows what he's about to say is probably crossing a line, but he can't seem to stop himself. "if you want a second opinion…" he starts, trying to keep his tone light even though his hands are shaking slightly. "i volunteer as tribute."

the silence that follows is deafening.

you stare at him, eyes wide, and jisung immediately wants to take it back—except he doesn't. not really.

“i-“ you start before choking on your own words. you blink at him a few times, trying to gauge how serious he’s being. “what?”

jisung realizes what hes just said and immediately feels his face heat up.

he holds up his hands in a gesture that's somewhere between defensive and pleading. "i mean- say we’re working in hypotheticals here, yeah?" he says quickly, voice pitching slightly higher than normal. "just, you know, theoretically speaking. if you wanted to figure out what works for you."

you're still staring at him, and jisung can't tell if you're about to laugh in his face or leave. probably both. definitely both.

"i just mean, you said you don't know what you like, right? so maybe—hypothetically—it would help to, i don’t know- explore that?? with someone you trust. who wouldn't be weird about it."

he pauses, then adds, "or weirder than i'm already being right now."

you let out a breath that might've be a laugh, and some of the tension in jisung's shoulders eases. at least you're not running for the door.

"okay," you say slowly, and jisung's heart jumps into his throat. "hypothetically speaking… what would that even look like?"

blood rushes to his dick so fast that he genuinely feel faint for a solid second or two.

this is happening. this is actually happening.

"well, uh," he clears his throat. "i guess first we'd need to figure out what you like. what feels good to you."

"i don't know what i like," you point out. "that's kind of the whole problem here."

"right, but like-" jisung stands, taking a gamble by moving from the floor to sit with you on the bed. he takes the edge, but still manages to get close enough that his knee almost touches yours. he has half the thought of cheering when you don’t immediately jolt away. "there has to be something. like, when you think about… that stuff. what do you think about?"

your blush deepens as you look away. jisung wants to grab you by the cheeks and shove his tongue down your throat.

"i don't know. i guess i don't really think about it much."

"okay, but when you do," jisung presses, far too eager "what's the first thing that comes to mind? is it like… hands? mouths? something else?"

"i- i guess mouths? that’s a stupid way to put it, jisung." your eyes dart over to him for all of two seconds before flicking away again. “i like being kissed. and when people leave marks.”

jisung’s going to bust in his sweats.

he nods slowly, stashing away the information for it’s inevitable later use. "okay. that's good. that's a start." he pauses before asking "what about where? where would you wanna be kissed?"

your head tilts to the side slightly as you debate. it takes a minute for you to make up your mind, a minute that jisung’s spends memorizing the curve of your lips.

“my thighs. i like my neck and my tits, too, but my thighs.”

ok. scratch what he said before. he’s actually going to pass out, wake up for two seconds to jerk off, and then pass out again from how intense it’ll be.

“fuck” he breaths out with a laugh—half breathless humor, half utter strain. jisung raises a hand to run down his face, looking away from you to try and save himself even a little bit.

"okay," he says once he's collected himself enough to form coherent words. "okay, so, hypothetically, if we were doing this, i'd start there. with your thighs." he looks back at you, trying his best to gauge your reaction. "would that be… okay?"

jisung watches the way your eyes skim over him and highly considers throwing himself off the roof of his dorm when your gaze catches on the tent in his sweat pants.

“i like it more when people work their way down.” you meet his eye again and he feels his dick twitch to attention.

jisung's mouth goes dry. the casual way you say it—like you're discussing the weather and not actively trying to kill him—makes his head spin.

"work my way down," he repeats li. "from your neck?"

“my mouth.” you correct.

it takes a few seconds for jisung’s brain to catch up to what you were saying. when ir finally registered, jisung let out a heavy breath.

“y-you want me to kiss you?”

"i mean… yeah?" you say, and there's a hint of uncertainty in your voice. "isn't that where you're supposed to start?"

jisung lets out a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. "yeah, no, you're right. i just-" he stops himself, looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "i just need to know you're actually okay with this. like, seriously okay. because once i start, i don't know if i'll be able to stop."

despite everything making up your current situation, you can’t help the laugh that pushes itself from your lips.

“jesus, sung- please don’t tell me you learned that from a bad porno.”

jisung's face flushes, but he can't help the grin that tugs at his lips. "fuck off," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. "i'm trying to be respectful here."

"i know," you say, and your expression softens. "and i appreciate it. but i'm serious, jisung. i want this. hypothetically, of course.”

jisung doesn't waste another second.

he closes the distance between you, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other braces against the mattress beside your hip. his thumb brushes along your cheekbone, and for a moment he just looks at you—really looks at you—trying to memorize every detail of your face before he gets what he's been craving for so long.

"tell me to stop if you need to," he murmurs, knowing damn well he won't be able to give this up. not now. not when you're looking at him like that.

he closes the gap completely, pressing his lips to yours.

and god, you're even better than he imagined.

and trust, he's imagined this—fuck, has he imagined this. a thousand times, maybe more. but none of his fantasies come close to the real thing. your mouth is soft and warm, and the little sound you make when he deepens the kiss goes straight to his cock.

you make that sound again—that small, needy noise in the back of your throat—and jisung responds on instinct, tilting your head slightly to get a better angle.

his tongue traces the seam of your lips, and when you open for him, he can't help the groan that escapes. he groans—actually groans—into your mouth, and he'd be embarrassed if he could think straight.

but he can't. because this is intoxicating. you’re intoxicating.

the way you taste, sweet and perfect. the way his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair like they were made to be there. the way his other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there's barely any space left between your bodies and he can feel your heartbeat against his chest.

you've been kissed before, he knows that,but jisung wants to make you forget every single one of those losers you’d had before him. wants this to be the one you remember.

he puts everything into it, every press of his lips deliberate, purposeful, trying to learn exactly what makes you melt against him.

he knows he’s reached some sort of heaven when he feels you starting to go pliant in his hands.

jisung pulls back just enough to catch his breath, resting his forehead against yours. his eyes are dark, blown wide. he can feel how swollen his lips are already.

"fuck," he breathes, voice absolutely wrecked. "you taste so good." he doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s kissing you again, harder than before.

leave it to jisung to get turned on by how sweet your spit tastes.

his hand tightens in your hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp—and takes full advantage of how your lips part, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes him dizzy with want.

you grab onto his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, and jisung feels like he might actually lose his mind.

everything about this is overwhelming in the best possible way—the warmth of your body pressed against his, the way you respond when his thumb strokes the sensitive skin at your nape, the little sounds you make as you kiss him back just as eagerly. he wants to catalog every single detail, burn it into his memory so it’s humanly impossible to forget.

his hand on your waist starts to wander, sliding down to your hip and squeezing. it isn’t a rough gesture, more so just to ground himself, to remind himself that this is all real. that this isn’t just another one of his twisted dreams.

he breaks the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

"tell me if this is okay," he murmurs against your skin. he gets a strange high from the way your quickens pulse under his lips.

"it's okay," you manage, voice breathier than usual. "it's really okay."

jisung makes a satisfied sound deep in his throat, then goes back to kissing you properly. this time he forces himself to slow down, to be more deliberate.

he takes his time exploring your mouth, learning the way you respond to him—the way you whimper when he sucks on your bottom lip, the way you smile against his mouth when he does something you particularly like.

"you're so fucking cute," he mumbles, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes are soft, a little to innocent for the way he’s currently handling you. "been wanting to do this for so long."

"yeah?"

"fuck yeah," he responds with a laugh that’s only slightly crazed.

you never get the chance to ask exactly how long he's wanted this, how many nights he's fallen asleep thinking about it—about you. and honestly? you aren’t even sure you’d want that answer. it feels to heavy, too weighted with significance.

minutes pass. you’re not sure how many, neither is jisung. all you know is that he kisses you until your lips feel bruised under his and his head is spinning from lack of oxygen.

his hands roam more carefully now—not respectful, but not outright pushy. there’s enough intent in each brush that you can feel the restrained want in every touch. he palms your hip, traces the curve of your waist, thumbs at the silver of skin where your shirt has ridden up.

when he finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard.

his hair is a mess from where you've been running your fingers through it. when he catches sight of your lips—red and swollen from his kisses—he has to physically restrain himself from crashing back into you again

"we should…" he starts, then stops. he swallows hard. "we should probably slow down."

you blink at him, still a little dazed. "why?"

"because if we don't, i'm gonna fucking come in my pants," jisung admits with a breathless laugh. it's embarrassing but true—he's already painfully hard, and every little sound, every shift, brings him closer to that edge.

the way you're looking at him makes his chest tight. at the same time though, he's acutely aware of how you're still pressed against him, addicted to the heat radiating off your body.

"what if i don't want you to slow down?" you ask, and the boldness in your voice very nearly enough to do him in on the spot.

"don't say shit like that unless you mean it."

"i do," you say, and then you're leaning in and kissing him again.

this time, jisung doesn't hold back. he kisses you like he's trying to devour you, one hand sliding up your back to press you closer while the other grips your hip hard enough to leave marks. you can probably feel how hard he is, pressed against your thigh, and the knowledge that you know how badly he wants you makes his head spin.

you shift slightly, and jisung groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward before he can stop himself. "fuck," he gasps, breaking the kiss. "you're gonna kill me."

"good," you manage, then kiss him again before he can respond.

jisung lets out a breathless laugh against your lips before shifting his weight, gently pushing you back until you're lying on the bed with him hovering over you.

the new position makes everything feel more intense—the way he's pressed between your thighs in a way that lets you feel how hard he is, the way his weight settles over you, the way you're looking up at him like he's the only thing in the world that matters.

"hi," he says, grinning down at you despite how wrecked he feels.

"hi," you echo, and the smile you give him back makes his heart stutter.

and then his lips are on yours yet again .

his mouth moves against yours with an ease that surprises him—like he's already learned exactly what makes you gasp and whimper. when he nips at your bottom lip, you arch up against him, and jisung makes a choked sound in response, barely holding himself together.

"you're so responsive," he murmurs against your mouth. "so fucking perfect. just how i thought you'd be."

his hand slides up your side, thumbing just under the curve of your breast, and jisung realizes with startling clarity that he needs more. needs to feel your skin against his, needs to map every inch of your body with his hands and mouth.

as if reading his mind, you reach up and push at his shoulder, urging him downward. "you said you'd work your way down, remember?"

jisung's breath catches and for a moment he just stares at you. a slow grin spreads across his face—the kind he knows is absolutely devastating.

"yeah," he says, voice rough. "yeah, i did say that, didn't i?"

he leans down to kiss you one more time, slow and deep, savoring it. promptly after, he starts trailing his lips along your jaw, taking his time. he presses open-mouth kisses to every inch of skin he can reach, committing the taste of your skin to memory.

when he gets to the spot just below your ear, he pauses for only a moment before taking the skin there between his teeth, sucking a mark into the sensitive patch.

you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair enough for jisung to make a satisfied sound. "gonna mark you up so good," he murmurs against your neck, lips hot as they brush against your skin. "want everyone to know you're mine."

the possessiveness in his own voice should probably alarm him, but he's too far gone to care.

you tilt your head to give him better access, and jisung takes full advantage, working his way down your neck with single-minded focus. this is all he's been dreaming about—getting to worship you like this, getting to make you feel good.

he sucks another mark just above your collarbone, then soothes it with his tongue. the whimper you make goes straight to his cock. jisung smiles against your skin.

"you sound so pretty," he says, voice muffled against your neck. "wanna hear what other sounds you make, jagi"

his hand comes up to rest on your ribs, thumb brushing against the underside of your breast. when you arch into the touch jisung can’t help his groan, pressing his hips down against yours just because he can.

the friction makes you both gasp.

"fuck," comes his his, the word hot on your skin as he continues his path downward.

jisung kisses along your collarbone, then down to the neckline of your shirt. he pauses there, looking up at you with eyes that are wide and begging. "can i?"

instead of granting him with a verbal answer, you reach down and grab the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one swift motion.

jisung's eyes go wide, gaze immediately dropping to your chest.

over the span of five seconds, jisungs mouth goes from being as dry as a desert to his throat bobbing as he swallows down his own spit.

"holy shit.." he whispers, voice dripping with reverence. his hands come up to cup your breasts over your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric. "you're so fucking... fuck, baby- your perfect"

you squirm under the attention, and jisung only takes it as encouragement. he leans down to press his face between to the swell of your breasts, a groan rolling soft in the back of his throat before kissing down to your sternum. his hands stay on you, kneading mindlessly and without much care.

jisung thinks he might actually be in heaven.

and then you’re thread your fingers through his hair again pushing, deliberately, purposefully, until his face is buried in your chest.

jisung groans loud this time, breath coming out hot against your skin. "so eager," he murmurs in pure appreciation, a hand sliding around to your back to find the clasp of your bra. "what a rockstar- i fucking love it."

you arch to help him and jisung makes quick work of the clasp, tossing the fabric across the room without a second thought.

for a moment, jisung just stares.

his eyes are wide with hunger as they trace over your newly exposed skin. he's imagined this so many times, but nothing compares to actually seeing you like this.

then he's leaning down, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses across your chest, hands coming up to cup your breasts properly now that that last barrier is gone.

"so fucking perfect," he breathes against your skin, thumbs circling your nipples in a way that makes you arch up into his touch.

"god, i could live between your tits," jisung breathes out, voice rough rough around the edges while his hands continue to knead at you. "been thinking about this for months—how they'd feel in my hands, how they'd look covered in my cum, how fucking perfect they'd look bouncin’ in my face while you ride me." he groans, burying his face between them again like he can't help himself. "never gonna take my hands off of ya, jagi. can’t do it…"

then he takes one nipple into his mouth, and the cry you let out nearly makes him come on the spot.

jisung circles the sensitive bud with his tongue before sucking hard enough to make you writhe beneath him. his other hand works your other breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger in a rhythm that matches his mouth.

he gets so lost in it that he almost forgets he isn’t dreaming. the only thing that snaps him back is the sound of his name on your lips.

"jisung," you gasp, and he hums in response, the vibration making you shudder beneath him.

he switches sides, giving your other breast the same devoted attention.

jisung can feel himself getting harder with every passing second, can feel how wet you must be through the fabric still between you. your thighs squeeze around his hips, and jisung grinds down against you in response, unable to help himself.

but the friction isn't enough—not for either of you—and when you roll your hips in a search for more, jisung breaks away from your chest with a sharp inhale.

his forehead drops to rest against your sternum as he tries to catch his breath and regain some semblance of control.

"you're driving me insane," he mutters, voice strained. his hands slide down your sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. he looks up at you, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, barely holding himself together. "can i take these off?"

"please," you breathe, and jisung doesn't need to be told twice.

he sits back on his heels, making quick work of your pants and underwear in one smooth motion.

the cool air hits your heated skin, and jisung's hands are immediately there, warm and grounding as they run up your thighs. he takes a moment to just look at you—all of you—spread out on his bed, and he thinks he might actually die from want.

"fuck," he says, voice raw. he drags a thumb through your folds "look at you. so wet already."

the embarrassment that flashes across your face makes jisung's chest tighten. he immediately leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your knee. "don't," he says gently, meaning it. "don't be embarrassed. this is so fucking hot. you're so fucking hot."

his hands massage your thighs, slowly pushing them apart, and blacks out when you just let him.

the sight of you all vulnerable and trusting, turned on and willing, is almost too much. he settles between your legs, and the reality that he's finally here, that this is actually happening, sends a sick thrill through him.

"i'm gonna make you feel so good," jisung promises, his breath ghosting over your inner thigh, pressing a lingering kiss there. he means it with everything in him. "gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name."

he continues with pressing kisses to yout thigh, taking his sweet time even though every instinct is screaming at him to rush. every press of his lips against your skin makes his own arousal spike higher, and by the time he reaches the crease where your thigh meets your hip, jisung's hands are shaking.

"jisung," you whimper, and the sound goes straight to his cock.

"i know, baby," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your hip bone. "just wanna savor this. been dreamin’ bout having you like this."

he presses one more kiss to your hip bone, and then—finally, finally—jisung lets himself taste you properly.

his tongue slides through your folds in one long, slow lick, and the taste of you combined with the way your back arches off the bed, pussy pressing to his face, makes him moan.

"oh my god," you gasp, hands flying down to tangle in his hair.

jisung moans again, the sound vibrating through your core. "taste so fucking good," he mumbles, addicted. then he goes back to work with the single minded focus of making good on his promise.

he eats you out like it's his sole purpose in life—because right now, it is.

jisung’s been starving for this, and now that he finally has you, jisung loses himself completely.

his tongue circles your clit before he sucks it between his lips, and the way you respond? the sounds you make? the way your hips rock up against his face? it’s better than anything he's ever imagined.

and believe him, he’s imagined.

jisung's hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he works you over, trying to memorize every sound, every reaction. when he slides one finger inside you, slow and careful, you cry out, fingers tightening almost painfully in his hair.

"that okay?" he asks, pulling back just enough to speak.

when your eyes meet his you’re met with the sight of his face glistening with you, lips swollen and chin shiny. you have to swallow down a whine before you can mutter a small “fuck, yes, please-“

jisung grins—he can't help it—then goes back to sucking on your clit while his finger pumps in and out of you. the dual sensation is overwhelming for the both of you, albeit for wildly different reasons. for you, it’s the way he uses his tongue so fucking well, the wet, warm heat pressing flat against your clit so you can grind against his face to chase your own stimulation. for him? it’s how fucking sweet you are, how your walls flutter when he hits that spot that’s always just a little too far for you to reach on your own.

"jisung," you gasp. "i think- i think i'm—"

"yeah?" he purrs, adding a second finger and curling them in a way that leaves you breathless and seeing stars. "gonna come for me, rockstar? gonna come all over my fingers?"

the words combined with the relentless pleasure seem to push you right to the edge. when jisung takes your clit between his lips again, sucking hard, you fall apart, and jisung thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful.

your orgasm crashes over you in waves, waves jisung does his best to help work you through. his own pleasure spikes high as he watches you come undone.

your whole body seems to tense, thighs clamping around his head as you shake with aftershocks of it. he can hear you making noise—probably too much noise considering dorm walls are comically thin—but he fucking loves it, wants to hear it again and again.

jisung gentles his movements as you come down, not stopping until you're pushing at his head because it's too much, too sensitive.

he presses one last kiss to your swollen clit before sitting up, looking just as wrecked as you do. his hair a mess, lips swollen and wet, and he’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon. because fuck, that was the hottest thing he's ever done. sue him.

"holy shit," you breathe, and jisung feels a surge of satisfaction at how completely undone you look.

jisung crawls back up your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts, before finally reaching your mouth. he kisses you deep, tongue sliding against yours in attempt to get you to taste yourself too.

"good?" he asks when he pulls back, and there's something vulnerable in the question. he needs to know you felt as good as he thinks you did, that he didn't disappoint you.

"so good," you assure him, reaching up to cup his face. "that was… i've never-"

"i know," he says softly, pressing a kiss to your palm. pride blooms warm in his chest. "first time for everything, right?"

you nod, still a little dazed, and jisung smiles. it's different from his earlier grins—softer, more genuine.

it’s only when he shifts his weight in discomfort that you realize how there’s still a devilish tent in his sweats. he catches the way your eyes drop, and immediately try and brush it off.

"don't worry bout me," he manages, even though his voice is strained and every nerve in his body is screaming for more.

"what about you?" you ask, and then your hand is on him, palming him through the fabric. jisung hisses, hips jerking forward into your touch before he can stop himself.

"i want to," you insist when he doesn’t reply, squeezing gently, and jisung nearly blacks out.

"baby- baby, fuck—" jisung whines, his hand shooting down to wrap around your wrist. he pushes your hand away as his head falls forward, sucking in heavy breaths between his teeth. he can feel the wet patch spreading across the front of his sweats, the aftermath of what just happened.

"i already- i already came, baby-"

you blink, processing his words. "you… already?"

jisung lets out a breathless laugh, cheeks flushing pink as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. he's embarrassed but also not because holy shit it was the most ‘worth it’ thing he’s ever done in his life.

"couldn't help it," he mumbles against your skin, words muffled. "you tasted so fucking good, and the sounds you were making?? fuck jagi, i didn't stand a chance."

your hands slowly raise to thread through the strands of his hair as if it wasn’t mussed up enough, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. jisung practically purrs at the touch.

"that's really hot, actually," you admit.

jisung lifts his head to look at you, searching your expression for any sign of disappointment or disgust. but all he sees is warmth, and something tender that makes his heart skip. "yeah?"

"yeah," you confirm, pulling him down for a slow, deep kiss. when you break apart, you're both smiling, and jisung feels something settle in his chest. it feels a lot like contentment.

"we should probably clean up," jisung murmurs after a moment, though he makes no move to actually get up. he's too comfortable like this, wrapped around you, feeling your heartbeat slowly return to normal beneath him.

"probably," you agree, but you don't move either.

jisung chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "give me like, five minutes. then i'll get us a towel."

"five minutes," you repeat, fingers still playing with his hair in that way that makes him want to fall asleep right here.

but after a moment, reality starts creeping back in. jisung shifts, wincing slightly at the uncomfortable dampness in his boxers. "okay, actually i really need to change like, right now."

you laugh he reluctantly pulls away, watching as he stands on slightly shaky legs. you watch him with hooded eyes as he strips off his ruined sweats and boxers, tossing them into his laundry basket before grabbing a clean pair of sweatpants from his drawer.

"here," he says, pulling out one of his oversized hoodies and tossing it to you. "you can wear this if you want."

you slip it on while jisung grabs a damp towel from his bathroom.

he comes back to find you sitting up, his hoodie falling to your mid-thigh, and he has to take a moment to breathe and not pounce on you like a wild animal and fuck you right then and there.

"c'mere," he says softly, sitting beside you. he gently cleans you up, his touch careful and intimate in a different way than before. when he's done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls you back against him.

"soooo, that was..."

"yeah," jisung agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "it really was."

You're currently restocking the campus bookstore's supply of overpriced organic chemistry textbooks, which weigh approximately ten pounds each and smell like fresh debt. Your shift started at noon. It's now 4:30 PM. Your feet hurt. Your scholarship requires twenty hours of work-study per week, and this shit right here, hauling boxes of knowledge you'll never afford to keep is what your Tuesday afternoons look like when you're not being corrupted by tattooed billionaires.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. You ignore it. It buzzes again. And again. A morse code for I'm bored and I want your attention.

jk: where are you

jk: your dorm room is empty

jk: your car is in the lot

jk: are you avoiding me

You shove another textbook onto the shelf with more force than necessary.

you: working

jk: where

jk: tell me

jk: fine. i'll find you.

You stare at the message. You should tell him not to. You should tell him to respect your boundaries, your space, your minimum wage sanity. You type:

you: don’t

But you don't hit send. You delete it and stare at the blank text field for ten seconds, hating yourself a little, and then you shove the phone back into your pocket and go back to stacking boxes.

He finds you in fourteen minutes.

You know he's there before you see him, you feel it in the sudden hush that falls over the textbook section, in the whispered holy shit from the freshman chicks browsing the philosophy aisle.

“You’re wearing the wrong shoes for breaking and entering.”

He looks down at his boots, designer, obviously, probably cost more than your rent. “What are the right shoes?”

“Steel toes. Less… whatever those are.”

“Chelsea boots.”

“They look expensive.”

“They are.” He looks up, and the vulnerability is gone, hidden behind the smirk. “Everything I own is expensive. Including my taste in women.”

“That’s a terrible line.”

“It worked on you.”

You roll your eyes. God, why does he have to be so infuriating? "You're not supposed to be in the stockroom."

"And yet," he replies, "here I am."

He's leaning against the doorframe, all black denim and attitude. He looks ridiculous here, among the cardboard and the price scanners, like a Ferrari parked in a Walmart lot.

"I have two hours left on my shift," you say.

"So?" He takes a sip of his coffee. "I'll wait."

"You can't just-" you gesture at the narrow aisle, "-loiter in a bookstore."

"I'm not loitering." He pushes off the doorframe, crosses to you in three strides. He's close now. Close enough that you can smell his cologne."I'm researching."

"Researching what?" you scoff, as if the great Jeon Jungkook would ever touch a dusty book.

He reaches past you, pulls a random textbook from the shelf. Introduction to Behavioral Neuroscience. He flips it open, reads a line, closes it. "Boring," he declares.

"Some of us need that boring to graduate."

"Some of us don't need to graduate." He says it casually, like it's not a loaded grenade of privilege. Like he didn't just admit that his future is already secured by bloodline and bank accounts. He catches your expression, though, and something flickers across his face. Regret? No. It can't be. "I mean-"

"I know what you meant," you say flatly, turning back to the boxes. "You should go. I can't have visitors back here, I’m working."

