antonsbf

you sit there for maybe a minute. two. waiting to see if it stops. it doesn’t. you know it won’t.

because sunghoon’s a habitual asshole. you’ve known that since orientation week, when he made some smug comment about your test scores like it was a joke. ever since then it’s been non-stop competing GPAs, half-smiles across classrooms, TA praise you’re both too proud to share.

you’re not friends. you’re not even enemies. you’re just locked in, semester after semester, orbiting each other with a kind of mutual contempt that no one else seems to notice.

he plays this loud ass bullshit every time there’s a deadline coming up. maybe it helps him study. maybe he just likes fucking with you.

either way, you’ve had enough. you shove your chair back hard and head into the hall barefoot, too tired to pretend to be polite.

your knuckles hit his door. once. twice. harder than necessary.

there’s a shuffle. then the door cracks open like it’s been weighted shut.

sunghoon blinks at you.

he’s doesn't appear tired at first. not even disheveled in the way you’d expect from him. just... rumpled. and after just a second you notice his hoodie pulled over his head, sleeves pushed to his elbows, collar a little skewed. his hair looks like he’s been clawing through it all night. eye bags for days. skin a little pale under the dorm lights.

he’s clearly not slept either, but he still manages to look irritatingly composed. like even his collapse is well-curated. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t even bother with a fake smile.

“turn it down,” you say, arms crossed, voice deadpan.

he drags a hand over his face, slow and lazy. doesn’t look surprised. just exhausted.

“it’s not even that loud.”

there’s a long silence after that. the kind where the air goes still and your jaw tenses involuntarily. you hate how good he is at this, at being unbothered. like you’re the one making things difficult, even though he’s the one fucking around at 3 a.m. like he doesn’t have the same exam you do in eight hours.

you could push it. argue. threaten to call the resident assistant. but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

he shifts a little, gaze skimming over you once. then he steps aside.

“if it’s that distracting,” he mutters, tone unreadable, “come figure it out yourself.”

you hesitate. just for a second.

it’s not an invitation. it’s not even a dare. it’s... something else. a weird, tired challenge. like he doesn’t actually care whether you do or don’t.

you step in.

his room is a mess in the specific way only a midterm collapse can cause. open textbooks on the bed, extra hoodie draped over his desk chair, two half-empty coffee cups on the windowsill. the music’s coming from his laptop. some endless loop that sounds like it’s trying to mimic a guitar on steroids.

he closes the door behind you with a soft click. the sound feels louder than it should. you don’t sit. he doesn’t offer. he sinks back into his chair like he’s too tired to hold himself upright.

“you always this inconsiderate?” you ask, arms still folded.

he shrugs, not looking at you. “you always this dramatic?”

you roll your eyes. this is what it’s always like. dry comments, eye contact held a second too long, something mean simmering just under the surface. and yet you never stop. neither of you ever stops.

he reaches over and finally closes the music tab. silence drops over the room like a blanket, too heavy for comfort.

you hate this. being here. standing in his room like you’re in some kind of mutual standoff. like something’s about to happen but neither of you wants to be the one to start it.

he rubs his temple, exhales through his nose.

“you done?” he asks, not quite irritated, just bored. resigned.

“you don’t sleep either, huh.”

he snorts softly. “not since midterms started.”

you glance at the open book beside him. finance. same class you’ve got the exam for in the morning. of course he’s studying late. of course he’s doing exactly what you are, just louder, messier, and with worse time management.

you look at him again. his hood’s fallen back, hair semi-sticking out in wild directions. his sleeves are bunched at the elbows. he looks like the personification of burnout.

and still, still, he’s got that same flat expression. like even now, even like this, he’s unbeatable.

you swallow the comment that rises in your throat. something petty. something about how maybe if he spent less time pretending to be cool and more time working like a real person, he wouldn’t need caffeine and rock music to survive midterms.

but you don’t say it. not yet. you just lean against the edge of his desk and stare at him.

“you look like shit,” you say, finally.

he huffs a laugh. doesn’t look at you. “you always say the nicest things.”

and then there’s silence again, not awkward, not charged, just... thick. heavy with everything you’re not saying.

you should leave. but you don’t. not yet. you definitely didn’t plan to stay.

but you do. because you hate how he gets under your skin and makes it look easy. because he barely even asked you to come in, just stepped aside like he knew you would.

and maybe you hate that he was right.

now you’re standing in the middle of his room while he sits back down like nothing happened. like you didn’t just march over here two seconds from combusting.

he’s not pretending to be calm. he is calm. scrolling on his laptop, half-slouched in his chair, music still playing at that irritatingly low volume. like he’s immune to you.

you say nothing. neither does he.

you sit on the edge of his bed eventually, more out of annoyance than comfort. the frame creaks and he doesn’t look.

“your notes are a mess,” he says, not looking up.

you blink. “what?”

“your handwriting’s dogshit. i saw it in a lecture.”

you scoff. “maybe if you paid more attention to the lecture, you wouldn’t have to read mine.”

he hums, not denying it. “figured you’d take notes and be desperate to prove you’re better than me. two birds.”

you shoot him a glare he doesn’t see. you wish he would. it’d be nice to have him flinch for once.

“you’re such an asshole.”

“and you’re such a try-hard. works out.”

you stare at him. the bitterness in your throat is dry, sharp, familiar.

“you think you’re clever.”

“no,” he says, finally glancing at you. “i think you’re predictable.”

there it is. that look. the one he saves just for you, half bored, half challenging, like he wants you to crack.

and maybe you’re close to cracking.

you breathe through your nose and look away. you’re not going to play his game.

but then—

“you’re shaking.”

you glance down. your knee’s bouncing, unthinking. you stop it.

“midterms. caffeine.”

“sure.”

he spins a little in his chair, back to scrolling, like the conversation’s already over.

it should be. you should go. you don’t.

“what happened to your face?” you mutter.

“what.”

“you look like shit.”

he snorts. “you said that already." he glances at you, now facing you. "no sleep. not that it’s your business.”

you shrug. “was just wondering how you’re somehow uglier when you’re human.”

“funny,” he says. “from someone who only looks tolerable under library lighting.”

your jaw tenses. you meet his eyes.

“fuck you.”

“you wish.”

that stings more than it should. maybe because it hits too close to something you haven’t admitted even to yourself.

you glance around the room again. papers everywhere, water bottle on the floor, a faint smell of citrus and sweat and whatever expensive crap he uses on his skin.

you hate how easily he can exist in chaos. you hate that he’s still better than you in half your classes. and you hate that even now, sitting in his room, watching him blink slow and lean back like he owns the night, you can’t stop looking at him.

your skin feels too tight.

“you gonna stare all night?” he says without glancing up.

“just trying to understand how someone so average is so arrogant.”

he finally turns to you again, lazy but direct. the corner of his mouth lifts, barely.

“maybe because i keep winning.”

you laugh. sharp, mean. “you haven’t ‘won’ anything. you just skate by with minimal effort and let everyone assume you’re too cool to care.”

“and you care so hard it’s embarrassing.”

“you think it’s embarrassing to give a shit?”

“no. i think you are.”

there’s a pause. neither of you blinks.

and that’s when it hits, the understanding. quiet and mutual and completely unspoken.

you both know too much. too much about each other. too much about what words to use when you want them to cut. too much to pretend this is just a rivalry anymore.

he stands up. just one slow step forward. enough to close the distance.

you don’t move back. you don’t break eye contact.

the tension doesn’t spike, it thickens, draws tighter between you like a pulled wire. not sudden. not dramatic. just inevitable.

he stands in front of you now. close enough to smell his shampoo, his skin, the faint edge of cheap cafeteria coffee on his breath.

you could push him. you could leave. but you don’t.

“you’re exhausting,” you say quietly.

“you said that so many times.”

“doesn’t make it less true.”

his hand doesn’t touch you, not yet. but he’s there, standing like he might. like he’s waiting for a sign.

you don’t give him one. you just tilt your chin up and say,

“well? got something to say or just gonna hover like a freak?”

that’s what breaks it.not romance. not longing. not want.

irritation.

his hand comes to the side of your face, not soft. not rough. just firm, and his mouth meets yours in a kiss that’s not born of affection but frustration.

it’s not sudden. it’s slow. intentional.

he kisses you like he wants to shut you up again. like this is the only language he knows how to argue in now. you don’t kiss him back at first. then you do.

not because you like him. you don’t. you just want to win.

and this? this is winnable.

his tongue drags across your lip, your teeth scrape his. he groans low in his throat, more breath than sound, and you yank him down by the strings of his hoodie like he’s yours to drag around.

he stumbles forward and pushes you back into the bed. you don’t resist.

the kiss breaks, but the tension doesn’t. you breathe in sharp and fast, meeting his eyes.

there’s no going back from this. you’re not sure you want to.

his mouth is still on yours, rough and steady like he’s trying to end an argument with tongue and teeth.

you tug his hoodie off. he shrugs it away like it was pissing him off to begin with. his chest appearing more sculpted than you would like to admit. there’s tension in his muscles, irritation in the way he holds his arms like he doesn’t even want you seeing him. and yeah. he looks good. unfairly good.

“quit staring,” he mutters, breath against your cheek.

“get over yourself,” you shoot back. “you’re not that hot.”

he smirks, but it’s bitter. “says the one drooling on my bed.”

“in your dreams.”

“nah,” he breathes, close to your mouth again. “not even in those. too annoying.”

he kisses you before you can respond. just to shut you up again. it works. only for a second.

the kiss breaks when he pushes you back, hands at your shoulders, shoving you flat against the mattress.

“gonna keep talking shit?” he says, voice low.

“probably,” you say. “unless you finally manage to make me shut up.”

that gets a twitch from his lips, halfway between a scoff and something darker.

he climbs over you, knees on either side of your thighs. not with care. with intention. you feel the press of him even through his sweats, and you try not to squirm. fail, maybe. he tugs your shirt off, barely looking as he does.

“no wonder you’ve been a bitch all semester,” he mutters, eyes raking down your chest. “been dying to get fucked.”

“please,” you sneer. “if i wanted to get railed by a know-it-all with a superiority complex, i’d just jack off thinking about your presentation in econ.”

“yeah?” he says, leaning closer. “bet you did.”

his mouth drags down your neck, no softness, just the press of lips and teeth grazing enough to make you twitch. and then his fingers tangle in your hair. yank. hard.

not playful. not cute.

“try shutting up now,” he mutters, breath hot against your jaw.

“fuck you,” you snap, eyes watering from the pull. “you think this proves anything?”

he jerks your head back another inch, eyes on yours now, sharp and mean and way too calm.

“yeah,” he breathes. “proves you’ll take whatever i give you.”

you hate how your whole body reacts to that. his hips grind down against yours once and you can’t help the breath that escapes. it’s humiliating.

“god,” you mutter. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“and you’re so easy when you’re pissed.”

“you haven’t done anything yet.”

“don’t worry,” he growls. “you’ll be crying about it in five minutes.”

he moves down. you don’t expect him to go down on you with lips and all. but he does. and it’s not sweet, or sensual, it’s calculated. tongue curling just right, lips sucking where they should, but without the heat of affection. it’s good. annoyingly good. and that only makes it worse.

you fist the sheets. bite your lip. don’t give him the satisfaction.

a “fuck—” slips out of you anyway, and he pulls off with a smug flick of his mouth.

“thought so,” he says. “mouthy, but easy.”

“suck a dick.”

“just did,” he says. “you’re welcome.”

he stands just long enough to shove his sweats down, he grabs the lube from the drawer and tosses it to you. and just like that, you start work yourself open quick, sharp fingers, no eye contact.

he watches like it bothers him. like he hates how much you know what you’re doing.

“you always this desperate?” he says.

“only when i’ve got something to prove,” you shoot back.

“prove what?”

“that you’re not the only one who can take control.”

he blinks, dark eyes narrowing.

“you won’t last five minutes.”

“then shut up and fuck me.”

and he does.

pushes in slow, even though his jaw’s tight and his hands are trembling from holding back. you’re tight, slick, burning around him, and the way he groans, low and caught in his throat, makes something in your chest twist.

