the library

“Hear anything interesting?” Jungwon’s voice crackled in her ear through the comm system. His annoying voice was smug as always

You suppressed a sigh trying to keep your expression neutral. “If by interesting, you mean potential intel, then no. Just the usual crowd of criminals pretending to be philanthropists.” 

“Come on, ___” Jungwon replied. “You need to lighten up a bit. This is just a profiling mission. Its the easiest one we’ve been on in a while. So just relax and try to have some fun will you?”

“Jungwon no matter how easy this is its a mission. We aren’t here to have fun” you say in a focused manner like always. 

You scanned around the room noticing him. Jungwon was leaning against the bar in his sharp black tuxedo. His hair was slicked back and he had that air of confidence and easiness he carried. No matter how much you hate to admit it, his broad shoulders, lean build, and small waist looked damn good in that tux. His eyes met yours from across the room. They were deep brown and mysterious, yet they still had that longing look. Those eyes that hide a deeper emotion, something that you couldn’t quite decipher. Even after all that training and those missions where you read people to a tee, you still couldn’t quite read him. Yet, those eyes always lured you in and never failed to bring that slight flush up your neck despite how damn annoying he was. And that damn smile. That charming one he gave with both his dimples poking out. It had already attracted two women who were all up on Jungwon. It was pathetic and honestly infuriating how his simple smile had such an impact on anyone. What’s more pathetic is the way your own heart ached in the slightest way at the sight. Now wasn’t the time for that though. You rolled your eyes as you set the champagne down.

“Are you flirting with civilians again??” 

“Would you prefer if I flirted with you instead?” Jungwon teased as he raised his glass in your direction. 

“Focus Jungwon,” you hissed. “We are here for intel, not your dating life” you reprimand him as you eye the host of the party, he was new on the scene and your agency needed more information on said man.

“And yet,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, “I’m the one who’s about to make progress.” 

Before you could say anything in return he had already slipped away from the bar. He excused himself from the two pretty girls who pouted as he said he needed to leave. The criminal was named Bryan Cavellott, he was new on the high end criminal scene. He had made his grand debut by stealing some jewels from a museum in Russia and now rumor says he has something else thats far more important than some pink diamonds. Something so valuable that he had attracted all the high-level criminals in europe to his gala. As Jungwon made a beeline towards the older man with the crisp white suit and shaped beard, he shot you a sly look. 

You narrowed your eyes as you followed him from a distance. You slipped through the crowds as you kept your gaze trained on Jungwon. He had already begun his usual act: leaning in slightly, charming but conspiratorial smile playing on his lips, and a trustworthy tone of voice. 

You spoke through the comm system again, “Don’t blow our cover.”

“When have I ever blown our cover?” he whispered with a confident smile as he made his way closer to Cavellott. 

“Do you want me to give you the list alphabetically or in order of how many times we almost died?”

Jungwon didn’t say anything but the smirk on his face was answer enough. Instead he finally approached the old man. “Mr. Cavellott?” he said his voice smooth. “Quite a gathering tonight. A man like you must have something truly extraordinary to share with us.”

Cavellott’s smile was thin and practiced but it held a hint of amusement too. “Ah, and you are?”

“Jung Park” he said easily, extending a hand. “Investor, entrepreneur, and lover of all things valuable and rare.” 

You groaned into the earpiece quietly as you decided that you needed to make sure Jungwon didn’t get one of his brilliant ideas again. So you approached the two smoothly. 

“And who is your lovely companion?” Cavellott asked, his gaze sharp and shifting to meet yours as you slid up next to Jungwon.

“___ Nakamura” you say with a charming smile of your own. “Jung’s business partner.”

Of course Jungwon couldn’t help but add with a stupid grin, “among other things.” which earned him a well deserved but subtle jab to his ribs from your elbow. 

Cavellott seemed to have deemed you two trustworthy as he openly chuckled enjoying the dynamic between you two. “Well, Mr. Park and Miss Nakamura, I assure you that tonight’s main attractions is unlike anything you’ve encountered before. An artifact of immense… potential.”

Jungwon tilted his head playing along, “intriguing. I assume this artifact isn’t something you can pick up at a local auction house?” 

Cavellott smiled wider. “Hardly. It’s something far more elusive- something that has been hidden for centuries and only recently resurfaced.”

You leaned in slight, your tone cautious but curious. You preceded carefully but you couldn’t help but think- is this what all the stir was about? “Oh? And what exactly makes it so special?”

Cavellott’s eyes sparkled with a mixture of pride and secrecy. “Ah, but that is the question isn’t it? Its value lies not just in what it is but what it could do. That’s what everyone’s here for”

“Sounds dangerous,” you said.

“All things of great power are,” Cavellott replied smoothly. “But that’s why it must be handled by someone who understands its worth. Plus I’m sure a lovely and confident lady like yourself wouldn’t mind a little game of danger?”

You sent Jungwon a quick glance but you both knew what it meant. This was it. It wasn’t just a rumor, whatever this… artifact is, its dangerous and with the way Cavellott is speaking of it- everyone here seems to understand its value. You sent a calm but pleased glance towards Cavellott despite the way your nerves were on edge. 

“And this artifact…” Jungwon said his voice steady but probing, “does it have a name?”

Cavellott’s smile thinned as his eyes darted around nervously before he leaned in closer. “I shouldn’t even be discussing this, but I suppose you’ll find out sooner or later. The artifact is known as the Phantom Codex.” 

The name itself sent a shiver down your spine although your expression remained neutral. The Phantom Codex… it was something significant. The way Cavellott spoke about it was too unsettling itself.

“And what does it do?” Jungwon asked his tone light but calculating. 

Cavellott chuckled lightly but with a hint of knowing. “That, my friend, is the question that everyone here tonight is asking. And the answer… is far more than you could ever imagine.”

Before the two of you could press him any farther a woman on the other end of the ballroom caught his eye. She gave him a sly smile before turning away and walking to the balcony. The challenge in her eye was unmistakable. Cavellott offered the two of you a rushed excuse. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my other guests. Enjoy the evening you two.” 

And just like that he disappeared into the crowd. Jungwon leaned in closer to you, his voice was low and calculating. “Phantom Codex. Sound like the title of a bad action movie.”

“Focus Jungwon.” you snapped back at him. Your pulse was calm but your thoughts were racing. “Whatever it is, people are willing to kill for it. I mean some of these criminals hate each other but look at the way they’re playing so nice tonight. Whatever this is we can’t ignore it.”

Jungown’s playful expression faded as he took on a rare serious one instead. “Then I guess it’s time to figure out who else here knows something about it- and what they are willing to do to get it.” 

You nodded and scanned the room. This always happened to the two of you, not a single mission where the stakes hadn’t risen. You were playing a game where one wrong move could cost you everything, even your life. In this room surrounded by throngs of dangerous people, you knew the importance of this mission.

“Lets split up,” you said, your tone sharp. You gave him one last look over your shoulder. “And Jungwon? Try not to flirt with anyone.”

“No promises,” he replied with a poor attempt at a wink before disappearing into the crowd. Despite yourself a small smile formed on your lips. You just sighed as you shook your head. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The party shifted into a quieter, more exclusive phase as the night deepened. The glittering and glamorous crowd thinned, leaving behind only those with the wealth, power, and influence to justify their presence at this gala in the heart of Paris. You and Jungwon moved through the crowd, your ears sharp, ready to catch any piece of information about this mysterious artifact. 

