𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩

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

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

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

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

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

this is what he gets for disrupting the routine.

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

an avoidable mistake. a sugar-fueled one.

“ji—slow down!”

but it’s too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

jiuen grins.

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

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

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

and that’s when he knows.

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

you’re about to ruin it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he clears his throat, once. then again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

brilliant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then, slowly, you lift your gaze.

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

forget about breathing.

jake thinks he forgets how lungs work. literally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you follow his gaze and smile, shaking your head.

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

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

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

she pouts. “but y/n needs help.”

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

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

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

jake’s head snaps up.

“ji—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he has no idea why he said that.

why. did. he. say. that.

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

“good to know.”

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

“bye, y/n!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i’ll see you around, jake.”

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

“yeah. see you around.”

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

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

jake learns that life goes on. it always does.

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

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

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

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

and it definitely isn’t him.

but you.

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

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

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

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

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

they make it exactly three steps down the hall.

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

jake freezes mid-step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“no!”

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

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

“shhh—ji—”

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

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

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

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

and then—

your door opens.

jake’s soul leaves his body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jiuen nods quickly.

the hallway suddenly feels very, very small.

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

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

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

and then jiuen’s face lights up instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i can help,” you offer.

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

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

jake lets out a small laugh, defeated.

fair. 

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

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

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

jake chokes on absolutely nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he huffs a laugh before he can stop himself.

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

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

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

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

you gasp at her. “a rebel.”

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

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

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

you just smile back, innocent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but to you.

jake’s throat tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your door closes with a gentle click.

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

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

and nearly jumps out of his skin.

“—JESUS, ji—”

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

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

jake ignores her. “why are you staring.”

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

“for what?”

“for you.”

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

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

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

“she’s really pretty.”

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

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

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

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

“that wasn’t an answer.”

he exhales through his nose. then—

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

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

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

“i was not acting weird, what—”

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

“what thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

jake freezes.

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

“breakfast?” he repeats.

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

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

“she said she might come over again.”

“she said she’d think about it.”

jiuen hums, unbothered. “that means yes.”

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

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

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

“yeah,” he says quietly. “i know.”

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

me too.

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

jake blinks. “…feels nice?”

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

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

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

“mm?”

“you should be nice to her.”

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

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

jake closes his eyes again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and one cookie.

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

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

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

and then your door opens.

jake stops.

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

he does not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you look back.

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

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

jiuen’s smile stretches wide.

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

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

and that’s how it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jake pauses. 

he really should’ve seen this one coming. 

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

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

this is on him. absolutely his fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jake stops breathing.

oh. god.

there’s a collective pause.

then—

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

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

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

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

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

jake swallows.

hard.

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

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

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

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

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

“bye, daddy! bye, y/n!”

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

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

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

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

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

the words settle between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you adjust your earbuds, already moving to turn away.

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

and he really hopes it did.

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

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

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

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

but this? this, he knows.

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

jake understands something with nothing but clarity.

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

and that jake doesn’t just want movie night.

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

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

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

jake is at a crossroads.

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

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

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

it’s movie night.

and jake is painfully aware of two things:

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

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

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

and yet.

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

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

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

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

“y/n’s here!”

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

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

and then jake stops.

because there you are.

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

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

jake forgets how to blink.

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

jake’s brain was not built for this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then the other side.

“and daddy here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jake tries not to think about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he fails.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“goodnight, princess,” you whisper.

something in his chest cracks open.

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t move away.

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

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

slowly and carefully, he leans in.

he watches you swallow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“daddy?”

jiuen’s voice cuts through the moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“goodnight, jake.”

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

so jake doesn’t really know how this works.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but now, he doesn’t know what to do.

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

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

shit.

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

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

he wonders if you’re okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then the door swings open, and there you are.

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

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

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

of course he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he looks at you. nods.

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

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

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

he swallows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and that’s when everything breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“jake, please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you look absolutely wrecked.

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

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

reality rushes in quickly.

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

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

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

“y/n—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“and then…you guys didn’t talk—”

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

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

“pretty much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jake frowns. “i didn’t say that.”

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

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

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

jake goes still.

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

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

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

and now here you are.

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

and that’s exactly what scares him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

jake just looks at him.

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

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

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

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

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

jake doesn’t sleep much after jay leaves.

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

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

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

and it all almost works. almost.

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

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

jake looks up before he can stop himself.

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

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

jiuen lights up instantly. “y/n!”

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

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

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

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

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

jake straightens up instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jake cuts in before he loses his nerve.

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

the word lands.

you stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jake almost flinches.

“that’s not what i meant.”

“but that’s what you said.”

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

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

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

he doesn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

jake looks up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

there’s a long pause.

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

“right,” you say. “i get it.”

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

you step down the hall.

“i guess i’ll see you around, jake.”

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

it was his fear.

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

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

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

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

“tomorrow?”

“she’s busy, ji.”

jiuen hums, not pushing. “okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jake freezes. “what?”

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

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

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

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

jake doesn’t answer. because so did he.

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

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

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

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

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

saturday night comes with a knock at his door.

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

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

it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

“i tried not to come here.”

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

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

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

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

“y/n—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck—jake—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“jake—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh my god—jake, gonna cum, gonna—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“stay with me tonight, yeah?”

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

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

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

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

you show up with your keys in hand, hair twisted into a messy knot from your long day. you kick your shoes off by the door without thinking and they land next to jake’s, tipping one over. and the kitchen eventually fills with the kind of smell that settles into the walls. butter and garlic and something else that’s warm and soft that doesn’t feel like it comes from a recipe.

jiuen hums to herself as she sits at the table, swinging her legs, erasing the same spot over and over again because she likes the squeaky sound the eraser makes. you’re in the kitchen, next to jake and rambling about the most recent thing your coworker did at work to piss you off when you lean over and dip a spoon into the pan he's stirring. you taste it, squint a little, then tilt your head.

“hmm,” you smack your lips. “needs salt.”

jake has already stopped.

he’s just standing there, wooden spoon frozen in his hand, watching the way you continue to move in his kitchen like it’s yours too, now. the way your hair falls out of the messy knot at your neck, soft pieces catching the light. the way you’re wearing one of his sweatshirts—too big in the shoulders, sleeve bunched up so they don’t cover your hands—like you changed into it the second you came home without even thinking about whose it was.

jake feels it then. the quiet, steady shift in his chest, like something finally settling where it was always supposed to go.

you notice and stop what you’re doing, the sink running behind you where the vegetables you were washing sit abandoned now. you glance up at him, a curious smile already tugging at your mouth. “…salt, jake.”

“salt,” he repeats, but his eyes don't move from yours, like the word is foreign to him. like he forgot what the two of you were even doing in this room. he doesn’t move.

your eyes peer with amusement, your cheeks now a degree warmer. you move to close the distance, reaching past him to grab the salt from the cabinet. when you press it into his hand, your fingers linger for a half a second too long.

“there,” you murmur. “salt, in case you forgot what that is.”

jake looks at the salt in his hand. then at you. then, without really planning to, because jake is still jake and doesn’t really think sometimes—

“i love you.”

and the world doesn’t stop. the sink keeps running behind you. something sizzles on the stove. jiuen’s quick footsteps creak somewhere down the hall. the salt still sits in jake’s hand. so the world doesn’t stop, not exactly. but you do.

you turn back to him slowly, like you want to make sure you heard him right. there’s already a smile pulling at your mouth, impossible to hold back.

“yeah?” you ask, soft and quiet, almost teasing.

jake nods, like he’s confirming something for himself even though he's pretty sure he's known all along.

“yeah.”

you just stare at him for a moment. only for a moment, before you close the distance and your hands find their way around his neck and into his hair, and you kiss him. right there in the middle of the kitchen, with the sink still dripping and the smell of burnt garlic in the air because jake didn’t listen and left the stove on for too long earlier. and it’s just a simple, soft press of your mouth against his. warm and easy and familiar. yet jake still fumbles and drops the salt on the counter with a clatter he absolutely does not care about as his hands settle on your hips, pulling you in just enough.

he kisses you back slow, fighting back the smile against you, his fingers pressing in gently to hold you in place. like he’s got nowhere else to be. like he plans on staying right here for a long time.

”—DADDY WHERE DID YOU PUT MY BACKPACK?”

jake stops. he lets out a sound that lands somewhere between a laugh and a groan and drops his forehead against your shoulder. you’re already giggling, your hands still in his hair, your breath warm against his cheek. you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes bright before you give him one more quick, soft kiss.

“i love you,” you say. jake grins.

then you turn and call out, “coming, princess! check mine and daddy's room, ji.”

jake laughs under his breath, low and fond, and squeezes your hips once more before letting you go. he watches you disappear down the hall like it’s the most normal tuesday in the world.

so yeah. they say having kids will change your life. but they don’t tell you many things about having them.

they don’t teach you how to do braided pigtails without watching three youtube videos and still messing up. they don’t explain how to stay calm when you realize your three-year-old can be allergic to strawberries but somehow stay immune to falling off the couch. they don’t tell you how much money to leave as the tooth fairy, or how to sneak a bill under the pillow of a light sleeper, for that matter.

they don’t warn you that one day, your hallway will start to smell like citrus shampoo and butter and garlic. that there will be an extra pair of shoes by the door that aren’t yours or your daughter’s. that your fridge will slowly fill with things you didn’t buy—oat milk you’ll never drink, a bottle of hot sauce you pretend you can handle, a half-eaten container of ice cream that’s now a must have on every friday’s movie nights.

they don’t tell you that home can change shape without you realizing.

it happens in the small ways first.

in the way jiuen starts calling your apartment “the other house.” in the way that jake learns, somewhere between aisle seven and the checkout lane, that different pasta shapes actually matter to you—not for any logical reason, but just because you like how farfalle looks like little butterflies on plates and that makes jiuen smile. in the way movie nights turn into mornings, and mornings turn into you standing in the kitchen in one of his shirts, arguing about whether pancakes count as a balanced breakfast if there’s fruit involved.

it happens in the quiet.

in the way he learns the sound of your keys in the hallway. in the way you learn which floorboard outside jiuen’s room creaks and how to step around it on bare feet at two am. in the way you’ve gotten used to the one cushion that sinks a little too much on the couch and yet find it more comfortable that way—your body naturally curling into the dip, jake’s arm stretched along the back, fingers idly tracing soft patterns on your shoulder on purpose this time while jiuen snoozes away between you.

it happens in the soft moments.

in the way jake lets himself lean into you when he’s tired, head dropping to your shoulder after a long day, face buried into the crook of your neck, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo and the warmth of you like it’s the only thing keeping him stable. in the way you naturally turn toward him in your sleep, your body seeking his even in your dreams, head against his chest, one leg sliding between his, hands fisting loosely in his shirt while he holds you close, palm splayed wide over the small of your back, fingers making lazy circles until your breathing evens out against his collarbone.

and it happens in the intimate moments.

in the way jake knows exactly what makes you feel good—the precise angle that makes your back arch off the mattress, how the slow, deep grind has you gasping his name into his shoulder so jiuen doesn’t hear, exactly how much pressure you like when his thumb circles your clit, in the way he knows the hitch in your breath when he sucks a bruise into the skin beneath your ear, knows how to whisper good girl against your pulse when you’re nearly close to breaking, how to pin your wrists above your head just firm enough that you melt under him, trusting him completely.

in the way you let him fill you completely—each and every time, and he’ll still check, voice low and rough but still nonetheless soft—”you okay baby?” “gonna fill you up, yeah?” “my perfect pretty momma”—even when he’s buried deep inside you, hips rolling slow and deliberate, sweat slicking the space between your bodies, the sheets tangled around your ankles.

in the way you reach for him in the dark after, fingers threading through his, legs still trembling as he pulls you against his chest, lips brushing your temple, murmuring soft nothings until you drift off again, safe and full and his.

and maybe that’s the part they don’t really tell you.

that home isn’t the walls, or the lease, or the schedule you've built for yourself over the years. sometimes, it’s a five-year-old asleep in the middle of the bed, a half-finished bowl of ice cream melting slowly on the nightstand, and you—on the other side of her, already drifting off, fingers in her hair, looking like you chose this. like you chose her. and like you chose him.

and jake thinks, while watching his future fall asleep in front of him, that maybe this is the thing he’s been looking for all along. not just a life. not just a routine. but something that looks a lot like you.

something that looks a lot like home.

꩜｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ & as always,,,,tytytyty for reading! mwahmwahmwah!

⤷ full m.list ⭑ perms ⭑ mail ˎˊ˗

The sky was perfect, the water your favorite shade of blue as you looked out the window of your boyfriend, Jay’s, private plane.

He had surprised you with a trip to your dream vacation spot, Italy. You've told him multiple times you had to go claiming you wanted an “Italian summer”, but with him being so busy with work he hadn't had time. 

Even if the reason is a business trip, Jay still wants to spend as much time with you as possible, he loves seeing you happy.

“What do you think baby?” He asks, tone calm and collected as he looks at you, he's seated across from you. Even though the plane is way too big for the two of you, and he has plenty of room, he still chose the seat closest to you. 

“It's beautiful, I can't wait to visit the city!” You say with a big smile on your face, his eyes gleam with pride as he admires the way your excitement radiates off of you.

Jay likes knowing he can please his girlfriend, whether it's with acts of service, gift giving, which he does a lot of, or intimately. 

To say your boyfriend was rich was quite the understatement, he had the kind of wealth that people could only dream of, with him being the owner of his family's company, passed down for generations. 

From houses across the world, to luxury cars, he truly had it all. However, his most prized possession was you.

Jay knows you're a smart girl, but damn you can be clueless. You don't notice the way men flirt when he isn't looking, only to shy away the second he puts his hand around your waist, leaving you confused wondering why your “new friend” had just walked away. 

He aims to please, so even if you do wear those slutty outfits that make him ridiculously hard as you show them off, he just wants to see you happy. 

His eyes roam over you, sitting in his plane, in the clothes he bought you, freshly done hair, and nails that he paid for. One thing was for sure, and that was he loves spoiling you.

You don't even notice him watching the way your tits bounce in that tiny sundress you insisted on wearing, the slight turbulence making them look all the more irresistible 

No bra either? God, you're clueless. His eyes dip to the way your legs are crossed, to your fresh pedicure, before back up to your face, admiring your features as you look out the window in awe.

“The air feels so different here, dare I say better than seattle” you smile as you and Jay walk to the drivers car, watching as the familiar face puts your 5 suitcases in the trunk. Yes, you needed that much, plus storage for when you buy stuff!

“Just way till you see the house, pretty girl” He says, hand on your lower back as he opens the car door for you, sliding in the back seat beside you. He rests his hand on your plush thighs, exposed more since your sitting down.

“I like this dress on you.” He says pressing a light kiss to your lips, while his hand moves farther up your leg, thumb brushing over your inner thigh “Jay-” you breath out, like this small touch has already wrecked you.

He moves his other hand up to lightly brush over your nipples, chuckling at the way they harden beneath his touch. “Its quite thin though, don't you think?” He flicks the sensitive pebble, licking his lips as your breathing becomes uneven.

Your both pulled from the moment when you hear the drivers door open, then shutting with a soft close, Jay retracts his hands from your body, not missing the quiet whine you let out.

“To the Park estate sir?” the driver asks

“Yes, roll the windows down as well.” Jay says, voice oddly calm after what he just did to you. You’re still flustered, cheeks slightly pink as the windows roll down, letting the fresh air wash over your face.

–

You spent the whole ride looking out the window, pointing out all the pretty buildings to Jay, his hand rested on your leg, casually, like always.

There was a certain heat to it though, one you tried to ignore by closing your legs. But he noticed. He always notices small things like that

“Oh my God, T-this is incredible” You say stepping out of the car, not bothering to wait for someone to get the door as you admire the large building before you, because there was no way this could be considered a house.

“I knew you'd love it baby” He says coming behind you to guide you to the door

You practically run in, trying to take it all in at once, this had to be the most beautiful house you've seen yet, but your favorite part was when you walked outside.

“Jay! You didn't tell me it had a pool!” You say running outside, taking off your sandals to feel the water temperature. He comes outside with you, watching the way you roam around so freely, he adores it.

“I guess I forgot, I haven't been here in a while” He says smiling at you

You walk back over to him, the biggest smile on your face, as the sun shines on your skin, making you glow.

You wrap your arms around his neck, giving him the biggest hug, he laughs into your hair. “You want to see the room?” He says before leading you up the spiral stairs, and you swear you gasp

“The view Jay- Oh my gosh I could cry” You smile walking out to the balcony before turning to look at him

“The bed too!” You say before jumping to sit on it, watching him as he walks over to you

“Are you glad I brought you here?” He asks standing in front of you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear

He can already feel his cock hardening at the sight of you like this, looking up at him with those doe eyes.

“Mhmm” You mumble hands placed on the bed, not missing the way his print becomes evidently more visible in his business pants.

“So, you're gonna be a good girl for me then right?” He asks, voice low

You nod 

You watch as he rubs his thick cock through his pants, teasing himself and you. Your heart beats fast as he goes to unbutton them

-Ring-Ring-Ring-

He pauses reaching to get his phone in his back pocket but you stop his hand “please- I want it” You say biting your lip

“Fuck-” He closes his eyes before opening them again, then stepping back, the warmth of his body gone in a second. You watch as he picks up the phone, holding it to his ear.

“Shit- there at the building now?” Jay says fingers rubbing his forehead in annoyance “Earlier than never my ass. They were supposed to come in a fucking week!” He says, you watch, still in the same position on the edge of the bed, the anger simmering off him.

“You think I don't understand what a big deal this is for us?” He says, tone stern, you can't help the wetness forming between your thighs, he's always so hot when he's mad.

“Im on my way now.” He says before hanging up the phone and sighing in frustration. He looks at you, frowning at the thought of having to leave you here alone, your first day here.

“Im sorry baby” He says walking back over to you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You don't say anything as he walks out of the bedroom, disappearing, leaving the huge house empty.

You glance down at your phone, reading the notification.

Jay sent: $5000 to your card

Your eyes widen at the amount before his text message comes through

Jay: Please forgive me baby

Jay: Get pretty, go shopping, and just text me if you want more okay?

You: It's okay, I understand you're here for business anyway

You: Thank you Jay

Hes already off his phone when you text back, walking into his international office headquarters, getting ready to cuss the fuck out of whoever told their most prized client to come a week early.

–

You tried to look on the bright side of this trip, you weren't going to let your time here go to waste. Jay had sent one of his assistants to help you carry your shopping bags, and linger behind as you enjoyed the beautiful scenery by yourself.

Walking down the streets, you see couples all around. You can't help but miss Jay, and wish he was here with you. It was getting darker, so you told the driver to take you back to the estate.

A part of you hoped Jay would be home when you got back, but he wasn't. “You can set the bags on the counter.” You say to his assistant

“Okay ma’am, is there anything else you need before I go back to the office?” The kind man asks “No thank you- actually do you have any idea when Jay will be back?” You ask eyes glinting with something faint of hope.

“Im sorry, I can't give a clear answer on that. I know they were slammed at the office. The clients from Australia weren't supposed to come so soon.” He says apologetically

You just nod, waiting for the front door to shut before walking back up the stairs. Your first night in Italy. Alone. 

You step into the shower, slightly hoping Jay would join you. But you knew he had important duties to fulfill. You lie down in the big bed, missing the warmth of his body beside you, before drifting off to a silent sleep.

Jay gets home later than he expected, he hopes you're still awake but frowns when he sees your peaceful form curled into the sheets.

He walks over to you, brushing a piece of hair from your face to look at your relaxed state. “I'm sorry princess, I'll make it up to you.” He whispers, forcing himself to walk away

–

You wake up to the sun shining through the windows, looking to your side to find no sign of Jay there.

Of course, work, he's probably already at his office anyway.

You walk over to the balcony, looking down at the pool that's been calling your name since you got here.

“Make the most out of it” you whisper to yourself

You get ready, changing into a bikini you bought just for this trip, it was white with gold detailing on it, fitting you just right. You knew Jay would love it, which is exactly why you bought it.

Grabbing your favorite pair of sandals, and a towel you make your way downstairs, the house being so large you could hear the faint sound of someone speaking on the phone.

Your eyes lit up as you walked into the kitchen to see him there sitting at the island, his laptop out and his phone on the counter as he talks

“Is dinner truly necessary?” He asks, rubbing his forehead in irritation.

“Sir- it's what he requested, said something along the lines of building a connection with his partners..?” The man says on the phone

He lets out a frustrated sigh “Make reservations for Saturday night then.” 

“For 4?” His assistant on the phone says

“Mr. Sim actually suggested bringing your partner, he's supposedly bringing his wife.” He adds

“The same woman who looked like she'd rather throw herself off the building's roof than be beside him?” Jay asks

“Thats the one.” His assistant chuckles

“Christ- fine. I'll let y/n know.” He says before hanging up and standing to go back to the bedroom.

He pauses as he looks at you

“Hi Jay” you say nervously under his gaze

“I didn't want to interrupt or anything-” 

His eyes roam shameless up your body, to the way your tits practically spill out of your tiny bikini top, to the swim bottoms, hugging your hips just right

“Come here baby” He says watching the way you flush under his gaze, You walk over to him, till you're directly in front of him

His hand snakes around your waist, feeling your warm skin before giving your ass a squeeze “Jay-” you let out through a giggle.

“Look at you” He says, towering over you “Wearing this tiny bathing suit- no, this is a mere scrap of fabric.” his finger traces your arm

“Did you get this for me princess?” He asks, slipping his hand lower, cupping your ass in his hand. You nod 

“Use your words” 

“Yes, I thought you would like it” You say breathlessly

He trails his finger, slowly running over your stomach, making you gasp. “So sensitive..” He says enjoying the way the goosebumps coat your skin. He cups your clothed cunt in his hand, making you let out a stifled moan as you bite your lip

“Should I fuck you right here? On the counter? I might just leave this cute bathing suit on too.” He says, grinding his palm to add friction between his hand and your pussy “Please- Jay” 

His free hand moves from your ass to push your bathing suit top down slightly just to see your hardened nipples. He pinches the sensitive pebble between his fingers, softly brushing, making you squirm

“What if I just fuck your tits right here instead? Make a mess on you?” He asks, enjoying the way you blush from his words. One thing about Jay is that he loved to whisper filthy things to you, especially during moments like this.

“I'd like you to..” You say looking up at him. “But what about your poor little pussy? You dont want me to fuck you with my fingers until you c-”

-Incoming call from Sim Jaeyun- 

 A robotic voice says, slicing the moment in half as Jay's eyes snap to his phone screen. “Shit-” he says before fixing your bikini top, and moving his hand from your core to grab his phone.

You whimper at the loss of contact “Im sorry baby- this keeps fucking happening.” He says apologetically, trying to push the feeling of his throbbing dick to the back of his mind.

You watch him as he puts the phone on speaker, sitting back down to open something on his computer. “Yes?” He says, snappier than intended.

“I wanted to inform you that our meeting was supposed to begin 7 minutes ago. But it sounds like I'm the one interrupting you Mr.Park.” You hear the amused australian voice echo in the kitchen as you walk past Jay.

“Im going to tan outside.” You say before walking away, he can feel the tension radiating off your body, cursing himself for not being able to take care of you properly.

“Oh, so I definitely interrupted..” Jake whispers to himself on the phone making Jays eyes flick back to the irritating client on his phone.

“I would suggest worrying about your own things Mr. Sim. Respectfully, let's get this meeting over with.” Jay says, resisting the urge to run outside to you.

– 

The next three days fly by, with Jay having to be present at the office you spend your days outside, soaking in the sun, going out to buy things you most definitely don't need, and sighing on the phone when he says he won't return to the estate until later, something about his aggravating client, you assume its the Australian one.

Which is why your sitting in bed, shirt pushed up your chest, underwear hanging on your leg as you pathetically attempt to get rid of the ache between your legs, nothing compares to how Jays hands would feel on you right now.

You stop before frustratingly screaming into your pillow and picking up your phone, finding Jays contact and hitting call.

You put the call on speaker and wait for him to pick up. He's in his private office at the top of the building when you call, lucky you.

Picks up first ring too.

“Hey baby, you need something?” He asks tone laced in sweetness. That makes your legs spread automatically, your fingers grazing over your inner thigh, breathing getting a little heavier.

“Jay-” you say through a pathetic whine. “Are you okay?” He asks, immediately stopping what he's doing on his computer.

“I- I was trying to touch myself but I can't finish without you here” you manage to let out, voice small. “I'm sorry baby, I haven't been there to take care of you.”

“You want me to talk you through it princess?” He palms his cock, his imagination running wild with what you look like right now. “Yes– just need to hear you” you say before rubbing small circles on your clit.

“Did I say you could touch yourself yet?” He interrupts you. You freeze, heart racing. “No..” you whisper into your phone.