He doesn't move. Just watches you wrestle with a box labeled Volume 12: Advanced Thermodynamics. "When do you get off?"

"Six."

"I'll wait."

"Jungkook-"

"I'll be upstairs," he interrupts, already backing toward the door. "Pretending to read magazines. Don't rush on my account."

He vanishes before you can argue, and then you hear his boots on the stairs, heavy, deliberate, and kind of slow, and after that there is the murmur of voices from the main floor as the customers spot him. You spend the next hour and twenty minutes trying to focus on barcode scanners while your heart performs an unauthorized drum solo against your ribs.

﹍﹎﹎﹍

At 6:03 PM, you clock out, grab your jacket, and go upstairs expecting to find him surrounded by admirers, holding court like he usually does.

Instead, you find him alone in the magazine section, reading National Geographic with his back to the window, completely oblivious to the three girls at the coffee counter who are taking photos of him with their phones.

"You're still here," you say.

He looks up. His expression does that thing, that soft, terrifying thing that makes your chest ache. "I said I would be. Are you hungry?"

Your shift is over and as usual you should say no. You should go back to your dorm, eat your sad cup of ramen, and study for the exam that's going to determine whether you keep your scholarship. You should maintain the walls you've spent three years building.

"Starving," you hear yourself say.

He smiles, sharp and pleased. "Good. I'm buying."

"You don't have to-"

"Where do you want to go?" he said as if he already knew you would say that.

You think about the places he probably frequents. The rooftop restaurant downtown. The steakhouse where reservations require a credit check. The bars where bottles of wine cost more than your rent.

"There's a diner," you say. "Off campus. Route 9. It's… not fancy."

"Perfect."

You look at him, suspicious. "You don't even know where it is." "I'll follow you." He holds out his hand. "Keys."

"What?"

"Your car. I'll drive."

"You want to drive my Honda Civic?" You said it as if it was an insult, which probably to anyone who would have Jungkook’s social status it would be.

"I want to drive you," he corrects, and the way he says it makes your face burn. "The car is just transportation."

The drive takes twenty minutes. You sit in the passenger seat of your own car which smells like vanilla air freshener. You watch him adjust the seat, frown at the cracked dashboard, handle the shaky steering wheel with careful hands.

"The transmission is dying," he says, shifting gears with more gentleness than you expected.

"I know. I can't afford to fix it."

"How much?" he asks finally.

"How much what?"

"To fix it."

You stare at him. "I'm not telling you that."

"Why not?"

“Because you’re rich and rich people slove problems.” A pause. “And I’m not a project.”

He doesn't answer. Just drives, his jaw tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. You watch the campus disappear in the rearview mirror, replaced by strip malls and gas stations.

The diner appears on the right-a squat brick building with neon lights that buzz and flicker, advertising pie and coffee and breakfast all day. He pulls into the lot, gravel crunching under tires, and he kills the engine.

"You come here a lot?" he asks.

"When I can afford to."

"Let's go," he says quietly.

The diner is exactly what you promised. Vinyl booths and laminated menus, a waitress named Darlene who calls everyone 'hon.' It smells like grease and coffee. You slide into a booth by the window, and Jungkook slides in across from you, too tall for the bench, his knees knocking against yours under the table.

"So," you say, opening your menu. "This is my territory."

"I like it," he says, and you can't tell if he's lying.

Darlene appears, pen ready. "What can I get you, hon?"

"Coffee," you say. "And the grilled cheese. With fries."

"Same," Jungkook says, not looking at the menu. "And pie. Whatever's fresh."

When she leaves, you stare at him. "You didn't even look."

"I don't care what I eat."

"You care about everything. I've seen you send back wine because it was breathing too long."

He almost smiles. "I care about quality. This…" he gestures at the diner, at you, at the cracked vinyl seat "…this is different."

"How?"

"Because you're here." The words hang between you, heavy and unplanned. He looks as surprised as you feel, his eyes widening slightly, his mouth pressing into a line like he's trying to take it back.

"Jungkook-"

"Tell me something," he interrupts, desperate to change the subject. "Tell me why you work twenty hours a week at a bookstore when you could be… I don't know. Doing whatever scholarship kids do. Studying."

"Because I have to," you say. "The scholarship covers tuition. It doesn't cover rent. It doesn't cover food. It doesn't cover the car you just drove here."

"Your parents?"

"Single mom. Works nights at a hospital. She sends what she can, but…" You shrug. "It's not enough. It was never enough.”

He goes quiet. Darlene brings the coffee, pours it black and hot, and still he doesn't speak. When she leaves, he wraps his hands around his mug-tattooed fingers against cheap ceramic-and looks out the window at the empty parking lot.

"My grandfather built the first Jeon building," he says quietly. "In 1978. My father added two more. My mother is a model. I was born with a name that opens doors and a trust fund that could buy this diner fifty times over."

"I know," you say. "Everyone knows."

"What they don't know-" he stops, takes a breath. "What they don't know is that I spent my entire childhood being told exactly who I had to be. Perfect grades. Perfect image. Perfect heir. You know…I wanted to be a mechanic.”

You stare at him. This is the most he's ever said about himself.

“You could still-“ you start.

“No.” He cuts you off, sharp. “I couldn’t. I’m Jeon Jungkook. I have responsibilities. Buildings to inherit. Boards to sit on. Women my mother approves of to-” He stops. Looks at you. “Never mind.”

The silence stretches. You want to ask about the women his mother approves of. You want to ask about the responsibilities. You want to ask why he’s telling you this, here, in the place where you hide from the world.

"So you became a disaster on purpose," you say.

"I became a disaster because I didn't know how to be anything else." He meets your eyes. "The tattoos were rebellion. The bike was rebellion. The reputation-" he laughs, joyless "-the reputation was just me being too tired to pretend anymore."

"And me?" you ask, your voice quiet. "Why me? I'm not rebellious. I'm not interesting."

A pause and then…“The coffe is too bitter.”

Ouch. He changed the subject.

Of course he did.

Darlene returns with the food-grilled cheese sandwiches that glisten with butter, fries piled high, pie that steams with cinnamon warmth. You eat in silence for a while.

"Tell me something else," he says, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "Something stupid."

"I cried when I got the scholarship," you say. "In the financial aid office. In front of three strangers. I couldn't stop."

"I got my first tattoo at sixteen," he counters. "A skull on my ribs. Hurt like hell. My mother didn't speak to me for a month."

"I still have a stuffed animal from childhood. A rabbit. It's missing an eye."

"I failed calculus on purpose sophomore year. Just to see if my father would notice. He didn't."

"I want to travel," you say, surprising yourself. "Someday. I want to see Tokyo.”

He looks at you, serious now. "I'll take you."

"Don't make promises."

"Why not?"

"Because…" you set down your fork "…because promises break. Because you're used to getting what you want, and I'm used to wanting things I can't keep. Because this…" you gesture between you "… this has an expiration date, and we both know it."

You continue. "I think you're a tornado. And I'm a house made of straw."

"Then I'll rebuild you," he says, and his voice is fierce, sudden, desperate. "I'll rebuild you in brick. I'll-"

"Stop." You say determined.

He pays the bill despite your protests-leaves a hundred dollar bill on a twenty dollar check, tells Darlene to keep the change. She stares at the money, then at him, then at you with an expression that says she knows exactly who he is and exactly what this is and exactly how badly it's going to end.

You walk out into the cooling evening. Your car waits by the curb, faithful and broken.

"I'll drive," you say, holding out your hand for the keys.

﹍﹎﹎﹍

When you finally pull into the campus lot, it's past nine. The stars are out. The buildings loom dark and silent. You walk across the quad, past the library, past the building with JEON carved into the marble facade. He doesn't look at it. He looks at you.

"Three years," he says quietly. "Three years you were here, and I never saw you."

"You weren't looking."

"I should have been."

You stop under an oak tree, its branches heavy with summer leaves. The moon filters through, dappling the grass in silver.

"Jungkook," you say, and your voice is shaking. "What are we doing?"

"I don't know," he admits. "But I know I don't want to stop."

"You will," you say. "Eventually. You'll get bored. Or I'll get too real. Or your mother will find out about the scholarship girl and-"

"Stop." He steps closer, close enough that you can feel his heartbeat. "Just… stop planning the ending. Let me have this. Let me have you. For now."

This time you’re the one who’s not answering.

"Come on," he murmurs. "I'll walk you home."

He doesn't try to come up. He doesn't push. He just stands in the doorway of your dorm, his hands in his pockets, looking at you with an expression you can't name.

"Text me when you're inside," he says.

"I'm already inside."

"Text me anyway."

"Jun-"

"Please."

"Fine," you say.

You climb the stairs, unlock your door, and when you text him inside, your phone buzzes immediately. Your phone buzzes as you’re kicking off your shoes.

jk: you’re not home yet

jk: i’m counting

jk: 3…2…

You smile a little, despite whatever the fuck just happened today.

you: i’m home

you: stop counting

you: you creep

jk: too late

jk: already obsessed

jk: remember?

He’s terrifying, this boy. Not because of the motorcycle or the money or the tattoos. Because he’s paying attention. Because he’s learning you. Because he’s making it impossible to remember why you were supposed to stay invisible.

Your phone buzzes again.

jk: sleep well

jk: dream of me

You don't reply. But you do dream of him.

When you wake up, there's a text waiting. Sent at 3:47 AM.

jk: i meant what i said

jk: about rebuilding

jk: i meant it

You don't know what to say. So you say nothing. You read it three times. You let yourself hope, just for a second, that maybe, maybe, the tornado and the house made of straw can learn to coexist.

Maybe...

Or maybe not.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The first Tuesday of October showed up. You’d pulled an all-nighter at the library, powered by cheap coffee and this very loud, desperate need to keep your scholarship. The 3.7 GPA you’d sweated for was starting to slide, and you really couldn't afford to lose the financial aid that kept you here.

jk: When are you done today?

You chewed on your pen cap, considering. You had a shift at the bookstore from 2-6, then dinner with your roommate Lisa.

You: Late. Probably not free until after 6.

jk: I'll pick you up.

Your heart did that little flip it always did when he said things like that-casually, as if you weren't just the scholarship girl who'd been invisible for three years before he'd noticed you.

jk: Text me when you're done.

You slid your phone back into your bag, feeling that same old mix of excitement. It had been about three weeks since that first night at the diner, and you still couldn’t really sort out what you were doing. Friends with benefits, he said, like that was it clean and simple but his behavior, um well, it didn’t match the story. It was something more tangled. So your friends started side-eyeing the whole thing, and you were left there, like standing at the edge of a cliff, drawn to jump anyway, even though you already knew you would probably get hurt.

The lecture dragged on, your mind drifting between supply chain management and memories of Jungkook's hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, the way he looked at you sometimes-like you were something precious he'd discovered in the dirt.

After class, you grabbed a quick lunch at the dining hall, where Lisa found you and slid into the booth across from you.

"You're glowing," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Don't tell me you're still seeing Mr. Moneybags."

You pushed your salad around with your fork. "We're just hanging out sometimes."

"Uh-huh." She stole a cherry tomato from your plate. "And by 'hanging out,' you mean letting him ruin you for all other men while simultaneously ruining your academic career?"

"He's not ruining anything," you protested weakly, though you'd been thinking the same thing about your grades. "And we're keeping it casual."

Lisa snorted. "Nothing about Jeon Jungkook is casual. Have you seen the way he looks at you? It's like a wolf that's just found its favorite lamb."

"That's a terrible analogy."

"Is it though?" She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "My cousin's friend  had a thing with him last year. Said he was possessive as hell. Got jealous if she even talked to other guys. And the sex…" She waggled her eyebrows "...apparently it's life-ruining."

You felt your face heat up. "I have to get to work."

"Just be careful, okay? The Jeons don't play games with people like us."

You waved her off, but her words followed you to the bookstore, where you spent four hours pricing textbooks and helping freshmen find overpriced course materials. At 6:05, your phone buzzed again.

jk: Done yet?

You: Just finishing up.

jk: I'm outside.

You peered through the glass doors, and yeah, there he was, leaning against his Ducati, a black helmet tucked under his arm. He was breathtaking broad shoulders, straining against the fabric of his black jacket, dark hair just falling over his forehead, that effortless confidence, that made people stop and stare.

You said goodbye to your coworker and stepped outside into the cool evening air.

"Hey," he said, straightening up as you approached. His eyes scanned you from head to toe, a small smile playing on his lips. "You look tired."

"Thanks," you said dryly. "That's exactly what every girl wants to hear."

His fingers found yours, intertwining them. "You know what I mean. You need to rest more." He handed you the helmet. "Come on. I'm taking you somewhere."

"Where?"

"Somewhere you can actually relax."

The ride through campus was kinda a blur,  autumn color everywhere and that cool wind hitting your skin all at once. You kept your arms a little tighter around Jungkook’s waist, pressing your cheek against his leather jacket, and somehow it made everything feel quieter. You could feel the muscles in his back moving under you.

And instead of heading toward his apartment complex, he took this other exit, and it brought you to a secluded lookout point over the city. The sun was going down, painting the sky with orange and pink shades.

"I come here sometimes," he said, cutting the engine.

You removed the helmet and shook out your hair. "It's beautiful."

"Beautiful things are easy to find," he said, turning to face you. "It's the rare ones that matter." His thumb traced your jawline, sending shivers down your spine. "Like you."

"Smooth talker," you rolled your eyes, but your heart was pounding.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Only with you."

His lips found yours, and you melted into him. Into the taste of mint and the faint spice of clove cigarettes that always clung to him.

"I've missed you," he murmured against your mouth. "These days felt like forever."

"It's only been six days," you said, though you'd felt it too.

"Too long." His teeth grazed your neck, making you gasp. "I've been thinking about you constantly."

"Is that so?" you teased, though your voice was breathy. "And what exactly have you been thinking about?"

His response was to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a familiarity that still surprised you. One hand slid under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your lower back.

"I have to go to Seoul this weekend," he said suddenly, pulling away slightly.

Your stomach dropped. "For what?"

"Family stuff." He avoided your eyes. "Some business thing my dad wants me to attend."

"Oh." You tried to keep your voice casual. "For how long?"

"Just Friday night. I'll be back Saturday." He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "I'll call you every night."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to." He kissed you again, softer this time. "Unless you don't want me to."

"No, I-…it’s okay…" You hesitated. "I'd like that."

You stayed at the lookout until the last bit of light faded from the sky, talking about nothing and everything, kind of at once. You told him about that paper you were struggling to write, and he listened with this intensity that made you feel like the most important person in the world. When he started talking about his classes, you could hear the frustration in his voice, the same dissatisfaction he’d shown that night at the diner.

"Sometimes I wonder what it would be like," he said, staring out at the city lights. "To just... disappear. Start over somewhere no one knows my name."

"Like where?"

He shrugged. "Anywhere. A small town by the beach. Maybe somewhere in the countryside."

"You'd last about five minutes without your motorcycle and designer clothes," you teased.

He laughed, the sound genuine and carefree. "Maybe. But it's nice to think about."

On the ride back to your dorm, you held him tighter, trying to memorize the feeling of his body against yours, the way he smelled, the sound of his laugh. Lisa's words echoed in your mind, the Jeons don't play games with people like us. But you pushed them away, for now.

He walked you to your door. "Text me when you're up tomorrow," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. "And don't forget to eat something.”

"I'll try," you promised. "Have a safe trip."

He leaned in for one last kiss, brief and sweet. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too," you admitted, and the way his eyes lit up at your words made your chest ache.

You watched him walk away until he disappeared into the night, then slipped into your dorm room, where Lisa was waiting with raised eyebrows.

"Well?" she asked. "How was your not-date?"

"It was fine," you said, dropping onto your bed. "He has to go to Seoul this weekend."

"Ah, the rich people business trips." She sat beside you. "What are you going to do while he's gone? You know, besides moping around like a lost puppy?"

"I'm not going to mope," you retorted, though the idea of a weekend without Jungkook's texts or unexpected appearances felt hollow. "I'm going to catch up on all the studying I've been neglecting. That paper on supply chain logistics isn't going to write itself."

Lisa sighed, flopping back on your bed. "Just be careful, okay? I saw his mother on campus yesterday. She looks like she was carved from ice and disapproval."

You froze. "His mother was here?"

"Yup. Giving some kind of tour to prospective donors. She had this entourage with her, all dressed in beige. And she looked right through me like I was a smudge on the window." Lisa sat up, her expression serious.

"You know what they say about her, right? That she's the one who really runs the Jeon family. Mr. Jeon is the face, but Mrs. Jeon is the one pulling the strings."

Your stomach twisted. You'd seen pictures of Jungkook's mother, a former model. The idea of her being on campus, breathing the same air as you, felt like a bad omen.

"She probably doesn't even know I exist," you said, trying to sound casual.

"Not yet," Lisa said ominously. "But she will. And when she finds out her precious heir is slumming it with a scholarship girl, she's not going to be happy."

You threw a pillow at her. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Just looking out for you," she said, catching it easily. "Now, are you going to tell me what's really going on with you two? Because 'just hanging out' doesn't usually involve midnight motorcycle rides to pretty overlooks."

You hesitated, then decided to confide in her. "He said he'd call me every night while he's in Seoul."

Lisa's eyes widened. "He what?"

"He said he wants to," you added quickly. "And he's been... different lately. More attentive. He asked about my classes, he listened to me complain about my professors."

"That's what people who are dating do," Lisa pointed out gently. "Not people who are 'just hanging out'."

"I know," you admitted, picking at a loose thread on your comforter. "But we agreed to keep things casual. He's not looking for anything serious, and I can't afford to get distracted right now."

"Too late for that," she said softly.

﹍﹎﹎﹍

Friday came with a gray sky and a persistent drizzle that matched your mood. You hadn't heard from Jungkook since Thursday night, when he'd texted to say he was packing for his trip. You told yourself it was normal. He was probably busy with his family, preparing for whatever important event he had to attend. But a small part of you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Your phone buzzed during your afternoon lecture, and you discreetly checked it under your desk.

jk: Just landed in Seoul. The weather here sucks.

You: Sorry to hear that. Try not to have too much fun without me.

jk: Impossible. Already thinking about when I can see you again.

You: Focus on your family stuff. Don't get in trouble.

jk: Too late for that. I'll call you tonight.

You spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous anticipation. What would you say to him on the phone? What would we talk about? It felt strangely intimate, more so than your text exchanges or even your encounters.

Lisa noticed your distraction when you got back to your room. "You're practically vibrating with anxiety. What's wrong?"

"He's going to call me tonight," you said, collapsing onto your bed.

"And?"

"And what if I have nothing to say? What if it's awkward? What if-" You broke off, realizing how ridiculous you sounded.

Lisa laughed. "Oh, honey. You've already had his tongue down your throat and other parts of your anatomy I don't even want to imagine. I think you can handle a phone call."

She had a point, but it didn't stop your hands from sweating when your phone rang at 9:30 that night.

"Hello?" you said, trying to sound casual.

"Hey." His voice was deeper over the phone, rougher. "Did I wake you?"

"No, I was just studying." You lay back on your bed, closing your eyes. "How's Seoul?"

"Rainy. And full of old men in suits who want to talk about mergers and acquisitions." You could hear the faint sound of traffic in the background. "I'd rather be there with you."

Your heart fluttered. "Yeah? What would we be doing?"

He chuckled, a low, intimate sound that made your toes curl. "I can think of a few things."

"Are you for real?," you asked, though you were smiling.

"Sorry. I'll behave." He paused. "Seriously, how was your day?"

And just like that, you were talking about your classes, his family obligations, the ridiculous things your professors had said, your favorite movies. It was easy, natural, like you'd been having these conversations for years instead of weeks.

"I have to go to this gala thing tomorrow night," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "Some charity event for my father's company."

"Sounds fancy."

"It's going to be boring as hell." You heard a door close, and the background noise faded. "I'd rather be doing anything else."

"Like what?"

"Like taking you to that diner again."

You felt a pang of longing. "That does sound better than a gala."

Few minutes later said you said your goodbyes, and you lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Something still felt off, but you couldn't put your finger on it. Maybe it was just the distance between you.

The next morning, you decided to treat yourself to coffee and a pastry from the campus café, a rare indulgence that usually meant you'd skipped breakfast and was running late. As you waited in line, you noticed a stack of glossy magazines near the register-Seoul Society, a publication you usually ignored.

But then you saw him.

There on the cover was Jungkook, and you could swear he looked more handsome than you'd ever seen him. And you have seen him many times, naked, in the shower, above you, under you, between your legs. Anyway, he was in a tailored black tuxedo that highlighted his shoulders and his muscles. His dark hair was styled away from his forehead, revealing the sharp angles of his face and the intensity in his eyes. He was smiling politely, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

And beside him stood a woman who was everything you weren't.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

lmk what you guys think !! <3

He rides this matte black Ducati, purring like some kind of threat, and honestly the sound sticks to your nerves. He smokes clove cigarettes outside the engineering building.

His biceps strain against the seams of his clothes, and his back narrows into a waist you’ve shamefully dreamed about grabbing, like it’s personal. His mouth only does that curl when he’s unimpressed, like you’re supposed to feel it, and it’s weird, because for reasons you cannot explain, he’s started looking at you.

It starts at the coffee shop, him sliding into the booth across from you like you were already there, like it was already decided. Tattooed fingers tap the table while he studies you, not with curiosity exactly...

He doesn’t flirt but he asks questions you don’t know how to answer and somehow you always end up answering anyway. He stares at your mouth when you speak, and then he leaves, and you’re breathless, because the attention feels predatory and protective at the same time, like he’s hunting you but also making sure nothing or no one touches you.

You’re not his type, you know that. You’re soft where he’s hard, careful where he’s chaotic. You live on scholarships while he throws cash at problems like it’s confetti, like money is just another kind of weather.

But Jungkook has decided to collect you, like he collects everything that catches his eye. He’s got the university wrapped around his finger or whatever, and his reputation should’ve made you bolt, like, years ago. He’s got ink under his skin and smoke in his lungs, plus a motorcycle that could take him anywhere, but somehow he keeps parking it right outside your dorm.

Tonight it starts with a meme.

You’re lying in bed at 11:30, scrolling, half-asleep, when your phone buzzes against your chest. The vibration kinda startles you, and you nearly drop your phone on your face.

jk: this you?

Below that text is a pic (a raccoon, in a trash can, very poetic, i know). You squint at your screen, confused. It’s not a flattering comparison, and you don’t understand the reference at all.

you: ??

Three dots show up right away, meaning he’s typing. You picture him somewhere, probably in that ridiculously expensive apartment his parents pretend not to brag about, sprawled on some leather couch that costs more than your tuition, with a bottle of something expensive sitting on the table like it’s totally normal.

jk: the trash panda thing

jk: reminded me of you

You sit up, blanket pooling around your waist. The air in your dorm is cool, but there’s this heat creeping up your neck like you’re being slowly judged by the universe.

Three weeks ago you wouldn’t have had the faintest clue what to even say. Three weeks ago, Jeon Jungkook was just a distant, moving figure on campus, someone you sometimes spotted across the quad.

Now he’s the reason your underwear is missing from your laundry basket, the reason you’ve started checking your reflection more often, and the reason your heart does that ridiculous little flutter thing whenever you hear a motorcycle engine.

you: i’m not a raccoon.

jk: no but like

jk: you’d live in a trash can if you could

you: that's not a compliment

jk: it is tho

jk: raccoons are hot

You stare at the ceiling for a second. This is your life now. Debating whether raccoons are hot with a guy who has your underwear in his pocket from three days ago.

you: are you drunk?

jk: kinda

jk: come over

you: it's tuesday

jk: and?

jk: my bed's big and i'm lonely and i wanna touch you

You shouldn't. You have class at 9 AM and he lives twenty minutes away and your car is making that weird noise again. But you're already sitting up, looking for your jeans.

you: omw

You knew his address by heart now. The towering high-rise downtown, where the doorman recognizes you, and how there’s a toothbrush in his bathroom now.

You grab your keys, slip on your shoes, and take a moment in front of the mirror. Your hair is a wild mess, your face is bare, and you’re still in that same old hoodie from high school. You think about changing, maybe putting on some makeup, trying to look like someone who fits into his world. But then you remember the way he looked at you a week ago, on his bike, behind a random gym, his hands trembling as he unzipped your pants, his soft whisper of "fuck, you're perfect" against your throat.

You leave as you are

ততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত

His apartment is different at night. Darker. More intimate, only the lamp by the couch casting long shadows across the floor, it feels like a den, a cave.