“already whining,” you say, gritting through the stretch. “fuck, and i thought you had stamina.”

“god, you never shut up,” he growls, and thrusts hard, dragging a gasp out of you.

“make me,” you manage.

his hand goes right back to your hair. this time rougher. he fists it and pulls your head back against the bed, forcing you to look at him while he fucks into you.

“look at you,” he hisses. “you talk like you’re better than everyone. but you’re just a brat who needs to get ruined.”

“still better than you,” you gasp, lips curled, even as your whole body jerks from the next thrust.

he changes the angle. your mouth falls open. no sound.

“say that again,” he says.

“fuck you—”

his grip on your hair tightens. your neck arches. he doesn’t let go.

“you are,” he mutters. “right now.”

he ruts into you harder now. controlled. fast, but not sloppy. every thrust makes the bed creak, every sound too loud, too close. your nails dig into his shoulders and he hisses like it stings. but he doesn’t pull back. if anything, he chases it. chases the pain. the fight.

“moan for me,” he mutters. “go on.”

“not giving you that.”

“oh, fuck off. you’re shaking.”

you are. and when he leans down, grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces your mouth open, not to kiss, but just to see, you almost do.

“you’re so fucking desperate,” he says, panting. “pretending you hate this.”

“i do hate it.”

“but you’re loving it.”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

his rhythm’s faltering now. he’s close. and you’re not far either.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, finally, barely audible. “fuck—just like that.”

he groans, loud this time, and leans over you, hips stuttering once, twice, and then he pulls out fast, finishing hot across your stomach.

you finish right after, jerking yourself with a sharp gasp, biting your lip hard enough to sting.

your hair’s a mess. jaw aching. neck stretched. whole body trembling. he watches you for a beat, chest heaving. says nothing. cleans up without fanfare. tosses you your shirt like it’s routine. like it’s nothing.

“you kiss all your enemies?” you say eventually, voice rough.

“only the ones who beg for it with their eyes.”

you scoff, yanking your clothes on. don’t look at him.

“this never happened.”

“sure,” he says, pulling his hoodie back over his head. “never.”

you leave without looking back. but the sting in your scalp and the bruises on your hips?

you’ll feel those for days.

and for some reason, you don’t mind.

days pass. nothing really changes. not in a way you can name. you’re still in the same classes. still pass each other in the halls like you’re both too busy to care. still roll your eyes when the other one talks in discussion.

except... some things are different.

he doesn’t snap at you anymore. not right away. your comments still come sharp, passive, cut with dry humor, but he stops biting back. just raises an eyebrow. or looks at you too long. like he’s hearing something under what you said.

and you notice things now. stuff you shouldn’t care about. the way he fidgets with his pen when he’s thinking. how he mouths parts of the lecture to himself when he’s focused. the way his hoodie sits too neatly across his chest. not oversized. just fitted. unfair.

you catch him looking at you once. when you're mid-sentence. talking to the TA, barely paying attention to him and his eyes are fixed on your mouth. it lasts all of three seconds before he looks away like it didn’t happen.

you don’t mention it. but you don’t stop thinking about it either. it’s not like either of you brought that night up. it happened. full stop. you left. door shut. silence since.

but it’s there. in the way his gaze lingers a fraction too long when you sit near him. in the fact that he hasn’t told a single person. you know, because your mutuals would be assholes about it if they knew.

he doesn’t flirt. not even subtly. doesn’t wink or tease or make innuendos like some post-hookup cliché. if anything, he’s colder. calmer.

you kind of prefer it that way.

when he sees you coming out of the library late, you’re both too exhausted to play whatever game this is.

“still alive?” he says, voice low, hands in his pockets.

“barely.”

“your notes still better than mine?”

“obviously.”

he doesn’t fight it. just smirks, short and dry. you walk in the same direction without commenting on it.

“you owe me,” he says suddenly.

“for what?”

“distracting me before econ. ruined my quiz grade.”

“you were already failing.”

he scoffs.

“you’re insufferable,” he mutters.

“you’re still walking with me.”

“unfortunately.”

but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t speed up. doesn’t cut across campus like he’s trying to get away from you.

you don’t say goodbye when you split paths. just glance. nod. some vague, unspoken truce hanging in the air.

it’s nothing and it doesn’t mean a damn thing.

probably.

It was just another quiet evening in your cramped but cozy apartment—the kind of evening that should’ve been spent buried in textbooks, cursing your life choices, and drinking lukewarm coffee.

And that’s exactly what you were doing.

You slumped over your desk, damp highlighter ink smudged on your cheek, squinting at a paragraph that might as well have been written in ancient Greek. The walls were thin in this building, but normally, the worst you had to deal with was your neighbor’s questionable taste in late-night TV.

Then the noises started.

At first, it was just a few thumps. Maybe someone dropping something heavy. No big deal.

Then came the scratching.

Then the jiggling.

You froze, pen hovering mid-air. That… didn’t sound like a dropped textbook. That sounded like someone … was trying to break into the apartment next door.

Your heart kicked into overdrive. Robber? Your grip tightened around your pen like it was a weapon.

You crept to the door, pressing your ear against the wood. More rustling. More jiggling. A frustrated groan—definitely not your usual neighbor.

Adrenaline surged. You weren’t about to let some thief waltz in and steal Mrs. Park’s collection of ceramic frogs.

You swung your door open, ready to fight.

And there he was.

A guy who’s tall, disheveled, and stupidly attractive — frozen mid-struggle with a key that clearly wasn’t working. He had one foot braced against the doorframe, hands wrestling with the lock like it had personally offended him. His dark hair was mussed from frustration, cheeks slightly flushed, and when he turned at the sound of your door, his wide, startled eyes locked onto yours.

For half a second, time stopped.

Then you lunged.

"HEY—"

You didn’t just grab the poor thing—oh no. You full-body tackled him and flipped him upside down.

The second his back hit the hallway carpet with a thud, you were on top of him, knees pinning his hips, hands gripping his wrists like you were some kind of action hero.

"WAITWAITWAIT—!" He threw his hands up, stumbling back as you grabbed his arm in what you thought was a martial arts move but was probably closer to a desperate octopus attack.

"I'M NOT A ROBBER!"

You didn’t let go. "Then tell me why did I just catch you breaking in?"

"Breaking i- I live here!" His voice cracked. "I just—ugh—moved in today and my key won’t work!"

You squinted. He looked… sincere. Also slightly pathetic, still disheveled under your mercy against the floor, looking like a kicked puppy.

Slowly, you loosened your grip. "…You’re serious?"

"Yes!" He exhaled, rubbing his arm where you’d grabbed him (oops). "I’m Jake. New student. Just transferred. Landlord gave me the wrong key, I think." He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "I’ve been out here forever."

Oh.

Oh no.

Because now that the adrenaline was fading, you really looked at him.

This Jake guy? Boy was he unfairly pretty.

His brown eyes were warm, even when stressed. His lips were pursed in a pout that should not have been cute. And his voice—slightly heavy and thick with an accent, slightly whiny too—was doing things to your pulse that definitely weren’t fight-or-flight anymore.

You cleared your throat, scratching your itchy nape and about. "Uh. Right. Sorry about the—" You mimed strangling him.

He laughed. Actually laughed, head tilting back, and wow, okay, that was a problem. "It’s fine," he grinned. "I’d have freaked out too."

You scratched the back of your neck. "I can call the landlord for you?"

His whole face lit up. "Please?"

Just as you were about to pull out your phone, the door across the hall creaked open.

Old Mr. Kim, your perpetually grumpy neighbor, stood there in his pajamas, squinting at the scene: You still hovered over Jake at the floor, his shirt rucked up from the struggle, both of you flushed and breathing hard.

A beat of silence.

Then Mr. Kim smirked.

"Tch. Kids these days," he muttered. "Can’t even wait until inside the apartment, huh?"

Your face burned. "No—we weren’t—"

He waved a hand. "Save it. Just keep the noise down."

Then, with a knowing chuckle, he added:

"I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone."

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

You were still hovering over Jake.

Jake’s face was now the color of a ripe tomato.

Slowly, painfully aware of how this looked, you rolled off him and onto the floor, staring at the ceiling.

"Ugh …" you said, voice strained. "That happened."

Jake covered his face with his hands. "I’m never recovering from this. This is definitely a lesson about shame and dignity."

You groaned. "Same."

A pause.

Then, despite everything—you both started laughing.

Jake peeked through his fingers, grinning. "Guess we really made an impression on the neighbors."

You snorted. "At least now they won’t call the cops when we actually break in."

Jake’s smile softened. "...Worth it."

And oh, the way he was looking at you—all warm and fond and interested—made your stomach flip. Again. Did I mention ‘again’? Whatever technicality it might seem, your guts just couldn’t handle this much fuzz.

Ten minutes later, the landlord arrived, grumbling about "kids these days" as he fixed the lock. Jake stood next to you, arms crossed, his shoulder brushing yours every time he shifted.

And that’s when you noticed.

The glances.

The way his eyes kept flicking to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

The smile he tried (and failed) to hide when you cracked a dumb joke about the landlord’s choice in keychains.

By the time the door finally creaked open, Jake hesitated before stepping inside.

"Hey," he said, softer now. "Thanks for, uh. Not actually murdering me."

You snorted. "Anytime."

He bit his lip. Then, in a rush: "We should hang out. Since we’re neighbors. And, y’know. You’re cool."

Cool? Cool?! Jake wanted to kick himself.

Ask his name, you idiot, you didn’t even ask for his name!

Flooded with unspoken thoughts, Jake just smiled—slow and sweet. And you? You knew exactly how flustered Jake was.

"Yeah," he said, soft. "I’d like that."

Jake’s heart then stuttered.

He was so screwed.

—

The glow of streetlights bled through the thin curtains, painting stripes of gold across Jake’s ceiling. He lay there, limbs splayed like a starfish, one arm thrown over his eyes as if that could block out the memory—the phantom weight of you pressed against him, the way your knee had dug into his hip just shy of painful, the sharp inhale you’d taken when he’d blurted out We should hang out like some clumsy teenager.

His skin still burned where you’d touched him.

God.

He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow hard enough to stifle the pathetic noise crawling up his throat.

Who falls for someone like this?

Who got pinned to the floor in a half-assed wrestling move and walked away with his pulse hammering for hours? (Him. Obviously.)

The worst part wasn’t the embarrassment—though that was bad, sure, especially with old neighbor’s knowing smirk burned into his brain. No, the worst part was the way his chest ached with it, the way his fingers twitched against the sheets like they were searching for something to hold onto.

The way he could still smell you—that stupidly good smelling shampoo, the sharp bite of adrenaline-sweat, the warmth of your breath when you’d leaned in to apologize.

He groaned, kicking at the tangled sheets. He was kicking his feet in the air like a giggly young girl.

He was never going to sleep again.

—

Dawn came too soon, pale and insistent, creeping through the gaps in the blinds. Jake blinked gritty eyes at the ceiling, vaguely aware that he’d dozed off at some point—though rested was too generous a word for the way his thoughts had spun in frantic circles all night.

He dragged himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His mouth tasted like regret and stale toothpaste.

The floor was cold under his bare feet as he shuffled to the door, half-convinced last night had been some sleep-deprived fever dream.

Then he saw it.

A scratched note from a pad, brightly lined and white against the hardwood floor, snuck underneath the apartment door.

Jake’s breath caught.

He reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish under his fingertips. The paper was slightly wrinkled at the edges, like you’d hesitated before sliding it there.

"Sorry again for the assault. Here’s a peace offering. —Your (Hopefully) Favorite Neighbor"

Curious, Jake opened his door and saw a set of goods sitting in the entrance, as if it were diligently waiting for him.

Inside a large paper bag was a large cup of freshly brewed espresso from the café across the street, still warm to the touch, condensation beading along its sides. Next to it, a small plastic case, its still warm with moisture—inside, two glazed donuts, perfectly golden, their sugary surfaces gleaming under the hallway light.

Jake’s fingers lightly tingled as he picked up the coffee.

He took a sip.

Perfect.