“So why did you then, hm?” He asks, fully focused on you, completely discarding what he was previously working on, “Because I need you Jay..” you say, voice shaky. He chuckles “Alright baby, go ahead”

You rub tight circles on your clit, spreading your juices around, “Fuck- I can hear how wet you are” He says, squeezing his cock through his pants.

You let out small moans at his words. “Can you put your fingers in for me?” He says, voice like honey. “Y-yes” you whisper before slowly pushing your middle and ring finger in, letting out a moan with his name on your tongue.

“I want you to fuck your fingers like you do on my cock okay?” He says, resisting the urge to take his dick out and fuck his fist, but he cant do that, not here.

“Feels so good–Jay” you let out through your desperate moans, “Yeah baby? You gonna make a mess on your fingers?” He says encouragingly. Fucking your fingers faster, at the pace he would pound into you.

Your eyes roll as you ride out your orgasm, doing your best to pretend its Jay as he encourages you . “You’re such a good girl for me, I'm so proud of you” he says, and the praise makes you flush.

“Can you send me a picture of the mess you made, baby?” He asks biting his lip as his pants tighten even more. He hears the snap of the photo, your text message notification coming next, and he groans. Actually fucking groans at the sight of you, spread for him to see the mess between your legs.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me” You respond with a mumble, making him laugh a little, “Get some rest baby, we have that dinner tomorrow okay?” He says, waiting for your reply.

“Mhm” Is all you can get out, before you doze off into a mildly satisfied sleep.

Jay comes home 2 hours after that, to find you yet again asleep. He'd be lying to say he wasn’t disappointed, If he's being honest he feels like he's neglecting you. 

He goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before doing what he's been wanting since the moment you sent that photo to him.

Unbuttoning his business pants, and pulling out his throbbing cock, which looks just upset as he is for not being buried in your warmth right now.

He strokes himself slowly as he swipes to your messages and opens the photo, a bead of pre cum leaking at the sight

He turns on the sink so you don't hear him because he doesn't want to wake you. Setting the phone down he fucks his hand, while bracing the other on the sink, looking at the photo of you spread, a mess.

All for him.

He fucks into his hand faster, stiffling his groans. “y/n–” he whispers your name as he cums on his hand, and on his phone, watching as it hits your pussy on the screen. All while your peacefully asleep in bed.

–

“Well be at the estate in 20 minutes, are you almost ready baby?” Jay asks, you set the phone down on speaker, carefully putting on your mascara. 

“Yeah, I just need to put on the dress” You look at the closet, where the dress he bought you hangs. A navy blue color, silk, open back, one that fits you perfectly, because he knows your body by heart. 

“Im excited to see you in it baby, even if it is on an occasion as dreadful as this.” He sighs, checking his watch for what feels like the 100th time today. You smile tightly even though he can't see you. “Let me know when you're here.” You say, hanging up. 

You smooth down the front of your dress, looking at yourself in the mirror. You glance down at your phone, Jay's notification on your screen “Im here baby” You bite your lip before heading down the stairs, out the front door.

Jays leaning against the car, his eyes lighting up when he sees you. His jaw almost drops as he takes you in.

“Baby..” He whispers, wrapping a possessive hand around your waist, making you let out a soft gasp. It pains him that he can't have you right now. He rests his forehead against yours, shutting his eyes, trying to regain any ounce of composure he has left after this torturess week. He leans in, lips ghosting over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. 

“Let's get this over with so you can show me what I've been messing all week, yeah?” The words alone send heat to your core, you nod, biting your lip out of habit before getting in the car.

His hand is splayed on your thigh the entire ride, eyes looking at you every few minutes, the way you admire the city outside. 

Once you get to the dinner, at the extremely luxurious restaurant, the conversation flows smoothly. This Jake Sim doesn't seem as bad as Jay made him out to be, his wife is also sweet, although you can't help but notice a plausible distance between the two.

Like when they both reached for the salt, they flinched when their fingers brushed. Jay's hand rests on your leg, voice smooth as he talks in that business casual tone.

You take a sip of your drink, smiling at the women across from you. “So, how long have you two been married?” You ask curiously, eyes laced with concern when Jake almost chokes on his drink.

Jay squeezes your thigh, you look at him, the subtle shake of his head before facing the women again. “Um– four years” The woman clears her throat “Yeah, that's when we had Layla” Jake says, his calm demeanor slipping. 

You change the subject, taking note of how they acted, Jay gives you a look, whispering in your ear "I'll tell you later.” he says quietly.

The rest of the dinner is a blur, from you and Jake's wife giving each other looks when they talk about business, and to shared conversation between the four of you. 

You feel a sense of pride as you and Jay walk to the car, his hand splayed on the small of your back, the heat of his palm against your smooth skin.

Jay's lips are on your neck the second you get in the car, pressing soft, warm kisses that have you closing your thighs together “Jay..” You whisper, but it comes out breathless, he smirks against your neck pulling back with an intense look in his eyes.

He leans back against the seat, as if he didn't just make your whole body flush. “You wanted to know about the two of them?” He asks, you nod, mind going back to the dinner.

“Arranged marriage, they have a kid, four years old. I'm pretty sure they don't even live together. he tries to make it seem like he has the perfect family.” Jay says, fixing the cuff of his sleeve. You can't help but feel a ping of sadness for them “How do you know that?” 

He looks at you, “I have my ways” he says it in a tone that doesn't need questioning, but his eyes soften at the way concern knits your eyebrows.

“Well.. I'm glad I can be with you..” You say softly, in a voice that has his body warmer than normal. His eyes drop to your lips, the gloss coating them, then to the way your dress clings to your chest, he knows you're not wearing a bra underneath either.

“You’re going to kill me, baby.” He whispers only for you to hear, you don't even realise when the car pulls up to the estate, Jay doesn't bother with waiting for the driver to open the door, he steps out almost immediately, guiding you inside.

Your heart beats, the anticipation of what's coming making you nervous and excited at the same time. 

He shuts the door behind him, not looking away as you enter the room, slipping off your heels. He crosses the room in less than a second, hands immediately on your waist, pressing himself against the curve of your back, you gasp at the contact.

“Baby, I need you so bad right now.” He groans into your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair. You turn to face him, looking up at him with a pleading look in your eyes.

His lips are on yours immediately, tasting you. Of course he's kissed you regularly, but this feels different, this feels like something he's been starved of. The taste of the rich wine from earlier combined with him is blissful.

He groans into your mouth when his phone vibrates in his pocket, his lips not leaving yours as he pulls it out, powering it off and tossing it somewhere plush carpet beneath you. You smile against his mouth,

“Ive neglected you this whole trip baby, im so fucking sorry” He whispers, hand coming up to cup your cheek in his hand, you lean into the touch.

“Jay, it’s okay, I understand how busy you are.” The genuine understanding in your eyes makes his heart flip, how did he get so lucky with a woman like you.

“No baby, it's not okay. Let me make it up to you, please..” His hand moves to the thin strap of your dress, sliding it down your arm. You nod, and his other hand pulls the other one down, the dress falls off your body limply, pooling at your feet.

He lets out a strangled sound at the sight of you, his finger traces around your sensitive nipple, making goosebumps erupt on your skin, “mmm..” You hold onto his shoulder, your legs feeling weak at the intimate touch. 

His other hand comes up to brush over your nipple, both of them kneading the soft flesh, small sounds leave your lips

“So sensitive baby” He guides your hips, until your legs meet the edge of the bed, he lowers you on it gently. Admiring the way your hair frames your face, the way your legs instantly spread for him, panties already soaked through.

“Fuck..” he curses, unbuttoning his own shirt, tossing it on the ground, revealing his toned chest, you reach up brush your hand softly along his abdomen. He shivers at the contact.

“Do you know how badly I've needed this?” He asks, climbing onto the bed, kneeling between your legs, face inches away from where you need him most. “Especially after the shit you pulled last night.” You feel yourself throbbing at the memory, how desperate you had got.

A faint blush coats your face at the memory, he just smirks up at you. “Calling me at work, just so I could make you cum from my voice.” He presses his mouth to your clothed pussy, kissing over the wet fabric. Your hands grip the sheets at the light contact.

He presses his nose to your center, breathing in slowly, eyes fluttering shut at the raw smell of you. Your hips jolt when he breaths back out, the rush of air making you clench around nothing.

“Every night, you know what I did when I came home?” He nuzzles his face in your pussy, licking a stripe up the middle. “Fucked into my fist, trying so hard to imagine it was your tight, greedy pussy instead. Nothing compares to the real thing though.” The words have your hips grinding against his face, desperate for skin to skin contact.

He just chuckles before hooking his fingers onto your waistband and pulling them down, tossing them somewhere on the bed. He licks his lips, leaning down to look closer, spreading your pussy lips with his fingers, your sticky slick coating your inner thighs. 

You move to cover your face with your hands in embarrassment, but he's faster, stopping your hand. “Dont hide yourself. I want to see your face when I make you cum on my tongue, got it?” He lets go of your hand, lowering his face closer to your heat. “Jay.. please–”

Thats all it takes, his tongue is on you in a second, lapping up the juices you have already leaked out, he latches onto your clit, sucking it in his mouth sharply, making your hips jolt, your already a moaning mess above him, small ‘ah’ sounds falling from your lips.

His tongue swirls around the sensitive bud as he sucks on it. He uses one hand to press against your lower belly, the pressure adding to the pleasure he's already giving you

“Feels so’ good” You manage to mumble out through whimpers, he flicks his tongue over your clit, using his other hand, slipping one finger into your tight hole, curling up.

Your hands fly to his hair, tangling into the black strands as his finger works in and out of you, he adds a second, stretching you, preparing you for what's next.

His lips suction around your clit again, hand on your belly pressing harder, fingers curling just right. He knows your body, he knows you're about to cum when he feels your tight hole clench around him.

“J-Jay.. I–” Your hips jerk as he intensifies each stimulation, making you cum right on his face, your juices flooding out, and he greedily takes them all, attempting to fit his whole mouth on your pussy, licking at it like a dog. 

He kisses his way up your body, lips trailing along your jawline before connecting with your own, you can taste yourself on his tongue, sweet but salty, he feels himself growing impossibly harder at the act.

“You gonna let me fuck this pretty pussy like ive been dying to all week?” he asks, voice raspy.

“Please.. I need you” you whisper, He cant take this anymore.

Is he a little selfish? Maybe. Part of him wanted to make you cum from his fingers as well, but he can't hold himself back anymore, not when he's been deprived of being inside you for what feels like an eternity.

He's quick with sliding off his pants and boxers, his thick cock leaking at the tip. Your eyes trace the veins along it, Gosh it's pretty. He drags the thick head through your folds, collecting your arousal on his tip. 

He looks at your face, the way your eyes zero in on his tip prodding at your clit, the small O shape of your mouth. He slips in the tip, slowly, the warmth has him holding your hips, using you as an anchor, when you're the very thing making him fall apart.

He pushes in more, groaning at the way you squeeze around him, “Fuck– you’re so tight baby” He hisses, finally bottoming out. 

Your body shivers at the feeling, the pure pleasure, the fullness of him. He starts with slow movements, barely pulling out halfway, letting you get used to his size, even though this is definitely not something new.

“Ive missed your pussy so much.. Being inside you like this” he mumbles, thumb rubbing mindless circles on your hip. The words make you clench around him tighter, “Oh? You like that?” he chuckles, “Y-yes” you breathe out, the words coming out pathetically. 

He leans down, a need to be closer to you, bracing his hand beside your head before leaning down to take one of your nipples in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud as his hips snap into you sharply.

He moves to your other nipple, not letting a single part of your body go unnoticed, making up for what he hasn't done this whole week. His thrusts grow more ragged, less controlled, his groans turning breathless.

“Wanna cum in your pussy baby, let me fill you up–” His teeth graze over your nipple, you pull his face up to yours, kissing him desperately, moaning into his mouth as he fucks into you with deep thrusts, “Please Jay– wanna be full of you.. I want it” You nip at his bottom lip, fuck, you're perfect. 

You feel yourself flutter around him, sucking him in greedily, your nails clawing at his back, he thrusts into you hard, deep, making sure to feel you completely around him before spilling himself inside of you, he lets out the most guttural groan, you grind against him, pushing yourself up as you ride out your own high, pussy clamping down on his cock, milking him dry.

The only word on your lips being his name as he fills you completely. You hug him against you, wrapping your legs around his waist, not wanting to let go.

He stays there with you, in you. Even as he feels himself softening, your warmness comforting him. “I love you so much, baby” He whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth gently “I love you Jay..” , finger nails softly tracing along his broad shoulders, in a way that has his body melting on, and into you.  

In this moment, Jay doesn't know what he did to deserve you, let alone have you as his girlfriend. He wants you forever, No. He needs you forever.

Which is exactly why he’s become even more sure about his decision, He needs to make you his wife.

-

Jay marry me, thanks 

peep the plot building for a jake fic👀

Okay hope you guys enjoyed <3

⊹

Everything about today had been advertised as fun. A “production day,” your lecturer had called it all week with way too much enthusiasm, promising creative freedom and relaxed schedules and exciting group work.

Instead, it had been six straight hours of irritation, passive aggressive comments, and carrying an entire project on your back while the rest of your group stared blankly at their laptops pretending to work.

By two in the afternoon, your social battery was dead.

Your group presentation was supposed to start in less than ten minutes, yet you were hiding in a bathroom stall with your phone pressed to your ear. Your knee bounced restlessly.

“Come on,” you muttered under your breath when it rings again.

Then finally—

“Hey baby—”

“Can you pick me up?”

You cut straight through his greeting, voice exhausted enough to make him pause on the other end.

“…What?”

You sigh, leaning your head back against the cold metal wall behind you. “Can you come get me?”

Riki exhales softly through his nose.

“When?”

“Right now.”

“Right now?” he repeats. “Baby, I can’t right now.”

You frown instantly.

“Why not?”

“I’m working.”

You roll your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. Working. So selling weed to junks.

“And didn’t you say you had class till four?” he adds. “What happened?”

“Yea? I don’t wanna go.”

A small laugh escapes him. “That’s not really how it works.”

“Oh my god,” you groan dramatically, rubbing your forehead. “You cannot be serious.”

“What?”

“You telling me not to skip class?” Your voice sharpened with disbelief. “Riki, you’ve attended like three classes this entire year.”

“Yeah. Don’t be like me.” Riki says.

“Please just come get me,” you try again, softer this time. “I’m so done with today.”

You heard muffled voices in the background on his side of the phone. A car door shutting. Someone calling his name.

Riki clicks his tongue quietly.

“Baby, I really can’t right now. I’ve got like 6 more clients today.”

Your face drops immediately.

“I hate everyone here.”

“I know.”

“No, like actually fucking hate them.”

“I know,” he repeats. “Just come over when your classes are finished, okay?”

You let out the most miserable whine imaginable, dragging the sound out on purpose just to irritate him.

“Rikiiii.”

“That’s not changing my answer.”

Another long sigh left you before you pull the phone away from your ear.

“Whatever.”

“Don’t be mad—”

But you already hung up.

The call ends with a sharp tap of your thumb.

You sit there for another second in irritated silence, glaring at the picture of you and Riki on your lockscreen before shoving the phone into your bag aggressively.

Then you stand up, grab your things, and push the stall door open way harder than necessary. The loud slam echoes through the bathroom.

A girl by the mirror startles and looks over.

“Jeez.” The girl mutters to herself.

You ignore her completely, storming toward the exit, already rehearsing in your head how badly you’re going to guilt trip Riki later for abandoning his poor girlfriend.

— 

By the time you arrive at Riki’s house around four thirty, your irritation hasn’t faded even a little. You text him the second you reach the driveway.

You: im here

Riki: door’s open. mom’s downstairs

You shove your phone into your pocket and push the front door open without knocking.

At this point, you’re over here so much it feels like your second home. The house smells faintly like laundry detergent and food. You hear the TV playing softly somewhere in the living room before his mom notices you walking in.

“Oh, hi sweetheart.”

You look over with a smile. “Hi miss Nishimura.”

“How was your day?”

You let out a dramatic sigh immediately. “Horrible.”

She laughs knowingly from the couch. “That bad?”

“You have no idea.”

“Well,” she says, shaking her head with amusement, “Riki’s upstairs. And tell him to clean that room before it starts growing mold.”

You snort. “I’ll try.”

You laugh softly before heading upstairs, already hearing faint music through the slightly open bedroom door.

The second you push it open wider, you catch Riki mid-motion. He’s shoving an overflowing laundry basket under his bed with his foot fast.

The room still looks messy anyway. Black hoodie tossed over his desk chair. Empty water bottles near the nightstand. Chains and rings scattered around like decoration.

And him.

Black joggers hanging low on his hips, white tank top stretched over his frame, black zip-up hoodie hanging open. Silver rings glinting against his fingers. Cross necklace resting against his chest.

Your mood somehow gets worse instantly.

“There's she is,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just panic-cleaned the second he heard you coming upstairs.

You don’t even answer. You just walk over and let yourself collapse face first onto his bed dramatically, burying your face into his pillow.

It smells exactly like him. Detergent, smoke and cologne.

Riki chuckles quietly behind you.

“Aww,” he teases. “You’re having a hard life today?”

“Yeah.”

“Mhm.”

The mattress dips as he climbs beside you, one arm immediately sliding across your lower back, pulling you closer against him lazily.

“What’s up?” he asks, voice lower now.

Your response comes muffled into the pillow.

“I just wanna graduate already.”

He laughs softly at that.

You finally roll onto your back with a long sigh, staring at the ceiling dramatically. Riki looks down at you with obvious amusement before leaning down and kissing your cheek once.

Then again. Then your forehead and hen the corner of your mouth.

“Talk to me,” he says.

You narrow your eyes at him while he shifts onto his back beside you, opening one arm, inviting you. You stare at him for a second before groaning loudly.

“What?”

“You look good,” you complain miserably. “It’s pissing me off more.”

You move anyway, immediately curling into his side. One leg thrown over his while his arm settles around your waist automatically. He grins.

“That’s your problem?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

You sigh dramatically again before starting your rant properly.

You tell him about the presentation disaster. About your group members barely helping. About one dude showing up completely unprepared and still acting cocky anyway. About having to fix everything yourself while everybody else stood around being useless.

Riki mostly listens quietly, fingers tracing along your waist beneath your t-shirt.

Sometimes he hums. Sometimes he laughs when you mock someone. Sometimes he drops a quiet “that’s crazy” just to keep you talking.

“And then,” you continue, growing more irritated again just remembering it, “they’re all panicking asking me what to say during the presentation like I’m their fucking mother.”

“I’m jealous of you.” You say.

Riki frowns. “Why?”

“You literally just do whatever you want.”

Riki’s expression shifts slightly at that. His hand moves slowly up your back.

“That’s not really a good thing, baby.”

You shrug against him. “Still.”

“Nah.” He shakes his head lightly. “You say that now, but you’re actually doing something with your life.”

You snort. “Barely.”

“I mean it. You’re gonna graduate, get your degree, all that shit.” His fingers squeeze your side lightly. “That matters.”

You look up at him. “You sound like a dad.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re lecturing me.”

“I’m trying to be a good influence.”

You stare at him for a second before sighing loudly and burying your face against his chest again.

“I still hate everybody.”

“That’s okay,” he says easily, pressing a kiss into your hair.

You’re half sprawled on top of him now, your cheek pressed against his chest while his hand keeps moving up and down your back. The late afternoon light coming through his curtains makes the room feel warm and sleepy.

Until the thought hits you.

“I wanna smoke.”

Riki reacts immediately. Like genuinely immediately.

“Okay.”

You snort softly at how fast he says it.

He shifts underneath you, rolling onto his side to reach into his nightstand drawer. You hear the cluttering sound of him moving random things around, lighter, charger, loose receipts, wrappers probably. But then it goes quiet.

“The fuck?”

You lift your head slightly.

Riki’s brows furrow as he digs around harder. “Wait.”

You watch him pull the drawer out further.

Empty.

His whole expression changes instantly. Not fully panicked yet, but close enough that it makes you start smiling already.

“No way,” he mutters.

Without warning, he slips out from underneath you and gets off the bed fast enough to make it bounce. He opens his underwear drawer next, shoving things around aggressively before pulling out a small box hidden beneath his boxers.

Empty too.

“Oh my god,” he says under his breath.

You’re fully entertained now, just laying there watching him spiral.

He checks his backpack next. Nothing.

“What the fuck?” he says again, louder this time. “Nah nah nah.”

You’re trying not to laugh.

Riki turns to look at you with genuine concern in his eyes now.

“I think my mom took my stash.”

That makes you snort. But he doesn’t laugh at all.

His jaw tightens while he runs both hands through his hair, already stressed.

“Riki,” you say between laughs, “are you serious—”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It kinda is.”

“No, it’s really not.”

He’s already leaving the room before you can answer, and he leaves the door wide open behind him. You hear his footsteps down the stairs before his voice carries faintly through the house.

“Mom?”

“In the kitchen!”

You sit up slightly on the bed, immediately listening.

Riki walks into the kitchen trying to sound casual.

“Mom… were you in my room earlier?”

“Yes,” his mom answers easily. “Why?”

“Did you… take something?”

“Your drugs?”

Riki clicks his tongue. “It’s just weed.”

“And weed is still drugs. And it still makes the entire house smell.”

“Mom.”

“No, seriously,” she continues. “I’m tired of the smell. And I don’t want you doing that stuff all day.”

“You can’t just take my stuff.”

“I absolutely can if it’s in my house.”

“It’s my money you threw away, good quality shit,” he argues back, frustration slipping into his voice now. “Do you know how much was in there?”

“Maybe if you went to school instead of selling weed—”

“Oh my god.”

“You’re twenty years old, Riki.”

“And paying for my own stuff.”

“With drug money.”

He lets out a sharp exhale through his nose, clearly realizing the conversation is going nowhere.

“This is crazy,” he mutters.

Then you hear his footsteps coming back upstairs.

The second he walks back into the room, he looks miserable. You’re already grinning.

“She threw it away,” he complains immediately, throwing himself dramatically onto the bed beside you. “Everything.”

“I heard.”

“This is fucked up.”

You laugh softly while he lays there staring at the ceiling like his life is over.

“My own mother robbing me.”

“She’s probably trying to save your future.”

“She threw away like—” He cuts himself off with another annoyed groan. “I don’t even know— a lot of fucking money.”

Still smiling, you move closer again, half laying over him comfortably while he keeps muttering complaints under his breath.

Your hand slides across his side. Then pauses. There’s something in the pocket of his hoodie.

You feel the slight crinkle of plastic underneath the fabric. Riki notices your expression immediately.

“…What?”

Instead of answering, you slip your hand into his hoodie pocket.

“Oh shit.”

You pull out the tiny plastic bag slowly between two fingers. Then your grin spreads immediately.

“Oh my god, thank—”

“We’re not smoking that.”

He snatches it from your hand before you can even finish.

You stare at him.

“Riki.”

“It’s for a client.”

You let out an actual laugh. “Be forreal.”

“I am forreal.”

“Fuck your client.”

“My client is how I make money.”

“Your client can survive one night without weed.”

“He already paid.”

You roll your eyes dramatically before settling between on top of his legs while he keeps the bag out of reach.

“So refund him.”

“Refund him?” He laughs under his breath. “That’s not how that works.”

Your fingers start moving absentmindedly over his stomach through the thin tank top while you speak, nails lightly scratching against the fabric.

“You’re acting like it’s ten kilos.”

“I’m being responsible.”

You snort loudly at that word.

“Responsible.”

“Yes.”

“You skipped like an entire month of school.”

“I’m still enrolled.”

Your hand slides lower against his waist slowly.

“C’monnnn.” you murmur. “I had the worst day.”

“You say that every day.”

“Because people test me every day.”

“Mhm.”

“And now you’re sitting here gatekeeping weed from me.”

“I’m not gatekeeping.”

“You are, though.”

His hand settles on your thigh automatically, fingers squeezing once while he watches you with narrowed eyes.

“You’re manipulative as hell, i hope you know that.”

You tilt your head innocently. “What? I’m just talking.”

“Yeah?” he says. “That’s why your hands are all over me.”

“Maybe because you look good.”

You lean closer while talking, fingers trailing underneath the hem of his tank top just slightly, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath.

Riki exhales slowly through his nose.

“Manipulative”

“And you’re still not giving me the weed.”

He shakes his head, but he’s already losing. You can tell.

“Imagine,” you continue casually, “choosing some random stoner over your sexy girlfriend after she suffered through six hours hell.”

“Hell?”

“Yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“And sober,” you remind him. “Which is your fault.”

That finally makes him laugh. You immediately take advantage of it, reaching for the bag again. He pulls it away last second.

“Riki,” you groan.

“No.”

“Why are you acting like this is life or death?”