He's wearing sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His chest is bare, tattoos sprawling across his pecs and shoulders, the ink dark against his skin. His hair is messy, falling into his heavy-lidded eyes.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is rough, deeper than usual. He doesn't wait for you to answer before he's pulling you inside, kicking the door shut with his foot, and kissing you against the door before it even closes.

His hands are on your waist, thumbs pressing into your hip bones, you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and kiss him back.

"You taste like beer," you mumble against his mouth when you come up for air.

"You taste like mint." He bites your lip, not hard, just enough to make you gasp. "Missed you."

You saw him in the library yesterday, where he'd cornered you between the stacks, his body pressed against yours, his hand sliding up your thigh under your skirt while his friends waited for him outside. But you don't say that, because he's already kissing down your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse point, hands sliding under your shirt, and your brain is short-circuiting.

"Bedroom," he says, not a question, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. You yelp, grab his shoulders, and he laughs into your collarbone, carrying you down the hall while you protest weakly about being able to walk.

"I know you can walk." He drops you on the mattress, follows you down, caging you in with his arms. " But I like carrying you. You're small."

"I'm average."

"You're small. I like it." He's kissing you again, deeper, and his hand is sliding down your stomach, slipping into your waistband without taking them off. "Can I?"

"You asked last time."

"Wanna make sure." His fingers brush over you, light, teasing, through the thin fabric of your underwear. "Wanna hear you say it."

"Yes," you breathe, and he makes this sound, this low growl in his chest that vibrates through you, and then his hand is moving and you're arching into it.

He's learned you even better since the bike. That first time, pressed against the leather seat of his Ducati in the back of that deserted gym, had been frantic and desperate, all teeth and hurried touches in the dark. Now, he knows exactly how you like it, slow at first, teasing, tracing patterns over the fabric until you're squirming, then faster when you're panting, then slowing down again when you're close, keeping you on the edge until you're whining, grabbing onto him like a lifeline.

"Please," you say, and you hate how desperate you sound, but he loves it, you can tell by the way he watches your face with hungry eyes.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, thumb pressing just right through the now soaked fabric. "Wanna come for me?"

"Jungkook—"

"Say my name again. Like that. Fuck."

You come with his name in your mouth,

of course you do

you love how his name sounds from your lips

back arching off the bed, he doesn't stop, drawing it out, until you're shaking and pushing at his wrist because it's too much, too sensitive, too good.

"Good?" he asks, smug, bringing his hand to his mouth to lick his fingers clean while you watch, cheeks burning.

"You're so-" You can't find the word. "Obnoxious."

"Yeah." He grins, leaning down to kiss you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, which should be weird but isn't, not with him. "Your turn."

He rolls onto his back, pulls you on top of him, and you can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants, pressing against your thigh. You sit up, straddling him, and he looks up at you with this expression that's half lust and half something softer, something that scares you.

"What?" you ask, a little embarrassed under his gaze.

"Nothing." He runs his hands up your thighs "Just...you look good. Up there."

You pull your shirt off, drop it on the floor, and his eyes darken, hands coming up to cover your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble under his touch.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Every time. Every time I think I imagined how you look and then I see you and it's...better."

"Stop talking."

"Can't." He sits up, mouth finding your neck, your shoulder, the slope of your breast. "I wanna tell you everything. I wanna say-" He stops, bites down on your collarbone, sucks a mark there. "Never mind."

"Jungkook-"

"Shh." He flips you, sudden and smooth, and you're on your back again with him between your legs, and he's kissing down your stomach, fingers hooking in your waistband. "Can I?"

"Yes."

He pulls your pants off, your underwear too, and he just looks at you for a second. You want to cover yourself but his hands are on your knees, pushing them apart, and then his mouth is on you and your head falls back, hands gripping the sheets.

He's good at this. Embarrassingly good. Knows exactly how to use his tongue, when to suck, when to press, when to slide fingers inside and curl them just right. You're making sounds you don't recognize, high and broken, and he's making these noises too, these satisfied rumbles that vibrate against you.

"So good," he mumbles against you, and you feel it, the vibration. "Taste so good. Could do this all night."

"Don't-" You're panting, close, so close. "Don't stop, please-"

He doesn't. He works you through it, fingers and mouth, and you come harder than you have in your life, crying out, back bowing off the bed. He eases you through it, gentle now, pressing kisses to your thighs, your hip, your stomach.

"Okay?" he asks, chin resting on your belly, looking up at you with dark eyes.

You thread your fingers through his hair, God he's so beautiful like this.

"Yeah." You're wrecked. "Yeah, I'm- come here."

He crawls up, kisses you slow and deep. He's still hard, pressing against your hip, and you reach for him but he catches your wrist.

"Not yet," he says. "Wanna take my time."

"Since when do you take your time?"

"Since I want to." He kisses your wrist, the pulse point, then your palm.

And that was weird, because he never did that.

"I need be inside you. Ok?"

Your stomach flips. You nod.

He reaches over, grabs a condom from the drawer, rolls it on while you watch. He's beautiful like this, ink, muscles and lust, and you don't let yourself think about how many girls have seen him like this. You're here now. That's what matters.

He settles between your legs, guides himself in slow, so slow, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. You gasp at the stretch, the fullness, and he stills, breathing hard.

"Good?" he asks, strained.

"Yeah. Move."

He does. Slow at first, deep strokes that hit something inside you that makes your vision blur. He keeps his eyes on yours, which is almost too much, too intimate, and you try to look away but he catches your chin, makes you look at him.

"Stay with me," he says, and you don't know if he means right now or forever, and you're scared to ask.

He speeds up, hips snapping harder, and you wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. He's hitting that spot every time now, and you're already close again, which is ridiculous, which is unfair.

"Touch yourself," he pants.

You obey, fingers sliding between you, and he groans, watching, and the sound sets you off. You come clenching around him, and he follows, burying his face in your neck, groaning long and low as he spills into the condom.

For a minute, neither of you moves. He's heavy on top of you, but you don't mind. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. His hand finds yours, fingers threading together on the pillow beside your head.

"Stay," he says, muffled against your shoulder.

"That's the second time you've said that tonight."

"Mean it both times." He lifts his head, looks at you with dark, serious eyes. "I want to wake up with you."

You should say no. You have class. You have rules about this, about not sleeping over, about not making this real.

"Okay," you say.

He smiles, rare and soft, and kisses your forehead, your nose, your mouth. "Okay."

He gets up, deals with the condom, brings you a towel and a t-shirt to sleep in. His shirt.

"Pretty," he says, and you roll your eyes, but you're smiling.

You crawl into his bed, under the black sheets, and he follows, wrapping himself around you from behind, arm heavy over your waist.

"Night," he murmurs against your hair.

"Night."

You're almost asleep when your phone buzzes from the floor where your pants are. You ignore it. He doesn't.

"Your alarm or something?"

"No." You're drifting. "Probably mom."

He goes still behind you. "You tell her about me?"

"She knows I have friends."

"Friends." He says the word like it's funny. Like it hurts. "Yeah. Okay."

You should clarify. You should say something. But you're tired, and he's warm, and you let yourself fall asleep instead.

ততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত

In the morning, he's already awake when you open your eyes, propped up on one elbow, watching you.

"Creepy," you mumble.

"Can't help it." He traces your jaw with his finger, light. "You're pretty when you sleep."

"Stop."

"Can't help that either." He leans in, kisses you soft, morning breath and all. "Wanna shower with me?"

"Your hot water lasts five minutes."

"Then we'll be fast." He's already pulling you up, hands on your waist, and you let him lead you to the bathroom, let him wash your hair, let him press you against the tile and take you again with water running down your back.

After, wrapped in his robe while he makes coffee in the kitchen, you check your phone.

“You look good in my shirt.”

You look up. He's leaning against the counter, watching you, phone in his hand.

“You're ridiculous.”

“And yet you're still here.”

You don't have a reply to that.

"Class at 9?" he asks.

"Mhm."

"I'll drive you."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

You look at him over the rim of your mug, at his messy hair and his bare chest and his tattoos, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious, something he wants to keep.

"Okay," you say.

He smiles, small and real, and you don't let yourself name the feeling in your chest.

Not yet.

When he pulls up to the liberal arts building, cutting the engine, the sudden silence is jarring, you climb off.

"Text me after your class."

"I have a study group."

"Text me after that."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "I'll see you later, Jungkook."

He catches your wrist before you can turn away, pulls you closer. "Hey." His other hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. "Be good."

"I'm always good."

"No, you're not." He grins, sharp and wicked. "That's why I like you."

He kisses you then, right there in front of everybody, a claiming kiss that leaves you breathless and blushing. When he pulls away, he's still smiling, and you can feel the eyes of passing students on you.

"Go," he says, smacking your ass lightly. "Learn something."

You flip him off over your shoulder as you walk away, but you're still smiling when you push through the doors to the building.

Your study group is in the library, in one of the glass-walled rooms on the third floor. You're late, and they're already deep into discussion about postcolonial theory. You slide into a chair and try to focus, but your mind keeps drifting back to Jungkook and his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, the way he'd looked at you this morning.

"Earth to Y/N," says Mia, waving a hand in front of your face. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere," you say, shaking your head. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"We were talking about Fanon's concept of violence as a cleansing force," says David, pushing his glasses up his nose. "But you seem more interested in whatever, or whoever, has you smiling like that."

"I'm not smiling."

"You are," says Sarah, grinning. "And you're wearing a guy's shirt under your hoodie. Spill."

You look down at the collar of the black t-shirt peeking out from under your hoodie.

"It's nothing," you say, but they're all looking at you, and you know they won't let it go.

"Is it that guy?" asks Mia, leaning forward. "The one you were with at the coffee shop three weeks ago ?"

You'd forgotten they'd seen you together. Jungkook had insisted on buying you coffee, sliding into the booth across from you, his tattooed fingers drumming the table as he studied you. Your friends had been sitting two tables away, watching with wide eyes.

"Maybe," you say, noncommittal.

"Oh my god," says Sarah. "It is. What's his name? Is he a student here?"

You hesitate. You know his name, of course, everyone on campus knows his name, but saying it out loud feels like acknowledging something real, something that you're not sure even exists.

"Jungkook," you say, quietly.

"Jeon Jungkook?" asks David, his eyes widening behind his glasses. "As in, the Jeon Jungkook? The guy whose family donated the new science building?"

You nod, feeling a flush creep up your neck. You'd forgotten about the fact that there were 3 buildings with his family name engraved for everyone to see.

"Holy shit," says Mia. "How did you-?"

"I don't know," you say honestly. "He just... noticed me."

God, that sounded a bit depressing,

"Girl," says Sarah, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. "That's not 'noticing.' That's 'hunting.' Be careful."

You want to laugh, but you can't. Because she's right, and the terrifying part is how much you're enjoying it.

Your phone buzzes during your next class, a subtle vibration against your thigh. You pull it out discreetly, hiding it under your desk.

jk: bored

jk: thinking about you

jk: specifically thinking about you in my bed

You feel a flush creep up your neck, and you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together. Professor Davies is droning on about Lacanian psychoanalysis, and you're supposed to be taking notes, but all you can think about is Jungkook's hands on you, his mouth, the way he'd looked at you this morning.

you: i'm in class

jk: so?

jk: touch yourself

You almost drop your phone. You look up, but Professor Davies is still writing on the whiteboard, his back to the class. You type back with shaking fingers.

you: i'm not doing that

jk: why not?

jk: bet you're wet right now

jk: bet you're thinking about this morning

jk: i am

You are, you’re thinking about the shower, the water running down your back, his hands on your hips. The way he pressed you against the tile, and took you from behind, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other between your legs.

you: stop

jk: make me

jk: come over after class

you: i have to study

jk: i'll be quiet

jk: mostly

You can't help but smile, even as your cheeks burn. You're saved by the bell, literally, as the class ends and students start packing up their things.

you: maybe

jk: not maybe

jk: i'll be outside

You grab your stuff, mumble a quick goodbye to your classmates, and you head straight for the door. Sure enough, there he is, leaning against his Ducati, sunglasses on, looking like he walked out of some glossy Vogue cover. People are staring, whispering, but he acts like none of it matters. His focus is stuck on you, and only you.

“Took you long enough,” he says, like it’s a joke, while you’re still getting closer.

“I was in class,” you reply, but you can’t really stop the smile from showing up.

”Missed you,” he answers, and before you can think too hard, he pulls you into this kiss right there in the middle of the quad. It’s not as deep as the one you had this morning, but it’s got the same hold on you. When he finally eases back, he’s already grinning.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“I have to study,” you say, but it comes out soft, almost thin, and we both know it.

“Study later,” he says, and he presses a helmet into your hands. “Live now.”

You grab the helmet, strap it on , and hop up on the bike behind him.

When you finally reach his place, it’s empty, which is odd. Usually his dog is right there at the door, tail going a mile a minute, but now there’s nothing, not even a trace.

“Where’s your dog?” you ask, while Jungkook locks the door.

“At my parents” he says, and he pushes the door open. “They’re spoiling him.”

You step in, and he comes after, kicking the door shut behind you

“Come here,” he says, and he tugs you in close, kissing you slow and deep, like he has all the time in the world. “God, I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰

  “This is what you called me for?” Hyunjin’s voice filtered through the phone, tinged with an amused disbelief that made it difficult to tell whether he was genuinely concerned or simply entertained by your latest crisis.

  You balanced the phone against your shoulder, a damp dish towel in one hand and a half-soaked roll of paper towels in the other, glaring at the mess spreading across your kitchen floor. The sink had been making strange noises for weeks, a low gurgle that seemed harmless enough until it finally turned on you, sending water pooling across the counter with a mocking drip that no amount of frantic plunging could stop. The pipes—the stubborn, stubborn pipes—had defeated every attempt you’d made, leaving you knee-deep in irritation and suds.

  “Unless you know a better way to keep my apartment from turning into an indoor pool, yes, this is what I called you for,” you said, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of your voice. “It’s either you or I start charging admission at the door.”

  A low chuckle resonated through the line, warm and infuriatingly self-satisfied. “You know, most people would just call maintenance. That’s literally what they’re paid for.”

  “I did call maintenance,” you muttered, squeezing the damp towel until droplets slipped between your fingers. “They said someone could come by next Tuesday. Unless I plan on living off takeout for the next week, that’s not exactly helpful.”

  “Ah,” Hyunjin replied, dragging the syllable out with a smugness that made your stomach tighten. “So I’m not just your first call… I’m your only option.”

  “You’re the only option that doesn’t involve my entire kitchen rotting.”

  He hummed, the sound low and thoughtful, as though he was weighing the gravity of the situation. “I just showered, doll. You trying to get me dirty again?”

  Your mouth opened, but words failed to spill out from over your lips. You stood still, pushing at the way his causal tone made your cheeks heat and heart thump, trying to conjure a quip back, or yell at him, perchance.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Try not to cry without me.”

  The line went dead before the curses you had lined up rolled off your tongue, leaving you alone with the gurgling of the faucet and the uncomfortable quickening of your heartbeat.

  Hyunjin had a way of slipping beneath your skin without even trying, weaving himself into moments that should have been mundane and turning them into something you thought about long after they ended. You had lived next door to him for nearly a year, long enough to know he was the sort of neighbour who always seemed to appear when you least expected it—carrying groceries into the elevator at the exact moment you struggled with your own, lounging in his work clothes against the railing of the stairwell when you came home late, dress shirt rumpled and hair in a messy state no amount of intentional styling could replicate. He was helpful in an infuriatingly smug way that made it impossible to thank him without also wanting to throttle him.

  And he was handsome, although “handsome” felt like too simple a word for someone who could make you lose track of what you were saying in the middle of a sentence just by pushing his unkempt fringe off his forehead. Hyunjin had a way of existing that demanded your attention; tall and loose-limbed, all lazy grace and deep contours dwindled by the warmth of his stupid grin.

  You had told yourself, repeatedly, that this attraction was nothing but a harmless nuisance, an unfortunate side effect of close proximity and his vexing habit of showing up in your space like it belonged to him. You had convinced yourself the butterflies in your stomach were merely a byproduct of his teasing, the kind of thing anyone would feel when faced with a neighbour who always seemed to know how to get under your skin. Yet, every time you caught yourself watching him tighten a screw with those long fingers, or when his voice curled around your name in his low, unhurried drawl, you wondered how much longer you could keep up the act.

  A sharp knock at your door jolted you from your thoughts.

  When you opened it, Hyunjin leaned against the frame with an infuriating ease, his battered red toolbox hanging from one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his jeans, a dark wash you had grown accustomed to because these jeans were his handyman jeans—he wore them whenever he came over to help you fix up your kitchen cabinets, or install new tiles on the floor of your bathroom, or screw in a lightbulb you truly could’ve done yourself. The denim was littered with wood dust and gorilla glue and dried paint, tiny rips clawing into the fabric across his knees. 

  His white t-shirt clung to his arms and chest, and it felt deeply unfair—did he have to be so well sculpted?—and his hair was still damp from his shower, the strands spiking slightly as they dried. A warm, woody scent drifted past you as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, leaving you momentarily caught between irritation and the embarrassing awareness of how your heart had quickened.

  “Your knight in shining denim,” he announced, setting the toolbox on your counter with a dull clang before towering in front of the sink, his eyes sweeping over the small flood. “Wow. You weren’t kidding. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

  “I told you it was bad,” you mumbled, crossing your arms.

  “You undersold it,” he said, sleeves already shoved up, biceps already pulling the fabric taut as he examined the pipes. “This is a full-scale anarchy.”

  You leaned against the counter, trying to bluff indifference even though your eyes travelled with a mind of their own, skimming over the line of his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw as he focused. “Do you actually know hwo to fix it, or are you just here to gloat while I drown?”

  “Both,” he admitted without looking up, his mouth twitching at the corners. “But don’t worry, I’ve got this. You can trust me.”

  The words were casual, tossed out without thought, but the way they landed with unexpected weight, pulling at something in your chest, had forced your gaze to the dripping faucet, to the water-stained towels scattered across the floor, to anything that wasn’t him.

  “Tell me how it started,” he said, his words softened by the scrape of metal as he retrieved a wrench from the box, glancing up at you with a calm gaze that had the infuriating ability to both irritate and disarm you at the same time. “Did the water stop draining all at once, or has it been slow for a while?”

  You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, shifting your weight against the counter, carefully positioning yourself far enough from the watery mess that you refused to step into it again, though you knew he would never let it touch you even if it spread. 

  “It was gurgling for days, but I thought it would work itself out. Tonight, though, I washed a pan and suddenly the whole thing just… rebelled.” Hyunjin snorted. You continued, “I tried the plunger, I tried pouring boiling water, I even tried vinegar and baking soda. Nothing worked.”

  Hyunjin shook his head, his damp strands of hair falling forward until he brushed them back with his wrist, leaving a subtle streak of water against his temple that gleamed in the dim kitchen light. “You’re lucky it didn’t explode on you. Pipes don’t like being ignored, sweetheart.”

  Your heart tripped at the word, though you masked it with a curt roll of your eyes. “You say that like I had any other choice.”

  “You had one.” He turned back to the pipes, his voice rich with a smugness that fizzled beneath your skin. “Calling me before it turned into a flood.”

  The wrench twisted in his grip, veins straining against the skin of his forearm, his long fingers gripping deftly as he loosened one of the joints. A thin stream of water spat out at him, splattering across his shirt and streaking down the column of his throat, catching the faint sheen of sweat already gathering along his skin. He didn’t flinch, only muttered something under his breath as he reached for a rag and wiped his hands, the damp cotton of his t-shirt sticking more closely to his chest with each movement.

  That damn white t-shirt. He knew what he was doing wearing a white t-shirt to a job involving water.

  You tried not to stare, but when you catch the way his chest looks under the wet ghost-like fabric, your eyes started dragging down the lines of his body, tracing the subtle dip of muscle beneath the shirt, the stretch of denim housing dampened splotches across his thighs where he balanced on his heels.

  “Stop hovering,” he quipped tauntingly, breaking your trance. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “You’re not nervous,” you replied too quickly, the flush creeping up your neck exposing you far more than your voice did.

  A slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed fixed on the pipes. “You’re right. I’m not.”

  The water hissed as he twisted another piece free, the sound filling the silence between you, punctuated only by the occasional clink of metal against tile. You stood with your arms crossed, feigning indifference even as your stomach fluttered, his voice threading through the space with an easy confidence making you want to lean closer just to hear more.

  “Honestly,” Hyunjin continued, “you’re lucky I like you. Anyone else, I’d have told them to call a plumber and left them to figure it out. But you–” He finally looked up, his canines cutting sharp against the dim light. “You get VIP treatment.”

  Your throat went dry, though you managed to roll your eyes, clinging to the veneer of irritation that had always been your armor with him. “VIP? Do you mean free labor?”

  “Free for now,” he corrected, tightening one final joint before leaning back to test the faucet. The water sputtered, then flowed smoothly sans restraint, the pool in the sink beginning to drain away in a whirl. He wiped his hands on the rag and pushed himself to his feet, his height crowding the space between you as he leaned close enough for you to catch the scent of his woody cologne on his skin again, mingling with the freshness of his shower and, now, the spray of pipe water. “But I’m starting to reconsider my rates.”

  You exhaled, both relieved and annoyed, watching the sink clear itself as though he had worked some sort of miracle. “So you’re done? That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” He tilted his head, water still dripping from the ends of his hair, sliding down the side of his neck in thin rivulets. “Good as new. No more indoor swimming pool.”

  You hesitated, then said, “Well… I suppose I should compensate you somehow.”

  A smirk found solace on his lips, entirely too knowing. He took a step closer, dropping his voice just enough to make your pulse stumble. 

  “You could always offer me a shower.” He let the pause hang and added, “Preferably one I don’t have to take alone. I did get all dirty fixing your sink, after all."

  Your lips parted, words failing to stitch along the tip of your tongue as heat surged through your chest, your body discarding the veil you typically hid behind. You tried your very best to hold his gaze, to avoid peeking at the sag of his damp clothes across his chest and torso.

  Hyunjin reached for his toolbox, his smirk loitering on his lips like he had said nothing at all out of the ordinary. “Call me if you need anything else,” he said, his tone smoothing back into something deceptively neutral as his lips curved. “And try not to wait until it’s an emergency next time.”

You could get him as wet as you wanted him, thought Hyunjin. And although a shower with you sounded like the epitome of all his wettest dreams (literally!), he really just wanted to take you out to dinner.

Hyunjin thinks he’ll ask you the next time he’s over to help you, his pretty doll.

THE BOOKSHELF was so desperately needed, it was almost incredulous that you hadn’t bought a new one already.

  The old one leaned in the corner of your bedroom like a tired old man, its frame straining under the weight of years of collecting, every shelf sagging, buckling under the burden of your affection for the written word. Books were piled not only vertically, but in sideways towers that grew dangerously tall, forming stacks on your bedside table and even finding refuge on the floor. There were just too many, some that had been well-cherished, others you hadn't even gotten a chance to indulge in yet. 

  You had laughed the first time you found yourself stepping over novels on the way to bed, but last weekend, when one had tipped over and startled you awake with a sharp thud against the hardwood, you had sworn it was finally time.

  The new bookshelf arrived that morning in a flat pack box, heavy with wooden panels and plastic-wrapped screws and a thick manual with all the information you needed to get it set up. You could have assembled it yourself, but the thought of untangling the fat manual with its poorly written instructions, tiny print and all, made you groan. 

  And, truthfully, when you had Hyunjin—a neighbor who had become both your rescuer and tormentor, a man whose hands could fix just about anything—why would you deny yourself the pleasure of watching him work?

  He knocked at your door just after six, right on the heels of his workday. You opened it to find him in a pressed white shirt, the sleeves pushed up hastily to his elbows, his tie tugged loose as if he had only just pulled it free on the walk over. The slacks he wore hung perfectly, his hair a little mussed from his hand raking through it, strands falling his forehead before he brushed them away absentmindedly. 

  There was something wildly attractive about the juxtaposition of him in work attire holding a toolbox, his frame filling your doorway and lips surrendering as the home to a lazy smirk.

  “You didn’t even change?” you questioned, stepping back to let him in, though the words came out lighter than you intended, possibly thanks to the sudden upbringing of your pulse.

  “You sounded desperate,” he replied, his mouth curving into a knowing grin that made you want to roll your eyes and melt all at once. “Besides, you think I can’t build a bookshelf in slacks?”

  “I think you shouldn’t risk ruining them.”

  “If I thought I’d ruin them, I would have come in those raggedy jeans you love so much,” he said with a wink, walking over to your bedroom and setting the toolbox down with a thud against the wall. “Tonight, though, you get the deluxe service. Tie and everything.”