Not too bitter, not too sweet—just right, the way he always took it. Was it a lucky guess?

Jake pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he could physically shove down the thing fluttering behind his ribs.

The note crinkled in his grip.

He should not be this affected by a goddamn scratched letter.

But then he traced the curve of your handwriting—messy, hurried, the Y in Your looping like you’d started to write something else—and his throat went tight.

He pressed the note to his chest before he could stop himself, closing his eyes.

The coffee was perfect.

The donuts were perfect.

You were—

Jake exhaled, long and shaky, and took another sip to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

Yeah.

He was so, so screwed.

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — ANADA JAKE HIT BRUHHHHH also i missed you all .. i will write more i was just stuck in uni but also AAAAAA JAKE JAKE I LOVE YOU i just know this guy is too adorable when he realizes he's in love bruh

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CONTENT WARNING + Author’s Note World Class Sin is a fictional story. It is not real. The characters portrayed here are fictionalized versions inspired by public figures, but they do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or values of anyone in real life. This story is created purely for fictional storytelling and emotional exploration — nothing in it should be read as truth, reality, or a commentary on real people. This fic is made of dramatized emotions, and heightened dynamics set within a stylized, pressurized version of the global idol industry. Though it explores intensity, control, and desire, it is not intended to reflect what is healthy, safe, or good in real life. This story includes themes that may be emotionally heavy or difficult for some readers — such as emotional manipulation, objectification, isolation, possessiveness, psychological pressure, voyeuristic or obsessive dynamics, and moments where characters are treated as products instead of people. It also includes mature or NSFW scenes that reflect those imbalances — shaped by tension, not tenderness. The characters are morally gray. They are flawed, reckless, and often driven by desire more than compassion. They do things that are not admirable. And while those choices may be compelling in fiction, they are not excuses for real behavior — and they are not meant to romanticize harm. If you’re someone who’s sensitive to themes of control, emotional coercion, unwanted attention, or being dehumanized — please read with care. If at any point something in this story feels too close to home, too sharp, too familiar — you are allowed to stop. You never need to push through discomfort to prove anything. There is no story more important than your peace. You are not someone’s fantasy. You do not have to be ruined to be seen, or hurt to be held. If this story ever makes you feel small, unsafe, or alone — please, please take space. Close the tab. Drink water. Text someone who sees you clearly. Come back only if and when it feels right. And if it never feels right again — that’s okay too. Please don’t force yourself to return. This story does not deserve more of you than you’re able to give. From writer to reader — I care about you. I care about your well-being more than this plot or any fictional moment. You matter more than anything written here. Your softness, your boundaries, and your safety are always worth protecting. Please take care of yourself. You’re never alone in choosing yourself. With care, Luke.

Before the company. Before the cameras. Before the lights wrapped around his skin like a second set of hands and people began calling his silence presence — there was just Y/n.

Y/n, who used to sing under his breath in the backseat of his mother’s car while she drove barefoot, humming along to songs too old for the radio. Who used to dance in the kitchen at night while spaghetti boiled on the stove, barefoot on cheap tile, arms wide like the world couldn’t touch him. He didn’t want fame. He just liked how music felt in his chest — like proof that he existed. Like warmth. And she saw it. His mother. She used to say he was a light. A soft one. The kind that flickered gently in dark places, not to shine, but to keep people from feeling alone. She called him magic. Said if the world saw him the way she did, it would fall in love and never recover.

But the world never got the chance to meet her. She got sick, fast and cruel, like some invisible hand reached down and stole the only thing keeping his life from collapsing in on itself. One day she was folding his laundry and singing about the weather; the next, she was a name on a hospital file he couldn’t afford to print. The grief didn’t break Y/n all at once. It hollowed him. Slowly. Gently. Like a song that fades without ending. He didn’t scream or cry or destroy things. He just… stopped. Stopped talking. Stopped singing. Started disappearing one silent moment at a time.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Mornings he couldn’t remember where he’d been. Rooms he walked into that felt too hot, too cold, too loud. People touched him and he let them, but it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t feel ruined — just distant from his own body. He let strangers speak to him like they knew who he was. Let the world pull at the corners of his clothes, his mouth, his name. He wore her perfume for weeks after she died, just to remember what love smelled like. And eventually, even that faded.

So when a woman with too many rings and too white of a smile called and said she’d known his mother once, said she had a place for him, a stage, a future — Y/n didn’t question it. He didn’t even want it, not really. But he went. Because it was forward. Because it was something. Because standing still was starting to feel like dying.

They flew him to Los Angeles. No audition. No promise. Just a room, a contract, and a group that had already been chosen. A self-producing global project: stylists from Seoul, choreographers from London, a debut stage booked in MCOUNTDOWN before the ink had even dried. Jay, Jake, Sunghoon — three names carved into the industry like sharp things. Boys with scars. Boys with hunger. Boys who had given everything to be here.

And now, they had to stand next to Y/n — the boy who had given nothing but still looked like he’d been born in spotlight.

The executives were obsessed. He was everything they wanted without even trying. A beautiful, damaged blank slate. His trainee period was short — barely weeks. But that didn’t matter. They said he had that thing. The unnamable thing. They called his eyes marketable sadness. Big, glistening, expressive things that looked like he was always about to cry. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he needed saving. And people wanted to save him. Or ruin him. Or both.

He was pliable. Innocent in all the wrong ways. And when stylists dressed him in sheer shirts and told him not to smile, he didn’t ask why. When vocal trainers told him to whisper his lyrics like they were secrets, he did. When photographers posed his hands limp and his lips parted, he obeyed. There was something in him that had been emptied out. And in its place, the industry poured something else — glossy and broken and dripping with want.

They didn’t see the boy in the kitchen spinning barefoot for no one. They saw the after. The glow of something burned too long. A boy with soft wrists and pretty bones and eyes like bruises. Something not quite alive but still moving.

And Y/n let them have it.

Because it was easier than remembering. Because grief had made him quiet, and now quiet made him desirable. Because being watched felt better than being alone.

Because when you’ve been loved by someone who saw your soul, you’ll spend the rest of your life letting people take your body just to feel something close.

They didn’t meet him on a stage. Or in a practice room. They met him in silence—late afternoon, overhead lights too white, the hallway outside the recording studio carrying the sterile smell of burnt coffee and industrial air freshener. The building always felt like that. Cold, new, over-designed. Like ambition lived in the vents.

Y/n stood alone in the corridor, tucked into a corner like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His clothes were plain—company-issued hoodie, soft drawstring pants, shoes too clean. He looked like he’d been dropped there, like someone forgot to tell him what to do next. His hands were tucked in his sleeves, his gaze heavy and uncertain, big glassy eyes scanning the passing staff like he was waiting for someone to explain what his life had become. But no one did. People walked past him like he wasn’t real.

And inside the studio, the boys were waiting.

Jay had been mid-edit, headphones pulled halfway off one ear, track looping back on itself as he adjusted vocal layering. Jake had been at the whiteboard with a pen in his mouth, scribbling fragments of a chorus they hadn’t agreed on. Sunghoon was sitting on the floor, stretching in slow, practiced lines, watching his reflection in the glass.

When the door opened and one of the assistant managers stepped in, clearing their throat with a smile too tight, everything slowed.

“Your new member’s here,” they said. Simple. Blunt. As if it were a schedule change, not a shift in the entire balance of the room.

Jay’s eyes didn’t move from his screen. “What do you mean, new member?” His voice was flat. Controlled. But his fingers paused mid-click.

“CEO’s orders. He’s joining the lineup.”

Jake turned. Sunghoon didn’t blink. None of them said anything, but the silence that followed was louder than any protest.

And then he stepped in.

Y/n, soft-faced, quiet, impossibly still. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was there. It crept into corners. His eyes—those too-bright, too-sad things—flicked from face to face, not with confidence, but with the strange, hollow politeness of someone used to being tolerated, not welcomed. He bowed. Soft. Awkward. Like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.

Jay’s stare was unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow lifting slightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They had trained for years together—fought, failed, rewritten songs through tears and caffeine and injury. And now this? A stranger in their studio? One they hadn’t trained with, hadn’t chosen?

Sunghoon stood. Slow. Measured. His body moved with dancer’s precision even now, coiled tight beneath the silence. His gaze swept over Y/n once, impersonal. Not curious. Just… calculating. Like he was adjusting choreography in his head to factor in a flaw.

Jake’s lips pressed into a line. He said nothing, but his grip on the whiteboard marker tightened, ink bleeding into the surface behind him like it had nowhere else to go.

And Y/n? Y/n just stood there. Looking at them. Looking past them. Not trying to explain. Not trying to smile. Just standing there with those trembling, ruined eyes like he already knew what they thought. Like he’d heard it before.

The manager gave a quick clap, like the moment needed wrapping. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it. He’s already got housing in your dorm. Training schedule starts tomorrow. Be good to each other.”

The door clicked shut.

And the silence collapsed into something heavier.

Y/n didn’t speak. He didn’t introduce himself again. He just stepped further into the room, slow, hesitant, like the floor might reject him. He moved toward the couch in the corner, sat down too carefully, as if afraid he’d take someone’s spot.

Jay turned back to his laptop. Pressed play. The track looped again.

Jake went back to the board, but didn’t write.

Sunghoon lowered himself to the floor again, more rigid this time.

No one told Y/n where to stand. Where to sit. What to do. No one asked his story. They didn’t need to. They had already decided what kind of person he was.

He was the fourth member now. A piece of a group he hadn’t earned. A replacement for someone they actually cared about.

He didn’t belong.

And in some twisted, brutal way—

That was exactly why they chose him.

The training studio was too bright in the next morning. Too clean. The kind of sterile, high-ceilinged space that didn’t allow mistakes to hide. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, polished until they could catch even the faintest flicker of shame. The sound system buzzed faintly overhead. The air reeked of lemon disinfectant and effort.

Y/n was already there when the others arrived.

He’d shown up twenty minutes early, clutching a company-issued water bottle with both hands, like it might anchor him to the floor. He stood near the back wall, away from the mirror, staring at his own reflection like it didn’t quite match up. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at the wrists. His hair was still damp from the rushed shower. His eyes—their usual wounded-glass glaze—were unreadable, a little too wide, like he hadn’t slept.

He didn’t look like a trainee. He looked like someone pretending to be one.

Jay walked in first, earbuds still in, the collar of his jacket loose and unzipped like he’d sprinted from the studio just to be forced into this. He didn’t look at Y/n. Just dropped his bag at the wall and started stretching.

Jake came next, nodding curtly to the trainer stationed near the door, then immediately scanned the room. When his eyes landed on Y/n, something behind them tightened. It wasn’t surprise anymore. It was adjustment. A silent recalibration—how do you move around something you never asked for?

Sunghoon entered last. His expression didn’t change. It never did. He placed his water down carefully, tied his shoelaces like they were performance art, then stood in the center of the room and rolled his shoulders with the mechanical focus of a blade being polished.

“From the top,” the trainer called.

The music started.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was the track they’d been preparing for weeks, long before Y/n had been added in. Heavy bass layered over precise percussion, punctuated with vocal stabs and hard cuts in the tempo. It's a song of the French House mixed with drum & bass and dubstep. The choreography was difficult—sharp hits, tight formations, no room to fall behind. It was designed to showcase unity.

Y/n was half a beat behind from the first step.

His movements were rehearsed, yes. Memorized. But not lived in. He danced like a soldier following orders, not like someone who believed in what he was doing. His limbs moved with calculated correctness, but there was no rhythm beneath it. No breath. Just mimicry. Just survival.

Jay didn’t hide his reaction. His eyes flicked up to the mirror mid-verse, caught the staggered rhythm in Y/n’s step, and narrowed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything—but the tension in his arms as he hit his mark spoke volumes.

Sunghoon’s movements were a masterclass in control. Every pop of his shoulder, every step, every lift—clean, exact, devastating. But when they transitioned to group formation and Y/n brushed his side during a cross, Sunghoon’s body tensed. Only for a second. But it was there. A recoil.