“Anything?” you whispered your voice barely audible over the classical tunes. 

Jungwon, who was on the other side of the opulent room turned to find your eyes as he smiled teasingly. “A lot of people talking about a lot of things. Art deals, offshore accounts… oh and Lady Pennington’s pomeranian apparently needs a personal chef and maid.” 

You shot him a sharp look. 

“Relax Miss Nakamura,” he teased with a cocky smile as he made his way towards you. “But seriously, everyone’s buzzing about something being revealed soon. I’m betting its our mysterious Codex.” 

You nodded, “we need to find out what it is and when its going to be revealed.” 

As if on cue two men walked by. One of them was some normal small town criminal. The other one though… It was him, Ebony Lloyd. To say that the pair of you and Lloyd had a history would be an understatement. Whenever there was any trouble he was always there. He had a rich history himself… robberies, head of a notorious organization, bomb and arms dealing, drug trafficking. He was a tall and burly man with sleek black hair and eyes of a wolf always searching for his next prey. Of course someone like him was at a gala like this. He didn’t seem to recognize you as he strolled right by. He was talking in hushed tones with the man but you heard bits of what they were saying. Something that sounded like: “Air strip..” “Vienna” “no mistakes this time”. Great- he was on the move again. You would deal with him later, right now the Codex is what mattered. 

Jungwon’s expression soured as he laid his eyes on Lloyd. “Would you look at that? Its our best friend! And he’s conspiring again. I swear he can’t ever keep still for even a few days.” Jungwon sneered quietly as he ran his hand through his styled hair in annoyance.

“We’ll have to deal with him later. Right now we need to find out about the Codex.” you say with a bit of an annoyed expression yourself. 

Everyone’s attention got drawn up to the front as a man strode up onto stage. The conversation died down as the man turned to face the crowd, commanding the attention of the room. He started smoothly and with confidence. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us this fine night. As many of you know, tonight’s gathering is more than a celebration– its an unveiling.” he declared

A murmur spread through the crowd as excitement rippled through the room. 

“The artifact you are about to see,” the man continued. “Has been the subject speculation and legend for centuries. Its origins are as elusive as its true potential. But tonight, it is here, in this very room, for the first time in generations this precious artifact has been unearthed again.”

Jungwon leaned a bit too close to murmur in your ear, “I have a bad feeling about this.” With the shiver running down your spine all you could do was nod. 

Two heavily armed men appeared on stage, wheeling a steel reinforced case onto the stage. The man gestured towards the case with a flourish, his tone turned reverent “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… the Phantom Codex.”

The case opened with a hiss and steam being emitted from inside. There it was.. The ever elusive Phantom Codex. It looked unsuspecting at first glance. Just a small black piece of tech that was shaped like that of a diamond. You had to take a closer look to realize that there were weird symbols and letters etched onto the surface. They didn’t look like any language you recognized.. In fact the looked almost alien. Whats more is that they didn’t seem to ever hold still, they shifted everytime you blinked. The tech emitted an eerie blue glow from the cracks in it as well. It truly was mysterious and a marvel of tech. You couldn’t help but think- how old is this really? Why is this tech so important if its so old?? 

Jungwon’s breath caught too as he looked at the object. As you looked around the room- no one seemed to be able to look away. They all had the same blue glow in their eyes. This small little black diamond had stunned the hardest of criminals as the crowd gravitated towards it. You could see Jungwon lean closer to the stage himself. 

Snapping your finger in front of his eyes you pulled him out of his trance. “Jungwon.” you whispered in a hushed tone. “Stop looking at it. Its like that Codex is pulling you in- like everyone else here.”

He blinked rapidly as he looked around the room like he was finally gaining his senses again. He quickly masked his entrancement, “the only thing pulling me in is you cherie..” He brushed his hand against yours as a little tease. Your heart rate spiked but before you could come back with a witty comment the lights suddenly went out. 

“Stay close,” you say as you place your hand on the hilt of the knife concealed under your dress. Panic rose even more when a deafening shattering sound echoed through the room. Yells and cries followed closely as Jungwon muttered to himself “damnit..”

When the lights flickered on there wasn’t a Phantom Codex to marvel at. “It’s gone” you hissed. The armed men were gone and the man who unveiled the Codex was on the floor, a pool of his own crimson blood surrounding him. 

“We need to move. The person who stole it isn’t planning to stick around for long,” Jungwon rushed as he grabbed your arm. His grip firm but comforting as you two ran through the panicked crowd towards the nearest exit. Cavellott’s men were starting to close the exits. But in a quick series moves you rendered them unconscious as you ran through the gates. 

“Where’d they go?” you demanded, your pulse racing with a mixture adrenaline and frustration. Alas, whoever it was, was long gone. The midnight streets of Paris were completely empty. There wasn’t even a trace of them. “We lost it!” you said, your jaw tight. 

You pulled your hand away from Jungwon as you smoothened your dress out with a look of frustration. Jungwon’s teasing personality dimmed as he placed a warm hand on your shoulder providing comfort in the cold night. “We’ll figure this out. You know we always do,” he said his voice steady despite the tension. 

It was concerning how fast he could manipulate your emotions with just a few words. You unclenched your jaw as you gave him a curt nod. Still though your mind raced. What exactly was this Phantom Codex? Why were people going to the end of the world for that little diamond? And why did you have a sneaking feeling that this was just the beginning??

     ˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Back at their hotel, you sat crossed legged on the bed, a tablet in your lap as you compiled all the information you had picked up- which wasn’t much. Jungwon on the other hand paced around the room with his tie loose, hair messed up with the way he ran his hands through it, and his shirt untucked. It was a sign of his restlessness. 

Reviewing the security camera footage and guest list was of no use. Whoever this was- and you had a suspecting feeling- they were good. They were professional. Not a trace of them anywhere, just a shadow in the darkness. 

“I think we both know who caused all this.” You said with a long exasperated sigh, falling back on the bed with a hand covering your eyes. 

Jungwon groaned as he threw himself on the other side of the bed with the same hatred in his voice. “Ebony Lloyd. I swear when I get my hands on him I’m going to-” 

Before Jungwon could continue his pleasant words a blue light shone from the tablet. The two of you quickly stood up and straightened out your outfits and you slapped the back of Jungwon’s head mouthing to him to straighten his tie before turning the video on. It was a call from your superior, Mrs. Kwon. She chuckled noticing your slightly disheveled appearance. Then Mrs. Kwon spoke with an easy tone, “agent ___, agent Yang. Nice to see you two so relaxed after a mission. Report to me.”

You spoke up first, “quite the opposite Mrs. Kwon. The mission didn’t go as well as we planned.” you say with a slightly ashamed tone but keeping your expressions professional.

“We profiled on Cavellott, but there was something else. The rumors were true ma’am. There was something big at this gala. Its called the Phantom Codex. We think its something we should be worried about” Jungwon reported. It was a bit unsettling how his personality changed to professional and obedient the moment he was under the hard gaze of our superior. What caught you off guard was the way that Mrs. Kwon’s easy and laid back demeanor dropped immediately the moment she heard the artifact’s name. There was some shuffling on her side- it sounded like she moved rooms. 

Her voice came out in a whisper, “the Phantom Codex?? Are you two out of your mind?” 

You and Jungwon shared a confused glance before looking back at her. “No ma’am. It's true. We saw it, it was at the gala tonight. But its gone now. Stolen.” you spoke up your tone sincere. Her nervous expression was making you uneasy. Mrs. Kwon was never nervous. “Ma’am if you don’t mind me asking. What is it? What does do?” 