  You exhaled slowly, half-annoyed by his cockiness and half enlivened by the way the undone buttons of his shirt revealed just enough skin to tempt the imagination. He was unfair in that way, managing to look immaculate while doing something as unglamorous as kneeling on your bedroom floor, sorting wooden panels into organized piles.

  The two of you began unpacking the box together. You crouched beside him, pulling out pieces of hardware, the brush of your hand against his every time you handed him a screw or a dowel bolt sending little ripples through your chest. Hyunjin worked calmly, his long fingers moving with practice, his veins flexing subtly under his skin whenever he twisted the screwdriver. He concentrated in bursts, brows pinching together whenever his tools called for focus, then broke the silence with a comment that made you laugh.

  “You know,” he said, aligning two boards and tightening a joint, his words laid-back and devoid of any uncertainty in his efforts, “you could have done this yourself if you wanted to. It’s practically foolproof.”

  You gave him a pointed look, steadying a side panel he’d asked you to hold. “I could have. But then I’d miss out on your charming company.”

  His head tipped to the side, a slow grin spreading across his face, and although he didn’t directly look at you, you caught the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. “So you admit it—you just like having me around.”

  “I admit nothing,” you countered, ignoring how your heartbeat said otherwise, racing at the proximity of him. He had leaned close to reach for a screw, his chest brushing your shoulder, the fabric of his shirt warm against your skin, his scent wrapping itself around you, still woody, but mixing with his natural musk. He lingered, not inappropriately, but long enough for the moment to feel longer than necessary—not that you were complaining—and your hands wavered on the board you were supposed to be holding still.

  Hyunjin smirked, speaking low but teasingly, “Careful. If this collapses on us, I’m blaming your distraction.”

  You huffed, shifting your grip along the panel.

  The two of you had established a good workflow—him tightening, you holding, passing tools back and forth. Once, you fumbled a screw, and he caught it mid-air, flashing you a grin that made you scoff. Another time, he reached around you to adjust a joint, his arm caging you in without warning, body brushing behind yours and radiating a palpable heat you felt all over your back and arms. His breath ghosted over your temple when he spoke. “That’s it—hold it still. You’re good at this.”

  “I’m literally just standing here,” you muttered, but your voice was thin, affected by how his closeness coiled inside you.

  “That’s all it takes sometimes,” he said, and whether he meant building or something else entirely, you didn’t dare ask.

  By the time the final screw slid into place, the bookshelf stood tall and flawless, a sturdy replacement for the leaning disaster it succeeded. You stood with your hands on your hips, surveying it proudly, Hyunjin’s presence at your side stealing more of your attention than the new piece of furniture did.

  “Perfect,” you said, exhaling with satisfaction.

  “No shit,” he chortled, brushing his palms off on his slacks. “It was built by a professional.”

  “You are not a professional.”

  “Not by trade,” he agreed, turning toward you with his deviled smile.

  You rolled your eyes, trying to swat away the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “You’ve earned a drink.”

  “I won’t argue.”

  You led him to the kitchen, where he leaned casually against the counter, peeking at the crevice of the sink he’d fixed just days ago. His tie hung loosely, the unbuttoned collar framing his throat, and you found your eyes drifting there before you forced them away. He touched the faucet lightly, testing it. “Still running smooth? No disasters to report?”

  “None.” You pulled open the fridge, sighing at the empty shelf where your favourite bottle of wine usually waited. “Although I did run out of wine.”

  He gasped, his voice theatrical. “A tragedy. How do you survive without it?”

  “Barely,” you admitted, holding up a bottle of peach juice instead. “This is all I’ve got. I’ve been too tired from work to stop at the store.”

  His gaze washed over you as you poured, something soft creeping into his expression beneath the usual teasing glint. He didn’t make any comical remarks about your back-up choice of drink, but rather watched you fill both the glasses in silence.

  “You’ve been working too hard.”

  You shrugged, handing him a glass. “It’s nothing. Everyone’s tired.”

  “You’re not everyone.” His words were quiet, but they landed firmly. For a moment, he didn’t look away, didn’t cloak the care in witty remarks or smirks. Then, as if sensing the air had grown too heavy, he tipped his glass toward you, his lips quirking again. “That’s why I come running, even when all you need me to do is change a lightbulb.” You blush at this and giggle, reminiscing upon the memory. “What’s next? The batteries in your remote?”

  You laughed. “Don’t jinx it.”

  “Don’t worry,” he mused, setting his empty glass down in the sink he fixed just days ago. “If it does, you’ll call me. I’ll come, just for you.”

Hyunjin did want to come for you. 

Or, cum, more specifically. Perhaps he would, after he finally grew the balls to ask you out to dinner, since there were clearly none between his legs given his lack of proactivity.

YOU were surprised to find Hyunjin outside your apartment door in his tattered handyman jeans, holding his trusty red toolbox in his right hand, a brown bag scrunched around the neck of a bottle in his left. His hair was disheveled, strands spiking out in random, and he wore a black t-shirt that stretched over his shoulders and chest. You hadn’t called him, yet there he was, leaning against—

  “The doorframe?”

  He nodded, shifting the weight of the toolbox against his thigh, his eyes running down the line of your satin dress with such intent focus, you felt your breath lodge in your throat. “Yeah, I noticed it when I came over to put up your bookshelf,” he began casually. His gaze dragged up again, loitering across the neckline of your dress, “I didn’t know you’d be going out, though.”

  The words carried a neutrality, but you knew him well enough to hear the subtle edge thumbing beneath them. The thought of you dressed up for someone else unsettled him.

  “It’s nothing,” you said quickly, brushing your hands over the fabric, smoothing it out along your hips. “Just a work dinner. A little celebration with my team.”

  Hyunjin’s shoulders drew down very subtly, his fingers flexing around the handle of his toolbox. “A work dinner,” he repeated, solidifying it in his mind. He gave a few slow nods before his chin tipped toward the brown bag in his other hand, a playful spark resurfacing in his eyes.

  “What’s in there?” you asked, nodding at it.

  “Your favourite,” he replied simply, lifting the bag just enough for the neck of the bottle to peek out. “I picked it up on my way home from work yesterday. I figured you’d eventually run out of excuses not to let me drink it with you, peach juice could only redeem me so much.” He smirked crookedly, his mischievous glimmering eyes crinkling into a squint.

  The thought of him walking past the shop, remembering the name of the exact wine you’d offhandedly mentioned, and buying it without knowing when he’d even give it to you, sent your stomach tumbling. “You remembered?”

  His smirk softened. “Of course I did.”

  The corners of your mouth tugged upward, a warmth blossoming in your chest that you thought best to ignore. “You really didn’t have to.”

  “Maybe not,” he said with a shrug, “but I wanted to.”

  The honesty in his tone was disarming, and before you could let it mess with your mind, you stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Come on. You’re already here.”

  He hesitated just enough to look at your dress again, his mouth pressing into a line that tried to be light but did nil to hide his interest. “I don’t want you to be late, though. If this takes too long–”

  “It won’t,” you interrupted, a lilt in your voice. “Besides, I’d rather spend my time with you than my crew at work.”

  His eyebrows rose, lips parting as if to confirm whether you meant it, but a determined glint overcame the look in his eyes, as though he’d taken your words as a challenge. “In that case,” he said, stepping inside with exaggerated seriousness, “this doorframe is about to receive the most meticulous repair of my career.”

  You laughed, shaking your head as you returned to the vanity in your bedroom, sliding into the seat you’d abandoned in your rush to answer the door. 

  The mirror reflected the sight of Hyunjin setting the bottle on your kitchen counter, returning to place his toolbox on your bedroom floor, and stretching his arms up to push at the panel lifting off the jamb of your doorframe, doing his own mister fix it investigation. He leans down into his open toolbox, hands getting busy pulling out screws and the drill.

  The panel itself wasn’t much—it was just a strip of wood peeling away from where it had once been flush—but Hyunjin treated it as though it were the most intricate repair he’d ever been asked to do. Every whir of his drill was unhurried, every lift of a screw rid of haste. He had decided keeping himself perched in your door was preferable to letting you walk out of it.

  He drilled in the first screw, the sound sharp in the air, his arm flexing with each turn of the tool. You caught his reflection in the mirror, the way the veins colonized his forearm and swelled with the effort, the subtle stretch of his shirt over the top of his back when he pushed and drilled at the panel. He paused between each screw, peeking over at you as though to check your progress, though the look in his eyes mused over you longer than necessary.

  What should have been a five-minute fix stretched languidly, his movements akin to a tortoise. He measured twice before driving in a screw, wiped his hands on his thighs even though they weren’t dirty, and spent a long time running his fingers along the wooden frame as if searching for invisible imperfections.

  You pressed a brush to your cheekbones, pretending not to notice, but your heart had long deceived you, thudding rampantly against the confines of your ribs. His shirt had ridden up slightly when he had to stretch further up to reach the end of the panel—his height could only do so much for him. The lack of fabric revealed the sharp cut of his waist, the shadow of his v-line dipping into the waistband of his boxers. You bit down gently on your lip, sliding gloss across it and pretending your sudden distraction was entirely the fault of your reflection.

  Hyunjin shifted again, kneeling lower, one hand braced against the frame while the other steadied the drill. His head tipped just enough for his hair to fall into his eyes, and he blew it away with a quick puff of air, his lips parting, the softest bite against the bottom one when the screw met more resistance than he’d expected.

  “You’re awfully quiet over there,” he said suddenly, in a low voice that travelled easily in the few feet separating you.

  “I’m trying not to distract you,” you consoled, your cheeks warming as you spoke.

  He glanced up at you through your vanity mirror from his crouch, the corner of his lips quirking, his gaze so direct it sent an icy bullet up your spine. “Too late for that.”

  You exhaled slowly, feigning nonchalance as you twirled an absentminded finger through the ends of your hair. Still, you couldn’t help sneaking glances, at the flex of his biceps when he leaned into the drill, at the way his jeans sagged just enough for the band of his boxers to peek through, at the lines of muscle carved into him even in the simplest of motions.

  The panel should have been fixed in five minutes flat.

  So why was it that twenty had passed, and he was still crouched there, examining his work, adjusting, pausing to wipe his palm against his denim-clad thigh, taking every opportunity to look up at you in the mirror?

  With one last turn of the drill, he leaned back on his heels, wiping a speck of dust from his forearm with the back of his hand. 

  “There,” he said, his voice casual, though the smug curve at the corners of his lips told you he was proud of his unnecessary patience. “Door closes smooth as butter now.”

  You twisted in your seat, eyeing him where he knelt on the floor, sweat beading faintly along his temple. “You made that take three times longer than it should have.”

  He shrugged, setting the drill back in the toolbox, the muscles in his arm flexing with the movement. “Maybe I just like fixing things for you.”

  The words landed heavy in your chest and echoed in your head longer than they should have, and you found your throat tightening because you weren’t sure how to respond. 

  With Hyunjin on your bedroom floor, his back pressed against the wall just beside the mended doorframe, the sight of him danced in your vision longer than it should have. The shadows of evening and dim light threw half of his face in a mellow shade. The sheen of sweat gathered along his temples caught the last strands of light, giving him a glow one only ever noticed when they were already looking too closely. 

  He sat with his legs stretched, denim tugged taut along his thighs, and even though he’d finished fixing what he came to mend, his body still held the languid tautness of a man in the midst of work, chest rising with each deep breath, fingers twitching as if reluctant to stash his tools away.

  You hesitated only a moment before speaking. “We should open the wine,” you kept your voice casual through your shallow breaths, smiling through a raging heart, “it would be a waste if I drank it alone, and after all your effort today, you deserve it more than anyone.”

  His mouth quirked, the curl of amusement playing at the commissures of his lips, but his eyes softened when they met yours. “You sure about that?” His voice was smooth, teasing. He knew you would never say no, but he wanted to hear you insist anyway.

  “I’m sure,” you replied, pushing yourself to your feet, walking across your room, stepping over his long limbs stretched out in front of the door, and moving toward the kitchen, acutely aware of his gaze trailing behind you. It was almost too much, the weight of it pressing against your back as you retrieved the bottle, found two glasses, and returned to the room where he remained on the floor, waiting quietly with patience and two twinkling eyes.

  You sank down beside him, close enough that your bare knees brushed against the denim stretched over his thighs. The cork slid free with a soft pop, the sound strangely intimate in the otherwise quiet room, and you poured the wine carefully into each glass, the liquid catching a blush of red as it swirled. When you offered his glass forward, his fingers grazed yours in the exchange, resting in their lingering, and the simple touch made your stomach clench far tighter than it had any right to.

  He lifted his glass, eyes never leaving yours. “Cheers, doll,” he said, the nickname slipping off his tongue with ease, the way it always had, and when the glasses clinked, the sound seemed more stark than it should have, echoing in the space between you.

  The first sip was warm, rich, and melted along your tongue. He leaned his head back against the wall, glancing at you sidelong with a smug, careless expression doing little to hide the intent in his pupils. “You’re not going to be late to that dinner of yours?”

  You shook your head, swirling the wine in your glass, watching the surface slant before peeking at him again. “I wasn’t really looking forward to going. Honestly, I’d much rather stay here.”

  Something flickered in his expression, a spark he smothered quickly under a chuckle. “What were you celebrating, anyway? Must’ve been something big if it meant dragging you out of the apartment in a dress that–” his eyes dropped briefly, unapologetically, before rising to meet yours again, “–looks like it was tailored onto you.”

  You smiled, suppressing a scoff. “It was just a deal we signed with another company. Nothing I was strictly required to attend.”

  “So you g’na tell them you were sick?” His lips curled around the words.

  “I could,” you admitted, tilting your head, “and I probably will.”

  The sound of his laugh rumbled in his chest. He turned his glass in his hands before taking another sip, then leaned his head back again, exhaling through his nose. “Shame for them, though,” he murmured, grinning, “they won’t get to see my doll all dolled up.”

  Your breath caught, but you narrowed your eyes and matched his tone easily. “That’s fine. At least you got to see me.”

  His grin dampened on his lips but not in his eyes. He paused, a flash of surprise quickly hidden, his jaw clenching briefly before he looked away, taking his time with his next sip. “Dangerous thing to say to me,” he said. He spoke in a mellow tone, even through the grit of his loitering wit.

  You smirked into your glass. “You’ll live.”

  His eyes snapped back to yours, and the air between you stilled almost imperceptibly. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes, “and you don’t even try to hide it.”

  “You’re still here, so it doesn’t seem like you mind,” you countered, lifting an eyebrow.

  His grin returned lazily. “I don’t,” he admitted, almost thoughtful, before his lips tugged further. “When it’s you, I think I like trouble.”

  The words sank into you faster than the wine. For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe, your pulse tripping unevenly, and it felt as if your body didn’t quite know what to do with the sudden weight of his admission, playful though it was. You shifted slightly where you sat, the hem of your dress brushing against your thighs, and you tried to focus on the swirl of red at the bottom of your glass rather than the man watching you so intently beside you.

  Perhaps it was the gentle buzz of alcohol, but you found yourself speaking before you could stop yourself. 

  “You know,” you said quietly, softer than your usual banter, “I really am grateful. For everything you do for me. You don’t have to, but you still always show up.”

  He tilted his head, his lashes lowering as though he was trying to decide whether to make light of it, but you didn’t give him the chance. You placed your now-empty glass down on the floor on the other side of you, reached out, and let your fingers graze the ends of the hair at the nape of his neck.

  The touch was simple, almost innocent, but the effect was anything but. His breath caught in the most imperceptible of ways, throat bobbing as he swallowed, and though he tried to mask the sudden tension in his body, you felt it waver under your hand.

  “I feel like I should pay you somehow,” you added, fingertips skimming from the ends of his hair to the warm skin just at the base of his neck.

  Hyunjin stilled, the glass halfway lifted to his lips before he finally tipped it back, draining the last sip as if it were needed armor. When he lowered it, his voice was firm. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “That's not fair–”

  “No.”

  “But–”

  “No.”

  Your hand might have retreated if not for the way he leaned into it, surrendering himself into your touch as though he’d been waiting for it all along. The strength of him, the sharpness of his jaw, the unruly softness of his hair between your fingers—it all came together with a kind of inevitability that made your chest ache in built-up anticipation. Encouraged, you threaded your fingers deeper into the strands, scratching your nails lightly at his scalp.

  He closed his eyes briefly, his mouth parting, and when he opened them again, his pupils were wide, swallowing the warm brown into a dark chocolate. He looked at you with awe, as if the mere weight of your hand in his hair was liberating him, his lips tugging faintly between his usual grin and something far more vulnerable.

  The silence sprawled on, until his voice broke it with a confession so plain, so unguarded, it sent a shock straight through you. 

  “Haven’t you ever considered that maybe I just want you?”

  Your fingers froze mid-scratch. The words landed with the force of a blow, leaving your face blank as you scrambled to compose your inner self, to not let him see the way your chest had tightened or the way your breath had retreated from its post.

  Hyunjin opened his mouth to add more, but you didn’t give him the chance.

  For a fleeting second, he thought you might laugh, or scoff, or even slap him, the flash of your eyes unreadable, but when you leaned in, his breath left no room for comprehension as your lips molded upon his.

  He carefully placed his emptied glass down beside him—he almost would’ve let it slip from his fingers from how off-guard you had caught him with your lips, but he wasn’t going to ruin your pretty drinkware. His hands immediately sought you, almost desperately, one sliding beneath the soft fabric of your dress to cup your thigh, the other reaching for your waist to drag you  closer to him.

  His biceps bulged when he shifted you over his lap, your dress slipping against the denim stretched over his thighs as you settled onto him in a straddle. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips.

  You hummed in response, your lips moving hungrily against his, and he matched you without hesitation, kissing you with eyebrows pinched painfully together. One calloused palm rubbed up your side to your back, rough fingers leaving trails of fire as he found the back of your neck, threading through your hair, urging you closer until there was no space left to close.

  This should feel absurd, kissing your neighbour, your own personal handyman, but it was exhilarating. You had no idea just how bad you had wanted him—how bad your body longed for him—until your lips slotted against each other and hands gripped each other, whatever they could touch and hold.

  You were soft, warm, intoxicating, and he wanted all of you, every inch and sound and breath. He pulled you flush against him, his other hand tightening at your waist until your chest pressed against his and—fuck, you’re not wearing a bra?

  You shivered and broke the kiss to moan against his lips. He was hard beneath you, there was no mistaking it, the rough denim straining as he pulled you down onto him, greedy for the heat radiating through the thin barrier of your dress. The pressure made you arch and bite back a cry, his groan rumbling into your mouth as if the very sound was welded to your pulse.

  His hands dragged you closer, sliding up from your waist until his palms cupped your breasts, squeezing them with a hunger that made your blood beat harder. The fabric of your dress was ruffled now, bunched beneath his fingers, and the lack of a bra—a reckless decision you had barely thought about—was driving him mad. His thumb pressed over your nipple through the cloth, and the sharp friction made your lips part with a gasp he swallowed, his tongue catching yours in a kiss both messy and deliberate.

  He pulled back suddenly, lips glistening and breathing deeper. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured against your cheek, “what you’ve been doing to me all this time?”

  The words made you shiver again, though he didn’t wait for your answer. His mouth found your neck, wet and hot, kissing, sucking, biting in quick succession as if he couldn’t decide which sensation he wanted you to suffer through more. Your head tipped back, helpless, giving him room, and the moan that spilled out was involuntary, humiliating in its rawness.

  Your fingers threaded into his hair without thought, tugging lightly, guiding him, but he hardly needed encouragement. He licked a slow path down your throat to the swell of your breasts, pausing only to drag his teeth along your collarbone in a mark you already knew would bloom later. You felt his smirk against your skin as if he was entirely aware of the claim he was leaving behind.

  Your dress slipped lower with each kiss until his mouth pressed over your breast, heat seeping through the thin fabric, his tongue circling your nipple until it peaked against the damp spot his lips left behind. You whimpered, tightening your hold on his hair as he drew you deeper into his mouth, sucking hard enough that your back arched further into him.

  Your body had utterly surrendered to his touch. You were putty in his arms, his big, bulging arms that caged you to his front so perfectly. His big arms that had you wondering whether he’d lift and toss you on the bed, manhandling you into whatever position his dick was yearning for.

  Hyunjin groaned in frustration because it wasn’t enough. The friction was mocking him rather than giving him what he wanted. He writhed in discontent beneath you, jerking up his hips, and the pressure of his cock through his jeans against your core made you cry out, rolling your hips down in response.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, the sound ripped from his chest. His eyes peered up at you from where his mouth was still latched to your breast, pupils blown wide, gleaming with unrestraint. His grip on you tightened, fingers dipping into your spine as though daring you to move again.

  You did. You slowly rocked your hips, dragging your core from the base of his denim-covered cock to the tip, feeling how hard he was even through layers of fabric. His entire body shuddered, his groan breaking into something darker, almost pained, and you knew you had undone him.

  “Do you have any idea how long you’ve had me bricked up?” he muttered, smirking at his own confession and pulling away from your chest only long enough to speak before biting lightly over the other breast, sucking your nipple through the dress until you swore your body would combust.

  Your head spun, blood beating rampantly in your veins, and still he wasn’t satisfied. He pulled away entirely, panting, hair messy from your fists in it, and peeked at the floor beneath you with contempt. “Not here,” he murmured hoarsely, “I– shit, can’t have you how I want here.”

  Before you could process, his arms were wrapping around you, strong and determined, lifting you up with him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your breath hitching at the sheer effortlessness of it, at the sensation of his cock pressing directly against your core in the new position. He grinned at your reaction, lips brushing yours in a kiss too brief and taunting.

  He dropped you onto the mattress with a carelessness that was not cruel but desperate, his body already covering yours before you had time to adjust. His mouth returned to yours in a kiss that tasted of urgency and hunger, his hands sliding up your thighs, over your hips, until they cupped your breasts again, as though he couldn’t bear to let go of them for even a moment.

  Your dress was pulled higher, your thighs bare to the cool air of the room, and his hips pressed down, denim rough against your soaked core. He rolled into you once, then over and over, his teeth sucking at your bottom lip as he groaned into your mouth and cursed softly against your neck, every sound from him making you ache from exactly where he needed you.

  His restraint was fraying, you could feel it in the tremor of his hands and desperate way he pressed his hips harder against you. Yet, even now, he took his time, his tongue circling, teasing, claiming, leaving you on the verge of begging. And still, all you could do was hold him closer, your fists tangled in his hair, eyelashes fluttering, body arching into every touch, every kiss, every grind of his hips that promised more than either of you could stand to wait for.

  “Hyunjin–”

  “Yeah?” he answered back, breathing heavily and pressing his forehead to yours.

  You whined, tugging at his t-shirt.

  Hyunjin let out a ragged breath, his chest heaving. “Ah, shit.” He reeled back from you, his hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised, eyes dark and wild, and tried to ignore the way his cock jerked at the sight of you sprawled on the bed, your dress sliding dangerously low over your shoulders.

  His fingers gripped the back collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one smooth pull that left his torso bare, lean muscle stretching and flexing in a way that made your thighs squeeze together without you meaning to. Your legs felt weak just looking at him, your stomach flipping with every inch of golden skin he revealed. His jeans hung low, riding down his hips, boxers peeking just enough to tease before he shoved both down in one go.

  His cock sprang free, flushed and hard and glistening along the tip, thick veins straining, the sheer sight of it enough to send heat pooling at your core. Hyunjin caught your eyes flickering down, and his tongue darted across his lips—he knew exactly what the sight did to you.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than you, his voice husky from having been slotting his tongue against yours not too long ago, before he leaned forward again and hooked his fingers under the straps of your dress, sliding it down your body.

  He tried not to show how his cock twitched at the sight of your breasts bared, but the sharp exhale that escaped him had braced all the hot pressure that was building at the pit of his stomach. He didn’t dawdle, tugging the dress away until you lay there in nothing but your panties, blushed and messy-haired, your pouty lips parted to let the quick string of breaths out from the confines beneath your heaving breasts.

  Hyunjin froze for a moment, swallowing hard, eyes roving over you and trying to control the way the sight was making him almost feral. His chest rose and fell like he was composing himself, but it was already useless; he was wrecked beyond repair.

  “You don’t even know,” he whispered, leaning down again, brushing his lips across yours in a kiss that was soft despite the frantic hunger of moments before. His hand slid across your stomach, fingers toying with the waistband of your panties, tracing the elastic. “Tell me what you want.”