Jake kept his eyes forward, lips pressed into a line. He hit every beat—fluid, magnetic—but you could feel it in the way his hands curled too tight on the downbeats, in the way his gaze skipped over Y/n whenever the formation pulled them too close. Not quite anger. Not yet. Just a loaded silence.

Y/n didn’t react.

Even when the trainer paused the track and called out, “Y/n—again. Your timing’s off on the first chorus.”

He only nodded. Stepped back into place. Counted under his breath. Reset his feet. Tried again.

And again.

And again.

By the third hour, the mirrors were fogged at the edges and the floor was streaked with sweat. The room reeked of it now—effort, frustration, resentment stewing under fluorescent light. Y/n’s hoodie was gone, revealing the too-thin tank top underneath, damp at the collar. His cheeks were red from exertion. His arms shook faintly when he raised them. But his expression hadn’t changed. He still looked like someone doing penance.

When they finally broke for water, Jay didn’t sit. He paced, wiping his neck with a towel, the lines between his brows deepening every time he glanced back toward Y/n, who was crouched by the wall, sipping water like it hurt to swallow.

Sunghoon didn’t speak. But his silence wasn’t neutral—it was sharp-edged, purposeful, a presence in the room like a wire stretched too tight. He pulled out his phone, thumb tapping idly, but his reflection in the mirror stayed fixed on the corner Y/n sat in.

Jake stood by the stereo, arms crossed, gaze down.

No one spoke.

Because nothing needed to be said. They were rehearsing for a debut that was supposed to be theirs—just theirs. Built on history. On blood. And now the fourth was here, soft-eyed and silent, fucking up the counts and soaking up the attention.

They weren’t teammates.

Not yet.

Just strangers in matching shoes, breathing the same stale air, waiting to see who would break first.

When the trainer finally called it, the silence that followed was louder than the music had ever been. No celebration. No breath of relief. Just the hollow, collective sound of sweat hitting polished floors and lungs still burning from the last chorus. Y/n stayed where he was, crouched low with his elbows braced on his knees, palms digging into the fabric of his pants. His chest rose and fell slowly. Measured. Controlled. The others didn’t look at him—not directly. They moved around him like he was a piece of faulty equipment no one had figured out how to replace yet.

Jay was the first one out the door.

He didn’t even bother pretending. His towel hit the floor beside his bag, and he stalked out of the studio with his jaw clenched and one hand already scrolling through his contacts like he was ready to start a war. Jake followed. Not as fast, but just as intentional. His water bottle was still full, untouched, swinging loosely at his side like a weapon. And then Sunghoon, calm as ever, but his gaze didn’t lift once—not to the trainer, not to Y/n. Just forward, like if he looked back, the thin thread holding his composure together would snap.

Y/n didn’t ask where they were going.

Didn’t ask if he should follow.

He sat there in the corner of the practice room, arms resting on his knees, hair stuck to his temples in wet strands. His eyes—those wide, silent, glassy things—looked straight ahead but didn’t see anything. They weren’t just tired. They were frayed at the edges, rimmed red, not from tears but from the ache of trying not to cry. It wasn’t the rehearsal that did it. It was everything underneath. The way grief builds like heat beneath the skin. The way loneliness makes your body too heavy. The way every second here felt like punishment for something he didn’t understand.

They hadn’t told him how much this would hurt.

Two floors up, the air felt different. Cooler. Quieter. The executive level of the building was all soundproof glass, imported marble, and lighting that made your skin look better than it actually was. Jay hated it. He hated the way the hallway echoed with silence, the way every piece of furniture was too expensive to sit on. He hated the waiting room outside the CEO’s office with its spotless magazines and staged smiles. But mostly, he hated that they had to come here at all.

He didn’t knock.

The receptionist barely looked up. “He’s finishing a call.”

“We’ll wait,” Jay said, already pacing. His voice was sharp, sure, dangerous. Jake didn’t say anything. He stood beside the window, arms crossed, watching the skyline like it had answers. Sunghoon sat, legs crossed, but his body was pulled taut. Even his stillness was strategic—like his breath could ruin the balance.

When the door finally opened, the CEO didn’t bother with greetings. “I assume this is about the new lineup.”

Jay stepped in first. “You assume right.”

The office was warm. Too warm. Designed to feel comfortable, inviting. But the weight of it pressed against their skin like humidity. Fake comfort. Manufactured trust. The CEO didn’t sit at his desk—he sat across from them, on a lounge chair like they were about to have a casual brainstorm session. That just made Jay angrier.

“We’ve been rehearsing this set for months,” he said. “We built this. The three of us. From scratch. And now there’s someone we’ve never trained with suddenly center in the marketing decks? You didn’t even ask.”

“He’s not center,” the CEO replied smoothly. “He’s presence.”

Jake’s knuckles flexed where his hands were folded. Sunghoon didn’t move.

“Presence doesn’t fix formation,” Jay snapped. “Presence doesn’t cover missed steps. He’s not ready.”

“He doesn’t need to be ready,” the CEO said, calm, like he was explaining something to a child. “He needs to be watched. And he is.”

Jay opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something terrifying in how confident the man was. Like this had never even been a debate.

“He’s not the strongest dancer,” the CEO continued. “He’s not the best vocalist. But people don’t look away from him. We’ve tested it. Media, marketing, even styling. When he’s in the frame, he is the frame.”

“That’s not what we’re building,” Sunghoon said finally. His voice was low. Even. But the edge in it was impossible to miss. “This isn’t just a group. It’s a system. And he’s not part of it.”

The CEO nodded. Slowly. Like he’d heard that line before.

“And systems evolve. Especially the ones that want to last. You three are the spine. The sound. The foundation. But he’s the face.”

Jake looked away. His jaw twitched.

Jay was already standing. “You should’ve told us. Before it became official.”

“It’s been official since the day he arrived,” the CEO said. “The press release is already drafted. MCountdown is booked. You’re debuting in twenty-three days.”

Silence.

The kind that wasn’t hollow—but final.

Jay stormed out. Jake followed.

Sunghoon lingered for just a second longer.

Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

He understood now.

They were no longer building this group.

They were part of what had been built around someone else.

The door to the CEO’s office shut behind them with a soft click, but the silence it left in its wake was anything but gentle. The hallway stretched before them like a tunnel with no end, polished tile reflecting the muted overhead light, the buzz of fluorescent fixtures matching the hum in Jake’s ears. No one said anything at first. Jay stalked ahead, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sunghoon followed, his steps slow and even like he was regulating every inch of his body just to keep it from trembling. Jake walked last, still reeling from what had just been said, from the clarity of it — the certainty with which they’d been dismissed, replaced, rearranged around a single, silent newcomer with no past and no proof.

It wasn’t about talent. It never had been.

And that was the part that left a taste in their mouths like rust.

None of them had cried when their old friends were cut. When the lineups changed. When the fifth, sixth, seventh iteration of this group was dissolved and rebuilt again. They knew the rules. Knew how it worked. Survival meant adaptation. But this — this wasn’t survival. This was sabotage dressed up as strategy. They weren’t just making room for Y/n. They were being told that everything they had bled for was secondary now. That their work, their history, their nights spent collapsed in rehearsal rooms and vocal booths didn’t matter as much as the way he looked under soft lighting. The way his eyes stayed wide and sad, like he’d never learned to protect himself. Like the industry could devour him slowly and still leave room for dessert.

Jay stopped in the middle of the corridor, running a hand through his hair like he could scratch the thought from his skull. “He’s not even trying,” he muttered under his breath. “He just stands there. And they act like it’s art.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The line of his jaw, the quiet rage in the set of his mouth, said more than words. Jake leaned against the wall beside them, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.

None of them had asked for this. And yet—there it was. That image of Y/n in the studio, barely moving, barely breathing, and still somehow commanding every eye in the room. It was offensive. It was infuriating. And it was undeniable.

The executives had seen it instantly. They hadn’t looked at Y/n and seen potential. They had seen a product already in its final form. A face that could sell out stadiums and perfume ads. A presence that didn’t need to say anything because the silence did all the work. That was the trick — the way his grief softened his features, made his mouth look vulnerable even when closed. The way his eyes stayed glassy, as if carrying a sadness that hadn’t been explained yet, but begged to be understood. They didn’t need him to be perfect. They needed him to be breakable. Beautiful in a way that made people want to ruin him, gently. Slowly. With reverence.

“He’s not even acting,” Jake said suddenly, voice tight. “That’s just how he is.”

Jay glanced at him. Jake wasn’t defending him. That wasn’t what this was. But the words hung in the air like something dangerous.

Because it was true. Y/n wasn’t calculating. He wasn’t pretending to be tragic. He simply was.

And that made it worse.

Because it made people want to keep him. To protect what looked so fragile, even if it wasn’t. Because despite the resentment curling in Jay’s chest, despite the quiet loathing in Sunghoon’s gaze, and the cold irritation in Jake’s bones—none of them wanted anyone else to have him. Not the executives. Not the stylists. Not the audience. He was theirs. He was in their group. Their story. Their songs. He hadn’t earned it, but now that he was here, the idea of someone else taking ownership of him felt like a deeper betrayal.

That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even care. It was possessiveness in its most twisted, quiet form. The kind that festers when something soft is placed in a room full of people who’ve only ever survived by being hard.

“He’s gonna ruin this for us,” Jay said flatly, starting to walk again.

But Jake didn’t move. And Sunghoon lingered.

Because ruin wasn’t always fire and blood. Sometimes, it looked like a boy with eyes full of grief and hands that didn’t know what to hold onto. Sometimes it looked like innocence laced with something sensual — not on purpose, but in the way people wanted to project their filth onto something clean. Y/n had become that. Not even a person anymore. A screen.

And maybe that was the real reason they couldn’t stand him.

Because he made everyone want things they weren’t allowed to want.

They walked without speaking.

The street was mostly empty, the kind of late where everything felt quiet in the wrong way—like the city was holding its breath. The sidewalk stretched ahead in long strips of shadow and light, blinking from the neon buzz of 24-hour storefronts and the muted glow of passing cars. Jay’s steps were fast, agitated. Sunghoon moved more slowly, deliberate, his body carrying itself with the kind of practiced calm that only barely masked unrest. Jake followed behind, not dragging his feet, but not really pushing forward either. Just… moving. Like the floor might vanish if he stood still too long.

They were still full of what had happened upstairs.

The way the CEO hadn’t blinked when he said it. He’s not the center. He’s the frame. Like they were props now, scaffolding around something else. Like the years they had poured into this — the ruined knees, the vocal strain, the callouses, the panic, the loneliness — were just context for a face with the right kind of silence behind it.

It was insulting.

And worse — it was working.

Jay had known a thousand boys more talented than Y/n. He could name five off the top of his head who were better dancers, better singers, better alive in front of a camera. And yet none of them made the room shift like Y/n did. That haunted stillness. The eyes that looked too open to be safe. A softness that wasn’t weakness — just absence. Like someone had carved out the center of him and left the shell behind, and somehow that was beautiful. The stylists whispered about it. The executives didn’t even try to hide their obsession. They were already shaping him into the kind of icon people whispered about, idolized, wanted to break just to see what kind of sound he’d make when he fell.

Sunghoon hated it.

Not Y/n, exactly. Not yet. But the imbalance. The way the system bent around him. He wasn’t supposed to be part of their equation. The three of them had been trained together like a machine — interlocking, precise. They’d shared blood, floors, years of fighting. They knew each other’s timing better than their own. And now this… soft thing had been dropped in the middle of it all like a piece of furniture no one remembered ordering.

And yet — even Sunghoon had caught himself watching him. Noticing the strange angles of his silence. The way he held tension in his throat but not his shoulders. The way his lips stayed slightly parted, always, like he was trying to breathe in something he’d never been taught how to take.

It made you want to reach for him.

Or shake him.

Or both.

Jake didn’t even want to admit what it made him feel. There was something about the way Y/n existed that made people confused about what they were looking at. He wasn’t performing, but it still felt like he was always on display. Like the air folded around him differently. Jake had been around stars before — people who knew how to command a room. But Y/n was the opposite. He did nothing. He shrank. And somehow, that was worse. Because people filled the space around him with their own desire.