“Because my mom already murdered my business today.”

You roll your eyes before shifting even closer into his lap until your face is right near his. Your hands slide up his chest while you talk softly, your lips hovering above his.

“You like me more than your client, right?”

Then he squints at you. “You’re so full of shit.”

“But am I wrong?”

His hand tightens on your thigh again while he stares at your lips for a second too long.

You already know you won.

“If this dude starts blowing up my phone later, I’m blaming you.”

You smile slowly. “So we’re smoking?”

“Pleaseeee. I know you want it too.” 

He exhales slowly, staring at the tiny bag in his hand like he’s mourning it already.

“Fine.”

“Yesssss.”

You grin immediately and kiss his cheek fast before he can change his mind.

“Love you.”

“Yeah yeah,” he mutters. “You love my weed.”

Riki keeps muttering under his breath about loss while he rolls onto his side toward the nightstand.

You grin to yourself, while he pulls open the drawer again and starts gathering everything he needs. Grinder. Papers. Lighter.

You laugh softly and sit up against the headboard while he settles beside you cross-legged, focused now.

His rings glint under the golden sunlight while he breaks the weed apart between his fingers. You watch him quietly while he works, music humming softly in the background from his speaker.

There’s something stupidly attractive about watching him roll.

Maybe it’s the concentration on his face. The silver chain resting against his throat. The way his hoodie slips down slightly off one shoulder while he leans forward.

He finishes rolling the blunt with a small nod to himself before licking the edge closed carefully. Then he grabs the lighter, sparks it once, twice, before the tip finally glows orange.

The smell fills the room almost instantly.

Riki takes the first hit automatically, checking the burn, then passes it over to you.

You take it from him slowly, inhaling deep while he gets off the bed.

The smoke settles warm in your lungs while you watch him move around the room. He cracks the window open first, then turns the music up slightly louder.

You exhale toward the ceiling with a long satisfied sigh before letting yourself fall backward onto his bed dramatically.

“Oh my god.”

Riki laughs quietly while climbing back onto the mattress.

“That good?”

“Mhm.”

He takes the blunt back from your fingers and leans against the headboard beside you. You watch him inhale slowly before he tilts his head back slightly, doing a french inhale.

You narrow your eyes.

“Okay show off.”

He grins lazily. “You wish you could do that.”

“I literally can.”

“You can’t.”

You grab at the blunt immediately. “Give it.”

He laughs again but hands it over.

Riki’s eyes are getting red, eyelids hanging lower, his movements slower. And you can feel yourself melting into the mattress more every second.

You move closer without really thinking about it, thigh pressing against his while you take another hit.

“Does your mom know I smoke with you?” You ask quietly.

Riki immediately lets out a short laugh.

“No.”

“Why’d you laugh like that?”

“Because she’d actually kill me.”

You grin slightly. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He takes the blunt back. “She already hates that I smoke. If she found out I got you smoking too?” He shakes his head. “I’d never survive.”

“You didn’t get me smoking.”

“You met me because I sold to you.”

“Okay.”

He points at you with the blunt. “Exactly.”

You laugh quietly while laying your head against his shoulder.

“She thinks I’m a bad influence already,” he says.

“You are a bad influence.”

“Maybe.”

Riki takes another hit before continuing, words slower now.

“One time she caught me smoking in the garage and made me deep clean the whole house for like two days.”

“No way.”

“I’m serious.” He looks genuinely offended remembering it. “She took my car keys too.”

You start laughing harder.

“She said if I wanted to ‘act grown’ then I could start doing grown people chores.”

He rolls his eyes lazily before nudging your leg with his knee.

“What about your parents? They know?”

You think for a second.

“I don’t think so.”

“Not even about me?”

“They know you’re my boyfriend,” you say vaguely.

You grin.

“I just don’t think they know you deal.”

“And the smoking?”

You shrug lightly. “My mom definitely suspects something sometimes.”

“She ever ask?”

“Once.”

“What’d you say?”

“That my eyes were red because I was tired.”

Riki immediately starts laughing.

“That’s such bullshit.”

“She believed me.”

“No she didn’t.”

“She did.”

“She chose to believe you,” he corrects.

You smile a little at that because honestly, he’s probably right.

The conversation slowly drifts after that. Neither of you talking much anymore.

The weed settles heavier into your body until everything feels warm and slow and comfortable. The music sounds better. His room feels warmer and you get clingy.

Your hands keep finding him without even thinking about it.

Resting on his chest. Sliding under his hoodie. Fingers tracing over the rings on his hands. Playing with the chain around his neck. Touching his arm, his stomach, his jaw.

Riki notices eventually.

“You’re attached to me right now.”

“Mhm.”

He smiles lazily, eyes half closed now while you curl fully against him.

“So cute.”

One of your legs thrown over his again. Your face pressed into the side of his neck.

His hand drifts slowly up and down your back while the room stays quiet except for the music and your soft occasional laughter at literally nothing.

Your entire horrible day feels far away now.

The blunt is almost done by now. Just one hit left. You take the last hit slowly, inhaling deep.

“Baby,” Riki says quietly.

You look at him. He just tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking toward your mouth.

Oh. A small grin pulls at your lips immediately.

Without a word, you shift up, swinging one leg over his lap so you’re sitting on top of him properly. His back presses against the bedframe while his hands settle automatically on your hips.

You lean down close. Then slowly exhale the smoke into his mouth.

Riki inhales instantly, eyes fixed on your lips the entire time.

You stay close after, barely pulling away.

His gaze drags over your face lazily before he turns his head slightly to the side to exhale the smoke away from you. One hand reaches toward the nightstand blindly, dropping the finished blunt into the glass of water beside the bed with a quiet sizzle.

Then he looks back at you and kisses you immediately.

His lips warm against yours while your arms slide around his neck automatically. The kiss tastes faintly like smoke, his hand moving up your side underneath your hoodie while he pulls you closer against him.

Your fingers slip into the hair at the back of his neck.

His hand is sliding up your throat gently, thumb brushing your jaw while he deepens the kiss.

You breathe out softly against his mouth when his other hand moves lower, dragging down your waist before settling on your ass with a firm squeeze.

His tongue pushes into your mouth while his grip tightens slightly, guiding your hips forward instinctively. Then back, then forward again, while softly humming into the kiss.

The movement makes heat curl low in your stomach instantly.

He has his hands all over you like he can’t decide where he wants them most.

One hand squeezing your thigh now. The other still holding your waist, moving you against him in a way that has your head getting fuzzier by the second.

Then—

A knock.

“Riki.”

You both freeze instantly. 

You practically launch yourself off his lap while Riki looks down at his crotch and quickly adjusts his joggers to hide something.

You drop back onto the bed casually, grabbing your phone like you’ve been doing absolutely nothing suspicious.

Riki starts aggressively waving his hand through the air trying to clear the smoke, muttering a quiet “shit” under his breath.

“Yeah?” he calls out.

His mom opens the door. The second she steps inside, her face twists immediately.

“Oh my god.”

Riki sighs dramatically already.

“It smells disgusting in here.”

Riki shrugs. You bite the inside of your cheek hard to stop yourself from laughing.

His mom looks around the room with visible disappointment before glaring at him again.

“I just told you about this earlier.”

Riki scoffs quietly, slouching further against the headboard. “Okay.”

“Don’t ‘okay’ me.”

He stays quiet this time. Probably because arguing more would make her stay longer.

Thankfully, she moves on with another sigh.

“Anyway, I’m going out to dinner with a friend later, so you two need to figure out food yourselves.”

“Okay.”

“And clean this room.”

Riki looks around lazily at the disaster surrounding him.

“It is clean, mom.”

His mom stares at him in disbelief. She shakes her head like she’s exhausted with him. Then she turns and walks out. Leaving the door completely open behind her.

“Mom!” Riki calls after her immediately. “Close the door.”

She ignores him completely and keeps walking downstairs.

He drops his head back against the wall with an annoyed groan.

“You see how nobody respects me in this house?”

He rolls his eyes while you crawl closer again, reaching up to grab his face with both hands. You squish his cheeks together dramatically, lips pursed in fake pity.

“Awww,” you say mockingly. “Poor baby. Mommy yelled at you again?”

“Shut up,” he mumbles through squished cheeks.

“This,” he says while pulling your hands away, “is why I smoke. My mom stresses me out.”

“She just told you to clean your room.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s normal.”

“It’s already clean.”

You slowly turn your head to look around the room. Then back at him.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

The disbelief on your face makes him scoff instantly.

“It is.”

“Riki.”

“What?”

You narrow your eyes at him before suddenly leaning over the side of the bed.

Riki reacts immediately. He grabs your waist trying to pull you back before you can look underneath, but he’s too slow.

You already see everything. The laundry basket tipped completely over, half the clothes spilled out across the floor underneath the bed. Empty water bottles. A pizza box. Random chargers. One sock hanging off something.

And… you slowly reach down with two fingers.

You hold up a pair of grey Calvin Klein boxers delicately like they’re contaminated.

“You’re disgusting.”

He clicks his tongue and snatches them from your fingers fast and throws them back underneath the bed aggressively.

“Stop looking under there.”

You ignore him completely.

Still bent over the side of the bed, you keep inspecting his mess pile while Riki flops back dramatically behind you.

“Leave my room alone.” he says, laughing under his breath.

“There’s enough water bottles under here to survive an apocalypse.”

“I was gonna throw them away.”

“When? Next year?”

He grabs your ankle, trying to drag you back up onto the bed.

“Come here.”

“No, I’m investigating.”

Your eyes catch on something small shoved further back underneath the bed.

You pull it out quietly.

A pair of pink panties. You recognize them instantly because you’ve been wondering where they disappeared to weeks ago.

But instead of saying that, you just stare at them for a second.

Then slowly sit back up onto the bed.

Riki’s still relaxed at first, watching you casually.

Until you look at him.

“Riki,” you say slowly.

“Hm?”

“Are you cheating on me?”

The change in his expression is immediate.

“What?”

You hold up the panties silently, keeping your face completely serious.

Riki stares at them for one second before scoffing.

“Baby, those are yours.”

You don’t answer. Just keep staring at him.

“You literally left those here.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I’ve never seen those in my life.”

He snorts. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re lying.”

You shrug lightly. “Am I?”

Riki still looks entertained at first, completely unconcerned while he reaches for his phone beside him.

“They’re yours y/n.”

“I think I’d remember my own underwear.”

He glances over at you again.

You’re still staring at him with the exact same serious expression. No smile, no laugh.Nothing.

The amusement slowly starts fading from his face. Riki sits up a little straighter now.

“Are you being serious right now?”

You look down at the panties in your hands dramatically before looking back at him.

“I don’t know, Riki. Should I be?”

“Baby,” he says immediately, now fully paying attention. “That is literally yours.”

“But what if it’s not?”

He stares at you for another second, trying to figure out if you’re joking.

Then his phone gets tossed aside completely.

“Baby— what?.” He moves closer fast, hands immediately finding your face. “Why would I cheat on you?”

You bite the inside of your cheek trying not to laugh.

“You think I’d do that?”

You shrug again.

Riki looks genuinely stressed now.

“No, seriously.” His thumbs brush against your cheeks while he searches your face. “I would never do that to you.”

Your expression almost breaks right there.

“I promise you that.” he says softer now. 

“Mhm.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You’re the only girl that’s ever in my room.”

That one nearly makes you lose it. Especially because he sounds so sincere.

His brows are pulled together now, eyes low and worried while he keeps holding your face close.

“I’d never cheat on you,” he says again quietly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You can’t hold it anymore.

“Hahaaaaa— gotcha.”

Riki freezes. Then realization slowly washes over his face.

“I knew it.”

You’re laughing so hard now you almost fall sideways off the bed.

“Oh my god, your face—”

“Get out of here with your fuckass pranks.”

“I got you so stressed.” you wheeze. “You got all serious—”

You keep laughing while mocking his voice.

“Baby, I’d never cheat on you.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re the only girl in my room.”

Riki shoves you hard enough to make you flop backward onto the mattress while he falls back beside you dramatically.

“You’re annoying as fuck.”

You’re still laughing.

“You looked so scared.”

“You kept staring at me like you were about to cry.”

You roll on top of him immediately, still grinning while he tries to stay annoyed.

It doesn’t work very well. Especially not when you start kissing his face repeatedly. One on his cheek. Another near his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry,” you laugh against his skin.

“No you’re not.”

“I’m kinda sorry.”

“Mhm.”

You kiss him again anyway, arms wrapping around his neck. He’s still shaking his head.

“Actually can’t stand you,” he mutters.

But he’s smiling when he says it.

You’re still laughing when you lean down to kiss him again. And again and again.

Riki tries to stay annoyed, but you can literally feel him fighting a smile underneath your mouth every time you kiss the corner of his lips.

“Don’t be mad,” you mumble against his cheek.

You poke his face.

“Riki.”

He grabs your wrist immediately. “Stop poking me.”

“I’ve never seen you that stressed in my life.” you continue, grinning down at him.

“I could tell you were joking.”

“Aww,” you tease again, lightly squishing his face. “Did you?’

“I don’t like you.”

“You do.”

You kiss him again before squishing his cheek one more time.

“Don’t be mad.”

“I’m warning you right now.”

You ignore him completely.

Another poke.

“Baby—”

Another kiss.

“Don’t be—”

Suddenly his hands grab your waist hard.

You barely have time to yelp before he flips you over completely, throwing you onto the mattress with a laugh.

“Riki!”

“There,” he says while climbing over you fast. “Got you.”

You’re still laughing when he pins both your wrists above your head with one hand.

He leans down and bites lightly at your neck with a playful growl that makes you yell immediately.

Riki grins against your skin before suddenly attacking your sides with his free hand.

“You were asking for it.”

You scream instantly.

“RIKI—”

“You thought you were funny?”

“STOP—”

He keeps tickling you, fingers everywhere now while you twist underneath him laughing so hard you can barely breathe. Your legs kick against the bed uselessly while he keeps your wrists pinned easily.

“Talking all that shit,” he says through his own laughter. “Now look at you.”

“STOP—”

“No.”

“PLEASE—”

“Say sorry.”

“I— I DID!”

“Say it properly.”

You can barely get words out between laughing.

He keeps going. Tickling your stomach now, your sides, under your arms, everywhere he knows makes you lose your mind.

You’re literally crying laughing at this point.

“Okay okay— sorry!”

“What was that?”

“Sorry!!”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry Riki!”

Finally he stops.Both of you breathing hard now.

Riki looks down at you smugly while still pinning your wrists above your head. Then he leans down and kisses the side of your jaw once before letting go completely.

“That’s what I thought. Good girl.”

You glare at him and immediately kick his leg one last time.

He laughs while rolling off you.

You just lay there dramatically trying to recover, chest rising and falling while your face hurts from laughing.

“Oh my god,” you groan.

“You started it.”

“You almost killed me.”

You stare at the ceiling for another few quiet seconds before your stomach growls loudly.

Riki immediately snorts.

“…I’m hungry.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He stretches lazily before sitting up, hoodie riding up slightly, giving you a peek of the tattoo on his side.

“Get up then.” He says while reaching over to tap your thigh.

You follow him downstairs.

You hop up onto the kitchen counter while Riki starts checking for food. The fridge first. 

He stares inside for a few seconds. “Why do we only have ingredients?”

He starts pulling random things out dramatically.

Spinach. Eggs. Sauce. Half a cucumber.

“You could cook.”

“I’m not cooking.”

You roll your eyes.

Next he checks the cabinets. Same problem. Pasta. Rice. Random canned stuff.

“What even is this.”

You laugh softly from the counter while swinging your legs.

Then he opens the freezer.

“Oh wait.”

You sit up slightly.

“What?”

“I found some pizza.”

“Oh my god.”

Riki pulls it outThen flips it over.

His face immediately drops.

“Nevermind.”

“What?”

“This shit expired two years ago?! Jezus Christ, mom.”

You burst out laughing.

“This house has no food and no weed,” he complains dramatically while walking toward the trash. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re so spoiled.”

He opens the trash bin to throw away the pizza. Then freezes.

“…No fucking way.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Baby.”

The tone of his voice makes you hop off the counter immediately.

“What?”

Riki slowly turns the trash bin toward you.

Your eyes widen instantly.

His stash. All of it. Still sealed up in bags, sitting right there untouched because apparently his mom had just thrown it out without opening anything.

“Oh shit.”

Riki genuinely looks emotional.

“She didn’t throw it out.”

You start laughing immediately while he grabs the bags out of the trash like he’s rescuing lost treasure.

“No way,” he keeps saying in disbelief. “No fucking way.”

Riki suddenly grabs your waist and lifts you right off the floor effortlessly, making you laugh louder while he kisses you hard.

“You don’t understand,” he says against your lips, grinning like an idiot now. “We’re about to have a goood time.”

You’re still smiling when you hop back up onto the kitchen counter, watching Riki reorganize his recovered stash on the counter.

“I want sushi.”

Riki looks over immediately.

“You want sushi?” he repeats, stepping closer until he’s standing between your legs.

“Mhm.”

You hook your ankles loosely behind him while he leans in just enough to kiss you once.

“Then we’re getting sushi.”

“Exactly.”

He pulls his phone out with one hand while the other settles around your lower back automatically, keeping you close against him while he opens a delivery app.

“What rolls do you want?”

You lean forward immediately to watch.

“That one.”

“Ooo wait,” you say, pointing at the screen. “Get California rolls.”

Riki adds it without argument.

“And spicy salmon.”

Tap.

“And those fried ones.”

“The crunchy ones?”

“Yeah.”

Still, he scrolls until you nod.

“Those.”

He adds them too.

One of your hands drifts into his hair while he orders, fingers scratching lightly at the back of his neck.  You keep commenting on random things while he adds literally everything you mention without complaint.

“Get gyoza too.”

“Okay.”

“And mochi.”

“You don’t even like mochi that much.”

“Yes I do.”

“You eat like two bites.”

“I like mochi. Riki.” You say, not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

Riki laughs quietly under his breath and adds it anyway, he glances at the total and finally looks up at you.

“I think we got enough.”

You immediately shake your head.

“No.”

“Baby.”

“We get hungry when we’re high.”

“That’s already enough food for a family of four.”

“And?”

He stares at you for a second.

Then sighs dramatically and adds another roll anyway.

“There. Happy?”

“Very.”

“You use me financially.”

“Correct.”

He snorts softly before finally placing the order.

The second the confirmation screen pops up he tosses his phone onto the counter beside you.

“There,” he says, reaching for the weed beside you, “you ready to get faded or what?”

He dangles one of the little bags of weed in front of you teasingly.

You glance at it, then shake your head.

“Not yet.”

Riki raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I don’t want it to wear off before the food gets here.”

That makes him laugh immediately.

You’re still sitting on the counter while he steps even closer between your legs again, his hands settle on either side of your thighs.

“Baby,” he says amused, “you do not gotta worry about that.”

You smile slightly at his tone already.

He leans in closer.

“This shit’s strong,” he murmurs near your lips. “It’ll have you stoned for hours.”

The way he says it makes warmth spread through you instantly.

You smile against his mouth before kissing him softly just for a few seconds. When you pull back, you’re still smiling a little.

“The other one worked pretty fast though.”

Riki chuckles quietly.

“Yeah baby, that was like less than half a blunt.”

“Mhm.”

“And my mom interrupted us halfway through.”

You laugh softly and lightly push his shoulder.

“Stop talking shit about your mom.”

By the time you both end up outside in the backyard, the sky is starting to darken just slightly.

You curl one leg underneath yourself on the gray lounge sofa in the cornerwhile Riki sits beside you, immediately pulling out the recovered stash again.

The second he opens the bag, the smell hits instantly.

“Jeez,” you say, wrinkling your nose slightly.

Riki just nods while breaking it apart between his fingers.

“Told you,” he says proudly. “This the good stuff.”

You eye the weed suspiciously.

“I don’t wanna green out again.”

That makes him laugh under his breath.

“You’re not gonna green out.”

“You said that last time too.”

“And you were fine.”

“I thought my heart stopped.”

Riki grins and reaches over to pat your head.

“You’ll be fine, baby. I promise.”

He ignores that, focused on rolling now.

His rings click softly against the lighter beside him while he works. You watch him carefully pack the joint before sealing it shut.

“Oh, by the way.”

“Mhm?”

“When the food gets here, you gotta open the door.”

You blink. “Why?”

You stare at him for a second.

“Riki.”

He just grins to himself while lighting the tip.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“…Okay?”

You shake your head at him while he hands you the finished joint.

You bring it to your lips automatically, cupping your hand around the end while you light it carefully against the slight evening breeze.

The orange glow flickers against your face for a second.

Riki watches you.

“You look sexy when you do that.”

You smile at him while inhaling. He laughs softly and lights his own.

You take another long hit confidently this time. Immediate mistake.

The smoke hits the back of your throat so harshly you start coughing instantly.

“Fuck—”

“I told you it’s strong.”

You cough harder.

His hand lands on your back, rubbing slowly between your shoulders.

“You good?”

“Mhm,” you manage weakly between coughs.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He still keeps rubbing your back though, grinning to himself while you recover.

The joints burn slowly while the conversation drifts lazily from topic to topic. Sometimes one of you talks. Sometimes neither of you does.

Your body starts feeling heavier against the couch cushions while Riki’s eyes get visibly lower every time he looks over at you.

Then the doorbell rings faintly inside the house.

Neither of you reacts.

A few seconds later it rings again. Still nothing.

By the third ring, your eyes widen slightly.

“Oh shit.”

You quickly lean forward to put your joint in the ashtray, but you just kind of drop it sideways carelessly.

Riki immediately hisses under his breath.

“Baby—”

“What?”

“You gotta put it down properly.”

He fixes it quickly before it burns unevenly, muttering to himself while adjusting it.

“Now you gotta relight it later. Wasting my shit.”

By the time you get to the front door, your eyes already feel warm and heavy.

You pull it open.

The delivery guy looks down at his phone first.

Then at you.

Then back at the phone again with visible hesitation.

“Order for…” He squints slightly. “Princess?”

You freeze.

The delivery guy looks awkward now.

“…Is that you?”

“Oh.” You smile awkwardly. “Yup... that’s me.”

He hands over the food while clearly trying not to react.

“Enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

The second you walk back outside, Riki’s smiling so hard he can barely hold it together.

“Order for princess?” you repeat flatly.

That immediately makes him laugh.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs innocently, still grinning.

“That’s what you are right? Ordering half the menu on my costs.”

“So?”

“So princess behavior.”

You shake your head while sitting back beside him with the food bags.

Riki laughs quietly while watching you unpack everything onto the outdoor table.

Containers everywhere. Soy sauce packets. Mochi. Chopsticks. You arrange everything carefully while he watches you with low amused eyes.

Then he hands your joint back to you.

“Smoke first.”

“I’m hungry.”

“It’ll taste better after.”

You look at him.

“Trust me.”

You sigh.

“Alright. But let me unpack first.”

Riki just leans back against the couch watching you continue organizing all the food until everything’s spread out perfectly across the table.

Only then do you finally put the joint back between your lips.

“Here,” you mumble.

Riki leans in with the lighter, one hand instinctively cupping near your face while he relights it for you.

Then he takes his own joint again.

Time starts getting weird after that. The world feels softer while the backyard lights blur slightly golden against your vision.

Riki’s head is tipped back slightly, eyes red and barely open anymore.

You’re not much better. Every movement feels delayed.

The sushi sitting on the table in front of you somehow looks like the best thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

And when you glance over at Riki, he’s already looking at you. Slow grin spreading across his face.

The second you take the first bite of sushi, your eyes widen dramatically.

“Oh my god.”

Riki’s already chewing on his own food beside you when you point at the tray.

“This tastes fucking amazing.”

Your words come out half muffled because you’re already stuffing another piece into your mouth.

Riki starts laughing immediately.

“You look crazy right now.”

“No seriously,” you say through another bite, “this is like… life changing.”

“Mhm,” he agrees lazily. “Told you.”

The weed is hitting hard now. Everything tastes better.

The soy sauce somehow tastes richer. The crunchy fried rolls are so good they piss you off a little. Even the stupid little ginger slices are suddenly very good.

“This is the best sushi I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

At one point you groan loud while chewing and let your head fall back dramatically against the couch.

Riki loses it.

“You sound like you’re getting fucked.”

“No. This better than getting fucked.”

Riki starts laughing so hard he nearly chokes on rice.

You laugh too immediately even though neither of you even knows what’s funny anymore.

The conversation keeps breaking apart halfway through because both of you get distracted constantly.

Riki reaches for a fried roll.

Misses the soy sauce completely. Still eats it.

You stare at him.

“You didn’t dip it, baby.”

“Huh?”

“You missed.”

He looks down slowly.

“Oh.”

Then both of you start laughing again for absolutely no reason.