  You writhed, clutching at his broad shoulders. “Anything, Hyunjin– just anything. I’m so wet for you, I can’t–”

  His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and he let out a broken, desperate groan, the sound so raw it nearly had you cumming right then and there. 

  “Fuck, don’t say that,” He whispered, his hand slid down further, the pads of his fingers pressing against the soaked cotton of your panties. He felt the damp heat immediately and nearly lost it. 

  But he had lost it. 

  He had. He was so far gone, so taken by you, he was convinced the night would never end and he’d have you like this until time fizzled into oblivion.

  His voice cracked when he spoke again. “Shit, you’re– soaked.” He breathed slowly for a few beats. “You know how many times I’ve thought about you like this? And now…” His sentence dissolved into another curse, whispered into your skin.

  You whimpered against his temple, the ends of his hair tickling your cheek, squirming your hips against his palm. “Take it off, Hyune.”

  He wastes no time hooking his fingers into the waistband of your soaked panties, tugging slowly, dragging them down your legs until it was discarded ball of fabric with a wet splotch, leaving you utterly naked before him. 

  The sight confiscated the air from his lungs. His cock throbbed so fucking hard at the vision of your slick pooling between your thighs, proof of just how badly you wanted him too, and his jaw clenched as though the sheer need pained him.

  “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, rubbing his lips along your knee, your inner thigh. God, he’d thought of you like this so many times. He’d thought of you, his pretty neighbour, his doll in distress, sprawled atop the sheets of a bed, legs spread for no one but him, your core slick-sheened and dampening the sheets for no one but him. 

  When he sank between your legs and pulled your thighs over his shoulders, the scent of your arousal hit him so hard, he nearly whimpered and salivated like a Pavlovian dog, dragging in a breath through his nose as if your heady scent was the only oxygen he’d need for the rest of his damned life.

  “Need’a taste you,” he mumbled, lips fluttering over your folds and making you squirm at the lack of contact. 

  “Jinnie,” you whimpered.

  And whimpered once again, after you felt the chaste kiss he gifted your clit.

  “Taste so google, doll,” he panted between licks, his voice shaking. “Do you know how many nights I’ve fucked my fist thinking about sucking on this pretty cunt? About making you feel good, hearing you moan for me?” His words spilled hotly, desperate—the wit had left him. “I’d do anything for this, anything for you. Just let me make you come on my tongue.”

  Hyunjin’s mouth moved with a hunger that was nothing short of feral, his lips sealing against you in a messy kiss that had your thighs trembling against his shoulders. He licked at your folds, sliding his tongue between them, tasting you with greed, tongue dipping and circling before laving flat against your nub, doing everything to draw little gasps from your lips because they kept pushing him further.

  The only sounds filling your room were your whines and whimpers, Hyunjin’s groans muffled in your heat, and the wet, slick squelches of his tongue burning itself in you, his lips sealing over your bud and sucking, the kisses and licks he gave your clit.

  “God, you’re unreal,” he muttered, dragging his tongue over you again before sucking hard at your clit, his cheeks hollowing with the effort.

  Your fingers threaded into his hair, gripping onto his messy strands when his tongue pressed firmer. The sound that tore from his chest was a groan-turned-whine, his hips rutting into the bed as if even the friction of his cock against the duvet wasn’t enough. He ground himself down again and again, his cock leaking against the fabric.

  One long finger flit against your entrance, sliding in easily through the slick mess he had already made of you. You clenched helplessly around him, and he moaned so loudly it almost startled you, pulling away from your clit to mutter against your skin. “Tight– fuck, you’re so tight around my finger, I might– aah, I might cum before I even get inside you.” 

  He kissed your thigh, nipped at it, then sucked at your clit again, his finger curling deep inside until you were gasping.

  “Hyunjin–”

  “Yeah, baby, I’ve got you,” he said quickly, voice rough, before sucking harder, the obscene sounds of his mouth slurping at you filling the room. His hips rutted down against the sheets in frantic rhythm with his tongue, his need consuming him whole. 

  He slid in another finger, stretching you, filling you, working them both in time with his mouth until you were writhing, grinding up into his face and messing his hair with your fists.

  “N-nngh—Hyune, need you.”

  “Yeah? Need me?” He smirked against you. “You need me?”

  When he looked up at you, he thought he might cum from the sight alone.

  You’re panting, breasts heaving with each breath that escapes you. Your lips are glazed over and still puffy from your makeout. Your eyebrows are knotted together, cheeks flushed, temples sheening with sweat, and your eyes—gosh, your angel eyes are so, so fucked-out.

  “What do you need, baby?” he taunted, finger pushing at the gummy end of your hole, making you roll your hips and give him a desperate look.

  “Need you inside,” you whined.

  Hyunjin’s smirk widened, his fingers still relentless inside your walls. “Hmm, I think you’ll need to be a little more specific, doll.”

  You whimpered a bratty hmph, scrunching your eyebrows together and rolling your head back before you peered down at him again.

  He gazed at you, amused, fingers pumping. His thumb came up to rub at your clit just to tease you a little more. When you didn't say anything, he raised his eyebrows, and you mewled in defeat.

  “I– fuck, Hyunjin, put your dick in me. Fuck me, please.”

  Hyunjin ripped his fingers from your core, grabbed your hips, and flipped you onto your stomach, pulling at your hips until they lifted over the edge of your bed and your toes pressed into the floor.

  His thumbs slid up the insides of your thighs and pulled at the glistening lips surrounding your cunt.

  “Fuck, you’re a mess,” he marveled, voice shaking, catching some of your slick on his thumb and dragging it over the swollen tip of his cock. He smeared it over himself with a hiss through his teeth, gaping at the way it shined along his length. “So pretty like this, bent over for me, soaked for me.”

  He hoisted your hips further up when you arched back into him with a moan. You rolled your hips in his hands and peeked back at him over your shoulder.

  “Fuck me hard, Jinnie.”

  He snapped his eyes to yours, his chest heaving, his tongue darting out to wet his slick-coated lips, trying his best not to cum at the sound of those words in your voice.

  “Say it again.”

  “Fuck me, Hyunjin.”

  “Again.”

  “Fuck me, please. Fuck me so hard, Jinnie, I’ll–”

  Hyunjin slammed into you, cutting your words short. Your mouth hung open in a broken moan, and your cheek fell against the sheets of your bed. It mattered not whether your makeup smudged along the comforter. In fact, nothing mattered, apart from the hard, veiny drag of Hyunjin’s cock along your tight, hot walls.

  “Mmm, shit,” he choked out. “Fucking tight– God.”

  It took everything in Hyunjin to pull out, watching his cock glisten with your wetness, before rutting back into you harder, rubbing at your hip with one hand while sliding the other down your back to grip your waist.

  He thrusted in and out of you, his cock squelching along your wet walls. Little gasps and whimpers slipped from your lips and buried into the sheets, his groans filling the room with each drag of his cock.

  The hand on your waist slid up your back, his fingers running through your hair before he leaned down, chest flush to your spine, and kissed along your neck, wet open-mouthed kisses smearing heat into your skin. The grip on your waist never dimmed in strength, pulling you back into each thrust, rutting harder, deeper, until you were squirming beneath him

  “How long have you wanted this?” He mumbled into your neck, thrusting deep into you and clasping his fingers along the base of your skull. “Is this why you kept calling me over, hm? Wanted to see what I looked like all hot and sweaty for you, yeah?”

  You whined and jerked your hips back into him, nodding pathetically with the will of half your mind—the other half had long been sucked out of you.

  He rubbed the nape of your neck with so much delicacy it was almost a contradiction, at odds with the way his cock kept battering into you with ruthless precision. The hand in your hair snaked along your back, around your torso, sliding up the front of your warm body to grab the base of your neck. He drilled into you again and again, his words dirty against your neck and seemingly never ending.

  “Taking me so well, baby, fuck. You’re so good for me, my pretty doll.”

  “Feel that? Feel how hard you made me? It’s all for you, just for you.”

  “G’na fuck you full with my load. You want that? Want me to fuck a baby in you?”

  “Yes, Jinnie—mmph, please,” you whimpered into the sheets at his last words, your reply so fast and frantic it had Hyunjin’s eyes rolling back into his head, his jaw flexing as he groaned.

  “Yeah?”

  He needed to see you. He needed to see your face, your lips parted in an oh, eyes glazing over with a coat of tears that might spill at any given thrust. He wanted to see what he was doing for you, wanted so desperately—yearned—to watch you beautiful you looking breaking apart under him.

  He reeled back from you, slid his hand down your back, and gripped your hips with both hands before pulling out of your cunt with a wet drag and flipping you onto your back again, your body pliant beneath his grip.

  He wasted no time filling you full with his cock again, watching your face at the exact moment the head slipped back in, almost shaking at seeing how good it made you feel. Your legs wrapped him closer to you when he leaned down and smashed his lips to yours. He tasted of your arousal and nothing but.

  He flattened his hand against your back, curving you into his chest, groaning when your breasts pressed into him, the feeling of your hardened nipples rubbing along his chest making him rut harder. Then, he grabbed onto your hip so he could really start pounding into you.

  The squelch of your walls around his pumping cock filled the room, and your little sounds serenaded the fibres in his ears. His hot, open mouth rested against the base of your neck, his wreaked moans sinking into your warm skin. Your hands were in his already unkempt hair, nails digging into his neck and scraping over his upper back. 

  He snapped his hips, squeezed onto yours, and ground his dick deeper into you. His tip grazed your g-spot, and you clenched around him, trying to keep him in, trying to make him stay there and rut into your spot over and over until you were coming undone for him and only him. You squeezed your legs around him, attempting to bury him further into you.

  “Big.”

  He looked at you, into your half-open eyes, the way your lips part after weakly moaning out the singular syllable.

  “Yeah? It’s big?” He panted, a curl in the corner of his lips, adoration submerging his eyes. You nodded at him, a knot deepening between your eyebrows. “You’re taking it so good, though, baby. Taking me so fucking good.”

  His fingers wreathed through your hair, the pad of his thumb is circling over your hip bone, and he mumbled incoherent praises against the supple skin of your neck.

  The hand on your hip smoothed over your lower stomach, his palm pressing into it when he pounded into your g-spot again. You whimpered at the friction of his tip against your sweet spot, gripping whatever part of him you could get your hands on—his shoulders, his biceps, anything. 

  He slid his hand further down, his fingers pushing your swollen clit out from under its hood, and rubbed a languid circle down into your nub.

  That was all it took for you to feel the pressure rippling in the core of your being.

  “You’re clenching down so hard on me, baby, shit,” he groaned, pulling his head back to watch your face. “You’re cumming? You gonna cream on my dick?”

  “Yes—yeah,” you moaned, your eyebrows scrunching tight, staring into his dark, chasmic, heavy-lidded gaze.

  “Cum, baby. Cum for me, and I’ll fill you up so good. I’ll fuck my seed so far into you, I promise– shit.”

  His words were all it took to have you clenching down onto his dick rhythmically, the pressure exploding in your core and ripping through you until you spasmed against his frame and dug your head back into the pillow.

  Hyunjin plastered his forehead along your bare neck when his own orgasm threw him over the edge just after yours, after feeling the way your walls tightly hugged along his length over and over again, abs tightening and spurting his seed deep into you, coating your walls white hot, adhering to the promise he’d made just moments ago. He groaned the most beautiful, broken sound against your skin before his muscles relaxed and he hovered his face above yours, panting heavily against your lips.

  You could feel how hot his cum was inside you, how full you were with his seed and slowly softening dick still buried deep inside you, plugging you full with everything he’d given you.

  Your breaths leveled out together, Hyunjin giving you the softest kisses as you both calmed down.

  Your hands drifted along his bulging biceps that caged you in, along the contours of his shoulders until you had a hand wrapping along his neck, the other pushing at the messied hair that spiked over his forehead.

  He gazed at you with the warmest of eyes before a boyish grin lit up his face. You couldn’t help but smile back up at him, still full with his cum and softened dick.

  “You should come fix things spontaneously more often,” your voice wisped against his cheeks, so soft and hoarse. He laughed, eyes twinkling, crinkling at the angel beneath him.

  “I should keep you from work dinners more often.”

  In the comfortable silence that passed with the both of you smiling at each other, Hyunjin decided he was going to stay buried in you like this for the rest of his life. Then, you wouldn’t need him to fix anything ever again. He wouldn't need to show up with his bitchass toolbox and tattered jeans, hoping to see you smile at him, pleased at the work he did for his doll. Although, to his dismay, he knew he couldn’t stay buried in you forever, because—

  “Can I take you out to dinner sometime?"

Hyunjin finally grew a pair. He even felt them slap against the backs of your thighs.

Maybe all he needed was to work his doll in a different way.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  reblog, comment, slide into my inbox !! please let me how i did, it'll make me happy :D (i have a praise kink)

── thank you for reading ❝ work, doll ❞ ᝰ.ᐟ

You had thought fucking Hyunjin would get him to leave you alone. He never went back for seconds from what you had heard around campus and the kid’s been nagging you—not really because you do enjoy his company sometimes—since you TA’d one of his English Foundation classes last fall.

You figured he just wanted to try sex with a big girl given what you knew his usual hookups looked like.So, after one particularly shitty presentation—with a lecturer that you were sure hated you—you invited him over.

What you hadn’t planned on was having Hwang Hyunjin stuck on you like a lost puppy after one fuck; okay, maybe two…three times. Once in late spring, twice over the summer when he somehow kept showing up at places you frequented and now it’s the fall semester again and Hyunjin has found every opportunity to be in your bubble even befriending your friends Minho, Chan and Changbin.

“Yahhh! Hwang Hyunjin, you can’t keep doing this to me.” You groan as you push open your apartment door with him hot on your trail. This is the third date since the semester started that he’s run off.

“I don’t see why you need to be going on dates when I’m literally right here, ready and willing to do all that Muse.”

“That’s not the point Hyune.”

“It’s not? I’m hot, you’re hot. The sex is an incredibly hot bonus but at least you know it won’t be subpar and I’ll actually get you off. All you gotta do is say yes, I’m very persistent.” He smiles.

You drop your bag on the kitchen counter with more force than necessary, the thud punctuating your frustration. Hyunjin closes the door behind him—of course he follows you inside—and leans against it with that infuriating confidence that probably works on everyone else.

“Persistent is one word for it,” you mutter, yanking open the fridge to grab a bottle of water. Anything to avoid looking at him right now, at the way his hair falls perfectly even after he’s been trailing you across campus, at how his shirt rides up slightly when he crosses his arms. “Stalker is another.”

“Dramatic.” He pushes off the door and you can hear the smile in his voice as he moves closer. “I prefer ‘dedicated.’”

You spin around, pointing the water bottle at him like a weapon. “You literally interrupted my date at the restaurant, Hyunjin. You sat down at our table and ordered food.”

“The guy was boring you to tears. I could see it from across the room.”

“You were across the room watching me? Do you hear yourself right now?”

He has the audacity to shrug, unbothered, as he hops up onto your counter like he pays rent here. “I was meeting someone at the café next door and happened to look up—”

“Meeting someone? You?”

“—and I saw you doing that thing you do when you’re trying to be polite but you’d rather be anywhere else.” He tilts his head, studying you with those dark eyes that got you into this mess in the first place. “That little fake laugh, the way you keep checking your phone under the table. You did it in Professor Kim’s lecture last spring too, remember?”

You hate that he notices these things. Hate that he’s right. Hate even more that you know there was no one he was meeting; he’d literally sat at that café for an hour, coffee going cold, just waiting for the right moment to swoop in and ruin your date.

“That doesn’t give you the right to crash my dates, Hyune. We hooked up. Past tense. That’s it.”

“See, you keep saying that.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees and the air between you shifts into something heavier. “But your body language says something different. The way you let me walk you home. How you haven’t kicked me out yet. How you’ve already called me ‘Hyune’ twice in the last five minutes.”

Fuck. You hadn’t even noticed.

“I—” You falter, gripping the water bottle tighter. “That’s just habit.”

“Is it?” He slides off the counter, moving into your space slowly, giving you every chance to step back. You don’t. “Because I think you like having me around. I think you keep going on these shitty dates hoping one of them will make you stop thinking about me, about us.”

“There is no us.”

“There could be.” His voice drops lower, softer, and suddenly you’re very aware of how close he is, how warm your apartment feels. “Just say yes, Muse. One real date. Let me take you somewhere, treat you right, show you I’m not just some college kid looking for a hookup.”

“You ran off three of my dates, Hyunjin.”

“Because they weren’t good enough for you.” No hesitation, no shame. “And I am. Let me prove it.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs, treacherous thing that it is. You should say no. Should maintain the boundaries you set months ago when you decided sleeping with him was a lapse in judgment.

But god, the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only thing in the world worth his attention—makes it really hard to remember why those boundaries existed in the first place.

“One date,” you hear yourself say, and his face lights up like you’ve given him the moon. “But if you fuck this up—”

“I won’t.” He’s grinning now, that devastating smile that should come with a warning label. “You won’t regret this.”

“I already do,” you lie but you’re smiling too and from the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, he knows it.

You turn your back to him as you head towards your bedroom to change out of your clothes. You know he’s going to follow you and follow he does, making himself comfortable at the foot of your bed leaning back on his arms in that lazy confident way he has while you strip out of the layers of clothes you’d been wearing.

“You’re staring, Hwang.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Annoying fucker.”

“Yeah, but you like me though.” and you don’t even have to look at him to know he’s grinning or smirking. “C’mere, muse.”

“Don’t use that tone of voice,”

“Why? Does it make you wet?”

You pause mid-motion, your shirt halfway over your head, heat crawling up your neck that has nothing to do with the layers you’re peeling off. “Hyunjin—”

“That’s not an answer.” His voice is lower now, teasing but edged with something darker that makes your stomach flip.

You yank the shirt off completely and toss it at him. He catches it easily, bringing it to his face with an exaggerated inhale that makes you roll your eyes even as your pulse quickens.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re avoiding the question.” The bed shifts as he adjusts his position before he speaks again. “Come here, Muse.”

There it is again—that voice, the one that’s all command wrapped in honey, the one that got you into trouble the first time. You should tell him to back off, remind him that one date doesn’t mean he gets to waltz back into your bed like nothing’s changed.

But your body has other ideas, already responding to his proximity, to the memory of his hands on your skin.

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” you say but your voice comes out breathier than intended as you turn to face him.

He’s still on your bed, leaning back with that infuriating smirk playing at his lips, eyes tracking every inch of you like he’s memorizing the view. “What deal? I just want you closer. We can just talk.”

“You don’t want to talk.”

“Maybe not.” He reaches out, fingers ghosting over your wrist. “But I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. Even if that’s just you sitting here, telling me about your terrible date while I try very hard to behave myself.”

You snort despite yourself. “You? Behave?”

“I can be good when properly motivated.” His thumb traces circles on your inner wrist and goddamn if that simple touch doesn’t make you want to forget every reason this is a bad idea. “So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna keep pretending you don’t want this, or are you gonna stop overthinking for once and let yourself have something good?”

You don’t know what possesses you to do it but you wrap your hands around his throat and tilt his head back just a little so he’s looking up at you. What you don’t expect is the moan that slips out of his mouth along with the way his grip tightens on both of your ass cheeks.

“You’re playing with fire, Muse.”

His pupils are blown wide, dark and wanting, and the way his breath hitches under your palms sends a thrill straight through you. You tighten your grip just slightly—not enough to hurt—just enough to feel his pulse jumping against your fingers.

“Maybe I want to get burned,” you murmur, watching the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Fuck,” he breathes and his hands slide higher, pulling you closer until you’re standing between his spread thighs. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, gripping like he can’t get enough and there’s something about the way he touches you—like every curve is exactly what he wants—that makes your breath catch. “You can’t just…Muse, if you keep touching me like that, I’m not gonna be able to keep my promise about behaving.”

“Did I ask you to behave?”

Something shifts in his expression; surprise giving way to hunger, that cocky facade cracking just enough to show you the desperate want underneath. It’s intoxicating, this power you have over him, the way someone so confident turns pliant under your touch.

“You’re killing me,” he groans but he’s tilting his head back further, offering himself up. “Months. Months of you ignoring me, going on dates with other people, pretending those nights didn’t change everything—”

“It was just three nights,” you say, squeezing just a little harder and his moan is obscene.

“Three perfect nights that I can’t stop thinking about.” His hands slide from your ass to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. “The way you look on top of me, the sounds you make, how your thighs feel wrapped around my head—” He cuts himself off with a shudder as your thumb traces along his jawline. “Please, Muse. Put me out of my misery. Tell me I’m not crazy, that you feel this too.”

You could still walk away. Should walk away. This is exactly what you were trying to avoid; getting tangled up with Hwang Hyunjin and his persistent attention, his ability to make you forget every logical reason this is complicated.

But God, the way he’s looking at you right now, like you’re everything he wants…

“You’re not crazy,” you admit quietly and watch his face transform with relief and triumph and raw need. “But you’re still annoying.”

“Yeah?” His hands slide under the waistband of your pants, palms hot against bare skin. “Wanna shut me up about it?”

Your fingers flex on his throat and before you know it the world tilts and suddenly your back hits the mattress, the air rushing from your lungs. The switch happens so fast your head spins or maybe that’s just the way he’s looking down at you under him with his hand around your throat; eyes dark with promise and that damn smirk that makes your thighs clench.

“Know you missed your favorite necklace.” He says with a grin and a flex of his fingers.

His hand spans your throat perfectly, thumb resting against your pulse point like he’s counting each racing beat. The weight of it, the controlled pressure, sends liquid heat pooling low in your belly.

“There she is,” he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush your ear. “Been wondering how long you’d make me wait to see you like this again.”

You should probably say something cutting, remind him he’s getting ahead of himself, that agreeing to one date doesn’t mean—

But then his fingers flex, just enough pressure to make your breath catch and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. Your hands fly up to grip his wrist, not to push away but to anchor yourself as your body arches involuntarily beneath him.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he breathes against your neck, his free hand sliding down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip. “Missed the way you melt for me the second I get my hands on you. All that attitude just…gone.”

“Hyunjin—” His name comes out strangled, needy, and you hate how desperate you sound. Hate more that he’s right about all of it.

“Yeah, baby?” Another flex of his fingers, his thigh pressing between yours. “Still think those other guys could give you what I can? Still think you need anyone else when you’ve got me?”

Your nails dig into his wrist and he groans, low and dirty. “That’s my girl. Mark me up, Muse. Want everyone to know exactly who I belong to.”

“Possessive bastard,” you gasp out but your hips are already rolling against his thigh, seeking friction.

“Only for you.” His mouth finds that spot below your ear that makes you whimper. “Say you’re mine. Say those dates were bullshit and you want me.”

“You’re—ah—so fucking cocky—”

“Because I’m right.” His hand tightens fractionally, and stars burst behind your eyelids. “Now answer the question, or I stop.”

“Stop and I’ll never give you head again. Know you like that thing I do with my tongue before I take it all the way in.” You grin.

He freezes above you and you feel the full-body shudder that runs through him at the memory. His hand loosens just slightly on your throat as he pulls back to look at you, eyes blazing.

“That’s playing dirty, Muse.”

“You started it,” you shoot back, running your tongue along your bottom lip deliberately. His gaze tracks the movement like a starving man watching food. “What was it you said last time? That no one’s ever—”

“Don’t.” His voice comes out strangled, hips pressing harder against you. “Fuck, you can’t just—that thing you do, that fucking swirling before you—Jesus Christ.”

The power shift is delicious. For all his cockiness, all his control, you know exactly how to unravel him. You’ve done it before, watched him fall apart with his hands fisted in your hair, saying your name like a prayer, telling you how good you look on your knees with your mouth stretched around him.

“So maybe,” you say, walking your fingers up his chest, “you should reconsider your ultimatums. Because I can be just as stubborn as you, Hwang Hyunjin, and I know all your weaknesses now.”

He drops his forehead to yours with a breathless laugh. “You’re evil. Absolutely fucking evil.”

“You like it.”

“I love it,” he corrects and something in his voice makes your heart stutter. Too honest, too raw. He catches it immediately, tries to cover with that cocky grin. “Love how you think you’re in control right now when we both know how this ends.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

His hand slides from your throat to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your lips. “With you saying my name so loud your neighbors complain. Again.” He punctuates it with a roll of his hips that has you gasping. “But first, you’re gonna answer my question. Those dates—”

“Were boring,” you admit, because fuck it, he’s not going to let this go. “Happy?”

“Getting there.” His smile is pure sin. “Now tell me you’re mine.”

“Make me.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before his eyes go molten, that pretty face transforming into something predatory and hungry. His hand slides back to your throat, not squeezing, just possessive.