Her expression darkened as her tone was now dead serious. “Its dangerous. Every single criminal no matter how big or small is pursuing it. It can hack into anything and manipulate data in ways that humans never though possible. Things like government agencies, federal banks, military systems, nuclear codes, databases of civilians of whole countries.” she spoke, her seriousness making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “You two listen carefully. No one. And I mean absolutely no one else should know about this. Is that clear? I don’t care what mission you’re on right now, now your one and only mission is securing the Codex. Is that clear?”

Jungwon could hear her deadly tone too as he gulped softly. You both nodded as she wished you luck before cutting communication. You let your stiff posture relax as you met Jungwon’s gaze. Both of you knew. This wasn’t just some tech, it was powerful, dangerous, and deathly. “I’ve never seen Mrs. Kwon that serious… Something isn’t right.” you observe quietly. You tried to read Jungwon’s gaze but his eyes were too complicated. 

“Well no pressure right?” Jungwon sighed as he leaned back into an armchair his hands behind his head. 

“This is serious Jungwon, did you see Mrs. Kwon??” you shot him a glare as you bristled at the way his posture was so relaxed so easily. 

“I know,” he interrupted, his usual smirk replaced by a grim expression. “And we’re gonna find it okay?”

For a moment your eyes met, a flicker of understanding and something else passed through you. That something else made you look away as you sighed- even with the weight of this serious mission Jungwon’s gaze could make your heart flutter. “Just.. sleep soon. We have a long day ahead of us.” you say as you go to change into something more apt for sleep. 

Jungwon let a faint smile grace his lips as he called out to you from the bed, “aww are you worried for me darling~?” he teased as he watched you come back from the bathroom after changing.

“Shut up. I just don’t want your work to be sloppy Jungwon” you say with an annoyed tone meeting his light gaze with a serious one. Although you knew that he was just trying to lighten the mood and tension. You silently thanked him for it before getting under the sheets.

 ˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The morning light filtered through the heavy drapes of their hotel room, neither you nor Jungwon was in the mood for sunshine. The air was thick with tension as you reviewed every scrap of information you had gathered the night prior. 

You sat on the couch, your legs tucked under you as you sifted through endless digital files, recordings, and articles. Your hair was in a messy bun and the cup of coffee in your hand trembled slightly from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Jungwon on the other hand was sprawled in an arm chair. He had seemed to made the decision to not be bothered by any of the events from last night. It frustrated you a bit that you were here busting your ass trying to find something- anything to help the mission and he just sat there. Tossing a stress ball in the air and catching it with a relaxed motion as if the fate of the world wasn’t hanging by a thread. 

“Geez you’ve been hunched over that computer for hours” he drawled as he caught the stress ball lazily and looked up from his impromptu game, “have you even found anything?”

“Well maybe I wouldn’t have to be breaking my back for hours if you just decided to help.” you snapped, your patience wearing dangerously thin. 

“Touchy this morning,” he teased as you clenched your jaw with frustration and annoyance. God- you swore he was the spawn of the devil- “what? Didn’t sleep well huh?”

“How could I? With you snoring like a chainsaw the entire damn night??” you spat back your head practically fuming by now. 

“I do not snore”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you muttered scrolling through yet another document. 

Jungwon finally decides that he’s done pushing at your limits. He snickers as he stands up stretching like he had been doing some serious work this entire time. “Well maybe if you used common sense you wouldn’t have to be working so hard.” he stated as you were about at the end of your patience and your hands were itching to grab him by his pretty little neck and- “Vienna. Lloyd. Last night. I have to say- I thought with those witty comebacks I thought you would be sharper ___”

Your expression faltered as your mind raced through last night. He’s right.. Lloyd was there. He was whispering about Vienna and not long after the Codex had disappeared into thin air. It was him again. You sighed exasperated, finally getting up from the couch. You wanted to wipe that smirk off his face- you absolutely despised when he was right, “maybe your constant stupidity is starting to rub off on me. Just stop smiling and pack your bags” 

As he stood up too he moved to stand behind you as he placed his hands deliberately on your waist. His voice was low and smug as his breath fanned your skin, “Whatever you say babe… but just once.. Admit I was right sweetheart.” 

The only response he got was a deathly glare from you and his own yelp as you twisted his hands in an awkward angle behind his back, “try something like that again and you won’t live to see next time you’re right.” you scowled with a dangerous voice as he just grinned like an idiot. 

 ˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The airstrip was alive with activity even in the dead of the night. The soft whine of jet engines and distant echoes of shouted instructions blended with the cold Austrian night. You had surveyed the area already so your movements were calculated. Lloyd had been clear- the Phantom codex was being transported through Vianna tonight, possibly by air. This was your chance to intercept it. 

“We have to move quickly and quietly” you reminded him as you two sneaked through the grounds. You both blended seamlessly into  the dark landscape- just like shadows. 

“I know sweetheart, don’t worry I got it” Jungwon replied and you could hear the teasing smirk in his voice. You groaned internally at the way his sweet nicknames made your cheeks warm. Thank god for the cover of the night. 

As you two approached the dimly lit hangar at the far end of the airstrip, your sharp eyes caught movement- a group of armed men were unloading a sleek black case from a private jet. Your heart rate sped up. The Codex. 

“Bingo,” you whispered, pointing towards the hangar. But before you could say anything further, Jungwon covered your mouth pulling you behind the metal walls of a storage unit. You let out a muffed protest as your eyes widened.

You couldn’t help but notice the way that Jungwon was pressed flush against you. He had you pinned to the wall as he held a finger to your lips. You could hear his heart beat and his warmth reached you through the gear you both wore. His scent was a subtle one but comforting in a way. “Shhh, look-” Jungwon said in a hushed tone as you followed his gaze. There he was. Ebony Lloyd. He was getting off the jet that had been parked in the same hangar from where the codex had been extracted. He had tall burly men flanking both his sides as he made his way to a black van. He was close- way too close. You could practically smell his strong and obnoxious cologne from all the way over here. 

If you two just stayed quiet and didn’t make a sound- CRUNCH!!. Shit. You accidentally shifted against Jungwon as you boots made a small sound on the gravel that was far too loud for the quiet night. Lloyd had a sickening smirk on his face as he made his way over to the two of you. You cursed under your breath as Jungwon stepped away from you, now facing him. 

“Well well, would you look at that? The lovebirds and the world’s most dysfunctional duo!!” Lloyd drawled on as he voice was low and condescending. 

You hated him too- not to misunderstand. But Jungwon had an entirely different fight to pick with him. Lloyd had a way of getting under his skin just like how Jungwon gets under yours. Jungwon was proud no matter how much he protested it. Lloyd had bruised his ego way too many times. You had to give it to him he was smart- that’s the only reason you ever lost. Its because he was always one step ahead. Jungwon detested him entirely. You could already see his rigid body language and clenched fists. Jungwon was practically fuming- this was something both Lloyd and you could see. And Lloyd took great pleasure in it. 

“Jungwon… don’t. He’s testing you.” you clenched your own fists. You knew Lloyd and his love for mind games. But tonight the two of you had no time for his little game. The Codex was right there- so close. 

But Jungwon ignored you. His teeth clenched as he stormed forward before you could stop him. “And you-” he seethed with his eyes cold and hard, “you little bastard. Got your sights on the Codex huh? Needed something more to show off to your pathetic little mistress? Couldn’t please her or your wife?” 