At some point you try using chopsticks and completely fail because your movements feel delayed.

“You’re holding them wrong,” Riki says.

“No I’m not.”

“You look like you don’t know what planet you’re on right now.”

Eventually the table is a complete mess and both of you are completely gone.

You fall back dramatically against the couch cushions with a groan.

“I’m so full.”

Riki leans back beside you with heavy eyes.

“Same.”

The backyard feels unreal now.

The sun is setting lower, turning the sky orange and pink while the grass somehow looks very green.

You stare at it for a long moment.

“Why does the grass look like… that?”

Riki turns his head slowly. “Like what?”

“So green.”

He squints at the lawn for a few seconds.

“…Damn.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.”

You nod seriously.

“This is the best weed ever.”

“Mhm.”

“My eyelashes are tingling.”

That makes him laugh quietly.

You keep talking very slowly.

“And the sky is like…” You gesture vaguely upward. “Orange. But like… not normal orange.”

Your thoughts are drifting around faster than your mouth can keep up.

“And the clouds are so…” You trail off completely.

“So what?”

“…Nevermind.”

“You forgot?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re so stoned.”

You look over at him slowly.

“You are too.”

“I can handle it better.” he says immediately. 

Riki grins lazily beside you before grabbing his phone and putting music on. The sound plays quietly through the backyard while the sky gets darker by the minute.

The weed makes both of you ridiculously affectionate.

Your hand keeps finding his automatically. Or his hoodie. Or his chain.

You’re halfway in his lap again without even realizing it.

Riki doesn’t seem any better. One arm permanently around your waist now. Fingers tracing patterns against your side. Pulling you closer every few minutes like he forgot you’re already on top of him.

At some point he just starts staring at you.

You notice eventually.

“What?”

“You’re so cute when you’re high.”

“You say that every time.”

“Cause it’s true. You get all slow.”

“You’re slow too.”

“Yeah but I’m still functioning.”

The night settles around you slowly.

The air gets colder. The backyard lights turn on automatically above you. Music still humming softly in the background.

Eventually you both end up laying down across the lounge couch together.

You’re tucked between his long legs with your head resting on his chest, arms folded underneath your chin w.

Riki’s hand moves slowly through your hair.

Everything feels warm and comfortable. Your eyes keep slipping shut.

Riki says something eventually, voice low and sleepy above you.

You don’t answer.

A few seconds pass then he nudges you lightly.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Nothing.

“Princess.”

Riki lifts his head slightly to look down at you properly.

Your mouth is slightly open against his chest, breathing slow and even.

Completely asleep.

He stares for a second before quietly chuckling to himself.

His hand brushes gently through your hair one last time before his eyes close too.

A while later, the back door slides open softly.

Riki’s mom steps inside the dark kitchen first, kicking her shoes off quietly before setting her bag down on the counter.

The house is silent.

She frowns slightly.

“Riki?”

No answer.

“Y/n?”

She glances toward the backyard when she notices the faint music still playing outside. With a small sigh, she walks over and slides the door open further.

You and Riki are completely passed out.

Riki’s sprawled against the couch cushions with his head tilted to the side, one arm still wrapped around your waist in his sleep. His other hand is tangled loosely in your hair like he fell asleep petting it.

And you’re curled against his chest, tucked between his legs comfortably, breathing slow and peaceful.

Both of you look exhausted but very cute together.

For a second she just stands there quietly watching.

“Oh gosh,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes barely tearing up.

It’s kind of thing she’d probably take a picture of if she wasn’t actively trying to stay annoyed at her son.

She’s already about to leave you both alone when her eyes drift toward the table beside the couch.

The ashtray.

Two finished joints resting inside.

Her mouth flattens immediately.

“Oh my god.”

She clicks her tongue softly while looking back at the two of you asleep.

“You two…”

Riki just pulls you slightly closer unconsciously in his sleep.

His mom shakes her head slowly before heading back inside. The kitchen light flicks on and that’s when she notices the counter.

Several bags. Very recognizable bags, filled with weed.

All spread across the kitchen counter exactly where Riki had left them earlier.

She slowly closes her eyes.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

She walks over immediately, picking one up between two fingers with visible disbelief.

“So he went into the trash for it too,” she mutters to herself.

Another annoyed sigh leaves her while she grabs the box of trash bags from underneath the sink.

This time, she empties every single bag out of the packaging directly into the garbage.

No saving it now.

Just straight into old food, napkins, banana peels and whatever else is already sitting in there.

She ties the trash bag shut tightly afterward. Then looks toward the backyard again through the glass door.

Riki sleeping peacefully with you in his arms, completely unaware that his mom is throwing out his beloved weed stash… again.

⊹

・・・・・ ✷

FOUR SUMMERS AGO, you came home from a three month long summer trip and found a stranger wearing your favorite person’s face. 

Eventually, you started to wonder if you exaggerated everything the two of you had and embroidered the whole thing with too much hope. Maybe you were just young and stupid, and it was unrequited love, because that is what he told you, wasn’t it?  

“You’re just needy, delusional, and spoiled. And I could never be with someone like you.”

In the end, Sunghoon chose his empire over you, too cowardly to fight against a system his father set up. And you lost your best friend in the process, too. That’s what happened.

You know what happened after that, what he turned into. 

But he wasn’t always like that, no matter how hard you try to rewrite your memories to lessen the pain.

THREE YEARS AGO. ’Twas a warm, still, joyful spring evening from an entirely different lifetime. 

Back when you were beguilingly unaware and unworried about what would happen in the next three years, much less in the next few minutes, inside the cozy corners of your bedroom, which smelled like a Pomander Diptyque candle while Obvious by Ariana Grande sounded through the ApplePlay on your TV.

At the time, you weren’t worried about your sexuationship with your ex-best friend, who turned into the mortal embodiment of Hades and, as fate would have it, twistedly have it, your (PR) fiancée at all. You only had three real concerns, and they were all oh so very simple:

What the hell were you supposed to wear to Jay’s surprise birthday party tonight?

Which bag would best fit all four of your lipsticks and your 3 different compacts (because what if you need to touch up highlighter, powder, and blush?) a power bank (because Sunghoon’s phone always ran out of battery), wipes, hand sanitizer, and Midnight Sun by Stephenie Meyer, because you were fixating on reading again and planned to sneak away to finish a chapter even though you were not antisocial, but just obsessed with Edward Cullen. Maybe the Chanel 19? But what color? And if the bag changed, then the outfit changed. And if the outfit changed, then the shoes changed. Obviously. 

How irrevocably in love you were with your best friend. (Don’t worry, in here, he’s not Hades yet. He’s still your Hoonie.)

Hoonie, by the way, arrived way too early to pick you up, so now he was lying across your couch in your gigantic pink bedroom at your family manor, scrolling through TikTok obnoxiously loudly while you stood inside your walk-in closet, digging through dresses and ranting about some guy you gave a chance the night before. (Sungchan, irrelevant to the plot, however, he was cute. Definitely your type. Definitely into you. Were you? Not so much.) But you finally said yes to a date with him because you could not be hung up on your best friend forever, right? Especially not when said best friend had sworn off love like fucking Simon Basset or whatever. (You didn’t say this out loud, duh)

“…And then he tried to kiss me, and I was like… not in those ugly ass shoes. I was not having my first kiss—” You stopped, because that’s not factually correct. “Well. Not my first kiss. You were my first kiss.”

“I was your what?” 

“My first kiss,” you repeated, cocking a brow up, even though you were in your closet and Sunghoon couldn’t see you. (This was approximately a few weeks after you’d tipsily kissed him in Heeseung’s house, by the way.)

Sunghoon was silent for a while, and then a loud thud sounded. You peeked out just in time to see Sunghoon dragging a hand down his face from your cream sofa, looking exactly as stupid as he clearly felt. “Shit. I forgot that you’re… You.”

You scrunched your nose, indignantly. “What the hell does that mean?”

He looked at you, still in your pajamas and with absolutely no makeup done, and paused for a moment. “How long are you planning to take?”

“What do you mean, I’m me, Hoonie?” you repeated, giving him a look that said, I will now take longer because you asked.

“I mean… you’re you.” He pointed up and down at you. “You have standards and rules.” He looked down at the blanket under him on your cream sofa with the pink Hermès pillows and the matching jacquard merino cashmere blanket, a blanket which was there because no outside clothes touched your couch and even your bed. “And standards for the rules. You just said you rejected Sungchan because of his clothes.”

Oh. You get what he means now. Translation: you’re you, aka stingy with your attention and operating with an insane, clearance system when it comes boys (and girls, if only society wasn’t so… como se dice… homophobic!) Nevertheless, you barely let anyone make it past the talking stage before you find one tiny flaw and send them to the metaphorical guillotine.

And how you’ll never date unless it’s The One.

“And?” You shrugged. 

Side note: You rejected Sungchan because he was not Sunghoon. Plain and Simple. But also, his clothes were really ugly. 

“Ugly fashion choices are a reflection of one’s soul. Like, who wears Prada loafers with a flashy Gucci shirt and a Loro Piana belt? Disgusting mix and match. The sexiest thing a man can do is know when to stop,” you add.

Sunghoon stared at you for a long moment, growing a bit smug, because he was currently your thesis statement in human form. Black Zegna Polo. Black Zegna trousers, and his very own Prada loafers (which are taken off downstairs because, of course, no shoes in the house.) He looked back at you, and he licked his bottom lip. Ugh. “Right,” he said. “So I’m sexy?”

You rolled your eyes. “Keep dreaming, Park.”

“Think you do that for me just fine.” His ears were pink now, despite how smug he was, and you felt a flush go over you all the same. “But…” He paused. “I really was your first kiss?”

You exasperatedly laughed. “How the fuck did you not know that? I’m actually taking great offense to this. Do you even know me? I dropped Winter because she said Breakfast at Tiffany’s was overrated. I have watched Pride and Prejudice nine times—”

“I know. I was with you three of them,” Sunghoon cut in.

You clicked your tongue at the interruption, frowning a bit at the general context of everything. “Did you really think I was out here kissing random people? Me?” You pointed at yourself, genuinely appalled. “I’m not you.”

Sunghoon looked increasingly guilty the longer you spoke, and clearly, he knew that was a jab at how he’d gotten drunk and kissed Sooha at a party one time. “Okay, when you put it like that… I didn't forget,” he argued weakly. “I just…” He paused, running a hand through his hair as you crossed your arms and threw him another annoyed look. “Don’t look at me like that. You're eighteen. I thought maybe.. I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t tell me? You’re so pretty, and everyone fucking likes you and—” 

“Didn’t tell you?” you repeated, and he nodded with an even guiltier look. “Hoonie, you’re the only person I ever tell anything to other than my mom. You’re my… best friend. Do you think I would keep my first kiss a secret?” You rolled your eyes. “You forgot because you’re a man. Just say that.”

“I forgot because I am a man,” he said obediently.

“And because you’re so, so, very stupid.”

Sunghoon’s expression said, nice try. “Don’t push it.” His mouth twitched, then he paused again for a bit, the gears in his head turning in real time. “Was the kiss good, at least?”

Well, now you were only thinking of kissing him again. How inconvenient. “It was terrible. Society would collapse if they found out their precious Park Sunghoon can’t kiss for shit.” You lied. Obviously, you had no previous experience, but you knew it was still the best kiss. (This can be confirmed today, too.)

Sunghoon cocked a brow, his shy demeanor washing away and being replaced by a smug one. He could always tell when you were full of shit, and you hated it. “Oh yeah?”

You threw one of your Hermès slippers directly at his head, but he had the reflexes of an Olympic athlete, so he caught it one-handed without even looking away from you, and this only irritated you even more. “Actually, it was traumatic,” you doubled down, crossing your arms. “Made ten times worse by the fact that the criminal responsible made me promise never to talk about it again.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry.” And damn him, he meant it. You could tell he really fucking did.

“Save it. You’ve ruined romance for me forever.” 

Sunghoon clicked his tongue, and you went back inside your closet. “Fuck. We can’t have that, can we?” He cooed, and suddenly you heard him get up from the couch, so you peeked out again. Oh, God. “I guess I have to make it up to you.”

The atmosphere shifted as he moved closer, and closer, each step feeling as if he were tiptoeing along your ribcages and into your heart. You pursed your lips together as tension curled all around the room and into your being, because you’d never seen Sunghoon’s eyes so dark with want. “And how do you plan on doing that?” you asked.

Sunghoon stopped right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes — which he did for you, thumb brushing beneath your jaw in a feather-light touch, and now all you could smell was him, and him, and him. His Tom Ford cologne, Fucking Fabulous

Sunghoon’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and your heart dropped with it, too. “By practicing,” he said. 

And all you remember thinking at that moment was, this is really happening, and we’ll never be the same again. 

“Fine,” you said, trying to sound casual as if your heart was not on the tip of his thumb that brushed your chin. “But only because your technique needs serious work, and I’m sooooo charitable.”

“Of course. I mean, you are my best friend, right? And… If I’m really so bad at kissing, then who else but you to help me out?” Sunghoon smiled boyishly, and then he kissed you again before you could say anything, sweeping you off your feet. 

And you would later write in your diary that it felt like one of the kisses from The Notebook, except better, because this was not Ryan Gosling in the rain.

This was Park Sunghoon in your bedroom, kissing you like he finally stopped pretending what was between the two of you was inexorable in the face of everything: his family, society, his defences, and his belief system. 

Later that night, at Jay’s birthday dinner, you would sneak away — not to read Midnight Sun at all — to kiss your best friend. Then again and again and again. 

From then until Paris, that was all it became between you two. Sacred, stolen glances and secret moments, and no one knew.

(With the sole exception of Heeseung and Jay.)

Yes, you were seriously just best friends. That’s the foundation for every great love story, though, isn’t it?

And as much as you wanted it — and God, you did want it — you never had sex. You got close once in the back of his Lamborghini, parked under the trees outside the Ritz at the going-away party Wonyoung and Sunoo threw for you, while your dress was bunched around your thighs, and his hand trailed higher, and higher, goosebumps trailing in their wake. But he stopped, and then he said you deserved better than your first time being in the backseat of a car. His first time, too, actually.

So a promise was made. Because promises are sacred and you can never, ever break them, right? 

Forever and always.

And then you went to Paris high on the feeling of being his but not quite fully, but anything was better than not being his at all, and you fell asleep on calls and missed him in every Parisian corner that should have felt magical but didn’t, because he was not there to give its beauty meaning and say something funny that would become your favorite part of the day.

・・・・・ ✷

・・・・・ ✷

June 5th, 2022 6:10 PM

Dear Hoonie Moonie,

“I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you’re everything that exists, the reality of everything.” — Virginia Woolf.

i like that you send me poems sometimes, so i’ve decided this diary will now include a quote of the day whenever one reminds me of you.

after ballet today — which i was half asleep through because SOMEONE thought it was acceptable to keep me on the phone until 5 a.m. my time because he was clingy —  i went to the musée d’orsay with tae and jennie, which you’ll know when you wake up anyway, but i find the need to immortalize everything on paper. duh. we know this by now. they flew in from new york as a surprise (cough, cough, take notes) naturally, tae ended up third wheeling us again. #ilovemysisterinlaw. 

anyways, im already dreading just thinking about that luncheon i’m going to tonight without you to keep me company :( 

and for my question of the day i shall pose: would you still love me if i went bald?

bisous bisous,

your pink mirage 

・・・・・ ✷

July 14th, 2022 1:00 AM

Dear Moonie,

“There are times when my longing for you overwhelms me, so often I can think of you only with teeth clenched.” — Franz Kafka.

there were fireworks everywhere and it was a beautiful day and i wish you were here.

it’s been six days since i last heard your voice properly and i feel like i’m going to die.

ugh. i sound whiny and annoying. what are you doing to me, park sunghoon? i talked to heeseung about this whole thing and he told me i’m the neediest girl alive… first of all needy by ari is my national anthem for a reason, but i’d rather die than admit a man is right. 

and i am busy too, but i still manage to not be too busy for you. 

that was bitchy but i don’t care. i’m not even mad that you are sort of ghosting me. you could go years and years without talking to me — and i’d go out of my mind — but i’d still love you. but i’m just worried. i feel like there is something you aren’t telling me even though you insist there isn’t.

it’s just that i am so confused about everything, and this on top of it is making me overthink every last thing ever. call it female intuition but impending doom is at bay… in my heart.

i am so fucking confused, hoon. i know you’re in love with me and i know saying things has always been harder for you than acting on them, and i know you are scared, but why is this the one thing you can’t say when you say everything else? 

my question of the day: how do you kiss me and get jealous the way you do and still leave me here like this? am i not worth it?

i keep trying not to think that maybe you regret these months… okay wait. i should just shut up. six days of us not being the way we always are and i’m acting like i imagined everything. god. i’m just being dramatic. 

please just be okay. 

forever and always,

your sunshine

p.s. it’s a full moon tonight, so at least you’re here somehow.

・・・・・ ✷

September 19th, 2022 11:55 PM

Dear Sunghoon,

“I guess this is the end / I'll have to learn / To be somebody else / It's been you and me / Since before I was me / Without you, I don't yet know / Quite how to live.” – Mitski.

i don’t know why i’m still writing in this. but this is the only place i can still talk to you. i’ll never understand what changed, and as hard as i have tried, you have made it very clear you don’t want me in your life anymore, so i guess this is it, isn’t it?

i saw a pretty car on the street today. you know i don’t know shit about cars, but i think it was a maserati or whatever. it was black and tinted and my first thought was, sunghoon would love this. isn’t that fucking pathetic? you’d call me that, i guess. better pathetic than a coward.

every beautiful thing turns around and points to you, and i never thought there would be a day where i would see something and not be able to tell you about it. so much for forever and always, huh? 

i love you.

i hate you.

question to the gods who rolled my fucked up dices: how do i stop loving someone who is embroidered into the tapestry of my soul?

think of me fondly,

y/n

・・・・・ ✷

・・・・・ ✷ SUNGHOON’S POV:

You blinked at it for a second, and then sat up slowly, dragging a hand over your face. Your hair was a disaster. Your top from last night was nowhere to be seen. You were also trying not to think about the fact that you were still in Jake Sim’s bed.

The room was quiet. Downstairs, though, there was movement. A low murmur of voices, a cabinet closing, the faint rattle of glass against a counter.

You stared at the ceiling for a second longer, then swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, immediately regretting the decision because the room tilted just enough to make you grip the bedframe. “Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Fantastic.”

You found your top which was a tangled mess, then your underwear, your jeans (which had somehow ended up half on the chair by the corner). You got dressed, every motion slow and slightly resentful, then reached for a hoodie and pulled it on because it smelled like him because it was warm

The stairs creaked under your weight. You paused halfway down, gripping the banister, listening harder. The voices resolved into something clearer now — a low laugh, the hiss of a kettle, the scrape of a chair. Normal house things. Hungover Sunday things. Things that made the knot in your stomach tighten because they were so far from the chaos of last night, so far from whatever this was turning into.

You stepped into the kitchen doorway.

Jake was there.

He was leaning back against the counter in dark joggers slung low on his hips and a faded black T-shirt, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other braced beside him. His hair was damp, probably from a shower, pushed back roughly from his face and he looked up the second you appeared — like he’d been waiting.

Two mugs sat on the counter between you. One was half-empty. The other was full, steam curling lazily from the top. You stopped.

He straightened slightly, eyes flicking over you — the hoodie, the messy hair — before settling back on your face.

“Morning,” he said. His voice was low, rougher than usual from sleep or last night or both.

“Morning,” you echoed, stepping fully into the room because standing in the doorway like an idiot suddenly felt too revealing (ironicly).

He nodded toward the full mug. “Made you coffee. You looked at it. Oat flat white, by the smell of it. Exactly how you take it. He remembered, of course he did.

You walked over slowly, picking it up, wrapping your hands around the warmth because it gave you something to do besides stare at him staring at you.

“Thanks,” you said, quieter than you meant.

He watched you take a sip, then looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured you’d need it.”

The silence after that wasn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy. Full of all the things neither of you were saying. The party last night felt like another lifetime. This right now felt too real. Too normal. Like slipping into something that fit without even trying.

“I should probably get going.” You said suddenly. He straightened slightly, just enough to make it clear he had heard you.

“You don’t have to leave so suddenly,” he said.

You blinked. “I don’t?”

“No.”

You stared at him for a second, then glanced down at the mug again because looking directly at him now felt like a bad idea. “I mean, it’s fine. I just thought—”

“What?” he asked, still very calm.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The problem was that you had about five different answers and none of them were good.

I thought this would be weird. I thought you’d want me gone. I thought I’d be more embarrassed. I thought maybe you’d go back to acting like the version of yourself I was trying not to think about.

Instead you said, “Nothing.”

He gave you a look. You hated that look. Not because it was mean but because it wasn’t. “I can walk you out,” he said after a second.

You gave him a tiny nod. “Okay.”

And because apparently the universe had decided to be cruel, that felt more intimate than anything else that had happened last night.

The house unfolded around you as you moved — empty beer cans, a forgotten jacket, Sunghoon glancing up from his phone as you passed the living room doorway with a raised eyebrow that you pretended not to see. Jake didn’t acknowledge it either.

At the front door, you turned. He stopped a step behind, hands in his pockets, looking at you with that same gaze that had undone you last night. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Anytime.” The word hung there. Heavy with the promise of repetition.

You swallowed. “Okay. See you.”

“Text me when you get home.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He held your gaze, mouth twitching just slightly at the corner. “Just… let me know you get back.”

It was so simple. The kind of thing people said without thinking, except coming from him it felt like more, like he’d thought about it before saying it out loud. “Okay,” you said, softer than you meant.

His eyes lingered on yours for a beat longer than necessary. Then he nodded, reached past you and pulled the door open. The cool air from outside hit your face, sharp and clean after the warm stillness of the house. You took one step out, then another, and when you turned back he was still there in the doorway, framed by the dim hall light behind him.

For a second neither of you moved. Then you lifted your hand slightly in an awkward salute, because apparently that was all your brain could offer. He smiled, not the annoying cocky half-grin. Just a real smile, brief and warm.

You hated how much it did to you. You turned before he could say anything else and started down the path. The door closed behind you.

And that should have been that.

You made it three steps before you heard it open again. You turned, startled, and found Jake standing in the doorway with one hand on the frame and an expression that said he’d only just decided to do whatever it was he was doing. “You forgot something,” he said.

You frowned. “I did?”

He lifted his hand slightly. You looked down, his hoodie still on you. Your face heated instantly. “Oh,” you said, because apparently your vocabulary had died on the spot.

His mouth twitched. “You look good in it.”

That was not a sentence you were prepared for at eight in the morning. Your face heated before you could stop it. “I’m not stealing it.”

“You already have.”

“I’m borrowing it."

He looked at you for a long second. “Right. Borrowing.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but it didn’t land properly because he was smiling, small and lazy and very much aware of what he was doing to your ability to form thoughts. “I’ll bring it back,” you said.

“No rush.” That should not have sounded like that. He stepped back slightly, still in the doorway. “Get home safe.”

You rolled your eyes. “Bossy.”

“Text me.”

“I heard you.”

“Go on,” he said, jerking his chin toward the street. “Before Sunghoon comes out here and makes it weird.”

You laughed despite yourself, short and breathless, then turned and kept walking before you could say something stupid like come with me or what are we or nothing at all and just run up and kiss him again right there on his front step.

—

Sunoo was waiting. You knew he would be the second you turned your key in the lock and pushed into your dorm, because that’s what Sunoo did — anticipated, ambushed, and then dissected every detail with the precision of a surgeon.

He was sprawled across your bed in sweatpants and one of your hoodies scrolling through his phone with that relaxed poise that meant he’d actually been refreshing your location since sunrise.

You shut the door. He looked up. His eyes hit the hoodie first, then your face, then back to the hoodie. He sat up slowly, deliberately, like he was giving you time to confess before he started interrogating.

“Oh,” he said, with a slow, devastating satisfaction. “So it’s like that.”

You shut the door behind you. “Don’t start.” You kicked off your shoes, avoiding his gaze by focusing very hard on plugging in your phone.

“Oh, I’m going to,” he said, patting the bed beside him. “Sit. Spill. Everything.”

You hesitated, then crossed to the bed and dropped down next to him, pulling your knees up. The hoodie bunched around your wrists, too big and you tugged the sleeves over your hands before you could think better of it. Sunoo waited. “He made coffee.”

He made a small, wounded sound. “Already?”

“In the morning. Oat flat white. Exactly how I like it.”

Sunoo clutched his chest. “Stop, you’re killing me.”

“He walked me to the door.”

“Obviously.”

“And told me to text him when I got home.”

Sunoo froze. Then his face split into something gleeful and horrified all at once. “He did what?”