“Oh, Muse,” he says, voice dropping an octave that goes straight between your thighs. “You really shouldn’t have said that.”

Before you can respond with something appropriately bratty, he captures your mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up frustration. It’s not gentle—Hyunjin’s never been gentle when he’s like this, wound up and desperate—and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Months,” he growls against your lips, kissing down your jaw. “Months of watching you pretend you don’t think about this.” His teeth graze your pulse point and you gasp. “Watching you go on dates with guys who couldn’t possibly know what you need.”

His free hand slides down your stomach, fingers playing at the waistband of your pants. He doesn’t move to remove them yet, just traces patterns that make your hips lift involuntarily.

“Hyune—”

“Shh,” he soothes, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s looking at you. “You wanted me to make you admit it, right? That’s what this is?” He pops the button of your pants with practiced ease. “Let me remind you exactly what you’ve been missing.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you manage but it comes out breathless.

“Maybe.” He drags the zipper down slowly, torturously. “But you like it. Like when I call you out on your bullshit.” His fingers slip just beneath the waistband of your underwear, not touching where you need him yet, just teasing. “Like when I don’t let you hide.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders through his shirt, trying to pull him closer but he resists. That damn smirk is back.

“Patience, pretty baby. We’ve got all night and I’m gonna take my time reminding you exactly why you can’t stop thinking about me.”

“Cocky—” The word cuts off in a moan as his hand finally, finally slides lower, cupping you through the thin fabric. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit and your vision goes hazy.

“What was that?” He does it again, watching your face. “Couldn’t quite hear you over all those pretty sounds you’re making.”

“I said you’re—fuck—” He adds pressure and your argument dissolves entirely.

“That’s what I thought.” His mouth finds that spot below your ear. “You can act tough all you want, Muse, but your body tells me everything I need to know.”

He hooks his fingers in your waistband but doesn’t pull down yet. Just waits, making you squirm.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your neck. “Tell me those dates were bullshit attempts to forget about us.”

“There is no us—”

He pulls his hand away entirely and you actually whimper at the loss. His answering laugh is dark and knowing.

“No? Then I guess you don’t need me to—”

“Don’t you dare.” You grab his wrist, pulling his hand back and his eyes light up with victory.

“Then say it.” He starts pulling your pants down, slowly, watching you the whole time. “Say you thought about me while you were out with them. Say you compared them to me and they didn’t measure up.”

The worst part is he’s right. Every single date, you’d found yourself thinking about Hyunjin; the way he laughs at your terrible jokes, how he brings you coffee during your TA sessions without being asked, the way he looks at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world.

And yeah, the sex. Definitely the sex.

“They were boring,” you finally admit, lifting your hips so he can slide your pants and underwear down your legs. The cool air makes you shiver, or maybe that’s just the way he’s looking at you, like he wants to devour you whole.

“Boring,” he repeats, tossing your clothes somewhere behind him. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping the soft flesh there, spreading you wider. “Just boring?”

“Hyunjin, please—”

“Please what?” He settles between your legs but doesn’t touch you yet. Just looks, and the hunger in his eyes makes you clench around nothing. “I want to hear you say it, Muse. Want to hear you admit that this—” he finally drags one finger through your wetness, and you gasp, “—is all for me.”

“You’re the worst,” you breathe but your hips chase his touch.

“Yeah?” He circles your clit once, twice, before pulling away again. “The worst, but you’re soaking for me anyway. Been like this all night, haven’t you? Sitting across from that guy, being polite, while thinking about what I could do to you instead.”

You want to deny it, but he chooses that moment to slide two fingers inside you, curling them exactly right and the truth spills out in a broken moan.

“There she is.” His voice is reverent now, awed. “Fuck, I missed this. Missed watching you fall apart for me.” He sets a rhythm that has your back arching, your hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets. “Missed the way you get so wet, so ready. Like your body knows exactly who it belongs to even when you’re being stubborn about it.”

“Not—ah—yours,” you try, but it’s weak even to your own ears.

His thumb finds your clit and you nearly sob. “No? Then why are you grinding on my hand like you’re desperate for it? Why’d you let me follow you home, let me in your apartment, your bedroom?” He leans down, breath hot against your ear. “Why haven’t you kicked me out yet, baby?”

Because you can’t. Because despite every logical reason for why this is a bad idea, you want him. Have wanted him since that first night when he’d looked at you like you were everything, touched you like you were precious, fucked you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Say it,” he demands, adding a third finger that has you seeing stars. “Say you’re mine and I’ll give you everything you need. Make you come so hard you forget every other guy’s name.”

“Fuck—Hyunjin—I can’t—”

“You can.” His fingers speed up, hitting that spot inside you that makes your thighs shake. “Come on, Muse. Stop being stubborn and just admit it. Admit you want this, want me, want us.”

He’s relentless and you can feel your orgasm building, pressure coiling tight in your belly. Your hands find his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.

“That’s it,” he encourages, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit. “Take what you need, baby. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You’re so close, teetering on the edge and he knows it. Can probably feel it in the way you’re clenching around his fingers, the way your breathing has gone ragged.

“Just say it,” he coaxes, softer now but no less demanding. “Three little words and I’ll make you come. That’s all, Muse. Just tell me the truth.”

Pride wars with desperation but your body makes the decision for you; arching into his touch, chasing the release only he seems capable of giving you.

“Yours,” you finally gasp out. “I’m yours, okay? Happy now?”

His smile is blinding, triumphant, before his mouth crashes into yours. “So fucking happy,” he murmurs against your lips and then his fingers curl just right and you’re gone, falling apart in his arms while he swallows your moans and tells you how perfect you are, how good, how his.

You’re still trembling through the aftershocks when he slowly withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with an obscene moan that makes heat coil in your belly all over again despite having just come.

“Missed that too,” he says with a little pat to your sensitive cunt, eyes dark as he watches you try to catch your breath. “The way you taste. Been thinking about it for months.”

“You’re such a fucking munch,” you manage but there’s no heat behind it. Can’t be, not when you’re boneless and satisfied and he’s looking at you like that.

“Wonder whose fault that is?” He’s already pulling his shirt over his head, revealing all that lean muscle you’ve tried very hard not to think about. “And we’re not done. Not even close.”

Your eyes track the movement of his hands as he works his belt loose, the clink of metal loud in your quiet bedroom. “Confident.”

“Realistic,” he corrects, shoving his jeans down. “You think one orgasm is enough to make up for months? I’ve got a lot of lost time to account for, Muse.”

He’s not wrong. Even now, barely recovered, you want him. Want his weight on you, in you, surrounding you. It’s infuriating how easily he gets under your skin.

“Come here,” you say, reaching for him and he goes willingly, settling between your thighs like he belongs there.

His cock presses against you, hard and hot, and you both groan at the contact. He rocks against you slowly, coating himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit with each deliberate thrust.

“Hyune—” Your nails rake down his back and he hisses.

“What, baby? Use your words.” He’s teasing, the bastard, dragging this out when you both know what you want.

“Stop teasing.”

“But you’re so pretty when you’re desperate.” He does it again, that maddening slide that’s almost enough but not quite. “Flushed and needy and all mine.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, trying to angle him where you need him, but he doesn’t budge just holds himself just out of reach with that infuriating smirk.

“Ask nicely.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you threaten but it comes out more pleading than murderous.

“You love me,” he says, and then seems to realize what he’s said. For a moment, the cocky mask slips and you see something vulnerable underneath, hope and fear and want all tangled together.

The moment stretches between you, weighted with things neither of you are ready to name.

“Hyunjin,” you say softly, cupping his face. “Fuck me. Please.”

It’s enough. He reaches between you, lining himself up, and then he’s pushing inside with one slow, devastating thrust that has you both gasping. The stretch is perfect, familiar, like your body remembered exactly how he feels.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to yours. “Fuck, Muse, you feel—” He can’t finish the sentence, too overwhelmed, and something about seeing him undone like this makes your chest tight.

“Move,” you urge, rolling your hips. “Baby, please move.”

He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, before slamming back in hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. Sets a rhythm that’s punishing and perfect, each thrust hitting so deep you see stars.

“This,” he grits out, punctuating the word with a particularly hard thrust. “This is what you’ve been missing. What those other guys could never give you.” His hand finds your throat again, not squeezing, just holding. “Tell me. Tell me they didn’t fuck you like this.”

“They didn’t—” You gasp as he changes angles, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “Didn’t even—fuck—didn’t even have a chance—”

“Because they don’t know you.” His thumb traces your racing pulse. His other hand grips your thigh to hook your leg over his shoulder, fingers digging into the soft flesh there and pulling you tighter against him. “Don’t know that you like it rough. Like when I hold you down and take what’s mine.”

He proves his point by pinning your wrists above your head with his free hand, holding you completely at his mercy. The position makes your breasts press up and he takes advantage, ducking his head to drag his teeth across one nipple.

“Don’t know how fucking perfect you are when you let go and just feel.”

You should probably protest at the possessive way he’s talking, the assumption that he knows you better than you know yourself. But he does know you, knows exactly how to make you fall apart, how to push you right to the edge and keep you there.

“Harder,” you demand because if you’re doing this, if you’re giving in, you might as well get everything you want.

His answering laugh is strained. “Greedy girl.” But he complies, fucking into you with enough force that your headboard starts hitting the wall. “That what you need? Need me to ruin you so you can’t even think about anyone else?”

“Yes—fuck yes—”

“Good.” He releases your wrists to hitch your other leg higher over his hip, the new angle making you cry out. “Because that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and the dual sensation is almost too much. You can feel another orgasm building, faster this time, pulled tight like a wire about to snap.

“Hyune, I’m close—”

“I know, baby, I can feel it.” His rhythm is getting erratic, chasing his own release. “Come for me. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, wanna watch you fall apart.”

“Come with me,” you gasp, pulling him down into a kiss that’s more breathing into each other’s mouths than anything else. “Want to feel you—”

“Fuck…Muse—” The nickname becomes a chant as his hips stutter and the desperation in his voice is what tips you over. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, pleasure white-hot and all-consuming, and you feel him follow seconds later with a groan that you swallow down.

He collapses on top of you, both of you sweaty and spent and trembling. For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing and the occasional aftershock, his cock still buried inside you like he can’t bear to separate yet.

“So,” he finally says, voice muffled against your neck. “Still think those dates were a good idea?”

You smack his shoulder weakly. “Cálla.”

“Make me.” But there’s no heat behind it, just lazy satisfaction.

You wrap your legs tight around him and roll him onto his back as you settle on top of him. The ride you start is slow and torturous, hands on his chest as you lift until only the tip is inside before you drop all the way back down.

His eyes go wide when you flip him, a startled laugh escaping before it melts into a groan as you sink back down onto him. He’s still sensitive from coming, you can tell by the way his abs clench, the way his hands fly to your hips with a grip that’s going to leave bruises.

His fingers span your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your stomach and there’s something almost reverent in the way he’s looking up at you, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Fuck, baby, what are you—”

“Teaching you a lesson,” you murmur, rising up slowly, torturously slow, until just his tip is inside. His fingers dig into your flesh, trying to pull you back down but you resist. “About running your mouth.”

You drop down hard and he chokes on whatever he was going to say, head falling back against the pillows. The oversensitivity makes him twitch inside you, makes his thighs tense beneath you.

“Baby, I just—ah fuck—”

You do it again. And again. Setting a pace that’s designed to drive him insane, that has him writhing beneath you and trying to thrust up to meet you. But you keep the control, keep him exactly where you want him.

“What’s wrong?” You drag your nails down his chest, watching red lines bloom in their wake. “Thought you liked being in charge. Liked making me beg.”

“I do—fuck, I do—but you’re gonna kill me—” His feet plant on the mattress, trying to get leverage, trying to fuck up into you harder.

That’s when your hand wraps around his throat again.

The effect is immediate and devastating. His whole body goes taut, cock throbbing inside you and the moan that tears from him is absolutely wrecked.

“Stay still,” you command, squeezing just enough to make his breath catch. “You’re going to take what I give you, understand?”

“Fuck,yes, yes—” His eyes are glazed, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any iris left. His hands fall away from your hips, surrendering, and the sight of Hwang Hyunjin—cocky, confident, always-in-control Hyunjin—completely at your mercy sends a rush of power through you.

You start riding him in earnest now, the way you know drives him crazy. Rolling your hips on the downstroke, clenching around him deliberately, using him for your own pleasure while your hand stays firm on his throat.

“Oh god…oh fuck, Muse—” He’s babbling now, coherence lost. His hands scrabble at the sheets, his back arching. “Please,please, I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” You lean down, maintaining the pressure on his throat as you change the angle. “Can’t handle what you’ve been begging for? Can’t take being fucked the way you fuck me?”

“No…yes, fuck—” Tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes from the intensity. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

You weren’t planning to. Not when he looks like this; absolutely destroyed, that pretty face twisted in almost painful pleasure, completely yours. Your free hand slides up to pinch his nipple and he nearly sobs.

“You’re so good like this,” you tell him and mean it. “So perfect when you let go. When you stop trying to control everything and just feel.”

“For you—” he gasps out. “Only for you—”

Your rhythm is relentless now, chasing your third orgasm of the night while he falls apart beneath you. You can feel him getting close again despite having just come, his cock swelling impossibly harder inside you.

“Gonna come again already?” You tighten your grip on his throat fractionally and he keens. “Greedy boy. So desperate for it.”

“Please—” It’s barely a whisper. “Please, Muse, I need—”

“I know what you need.” You lean down to bite at his jaw, his neck, marking him the way he marked you. “Need to come inside me again. Need to fill me up until it’s dripping down my thighs.”

“Yes! fuck yes,please let me—”

“Then come,” you order, releasing his throat and clenching around him as hard as you can. “Come for me, Hyunjin.”

He does, with a shout that’s definitely going to have your neighbors complaining, his whole body seizing as he spills inside you. The feeling of it, the heat and the way he pulses, triggers your own orgasm; smaller than the first two but no less intense for it.

You collapse onto his chest, both of you gasping for air. His arms come around you immediately, holding you close despite the way you’re both trembling.

“Jesus Christ,” he finally manages, voice absolutely wrecked. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Payback,” you mumble against his skin, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath your cheek.

“Worth it.” His hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. “So fucking worth it.”

You can feel him softening inside you, the mess of both of you starting to leak out, but neither of you move. Just lie there tangled together, his thumb stroking lazy circles against your scalp.

“So,” he says after a while, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “About that date…”

You bite his shoulder hard enough to make him yelp. “One thing at a time, Hwang.”

His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Yes ma’am.”

You shift to look up at him, finding him watching you with an expression so soft it makes your breath catch. His free hand comes up to trace the curve of your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Lemme stay,” he says quietly. “Tonight. Don’t kick me out this time.”

“I never kicked you out—”

“You very politely suggested that I had to go.” His lips quirk. “Three times. Spring semester, twice over summer. Same thing.”

You study his face; the vulnerability lurking beneath the teasing, the hope he’s trying to hide. “You’re clingy when you’re fucked out.”

“Mhmm,” he admits, no shame in it. “So is that a yes?”

You could say no. Should probably establish some boundaries, maintain some distance. But you’re warm and sated and he’s looking at you like that, and—

“Fine,” you relent. “But you’re the big spoon because I’m not sleeping on my back all night.”

His grin is blinding. “Deal.”

He finally pulls out, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and disappears to your bathroom. Returns with a warm washcloth and cleans you up with a gentleness that feels at odds with how you’d just fucked each other into the mattress.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease as he tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed.

“Only for you,” he says again, pulling you against his chest and draping himself around you. His hand splays across your stomach, thumb tracing idle patterns on your skin. “See? Perfect big spoon.”

You hum in agreement, already feeling sleep pulling at you. His warmth surrounds you, solid and safe, and you find yourself relaxing into it despite your better judgment.

“Muse?” His voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“Mm?”

“I meant what I said. About wanting this to be real. About—” He pauses and you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder. “About all of it.”

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. “I know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You lace your fingers with his where they rest on your stomach. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

His quiet laugh stirs your hair. “Okay, baby.”

And wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady against your back, you let yourself drift off with a small smile on your face.

You wake up to a wet, heated sensation between your legs and when you look down, Hyunjin’s looking up at you from between your thighs, morning light filtering through your curtains and painting his skin gold.

“About time you woke up. Been down here for half an hour, baby.”

“Hyune,” you breathe, still half-asleep, and your hand automatically goes to his hair.

“Love it when you call me that.” He mumbles against your inner thigh, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin. You can already see the marks blooming there, evidence of his dedication. “Especially all sleepy like this.”

Your brain is still foggy with sleep, trying to catch up, but your body already knows; hips lifting into his mouth, thighs spreading wider to give him better access.

“Half an hour?” you manage, voice rough. “Why didn’t you—ah—wake me?”

He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, lips glistening. “Wanted to see how long it would take. How deep I could get you before you woke up.” His tongue drags slowly through your folds and your grip tightens in his hair. “You were making the prettiest sounds in your sleep, Muse. Kept saying my name.”

“I did not—”

“You did.” He punctuates it with a kiss to your inner thigh, sucking another mark. “Kept squirming too, pressing that perfect ass back against me. Think you were dreaming about me?”

You were, actually. Hazy images of last night and the early hours of the morning bleeding into new scenarios, his hands and mouth everywhere. But you’re not about to admit that.

“You’re imagining things,” you say, trying for dismissive but it comes out breathy when he sucks a mark higher on your thigh.

“Am I?” His hands slide up to grip your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there as he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, to his mouth. “Then why are you so wet already? Been like this since I started, baby. So ready for me.”

His mouth returns to where you need it, tongue circling your clit with maddening precision. He’s not rushing, not trying to make you come quickly; just exploring, savoring, taking his time like he has all day.

“Hyunjin—” Your head falls back against the pillow as he slides two fingers inside, curling them just right. “Fuck—”

“Love the way you say my name,” he murmurs against you, the vibration making you gasp. “Especially first thing in the morning, all sleepy and needy.” He adds a third finger and you arch off the bed. “Missed waking up with you. Missed getting to do this.”

You want to tell him he’s only been in your bed three times before—spring semester, twice over summer—and each time you’d basically kicked him out the morning after. That this isn’t some regular thing. But then he swirls his tongue over your clit before sucking making your thighs shake, and all coherent thought evaporates.

“That’s it,” he encourages, feeling you clench around his fingers. “Let me take care of you, Muse. Let me make you feel good.”

His free hand slides up your stomach, over your ribs, palming your breast. His thumb brushes over your nipple and the dual sensation has you arching into his touch. He’s everywhere, surrounding you, consuming you, and it’s overwhelming in the best way.

“Close already?” There’s satisfaction in his voice as your hips start rolling against his face. “That’s my girl. So responsive for me.”

“Don’t—ah,don’t stop—”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, fingers pumping faster, and you squirt with a cry that echoes off the bedroom walls as you make a mess of his face and your sheets.

He works you through it, gentling his touches as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your hip bones, your stomach. When he finally crawls back up your body, his face is wet with you and he’s grinning like he’s won the lottery.

“Good morning,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself.

You’re still trying to remember how to breathe. “You’re insane.”

“Crazy about you,” he corrects, dropping a kiss to your shoulder. Then another to your collarbone. “Couldn’t help myself. You looked so pretty sleeping, and I’ve been thinking about doing that since you kicked me out last time.”

“I didn’t kick you out—”

“You strongly suggested I should leave because you had shit to do,” he reminds you, nipping at your jaw. “Wouldn’t even let me stay for breakfast. Three different times.”

“Because it was supposed to be a one-time thing.”

“Three-time thing,” he corrects. “And clearly not a one-time anything because here we are again and you’re not exactly complaining.”

He’s not wrong. You should be kicking him out right now, reestablishing boundaries, reminding him that one date doesn’t mean he gets to—

“Stop thinking so loud,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “I can literally hear you overthinking from here.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He shifts, settling beside you so he can look at you properly. His hair is a mess from your hands, lips swollen, and there’s something soft in his eyes that makes your chest tight. “Look, I know this is complicated. I know you’ve got reasons for keeping me at arm’s length. But Muse…” His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “I meant what I said last night. I want this. Want you. Not just the sex—though fuck, the sex is incredible—but all of it.”

“Hyunjin…”

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he says quickly. “Just…give me a real chance. Let me take you on that date. Let me prove that you’re more than a hookup.”

The earnestness in his voice, in his expression, makes something in your chest crack open. Because the truth is, you want it too. Want him. Have wanted him since that first night when he stayed after, ordering takeout and arguing with you about the themes in the book you were teaching, making you laugh until your sides hurt before he rearranged your guts again.

“Like I said, one date,” you hear yourself say, and his face lights up. “But if you screw this up—”

“I won’t.” He’s kissing you before you can finish the threat, enthusiastic and clumsy and perfect. “I promise, Muse. I’m gonna make you so happy you agreed to this.”

“You’re still in my bed naked,” you point out. “Shouldn’t you go home and shower or something?”

His grin turns wicked. “Actually, I was thinking we could shower together. Save water. Be environmentally conscious.”

“That is not—”

But he’s already pulling you up, laughing at your protests, and somehow you end up in the shower with him anyway. His hands are gentle as he washes your hair, his kisses slow and sweet under the spray, and you let yourself have this—have him—without overthinking it for once.

When you finally emerge, clean and wrapped in towels, he immediately starts raiding your closet.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding clothes,” he says, pulling out one of your hoodies. “This’ll work.”

“That’s mine.”

“It’s ours now.” He pulls it on and it’s slightly too small on him, riding up to show a strip of his stomach, but he looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Perfect.”

“You should go home and get your own clothes.”

“Why?” He asks pulling the sheet off of your bed looking at you expectantly as you pass him a fresh set which he puts on before he sprawls on it like he owns it. “It’s Saturday. Neither of us has anywhere to be.”

“Don’t you have—I don’t know, plans? Things to do?”

“My only plan was you,” he says, patting the space next to him. “And I’m exactly where I want to be.”

You should insist. Should maintain some boundaries, not let him get too comfortable. But he’s looking at you with those warm eyes, your too-small hoodie riding up to show that strip of stomach, and you find yourself giving in.

“Fine,” you relent, settling next to him on the bed. “But you’re buying or making food as long as you’re here.”

“Deal.” He immediately pulls you against him, arranging you so your back is against his chest, his arms wrapped around your middle. “What do you want to do today?”

“I was going to catch up on that show I mentioned.”

“The murder mystery one?”

You twist to look at him, surprised. “How did you know?”

He shrugs, but there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “You mentioned it. Three weeks ago, after your TA session. You said it looked interesting but you hadn’t had time.”

Your chest does something complicated. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything you tell me,” he says simply.

“You’re such a simp.”

“Only for you,” he says, and presses a kiss to your temple. “Now come on, let’s go watch your show. But I’m warning you, it’s always the butler.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s always the butler.” He sounds entirely too confident.

“That’s such a cliché—”

“Wanna bet?”

You twist to look at him. “What are the stakes?”

His grin is wicked. “If I’m right, you come to my friends’ New Year’s party with me.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’ll stop interrupting your dates.”

You snort. “You’re that confident?”

“In my detective skills? Absolutely.” He pauses. “Also I may have already watched the first episode when you mentioned it.”

“Hwang Hyunjin!”

He’s laughing now, trying to fend off your playful smacks. “What! I wanted to be able to talk to you about it! That’s romantic!”

“That’s cheating!”

“Okay, okay—” He catches your wrists, still grinning. “New bet. Come to the party with me anyway, and if the butler isn’t the killer, I’ll make you that pasta dish you said looked good on Instagram.”

“You follow my Instagram?”

“Have for months,” he admits, shameless. “You post the best food pics. Also that selfie you posted last week? In the library? Saved it.”

You don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. “You’re obsessed.”

“Completely,” he agrees easily. “So? Deal?”

You should say no. Should not agree to go to a party with his friends, to blur these lines even further. But he’s looking at you hopefully, and—

“Fine. But the pasta better be amazing if you’re wrong.”

“It will be,” he promises, and seals it with a kiss.

You end up on the couch, you settled between his legs with your back against his chest, starting the show. He was right, the butler did do it, which he’s entirely too smug about. But you find you don’t really mind, especially when he keeps pressing random kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, clearly only half-paying attention to the show.

“Hyune,” you murmur during the second episode. “You’re missing it.”

“Don’t care,” he says against your skin. “This is better.”

“The whole point of watching together—”

“Is spending time with you. Which I’m doing.” He nips at your earlobe. “The murder mystery is just a bonus.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it,” he counters, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

Halfway through the fifth episode, your stomach growls loudly. Hyunjin laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into your back.

“Lunch?” he suggests.