“Oh stop acting so high and mighty jungwon. You can’t seem to win over your pretty little partner’s heart so don’t go insulting my love life.” He chuckled arrogantly. The statement really seemed to strike a chord in Jungwon. “These harsh words aren’t from lingering feelings about Milan right? Or was it Budapest? Or maybe… Dubai? You’ve lost so many times I’ve lost track.” 

“Jungwon no-” you say your voice firm and hard as you eyed the four bodyguards trying to plan your escape. 

But it was far too late. Jungwon snapped. Without a word he surged even closer towards Lloyd. 

“Dammit it Jungwon.” you hissed desperately as you scrambled to follow him. 

The two men collided, Jungwon’s fist connected with Lloyd’s jaw as a sickening crack rang out. The criminal staggered backwards and his bodyguards were quick to react as they rained down punches on Jungwon. You quickly lept into action kicking one of them square in the head while landing an uppercut to another ones jaw. You fired two quick shots incapacitating the other two.  

Meanwhile, Jungwon freed himself only to launch back at Lloyd with more rage than before. But the criminal had more tricks up his sleeve. Quite literally!! He pulled a knife from his coat as they grappled. The fight was taking the two dangerously close to another jet’s running engines. Jungwon’s back thudded onto the flight’s metal body. Lloyd landed another strike but this time slashing Jungwon with his knife- drawing blood. Jungwon was too far gone to care at that moment. Lloyd landed one final cut to his abdomen as Jungwon fell to the tarmac. 

You saw it happed with your own two eyes. The Codex. It had been loaded onto the plane. Lloyd smiled satisfied at the way Jungwon was trying hard to recover. “Jungwon!!” your voice rang out as you lunged for him. You caught him just in time. The two of you scrambled out of the way as the jet made its way down the runway. 

There it was- gone once again, and that too in the hands of Lloyd.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The tension in your vienna hotel room was suffocating. You paced in front of the window, your arms crossed, your face the mask of frustration. Jungwon sat on the bed, one hand on his cut arm and the other on his abdomen, both trying to nurse the gashes on his body. You were fuming and it only added fuel to the fire that your heart was telling you to help Jungwon with his injuries. 

“You completely lost control!!” you snapped instead, whirling around to face him. “We had the Codex right there, and you threw it away- for what?!? A grudge match?”

Jungwon sighed leaning against the the headboard. He was tired and annoyed himself, you could tell. “Lloyd needed to be dealt with. He–”

“He got under your skin,” you interrupted, with your voice rising. “And now we’re back to square one because of your ego!!”

Jungwon met your glare with his expression softening which only annoyed you more.  There was a silence that was filled with tension and something else that was better it remained unspoken. You clenched your teeth as you saw the slight hint of a smile playing at the corner his lips. You scoffed to yourself. Why the hell was he smiling?? You just lost one of the most dangerous artifacts to a notorious criminal. This was most definitely not the time to be smiling. “What???” you snapped at him crossing your arms once again. 

“Hm? Oh nothing.. You’re just really cute when you’re mad.” he said in a matter of factly tone. You hated yourself for the way your brain went blank for a good few seconds. You hated the way your cheeks felt warm and your breath hitched for just a moment.

You groaned loudly throwing up your hands in frustration. “Don’t do that! Don’t try to charm your way out of this.”

“Who says I’m trying to charm you? But even if I was.. It looks like its working- no?” he smirks despite the blood trickling from a cut on his lips. His damn lips that curled up even more when he saw your gaze on them. His damn lips that your just wanted to feel against yours- No!! You weren’t distracted by his idiotically plump, soft, and full lips. 

You shot him a look after tearing your gaze away from his lips. Your sharp retort died on your lips when you saw the gash on his arm and abs. Your frustration warred with concern, but, with a heavy sigh, you grabbed the first aid kit from the desk. 

“Take off the gear” you ordered your voice clipped. 

Jungwon had the nerve to raise his eyebrows in mock surprise. “If you wanted to see me shirtless, you could've just asked babe.”

You shot him another deathly glare as you advanced towards him. The faint pink in your cheeks betrayed you as you made him put down the gauze he had in his hands and took his shirt off. Well I mean- you were just a girl after all. His toned muscles and hard lines of his chest and abs. The slight glisten of sweat and the scars that littered his body were so hot… well shit. “Getting distracted sweetheart?” Jungwon teased. You snapped your eyes back up to his face and made sure your gaze was sharp.

“Just hold still” you muttered, dabbing at the cut with disinfectant. Jungwon winced but he didn’t dare pull away. His gaze was trained on you as you worked with your movements precise and efficient. But your hands lingered on his skin for a few too moments too long. The tension was palpable in the air, the unspoken words and heat between the two of you was at its peak. You met his gaze and this time you could read it- but you didn’t want to. You were his partner it was strictly professional. The way your heart beat way too fast gave you away though.

He sliced the tension with a knife when he uttered your name out softly. It lacked any of his arrogance or its usual teasing edge to it. You didn’t look up. Too scared to see what you find if you looked up again. “Don’t Jungwon. Just… don’t.”

He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your wrist. “I’m sorry,” he said, and for once he sounded sincere. There was undertones of something else too. “I screwed up.” 

You froze, your breath catching at the unexpected vulnerability in his tone. You shivered at his gently touch, it melted away your anger and replaced it with something warmer, something neither of you could name. You took in a shaky breath as you replied, your voice lacking the earlier bite “you did.” 

Jungwon’s lips curved into a faint smile. “But you’re still patching me up. Guess that means you care.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your moth twitched up- fighting back a smile. “Don’t push it.” you warned but your voice had gone soft. 

You fell into a charged silence, the air between you thick with unspoken words. Jungwon’s hand lingered on your wrist, but for once you didn’t pull away. It was dangerous the way your heart raced at his touch. “You’re too reckless,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. 

“And you’re too stubborn,” he replies, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. At that moment you knew you couldn’t lose him. You hate to finally admit it but it was true. All the times he had risked his life to  save you from near death situations, his stupid jokes that lightened up any situation, and his dumb pet names that made you smile every time. You knew you couldn’t lose him- so the least you could do for all those times was forgive him. Just this once. 

You finished patching up his gashes silently before abruptly standing up. You walked to the other side of the hotel room as you set the first aid kit down once again. It was your pathetic attempt at trying your heart to beat normally once again. You turned back to face him- relieving yourself of the weight of your own gear as Jungwon spoke again. “So just to be clear. You weren’t staring at my lips or my abs right? Because then that would mean that you find me-”

“Jungwon!” you cut him off with a stern gaze. But his infuriating, smug, dimple filled smile still remained on his lips as he just shrugs. 

 ˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

After that night in Vienna you couldn’t stop thinking about him- well you always had him on your mind anyway- but something else nagged at you. This Phantom Codex… you knew what it was supposed to do, but it still had a mysterious aura about it. There was something so elusive about this simple piece of tech, and you were determined to find out what. 

That is exactly how you ended up here. In your shared hotel room with your glasses forming dents on your nose, your hands trembling from too much caffeine, and your eyes had deep circles under them that showed how you had been up for far too long. 

I mean you can’t blame yourself- you tried to sleep. You swear you did. But Jungwon’s words and gaze and touch just wouldn’t let you rest. Jungwon groaned as he blinked his eyes open- the bright light of the screen blinding his eyes. “___? You’re kidding me” he stated in a rough and groggy voice. He turned his head as he squinted towards the digital clock. “It’s five A.M. Did you even sleep?”