“To make sure I got back safe.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then flopped back against the pillows, arms flung wide. “You’re done for. Absolutely done.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. That’s boyfriend shit. Straight out the playbook.”

“It’s not—”

“It is.” He sat up again, grabbing your arm. “Did he say anything else? Compliment you? Touch your face? Gaze into your soul?”

You swatted his hand away. “He said I looked good in his hoodie.”

Sunoo gasped like he’d been personally attacked. “And you’re sitting here in it still! Why aren’t you married yet?”

“Because it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Stared at the wall. “I don’t know,” you admitted finally.

Sunoo softened, just a fraction. He nudged your shoulder with his. “But you like it.” You didn’t answer, didn’t need to, your face said it all.

Your phone buzzed on the desk. Both of you snapped toward it. You lunged for it before he could, thumbing the screen on.

you home?

You stared at it, thumb hovering. Sunoo leaned over your shoulder. “Respond. Now.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Think faster.”

You typed, deleted, typed again.

yeah just got in

Three dots appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.

good

A pause. Then:

last night was good. really good, actually

Your breath caught. Sunoo read it over your shoulder and made a strangled noise. “He just said that?”

“He did.”

“What are you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

You set the phone face-down, heart thudding too hard against your ribs. “Not yet.”

Sunoo stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “You’re going to kill him.”

“Good.” But you didn’t mean it.

And the message sat there, simple and unadorned, burrowing deeper than any flirtation could have.

—

The morning coffee started the next day. Just a text at 8:17 — outside in 10? — and you’d stood in front of your mirror for longer than you’d admit before going down.

He was at the curb stood outside his car, two cups from The Bean Bar balanced on the roof. He looked up when he heard the door. “Oat flat white,” he said, handing you one. “No sugar.”

You took it. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

He held the passenger door open for you. The car smelled like his cologne and you were not going to think about that. He drove. You sipped your coffee. The campus radio hummed low between you. “So,” he said eventually. “You survive Sunoo’s interrogation?”

You choked. “How do you know about that?”

He glanced sideways, mouth curving. “Because I know Sunoo.” A beat. “And because you have the face of someone who was interrogated.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“You always have a face.”

“That’s—” you started, then stopped, because you were fairly certain he was right and arguing the point would only prove it. “How are you always this annoying at eight in the morning?”

“Talent,” he said simply.

You rolled your eyes. He smiled at the road. The drive dissolved into something easy — him teasing you about your 9am, you firing back about his 7am practice schedule, the kind of back-and-forth that had started feeling natural.

He pulled up outside your building with five minutes to spare. “Thanks,” you said, unbuckling.

“Anytime.”

You paused at the door. He was already looking at you with that steady, unhurried attention. “Don’t be late,” he said.

“Bossy.”

“Go.”

You got out, shutting the door behind you, and walked toward the entrance without looking back. You were smiling into your scarf before you made it through the door, which you were absolutely not acknowledging.

It became a thing after that.

Not every day. Just enough — three mornings the next week, twice the week after, once on a Thursday when it was pouring and he’d thrown a hoodie at you from the backseat before you could argue about it. A bag of pastries on a Wednesday because he said you look like you skipped breakfast, which you had.

He always noticed things.

That was the part that got under your skin. The way he clocked things without making a show of it — that you took your coffee the same way every time, that you chewed your pen when you were thinking, that you got quieter rather than louder when something was bothering you. Nobody had told him these things. He’d just — paid attention. And you were running out of ways to pretend that didn’t mean something.

—

The windows had been fogged for twenty minutes.

The playlist had shifted into something slower, deeper — Jake’s hand was at the back of your neck, thumb tracing patterns against your skin.

The rain still drizzled against the roof, the amber of a single distant streetlight catching the fog on the glass.

You’d stopped keeping track of how long you’d been kissing him. There was no urgency behind it, no alcohol blurring the edges, no party noise pressing in to give you an excuse for losing your head. Just his mouth, slow and thorough and achingly deliberate.

It was significantly more dangerous.

His other hand had found your thigh — warm through the denim, fingers curled just enough to be intentional and when you’d shifted in the passenger seat to face him better, the centre console had become an obvious obstacle that you’d solved quickly by swinging one leg over and settling across his lap.

His hands had found your hips like they belonged there. “Hi,” he’d said. Low. Eyes dark.

“Hi,” you’d said back. And then his mouth had found yours again and you’d stopped thinking.

Now, with your hands braced on his shoulders and the steering wheel at your back, you could feel every point of contact between you — his hands gripping your hips, the solid warmth of his thighs beneath yours, the way his breath had changed from steady to something not. You rolled your hips, just slightly, enough, and felt him inhale sharply against your mouth.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Don’t what?” Innocent.

“You know what.” His grip tightened. His jaw was tight. “Unless you want this to go somewhere it probably shouldn’t in a car park.”

“Probably?” you said.

His eyes darkened. “Don’t push it.”

You rolled your hips again — deliberately, watching his expression fracture at the edges, watching that careful composure of his crack open. His head dropped back against the headrest, a low sound in his throat that you felt everywhere.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he gritted out.

“Little bit,” you admitted.

His hands slid from your hips to the backs of your thighs, pulling you in closer, and the sound you made was quiet but his eyes snapped to yours immediately, catching it. “Two can play at that,” he said.

“Jake—”

“Mm.” His mouth found your jaw, your neck, the soft skin just below your ear taking his time in the way that he did. His hands kept you exactly where he wanted you, moving with you in a rhythm that was slow and deliberate and somehow so much more.

You gripped his shoulders and tried to remember what having a coherent thought felt like.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he said against your neck, matter of fact. “Since the start.”

“You have a terrible way of showing it,” you managed.

“I know.” He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your thighs, eyes dark and completely certain. “Working on it.”

Your phone buzzed. You both ignored it. It buzzed again.

And again.

And then a fourth time in rapid succession.

Jake pulled back, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Popular,” he said with that classic smirk.

“It’s Sunoo.” You already knew.

“Tell him you’re busy.”

You fished the phone out of your jacket pocket, thumbed the screen.

where tf are you

millie says you’re not at the bar

it’s been 45 mins

don’t make me track your phone I WILL do it

You snorted despite yourself, typing back quickly.

alive. chill.

He responded fast.

that’s what a murderer would say

spill tomorrow.

You locked the screen and looked up. Jake was watching you with the easy patience. One hand was still at your thigh. The playlist was still going. The windows were still fogged. “Clear?” he said.

“For approximately five minutes before he texts again.”

“Five minutes,” he repeated thoughtfully, like he was doing calculations. “You know a lot can happen in five minutes.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

His smile was slow and entirely guilty. You climbed back over to your own seat, tugging your jacket straight, running a hand through your hair. Jake watched you do it, then exhaled once and reached for the ignition.

The engine turned over. The heating kicked in. He pulled out of the car park with one hand on the wheel, and after a moment the other found your knee — not moving, just there. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to reach for you.

You looked out the passenger window at the wet streets going by.

You did not examine the warmth spreading from that point of contact to around your body.

You did not think about the way he’d looked with his head dropped back against the headrest.

You did not think about what that meant coming from someone like Jake Sim.

—

The lecture theatre smelled like old books and coffee, the kind of stale air that settled into your clothes and made you crave fresh oxygen by the time Professor Kang finished her slides. You were three rows back, notebook half-full of scribbled notes about post-colonial theory that you would absolutely need to type up later, when she clapped her hands together and announced groups.

“Projects due in three weeks,” she said, peering over her glasses at the room. “No extensions. Pair up, or I’ll do it for you.”

People shifted immediately — chairs scraping, bags zipping, low murmurs as friends claimed each other. You glanced around, already scanning when Professor Kang’s voice cut through again. “Y/N and Minho.”

You blinked. She pointed at you, then at the guy two rows over, slim build, wire-rimmed glasses, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. He looked up from his laptop, surprised, then smiled, polite, the kind that said he was more comfortable with footnotes than small talk. You nodded. He nodded.

Class ended ten minutes later. You packed slow, watching him do the same out of the corner of your eye. You’d seen him around — library regular, always with a stack of journals, the type who colour-coded his notes and probably had a system for everything. He caught up with you at the door, bag slung over one shoulder. “Hey. Coffee? To plan?”

You checked your phone — 2:15 p.m. “Sure. Bean Bar okay?”

“Perfect.”

The cafe was busy but not packed — students hunched over laptops, the hiss of the espresso machine cutting through chatter, rain pattering against the window beside your table. You’d grabbed the spot by the glass, notes spread out already: syllabus requirements, three primary sources, the rubric printed off your laptop.

Minho slid into the seat across from you with two waters and his own notebook — actual paper, grid lines, colour pens lined up like soldiers. “Impressive,” you said, nodding at the setup.

He shrugged, pushing his glasses up. “Habit. Makes it easier to track themes.”

You dove in. Sources first — he had three solid ones already tabbed in his bag, footnotes pristine. You countered with two from your reading list, arguing page counts while pulling up PDFs on your screen. It flowed easy, better than expected. He listened when you talked, pushed back gently on weak points without being a dick about it.

Half an hour in, your lattes arrived. His was black. “So,” he said, tapping his pen against the table. “Structure? Three sections?”

“Four. Intro hooks better with historical context first.”

He considered, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

You were at the table by the glass when Jake glanced into The Bean Bar. Your notes spread out, coffee in hand — looking exactly the way you looked when you were in the middle of something you were interested in, that quality of focus that he’d catalogued without meaning to. You were leaning forward slightly, talking, and your hands were doing the thing they did when you were making a point — he’d noticed the first time you’d argued with him about something he no longer remembered the subject of. Jake noticed it now. Jake also noticed the guy across from you.

Dark hair. Wire rimmed glasses. Leaning in slightly, listening, nodding at whatever you were saying with attentive focus. Jake stood in the drizzle and watched you laugh at something the guy said.

It wasn’t a big laugh — just a small one. The kind you gave when something caught you off guard. The guy smiled back.

Jake’s jaw tightened.

He became aware that he’d stopped walking. That he was standing in the rain outside a cafe window staring at you like someone who had completely lost the thread of what they were supposed to be doing, which was going back to the house, not standing here watching you laugh through plate glass.

He looked at the guy again.

The guy pushed his glasses up and said something. You tilted your head and responded, and the guy nodded seriously, and you both looked down at the notebook between. A project, something logical suggested. Could just be a project.

Jake told that part of his brain to shut up.

Because the thing was — and this was the part that sat in his chest like something he hadn’t agreed to carry — it didn’t look like just a project. It looked like two people who were comfortable with each other. Who made each other laugh, who leaned across tables toward each other without noticing they were doing it.

He knew what that looked like. He’d been doing a version of it for three weeks.

You said something else and the guy laughed this time you looked pleased about it in the way you did when you’d said something that landed, and Jake stood in the rain and felt something move through him that was entirely new and entirely unwelcome and that he was going to need a significant amount of time to pretend wasn’t what it was.

He turned. Walked away. Didn’t look back.

The drizzle had graduated to proper rain by the time he made it back to the house, jacket dark at the shoulders, and Heeseung was on the sofa when he came through the door. “You’re soaked,” he observed.

“Yep.”

“Where did you even — the library’s five minutes away.”

“I walked slow.”

Heeseung looked at him with the calm attention of someone who had known him long enough to read the things he didn’t say. He didn’t push. Just reached for the remote and turned the volume down slightly. Jake dropped onto the other end of the sofa and stared at the television. Some sports recap playing. Stats he wasn’t reading. A goal replay he didn’t watch. He was quiet until he wasn’t and told Heeseung everything he saw through the fogged window of the Bean Bar.

“She’s probably just working on a project,” Heeseung said. Eyes on the screen. “Just saying.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Okay.”

“She was—” He stopped. “They were laughing.”

“People laugh, Jake.”

“I know people laugh—”

“At project partners. At friends. At people who are not—” Heeseung glanced at him sideways, “—whatever you think you saw.”

Jake said nothing. Looked back at the television. The silence had the quality of a point being made without being spoken, which was Heeseung’s particular skill and one of the more infuriating things about living with him. “I’m not doing anything,” Jake said finally.

“I know,” Heeseung said.

“I’m just—”

“I know.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Sure.” Heeseung picked up his phone. “Completely nothing. That’s why you walked home in the rain instead of going in.”

Jake had no answer to that.

He looked at the television and thought about your laugh through the window and told himself, firmly, that it meant nothing. He was not convincing.

He didn’t text that evening. Told himself it was because he was busy — the finance paper, the match prep. Normal things. Not because he’d stood outside a window in the rain and felt something crack open in his chest that he hadn’t given permission to be there.

The next morning he didn’t show up at your dorm.

He told himself that was fine too. It wasn’t a scheduled thing. It had never been a scheduled thing — just something that had happened, casually, without being made into anything. Which meant not doing it was equally casual. Equally nothing.

He made his own coffee. It tasted fine. He drank it standing at the kitchen counter looking at his phone, not texting you, being completely normal about the whole situation.

—

Two days of nothing became four. Four became a week.

He saw your name in his messages — the last exchange sitting there — and he left it unread like a coward, which he knew, and which Heeseung had started communicating through pointed silence and disapproving looks. “You’re being an idiot,” Heeseung said.

“Thanks.”

“I’m just noting it. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say she did.”

“You’re acting like she did.” Heeseung set down his fork. “You saw her in a cafe with someone. You made up a story about it. And now you’re punishing her for the story you made up.” He picked his fork back up. “That’s being an idiot.” Jake stared at his food. “She might be confused,” Heeseung said. “About what she did. About what changed.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“Jake.”

“She doesn’t need—”

“Jake.” Quieter this time. The voice Heeseung used when he’d run out of patience for the deflection. “You walked home in the rain. You’ve been sitting with your phone in your hand for five days. You made the wrong kind of coffee this morning.” He paused. “What is actually going on with you?”

The kitchen was quiet.

“I don’t know,” Jake said. It was the most honest thing he’d said in a week.

Heeseung looked at him for a long moment. “Figure it out,” he said. “Before you lose something you actually want.”

Across campus, you were on Sunoo’s bed, face in a pillow, while he rubbed your back with the careful attention of someone managing a situation he’d seen coming and hadn’t been able to prevent.

“He just stopped,” you said, into the pillow.

“I know.”

“No warning. No explanation. Just — nothing.”

“I know.”

“We were in his car last week and his hand was on my knee the whole drive home.” You turned your head sideways, cheek on the pillow, staring at the wall. “What does that mean? What does any of it mean if he can just—”

“It means he’s an idiot,” Sunoo said, with calm certainty.

“I thought—” you stopped. “I actually thought it was becoming something. That’s the worst part. I let myself think it was becoming something and now I just feel—”

“Don’t say stupid.”

“Stupid,” you said.

Sunoo sighed. Kept rubbing your back. “You’re not stupid. He’s stupid. There’s a difference.”

“What if I imagined it? The whole thing. What if I built it into something in my head and he was just—” you couldn’t finish the sentence.

“He showed up at your dorm basically every morning with your exact coffee order,” Sunoo said flatly. “He gave you his hoodie. He told you he couldn’t stop thinking about you. None of that was your imagination.”

“Then why—”

“Because,” Sunoo said, “he’s an idiot. Which I believe I already said.”

You were quiet for a moment.

“I really liked him,” you said. Small and honest.

Sunoo lay down beside you, staring at the ceiling. “I know you did.”

“I hate that I really liked him.”

“I know that too.”

“Don’t say I told you so.”

“I would never.” A beat. “I did tell you though.” You threw the pillow at him. He caught it, tucked it under his head, and stared at the ceiling with you. “He’ll figure it out,” he said eventually. “They always figure it out.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

Sunoo turned his head to look at you. Something quiet and certain in his expression. “Then he’s not worth the coffee order.”

You looked back at the ceiling. His hoodie was in the bottom of your wardrobe. You had not thrown it out and you were not examining why.

—

The party was Sunoo’s idea.

Which meant it was well intentioned and also completely terrible but you’d said yes anyway because a week and a half of silence had done something to your ability to make good decisions.

-“You look incredible,” Sunoo said, surveying you from the doorway of your room with the satisfaction of someone who had selected the outfit and was now taking credit for the result. “I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying.” You checked your reflection — the black dress, the hoop earrings, the effort you’d made that had nothing to do with the possibility of seeing Jake Sim. “Let’s go.”

You made a decision on the walk over. Not out loud. Just quietly, privately, between you and yourself — tonight you were going to have a good time. Actually have one. Not the performed version where you smiled at the right moments and checked your phone when no one was looking and left early with a headache.

Instead tonight you were going to drink and dance with your friends. You could do that. You were completely capable of doing that.

The party was at someone’s house off campus. Exactly what you needed, which was the charitable interpretation. The uncharitable one was that you’d spent forty minutes getting ready for an event you didn’t want to attend in order to avoid spending another evening staring at a phone that wasn’t buzzing.

Millie found you first, appearing through the crowd with a drink already extended and the grin of someone who had been there long enough to be very happy about it. You took the cup without asking what was in it. “That’s the spirit,” she said approvingly.

The group assembled and the evening started moving — dancing, drinks, the kind of easy warmth that came from people who actually liked each other, and for a while it worked. For a while you were just there, just present, just someone at a party having a good time.

The second drink went down easier than the first. The third even easier than that. Sunoo was watching you with the careful attention, but when you met his eyes you smiled — wide, real-looking — and he let it go. Or pretended to atleast.

You were on your fourth drink when you saw him. You’d been specifically not looking for him — had given yourself a stern internal lecture on the walk over about not scanning rooms and doorways and not doing any of the small pathetic things you’d caught yourself doing for the past week and a half.

But then the crowd shifted and there he was.

Near the far wall. Dark shirt, dark hair. He had a drink in one hand and his head was tilted slightly, listening to something, and for one unguarded second you just — looked at him.

Then you saw the girl. Standing close, intentionally close. Her hand was at his chest and he wasn’t moving away from it, wasn’t doing anything to create distance, just standing there with that easy unbothered quality he wore everywhere.

You looked away. Took a long sip of your drink. “Dance?” Gretta appeared at your elbow, already moving.

“Absolutely,” you said, and followed her onto the floor.

Dancing helped. Or at least it occupied enough of your body and brain. The music was good and you let it take over, moving with the crowd, Gretta and Millie and Sunoo orbiting around you.

You were fine. You were actually fine, or a convincing enough approximation that the difference was academic. And then Sunoo appeared at your shoulder and said, very quietly, “Don’t look.”

Which meant you looked.

Jake was still near the far wall. The girl was still there. But she was closer now — considerably closer that his head was bent toward her neck. His mouth pressed to the curve of her neck. Slow. Deliberate.

The way he’d done to you.

Something in your chest cracked clean open. “I need some air,” you said.

“Y/N—”

“I’m fine. Two minutes.”

You moved before he could argue, cutting through the crowd toward the back of the house, to the side door that opened onto a narrow path running alongside the garden. You stood against the wall and tipped your head back and breathed.

A week and a half.

He’d had his hand on your knee. He’d made your coffee. He’d said I can’t stop thinking about you in a kitchen at midnight — and then he’d just stopped. Gone quiet and cold and distant without explanation, without a text, without anything.

And you’d sat with it. Let Sunoo talk you through it at 2am and nodded along to everything he said and still come back, privately, to the same conclusion every time.

You’d been played.

Not the first night — the first night had been what it was, clear-eyed and mutual and something you’d made peace with. But after; the coffee and the rides and the car park — all of it had been — what? Habit? Convenience? The path of least resistance from a boy who was good at making you feel like you were the only person in the room and apparently equally good at making you feel like nothing at all?

The side door opened. You didn’t look. “Sunoo, I said two minutes—”

“It’s not Sunoo.”

You went very still.

Jake stepped out, letting the door fall shut behind him. He was in his jacket, hands in his pockets, and he looked at you across the narrow path with an expression of something between careful and wrecked, something that had no business being on his face when he was the one who’d gone silent on you.

“What do you want?” you said, proud of how flat it came out.

“I saw you leave.”

“Congratulations.”

“Y/N—”

“Go back inside, Jake.” You pushed off the wall, tugging your jacket tighter, still not looking at him. “Go back to — whoever that was. You looked like you were having a great time.”

“I wasn’t—“

“I don’t want to hear it. I genuinely do not want to hear it. I watched you put your mouth on her neck, Jake. The same way you—” You stopped. Pressed your lips together. “I’m not doing this.”

“It meant nothing—”

“Everything means nothing to you!” The words came out louder than you meant but you didn’t pull them back. “The first night meant nothing, then it meant something, then whatever the last three weeks were apparently meant nothing again the second you decided to just — vanish. So which is it? Because I can’t—” Your voice cracked slightly. You hated it. “I can’t keep recalibrating what this is every time you change your mind.” He stared at you.

“She wasn’t—” He exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair, the composure fracturing visibly. “She came over and I was — I wasn’t thinking. I was angry.”

“At me?” Disbelief sharp in your voice. “What did I do?”

“The Bean Bar,” he said. “Last week. The guy with the glasses.”

“You saw me at The Bean Bar?”

“I was cutting across the courtyard—”

“And you thought—” The pieces landed one by one. “You thought I was on a date?”

He said nothing. Which was a yes.

“You went cold for a week and a half,” you said, voice rising, “because you saw me through a window and assumed — and then you came to a party and put your mouth on some girl's neck — because you were angry at me for something you made up in your head?”

“When you put it like that—”

“How else should I put it?” You stepped toward him, he held his ground, jaw tight, watching you with dark eyes. “He’s my project partner. Professor Kang assigned us. We were doing coursework.” You stopped directly in front of him, close enough to make the point. “He’s also gay, Jake. He spent forty minutes telling me about his boyfriend Jisung. I would never—” Your voice dropped. “I would never do that. Not to — not to whatever this is. Was.” You shook your head. “I wouldn’t.”

The silence that followed was the loudest thing you’d ever stood in. Something moved through Jake’s face — slow and devastating. The anger he’d been carrying, the story he’d built, the week and a half of distance — all of it collapsing.

“I know,” he said. Barely audible.

“Then why—”

“Because I didn’t want it to be nothing,” he said. “Seeing you with someone — I didn’t want it to be nothing, and it was, and I didn’t know what to do with that.” He exhaled. Rough and honest. “So I did the wrong thing. The stupid thing. I’m—” He stopped. “I handled it terribly.”

“You handled it terribly,” you agreed. Your voice was quieter. “It really hurt, Jake.” The silence after that was different from the one before — not full of unsaid things, just full. Like something had been turned over and was just sitting there now between you, visible and waiting.

“I need to think,” you said finally.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

“Don’t—” you started, then stopped.

“What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing. Forget it.” You went back inside. He didn’t follow this time. And that was somehow both better and worse than if he had.

—

The week after the party was different. Not fixed or resolved or the comfortable easy thing that had existed before the Bean Bar window and the week of silence and the image of his mouth on someone else’s neck that you were still, quietly, trying to scrub from the back of your eyelids.

But different. The silence wasn’t cold anymore.

He didn’t text. You didn’t text. But when you passed each other on campus on Tuesday — him coming out of the sports centre, you heading toward the library, he’d stopped, looked at you and said hey. You’d said hey back. And that had been that.

Wednesday he left a coffee on the wall outside your lecture building.

No text. No explanation. Just a cup from the Bean Bar sitting on the low wall by the entrance with a small note tucked under it that said oat flat white. no sugar. in his handwriting, but he was nowhere to be seen.

You stood and looked at it for a moment. Then you picked it up and drank it on the walk to class. Didn’t tell Sunoo.

Sunoo found out anyway because Sunoo always found out, and he said nothing about it, just looked at you over the rim of his own cup then went back to his phone.

—

Friday arrived with the energy of a match day — people in colours and the sports centre car park filled by mid-afternoon. You’d been aware of it in the background all week in the same way you’d been aware of everything Jake-adjacent all week. You had no plans to go. You had been very clear with yourself about this.

Until Heeseung knocked on your door at four o’clock. You opened it and found him there — tall, easy, hands in his pockets, with a calm, unhurried manner. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” you said. “How do you know where I—”

“Sunoo,” he said simply.

“Of course.” You leaned against the doorframe. “What’s up?”

He looked at you for a moment with the specific quality of attention that you’d noticed about him from the beginning — the kind that didn’t perform itself, just existed, taking things in without making a show of it. You’d always found it slightly unnerving. “There’s a match tonight,” he said.

“I know.”

“Seven thirty. Main pitch.”

“Heeseung—”

“He’s been off all week,” he said. “Training’s been — he’s in his head. Which happens before big matches. But this week it’s different.” He held your gaze. “It’s not just the match.”

You said nothing.

“I’m not asking you to fix anything,” he said. “I’m not asking you to have figured it out or decided anything or — none of that. I just think—” He paused. Choosing carefully. “I think it would matter. You being there. I think it would matter to him.”

“He hurt me,” you said. Quiet and directly.