And it wasn’t just them. It was everyone. The marketing team. The vocal coach. Even the interns whispered when he walked past.

They didn’t look at Y/n like a person.

They looked at him like a suggestion.

And maybe that was the worst part. Jake couldn’t stop seeing it either.

It wasn’t sympathy. They didn’t feel sorry for him. They were too angry for that. But they also didn’t want anyone else to get too close. Didn’t want to see him styled in a way they hadn’t approved. Didn’t want to hear a stranger talk about his eyes like they meant something. He was theirs now, whether they liked it or not. Their problem. Their weak link. Their… whatever he was. No one else got to decide how far he’d fall. If anyone was going to cut him down, it would be one of them.

The dorm loomed ahead — bland building, dim lights, the shape of routine glowing behind the curtains. It looked the same as always. But nothing inside felt stable anymore.

Jay didn’t stop walking until the front door clicked open.

Jake’s fingers hovered near the code box, even though he already knew the numbers. Sunghoon stood beside him, eyes flicking up toward the dark window above the kitchen. No movement. No sound.

Inside, Y/n was probably on the couch again. Or in the corner of the bedroom with his knees tucked up, headphones in, expression blank. Or maybe asleep with the light on, not dreaming. Just suspended.

They stood outside for a moment longer than they needed to.

No one said it.

But something had changed.

And none of them knew what it meant that the boy they hated most — the boy they had every reason to resent — was already starting to feel like something they owned.

There was no word for it — what he made them feel. Not jealousy, not fascination, not pity. It was something heavier, messier. Something they couldn’t talk about without sounding sick. And maybe that was why none of them spoke as they entered the building, shoes thudding softly against the tile, the hallway narrowing toward their unit like the tension between their ribs. Jay was the first one to disappear into the kitchen, pretending to check the fridge, like he wasn’t picturing the way one of the stylists had leaned too close to Y/n during fittings, adjusting the hem of his shirt like she was dressing a doll she wanted to bite. It had made Jay want to throw something. And he didn’t know why.

He’d seen idols before. Had stood in the wings while others were stylized into stardom — molded, exploited, made desirable. But Y/n wasn’t molded. He just existed. And it enraged Jay, how easily the staff folded around him. How everyone treated him like something breakable but beautiful enough to be worth it. Jay didn’t want to touch him. Not really. But sometimes, in the silence after rehearsal, he imagined what it would feel like to shake him. To crack the quiet out of his body just to see what was underneath. Was it real? That dazed innocence? That polished fragility? Or was he just acting like everyone else?

In the living room, Jake paused by the door to the shared bathroom, eyes flicking toward the dim light under Y/n’s room. Still no sound. Still no presence. Jake had spent years building himself into someone who could perform what people wanted — a good trainee, a good idol, a lyricist who knew how to turn emotion into sellable lines. But Y/n didn’t write anything. Didn’t offer opinions. Didn’t even flinch when people spoke about him like he wasn’t in the room. It made Jake feel insane. And worse — it made him curious. Because every time the PR team mentioned Y/n’s face — those eyes, that mouth, the melancholy soft enough to brand — Jake caught himself imagining it too. The way his lashes curved wetly when he was tired. The way his lips looked when he was breathing too hard after a failed take. It wasn’t even attraction. It was obsession with the idea of him. The way you want to figure out a locked door just because you’re not allowed behind it.

Sunghoon didn’t follow them in right away. He stood in the stairwell a moment longer, hand braced against the wall, replaying the moment in the CEO’s office when one of the assistants had said, “He’s the kind of face people fight over.” Sunghoon had laughed — just once — too bitterly, too sharp. He hated how right it was. How every staff member treated Y/n like a prize and a burden in one. How they cooed over his bone structure, his posture, his silence, as if it were something trained. As if it hadn’t come from being emptied out. But even Sunghoon, in the stillness of his own mind, had started to imagine it too — the way Y/n’s body moved when he wasn’t performing, the twitch in his shoulder when someone startled him, the way his voice broke on certain syllables like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was something worse. Wanting to own the shape of his ruin before someone else made a mess of it.

They didn’t like him. They didn’t trust him. But they couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem — not just the threat he posed, but the way he unsettled something deep in each of them.

Not as a person.

But as a question.

A symbol.

A story waiting to be owned by someone.

And God forbid that someone wasn’t them.

coffee sloshes out of the cup, splattering the floor and the front of someone’s black hoodie. you freeze, heart thudding.

“shit, i’m so sorry—” you start, looking up—

and then up. and up. because the guy you’ve just doused is tall. ridiculously tall. he blinks at you, stunned for half a second, before this slow, familiar grin spreads across his face.

“hyung?” he says, voice somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

you blink at him, brain buffering. the face is vaguely familiar, sharp jawline and messy hair and a glint in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

“you grew,” he says, laughing as he plucks the empty coffee cup out of your hand and tosses it in a nearby trash can. “you’re still tiny though.”

you stare, heat creeping up your neck. tiny? who does he—

and then it clicks.

the way his nose crinkles when he laughs. the way he tilts his head, waiting for you to recognize him.

“riki?” you say, almost a question.

his grin widens. “you remember.”

you do, but it’s like an unconfortable amazement. because the last time you saw nishimura riki, he was twelve years old, barely up to your chin. he had just moved to korea, awkward and shy and homesick, and you, freshly eighteen and cocky with the title of “part-time babysitter” had been assigned to look after him.

he’s not that kid anymore. not even close.

“you got tall,” you mutter, dazed.

he laughs, and it’s deeper now, richer. “yeah. you didn’t.”

you scowl instinctively, and that just makes him laugh harder, like it’s the most natural thing in the world after not seeing eachother for about 8 years. like there’s not a solid foot of height difference between you now.

“still cute though,” he adds, and then winks.

you’re too stunned to respond, standing there while he and his group, enhypen, shuffle around you, offering half-hearted apologies and amused glances. someone hands you a napkin. ni-ki doesn’t move his arm until one of his members drags him away by the sleeve, still grinning at you over his shoulder.

you’re left in the hallway, clutching the napkin

later, when you’re sitting in the boynextdoor practice room, trying to scrub coffee stains out of your jacket with a half-dry wet wipe, your mind drifts back to earlier. to him.

to the way he’d had to double take when he saw you. like he wasn’t expecting you at all. like he was happy.

you chuckle under your breath, shaking your head.

you remember that kid, the one who used to tug on your sleeve and show you secret corners of the trainee dorms, dragging you into trouble with his bright-eyed plans. the one who fell asleep on your shoulder halfway through every movie you put on.

you hadn’t thought much about where he might end up. hadn’t pictured him all grown up.

but there he is now. somehow taller than everyone in the hallway. flashing the same grin like no time had passed. it’s weird, seeing someone you used to babysit look so… grown.

but it’s not a bad feeling. just strange. like looking at a before-and-after photo you didn’t know you were waiting for.

you shrug it off. he’s just being friendly. you did spend months babysitting him, after all. maybe he’s just happy to see a familiar face. you let it go.

except, you keep running into him.

hallways, practice rooms, elevators. it’s almost funny how often your paths cross. and somehow, every time, ni-ki’s there first, already grinning like he knows a secret.

he leans on your shoulder casually whenever you’re standing close, treating you like his personal armrest.

he tosses snacks at you like it’s a sport, flipping bags of chips across rooms with scary precision.

he lingers after rehearsals, pretending he’s looking for something he dropped, just so he can stick around a little longer.

“you’re really bad at pretending you’re not following me,” you joke one afternoon, catching him loitering by the vending machines again.

ni-ki just smirks, handing you a cold can of coffee without being asked. “maybe i’m not pretending.”

you snort, bumping your shoulder into his without thinking. easy. familiar. like slipping into an old hoodie you forgot you loved.

he’s always teasing you about your height, too, leaning down exaggeratedly when he talks to you, grinning like he’s waiting for you to get mad.

“swear i grew another inch this week,” he says once, ruffling your hair before you can duck away. “you’re basically a collectible now.”

you roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself.

it’s just ni-ki being riki.

it feels almost normal, falling back into this pattern. even if he’s bigger now. sharper around the edges. a little more confident than the kid you remember.

you’re not overthinking it. you don’t need to overthink it. he’s just someone from your past, someone who you helped make trainee life a little less lonely, finding you again.

you’re just…happy he’s doing well. that’s all.

but sometimes you catch yourself staring at him, across practice rooms, down long corridors. you can’t help but think about how fast everything changes.

he used to be the homesick kid you snuck extra snacks for. the one who needed you to stay up late playing video games so he could fall asleep with company.

now he’s chatting with the members of the group you’re managing, about to record a collab video to advertise the recent comebacks.

you clear your throat and flick your pen against your clipboard, focusing on your task list.

it’s good to see him again. really good. but you’ve got a job to do. and he’s got his own path, too. whatever this is, friendship, familiarity, something in between, you’re just glad you didn’t lose it.

—

you’re running on fumes by the time the day ends.

it feels like you’ve been putting out fires since noon. double-booked schedules, a last-minute venue change, two different members bickering over nothing. your head’s buzzing from all the noise.

so you escape. just for a second.

you find an empty breakroom tucked into the corner of the floor, dim and too quiet, and drop yourself onto the nearest couch like a puppet whose strings got cut. you lean forward, elbows on your knees, hands dangling. just breathing.

you don’t even hear the door creak open. not until a cold can taps lightly against your knee.

you blink up.

ni-ki’s standing there, casual, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket. he doesn’t say anything. just nudges the drink toward you again, like: take it, dummy.

you crack open a tired smile, accepting it. “you stalking me or something?”

he huffs a laugh and slides down onto the couch beside you, slouching until his knees are practically level with yours.

“could smell the burnout from the hallway,” he says easily.

you snort, tipping your head back against the cushion. “yeah, well. it’s been a day.”

you expect him to crack another joke, something about you getting old and fragile or short and tiny, but he doesn’t. he just sits there, his shoulder a warm line of comfort next to yours, fiddling idly with the tab on his drink.

it’s… nice. the quiet. the way he’s not pushing you to talk, just being there. you take a sip, the coldness biting pleasantly at your throat, and let yourself laugh under your breath.

“you’re weird, you know that?” you murmur, side-eyeing him. “not a lot of people would track me down just to hand me a drink.”

ni-ki shrugs, mouth tilting into a small smile. “not a lot of people babysat me through my weird dancer phase,” he says, casual as anything.

you chuckle. yeah. you did live through that era..

for a second, it’s easy to believe you’re just those two people again, him, the stubborn kid dragging you into whatever weird idea he had next, and you, the one trailing behind.

you’re about to say something stupid, something like, ‘you turned out alright’

when he speaks again, it’s soft. like he’s thought about it for a while.

“i’ve liked you forever, you know.”

the words land like a dart hitting the exact center of a target. sharp. impossible to ignore.

you blink, mid-sip, nearly choking. “huh?”

he shifts, turning a little to face you, expression open and weirdly calm, like he’s not just detonating your entire brain with a single sentence.

“i used to think it would go away when i grew up,” ni-ki says, eyes steady. “but… it didn’t.”

your brain shorts out. completely.

liked. you.

liked you.

used to? didn’t? WHAT.

you stare at him, mouth slightly open, like he’s suddenly started speaking a language you don’t understand because the lingering after practices, the snacks, the teasing, the leaning down so he could look you in the eye, like it was some kind of private joke.

you thought—

you genuinely thought he was just being friendly. nostalgic. grateful.

not this.

not into you.

your ears burn. you’re pretty sure your soul just left your body.

‘the kid i used to babysit is into me??’

in caps. bolded. flashing like a giant neon sign. actually caps doesn’t even show how stunned you are.

you make a sound. a wheezy, useless one.

then you laugh, awkward and breathless and absolutely struck with something, rubbing the back of your neck because your hands don’t know what else to do.

“i… i’m sorry,” you stammer out, the words tumbling over themselves. “i didn’t—i mean, i didn’t notice. at all. seriously. i’m the biggest idiot, huh?”

ni-ki laughs too. a little embarrassed, sure, but there’s relief in it too, like he was bracing for something worse.