“It’s almost two. More like late lunch.”

“Even better.” But he doesn’t let go of you, just tightens his arms. “In a minute.”

“Hyunjin, I’m hungry.”

“Just—” He buries his face in your neck. “One more minute like this.”

Something warm and dangerous blooms in your chest. “Okay. One more minute.”

You give him five before standing up and pulling him with you toward the kitchen. “Come on. If you’re staying, you’re helping.”

“What are we making?”

“I was thinking cheesy kimchi fried rice? Nothing fancy, but—”

“Perfect,” he interrupts, already moving toward your fridge. “Comfort food. I can work with that.”

You expect him to be useless in the kitchen—he gives off those vibes—but he surprises you. He moves around your space with ease, finding things without asking.

“You can actually cook,” you observe, surprised.

“My mom made sure I all knew the basics,” he says, focused on cutting sausages and spam.

“And?”

“I’m no chef but I can handle myself fairly well in the kitchen,” he says. “It’s not really different from painting or drawing once you get used to it.”

“Big talk.”

“You’ll see.”

You work together comfortably; you handle the side dishes while he fries the rice. He keeps stealing touches; a hand on your waist as he moves past you, fingers brushing yours when you hand him the cheese, a kiss pressed to your shoulder when you’re stirring the adding radish to a bowl.

“You’re very touchy today,” you comment, not exactly complaining.

“Making up for lost time,” he says simply. “Plus you keep trying to kick me out in the mornings. Gotta get my fill while I can.”

“I don’t—” You pause. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“You do.” He flips the sandwich expertly. “Spring semester, you basically pushed me out the door. Said you had to work on your thesis.”

“I did have to work on my thesis.”

“At 7 AM on a Sunday?”

“…Yes?”

He gives you a look that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “And the first time in summer, you had that ‘emergency meeting’ with your advisor.”

“That was real!”

“Mhm. And the second time, you suddenly remembered you had plans with your friends.”

You’re quiet, because okay, he’s got you there. Each time you’d basically panicked the morning after, overwhelmed by how comfortable it felt having him in your space, how much you didn’t want him to leave. So you’d created excuses, put up walls, tried to maintain distance.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally. “That was shitty of me.”

“Hey.” He turns and faces you properly, hands on your hips. “I get it. I’m younger, still in undergrad, not exactly what you probably pictured for yourself. And I came on really strong that first time. I get why you freaked out.”

“It’s not—” You struggle with the words. “It’s not about your age, really. It’s just…complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he says softly. “We can just…be. No pressure, no expectations. Just us figuring this out together.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“Because it is.” He cups your face in his hands looking at you. “I like you. You like me. Everything else is just noise.”

You want to argue, to point out all the ways it’s not that simple. But he’s looking at you with such earnest honesty that you find yourself nodding instead.

“Okay,” you say. “We can try.”

His smile is brilliant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But Hyunjin?” You poke his chest. “No more interrupting my dates.”

“Deal. Mainly because you won’t be going on them anymore.”

“Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, and kisses you until the rice is in danger of burning.

You eat lunch curled up on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, arguing about the show and laughing at his terrible theories about who’s going to die next. It’s easy, comfortable, like you’ve been doing this for years instead of dancing around each other for months.

“So this party,” you say eventually. “Your friends’ New Year’s thing.”

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he says quickly. “I know I kind of blackmailed you into agreeing—”

“I’ll come,” you interrupt. “Might be nice.”

His face lights up. “Really?”

“Really. But Hyunjin?” You level him with a look. “This counts as our first date, right? The party?”

“What? No!” He sits up, looking genuinely distressed. “No, I’m taking you on a proper date first. Dinner, the whole thing. The party is just…the party.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he insists. “I want to do this right, Muse. Take you somewhere nice, show you off, prove I’m not just—” He gestures vaguely. “I want to date you. Properly.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. “Okay. When?”

“Monday?” he suggests. “I know this place downtown, really good food, and it’s quiet enough that we can actually talk.”

“Monday works,” you agree, smiling at his enthusiasm.

“Perfect.” He pulls you back against him, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s a date.”

“It’s a date,” you confirm, and let him hold you as you finish lunch, the show playing forgotten in the background.

He doesn’t leave until nearly evening, and even then it’s reluctantly, with promises to text you when he gets home and reminders about Monday. When the door finally closes behind him, your apartment feels too quiet, too empty.

You’re in so much trouble.

Monday—The Date

Hyunjin shows up at your door an hour early, flowers in hand and wearing a sleek all-black ensemble that makes him look unfairly good while you’re still getting ready.

“You look beautiful,” he says, and the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing—makes you believe him despite your half-dressed state and bare feet.

“You’re early.”

“I missed you.”

You hum, stepping aside to let him in but your eyes are still dragging over him from head to toe. That deep-cut silk shirt is doing traitorous things to your lower regions, the fabric clinging to his frame in ways that should be illegal. The top three buttons are undone, exposing his collarbones and a hint of his chest, and the way the material catches the light makes your mouth go dry.

“These are gorgeous, thank you.” You take the flowers from him—red and white roses, your favorites, which means he remembered—with a kiss to his cheek and move to the kitchen to place them in a vase with water. Your hands are steadier than you feel as you arrange them, hyperaware of his presence behind you, the weight of his gaze.

“Not as gorgeous as you,” he murmurs against your temple.

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress your smile as you continue to arrange the flowers carefully before placing them on the counter where you can see them.

When you turn back, he’s still watching you with that look that makes your stomach flip.

“Come on,” you say, gesturing toward your bedroom. “I still need to finish getting ready.”

He follows, settling onto your bed in that way he does; legs spread just enough to be distracting, one arm propped behind him, looking like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there.

You move back to your vanity, trying to focus on putting in your second earring, but you can feel his eyes on you in the mirror. Tracking every movement.

“You’re staring,” you say without looking at him directly.

“Can you blame me?”

Your eyes find his in the mirror, and something about the way he’s looking at you—hungry but patient, like he’s content to just watch you exist—makes heat pool low in your belly. Your mouth speaks before you can stop yourself.

“Unbuckle your belt and unzip your pants.”

There’s a beat of silence. “What?”

“You heard me.” You turn on your heels, the satin of your dress whispering against your skin as you face him fully. “Or are you going to pretend like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing, showing up an hour early and dressed like lust incarnate?”

You walk toward him slowly, deliberately, watching the way his throat works as he swallows. The deep-cut back of your dress matches his aesthetic perfectly—the two of you look like vampire royalty, all dark elegance and barely restrained hunger.

He smirks, but his hands don’t move. “What are you planning?”

“To suck your cock.”

The bluntness of it makes his eyes darken further, his pupils blown wide. You stop in front of him, leaning forward with your hands on his thighs, giving him a perfect view down the front of your dress. No bra—just you and the slippery satin and the promise of what’s underneath.

“Unless you’d rather just sit there looking pretty?” you murmur, your voice dropping to something darker, more teasing.

“We have reservations,” he says, but his voice is rough, strained.

“In an hour.” Your hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the buckle of his belt. “Plenty of time.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then his hands are moving, unbuckling, unzipping, giving you what you want because he always does. Always will. The metallic clink as he unbuckles it sends a thrill through you. He unzips his pants, lifting his hips just enough to push them down slightly, and the sight of him—already half-hard and straining against his boxer briefs—makes your mouth water.

You sink to your knees between his legs, and the look on his face—reverent and wrecked and completely gone for you—makes every second worth it.

“Someone’s eager,” you observe, trailing one finger along the outline of him through the fabric.

His hips jerk involuntarily. “You can’t say shit like that and expect me not to be.”

You smile, slow and satisfied, the carpet is soft beneath you, and the way he’s looking down at you—pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast—makes you feel powerful.

“We’re going to be late,” he manages, even as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with surprising tenderness.

“Then we’ll be late.” You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them down just enough to free him. “Besides, you showed up early. This is on you.”

Whatever response he has dies on his lips the moment yours wrap around him.

The restaurant he’s chosen is intimate and upscale, the kind of place with candlelight and wine lists that read like novels. You’re grateful you touched up your makeup in the car, though Hyunjin had watched you do it with a satisfied smirk that suggested he wasn’t sorry at all for the delay.

“Stop looking so smug,” you tell him as the host leads you to your table.

“I’m not smug. I’m content. There’s a difference.”

“Mmhm.” But you’re smiling too as he pulls out your chair for you, ever the gentleman despite what happened less than an hour ago.

Dinner is perfect. He’s charming and attentive, asking about your research with genuine interest, actually listening to your answers instead of just waiting for his turn to talk. He asks follow-up questions, remembers details you mentioned weeks ago, makes connections you hadn’t even considered.

He tells you about his classes; about the choreography project that’s been consuming him, the way movement can tell stories that words can’t. He talks about his friends with obvious affection, about his plans after graduation (vague and artistic and somehow perfectly him), about the contemporary dance company he’s been considering auditioning for.

The conversation flows easily, punctuated by his terrible jokes that still somehow make you laugh, by the way he reaches across the table to steal bites from your plate, by the comfortable silences that don’t feel awkward at all.

“This is nice,” you say over dessert, watching him fight with a particularly stubborn piece of chocolate cake after finishing your tiramisu.

“Yeah?” He grins, victorious as he finally gets the fork to cooperate. “Told you I could do dates.”

“Don’t get too cocky.”

“Too late,” he says, but his eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners with genuine happiness. “Besides, you like it.”

You do. God help you, you really do. You like his confidence, his humor, the way he looks at you like you’re something precious. You like how he makes you feel—desired and seen and worth the effort. You like how he remembers small details you’ve mentioned in passing, how he laughs at your sarcasm instead of being put off by it.

“Maybe,” you concede, stealing his hard-won bite of cake just to watch him protest.

He gasps in mock outrage. “Betrayal! Treachery!”

“Should’ve eaten faster.”

“You’re terrible,” he says, but he’s laughing, flagging down the waiter to order a second dessert, and when it arrives, he makes a big show of guarding it from you.

The drive home is quieter, softer. His hand finds yours on the center console, fingers intertwining, and you let yourself enjoy the simple intimacy of it. The city lights blur past the windows, painting streaks of gold and red across the darkness, and you feel oddly at peace.

When he drops you home that night, he walks you to your door like a perfect gentleman. Kisses you with a sweetness that makes your chest ache, all soft lips and gentle hands framing your face. He pulls back before it can turn into more, before either of you can get swept away, and the restraint in his eyes tells you how much it costs him.

“New Year’s Eve,” he reminds you, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. “I’ll pick you up at nine?”

“I’ll be ready.”

He kisses you once more, quick and sweet, before stepping back. “Wear something eye catching. My friends are going to love you but I want them to be a little jealous too.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Goodnight, Hyunjin.”

“Goodnight, beautiful.”

And as you watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, turning back once to flash you that devastating smile, you realize you’re actually looking forward to it; to meeting his friends, to being by his side, to whatever this thing between you is becoming.

You’re definitely in trouble.

But maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.

Inside, you lean against the door, fingers touching your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his kiss. The flowers he brought sit on your counter, beautiful and bright, and your phone buzzes with a text.

Hyune🥟🥰: Already missing you You: You just left Hyune🥟🥰: Doesn’t change anything Hyune🥟🥰: Dream about me

You smile, biting your lip, and type back:

You: Bold of you to assume I don’t already

Your phone rings immediately, his name flashing on the screen and when you answer you can hear the grin in his voice.

“Now who’s being cocky?”

“Learned from the best,” you counter, moving through your apartment, already starting your nighttime routine.

“I really did have a good time tonight,” he says, and the softness in his voice catches you off guard.

“Me too.”

“Even the part where you made us late?”

“Especially that part.”

His laugh is warm and rich through the phone. “I should let you sleep. But I’m serious about New Year’s. You’re going to have fun, I promise.”

“I believe you.”

“Good.” A pause. “Sweet dreams.”

“You too.”

After you hang up, you go through the motions of getting ready for bed, but your mind keeps drifting back to him—the way he looked at you, the way he listened, the way he kissed you goodbye like it hurt to leave.

Yeah. You’re definitely in trouble.

But as you slip between your sheets, your phone on the nightstand still warm from talking to him, you can’t bring yourself to mind.

New Year’s Eve

Hyunjin is nervous.

This is stupid—he’s not a nervous person. He’s confident, self-assured, usually has no problem with social situations. But tonight feels important in a way he can’t quite articulate.

He’s bringing his pussy fairy to meet his friends.

He really needs to stop calling you that, even in his head. But the nickname stuck after that first night back in spring, when he’d gone to your apartment thinking it would be like every other hookup; good sex, pleasant enough conversation, then he’d bounce and never think about it again.

Except he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.

The way you’d looked at him like he was more than just a pretty face. The way you’d argued with him about symbolism in The Great Gatsby while you ate shitty takeout at 2 AM, actually engaging with his points instead of just agreeing or trying to move things along to more sex. The way your thighs had felt wrapped around his head, soft and perfect, the way you’d tasted—

Yeah. He’d been fucked from the start.

He’d convinced himself it was just the sex. Just really, really good sex. That’s all. He wasn’t that gone after one night.

So he’d shown up again in early summer, making up some excuse about being in the neighborhood. Went there specifically to prove to himself that it wasn’t as good as he remembered, that he’d built it up in his head. That the way you tasted, the sounds you made, the soft give of your thighs under his hands—he’d exaggerated all of it in his memory.

Except it was better. So much better. He’d spent hours between your legs that night, worshipping at the altar of your body, drunk on the taste of you, the way you pulled his hair—that had started growing out—and gasped his name. And when you’d kicked him out the next morning with some excuse about work, he’d gone home and immediately started planning how to see you again.

The third time, late summer, he’d finally admitted to himself that he was completely fucked.

Because it wasn’t just about the sex—though christ, the sex was incredible. It was everything. The way you challenged him intellectually, never letting him coast by on his looks or charm. The way you laughed at his stupid jokes, this surprised little giggle like you didn’t expect to find him funny. The way you fit against him afterward, soft and warm and perfect, even as you were already planning how to politely kick him out.

Each time you’d basically ushered him out the door the next morning with some variation of “Don’t you have class?” or “I’ve got work to do,” and each time it had stung more. Like you were trying to keep him at arm’s length, to pretend it meant nothing.

But he knew better. Had felt the way you held onto him, the way you’d whispered his name like a prayer when you came.

After that third time, he’d tried to move on. Went on a few dates, let people buy him drinks at parties, even made out with someone in a club bathroom before his brain conjured images of you—the soft curves of your body, those gorgeous thighs, the breathy way you said his name—and he had to stop.

Not even his own hand worked anymore. He’d lie in bed trying to jerk off to porn, to memories of past hookups, anything but his brain would just slide right back to you. The way your stomach felt under his palm, soft and warm. The way you’d bite your lip when you were close. The taste of you on his tongue, better than anything he’d ever had, addictive in a way that terrified him.

He’d become obsessed. Started following your Instagram, saving your photos. That selfie in the library? He’d stared at it for twenty minutes, memorizing the curve of your smile, the way your hair fell. Started “coincidentally” showing up at places you frequented. The coffee shop where you did your grading. The restaurant near your apartment.

And yeah, he’d started sabotaging your dates. He’s not proud of it, but he also wasn’t about to let some undeserving asshole sweep in when he knew—knew with absolute certainty—that he could make you happy. That he could worship you the way you deserved, spend hours learning every curve and dip of your body, make you understand that every inch of you was exactly what he wanted.

Because it was. God, it was.

He knows you’re insecure about your size. He’s seen the way you try to hide sometimes, turning off lights or angling your body. Like he isn’t completely obsessed with your softness, with the way your thighs bracket his head perfectly, with how his hands look against the curve of your hips. Like he doesn’t dream about those thighs, about burying his face between them and staying there for hours, sipping the ambrosia you provide like a man dying of thirst.

If worshipping your body means getting on his knees and begging for the privilege of tasting you—well, that’s nobody’s business but his.

There was no one meeting him at that café all those nights ago and he knew you knew that. He’d sat there for over an hour, coffee going cold, watching you through the window with that forgettable guy who didn’t even make you genuinely smile. Waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt, to remind you that you already had someone who would move heaven and earth just to make you laugh.

His friends called it unhinged. He preferred “strategic dedication.”

But it had worked. You’d finally agreed to a real date and it had been perfect—you’d been perfect, laughing at his jokes and engaging with his questions and looking at him like he mattered—and now he gets to bring you to this party and show you off to his friends and maybe, just maybe, wake up with you tomorrow without getting kicked out.

He checks his phone: 8:47 PM. He’s early. Again.

chill, Felix texts him. she already said yes. stop spiraling

Hyunjin:  I’m not spiraling Felix: you’ve texted me 6 times in the past hour asking if your outfit looks okay Hyunjin:…fair Felix: just be yourself. she clearly likes you

Hyunjin hopes that’s true. He takes a deep breath and heads to your door.

When you opens it, he forgets how to breathe for a second. You’re wearing this skirt—black and pleated that hugs every single one of your curves before it flares out—and your hair is down and you’re smiling at him, actually smiling, and fuck, he’s so gone for this you.

“Hey,” you says. “You’re early...again.”

“Couldn’t wait,” he admits, offering his arm. His eyes trace over you appreciatively, cataloging every curve highlighted by that outfit. “You look incredible. Like—fuck, I don’t even have words. You’re perfect.”

You take his arm and he tries not to think about how right it feels, how natural. How much he wants this all the time; picking you up, taking you places, having you by his side.

The party is already in full swing when y’all arrive. Music thumping, people everywhere, the chaotic energy of New Year’s Eve in full effect. Hyunjin keeps you close, hand on your lower back as he navigates through the crowd. Possessive, protective, mine.

“You okay?” he asks, leaning down so you can hear him over the noise.

“I’m good,” you say, and squeeze his hand.

His heart does something complicated in his chest.

His friends are gathered in the living room—Felix, Seungmin, Han, a few others. They look up when Hyunjin approaches and he sees the moment they clock who he’s brought. Felix’s eyes go wide, Han grins knowingly, and Hyunjin feels his ears go hot.

“Yo!” Felix stands, grinning. “Finally! We were starting to think you ditched.”

“I told you we’d be here,” Hyunjin says, pulling you closer. His hand slides from your lower back to your hip, thumb tracing absent circles. Mine. “Everyone, this is—”

“We know who she is,” Han interrupts, amused. “You literally haven’t shut up about her for months.”

Hyunjin feels his ears go red. “I haven’t been that bad.”

“You literally have a whole folder of restaurant recommendations saved specifically for taking her on dates,” Seungmin points out. “And you’ve been planning this party outfit for a week.”

“You also practiced your introduction in the mirror,” Han adds helpfully.

“Traitors,” Hyunjin mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it. “All of you.”

You’re laughing though, that surprised giggle he loves, and it makes the embarrassment worth it. Watching you smile, hearing you laugh—he’d endure far worse for that.

“It’s nice to meet you all properly,” you say, and Hyunjin watches his friends immediately warm to you. Felix offers you a drink, Han makes room on the couch, and just like that you’re folded into the group like you belong there.

Like you belong with him.

Hyunjin doesn’t even think about it before sitting down and pulling you onto his lap. You make a small noise of protest, and he already knows what’s coming.

“Hyunjin, I’m heavy—”

“You’re perfect,” he interrupts, arms wrapping around your waist. His hand splays across your stomach—that soft, gorgeous stomach he dreams about kissing, about resting his head on—and something possessive and warm spreads through his chest. He loves this. The weight of you, the softness, how perfectly you fit against him. “Don’t start that shit. Not with me.”

He feels you relax incrementally, settling against him, and satisfaction curls through him. Good. He wants you comfortable. Wants you to understand that every single inch of you is exactly what he wants, what he craves, what he worships.

Because he does worship you. Has since that first night when he’d put his mouth on you and thought he’d found religion. The taste of you, the sounds you made, the way your thighs had trembled around his head—he’d been addicted instantly. Had gone back specifically to prove it was a fluke, that he’d built it up in his head, that no pussy could actually be that good.

But it was. You were. Is.

He dreams about it constantly. Dreams about lazy Sunday mornings spent between your thighs, about making you come so many times you forget your own name, about the weight of your thighs around his head and the taste of you on his tongue. Dreams about worshipping every curve, every soft inch of your body until you understand how fucking perfect you are.

If that makes him pussy-whipped, so be it. He’ll wear that label proudly.

The party flows around them. His friends chat and laugh, occasionally pulling them into conversation. Hyunjin keeps you close the entire time, unconsciously possessive, one hand always on you; your hip, your thigh, your waist. Under your skirt, his fingers trace patterns on your thigh, nothing obvious to anyone watching, just maintaining contact. Touching you. Claiming you.

He can’t help it. After months of wanting, of strategic “coincidences” and interrupted dates, of lying in bed alone wishing you’d let him stay; he finally has you here, on his lap, in front of his friends. He wants to touch you constantly, to remind himself this is real.

“So how’d you two actually get together?” Felix asks at one point. “Because Hyunjin’s been pining for months but he’s been real vague on details.”

“He stalked me,” you say, completely deadpan.

“I did not—”

“You interrupted three of my dates.”

“Strategically intervened,” Hyunjin corrects, fingers tightening on your thigh. “There’s a difference.”

“He also followed me on Instagram and started emailing me when I wouldn’t respond to his texts.”

Han chokes on his drink. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not,” both of you say at the same time.

“You’re insane,” Seungmin tells him.

“I’m dedicated,” Hyunjin corrects, completely shameless. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, breathing in your scent. “And it worked, didn’t it?”

“Debatable,” you say, but you’re smiling.

“You’re here,” he points out. “On my lap. At a party with my friends on New Year’s Eve. I’d say I won.”

His hand slides a bit higher on your thigh, still hidden by your skirt, and he feels your breath catch. He knows what he’s doing—teasing you, working you up slowly. He wants you desperate for him, wants you to feel even a fraction of what he’s felt for months.

The conversation moves on, but Hyunjin only half-pays attention. He’s too focused on you—the weight of you against him, the subtle shifts as you get more comfortable, the way you laugh at Felix’s jokes and engages with Seungmin’s questions about your research. The way his hands look against your skirt, spanning your waist, claiming you.

This could be his life. You on his lap at parties, meeting his friends, being part of his world. Mornings waking up between your thighs, lazy afternoons watching shows together, nights spent exploring every inch of your body. Showing you exactly how much he wants you, needs you, worships you.

He wants it so badly it physically hurts.

“You know,” Han says during a lull in conversation, grin wicked, “I’ve never seen Hyunjin like this with anyone.”

“Like what?” You ask, and Hyunjin can hear the curiosity in your voice.

“Whipped,” Felix supplies helpfully. “Absolutely pussy-whipped.”

Hyunjin doesn’t even try to deny it. His hand slides higher on your thigh, possessive. “And? Your point?”

“No point,” Seungmin says, amused. “It’s just nice to see you actually care about someone.”

And he does. So fucking much it scares him sometimes.

His hand continues its path up your thigh, fingers now tracing the edge of your underwear, and he feels you tense slightly. He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Relax,” he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear. “No one can see. Just want to touch you.”

“Hyunjin—” your voice is strained.

“You’re so soft here,” he continues, fingers dancing along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He loves this—the give of your flesh under his fingers, the warmth of your skin. “Love how you feel under my hands. Love that I get to touch you like this.”

“We’re in the middle of—”

“I know where we are.” His other hand splays across your stomach possessively. He can feel the soft curve of it, wants to kiss it, worship it. “Just reminding you that you’re mine. That all these curves, this perfect body, it’s mine to worship. Mine to taste. Mine to make come until you’re begging me to stop.”

He feels your breathing go shallow, feels the way you press back against him slightly.

“You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Thinking about the last time I had my face between these thighs. How I made you come three times before you finally pulled me up. How you tasted on my tongue.” Like heaven. Like home. Like everything he’s ever wanted.

“Hyunjin, I swear—”

“I could spend hours between your legs,” he continues, barely audible. “Have spent hours there. Would spend every day there if you’d let me. Tasting you, worshipping you, making you understand how fucking perfect you are.”

“Later,” he promises. “Later I’m going to take you home and remind you exactly why you agreed to give me a chance. Gonna spend hours between your legs until you forget your own name. Until the only thing you can say is mine.”

You turn your head slightly, meeting his eyes, and the heat there nearly undoes him.

“We either need to leave or find a room,” you mumble in his ear.

His brain short-circuits for a second. Then, “What?”

“You’ve been touching me for the past hour,” you say quietly. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve soaked through my underwear. So, unless you want me to sit on it right here and keep it warm…”

Oh fuck.