“I know. He was an idiot. He knows that too. But—” He exhaled slightly. “He’s been trying to figure out how to be the person who deserves to fix it and I think he needs to know there’s something to fix first.”

“I’m not promising anything,” you said finally.

“I know.”

“I’m not—” You stopped. “If I come, it doesn’t mean—”

“I know,” he said again, patient. “Just come. That’s all. Just be there.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “Sunoo will want to come,” you said.

The corner of Heeseung’s mouth moved. “Already texted him.”

“Of course you did.”

“Seven thirty,” he said. “Main pitch. We’re in the blue kit tonight if that helps with — “ he gestured vaguely at you, “— whatever you’re deciding to wear.”

“I’m not wearing the kit colours—”

“Wasn’t suggesting it.” But he was. He stepped back, hands back in his pockets, the mission apparently complete. “See you there.”

He turned and walked away down the corridor. You stood in your doorway. Closed the door. “Sunoo!” you called.

His door opened immediately. He’d been listening. Obviously.

“We’re going to the match,” you said.

He appeared in the corridor in his socks with the expression of someone who had been packed and ready since this morning. “Obviously,” he said. “I’ve been ready for an hour.”

—

The pitch was lit up against the dark. Floodlights cutting through the February cold, the grass impossibly green underneath them, the stands filling with the particular noise of a crowd. You’d found seats in the middle tier — good sightlines, not too close. Sunoo sat beside you with two cups of something hot from the concession stand.

The teams came out. You found him immediately. You weren’t proud of how quickly you found him — blue kit, number seven, running the warm-up drills like he’d done it a thousand times. Even at this distance there was something different about him. The usual ease was still there — but underneath it something tighter. The set of his jaw. Heeseung had said he was in his head. He looked it. “He looks tense,” Sunoo observed.

“He always looks like that before matches.”

“You’re defending him.”

“I’m observing.”

Sunoo sipped his drink. “Sure.”

The whistle went. You didn’t know much about soccer. Enough to follow it — enough to know when something good happened and when something had gone wrong, to read the shape of the game in broad strokes. Enough, apparently, to spend ninety minutes tracking one specific player with an attention that had nothing to do with the sport.

Jake was good. That wasn’t a surprise — you’d known he played, had seen the name in the campus paper, had understood from context that he was good at it. But knowing and watching were different things. Watching was — he moved differently on the pitch. All that easy grace that he carried everywhere became something more purposeful, more electric, the confidence that sometimes read as arrogance in a kitchen or a car park transformed into something that just looked like complete and total command.

He scored the first goal in the thirty-eighth minute. The crowd erupted. You watched him — the celebration, arms wide, teammates converging on him, the grin that broke through the focused intensity like a crack in something — and felt something in your chest go warm and complicated and specific.

Sunoo nudged your shoulder. You didn’t look at him.

The second goal came in the seventy-second minute.

Different kind — a team build-up, three passes, the space created by someone else’s run, and Jake arriving exactly where the ball was going to be before it got there, the kind of read that looked like instinct but was probably ten years of practice and the particular intelligence that he applied to everything he actually cared about.

He wheeled away, turning toward the stands. And then he stopped. You felt it before you understood it — a change in the quality of the moment, something shifting. He was looking at the stands. Scanning them. His teammates were still celebrating around him, but he was—

Looking for something. Looking for someone.

Your heart was very loud.

His eyes found yours across the distance. Stopped. The noise of the crowd continued around you both, entirely unaware of the small private thing happening inside it. He looked at you for one long suspended moment — the floodlights catching his face, the celebration still going on around him, sixty-eight minutes of a football match and whatever the past two weeks had been living in the space between you.

Then he pressed two fingers to his lips. Pointed them directly at you.

The crowd around you made noise about something else. Sunoo made a sound beside you that was somewhere between a gasp and a sob. You sat completely still with your heart doing something that your ribcage was not structurally prepared for. “OH MY GOD,” Sunoo said, at a volume that several people nearby turned to look at.

“Sunoo—”

“He just — did you see — he literally just—”

“I saw—”

“IN FRONT OF EVERYONE—”

“Sunoo, please—”

“I’m normal,” he said, at a volume that confirmed he was not. “I’m being completely normal about this.”

On the pitch Jake had been pulled into the team huddle, Heeseung’s arm around his shoulders, and you could see even from here the way he was still slightly elsewhere — turned slightly inward, something settled in him that hadn’t been there at the start.

You pressed your fingers to your mouth. Breathed.

The final whistle went eighteen minutes later.

The pitch dissolved into celebration — teams converging, staff flooding on, the crowd beginning to move. You sat still in the middle of it, Sunoo vibrating beside you with barely contained energy, while the noise built around you and the floodlights stayed bright and the evening continued its indifferent progress. “You should go down,” Sunoo said.

“I don’t think—”

“Y/N.”

“It’s not—”

“He dedicated a goal to you in front of two hundred people,” Sunoo said. With great patience. Like he was explaining something to someone very slow. “He found you in a crowd and pointed at you like you were the only person in it. Go. Down.”

You looked at the pitch. At the blue kit moving through the celebration below. “What if it’s not—”

“Go,” Sunoo said. “Now. While I still have the capacity to be patient about this.”

The stairs down to the pitch-side barrier were emptying as the crowd dispersed, people filtering toward the exits. You made it to the front, to the low barrier separating the stands from the technical area, and stopped.

The celebration had thinned. Players heading toward the tunnel, staff gathering equipment. You scanned — blue kit, number seven, dark hair damp from the match — and found him at the edge of the pitch talking to someone on the coaching staff, head bent, nodding.

Then he looked up. Found you. The coaching staff conversation ended immediately, though you weren’t sure he said anything to finish it — he was already moving, and the directness of it, the complete absence of hesitation, did something devastating to your nervous system.

He stopped at the barrier. Close. Just the low rail between you. He was still in the kit, breathing hard from the match, and there was mud on his shin and his hair was a complete disaster and he was looking at you like you were the most important thing in the eye line and none of the rest of it mattered at all.

“You came,” he said.

“Heeseung asked,” you said.

“I know. I asked him to.” Of course he had.

“The goal,” you started.

“Was yours.” Simple. Like it was obvious. Like there was no other way to say it.

You looked at him across the barrier. All the careful distance of the past two weeks. All the silence and the second-guessing and the crack in your chest that hadn’t fully closed. All of it right here between you, visible, not pretended away.

“I’ve been such an idiot,” he said quietly.

“You really have.”

“I know.” He exhaled. “I’m sorry. Not just for the Bean Bar — for all of it. The first night. The way I spoke to you. All the ways I—” He stopped. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to be someone who deserves to say sorry for it and I kept thinking I needed more time but Heeseung told me last week that I was going to run out of it and he was right.”

“He usually is,” you said.

“Annoyingly.” The corner of his mouth moved. Then went serious again. “I don’t want to be in the middle anymore. I don’t want the silence or the — I don’t want any of it.” His jaw was set. Certain. The same certainty he brought to everything that he’d actually decided on. “I want you. Properly. All of it. The coffee and the arguments and—” He stopped. “You’ve been in my head since the first night and I’ve been an idiot about it every step of the way and I’m done being an idiot.”

The floodlights hummed above you. The last of the crowd moved around you, indifferent, going home. “Jake—”

“I love you,” he said.

Just like that. Like it had been there for a long time and had simply run out of reasons to stay in.

The world continued around you — the floodlights, the dispersing crowd, the cold February air — and you stood at the barrier with your heart absolutely full to the edges and the boy who had been infuriating and honest and terrible and careful all at once looking at you like you were the answer to something he’d been asking since September.

“I love you too,” you said. “I’ve been—” Your voice went slightly unsteady. “For a while. Since before I had any right to.”

Something broke open in his face. He reached across the barrier. Cupped your face in both hands — the same way he had the very first time, in the corridor outside your dorm, careful and certain — and kissed you.

The real thing — deep and warm and unhurried, his hands holding your face like you were something worth holding, and you gripped the barrier and kissed him back with everything you had, with the full weight of three months of almost and not yet and almost again.

Somewhere above you, distantly, you heard Sunoo scream.

Jake broke away, slightly breathless, forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were still closed. “I’m going to get you back for every terrible thing I did,” he murmured.

“You better,” you said.

He laughed — low and real and so close you felt it — and kissed you again, quick this time, a promise rather than a statement. “After party,” he said. “Give me twenty minutes to shower.”

“Twenty minutes,” you agreed.

He pulled back, reluctant, hands sliding from your face slowly like they didn’t want to. He was grinning now — the real one, not the smirk, the one that reached his eyes and had the dimples and made him look like everything you’d been trying not to want since September.

“You’re wearing my hoodie tonight,” he said.

“I’m borrowing your hoodie,” you corrected.

“Sure.” He stepped back toward the tunnel, still looking at you. “Borrowing.”

“Go shower,” you said. “You smell like a football pitch.”

“Romantic,” he said, and disappeared into the tunnel.

You stood at the barrier for a moment. Then you turned around. Sunoo was three rows up, standing on his seat, hands clasped over his heart like a person at the end of a film. “Don’t,” you said.

“I’m not saying anything,” he said, at full volume.

“Come on.” You started back up the steps. “We’ve got an after party to get to.”

He jumped off his seat and fell into step beside you, and you could feel him vibrating with the effort of not saying everything he wanted to say, which you appreciated. He lasted approximately four seconds. “He said I love you,” Sunoo said. “In front of everyone. At a football match. After dedicating a goal to you.”

“I know. I was there.”

“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed in person.”

“Sunoo—”

“I might cry.”

“Please don’t.”

“I’m not crying,” he said, in the voice of someone crying. “I’m just — I’m so proud of both of you.”

“We’ve been idiots for three months.”

“Yeah but you got there.” He bumped your shoulder with his. “You got there.” You walked out of the stadium and into the cold February night, and somewhere behind you the floodlights were still burning bright against the dark, and you were smiling so hard it hurt, and you didn’t mind at all.

—

The after party was at the soccer house. Of course it was — it was always the soccer house, the default venue for celebration and commiseration alike, the place that had started all of this four months ago with a spilled drink and a fresh cup and a boy with a smirk that had no business being that effective.

You thought about that sometimes. The specific geometry of it. How much had pivoted on a drunk idiot walking into you at a party and Jake Sim appearing at your elbow with a replacement drink like he’d been waiting for an excuse.

Tonight felt like a different universe from that night. Same house. Same bass through the walls. Same red cups and warm bodies and the compressed energy of a team that had won and intended to celebrate the fact comprehensively.

But different. Everything is different.

Jake found you approximately thirty seconds after you walked in. “Hey,” he said, close to your ear over the noise.

“Hey.” You turned slightly. He was right there — closer than the party strictly required, close enough that the hand at your back felt like a statement rather than a navigation tool. “Fast shower.”

“Motivated.” His eyes moved over your face with the warm unhurried attention that still did things to your ability to think linearly. “You look—”

“Don’t,” you said.

“I was going to say cold. You look cold.”

“You were not going to say cold.”

The corner of his mouth curved. “No,” he agreed. “I wasn’t.”

He steered you further into the party with that hand still at your back — not urgently, just present, guiding rather than pushing — and you let him, because the alternative was pretending you objected and you’d run out of energy for pretending things.

Heeseung found you both near the kitchen, drink already in hand, and looked at you together with the expression of a man whose investment had paid off. “Good match,” you told him.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. Meaning something more than the match.

“Thanks for asking,” you said. Meaning the same. He nodded once, satisfied, and that was the entirety of the conversation required.

Jake handed you a drink — something cold, something that tasted of fruit and went down easy — and kept himself close for the rest of the evening in the particular way of someone who had decided on a thing and was done being ambiguous about it. His shoulder against yours. His hand finding yours when the crowd pressed in. Turning toward you when something happened worth reacting to, sharing the reaction with you first before anyone else.

Like you were the person he was with. Because you were. That was still new enough to feel like something. New enough that you caught yourself registering it — the warmth of it, the specific settled feeling of being someone’s person and knowing it — and having to do something deliberate with your face so it didn’t show too obviously.

It showed anyway.

Sunoo caught your eye from across the room and made a face that communicated immense personal satisfaction. You looked away pointedly. He laughed — low and private, just for you — and his hand found the small of your back again and stayed there, and you thought: oh. so this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Not the version you’d been managing and second-guessing and calibrating for months. Just — this. Easy and warm and certain.

It was past midnight when you drifted away from the main room. Jake tilted his head toward the stairs. You nodded. He took your hand.

His room was exactly as you’d left it.

String lights above the headboard. The chair with the permanent jacket. Books in actual order. The photo strip in the mirror frame, him and Heeseung, grinning.

He closed the door and the party noise dropped to something distant and manageable, just the thump of bass through the floor, and the room settled into its amber warmth around you both.

You looked at each other. And then — because apparently this was what happened when months of tension finally resolved themselves — you both started laughing at the same time.

The absurdity of how long it had taken. The fact that you were standing here, finally, after all of it, and it felt less like a dramatic conclusion and more like coming home to somewhere you’d always been supposed to be. “What?” he said, laughing too, hands finding your waist.

“Nothing.” You were already shaking your head. “Everything. I don’t know.”

“Four months,” he said.

“Four months of you being an absolute nightmare.”

“Me? You were equally—”

“I was delightful,” you said. “I was a delight the entire time.”

“You told me I was insufferable within the first week.”

“You were insufferable within the first week!”

“You’re insufferable right now,” he said, and kissed you.

It dissolved the argument immediately, which was probably his intention, and you went with it — hands finding his chest, fingers curling into the grey hoodie, kissing him back with the specific ease of someone who had been wanting to do this without any asterisks attached for longer than they’d admitted.

He broke away, slightly breathless, eyes warm. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” you said back. You kissed him again.

He made a sound against your mouth that was half protest and entirely something else, and his hands slid from your waist to your hips with the familiar confidence that still managed to make your breath catch regardless of how many times it had happened. You walked him backward without breaking the kiss until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he sat, and then you were standing over him, and something shifted in the air between you.

He looked up at you. The string lights caught his face — warm and amber and completely open, none of the careful management he usually wore, just him looking up at you like you were something he’d been trying to find the right words for and had finally given up on words entirely. “Hi,” he said again, softer.

“You already said that.”

“Worth repeating.” His hands were at your hips, light, letting you set the terms. “Come here.”

Everything felt slower — the unhurried quality of people who weren’t going anywhere and knew it, who had the whole night and no reason to rush any of it. You kissed him for a long time in the amber light, sitting across his lap, his hands moving with a patience that was its own specific thing, and at some point he said something against your jaw that made you laugh again and you had to pull back to do it properly. “What?” He was laughing too, looking up at you.

“Nothing, you’re just—” You shook your head. “You’re actually the worst.”

“The worst,” he repeated, in the tone of someone not offended at all.

“The absolute worst.” You were smiling so hard it hurt. “I can’t believe I — four months. I wasted four months.”

“We wasted four months.”

“You wasted more of it.”

“Debatable.”

“Jake—”

“Debatable,” he said, and pulled you back down.

His shirt came off, you pushed it up and he helped, the easy teamwork of people who’d done this before but were discovering it felt entirely different when the rest of it was different too. You pressed your hands to his chest, feeling the warmth of him, and he let you — let you look, let you take your time, watching your face with dark eyes and an expression that was fond and wanting in equal measure.

You pushed him back against the mattress. He went willingly, laughing quietly, catching your hands as you followed him down and lacing his fingers through yours against the pillow beside his head. He looked up at you in the amber light — properly looked, the way he did everything that mattered to him, with his whole attention — and the laughter settled into something warmer underneath.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. Simply. Like he’d been thinking it for a long time and had run out of reasons to keep it in.

Your breath caught. “Don’t say things like that,” you managed.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s—” You didn’t finish the sentence.

“Because it’s true?” He squeezed your hands. “Get used to it.”

You kissed him so you didn’t have to answer that, and he kissed you back and freed his hands from yours and they went everywhere — your waist, your back, the hem of your top — and you let him pull it over your head because the alternative was being sensible and you were done with sensible for the evening. He looked at you. “God,” he breathed.

“You’ve seen me before,” you said.

“I know.” His hands traced the lines of you slowly, reverently, like he was relearning something. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Nope.” He sat up, pressing his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the curve of your neck. “Could look at you every day and it wouldn’t matter.”

Your bra followed — unfastened with the same deft ease that had told you something about him the first night, except this time he pressed his lips to your shoulder after, unhurried, before his mouth moved lower. Tongue circling, warm and deliberate, drawing sounds from you that you’d stopped trying to suppress approximately thirty seconds ago. “Jake—”

“Mm.” Not stopping. Clearly not planning to.

“We have all night,” you said breathlessly.

He pulled back to look at you. “I know.” His eyes were dark, entirely certain. “That’s why I’m taking my time.”

He laid you back against the navy sheets. And then — instead of moving up your body, instead of doing any of the things the usual choreography suggested — he kissed down your stomach. Slowly. His hands spreading across your hips, holding you still with a gentle pressure that was entirely at odds with the deliberateness of his mouth. “Jake.” His name came out unsteady.

“Is this okay?” The question, gentle and direct, did more damage than anything physical could have.

“Yes,” you said. “Obviously yes.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good.”

He took his time, unhurried and thorough, like this was something he’d been thinking about doing properly and had no intention of rushing. His mouth against you was devastating in the way of someone who was paying attention — reading every sound you made, every shift of your hips, adjusting without being asked, finding the things that made you gasp and returning to them with a focus that was almost scientific and completely catastrophic.

His hands held your thighs open when they tried to close. “Stay,” he said.

“Jake—” barely coherent, “—Jake, I’m going to—”

“I know.” He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “That’s the point.”

You grabbed his hair. He groaned against you — low and genuine, the vibration of it rippling through you — and worked you harder for it, tongue relentless, until your back arched off the mattress and you said his name the way you’d been trying not to and the orgasm crested and broke through you in long rolling waves that left you shaking and boneless and staring at the string lights above the headboard. He pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh and moved back up beside you. Looked at your face. “Okay?” he said.

“I don’t know what I am,” you managed.

He grinned — the real one, dimples and everything. “Good.”

“Don’t be smug about it.”

“Little bit smug.”

“Jake—”

“Very small amount of smug,” he said, and kissed your temple.

You pushed weakly at his shoulder. He caught your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles, which was so unexpectedly soft that it undid you more than anything else had. “Your turn,” you said, when you could form sentences again.

Something shifted in his expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You sat up, nudging him back. “Lie down.”

He went easily and immediately, settling against the pillow and looking up at you with dark eyes and the particular quality of someone who was trying to look unbothered and not entirely succeeding. You got his jeans open. You pushed them down with his help, his boxers following, and he was — god. Still the same. Still enough to make your brain skip like a record, thick and heavy and entirely real.

You wrapped your hand around him.

He made a sound — rough and helpless, head pressing back against the pillow, hips jerking slightly before he caught himself. “Sorry,” he breathed, like the loss of control embarrassed him.

“Don’t apologise,” you said. “That was the goal.” He laughed — short and wrecked — and you stroked him slowly, deliberately, learning the sounds he made the way he’d learned yours. He was less composed than you’d ever seen him — jaw slack, chest rising and falling too fast, hands fisting in the sheets beside him with the effort of not grabbing you.

“You can,” you said.

“Can what?”

“Touch me. You don’t have to — you’re allowed.”

His hands found your hips immediately, like they’d been waiting for permission.

“I was trying to be—” he started.

“You don’t have to be careful,” you said. “Not with me.”

Something cracked open in his expression. “Okay,” he said, rough and quiet. “Okay.”

You kissed him while you worked him — slow and thorough, swallowing the sounds he made, feeling him twitch and strain against your palm. He was a mess. A completely undone, entirely genuine mess, and the power of it — of being the reason for it — was something you hadn’t expected and were going to be thinking about for a significant amount of time. “Y/N—” strained, desperate in a way he never was, “—please—”

“Please what?” Low. Deliberate.

His head turned to look at you, eyes dark and half-lidded. “You know what.”

“Say it.”

A breath. The jaw tightening. Then: “I want you. Please.”

The please undid you. You reached for the nightstand — his nightstand, the drawer you knew — and he watched you with barely contained patience, hands still at your hips, as you took care of things and moved over him. You looked down at him. He looked up at you. The string lights warm above you both. “Hi,” he said softly. For the third time. Like it was the only word that kept making sense.

“Hi,” you said back. And then you sank down onto him — slow, achingly slow, taking him inch by inch until you were fully seated and you both made the same sound simultaneously and then looked at each other and laughed, which dissolved the last of the tension entirely, leaving something better underneath.

“Okay?” he managed.

“Very okay.” You shifted experimentally and watched his eyes flutter. “You?”

“Give me a second,” he said, voice completely wrecked. “Just — give me a second.” You waited. His hands on your hips were shaking slightly, which you were committing to permanent memory. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Move. Please. Please move.” You did. The rhythm you found was deep and unhurried at first — long and rolling, his hands at your hips guiding without controlling, his head pressed back against the pillow with his eyes half-closed and his lips parted and every sound he made completely unguarded — just him, genuinely him, making sounds that he’d never let you hear before because before it had always been about something else.

“You feel—” he started, then lost the sentence. “You have no idea. You feel—” another lost sentence, another involuntary sound. “God. You feel like everything.”

Your rhythm shifted — faster, deeper — and he groaned, low and helpless, fingers pressing bruises into your hips that you’d check for tomorrow with quiet satisfaction. “Look at you,” you said softly.

His eyes opened. Found yours. “What?” Breathless.

“Look at you,” you said again, not unkindly. “Jake Sim, completely wrecked.”

Something moved through his expression — embarrassed and wanting and so genuinely fond it made your chest ache. “Yeah,” he said. “Your fault entirely.”

“I know.” You leaned down, pressing your mouth to his jaw, his throat. “Good.” He laughed — broken, beautiful — and his hand slid up your spine and then into your hair and he kissed you, messy and desperate, hips rolling up to meet yours in a way that suggested the patience was running its natural course.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured against his mouth. The same words he’d said to you. His own words back to him. He made a sound that wasn’t a word. His hands tightened. “I’ve got you,” you said again. “Let go.”

He came apart beautifully. There was no other word for it — the way it moved through him, the sounds he made, the complete and total absence of the careful composure that was usually so constant it had become part of how you understood him. His whole body shuddered, your name in his mouth like a prayer, hands gripping you like you were the only steady thing in the room.

You followed moments after — the angle, the depth, the sound of him saying your name over and over — and collapsed against his chest while the aftershocks rolled through you both in long slow waves.

The room was very quiet. Just breathing. His heartbeat under your cheek, fast and then slower, slower. His hand moving up your back — the absent unconscious stroke that you’d catalogued weeks ago in a different context and were now experiencing in a considerably better one. “Hi,” he said eventually. Into your hair.

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. “You keep saying that.”

“Keeps being relevant.”

You lifted your head to look at him. He was looking back — soft-eyed, thoroughly wrecked, the string lights catching his face warm and amber. “Jake Sim,” you said.

“Yeah?”

“You were a complete nightmare.”

“I know.”

“For four months.”

“Mm.”

“You owe me,” you said.

“I know that too.” His hand moved slowly up your spine. “I’m going to spend a very long time making it up to you.”

“You better.”

“Starting now,” he said, “by letting you sleep in my bed, which is significantly more comfortable than whatever you’ve got going on in your dorm.”

“My bed is fine.”

“My bed is better.”

“That’s—” you started, then stopped. “That’s probably true actually.”

He grinned. “Stay.”

“I might have plans tomorrow.”

“You don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Sunoo texted me,” he said. “You’re free until three.”

You stared at him. “He texted you?”

“We’ve been in contact.”

“Since when?”

“Since approximately the Bean Bar incident when he decided I needed supervision.” He looked entirely unbothered by this. “He’s thorough.”

“He’s a menace,” you said.

“He loves you,” Jake said simply. “Can’t blame him.”

The word — loves — sitting there so easily, applied to Sunoo and carrying something else in its wake, something that had been said on a football pitch an hour ago and was still warm in your chest. You settled back against him. “Fine,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Knew you would.”

“Don’t be smug—”

“Small amount of smug,” he said. “Tiny.” You pinched his side. He laughed, low and real and so close you felt it everywhere, and pulled you tighter against him, and the string lights did their quiet thing above you, and the party below was just a distant pulse now, entirely belonging to another world. “Jake,” you said quietly. “I meant it. Earlier.” A pause. “What I said.” His hand stilled on your back for a moment. Then resumed. Slower.

“I know,” he said. Quiet and certain. “I meant it too.” You closed your eyes. His breathing slowed. Yours did too.

And you stayed.

—

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Graduation morning was chaos. The chaos of several hundred people attempting to get dressed in formal wear simultaneously in buildings not designed for it, the campus transformed overnight into something that looked like a different institution — families everywhere, cameras, the strange formality of a day that was supposed to mark something.