“you noticed now,” he says simply, bumping your shoulder with his. “that’s enough.”

you sit there, heart hammering away in your chest, trying to catch up to the reality you just crash-landed into.

ni-ki likes you. riki has liked you. for years, probably.

and somehow, you, who prides yourself on noticing everything, missed every single sign.

you glance sideways at him. he’s leaning back against the couch now, sipping his drink like nothing earth-shattering just happened. like he didn’t just turn your world slightly sideways.

and he’s still riki. still the kid who used to tug you out to the park on weekends. still the one who fell asleep next to you with his shoes half-on.

just… taller now. steadier. more himself than ever.

you breathe out slowly. “can i be honest?” you say, voice a little hoarse.

ni-ki tilts his head, waiting.

“i… need a little time,” you admit, fiddling with the tab of your can. “not because i don’t… like you—” you break off, not sure how to finish that sentence without lying. “just… it’s a lot to process, you know?”

he smiles. small, but real. “take all the time you want,” he says, standing and stretching like a cat. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you watch him walk to the door, tall, unhurried, somehow carrying the same stubborn hope he always had. you watch him grin over his shoulder one more time before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind him.

you stare at the empty room.

your heart’s still fluttering. soft and persistent. like it’s remembering something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.

you drag a hand over your face, groaning under your breath. “maybe i’m into him” you mutter to yourself.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

tysm for reading :>

enha taglist :

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

You sighed, rolling your stiff shoulders as you pushed open the front door, toeing off your shoes with a tired groan. Work had been a beast—endless meetings, last-minute revisions, and a client who seemed allergic to the word "deadline." All you wanted was to collapse onto the couch with your boyfriend and forget the world existed for a few hours.

But the moment you stepped inside, the air shifted.

The usual clutter of Ni-ki’s dance gear and half-empty water bottles was gone. The living room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of candles—real ones, not the battery-operated ones you usually kept around because someone had nearly set the curtains on fire last time. The scent of something—was that garlic?—drifted from the kitchen, mingling with something floral. Roses?

Your eyebrows shot up.

"Riki?"

No answer.

A quick sweep of the apartment revealed the dining table—set with your good plates, the ones you only pulled out for special occasions. A single red rose lay across your napkin. The pasta in the center looked… charred at the edges, but the effort was unmistakable.

Your chest warmed. Anniversary. You’d completely forgotten.

A rustling sound came from the bedroom. And then, a thud.

Oh have you already figured it out.

"Riki?" you called again, voice laced with amusement. "If you’re hiding in there, I swear—"

The door creaked open.

And then—

Holy shit.

There he stood, bathed in the golden light of the bedside lamp, completely naked—save for the disaster of red ribbons haphazardly wrapped around his body.

As the door creaked, he turned towards you, face struck with disaster seeing you seeing him still not ready.

A stash of ribbon looped around his waist like a belt, others tangled around his biceps in a way that looked more accidental than artistic.

A single bow sat crookedly on his hip, barely clinging on. His face was flushed, his usually confident smirk wobbling into something painfully unsure.

"Shi- I mean ... Surprise?" He said, voice cracking.

You blinked. And then, you lost it.

A loud, unfiltered laugh burst out of you, doubling you over as you clutched your stomach. *"Oh my god—*what—what is happening right now?!"

Ni-ki’s expression flickered between mortification and defiance. "I—I researched this!" he insisted, gesturing wildly—which only made the ribbon around his wrist slip further. "It was supposed to be romantic!"

"Romantic?" you wheezed. "You look like a craft store exploded on you!"

"I panicked!" he whined, trying—and failing—to adjust the mess of fabric. *"The tutorial made it look easy, but then I couldn’t—why is this so complicated?!"

"Tuto- they have this on Youtube?!" You wheezed.

"Tumblr, okay? Tumblr!" Ni-ki whined, his art piece moving around as his frame did.

You wiped tears from your eyes, stepping closer. "Okay, okay—let me help." You gently tugged at a loose ribbon near his collarbone. "This one’s just… hanging here. Were you trying to tie it like a scarf?"

Ni-ki groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "I give up. This is the worst anniversary surprise ever."

You bit back another laugh, cupping his cheeks. *"No, no—it’s perfect."

He peeked, slowly, through his slender fingers. "...Really?"

"Really," you grinned. "I mean, yeah, it’s ridiculous—but that’s you. My ridiculous, over-the-top, adorable boyfriend who—" You paused, eyes trailing down. "—somehow thought ribbons were the key to seduction."

Ni-ki pouted. "It worked, though."

You snorted. "Did it?"

"You’re looking," he pointed out smugly.

"Hard not to when you’re basically a present with a bow on your—" You gestured vaguely. "—well, everything."

He laughed then, bright and unrestrained, the sound melting into the apartment's quiet. For a moment, the absurdity of it all faded—the ribbons, the burnt pasta, the fact that you’d forgotten today was special. None of it mattered.

Because he was here. Yours.

You brushed a thumb over his cheek, voice softening. "You didn’t have to do all this, you know."

Ni-ki leaned into your touch, his earlier bravado fading into something quieter. "I wanted to. You’ve been working so hard… I just—" He hesitated. "I didn’t want you to think that ..."

'That?" You looked at him, with his eyes reciprocating a yearning gaze.

"That I was ... getting boring."

Your heart clenched.

"Hey," you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. "You could never be boring. You’re the guy who came up to me first when I was a new kid and showed me around Shibuya even though we hadn't told our parents about it."

Ni-ki laughed. "The same day too—"

"The same day too!" You chuckled. "That was my first day, and I went with the popular kid on a trip downtown!"

Both of you laughed at the memory, Ni-ki beating your arms as his body couldn't contain his laughter.

"Also, who proposed to me with a pack of those golden Haribo gummies he so hardly earned after a week and cried when I said yes. Who still tries to make me carry him to bed even though he's taller than me now—"

"You can still do it!" he protested.

"You're past 6 foot!"

"And I'm light as a feather—"

You kissed him.

Slow, sweet, lingering—until the tension in his shoulders melted away, until your hands found his waist, pulling him a bit closer.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were warm, his smile small but real.

"I love you," you whispered. "Ribbons or no ribbons."

Ni-ki exhaled, resting his head against your shoulder. "...Even if the pasta’s burnt?"

"Even then."

A beat of silence. Then—

"...So," he drawled, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. "Since you do like the ribbons…"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh my god."

"Wanna unwrap your gift?" His voice dropped, lips brushing your ear. "I hear it’s one of a kind."

You groaned, half-exasperated, half-aroused. "You’re impossible."

Ni-ki grinned, all teeth. "But you love me."

And as the candles flickered, as the pasta sat forgotten, as his hands slid under your shirt with far too much confidence for someone literally tangled in ribbons—

You couldn’t argue.

"Yeah," you breathed, tugging him back toward the bed. "I really do."

Right there, you could feel his warmth once again, bathing your lips in such sweet harmony.

The kiss deepened, slow and syrupy, his mouth against yours. The ridiculousness of the ribbons faded into the background—now all you could focus on was the way his hands slid up your back, the way his breath hitched when you bit his lower lip.

You pulled back just enough to murmur against his mouth, "So. These ribbons."

Ni-ki grinned, all mischief. "What about them?"

"They're everywhere," you laughed, plucking at the one draped over his shoulder. "How did you even manage to find the time and prepare all this?"

He huffed, but his cheeks flushed darker. "I just had time, you know? Also, it's harder than it looks." His fingers twitched against your waist. "Maybe you should... help me out."

"Oh?" You arched a brow, dragging a fingertip along the ribbon circling his wrist. "You want me to fix this mess?"

Ni-ki’s breath stuttered. "I want you to take it all off."

Your stomach flipped.

Slowly, teasingly, you tugged at the loose end of the ribbon around his wrist. It unraveled with a whisper of silk, pooling at his feet. Your fingers trailed up his arm, following the path of another ribbon—this one looped haphazardly around his bicep. You tugged, and it slipped free, revealing the smooth, sun-kissed skin beneath.

Ni-ki watched you with half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling just a little faster now.

"Like what you see?" he murmured, voice rough.

You smirked. "I might."

Another ribbon, this one slung low around his waist, barely holding on. You tugged it free with a slow pull, letting your knuckles graze his hipbone. His breath caught.

"Tease," he accused, but he didn’t stop you.

You hummed, stepping closer, your chest nearly brushing his. "You wrapped yourself up like a present," you murmured, fingers skimming the last ribbon—the one pretending to cover him, tied in a loose bow at his hip. "What did you think was gonna happen?"

Ni-ki’s throat bobbed. "This," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Your fingers curled around the final ribbon.

"Happy anniversary," you whispered back—

And pulled.

 EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — okay i just had too THAT RECENT CLIP OF HIM RINGIN THE BELL AND PRESENTING HIMSELF?!?! HEAD TO TOE AS A GIFT?!?1 YES PLEASE?!?! so here is a fic based on that, you are SO welcome sahjfahfjas

"it's not like i'm going to disappear. we'll still talk. i'll be back soon enough, i promise."

that had been the promise he swore he wouldn’t break. the one i clung to long after he turned and walked away that night by the creek. even when other words were spoken, and even after time pulled us apart, it was that single vow that stayed with me—the last real thing i had to hold onto.

he had been the person i grew up with. the one who had always been there, even when nothing needed to be said. the one who made me laugh through the rough patches and somehow always knew exactly how to push my buttons when i needed it. the one who, without even trying, felt like home.

and maybe that’s why it hurt so much—because even when everything else faded, that promise never did. not for me.

✦ ✦ ✦

five years later. five years and ni-ki had become a memory i tried not to touch too often.

life had a way of moving on even when you didn’t want it to. and somehow, without meaning to, i learned how to live with the space he left behind.

at first, it was little things, his contact slipping lower and lower down my favorites list. the empty spot beside me at the creek the summer after he left. the inside jokes that stopped making sense because no one else was there to laugh with me. the days where i'd reach for my phone without thinking, fingers hovering over his name, only to pull back and pretend it didn’t sting.

then bigger things, the day i realized i didn’t know what song he was obsessed with anymore. or whether he still cracked his knuckles when he was nervous. or if he even thought about me at all. whether he still missed the way our hometown smelled after it rained, or if he remembered the way we used to sneak out just to sit under the stars and talk about stupid dreams.

he had been chasing a dream, and i-i had been left behind trying to figure out what mine even was.

sometimes, when it got really quiet, i could almost imagine he was still here. that if i closed my eyes long enough, i could hear his laugh from down the hall. feel the familiar thud of his sneakers against the wooden porch steps. catch the scent of fresh grass and summer sweat and the cheap cologne he used to over-spray before every "big moment" in his life.

sometimes, i hated how easily i could still conjure him.

✦ ✦ ✦

acting wasn’t something i’d planned. it wasn’t like i woke up one morning and thought, hey, i want to be a bl actor.

it just... happened.

a friend dragged me to an open audition when i was nineteen. "you've got the face for it," they'd joked, shoving a script into my hand. i didn’t even take it seriously at first—just read the lines, half-laughing, not thinking anyone was actually paying attention.

but someone had been. someone saw something i didn’t even know i was showing.

the first role was small. background. hardly more than a name in the credits. but it led to another. and another. and suddenly, somehow, i was y/n, rising bl actor with a growing fanbase and a face that people started recognizing on the street.

funny how that worked. when i was a kid, i used to think the only way to matter was to stay next to ni-ki. now people screamed my name at fan meetings, shoved letters into my hands, told me i saved them without even knowing it.

i smiled through it all. smiled for the cameras. smiled for the fans. smiled for the interviews where they asked me about "first loves" and "inspirations" and i lied through my teeth because the real answer was someone who hadn’t even seen me become this person.

and yet... none of it ever really filled the space he left.

there were nights i would come home after a long shoot, collapse onto my bed, and stare at the ceiling, feeling like a stranger in my own life. nights where the applause felt deafening but the silence afterward was worse. nights where i wondered if he would even recognize me now.