“Couldn’t” you replied short and distant. “I was too busy doing your job.”

“Ah, there it is- the sharp tongue of my favorite partner” he said with a smile in his tone as he heaved his body- still marred with the gashes from before- into a sitting position. “Morning to you too, sweetheart”

You gave him a glare over your shoulder, but the deep circles under your eyes betrayed your exhaustion. “Don’t even start with me Jungwon. I’ve been piecing intel while you’ve been snoring away again.” 

“I do not snore,” he insisted indignantly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the headboard. 

“Oh, trust me you do. After all these years of sharing a hotel room, you most definitely do.” You turned back to your screen, muttering under your breath, “it’s like trying to sleep next to a freight train.” 

He just rubbed the back of his neck as he sighed in fake and exaggerated. He watched as you typed away, the sounds of your fingers dancing along the keys an insistent sound in the room. In an amused but concerned tone he prodded, “What are you even looking at?” 

“The Codex.” your voice was clipped. But there was an edge of something else— anxiety and nervousness. “I hacked into one of Lloyd’s encrypted files. I think I found a list of targets who apparently know something about the Codex.” 

He nodded as he shifter closer to look over your shoulder at the screen. “Okay, thats progress. But… why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” he questioned carefully. 

Your fingers stilled on the keyboard and your body tensed. You took a deep breath before meeting his eyes, your expression guarded but your voice trembling just slightly, “My… My sister.. Her name is on his list.” you declare. Your brain was a mess even if you didn’t let it show. She was your sister, the few people in this cutthroat world that you loved and trusted blindly. 

The air in the room seemed to thickened. Jungwon’s teasing smirk disappeared as he processed your shaky words. “Your sister?”

“She’s a target,” you said, your voice cracking despite an effort to stay composed. “I don’t know why or- or what they want from her, but–” you stopped, shaking your head as you pinched the bridge of your nose. Scared of just the thought or Lloyd targeting your sister or losing her entirely. “If we don’t get the Codex back, she’s in danger. I can’t– I can’t let that happen” you looked at him with scared and vulnerable eyes. This was the first time you let this happen. The first time you opened up to him. 

He moved closer to you as he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. “___, hey. Listen to me.” 

Reluctantly, you lifted your eyes to his.

“We’ll get it back,” he said firmly, his voice steady and unwavering. “I swear to you. We’ll find the Code, and we’ll protect your sister.”

“You don’t understand,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes distant as you thought about the horrifying possibilities of what might happen. “This isn’t just another mission anymore. Its personal.”

“I know,” Jungwon said, his tone softening. “And that’s why we’re going to win this. Because when it comes to you and the people you care about.. I swear to you- I would rather die than fail.” 

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the rare sincerity in his voice. For a moment time slowed and the truth behind his voice rang clearer. The unspoken weight of his words weighed heavy on your shoulders. It was nice. It was nice to know that he would be there, even when times were tough or uncertain. He spoke with a promise that didn’t waver at all. His presence was firm and steady. It grounded you even as doubt filled your mind. You knew that from the countless successful missions you two had accomplished, that with him- anything was possible.

“You’re such an idiot,” you muttered, brushing past the lump in your throat and rapidly blinking trying not to show your vulnerability even more. 

“Then its a shame that you’re stuck with me isn’t it?” Jungwon replied with a smile tugging at his lips. “Now, come on. You need to sleep before you collapse on me.” 

“I’m fine.” you insisted stubbornly, standing up and brushing past him. 

“‘I’m fine’ my ass,” Jungwon drawled, following you despite the pain his body faced when he moved. “Just like I’m the best hacker in this partnership.” 

“You? Hacker? Yeah right- since when??” you show back with your usual sharpness returning to your voice. 

He grinned like an idiot and his dreamy dimples made another appearance. “There she is. I was worried the all-nighter had turned you into a zombie.”

You rolled your eyes but the hint of a smile on your lips was still clear as day. 

Later that evening, after hours of futile attempts to trace the codex’s whereabouts and Jungwon’s incessant nagging, you finally slumped onto the hotel bed, your exhaustion catching up to you. Jungwon walked to you from the kitchen a glass of water in his hand.

“Drink,” he said, holding it out to you.

“I’m fine,” you protested though your voice was hoarse. As much as you silently appreciated his comfort and care, you didn’t need to be coddled by your annoyance of a partner. 

He said said your name in a stern tone of voice that left no room for argument. You sighed but took the glass of water, considering your pounding headache from looking at the computer screen all day, it was the right thing to do. Your fingers brushed his for just a moment too long. “Thanks” you muttered out. 

He sat next to you, his usual cockiness replaced by a quiet concern. “You know” he started, “for someone who calls me reckless, you’re not exactly great at taking care of yourself.” 

You scoffed, “Takes one to know one.”

He chuckled lightly his head shaking at your retort even with the pounding in your head. “Fair.” 

The silence that followed wasn’t really uncomfortable, but it was definitely charged with something you both refused to acknowledge. You stared down at the glass in your hands. Your mind still running in overdrive with worry for your sister, the Codex, and the precarious line that you and Jungwon seem to be walking on. This dangerous pull that lulled you both towards one another that you just danced around. 

“You’re too good at this,” you said your tone suddenly softer and quieter. “At making me feel like everything’s gonna be okay,” you admit with your cheeks warming as you turn your head, avoiding his gaze. You sigh as you continued on, trying to lighten the mood, “I guess there is one single thing that you’re good at. Sweet talking your way out of messes?” 

“Out of messes? Oh please darling- my sweet talking has a much greater purpose- like sweet talking my way into sitting on the same bed as you.” he pretending to sigh dreamily as the sparkle of amusement didn’t leave his eye, “wow~ what an honor.”

This led to you pushing him off the edge of the bed and trying to contain your laughter as he landed with a big thud. He let out a yelp as he rubbed his back, the big boba eyes he gave you only worked on those girls at parties. “How about you start trying to sweet talk your way into me not beating your ass?” you say with an amused but genuine smile. He huffed in defeat as he stalked his way over to the couch. You couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. 

“Goodnight sweetheart~” you mocked him as he silently flipped you off. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The streets of Tokyo buzzed with life, the neon lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors over the bustling city. The air was filled with noises of children, adults, and automobiles. It was freezing cold in the night and you could see your breath in front of you, coming out in a cold white fog. You trailed a step behind Jungwon, your arms crossed as you watched him survey the surroundings with an air of practiced nonchalance. The two of you made your way to the looming but sleek and modern hotel. Of course it was a five star experience in Tokyo, only the best for the two best agents. 

“You’re unusually quiet,” Jungwon remarked, glancing over his shoulder at you. You couldn’t help but groan internally at the situation. And also at the fact that no man should look that ridiculously good with his hair messy and blowing in the wind. 

“Just trying to figure out how we ended up in this situation,” you muttered with annoyance as you shifted the bag on your shoulder. 

“Acting like a couple?” he smirked, pushing the tall glass door open for you. “Don’t pretend like you’re not enjoying it.”

You stepped into the threshold with a sharp glare pointed at him. You had to hide the fast pace of your heart somehow, “You’re delusional.”

The hotel lobby was elegant and the chandelier shimmered in all the hotel’s elegance. The ambient lighting and soft jazz music filled the space. You took note of the huge glass windows that could be a possible threat. The receptionist looked at the two of you with a practiced smile which widened when she laid eyes on Jungwon. You didn’t really know why but it made you roll your eyes. 