Sunoo found you outside the robing room. He was already in his gown, which he was wearing with the energy of someone born for ceremony, and he looked at you with the expression he’d been perfecting for six months — the one that said I told you so without requiring words.

“I’m just looking at you,” he said. He adjusted your hood with the care of someone who had opinions about academic dress. “Where’s Jake?”

“Robing with the rest of his cohort.”

“And after?”

“Photos. Family stuff.” You checked your phone. Nothing yet, which meant he was still in the middle of it. “We said we’d find each other after the ceremony.”

Sunoo nodded. Then he did the thing he’d been building to — pulled you into a hug, sudden and complete, the kind that said everything he wasn’t putting into words. “Hey,” you said, surprised.

“Shut up,” he said, into your shoulder. “I’m having a moment.”

You hugged him back properly. “What kind of moment?”

“The kind where you’ve been my best friend for three years and I’m very proud of you and also extremely happy about everything that happened this year even though I said I told you so too many times.”

“You did say it too many times.”

“I was right too many times. It evens out.” He pulled back, straightening his gown with dignity. “Okay. Done. Let’s go graduate.”

The ceremony was long in the way all ceremonies were long — beautiful and tedious in equal measure, the speeches good and then slightly too long, the music swelling at the right moments, the procession of names building into something that felt cumulative and significant by the time it reached yours.

You walked across the stage. Shook the hand. Took the scroll. Smiled at the camera. And somewhere in the crowd — you didn’t know where, couldn’t see him from up there — Jake was watching.

You found each other on the lawn outside the main hall.

The way you always found each other. He came through the crowd in his gown, cap slightly crooked, and stopped when he saw you.

Then he crossed the remaining distance and kissed you — right there, in the middle of the graduating class of the year and their assembled families, completely unconcerned with any of it. You kissed him back.

When you pulled back Jake’s cap had gone further crooked from where your hands had gone without deciding to, and you straightened it without being asked and he watched you do it with that expression — the warm certain one, the one that had started as something you catalogued and become something you depended on. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” You smoothed his lapel. “You graduated.”

“So did you.”

“Four years of work.”

“Worth it,” he said. Not about the degree.

You rolled your eyes. “So smug.”

“Small amount—”

“Your family’s waiting,” You fixed his collar.

“I know.” He caught your hand when you moved to step back. Held it. “Come with me.”

“To your family?”

“They’ve been asking about you for a while.” He was already pulling you gently in the direction of the small cluster of people you could see waiting at the edge of the lawn — his mother, unmistakably, with his eyes and his stubborn jaw, already looking over with an expression that had clearly located you and was happy about it. “My mum’s going to love you.”

“Jake—”

“She already loves you. I’ve talked about you too much for her not to.” He glanced sideways, and the smirk was there but something warmer underneath it. “Come on. Meet my family. Then we go figure out which boxes are going where in our flat.”

Our flat. Two words. Simple and enormous. “You’re very bossy,” you said.

“You love it.”

You did. That was the unbearable thing — you genuinely did. “Fine,” you said. “Lead the way.”

He did, hand in yours, through the crowd of graduates and families and cameras and the general magnificent chaos of a day designed to mark beginnings while pretending to mark endings.

That evening, after the family dinner and the champagne and Heeseung’s toast that had been genuinely touching until the last line which had been genuinely roasting — to Jake, who finally stopped being an idiot, and to Y/N, who had the patience to wait for it — you ended up on the floor of Jake’s room, surrounded by the preliminary chaos of packing — boxes half-filled, books in unstable stacks, the accumulated debris of an academic year being sorted into keep and donate and why do I own this.

Jake held up a mug. Novelty, slightly chipped, with a slogan that had faded to illegibility. “Keep or donate?”

“What does it say?”

He squinted. “I genuinely can’t tell anymore.”

“Donate.” Into the box.

You held up a textbook — three years old, spine cracked, covered in his handwriting in the margins. “Keep?”

He looked at it. “Yeah. Yeah, keep.” You set it in the keep pile, which was considerably larger than the donate pile, which was something you were choosing not to comment on yet. There would be time to have opinions about his keeping habits once you were living together and sharing storage space.

That thought landed quietly. Once you were living together. Jake looked at you across the half-packed boxes. He’d clearly caught something in your expression. “What?” he said.

“Nothing.” You picked up another book. “Just — this is real.”

“It is.”

“The flat is real. We’re packing. Soon we’re going to wake up in the same place every day and—”

“And drink coffee,” he said. “And argue about whose turn it is to do things. And you’re going to steal my hoodies and call it borrowing—”

“I do borrow them—”

“And I’m going to know exactly where you are all the time,” he continued, over you, “which is going to be significantly better than the alternative.” He met your eyes across the boxes. “Every day. That’s what I want. Every ordinary day of it.”

You looked at him. Jake Sim on the floor of his room surrounded by moving boxes, in the hoodie he’d been wearing since the ceremony, completely earnest in the way he only was when he’d decided something mattered enough to say plainly. “You’re a lot,” you said.

“You love it,” he said again.

And again — unbearably, specifically — you did. “I want that too.”

He reached across the boxes and took your hand. Turned it over in his. Pressed his lips to your knuckles in the way he’d been doing since the night of the match and that still, six months in, did the same thing to your chest every single time. “Starting September,” he said.

“Starting September,” you agreed. The string lights were still above the headboard, still amber and warm. The keep pile was larger than the donate pile. Sunoo had texted approximately eleven times since dinner, the last one just a string of emojis that you hadn’t decoded yet.

The flat was real. September was coming.

And Jake Sim was sitting across from you on the floor of his room with your hand in his like it was the most natural thing in the world, which it was — which it had been, probably, since a party in September when a drunk idiot walked into you and a boy appeared at your elbow with a replacement drink and a smirk that had no business being that effective.

Oh, you’d thought, eventually. There it is.

perm TAGLIST. @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips @hooniluhv @afanok @seungiesdoll @rinforu @isa942572 @ride-a-nishimura @florarua @baedreamverse @softblaqn @rikisloverrr @kittyvalr @ellushic @dimples264493 @kimmm02 @kiwicup @jakebitez @mystgene @baek-some-cake @betagalactose @kookiesnkim @honeyvelvetinez @violetteaismyfavourite @meowza1 @abbyssful @yandere-stories @imminentcodexcore @mlink64 @k4y-sh @rubadubdubinthetub

You’d drafted eleven replies. Deleted all eleven. Typed who is this? four separate times and talked yourself out of sending it because you knew who it was, and pretending otherwise felt embarrassing even if no one was was watching.

The rational part of your brain — the part that had watched him zip his jeans up without looking at you, that had heard this isn’t a sleepover, sweetheart in his actual voice approximately forty seven times since — said leave it. Said you owed Jake Sim exactly nothing, least of all a response to a one word text that he didn’t even bother to send with actual punctuation and probably sent at god knows what time after a night where he’d grabbed himself through his jeans and stared at you with those deep, dark eyes.

The other part of your brain was considerably less helpful and you were definitely not thinking with that side (you were against your better judgement).

“You have a face,” Sunoo said, dropping into the seat across from you at The Bean Bar with two coffees.

“I don’t have a face.”

“You have a very specific face.” He pushed one of the cups toward you. “Is it Jake Sim?.”

“What—”

“You’ve had a look since he came into Jungwons on Friday.” He wrapped both hands around his own cup, settled back, and looked at you with calm patience. “Show me the text.”

“There’s no text—”

“Show me the text or I’ll ask Heeseung if Jake said anything and I will do it right now.”

You slid your phone across the table. Sunoo looked at it for a long moment. Then he looked up at you. Then back down at it.

“Hey,” he said.

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“One word.”

“I’m aware, Sunoo—”

“The audacity,” he said, with genuine reverence, like he couldn’t help but be impressed. “The sheer, audacity of this man. And he didn’t even bother to use proper punctuation— ugh I can feel his ego through the screen.” He slid the phone back across the table to you.

“Okay. You’re replying.”

“I’m not—”

“You’ve been staring at it since Friday which means you want to and you’re just being stubborn about it.” He pointed at you. “You’re allowed to be curious. You’re allowed to want to know what he wants. That doesn’t make you stupid, it makes you human.”

You looked at the phone. At the message. At that one word sitting there like it weighed nothing but held a million things all at once.

“What do I even say?” you muttered.

Sunoo’s face split into a grin. He pulled his chair around to your side of the table, leaned in, and cracked his knuckles like a man about to perform surgery.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re going in.”

It took forty minutes, two coffees, one discarded opener that Sunoo called irrational, and a brief but passionate argument about punctuation — a question mark makes me look too eager, I’m not putting a question mark — but eventually you landed on something.

took you two weeks to say hey?

No capital. A question mark (much to your dismay). Just enough to say you weren’t sitting by the phone without actually saying it.

You sent it before you could talk yourself out of it.

Sunoo watched your face. “Well?”

“I sent it.”

“And?”

“And now we wait—”

Your phone buzzed. You both looked at it.

took you three days to reply

You stared at the screen. Something that was definitely not amusement pulled at the corner of your mouth and you pressed it flat immediately.

“He’s so annoying,” you said.

“He replied in thirty seconds,” Sunoo said. “Just so you’re aware of what that means.”

“It means nothing—”

Your phone buzzed again.

I wanted to apologise properly. Not in a bathroom.

And then, before you could process that:

can I buy you a coffee tomorrow?

The Bean Bar hummed quietly around you. Sunoo was reading over your shoulder and said nothing for once, which meant a lot more than words from him and which you were choosing not to engage with.

you have a lot of nerve

His reply came fast. yeah. coffee though?

You looked at Sunoo.

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “You already know what you’re going to do.”

You did. That was the annoying part. You did and you’d known since the moment the first buzz had lit up your screen three days ago and your stomach had dropped in a way that had nothing to do with dread.

fine. tomorrow at eleven.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

see you then

You put your phone down. Picked up your coffee. Stared at the middle distance. “I hate him,” you said.

“Completely,” Sunoo agreed, and took a long sip of his drink. But there was something happening to his face.

—

Jake was already there when you arrived.

That was the first thing that threw you — you’d half expected to walk in and wait, to have the upper hand of him being late, of being able to compose yourself at a corner table before he arrived.

Instead he was already at a table by the window, two cups in front of him, jacket still on like he’d only just sat down, and he looked up the second the door opened like he’d been watching for it. Waiting for you.

The second thing was that; he looked annoyingly good. Fitted black jacket, dark jeans, hair pushed back from his face — put together in that effortless way that suggested he hadn’t tried very hard and had achieved the overall effect regardless.

The marks on his neck that were obvious three days ago were almost faded and at a brief glance could’ve passed off as a shadow. You noticed this. You noted that you noticed this and filed it under things you weren’t going to examine very closely about Jake Sim.

“You’re on time,” he said, when you reached the table.

“So are you.” You sat down, pulled the coffee toward you, wrapped your hands around it. “You ordered already.”

“Oat flat white.” He said it simply. “That’s what you said you liked the other day at Jungwon’s.”

You looked at him. He looked back, unbothered, like he hadn’t just admitted he’d clocked your coffee order at a casual hangout three days ago.

“Right,” you said. “Thanks.”

“Yep.”

The café hummed around you — soft music, the hiss of the espresso machine, the low murmur of other people’s conversations. You looked at your coffee. He looked at his.

The silence sat uncomfortably between you, stretched thin with everything that hadn’t been said yet.

“So,” you said.

“So,” he said.

“You wanted to apologise.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled, leaning forward, elbows on the table, and for a moment he looked almost — not uncomfortable, because you weren’t sure Jake Sim did uncomfortable — but like he was choosing his words with more care than usual. “What I said that night. After.” He paused. “It was a dick thing to say.”

“It was,” you agreed.

“I’m not—” he stopped. Tried again. “I don’t usually—” another stop. His jaw ticked. “That’s not normally how I am.”

“Kicking girls out of your own bed and making them feel like nothing is not normally how you are?” you repeated. “Right.”

His eyes met yours. “I’m trying to apologise.”

“I know. I’m letting you.”

Something shifted in his expression — not quite amusement, not quite irritation, somewhere in between. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Little bit,” you admitted.

The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly. “Fair enough.”

“Why did you?” you asked then, because you’d wanted to since that night and the bathroom conversation hadn’t exactly been conducive to honest answers. “Say it like that? The way you did?”

He was quiet for a moment. Turned his cup in a slow circle on the table. “Habit. I think,” he said. “It’s easier.”

“Easier than what?”

He looked at you. “You know what.”

You held his gaze for a moment. Let it sit there, that answer, with all its edges.

“That’s not an excuse,” you said finally.

“I know.” He said it simply. No defence, no deflection. Just that. It disarmed you more than almost anything else he could have said.

The silence after that was different — looser, somehow. Less like a standoff and more like two people who had gotten something out of the way and weren’t quite sure what came next.

“What do you study?” you asked eventually, because it occurred to you that you didn’t know, that there was a significant amount you didn’t know about him, which was a strange thing to realise about someone you convinced yourself you hated for three weeks.

“Business,” he said. “Finance track.”

You stared at him.

Then you laughed. Not unkindly — just, genuinely, the specific laugh of someone whose suspicions had been confirmed. “Obviously,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Obviously?”

“I mean—” you gestured at him vaguely, “—yeah. Obviously.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you look exactly like someone who studies finance,” you said. “The way you carry yourself. Your attitude. The—” another vague gesture to him as a whole, “—the whole thing.”

“The whole thing,” he repeated.

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.” But his mouth was doing an almost smile that meant he was more amused than he was letting on. “What did you think I studied?”

“I didn’t think about it,” you said, which was mostly true.

“Sure.”

“I didn’t—”

“What did you think I studied?” He said again, patient, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to wait you out.

You picked up your coffee. “I don’t know. Sports science or something.”

Something crossed his face. “Sports science?”

“You play soccer, right?”

A beat. “How do you know that?”

“The posters,” you said. “Around campus and in the school paper.” The words landed heavier than intended which proved to him you’d noticed him before. “And the soccer frat.”

“Hm.” He leaned back. “Yeah. I play.”

“See. Sports science.”

“I don’t make it my whole personality though,” he said, simply, like it was obvious. “It’s just a thing I do. Doesn’t need to be my entire identity.”

You looked at him. Something about the way he said it — straightforward, no performance attached — caught you off guard.

“Fair enough,” you said, and meant it.

“Finance is actually interesting,” he said then, like he was daring you to argue. “If you actually look at it.”

“I’m sure it is,” you said, in a tone that suggested you weren’t sure at all.

“It is.” He tilted his head. “What do you study?”

You told him. He listened — actually listened, not the polite nodding people did when they were waiting for their turn to talk — and then he asked something about it that was specific enough that you answered properly, and then you were actually talking, back and forth, the awkwardness of the first twenty minutes dissolving somewhere into the second cup of coffee without you noticing it go.

The coffee lasted two hours. That was not what you’d planned.

You’d planned forty five minutes max, polite acceptance of the apology, civil goodbye, done. Instead two hours dissolved somehow.

Turns out Jake Sim, stripped of a party and darkness and the specific alchemy of alcohol and loud music, was — not what you’d expected.

He was still cocky. That hadn’t gone anywhere. He said something insufferable about the economics lecture you’d mentioned and you told him he was wrong and he told you that you were cute when you were annoyed and you told him that was a terrible thing to say to which he grinned at, unrepentant, dimples out.

But he was also funny.

Sharp in a way that caught you off guard, the kind of funny that didn’t need an audience, that landed quietly and was gone before you’d fully registered it.

He asked you questions and actually listened to the answers. He remembered things from Jungwon’s apartment — something you’d said to Gretta, something Sunoo had done that had made the whole room laugh — and wove them back in naturally, like he’d been paying more attention that night than he’d let on.

It was disarming in the worst possible way.

You were in the middle of arguing about something — film taste, you thought, or maybe music, it had evolved — when the waitress came over with the receipt. Pretty, confident, she set it down in front of Jake with a smile that was specifically for him, the kind that carried intention, and when he flipped it over her number was written on the back in round, looping handwriting.

Your stomach tightened.

You looked at your coffee.

Jake looked at the receipt. Then he looked at you — caught your expression — and without a word, without making a show of it, he folded it once and dropped it into the empty cup on the edge of the table. Gone. Done.

It was gentlemanly, almost.

He looked back at you. “Where were we,” he said.

You blinked. “I— the film thing.”

“Right.” He leaned forward again, picked up his new coffee (yous were both on your second cup by now). “You were wrong about something.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” The corner of his mouth curved. “You were saying?”

You stared at him for one second. Then you picked up your own cup and kept talking and did not examine the warmth sitting low in your chest because it was not relevant and you were not going to give it any piece of your time.

—

He walked you back to your dorm.

You hadn’t asked him to. He’d just — fallen into step beside you when you both left, hands in his jacket pockets, matching your pace without comment, like it was decided.

The campus was quiet in the late afternoon light, leaves catching on the path, the kind of autumn day that made everything feel slightly cinematic and slightly melancholy at the same time.

You walked in silence for a bit. Comfortable, almost. The kind of silence that would’ve seemed impossible if it wasn't for the coffee.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, when your building came into view. “This was — I’m glad you came.”

You looked at him sideways. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed. Low, genuine. His cute infuriating dimples appearing on his face.

You stopped at the bottom of the steps.

He stopped beside you, turned slightly, and for a moment just looked at you in that way he had the whole of this ‘hangout’ — direct, unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be and wasn’t pretending otherwise.

“I mean it,” he said. “The apology. I mean it.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. That was the strange part. You actually did.

He nodded once. Held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then he stepped back, hands back in his pockets, and tilted his head toward the path.

“Go on then,” he said.

“So demanding,” you said, you rolled your eyes but a smile overtook your mouth, turned and walked up the steps before he could see whatever was happening on your face.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel him still staring at you.

—

Heeseung was already in the room when Jake got back, feet up, phone in hand, and he took one look at Jake’s face when he walked through the door and said nothing for approximately four seconds which was a record.

“How was it?” he said, finally cracking.

“Fine.” Jake dropped his jacket over the chair, sat on the edge of his bed.

“Just fine?”

“Yeah.”

Heeseung looked at him. “You were gone for like three hours, Jake.”

“The coffee was good.”

“The coffee,” Heeseung repeated. He put his phone down. “Okay. So she’s—”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Heeseung.”

“She’s cute, you know,” Heeseung said simply, like he was commenting on the weather. “Like no joke.”

Jake looked at the wall.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Heeseung picked his phone back up. Said nothing else. Smiled at his screen in a way that Jake chose not to acknowledge.

Jake lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the way you’d looked at him when he’d dropped the receipt into the cup. Like you’d been expecting something and had gotten something else entirely. Like it had thrown you.

Good, he thought.

He wasn’t sure what came after that.

—

A week passed in a blur of essays and late nights spent up working on said essay.

You’d texted Jake a few times aswell — nothing heavy, just the kind of back and forth that started as nothing and kept going anyway. But heavy enough that if this was happening to two weeks ago you it would not be going down as well as it is.

A meme Sunoo had insisted you send. Something about the economics lecture that he’d argued about with you. A conversation about music that ran longer than either of you acknowledged. Nothing that meant anything.

Anything that meant something.

You hadn’t seen him since the coffee.

So when Sunoo announced on a Saturday night that there was another party — the soccer house again, before you say anything, I know, but Jungwon’s going and Jay and Millie and it’ll be fun — you said yes before the sentence was finished which shocked even you.

You told yourself it was because of Millie (it most definitely was not).

—

The house was exactly as you remembered it, exactly the same as that wretched night four weeks ago (that unfortunately still kept you awake late at night).

Bass thumped through the walls like a heartbeat, cheap drinks and warm bodies and the energy of two hundred people deciding tonight was the night.

For what? You’re not entirely sure.

You’d worn the black top again — Sunoo’s idea which he expressed vocally and enthusiastically — and you felt good, you felt like yourself, and you were going to have a good time regardless of anything else.

You made it approximately twenty minutes before you purposely looked across the room and saw him.

He was near the back, drink in hand, talking to someone you didn’t recognise.

Dark hair, dark shirt, that posture — easy, grounded, taking up space without trying. He laughed at something and you felt it from across the room, which was irritating.

And then he turned his head and found you immediately, like he’d known exactly where you were.

He materialising beside you approximately forty five seconds later, “Back here again?”

“It’s a party,” you said. “People go to parties.”

“They do.” He stopped beside you, close enough that you caught his cologne — cedar, warm, familiar in a way that was inconvenient. His eyes moved over your face then down to your top and it didn’t go unnoticed by you how he appreciated the view. “You look good.”

“I know,” you said.

He smiled, which said that he knew too.

You stayed close to each other the rest of the night without quite deciding to. It just — happened. The party moved around you both and you moved with it, drifting between rooms, between conversations, the group expanding and contracting.

Millie found you and hugged you, pulled you into a conversation with Jungwon and Jay. Sunoo appeared periodically to check on you with the subtlety of someone who was not being subtle at all.

And Jake was just — there. Near. Not hovering, just present in a way that you’d stopped trying to explain.

It was reaching midnight and you’d gone to the kitchen for a refill, the crowd thinning slightly as the night wore on. Jake was already in there, leaning against the counter, and you’d crossed to the other side without comment, comfortable enough in the silence now to not fill it.

And then a girl appeared.

Pretty and confident and earring an outfit that suggested what she wanted out of the night, she went straight to Jake with that ease that she’d done it before — hand on his arm, leaning in close, saying something low near his ear.

His face was unreadable from where you stood. Your jaw tightened on reflex and you turned away, putting your cup down, reaching for your jacket that was slung over the back of a chair.

Fine.

You’d known what he was. You’d always known. Tonight had been a good night, a one off to his usual asshole attitude and you were going to go find Sunoo and—

“Hey.”

His hand caught your wrist. Light, not grabbing, just — stopping you.

You turned.

The girl was gone. You hadn’t heard him say anything, hadn’t seen the exchange, but she was gone and Jake was right there in front of you, close, close enough that the noise of the party felt very far away suddenly.

“What,” you said, sounding a little more irritated than you would’ve liked to let on.

“Where are you going?”

“I was just—”

“I don’t want her,” he said. Simply. Directly. Like it was easy. “I don’t want anything to do with that. Yeah?”

You looked at him. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I know.” His jaw ticked. “I want to.”

The kitchen hummed. Somewhere in the living room the song changed to something slow that bled through the walls.

“Jake—”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. Low and quiet. Like the words had been there for a while and had finally gotten out. “It’s annoying, actually. Genuinely annoying, you’re so — you’re infuriating and you argue about everything and you looked at me like I was nothing for an entire evening at Jungwon’s and I couldn’t stop looking at you the whole time.” He exhaled.

You stared at him.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said.

“Yeah.” Unwavering. “I know.”

“After everything—”

“I know all of it.” He stepped closer. Just enough. “And I’m still standing here.”

The space between you collapsed down to almost nothing.

His eyes dropped to your mouth — just for a second — and came back up and you were so tired suddenly of being sensible about this, of thinking about him late at night when you couldn’t sleep and deleted texts and pretending the coffee had meant nothing and the walk back had meant nothing and the receipt in the cup had meant nothing—

“I still think you’re an asshole,” you said.

“I know that too,” he said, and the corner of his mouth curved up into that smug, smug smirk

You kissed him.

It felt the same as the first time — like gravity, like the only logical conclusion in an infuriating situation — his hand finding your jaw and yours fisting the front of his shirt and the party dissolving entirely into white noise.

It also felt different though. Slower. Like he was paying attention. Like there was something underneath it now that hadn’t existed before.

He broke away, slightly breathless, eyes dark.

“My room in the house. It’s upstairs,” he said.

You knew what you were deciding, but you couldn’t stop.

“Lead the way,” you said.

—

His room was nothing like the one from the first night.

Same house, wrong floor — and immediately, obviously, his. Cleats by the door, a bunch of clothes thrown over the chair in the corner, soccer jersey hung on the wardrobe handle. Books stacked in actual order which surprised you a bit. A photo strip tucked into the mirror frame — him and Heeseung somewhere, younger and fresh and grinning. String lights above the headboard casting everything amber and warm.

It felt like someone lived here. Like he lived here. And he must for some part of the year because you also knew he shared a dorm with Heeseung.

He closed the door behind you and the noise of the party dropped away to almost nothing — just the thump of bass through the floorboards and the quiet of the room engulfed the two of you in the amber light.

He crossed to you slowly. Tipped your chin up with two fingers. Looked at you for a moment — really looked, in the way he had at The Bean Bar, like he was paying attention — and then kissed you again. Slower than downstairs.

Deeper.

His other hand slid into your hair and you felt the careful intention behind it, the difference between this and the first time, and it unsteadied you more than urgency ever could.