✦ ✦ ✦

i wasn’t bitter. at least, that’s what i told myself. bitterness was too ugly of a word. i was just... realistic now. ni-ki was never coming back to the life we had. not really. fame changes people. time changes people. and maybe the worst part was that he wasn’t the villain. he hadn’t broken his promise on purpose. life just... pulled him too far away for promises to keep.

and me? i survived.

i built a life out of auditions and scripts and interviews where i smiled too brightly and told polished stories about my dreams. i learned how to cry on cue, how to fake laughter, how to pretend a love story was real when the cameras were rolling and forget it the moment they cut.

i was good at pretending. maybe too good.

✦ ✦ ✦

when my manager handed me the new script, i didn’t think much of it. another bl drama. another love story. another faceless co-star to pretend to fall for.

i flipped through the pages on the ride home, half-distracted, until i hit the name. the stage name at the top of the character list. a name i hadn’t heard in too long. but one that felt like it had been carved into my ribs.

nishimura riki. his real name. not a character. not a role. him.

at first, i thought i was hallucinating. or maybe someone else just had the same name. but a quick search confirmed it: ni-ki. idol turned rising actor. making his debut in the very same project i’d just signed onto. of all the projects. of all the people. of all the times.

life had a funny way of laughing at you when you thought you’d finally moved on.

✦ ✦ ✦

the first day of filming felt like waiting for a storm you knew was coming.

i spent the morning getting my makeup done, my hair styled, my outfit prepped. i laughed when the staff joked. smiled for behind-the-scenes cameras. played the part of "friendly, easygoing y/n" so well i almost believed myself.

but under it all, my hands wouldn’t stop twitching. my heart wouldn’t stop pounding. i told myself it didn’t matter. that it had been five years. that he probably barely remembered me.

but when the director finally called for rehearsal and i turned around there he was.

ni-ki.

older now. taller. still awkward in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. still ni-ki in the way his mouth tilted into a half-smile the second he saw me.

he looked like someone i used to know and someone i hadn’t met yet, all at once. familiar and foreign and terrifying. and all at once, it hit me like a punch to the chest: all the years i spent trying to forget, trying to move on, trying to survive, none of it worked. because the second our eyes met, it was like no time had passed at all.

✦ ✦ ✦

"hey," he said, voice deeper than i remembered.

i swallowed hard. my mouth opened, but no words came out.

there were a thousand things i could have said. "you left." "you broke your promise." "i missed you." "i hate you for not missing me back."

but all that came out was, "...hey."

the director called us over before either of us could say anything else. we fumbled through the first rehearsal, stiff and awkward. the kind of awkward that had nothing to do with inexperience and everything to do with all the things between us left unspoken.

when the scene ended, ni-ki glanced at me. his mouth opened like he was going to say something.

but the staff swarmed us with notes and touch-ups and schedules before he could.

and maybe that was a mercy.

because i wasn’t sure if i was ready to hear whatever he had to say. or worse, what he wouldn’t.

✦ ✦ ✦

later, as i sat alone in the makeup room, wiping off the fake sweat from a fake emotional scene, i caught sight of myself in the mirror. i looked the same as always. polished. put together. exactly the way the world expected me to be.

but inside, i was thirteen again, knees scraped from climbing trees, laughing until i couldn't breathe while ni-ki teased me about losing another race. i was sixteen again, heart pounding too fast when his hand brushed mine under the summer stars. i was eighteen again, standing by the airport window, watching the boy i loved walk away, too scared to ask him to stay.

time was supposed to heal things. wasn’t it?

so why did it feel like the wound had just been ripped wide open all over again?

i leaned forward, resting my forehead against the mirror, letting the cool glass soak up the warmth of my skin. i told myself to breathe. to be patient. to remember that this was just another scene. just another project. just another co-star.

but no matter how much i lied to myself, the truth was simple.

he was here.

he was real again.

✦ ✦ ✦

There’s too much skin on the screen. Too many shots of heaving and moaning men touching each other. Both your eyes and ears have been overstimulated for the past few hours, editing another film of Heeseung. This one stars Park Jongseong as Jay and Sim Jaeyun as Jake in an erotic thriller; their lifelong friendship strains when they start a casual sexual relationship with an underclassman, leading to escalating jealousy and possessive behavior.

You’ve worked on nearly every film he’s made, but this is the first time both of you are dealing with material that is so… graphic. Rom-coms and melodramas? Done, multiple times. Some arthouse film bordering on softcore porn? For the first time, now.

“I can’t help it. My little baby’s finding out how babies are made, I’m so proud,” Sunghoon whines, sipping noisily on his iced coffee. He leans against your desk, tilting his head. “You’re working on a movie like this with Heeseung. Alone. In this editing room. For hours, maybe days, we don’t know.” He drags out the last word with an exaggerated tone that makes you roll your eyes.

Your butt has practically molded to the cushion of your swivel chair at this point, a few more hours and you’d become one with it. “It’s just work, Sunghoon. Like every other project I’ve had with him. Purely professional. Clean business. Focused on the money,” you tell him, shooting him a warning look.

Sunghoon barks out a laugh, nearly spitting out his drink. “Lies! Professional? Sure. Clean? Hardly. Focused? On the money? Or the way his shirt is always unbuttoned so you can take a peek underneath?” He wiggles his eyebrows again. “You always work in this room that barely fits two and start talking about lighting ratios like it’s fucking foreplay.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Sunghoon cuts you off, wagging a finger in your face.

“Nuh uh. You don’t get to deny your completely obvious crush on the man. Everyone knows at this point. Maybe even Heeseung himself!”

“He doesn’t!” you retort, face heating up. You couldn’t even deny your tiny, harmless, and definitely not obvious crush on Heeseung anymore.

“We have evidence,” he says, donning a sinister grin.

“What evidence?” you sigh, further melting into your seat.

“Well,” Sunghoon begins, ticking off his fingers, “there’s the interviews. He always mentions you, the editor, as the reason why his films end up so well-received. Editors never get shoutouts like that!”

“I’m pretty sure he just appreciates everyone he works with,” you argue.

“Also! He reshot an entire scene because of your feedback a month after filming had ended—which, by the way, directors rarely do. He had to make the production manager book the location again! And the actors who had to reschedule. What a logistical nightmare.”

“Most likely I wasn’t the only one with such kind of feedback!”

“Okay then. He always—always—makes sure you’re comfortable during review sessions. You’re the only editor I know who has the director wrapped around his finger instead of the other way around.”

“He’s just being professional,” you reason, though your voice lacks conviction. It’s just a professional working environment. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sunghoon lets out a dramatic sigh, slumping back in the chair beside you. “Hopeless. Truly. I hope your dick shrivels up and falls off one day.”

“It’s already shriveling up from the amount of fake sex I’ve seen today,” you groan, pausing on a frame of an actor’s crotch covered in plaster. “Everyone’s turned to a Ken doll.”

“It’s okay,” Sunghoon places a hand on your shoulder, fake concern plastered on his face. “I am here to tell you that this film will be a critical and commercial success.”

“This,” you point at the monitor, “film?” you exasperate.

He smirks. “No, this upcoming porno between the director and his editor! Two horny men, stuck in a tiny room, practically watching porn together. The porn writers are salivating over your scenario.”

“Can you not?” you hiss, glancing at the door like Heeseung might walk in any second and hear this ridiculous conversation. “It’s an… experimental film,” you rationalize.

“An experimental film with a ton of sex scenes, blah blah. Or maybe sex sells and Heeseung wants a slice of the pie.”

“I’m the one that needs a slice of that pie, Sunghoon.”

“Are we still talking about money or are you talking about Heeseung’s ass—”

“If you’re not gonna help, just leave,” you groan, massaging the temple of your head.

“You’re working on something so adult—so filthy! How is Heeseung even gonna talk about it? ‘Oh, could you please make it look like they’re really having an orgasm? Oh, you don’t get it? Wait, let me show you how to get one.’ He’s using this project as an excuse to get all sexy with you!”

You snort. “Nothing about what you just said sounds sexy at all.”

“But you imagine it, don’t you?” he counters, raising an eyebrow. “I swear, if I catch the two of you recreating those sex scenes like you’re method acting…”

Before you can shove Sunghoon out of the room yourself, the door opens, and the temperature in the room immediately shifts. You swiftly turn your chair around, and you see Heeseung walk in with a stride, a presence so commanding you and Sunghoon suddenly sit up stiffly. He’s holding a stack of papers, probably copies of script revisions, and his usually calm and collected demeanor is being betrayed by his tousled hair and slightly unbuttoned dress shirt. Your gut says Heeseung is bothered by the subject matter of this film too.

“Sunghoon,” Heeseung hesitantly greets, gaze flicking between you and Sunghoon. He seems surprised to see you not alone in the room. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all, Heeseung,” Sunghoon replies brightly. “I was just leaving. Tried helping him a bit.”

“Oh, thank you,” Heeseung replies. “Quite a difficult film to work with this time.”

“You should be thanking this guy right here real hard,” Sunghoon laughs, throwing you a knowing look. He slips past Heeseung and clicks the door shut behind him, leaving you alone with Heeseung. The already tiny room suddenly feels way more suffocating.

“Hello. Doing okay?”

“Hello,” you politely nod, gesturing to the now-vacant chair beside you. You turn back to the computer. “I just finished the rough cut. But to be completely honest, my cut’s very dull.”

“Let me see,” Heeseung hums, a deep voice sending vibrations through your spine. Rather than sitting beside you, he stands behind you, a hand gently placed on the back of your chair. He leans over slightly, just enough for you to catch the scent of his woody perfume, and maybe to also take a peek at the top of his shirt, but you force yourself to keep staring at the screen. Sunghoon will never be proven right.

You drag your mouse across to one of the difficult scenes, hitting play. It’s a relatively silent scene, bar the moaning of Jake and Jay which reverberated in the speakers in the room. The scene is dimly lit, movements of the actors slow and deliberate. There is an occasional rustle of clothing, and the creak of floorboards. It’s supposed to be a build-up to a sex scene, but something felt off—it didn’t feel authentic. The original footage was so raw and beautiful on its own, yet after some snipping and adjusting some sliders, you made it look… restrained. Scripted.

“I think I ruined the sex scenes,” you explain.

“It’s alright,” Heeseung says, voice low. “But it’s too rushed. Hold Jay’s expression for a few more seconds before cutting to Jake’s reaction.”

You nod, making the adjustment on the timeline. It’s just a few seconds, but the rhythm flows more naturally.

“Better,” Heeseung mutters, a hum of satisfaction accompanying him. Better, but not yet the best, you thought.

You glance at him, surprised to find him already looking at you. His gaze is steady, unreadable, and you can’t tell if he’s studying the scene or something else entirely.

“What else should I do?” you ask, your voice coming out surprisingly quieter and meeker than usual, matching Heeseung’s subdued demeanor. 

A smile begins to play on his lips. “Hmm.” His tone is thoughtful, with an edge of teasing. “You usually take the lead when we’re in the cutting room, but you seem lost today.” He lets the words hang in the air. “Is it because you've never experienced scenes like this before?”

Your hands freeze over the keyboard. “It’s normal to be unfamiliar with the content you’re working with,” you defend. “I don’t need to be kinky myself to edit a kinky sex scene.”

“Relax, I’m just kidding,” Heeseung chuckles warmly, finally sitting down beside you.

“The tension doesn’t feel real,” you admit, taking a deep breath, fidgeting in a poor attempt to dissipate the tension around the small space. “It did before I messed with the footage.”

“‘Real,’ you say,” Heeseung mutters, leaning back. “Should I show you what authentic sex feels like?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes wide. “Excuse me, what!?”

He tilts his head, smirking. “I could show you. Right here, right now.”

Your brain short-circuits for. Mouth opening like a fish, you attempt to respond, but all that comes out is a strangled, “Huh?”

Heeseung leans closer, whispering, “You’ve been staring at this screen for how long, trying to fake something you haven’t experienced. I’m offering to help.” He pauses. “For the film, of course.”

Your face burns, and you glance at the door, heart pounding. “Are you hearing yourself?”