“Reservation under Park and Nakamura,” Jungwon said in his usual arrogant and cocky tone of voice. You couldn’t help but be more pissed at his voice but also find it a bit endearing as well. It was something you looked up to, he had a certain way with his words and it always worked somehow. 

“Ah yes of course, I’ll be sure to get your bags up to your room. Anything else you needed help with?” the girl at the desk batted her long eyelashes at Jungwon and it made you annoyed even more. Why, though? It's not like you had some weird feelings for your idiotic spy partner or something. 

“Oh no that’s quite alright, me and my boyfriend can carry our bags up to the room ourselves.” you smiled at her patronizingly. You had to try really hard to ignore Jungwon’s stupid smirk as you lugged the bags to the elevator.

“Boyfriend? Staking your claim sweetheart?” he asked smugly as he struggled to carry the bigger bag towards the elevator. “Besides, why did you stop her?? Now we have to break our backs trying to get these bags into our rooms.” he said as he huffed, putting the bag down for a second to catch his breath. 

“Did you want her to discover the Glock 19 stowed in our bags?” you asked in a mocking tone. You didn’t know exactly why you were so on edge from just a simple look Jungwon had received, but you felt as though from recent events.. You and Jungwon had started to walk down a dangerous path that none of you were ready to acknowledge. 

You opened the lock with a bit more force than necessary. The hotel suite was spacious, with a panoramic view of the Tokyo skyline. But your heart truly dropped as your bags slipped out of your hands when your view zeroed-in on the centerpiece of the room. The king-sized bed. You shook your head immediately as you spun to face his already wide grinning face. “No way. Absolutely not. There is no way in hell I am sharing that.”

Jungwon with the most aggravating smile quirked one of his eyebrows, “What’s the problem? Afraid you’ll be tempted?” he asked with a hint of a laugh in his voice. 

“In your dreams,” you shot back. You were not just about to expose yourself completely by sleeping in the same bed as him and then failing miserably to contain your idiotic emotions. No damn way.

“I’m just saying,” he said as he tossed his bags to the side. He jumped onto the pristine sheets, ruining them completely. “We need to look convincing, even in the hotel. The staff might be watching.”

You scowled. He was right, you both were well aware of the fact that Lloyd had his men lurking everywhere. “Fine. But if you so much as cross to my side of the bed, I swear-”

“Relax,” Jungwon interrupted, his hands up in a mock display of surrender. “I’ll stay on my side of the bed. Unless you wanted me to-” 

“Don’t finish that sentence.” 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You two were in Tokyo just because Mrs. Kwon had heard some rumors of the Codex here. There wasn’t any real evidence, but Mrs. Kwon was desperate. So for now the two of you just had to lay low and try to find anything more about the whereabouts of the dangerous piece of tech. That's the reason you couldn’t quite wrap your head around why Jungwon was parading the two of you around the hotel with his hand resting gently on your waist. Well you couldn’t really wrap your head around anything at the moment with how Jungwon’s fingers were softly brushing against your skin. “Remind me why I agreed to this?” you sighed as you forced the warmth in your cheeks to retreat.

“To keep up appearances sweetheart,” Jungwon whispered with his tone low and teasing, as his thumb rubbed absent minded circles on your skin, which only made your mind spiral even more. He had insisted that being stuck in your room all day reviewing the same five documents wouldn’t do you any good. So now you are here doing ‘bonding activities’ with your despised partner. 

“I’m going to kill you one day,” you murmured through a tight lipped grin. 

“Is that a challenge princess?” Jungwon asked a bit too loudly as you passed the receptionist once more. For some twisted reason this gave you satisfaction as you continued walking through the lobby. You couldn’t resist shooting her a devilish glance. 

Still though, you forced yourself to keep up your act. “Lay it on any thicker and they’ll drown in it.” you hissed through gritted teeth. 

You spent the entire rest of the day ‘bonding’ with Jungwon. But it was the small moments that caught you off guard. One of them was when you two were playing pool. He insisted that your posture was just offensive to the game. So he made a show of holding your arm as his strong chest pressed against your back. His breath lingered on your neck as his other hand rested on your waist once again. “Like this sweetie,” he muttered, his voice deep and velvety, as he paid no attention to the pool, his eyes only on your face, as if trying to memorize every little scar and contour. Your heart and mind were both unwell. They were working overtime trying desperately to process any of what was happening. 

Another time he had you on your toes was when you were mid reach about to strangle him. The two of you were spending time in the arcade and as both of your personalities would permit it. The competitive streak was at another level entirely. So you were at your wit’s end when he interrupted your focus again as you concentrated on smashing the moles wherever they popped up. You had given him a fair amount of warning but you were running out of patience and points because you insisted on a rematch every time. A couple had strolled in and they were just about to take in the sight of you committing homicide. But before you could move you were pressed back against the machine with your arms unknowingly wrapped around his neck. “Play along if you don’t want to get caught ___.” he whispered, tightening his grip around your torso. You tried not to let the hammering of your heart and heat in your skin give you away. 

The moment the couple had left you pushed him off but the smirk on his face didn’t budge. 

When dinner came around you two had decided to eat at a fancy restaurant. But you cursed Jungwon as he smiled smugly at you. Obviously he was the center of attention for everyone there, so you couldn’t even curse him out without blowing your cover. He was taking full advantage of it though. “Say ‘ahh’ babe~” he cooed, holding up the spoon to your mouth. You rolled your eyes discreetly before you let him feed you. But before he could get too smug you sharply stepped on his foot from under the table. After all, you couldn’t let him think you were succumbing to his stupid flirting. You hid the smirk behind a glass of wine as you sipped it innocently while he glared at you from across the table.

It was late at night now. Even the beautiful city of Tokyo had dimmed its lights and gone to sleep. But you and Jungwon just couldn’t rest. Mrs. Kwon wanted answers and she wanted the Codex even faster. But after Jungwon had tired you out the entire day, the documents looked like they were from some other alien language. Your eyes were half lidded and bleary from the need to sleep. 

You were just about to reach for the jug of coffee when Jungwon’s own sleepy voice called out to you. “Absolutely not. Hands off. Do you want a caffeine overdose?” he asked as he got up and took the jug away from you. You let a loud whine fall from your lips as you shot him a glare. You hate when he was right. But before you could shoot back at him with a snarky response, it all happened.

Both of you heard the footsteps from outside the door. Your head snapped up mid scroll. “Did you hear that?” you asked in a hushed whisper. The two of you were already in action though. You shoved the important files, weapons, and gear into your bag. Jungwon tossed you your gun as the two of you crouched behind the bed. The footfalls of the people outside were far too heavy and far too deliberate to be of normal guests. 

“How did they find us??” Jungwon hissed as he reloaded his gun quietly. The footsteps paused and you took a deep breath before the chaos started. 

The explosion rattled the room as the heavy wooden door came flying down. Splinters flew across the room like shrapnel, and you barely managed to miss the lamp that flew past you, shattering on the ground. 

“Down!!” Jungwon yelled as the hail of bullets followed quickly. He dove towards you just in time before the air filled with gunfire. 

Lloyd’s men poured into the room by the dozen. Their movements were swift and calculated but you two were like a well oiled machine. Nothing could stop Jungwon’s instinct and your precise aim. 