“You’re still annoying,” he murmured against your mouth.

“You’re one to talk,” you breathed.

He pulled back just far enough to see your face. His thumb traced your jaw and it was an act that was almost intimate. “You have no idea,” he said quietly, “how much you’ve been in my head.”

“Good,” you said. “You’ve been insufferable in mine.”

Something dark and warm moved through his eyes, his smirk rested on his lips. “Yeah?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, and he laughed — low and real — then his mouth found your throat and the laugh dissolved into something else entirely.

His shirt came off. The same torso you’d memorised the first time — broad chest, carved abs, that trail of dark hair disappearing below his waistband — but different now, because you knew him. Because he’d sat across from you and remembered your coffee order and binned a girl’s number without hesitation and said I can’t stop thinking about you in a kitchen of a party at midnight.

It made looking at him feel heavier. More charged. More dangerous.

Your top followed, his hands sliding it over your head with practised ease, but his mouth found your collarbone, this time — slower, deliberate, like he had time and was choosing to use every second of it.

“Four weeks,” he said against your skin, low and rough at the edges. “Four weeks of you being fucking impossible.”

“Me?” you breathed. “You’re the one who—”

His teeth grazed the curve of your shoulder hard enough to make you gasp and lose the sentence entirely.

“Me?” You could hear the smirk in it. “My fault entirely.” His hands found your waist, turning you, pressing you back toward the bed. “Lie down.”

“So demanding,” you managed.

“Always.” He looked down at you in the amber light, gaze raking over every inch of you with that consuming attention as the first time but slower now, hotter somehow for the slowness.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he said, like it cost him nothing to admit. “It’s genuinely annoying.”

“I know,” you said breathlessly.

He laughed again — dark this time, lower in his chest — then he was over you, his weight settling against you, his mouth dropping to your chest, tongue reaping down to your breast with deliberate precision.

His hands moved to your bra clasp, unfastening it with the same deft ease and nimble fingers that had told you everything the first night, and then his mouth was on you — hot and wet and relentless, drawing your nipple between his lips, tongue circling until your back arched off the mattress and a sharp sound tore from your throat.

“Still hate me?” he murmured against your skin.

“Completely,” you gasped.

“Good.” He bit down gently and you grabbed his hair on reflex, pulling at the roots, and you felt him groan low against you. “Do that again.”

You pulled harder and the sound he made was heaven to your ears. He dragged his mouth lower.

His hands worked your jeans open, peeling them down with efficient precision, his mouth following the line of your stomach, your hips, until teeth grazed the skin just above your underwear until you were squirming beneath him with your fingers still knotted in his hair.

“Jake—”

“I’ve got you,” he said, and the softness of it against everything else wrecked you.

His fingers hooked beneath the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down and off, and then his hand was between your thighs — spreading you open, his thumb dragging through your folds in one slow deliberate stroke that made your hips roll up chasing the contact desperately.

“Fuck,” he breathed, feeling how slick you already were, something in his composure fracturing visibly. “Already so wet.” His eyes dragged up to yours, dark and intent. “All of this for me?”

“Shut up—”

“Not an insult, baby.”

He pressed two fingers to your entrance, collecting the slick that pooled there, and pushed them in slowly — drawing a broken, helpless sound from your throat that you couldn’t have stopped if you’d tried.

“That’s it,” he murmured, low and pleased. “Let me hear you.”

He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your vision fracture at the edges, and set a devastating rhythm — pumping deep, crooking his digits against your walls with ruthless precision, his thumb finding your clit and working it in tight unrelenting circles.

His eyes stayed on your face the entire time, watching every flicker of expression like he was memorising each one.

“Jake — fuck, please—”

“Please what?” Low. Teasing. Enjoying every second of it.

“More — please, more—”

“Since you asked so nicely.”

He gave you more immediately — scissoring his fingers wide, stretching you open, the wet filthy sound of it loud over the muffled bass bleeding up from downstairs. His thumb was relentless on your clit, fast and merciless, until you were shaking apart beneath him, thighs trying to close around his hand.

His forearm kept them spread without effort.

“Don’t,” he said simply.

You couldn’t have fought him if you tried.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, low and dark, watching you come undone. “Stay open for me.”

The words detonated somewhere low in your belly.

Your walls clenched hard around his fingers and a sob broke from your throat — nails raking red lines down his forearm as the orgasm crested and crashed through you in long shuddering waves, hips rolling against his hand chasing every last pulse of it.

He worked you through every second. Slowing only when your body stopped shaking, watching your face come back to him with an expression of pure dark satisfaction.

He withdrew his fingers. Held your gaze. Brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes never leaving yours.

Your brain stopped functioning completely.

“You taste fucking incredible,” he said, like it was a casual observation, like he hadn’t just dismantled you entirely, and reached for the nightstand drawer.

He sat back to strip off the rest — jeans, boxers — and you watched, completely dry mouthed, the lines of him in the amber light. His cock thick and flushed, heavy with want, a bead of pre-cum smearing at the tip that he wrapped the condom over with practiced hands.

“You’re staring,” he said.

“You’re taking forever,” you said, and he shot you a look that was half amusement and half something far more dangerous.

He moved back over you, settling between your thighs, and paused. Just for a second. Looking down at you in the warm amber light with an expression you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Still annoyed at me?” he said.

“Incredibly,” you said.

“Good.” He lined himself up and pushed in — slow this time, deliberately, achingly slow, nothing like the brutal first thrust of the first night — feeding himself in inch by inch while you stretched around him and your mouth fell open on a silent moan, fingers digging crescent shapes into his shoulders.

The stretch burned perfectly, your walls fluttering around his girth as he filled you completely.

He bottomed out with a low groan that you felt reverberate through his chest into yours. “Fuck — you feel—”

“Don’t say anything,” you managed.

He went quiet. Jaw tight with the effort of holding still. His forehead dropped to yours and for one suspended second you were just — breathing the same air. Completely full of each other. The amber light warm around you both.

Then he pulled back and drove forward and the moment shattered into pure sensation.

The rhythm he built was deep and controlled and devastating — not the frantic brutality of the first time but something more deliberate and somehow worse for it, each stroke angled precisely to drag across the spot that made your toes curl, that made coherent thought impossible.

The headboard knocked the wall in a steady rhythm. The string lights swayed. His hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“You’ve been driving me absolutely insane,” he gritted out against your jaw, hips snapping forward, “four weeks of your fucking attitude—”

“You started it—” you gasped.

“I know.” Thrust. Deep. Punishing. “My fault.” Another. His voice dropped lower. “Still worth it.”

He groaned as your walls clenched around him involuntarily, the sound wrecked and genuine. “Fuck — do that again—”

You clenched deliberately.

His control cracked audibly — pace stuttering rough, grip tightening on your hip, his other hand sliding up to pin your wrists above your head exactly the way he had the first night. The familiarity of it, the memory layered over the present, made everything unbearably sharper.

“Such an asshole,” you breathed.

“Say it again,” low and dark against your throat, hips not slowing for a second.

“Asshole—”

He flipped you in one smooth movement — hands hauling your hips up, your face pressing into the pillow, his cock driving back into you from behind at an angle that punched the breath from your lungs completely.

Deeper like this. Meaner. More overwhelming.

“This what you want?” he said, rough and breathless against the back of your neck. “Yeah?”

“Yes—” barely coherent, “—yes, don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning on it, baby.” His fist gathered your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch your spine. His free hand slid around your hip, two fingers finding your clit — not gentle, not teasing, just direct brutal pressure in fast tight circles.

“Give me another one,” he commanded, low and rough in your ear. “Come on. Soak me.”

The words wrecked you completely.

Your second orgasm didn’t build — it detonated. Your walls convulsed around him in violent rhythmic pulses, a broken wail tearing from your throat into the pillow.

And then — the rush of it, the gush of warm slick flooding down your inner thighs, soaking him, soaking the sheets beneath you—

“Fuck—” his rhythm stuttered violently, “—fuck, are you—” a groan ripped out of him, “—oh my god—”

He sounded wrecked. Undone. Like you’d broken something in him.

“That’s it,” he breathed, reverent and filthy all at once, fucking you through every convulsion, his fingers still working your clit as your body shook apart. “That’s so fucking good, look at you—”

Your fingers tore at the sheets. Your thighs trembled violently. The pleasure bordered on unbearable and he gave you every second of it regardless.

His own rhythm fractured moments later — hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt with a low rough groan that shuddered through his whole body, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he came, grinding his pelvis against you making sure you took every last pulse of it.

Then he pulled out.

Pulled the condom off. And then — before you’d even caught a single breath — his hands spread your thighs and his mouth found you.

“Jake—” your whole body jolted, oversensitive and shaking, “—what are you—”

“Shh,” he said against you, and licked a slow deliberate stripe through your folds, collecting everything you’d given him, tongue working through your slick with thorough unhurried attention like he had nowhere else to be and nowhere he’d rather be.

You sobbed into the sheets, hips bucking, fingers flying to his hair — not to pull him away, despite everything, just to hold on.

He stayed until there was nothing left. Until you were trembling and empty and utterly wrecked. Then he pressed one last kiss to the inside of your thigh and moved back up beside you.

He looked — pleased wasn’t the right word. Satisfied wasn’t either. Something quieter than both.

“You—” you started.

“Mm,” he said simply, like that covered it.

Then silence.

Just breathing.

His weight settling warm beside you. The string lights swaying gently above the headboard. The party two floors below like another world entirely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The amber light had softened by the time you finally moved, reaching for your top at the edge of the bed on autopilot — get dressed, get out, don’t make it into something.

“Where are you going?”

You paused. “I just — I assumed—”

“You assumed wrong.”

He was on his side, watching you, head propped on one hand, sweat still glistening on his chest. The string lights caught his face warm and gold. Quieter like this, softer. A version of him that didn’t come out in crowds.

“Do you want water?”

You stared at him. “What?”

“Water.” Simple. Easy. Like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was the opposite of nothing.

It was the thing he hadn’t done the first time — the thing that had made you pull your jeans on with trembling hands and slam a door behind you — and the fact that he was doing it now, without fanfare, without making it a moment, cracked something open, something you are choosing to ignore.

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

He leaned over to the nightstand, handed you a bottle, and settled back against the headboard. You sat for a moment. Then — slowly, without deciding to — lay back down beside him. Not touching.

Just there.

In his room. In the amber light with the party still faintly audible two floors below like another world entirely.

He didn’t say anything. You didn’t say anything.

His hand found yours in the dark, quietly. Like it was the most natural thing.

You stared at the ceiling.

What the hell is this, you thought. The string lights blurred soft at the edges. His thumb moved once against your hand, slow and absent, like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

What is actually happening.

No answer obviously you’re in your own head. Just the quiet of the room answered and the warmth of his hand in yours and the steady sound of his breathing slowing beside you.

And you were still here.

Still here.

Still here.

Fuck.

perm TAGLIST. @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips @hooniluhv @afanok @seungiesdoll @vivienne2000 @rinforu @isa942572 @ride-a-nishimura @florarua @baedreamverse @softblaqn @rikisloverrr @kittyvalr @ellushic @dimples264493 @kimmm02

Riki didn't care much for parties. 

Despite how feral he'd get over tequila in his first years of uni, perhaps his taste had matured with time. Graduated to the expensive whiskey his father got him as a reward for going into his last year of uni, shifted from the daze of break-dancing in someone's living room to sitting out back, on plastic white cars passing a blunt between his fingers. He'd dabbled in mostly everything, seeing uni as the lawless and experimental grounds he often laid witness to, which is why he buys his first g of weed in the abandoned park he loved as a child, in the lowlights of a tunnel he had no business being in this late at night. The dealer - a friend of a friend - a uni dropout despite his clientele being mostly uni students gives him a nod before they exchange weed for cash, so casual in nature despite the thrum in his neck. 

Only when he's scattered away, stuffing the bag so far into his hoodie pocket, it'd bury into the material, can he exhale. Except when he gets to his friend's house, free of rigid parents for the weekend, does he realise he doesn't know the first thing about smoking weed. He assumed it was like smoking a cigarette, which he'd regretfully done at a house party once and threw up strawberry wine on some poor girl's shoes. He didn't inhale right, hacked every time he tried burying the puff of smoke in his lungs and then while his high school friends starfished on the living room carpet, giggling to themselves, Riki sits on the couch, legs folded into himself with his cheek pressed into his knuckles, a bit left out but at least busying himself with the run of Courage the Cowardly Dog on the blaring TV. 

Now at uni with people at bit more knowledgeable and empathetic, he tries this and that. Gets his high in more ways than unexpectedly good grades, surprising himself and when he tells his flatmate, Jake about the coursework, he grins like some proud father, corners of his lips to his ears as he gives him a hug. 

"That's my guy," his palm smacks onto Riki's back, hand braced on his shoulder as Jake pulls away, a knowing grin on his face. "I say we celebrate."

"Over some coursework?" Riki's eyebrow quirks. "That's uhm, sweet but no need broski."

"Bro, I'm making brownies. The good kind," Jake nods over his shoulder, the chocolate aroma hitting Riki again, wafting with the current of something unwinding the tension packed in his shoulders. "Hee's finally submitted that CompSci project that's made him a ghost and Sunghoon's got a game he's gonna win. We're celebrating." 

Riki lets the idea carry his smile, stretching further as he deserts his leather bag on the couch and walks into the kitchen with Jake, timbs echoing against vinyl as they check on the progress of Jake's creation. Riki's fairly acquainted with the various ways of ingesting weed, his Chrome Hearts themed bong bought off Etsy one of his prised possession, but brownies are still his favourite. Quick and easy, his second year dealer an aspiring chef with a knack for desserts, from space cake, lemon pound cake and even tiramisu. The latter his favourite, sweet enough for him to stand and strong enough for him to laugh controllably watching Fantastic Mr. Fox, collapsing over Sunghoon's lap in breathless laughs echoed in the back of his throat. 

Needless to say, "What the cuss?" became a go-to phrase between the two, unavoidable in first two weeks of life, but still forever present.

Shuffling out his bedroom door, the front door adjacent to it flings open, heavy clattering following as Sunghoon's figure ambles through. He topples over the mess of shoes stationed at the door needing a wash, hands splayed against the narrow hallway walls to stead himself. Riki raises an eyebrow.

"You good?" His head lowers, mirroring Sunghoon's ducked one as he struggles tugging off his sneakers, a dramatic sigh emptying him as they fling off, his flushed face in full view. "You drank already?"

"The guys insisted on a pint after we pummelled Yonsei 7-0, an embarrassing shutout," Sunghoon runs his hands through his sweaty hair, face settling into a lax Riki's happy to see. "But you know, it's never just one and now I'm halfway smashed and I still need to fucking shower,"

He starts departing, clapping a hand over Riki's shoulder with a heavy squeeze as he says ascending the stairs. "If you hear me fall over, just ignore it. Later!"

Riki can only smile at the interaction, shaking his head as he styles his caramel blond strands into something more spiky, finally having time to put effort into his appearance after coursework that literally stole the swag from him. In the mirror, he's the painting of a 200s punk love interest doomed to his perpetual existence in the mall food court and Hot Topic, baseball long sleeve olive and silver with saggy jagged jeans to match. And soon enough when the lights dim, living room illuminated by disco LED lights and packed with conversating bodies, Riki's dodging drunken spills, reaching into the back of the fridge for Jake's brownies to bring out back, pebbles rubbing together under his shoes as he plots down in the circle of his housemates and a few other friends, a welcome slow in mellow conversation. 

"I'm pretty sure I'm part whatever they put in Monster because except that and microwave Mac & Cheese, that's all I survived off," smoke blows out Heeseung's lips, some cheap cigarette from the corner shop between his fingers as his body slumps into the plastic chair. His free hand pulls his black beanie downwards, his fringe peeking out still. "You know how down bad I've gone back to being a nitty."

He takes another drag, head tilted up to the sky, moonlight bathing the slopes of his face in shadows and brilliance. Riki watches on quietly. 

"Well, it's done now. So, do yourself the favour and buy better cigs," Jake chuckles, eyes averting opposite him to Riki. "You brought them out?"

"Yeah, I'm not looking to drink twelve pints tonight," he unwraps the cling wrap over the brownies, rings clinking together as he offers the stacked amount around. "Plus, they're fresh. And hopefully better than the last batch."

Beomgyu, one of Heeseung's friends breaks out into a chuckle, laughing along with his friend who says, "Those were an attempt."

"Hey! It's harder than it looks, okay?" Jake insists, biting into his brownie. "The fuck would youse know about using an oven, much less baking."

"Well, if your aim was to give us diabetes, you were almost successful," Riki laughs, gulping before he takes a bite. Dense but still somehow airy, not too sweet - good on Jake. "Good attempt this time round."

"Thanks Riki, because I really only live for your validation," Jake's eyes roll, amusement on his face meaning the jabs mean nothing as he nods to Haechan. "What you think?"

"Like I won't need a glucometer," he giggles, mouth full with crumbs against his tanned skin. "It's really science if you think about it. I'm glad you learned from your ways."

"If you think you're taking some home ─ fat chance," the two stick their tongue out at each other, to the sound of Beomgyu moaning, "Just kiss already, I'm close." Jake's laugh only lasts moments before his phone buzzes in his pocket, screen lighting his face. "Oh shit, she's here."

"Who's here?" Riki asks, another bite into his brownie.

"Wonder if she's run into Sunghoon. Lord knows that man is a mess," Jake supplies, neck straining to peek at the backdoor, fingers running through his midnight hair. 

"Yeah, I haven't seen that man so fucked since St. Pattys - and that was last week," Haechan adds on. "Think he'll make a move?"

"He'll try but she won't have it. He's probably got beer and sick down his shirt anyways," Jake replies, lighting up at the opening back door, waving his raised hand, more enthused than Haechan's. "Took you fucking ages."

"Sorry, but Sunghoon insisted to talking to me with his sicky breath," a feminine voice echoes from the narrow alley leading to where they're situated, your figure emerging from the shadows. "I had to get him to brush his teeth. He gagged brushing his tongue ─ pussy."

Cheeks full of chocolate brownie, Riki feels all his weight sink to his feet, body running arctic cold than densely warm at the sight of you. You're so pretty it hurts, sweet in the face with a confidence keeping your shoulders back and head high, the smirk across your face alone very much capable of making him pop a boner. In the silent howls of the night, so much air surrounds them yet makes no effort to make a home in his chest, emptied out with a heart beating only for you, attuned to every move you make.

"Oh, is that a brownie? Fuck yeah," you lean down into Jake's hand holding his, teeth sinking into the dessert with a nonchalance so alarming Riki only can blink, swallowing heavy in his throat. "Hm, that is good. That dealer hasn't left for France yet?"

"Nah, it's my own humble creation," Jake's hand splays over his chest, nodding proudly. "Happy you like it. Kiss for my troubles?"

"My God, this whole house is full of horn dogs," you drag the last plastic chair closest to Riki, ripped leather trousers crying against the material as you settle, sipping on your drink. "Don't tell me you're one of them."

The sentence is directed at Riki, who's still baffled how he's gone three and a quarter years not having seen you once. Not at any party, not at any club, not even walking on campus. Perhaps it's for the best because if he knew you existed, his focus would boil to only you as it does now. Trailing the stack of silver hoops and chains stacking your ears, the dermals under your eyes haloed by dark, unworried makeup, he snake bites settled beneath the plump of your lips with sharp nails and leather clothing plucked from his wildest dreams. Slouched back and manspread, he gets full view of the belly piercing beneath your black vest, a skeleton hanging at the bottom.

Riki might fucking explode. 

"Riki, you good bro?" Heeseung asks, blowing smoke with a knowing smirk. Riki can't hide his groan. "Brownies already hitting?"

"Something like that," he only spares his friend a glance, eyes fighting for more time on you, a polite smile on your lips. He hates how quick he is to imagine your lips elsewhere. "We haven't met before."

"Right, we haven't," you confirm, nodding with a fist extended. "I had the misfortune of being in a group with Jake for some workshop a bit ago. I'm only in it for the baked goods."

"Sounds like something totally unrelated." Beomgyu chimes in.

"He wishes," your nose scrunches, laugh contagious in the coy smiles dispensed around the entire group. "Good to meet you, Riki. Your fits seem to live up to the hype."

Riki points to himself, incapable of social interaction. "My fits?"

"Hair's a bit questionable. Bro looks like he got electrocuted." Heeseung jokes, just to wind him up.

"Coming from a man smoking cheapo cigs, I'd pipe down," you retort, eyebrows jerking upwards in a retort that has the guys howling. "It's cool spiked up. A bit out of place, hang on,"

A small, "Can I?" escapes your lips for only his ears to hear, an immediate nod following before your hand with the lightest touch arranges his hair back into place, satisfaction in your grin. "All better. Don't you look handsome, Riki."

His blush floods all the way to his ears, not missed by Heeseung who only shakes his head with a chuckle, sending dancing eyebrows and bitten back smirks his way over the background of hummed music inside the house, nothing but conversation and Jake's chill RnB playlist humming out of his phone's speakers. Riki learns all sorts about you that night, lulled by your velvety voice and weed making him float on a cloud. However, what becomes blaring obvious is no matter what anecdotes he learns over the short time you spend outside, something else prevails.

The dire obsession he has over you.

Whatever Riki's dissertation his Sports Science degree is based on takes a backseat in his final year, most of - if not all - his thoughts circling back to you. He experiences the phenomenon of life at university, where you see a person and you either never see them again or see them everywhere. You are the latter. Blooming in places unimportant to him, now significant as he catches glimpses of you. Sees you in the university mail room collecting your guitar pick parcel, sees you on the grassy lawn near the library when the sun's out, cat eye sunglasses perched on your septum-pierced nose, laughing as a kicked football bounces off your sunbathing friend's ass, sees you in said library nodding your head to the Drum & Bass music blasting through your headphones, laser focused on the work you blitz though. He even catches you outside the modern Design school building, giggling as you swap a blunt amongst your friends, not the least bit worried of getting caught. 

Having access to you like this makes his mind wonder, go to places on fuelled by obsession and it hotwires his system to you. In your mystery black but bright smile, the silver of your jewellery but the warmth of your heart. How in all the moments he thinks he's alone in seeing you, your head turns. Most times you motion him over or simply smile, acknowledging him with an acknowledgement he thinks of all day. His brain doesn't let him forget you, finding every excuse to bring you up in conversation, try your favourite foods, listen to your favourite artists (lots of crossover between his) and just…well, simp over you as Heeseung so lovingly puts it. 

Riki can protest all he wants, but he knows it to be true. How much he's fallen for how you move through the world like its yours, carving every bit of yourself in spaces he'll never forget, whispering your name in suppressed whimpers as he doesn't let his thoughts venture too far, just the image of you laughing at some poor joke he made or the compliments you so freely give him. 

And then he's coming. All of his hand, chest and in the swirl of relief and shame, even then his mind cannot banish thoughts of you. You're hard to forget after all. 

"Is she coming?" Riki asks, always referring to you as he follows Jake down the stairs. The older between the two scampering through to the living room where Sunghoon's left some hockey game playing and into Jake's room, lived in-neat with the scent of sea salt blowing through.

"Man, I don't know. It's like you have a crush on her or something," Jake says absently, sifting through his closet for something to wear. Except when he only hears the scrape of his clothes hangers, rather than Riki's immediate denial, he stops. Looks his friend in the eye, chestnut curls encompassing his surprised face. "What the fuck? You're joking."

Riki could deny it. Save himself the additional teasing, but he's always been a shit liar. 

"She's cool." He ends up admitting, looking down at his suede sneakers. They need a clean. 

"Yeah, I bet she is since you beat your meat to her," Jake laughs, pulling out an outfit he's satisfied with - jeans and a brown plaid jacket. "I get it, but you're not the only one. Jay from Psych's acting like she's cast a love spell on him and Sunghoon's all over her like a rash, so…"

Riki groans, fed up. "Come on, he has options." 

"And you don't?"

He considers it. Thinks about that girl in his Advanced Sports Biomechanics lecture he's been pining over since they last kissed first year, but quickly got a boyfriend before he could take out to her favourite restaurant. Thinks about the other girl from the library months ago who he suspects like girls and somehow, he finds peace in it all. Letting go of a past that no longer serves him, that didn't really to begin with and finds you. Nestled into every crevice of his memory and heart.

Fuck, he's a goner. 

"She's special," Riki lets it be known, his nape a source of comfort for his scraping nails. "I only want her."

"Aren't you a romantic," Back turned to him, Jake circles back with a baseball cap with a design of unbuttoned jeans. He's stolen that out of Riki's closet, reminding him to lock his door when he leaves for lectures. "Maybe talk to Hoon about it. So we can avoid another shared-girl situation,"

"Unless you're into being a cuck or whatever."

"You signed up for that." Riki states, well aware of that situation.