His cock, which has been half-hard for the past thirty minutes, goes fully hard in an instant. The mental image of you sitting on his lap, full of him, with all his friends around—

“Right here?” The words come out strangled.

You shift on his lap slightly, and it takes everything in him not to groan. “You can just slip it in. I’ll keep it nice and warm.”

Hyunjin goes completely still beneath you, his hands tightening on your thighs hard enough to bruise. He can feel his cock pressing insistently against your ass and the mental image you just painted has him seeing stars.

This is insane. You’re in the middle of a party. His friends are right here. Anyone could notice.

But God, he wants to. Wants it so badly he can barely think. Wants to be inside you, connected to you, claiming you in the most primal way possible while surrounded by people who have no idea.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Is that a no?”

His pussy fairy—his perfect, gorgeous woman—is suggesting they fuck right here, right now, with all his friends around.

The same woman who kicks him out every morning, who’s been holding him at arm’s length for months, who finally agreed to give him a real chance—is offering him this.

He should say no. Should take you somewhere private, do this properly. Prove he’s not just about the sex, even though his dick is currently screaming at him to take you up on the offer.

But the temptation is overwhelming. The thought of being inside you, of feeling you around him while he sits here pretending everything is normal—

“Han’s room,” he manages, voice wrecked. “Second floor, last door on the right. Go up there and wait for me. Five minutes.”

“Why can’t we—”

“Because if I stand up right now, everyone’s gonna see exactly how hard you’ve got me.” His teeth catch her earlobe. “And because I need a minute to figure out if I can actually do what you’re suggesting without losing my mind and fucking you in front of everyone.”

Heat floods through him at his own words. He wants to do this right, wants to prove he’s serious about you. But he also wants you so badly he can barely see straight. Wants to worship your body the way it deserves, wants to bury himself inside you and never leave.

“Five minutes,” you agree, and slide off his lap.

The loss of your weight, your warmth, is almost painful. He watches you excuse yourself—something about needing the bathroom—and tracks your movement across the room and up the stairs. His eyes follow the sway of your hips, the curve of your body in that outfit, and his mouth goes dry.

Felix leans over. “You good, man? You look like you’re dying.”

“I’m fine,” Hyunjin lies, discreetly adjusting himself. His cock is so hard it hurts, and all he can think about is you. “Just…need a minute.”

“Uh huh.” Felix’s grin is knowing. “Sure you do.”

Hyunjin counts down—four minutes, because he literally cannot wait the full five—before standing. “Be right back.”

He doesn’t wait for responses, just heads upstairs. His heart is pounding, blood rushing south, and he can’t believe this is happening. Can’t believe you suggested it, that you want him enough to risk this.

He finds Han’s room easily, slips inside, locks the door. You’re perched on the edge of the bed, and the sight of you sitting there waiting for him makes his mouth go dry.

His pussy fairy. His muse. His everything.

“You’re early,” you say, lips curving.

“Couldn’t wait.” He crosses the room in three long strides. “You’re really trying to ruin me, aren’t you? Sitting there looking innocent while suggesting the filthiest things.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Fuck no.” He’s on you immediately, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s all desperation. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. “Been thinking about you all night. About getting my mouth on you again, tasting you, making you fall apart on my tongue.”

He wants to drop to his knees right now. Wants to bury his face between your thighs and drink until you’re begging. Wants to worship you the way you deserve, show you exactly how obsessed he is with every inch of your body.

But there’s no time, and the promise of what you suggested—

He hooks his fingers in your underwear and, yeah, you weren’t exaggerating. They’re soaked through and the evidence of your arousal makes him groan.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pulling them down your legs. He brings them to his face for a second, inhaling your scent, before pocketing them. “You weren’t kidding. You’re dripping for me.”

“Your fault,” you reply breathlessly.

“Mine,” he agrees, already working his belt loose. “All mine. This perfect pussy, these gorgeous thighs, all mine to worship.”

He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance and he pauses to look at you.

“You really want to?” he asks. “Want to go back down there and keep me inside you?”

“Yes, please—”

He pushes in slowly, both of you groaning. Once he’s fully seated, he pauses, forehead pressed to yours. Taking a moment to just feel you; the heat of your cunt, the tight grip of your walls around him, the way you fit him so perfectly.

His pussy fairy. His muse. His everything.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”

He explains his plan; in ten minutes you both go back downstairs, you sit on his lap, keeping him warm while y’all chat with his friends like nothing’s happening. Your eyes go wide, dark with lust, and he knows he’s got you.

“You’re insane,” you say with a laugh.

“Crazy about you,” he corrects. “So what do you say? Think you can keep quiet?”

“Can you?”

Fair question. He’s not sure he can. The thought of sitting there, buried inside of you, surrounded by his friends while they have no idea; feeling your walls around him, warm and perfect, while he pretends to care about anything except how good you feel—

“Guess we’ll find out,” he says as he captures your mouth in a kiss.

This is insane. Unhinged. Absolutely fucking perfect.

And as he holds you close, feeling your warmth around him, Hyunjin knows with absolute certainty that he’s completely, irrevocably down horrendous for you.

Best decision he ever made.

“It’s been ten minutes,” you mumble against his neck when he still hasn’t moved.

“You feel good,” he whispers back. So good. Perfect. Like you were made for him. He never wants to leave this feeling—buried inside you, connected to you in the most intimate way possible.

“What happened to going back downstairs and having me sit on it? Don’t want your boys to know that you’re a simp?”

He pulls back to look at you, something fierce and possessive flaring in his chest. “Simp? Baby, I’ve been pussy-whipped since the first time I tasted you. They already know.”

“Then why are we still up here?”

“Because—” He rolls his hips experimentally and they both groan. “Fuck, because I’m trying really hard to behave and you feel so goddamn good that I’m about two seconds from saying fuck it and just pounding you into Han’s bed.”

“He would kill you.”

“Worth it,” he mutters but he’s already pulling out slowly, making them both whimper at the loss. He tucks himself back into his jeans, adjusting until you can’t really tell, then pulls your skirt back down. “Okay. Okay, we can do this. We’re adults. We have self-control.”

“Do we though?”

“No,” he admits with a slightly hysterical laugh. “No, we absolutely don’t. But we’re going to try anyway because I want to see if you can actually do it. Want to see you squirm on my lap trying to keep quiet while I’m buried inside you.”

He pulls you up, steadying you when your legs shake slightly. His hands smooth down your skirt, then slide around to cup your ass.

“No underwear,” he reminds you, voice rough. The thought of it—you walking back down there with nothing beneath your skirt except his cum when this is all over—makes him dizzy. “Lots of people down there and you’ve got nothing under this tiny fucking skirt except me when you sit back down.”

“Whose fault is that? You’re the one who took them.”

“And I’m keeping them,” he says smugly, patting his pocket. Another trophy. Another piece of evidence that you’re his. “Now come on, before someone comes looking for us.”

He leads you back downstairs, hand possessively on your lower back. A few people glance your way, but no one seems suspicious; just friends returning from wherever.

His spot on the couch is still empty, his friends still talking and laughing. The room is dimly lit, most of the light coming from colored LEDs and the occasional phone screen, the rest of the party having migrated to other areas of the house. Perfect. Dark enough for what you’re about to do.

Han looks up when they approach, grinning. “There you are! Thought you got lost.”

“Bathroom line,” you say smoothly and Hyunjin loves how easily the little white lie spills from your lips. How readily you’re going along with your insane suggestion and his plan.

He sits down first in the corner of the couch where it’s darkest, pulling you immediately onto his lap. You settle against him and he can feel your slight nervousness, your anticipation. His hands slide to your hips, adjusting your position, and then he shifts beneath you.

“What are you—” you start to whisper, but then he’s worked his cock free under you, hidden by the darkness and your skirt and then he’s guiding you back onto him with careful, subtle movements.

“Shh,” he breathes against your ear. “Just relax. Let me—”

The angle is different like this, and it takes a moment of careful adjustment; him lifting his hips slightly, you shifting your weight, both moving in tiny increments that look like normal fidgeting to anyone watching. The room’s darkness helps, shadows concealing the way his hand disappears under your skirt to line himself up properly.

Then he’s pushing inside, inch by torturous inch, and you have to turn your face into his neck to muffle the whimper that threatens to escape. He bites down on his own lip hard enough to taste copper, fighting the urge to groan at how fucking perfect you feel.

It feels like forever, this careful invasion, until finally he’s fully seated and you’re both trying to breathe normally. His hands settle on your waist, holding you still and he takes a moment to just revel in it; the heat of you, the tight grip of you around him, the knowledge that you’re doing this right here, right now, with everyone around you completely oblivious.

“Good girl,” he breathes directly into your ear, quiet enough that only you can hear. His hand splays across your stomach, feeling the soft curve there, grounding himself. “Now sit pretty and don’t move.”

He can feel your heart racing; can feel the way you’re trembling slightly. From arousal or nerves or both, he’s not sure but you settle against him, and fuck, you feel so good. So warm and tight and perfect around him.

This is insane. This is the craziest thing he’s ever done. And he’s never been more turned on in his life.

“I hate you,” you whisper back but it comes out shaky.

“No you don’t.” His lips brush your shoulder, innocent to anyone watching. “You love this. Love knowing that I’m inside you right now and nobody knows. That you’re completely filled with me while you’re making small talk with my friends.”

Felix is asking you something about your major and you have to focus, have to form coherent words while Hyunjin is thick, hard and long inside you, while every tiny shift makes you want to grind down.

“English Literature and Language Education,” you manage. “I’m—ah—” Hyunjin shifts slightly and you have to cover it with a cough. “I’m doing my Master’s.”

“That’s cool,” Felix says, oblivious. “Must be how you met Hyunjin then?”

“Yeah,” Hyunjin answers for you, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “She was the teaching assistant for my class. Couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

His hand slides up under your shirt, palm flat against your stomach, fingers splayed possessively. To anyone watching it just looks like he’s holding you, being affectionate. They can’t see the way his thumb is tracing patterns on your skin, the way every small movement makes him shift inside you.

“You okay?” Han asks, looking at you with slight concern. “You seem flushed.”

“Just warm,” you say quickly. “Lots of people.”

“Want me to grab you some water?” he offers, starting to stand.

“No!” You say it too quickly, too desperately, because if Han leaves that means attention on you and you’re not sure you can handle that right now. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

Hyunjin’s quiet laugh vibrates through you. His lips find your ear again. “Careful, Muse. Don’t want to seem too eager. They might figure out what we’re doing.”

“This was your idea,” you hiss back.

“And you suggested it first before I agreed to it,” he counters. “So now you’re going to sit here, full of my cock and be a good girl while I decide when I’m ready to take you home and fuck you properly.”

You’re going to die. You’re actually going to die right here on Hwang Hyunjin’s lap while his friends talk about nothing and he stays buried inside you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on your stomach even though his cock is literally throbbing inside you. “You’re doing so good, baby. So perfect for me.”

Another ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Conversation flows around you and somehow you participate, laugh at jokes, respond to questions, all while fighting the desperate need to move, to grind down, to get any kind of friction.

Hyunjin is iron control beneath you, not moving except for the occasional adjustment that makes you dig your nails into his thigh. His breathing is measured, his voice steady when he talks, giving absolutely nothing away.

“You’re evil,” you finally whisper when there’s a lull in conversation.

“You love it,” he whispers back. Then, louder, to his friends: “Actually, I think we’re gonna head out. It’s getting late.”

“It’s barely midnight,” Seungmin protests.

“Yeah, but we’ve got—” Hyunjin seems to search for an excuse, “—plans tomorrow. Early plans.”

“Plans. Right. Sure,” Han’s grin is absolutely knowing.

“Shut up,” Hyunjin mutters. He shifts you forward carefully, and you feel him slip out as you stand, biting back a whimper at the loss. He’s quick to adjust himself while you smooth down your skirt, both of you trying to look casual.

“Thanks for coming,” Felix says, and you manage a smile.

“Thanks for having me. Happy New Year.”

“Anytime!” Han calls as Hyunjin grabs both your coat and his jacket before he practically drags you toward the door. “Nice meeting you officially and Happy New Year too.”

The second you’re outside, Hyunjin has you pressed against his car, kissing you breathless.

“Home,” he growls against your mouth. “Now. Because I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

“Promise?” you ask breathlessly.

His answering smile is absolutely feral. “Oh, baby. That’s a guarantee.”

He fumbles with his keys, gets the car unlocked but the second you’re both inside he’s on you again. Kissing you desperately, hands everywhere and you’re crawling into his lap in the driver’s seat like you can’t bear even the distance between the front seats.

“We should—” you gasp between kisses, “—should drive—”

“Can’t,” he groans, already pushing your coat and skirt up. “Need you right now. Need to be inside you right fucking now.”

“Hyunjin, we’re in a parking lot—”

“Don’t care.” His hands find your ass, gripping hard, grinding you down against the obvious bulge in his jeans. “Need you too much. Been sitting there with you on my cock and I can’t, I need—”

You’re already reaching for his belt, as desperate as he is. “Backseat. At least the backseat.”

He practically shoves you off him, both of you scrambling into the back in a tangle of limbs that would be funny if you weren’t so desperate. The space is cramped but you make it work, Hyunjin pulling you back onto his lap as soon as he’s seated.

“Someone could see—” you start but he’s already pushing his jeans down, freeing himself.

“Tinted windows,” he says, pulling you up to position you over him. “And I parked in the back. No one’s gonna—fuck—”

You sink down onto him in one smooth motion and you both groan, loud and unrestrained now that you’re alone. The angle is deeper like this, the space forcing you close together and it’s perfect.

“Move,” he demands, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. His fingers dig into the flesh there, anchoring you. “Fuck, Muse, move…please—”

You do, riding him hard and fast, chasing the release you’ve both been desperate for. The car rocks with your movements, windows already starting to fog and neither of you care. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, marking you up while you bounce on his cock like your life depends on it.

“That’s it,” he groans, one hand sliding between you to find your clit. “Take what you need, baby. Use me. Fuck, you’re so perfect like this, so desperate for it—”

“Your fault,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. “Your fault for—ah—for making me sit there—”

“Worth it,” he pants, his other hand gripping your ass, helping you move, guiding you down harder onto him. “So fucking worth it to feel you like this now. So wet, so tight—been thinking about this the whole time—”

Your thighs are burning but you don’t stop, can’t stop, chasing the orgasm that’s been building since you first sat on his lap inside. His fingers on your clit are relentless, his cock hitting deep with every bounce, and you’re so close—

“Come for me,” he demands, voice strained. “Come on my cock, Muse. Let me feel it.”

You do, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you, clenching around him so hard he follows immediately with a string of curses and your name, spilling inside you while you both shake apart.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and satisfied and completely wrecked. The windows are completely fogged now, the car still rocking slightly with the aftermath.

“We’re never doing that again,” you mumble against his neck.

“Liar,” he says, but he sounds just as destroyed. “You loved every second of it.”

And God help you but he’s right. The thrill of it, the risk, the way he’d looked at you all night like he was barely holding himself back; it was intoxicating.

“We should probably get out of here before someone actually does see us,” you point out, still not moving.

“In a minute.” His arms tighten around you, holding you close. One hand strokes up and down your back, the other still resting on your hip. “Just…give me a minute.”

You let him have it, both of you catching your breath in the cramped backseat of his car. His touch is soothing now rather than demanding, and you feel yourself relaxing despite everything.

“That was insane,” you finally say.

“That was hot as fuck,” he corrects. “You, sitting on my lap with my cock inside you while my friends had no idea? That’s going in the spank bank for the rest of my life.”

You smack his chest but you’re laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like it.” He pauses, and there’s that vulnerability again, peeking through. “You like me.”

“Yeah,” you admit, because fuck it, you’re already in this deep. “I do.”

His smile is brilliant even in the dim light filtering through the fogged windows. “Good. Because I’m definitely not letting you go now.”

“Possessive bastard.”

“Your possessive bastard,” he corrects and kisses you soft and sweet, so different from the desperate claiming just minutes ago.

Eventually you do have to move, have to untangle yourselves and make yourselves presentable enough to drive. Hyunjin insists on taking you back to his place this time.

“Mine or yours?” he asks as he drives, one hand on your thigh. “Either way I want to wake up with you tomorrow. Actually wake up with you, not you kicking me out before I’m barely awake.”

“Yours.” You reply knowing he’s never going to let you live that down so you don’t argue, just let him drive you to his apartment. It’s small but clean, surprisingly organized for a college guy. He leads you straight to his bedroom and you’re barely through the door before he’s on you again.

This time is different. Slower. He undresses you carefully, reverently, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he reveals. Maps your body with his hands and mouth like he’s trying to memorize it.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “Can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

When he finally pushes inside you again, it’s slow and deep, his eyes locked on yours. One hand laces with yours above your head, the other cupping your face as he moves.

“Wanted this for so long,” he breathes, and there’s something raw in his voice that makes your chest tight. “Wanted you.”

You pull him down into a kiss, pouring everything you can’t say into it. He makes love to you like that—slow and thorough and achingly tender—until you’re both falling apart again, quieter this time but no less intense.

After, he cleans you up and pulls you into his arms, your back to his chest, his face buried in your hair.

“Stay,” he says quietly. “Not just tonight. Stay tomorrow too. Let me make you breakfast, take you on another date. Let me have you for the whole weekend and after that.”

You should say no. Should maintain some boundaries, some sense of self-preservation.

“Okay,” you say instead.

His arms tighten around you, and you feel him smile against your neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But you’re actually making me breakfast this time. None of this ordering in bullshit.”

His laugh is warm and fond. “Deal. I make a mean omelette.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“So competitive,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “It’s hot.”

“Everything is hot to you.”

“When it involves you? Yeah.” No shame, no hesitation. Just honesty. “You make me crazy, Muse.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” you admit quietly.

He shifts, turning you in his arms so he can look at you. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone.

“I know you’re scared,” he says softly. “I know this is complicated and I’m younger than you and people are going to have opinions. But I don’t care about any of that. I just care about you.”

Your throat feels tight. “Hyunjin—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts gently. “Just…give me this weekend. Let me show you how good this could be. And if at the end of it you still want to keep me at arm’s length, I’ll respect that. I won’t like it, but I’ll respect it.”

You study his face; the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability he’s showing you. This boy who could have anyone, who’s choosing you.

“This weekend,” you agree. “But Hyunjin? I’m already in deeper than I meant to be.”

His smile is soft, understanding. “Good. Because so am I, probably been this way since before we hooked up if I’m being honest.

“That was almost a year ago.”

“I know.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Took me months to work up the courage to even talk to you outside of class. A couple more to convince you to give me a chance. I’m playing the long game here, Muse.”

Something warm and terrifying blooms in your chest. “You’re really serious about this.”

“Dead serious.” He kisses you softly. “Now sleep. We’ve got a whole weekend ahead of us, and I plan to make the most of every minute.”

You let him pull you close, let yourself relax into his warmth. And for the first time in months, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could actually work.

“Hyunjin?” you murmur, already half-asleep.

“Mm?”

“You better not fuck this up.”

His laugh rumbles through his chest. “I won’t. Promise.Happy New Year,Muse.”

You whisper it back to him, wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, as you drift off to sleep with a smile on your face.

It happened three days later.

You’d just finished helping fold laundry when loud voices suddenly echoed from the living room.

“What happened to this?!”

Han’s voice thundered out of his room, he rushed to the living room with heavy step. You walked out instinctively to see what had happened. Minho, Chan, Changbin and Hyunjin gathered near the couch staring at something in Han’s hands. Your stomach dropped instantly.

A sweater.

Cream-colored.

Shredded badly across one sleeve.

The fabric looked clawed apart.

Han stared at it in disbelief. “This is my favorite sweater…”

Your ears lowered immediately. You recognized it. Han lent it to you three days ago because you said it smelled so nice and comforting with his scent on it. You remembered wearing it once before tossing it into the dirty laundry bin afterward.

That was it.

Before you could even process anything—

Jina suddenly appeared from the kitchen with the rest of the Maknaes. She’s there because Felix invited her to movie night and apparently they were preparing snacks and drink.

“Oh my god, what happened?” Her eyes widened dramatically seeing the sweater. “Han, isn’t that your favorite one?” Han only can nodded sadly still staring down the sweater in his hand.

“Yeah…”

Jina moved closer sympathetically and rubbed his shoulder. “Aww…”

Then—

Her gaze shifted toward you. Sharp.

“How could you do that to him?”

The room suddenly felt very still.

You blinked with confusion.

“…What?”

“He literally lent it to you because he was being nice.”

Your heartbeat stumbled.

“No, I didn’t—”

Jina tilted her head lightly.

“Then how did it get clawed up like that?”

Everyone’s eyes slowly drifted toward your hands.

Toward your nails.

Your stomach dropped violently. How could she accused you like that.

“I—”

“Only you have claws in here, and it's pretty obvious that poor sweater got clawed up” Jina continued softly, sounding like she's concern to others but not you.

Not loud but reasonable.

Which somehow made it worse.

The room suddenly felt suffocating.

Too many eyes.

Too much silence.

Your breathing turned uneven instantly.

“It wasn’t me,” you whispered.

But it sounded weak even to yourself.

Han looked conflicted.

Not angry.

Just confused.

“I mean…” he muttered softly, “maybe just be more careful next time?” looking at me with sad boba eyes. Accusation linger in his eyes.

Next time?

Like it was already decided that the culprit is really you.

Your chest constricted painfully.

“It wasn’t me,” you repeated.

Quieter now.

Your ears flattened low.

Nobody answered immediately.

Then softly—

Felix spoke.

“Maybe we should trim your nails a little, Sunny.”

You looked up instantly wide-eyed.

Your nails.

The nails the members once adored painting for you.

Chan choosing colors carefully.

Hyunjin decorating tiny gems onto them.

Felix holding your hands gently while waiting for polish to dry.

“You have such pretty hands,” they used to tell you.

Now—

Now your claws sounded dangerous and problematic. Something needing to be fixed.

You instinctively grabbed your own hands tightly.

Protectively.

“…Okay,” you whispered automatically.

Even though deep down you already knew you wouldn’t do it.

The room slowly dispersed afterward.

Conversation moving on awkwardly.

The other returning to the kitchen to grabbed the snack they prepared earlier.

Like nothing happened. But you remained standing there feeling so small and humiliated. Trying desperately not to cry over a stupid sweater.

Eventually only one person stayed behind.

Seungmin

You didn’t notice him approaching until he stopped directly in front of you.

Quietly, gently—

He slipped one hand beneath your chin. Lifting your face carefully. Your watery eyes met his. The other hand moved to your head. Softly petting between your ears.

Comforting.

Steady.

“Y/N.”

His voice stayed calm. Gentle.

“Tell me honestly.”

A whimper escape involuntarily from you.

“Was it really you?”

The question should’ve hurt.

Instead somehow it felt like relief.

Because unlike everyone else…

Seungmin sounded like he actually wanted the answer.

Not assumptions.

Not easy conclusions.

Just the truth.

Your eyes burned fiercely.

“It wasn’t me,” you said firmly this time.

Not small.

Not weak.

Just hurt.

Frustrated.

Certain.

Seungmin held your gaze for several long seconds.

Then nodded once.

“Okay.”

That was it.

No hesitation.

No doubt.

Just—

Okay.

And somehow that tiny bit of trust nearly made you cry harder than the accusations did.

He directed you to sit on a sofa with him, and draped a blanket to you.

After the sweater incident, something inside you quietly changed.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

Just slowly.

Like a candle burning lower and lower every day. You became more careful around the members after that. Too careful.

You watched your claws constantly now, fingers curling into your sleeves whenever someone got close.

You stopped casually leaning on them.

Stopped climbing into laps.

Stopped touching first.

Even your tail seemed quieter lately, no longer wrapping around wrists or brushing affectionately against their legs without thought.

The members noticed eventually. Just not in the way you hoped.

“Y/N, you’re acting weird.”

You nearly dropped the water bottles you were carrying at Felix’s words.

“I’m not weird,” you answered quickly.

Too quickly.

Felix tilted his head slightly.

“You’ve been avoiding everyone.”

“I’m not.”

But even you heard the weakness in your voice.

Because you were.

Not intentionally.

You were just… scared.

Scared of bothering them.

Scared of being annoying again.

Scared of accidentally doing something wrong.

So instead, you hovered at a distance now.

Still helpful.

Still smiling.

Still trying your hardest.

Just quieter.

Smaller.

You helped staff prepare stage outfits.

You organized schedules.

You cleaned endlessly.

You offered massages whenever practices ran late.

“Do your shoulders hurt?”

“Anyone want help stretching?”

“Chan, you’ve been hunched over too long.”

Sometimes they accepted.