Jungwon fired the shots, taking out the lead man with two clean hits to the chest. You rolled out from behind the bed, your gun steady in your hands as you aimed at the intruders. You picked the men off like birds on a wire, one by one with deadly accuracy. 

“Left!” you shouted, and Jungwon pivoted, shooting the man who was trying to flank you.

“Nice call,” he said, his voice tight before he ducked for cover again.

You didn’t respond., your focus entirely on the men in front of you. One of them charged at you, his gun jammed, but you dropped him like a fly with one well placed kick to the chest, before you finished him off entirely with a shot. 

“Watch out!!” Jungwon’s voice cut through the chaos and you turn just in time to see a man tossing a grenade towards the center of the room. 

Your heart froze. You thought this was the end. 

But Jungwon was faster.

He lunged, grabbing your arm and pulling you against his chest as your back hit the wall of the far corner of the room. The grenade exploded a second later, the blast shaking the entire suite. Glass shattered, furniture splintered, and a cloud of smoke and debris filled the air. 

Your ears rang, and your vision blurred with tears as you struggled to breathe through the dust. You realized your head was pressed against Jungwon’s chest as he wrapped his arms tightly around you. When you looked up to see his distressed expression it's like you were looking at an angel. The sparks and gunshots whizzed behind him, there was a bleeding cut on his cheek, and his heart was racing. But in this life threatening moment all you could see was him. 

“Jungwon…” you said, your voice barely audible over the ringing in your ears. 

“I’m fine,” he said, though his voice was strained. But in all the chaos, you could see the bullet that was lodged in his arm. He grimaced as he moved to shoot more men that tried to advance.

“You’re hit,” you said with a trembling voice as the sight of his blood made you sick to the stomach. 

“It’s nothing,” he replied, wincing as he moved, pulling you up to your feet. “We’re not done yet.”

More men surged into the room, but your initial shock and fear quickly transformed into fury. God when you got your hands on Lloyd… You grabbed your gun that had slid out of reach when the explosion rattled. You fired with precision, covering him as he pressed his hand to the wound. He winced at the sight of his own crimson blood as you shot down three more men. The room was a mess of bodies, blood, and debris. 

“We need to move!” you shouted, helping Jungwon up as he grabbed the bag. 

Jungwon scanned the room. The floor was unstable because of the explosion, more of Lloyd’s men just kept filling in through the door, so the only escape was.. “Window,” he said. 

You both ran towards the large glass pane just as another explosion rocked the suite. Jungwon kicked out the window, the glass shattered into a million pieces. “Out,” he ordered.

“What abou-” 

“Now!!” 

You hesitated but still climbed onto the narrow ledge. Jungwon followed, his movements slower but determined despite his injury. You both got out just in time before another explosion rocked the building. The rain was pouring down in sheets. The slick surface of the ledge made every step even more treacherous than the last. But you two made your way to the emergency fire escape. 

You two raced down the long dangerous steps as you covered Jungwon, shooting at the men who tried to pursue and pulling Jungwon when bullets whizzed onto the metal of the staircase. As soon as you were on the wet pavement, your hotel room burst into flames. 

Bullets licked your heels as you narrowly avoided death, making a run towards a bike parked on the side of the road. You immediately got to work, hotwiring the bike as fast as you could. While Jungwon clutched his arm but still covered you with fierce determination. 

“Get on!” you yelled, though you couldn’t hear much over your heart racing in your ears. You and Jungwon quickly sped away into the maze of streets. You rode like a maniac, avoiding cars by just small fractions of millimeters. The shouts echoed behind you but before Lloyd’s men could even rev the engine of their cars, you were gone. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The rain still lashed against the window of the safe house, the dim light of a single lamp casting long shadows across the room. The air was quiet but filled to the brim with tension. You sat on the edge of the couch, your hands tightly clasped in your lap. Your mind swirled with worry. Your sister’s face flashed in your thoughts- innocent, unsuspecting, completely unaware of the danger the Phantom Codex posed to her. She was a high ranking government official, both of your lives were forced to be kept secrets from each other. Yet the bond you shared with her was unbreakable and eternal. And she was only in more and more danger, if anything, the ambush today showed just how open Lloyd was being with his attempts. It showed… just how ruthless he could be. 

And Jungwon… he had risked his life, gotten shot all for you. He sat across from you, his injured arm freshly bandaged after extracting the bullet and disinfecting the wound. His posture was more relaxed, the chaos had taken a toll on him too but he handled it like it was a normal Tuesday. His eyes watch you, sharp gaze softened by concern. 

“You’re too quiet,” he said finally, his voice breaking the heavy silence. 

You looked up at him, your lips pressing into a thin line. “What do you want me to say, Jungwon? That I’m fine? That everything’s okay?” you shook your head, your hands tightening into fists. “Because it’s not. My sister is in danger, we just got ambushed by Lloyd’s men, and you–” your voice caught and you looked away.

“Me?” Jungwon prompted, leaning forward despite the strain it put on his arm. 

You couldn’t live with the thought. The horrifying thought that… you could have lost him. You stupid, idiotic, funny, loyal, and annoyingly handsome partner. How could you live with yourself if his dimpled smile wasn’t there to brighten any situation? How could you live with yourself if his grounding presence wasn’t there to calm you before missions? How could you… live without him? 

Your voice was trembling now. “You could have died. Do you even understand that? If you hadn’t pulled me away from that grenade–” you cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. 

He whispered your name, but you wouldn’t hear it.

“No, let me finish,” you said, your voice rising. “You threw yourself in harm’s way without even thinking, and I–” you buried your face in your hands, your body quivering like you had been reduced to some little girl- not a world class spy. “I can’t lose you. Not like this. Not when we’re so close, and when I still–” 

He was in front of you before you could finish, he was crouching despite the sharp pain in his arm. He placed his hands gently on yours as he pried them away from your face. You met his gaze and it was sharp, like he could see to the depths of your soul.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere. Do you hear me? I’m right here, and we’re going to get that Codex. For your sister. For you. For us. But you’ve got to stop thinking the worst, or you’re going to drive yourself crazy.” 

Your lower lip quivered but you nodded still. He was trying his hardest to comfort you, so despite the gnawing fear and doubt in your mind you believed him. Because when he was here with you, it felt like nothing in this world was impossible. Your eyes shimmered with tears, you refused to let fall, “You can't keep scaring me like this Jungwon.”

“I’ll try,” he said, his signature smirk softening into something more vulnerable and sincere. “But I’m not going to apologize for keeping you safe.” 

You stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his words sinking in. He had done what he did, to protect you, he put his life on the line because he cared for you. Then something inside you broke– no, shifted. Before you could process what you were doing and meticulously overthink the consequences, your hands gripped the front of his shirt, and you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant like the previous brushes of affection the two of you had. This kiss was deep, desperate, and full of the emotions that they two of you had buried for years. It was full of that desire that the two of you had danced around for so long. Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt, as though afraid he might disappear. He responded just as fiercely, his hands coming up to cradle your face, careful to avoid the still-tender bruises. 

You couldn’t pull back from him- not until your last breath. Just like he had stood by your side promising to protect you till his last breath. But you had to when the air in your lungs ran out. Your forehead rested against each other as your breath came out in pants, mingling with his in the quiet room. 

“I can’t lose you Jungwon.” you whispered out between pants. And this time when you looked into his deep brown eyes, you could finally decipher what they said. They declared his love and fear of losing you. But this time you didn’t dance around it. You faced the emotions head on, because now you finally had someone to love. 