He shrugs, unfazed, and nods toward the monitor. “Play the sex scenes. Let’s go step by step.”

Before you can muster a coherent response, the door swings open. Sunghoon peeks, oblivious to his joke on the verge of becoming a reality. “Hey, you two want food? Might be here ‘til the morning,” he grins.

Heeseung smiles. “Actually, yeah. Remember that coffee shop where we shot Buzzer Beater Heartbeat?”

“That’s over an hour away.” Sunghoon blinks. “Do they even do delivery?”

“You could just drive?” Heeseung replies, tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re going to be here for a while anyway, right?” He glances at you, gaze so heavy your stomach flips.

“Uh… yeah,” you manage. “Go now, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon narrows his eyes, glancing between you two as if he’s piecing together a puzzle. “Okay… I’ll be back.” Then he silently turns and leaves, the door’s thud echoing in the silence.

Heeseung stands up and reaches past you to the monitor, arm brushing your shoulder as he drags the timeline back. Jay’s low groan fills the space—and he adjusts the volume, just enough to be heard outside. “There,” he murmurs. “Sound design covered.”

You turn your head, and he’s closer than you expected. Your pulse quickens, but Heeseung doesn’t hurry. His hand settles on the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair, and he studies your face. “You’ve never really done this before?” he asks, gentle, almost placating.

You shake your head, mumbling, “No. Tell me what to do.”

“That’s okay,” he says, thumb brushing small circles against your skin. “Just follow my lead, yeah? No pressure.”

You nod as he leans in, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s barely there—testing the frame, a screen test for chemistry. He slowly deepens the kiss, allowing you to adjust as your hands settle on the soft fabric of his shirt.

When you part, Heeseung murmurs, “You’re trembling. You wanna stop?”

“No,” you mutter. “What’s next?”

He chuckles as he steps back and sits back down, legs spread wide. “Unbutton my shirt.”

You reach for his buttons, fumbling at first, but he doesn’t rush you, his hot gaze focused on you. His shirt falls open, finally revealing the skin that has haunted your dreams since you started working with him. “Come sit and touch me,” he whispers, “‘wherever feels right.”

You hesitate, glancing at the setting—monitor, keyboard, chairs, equipment. This room doesn’t feel like the greatest place to have sex in. “Won’t we break something?” you ask.

“We won’t,” he replies, not concerned in the slightest, then he raises the arm rests of his chair. “Plenty of room.” He pats his thighs. 

A new actor following his director, you follow his calm instruction, letting your fingers trace the lines of his collarbone, then down to his stomach. He hums, encouraging, leaning in to kiss you again.

“You can guess what’s next, right?” he says, as he holds your hand to the waistband of his pants.

You nod, kneeling as you take off his pants and boxers. His erect cock catches you off-guard, a more daunting presence from your position.

“Get comfy, touch it,” he smiles, reassuring. You wrap your fingers around him, warm and firm. You stroke it up and down, an action that you’re already familiar with, albeit only to yourself and not to someone else.

“Like that?” you ask, eyes flicking to his face for approval.

“Exactly like that,” he groans. “Now, if you’re ready, use your mouth. Just the tip first, don’t force yourself.”

You hesitantly settle your lips on the tip of his dick, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin. He exhales softly, hand steadying on your shoulder. “Breathe through your nose.” You take him in a little, and he hums approvingly, gripping tighter. “So good.”

The praise eases your nerves and you begin to explore, tongue experimenting his length. From the veins to the tip, you try to find a rhythm, but then your teeth graze him. You freeze as he flinches, but he recovers with a smile. “Mistakes are natural… Makes it real.”

The scene on the monitor has changed—Jake and Jay tussling around a kitchen counter, Jake’s slow submission to his best friend’s aggression, and their confused arousal. Jay takes control, the more experienced between the two, the buttons on Jake’s shirt flying away as he tears it open. The rip of a wrapper, the pop of a bottle cap; suddenly, Jake’s about to be fucked by his best friend, who is also his rival in pursuing the same guy.

Heeseung sighs as he gently pulls you back, thumb brushing some spit on your lips as he looks down at you. “You still okay? Let’s switch it up.”

You nod, swallowing hard as Heeseung reaches for his pants on the floor, pulling out a small packet of lube and a condom—the same brand that Jay used onscreen. “Gotta thank the props team for this,” he laughs. “Arms against the desk. Need to prep or it’ll hurt,” he explains, the cadence of his voice almost clinical.

His hands slide to your waist, tugging your pants down. The cool air makes you shiver but his touch grounds you. “Eyes on the screen, notice how they move.”

He preps you carefully, fingers slick with lube. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, one hand resting on your hip as he works through it. It’s not that painful nor is it that pleasurable, but you had no benchmark to base on. The parallel between Heeseung and the scene isn’t subtle: his and Jay’s patience in prepping, you and Jake awkwardly pinned against surfaces.

When he’s satisfied, he rolls the condom on, positioning himself behind you. “Ready?” he asks, lips nipping your earlobe. 

“Please,” you reply, gripping the edge of the desk. He presses forward, restrained and controlled. The stretch is intense but he lets you adjust, and he whispers, “Look at the screen, okay? Tell me what you see.”

And you do, every inch, every movement, mirrored by the actors on the screen. “Jay’s grip on Jake’s waist,” you murmur. “The restraint fading as Jay loses himself to the pleasure.” It's just like Heeseung holding you tighter as he starts to find a steady rhythm. “Fuck,” you whine. “Can’t see. Can’t—think.”

Heeseung’s teasing laughter reverberates through your body. “You know what makes it real?” he grunts, “I didn’t give them notes. Told them to interpret the script as they wanted. These aren’t the characters Jay and Jake anymore—it’s Park Jongseong and Sim Jaeyun trying so hard to hold back.” His voice grows breathless, heavier. 

His hand slides to your neck, pressing you gently against the desk. “So let’s go off-script too,” he laughs.

He pulls out and turns you around to face him. Heeseung smirks at the mess he’s made, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “Still okay?” he asks.

You nod, catching your breath, eyes going in and out of focus. On the side, Jay and Jake are already tangled in their climax, while you and Heeseung are still teetering on the edge.

He sits back in his chair. “Sit. Face me and straddle me,” he sighs, stroking his still-hard cock.

You straddle him carefully, his hands quick to steady your hips as you lower yourself onto him. The new angle makes you gasp, the pleasure sharper but the pain renewed.

“Hold on to me,” he says, “I’ll do the work.” You loop your arms around his neck as he begins to rock beneath you. You nestle your head in the crook of his neck but he whines, “I wanna kiss you again.”

You meet his eyes and the intimacy of the situation sinks in—an unguarded close-up shot. The warmth of his minty breath, the slight hitches, his lips parting as he continues grinding.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs again, a plea. You lean forward, your lips meeting as if you were savoring the sweet opportunity. The scene called for it; otherwise, none of this would be happening. He pulls you closer, your chests beating right next to each other. 

The pleasure coils tighter, but it’s not enough to push you over the edge yet. For Heeseung, it was more than enough. His hips stutter, groaning against your lips as he cums, body tensing beneath you. “Shit, sorry,” he softly laughs.

You let out a low groan as he pulls out, disposing of the condom with a quick toss.

He lifts you off his lap, setting you on the edge of the desk. He sweeps his arm across the surface, sending his papers and your wireless equipment to the floor with a loud clatter. On any other day, you’d be scrambling to check if your expensive keyboard broke but Heeseung right now is an experience beyond price.

“Sit comfortably and spread your legs for me,” he commands as he moves his chair.

His fingers brush lightly along the inner side of your thighs, teasing it as he murmurs, “I had a scene like this in early drafts—Jay going down on Jake. Producers made me cut it off the script, said it was too explicit for the market.” His lips curve into a wry smile, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wanna film an uncut version with me?”

His hand wraps around the base of your twitching cock, then he presses a kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to taste you. The sensation is immediate, and you bite your lip to stifle a moan. He hums as he takes you in, swirling around the head, the slit, while his eyes are just locked with yours. He strokes the base in time with his mouth, his other hand pressing your thigh open.

“How do you fucking do this?” you mutter in pleasure, fingers tangling in Heeseung’s hair as you push him further down. He only hums, picking up his pace, tongue working faster. And you moan louder, tilt your head back further, the wet heat making your toes curl.

“I’m—close, please,” you gasp, hips bucking and thighs involuntarily locking Heeseung in place. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t fight back, sucks and strokes faster. Your body arches off the desk, cumming hard in his mouth. He doesn’t pull away, swallowing every wave and lapping at you until you’re trembling and fully spent.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand when he pulls back. He pauses the playing cut on your computer, the room falling into silence. “Now you know what to do with the edit?”

Still sprawled across the desk with your head spinning, you barely register his phone buzzing from the floor. “Sunghoon,” he says, picking it up. “Yeah?” You sit up, realizing the disarray of the room. “Your wallet? Hang on.” You scan the floor, pointing to a white leather wallet under Heeseung’s discarded condom. “Oops,” he grins. “Yeah, you left it here.”

“Does it have to be that coffee shop?” he repeats. “No, no. Actually, I think we’re wrapping up for today. Yeah, just buy whatever with what you have.”

He hangs up and shrugs, already buttoning his shirt. “Better move fast ‘cause he’s coming back,” he says, tossing you your pants.

You stare at him, wide-eyed. “You’re making him come back now?”

You scramble to dress as Heeseung watches you, donning an infuriating smirk like he’s already envisioning another scene with you. “Sunghoon will know what happened immediately, and he will never shut up about it. Everyone’s gonna be talking about it,” you say.

“I don’t mind,” he replies. “Just so others know our best films come from working together.” He picks up Sunghoon’s wallet and tosses it onto the desk. “You good? No pain?” 

“Tolerable. All good. My personal activities kinda prepared me for this,” you confess.

Heeseung laughs, “So what did you take from this experience?”

You slightly wince at the pain as you pick up your miraculously unbroken keyboard and mouse. “Sex scenes are better if there are real organs involved?” you joke.

“No, but seriously. Did it at least clear up your mind?”

“What’s good already,” you start, pointing at the screen, “is the raw emotion in Park Jongseong and Sim Jaeyun. That’s why you had so many close-ups—droplets of sweat, goosebumps, shit like that.”

Heeseung hums, gathering the papers on the floor. “Their chemistry carried the scenes.”

“I overcut it, rushing to the payoff instead of letting the anticipation build,” you sigh, sitting down and scrolling to a different scene. It’s a static shot, the camera unmoving, no dialogue, just Jake and Jay lying in bed after having sex. The original footage was almost a minute long, but you cut it to around a quarter of its length. Looking at it now, your edit diminished the contemplation and guilt between the two friends.

“It’s technically solid, like you always do, but it’s not…” Heeseung pauses, thinking. “Visceral.”

“It’s sex and it’s usually gratuitous, but if we treat it with the same intricacy as the scenes before and after, it makes it hit harder,” you note.

“You’re really good at this, you know,” he smiles.

Your cheeks warm, but you shrug it off. “You give me good material to work with.”

“It’s enough that you caught something wrong with the edit before I even came here.”

You groan. “Can’t believe we’re back to serious work talk when you just fucked me to heaven and back.”

“We’re just professionals, I say,” Heeseung laughs. “We’ve got a film to finish—and maybe a few more scenes to figure out. Maybe a coffee shop or my place, next time?”

You meet Heeseung’s curious gaze with intrigue. “Only if you keep it to script revisions and some good food. I think we’ve got enough notes on the sex scenes.”

“No promises,” he grins. “My next film’s about the exploits of a film editor.”

author’s note: y'all would not believe that my inspiration is no doubt (okay very obvious and very normal) and a fucking podcast of filmmakers (it’s in filipino sorry) 😭 gist of it is the editor and his director were editing a sex scene together. the director said (roughly) that for a sex scene to be effective, the audience has to feel the release; then, that determines the length of the sex scene. it's censored but i think the director also physically demonstrated the "release"? like not actual sex, just made vaguely sexual gestures oasjfadaiofs guess when i got the idea for this fic based on the upload dates oafgjaoig 🥹