“Don’t get all mushy on me now sweetheart,” he said with a hint of his signature smirk in his voice, that now seemed to be something you could rely on no matter what. 

Whatever this is, it isn’t perfect- far from it. But it's something that has been inevitable since you first saw the black haired man with his big boba eyes. And for a moment the tension lifted, and neither of you pulled away. You two stayed like that- close, vulnerable, and finally honest. It wasn’t easy and it definitely wasn’t perfect but it was real. And you knew that whatever came next, you would face it together. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Whispers of the underworld led you to this shining city. Monaco. But it wasn’t a whispering voice that had threatened you. No- Lloyd’s voice was firm and dangerous. ’You think your petty little agency will be able to protect your precious sister? I know where she is, I will get her- so have fun with your little lover boy while it lasts.’ and that's when the radio message had cut off. 

Your agency was keeping your sister in lockdown. Apparently she knew something about a key? The key to unlock the Phantom Codex. Not just Lloyd but every criminal was racing to find her. You weren’t naive though. You knew there was only so much the agency could do. Criminals had their resources and they would stop at nothing for power. 

That’s the reason your body was so tense as you leaned against the railing of the balcony. The shimmering city with its population of only the world’s most elite was alive this evening. The luxury and sports cars were lined up in front of the Casino de Monte Carlo. You had a clear view of the location where the Phantom Codex would be held. Lloyd apparently hadn’t let it out of his sight since the moment he got his hands on it. He had kept moving so no one could track him and steal his prized possession. Tonight he was here, and you had your sights set on it. Lloyd had no business with your sister and her information about the key if he didn’t have the Codex itself. 

You practically jumped out of your skin when you felt his hands snaking around your waist. You grew even tenser before letting yourself bask in the way his lips moved slowly down your neck towards your shoulder. You weren’t accustomed to his affection but you had to say you weren’t complaining.

“You’re tense sweetheart,” he murmured when his mouth was right next to your ear. His breath fanning your skin, sent shivers down your spine. 

“You were there Jungwon, he’s threatening her. My sister’s life is on the line..” you say as you stop his roaming hands. You had a really important mission to complete tonight. But he looked so damn irresistible when he stepped in front of you with the top buttons of his shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, and his smirk on his pretty lips. 

“Baby, you have to trust that the agency will do their part,” he said as his hands remained on your hips, his thumbs tracing small soothing circles. 

“You know that bastard Jungwon. He has the resources and the nerve, if we don’t get the Codex this time then its not only going to be my sister-” 

Jungwon rested his hands on your cheeks as he tilted your head so you looked him in the eyes. “Hey. We’re not losing. Not yet. And not ever. You’ve got me, okay? I won’t let anything happen to her– or you.”

The rational part of you wanted to argue, to remind him that you’d already failed too many times, but the way he looked at you, so steady so sure. It made the rational side of you crumble as you believed his promise. Before you could say another word, he leaned down, pressing a soft reassuring kiss to your lips. 

You stiffened in surprise once again, still not used to this gentler side of Jungwon. It was worlds apart from the cocky, aggravating partner you had grown used to. And yet, you resolve softened as you kissed him back, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips when he pulled away.

“I’m telling you, I should be handed an award or something- no normal person can get you to shut up as fast as me,” he teased, his familiar grin returning. 

You rolled your eyes but the faint color in your cheeks gave you away. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you kissed me anyway.”

Before you could retort, the shrill beeping of the burner phone you’d been using for intercepting communication interrupted you. Jungwon let his hands drop from your cheeks as he grabbed it. His face grew serious as he watched the small screen. 

He held up the phone for you to see, “Lloyd is on the move,” he muttered, snapping the phone shut. “Looks like our Codex is on the move too.”

You nodded, already slipping into your professional mode. “Let’s go.” 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The two of you were past all of the excitement and precarious bets of the casino, instead you were pressed behind a pillar. Lloyd and another criminal seemed to be having a meeting, maybe an alliance over the most powerful artifact in the world?

The air was filled with quiet but incriminating chatter as the two gave practiced smiles to each other. This was obviously going to end badly. So you planned to get the Codex and slip out before either of them noticed it was gone. It was almost time that the two powerful men would get up from the table to move to the bar. There was a sliver of opportunity when the Codex would be brought out by one of Lloyd’s men. Like you mentioned before- he wouldn’t let it out of his sight.

That would be the prime time where you could steal it right out of his dangerous hands and he wouldn’t even know till much later. That was the plan. The easiest, most simple plan. But there went Jungwon, with his killer instinct.

Right as the two men were about to move to the bar, some idiot criminal from the smaller leagues decided to get involved. You almost jumped in joy, this was perfect. All the focus was trained on that idiot and you and Jungwon could just slip in, get the Codex, and get out. You turned to tell Jungwon about the new plan- but when you turned to face him he was gone. 

You cursed internally, you knew this would happen. Jungwon and his instinct, his need to do the right thing, his stupid moral compass. The criminal’s legs shook as he realized what a grave mistake he had made storming into the lion’s den. Jungwon though, didn’t seem to see the bigger picture. He stepped out from behind the marble pillar, his gun poised, he shot the two bodyguards that had the criminal in their grasp. 

The criminal made a run for it but now the bullets rained onto you two. You forgot all about the Codex, in your mind now only one thought rang clear. Protect Jungwon. You lunged for him, pulling him back behind the pillar to shield him from the shower of hurt. 

The men started making their way up the stairs but you were too fast. You grabbed Jungwon’s hand and pulled him behind you as you two ran for the window. The fall hurt, but not enough to forget the imminent danger the two of you would be in if you stayed here for any longer. You made a run for it and Jungwon wasn’t far behind. You were already fuming, this lead was very hard to find. It might even be your last one. Your last chance to protect your sister… After today’s events you knew Lloyd would try even harder to get to your sister. He didn’t want anything to hinder his progress to harness the power of the Codex.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

In the hotel room you were done. You had worked night and day for that lead, for what?? For Jungwon to help some charity case of a criminal? The tension followed the two of you inside like an unwanted guest. Every inch of you was radiating fury. Jungwon walked in behind you, quiet for once, knowing that the storm was about to hit. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” you snapped, spinning around to face him. Your voice was sharp and your eyes set ablaze. “What were you thinking, Jungwon?!?”

He sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I couldn’t just leave him there. He would’ve been killed.” 

“And because of that, we lost the Codex. Again!” you shot back, your voice ringing. The fear of losing your sister was becoming far too real for your liking and right now- the only person to blame in your mind was Jungwon. “Do you even realize what’s at stake here? Do you even care?”

“Of course I care!” he said, his voice finally rising to meet yours. “But I’m not going to stand by and watch someone die if I can stop it.” 

You laughed bitterly, throwing your hands into the air. “Great! You’re a hero. Congratulations!! Meanwhile Lloyd’s probably halfway across the world with the Codex. And you say that you can’t stand by and watch someone die?? Well that’s about to be my sister, and while you play the hero, I can’t even be there to save her life!” 

Jungwon stepped closer, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t care about your sister? About the Codex? About you?”

“Actions speak louder than words Jungwon,” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “And your actions tonight told me that you’d rather play savior than focus on what actually matters.”

“Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice low and dangerous now. “Don’t you dare stand there and act like I don’t care. I’ve been right here with you, every step of the way. I’m the one who pulled you out of that explosion last week. I’m the one who's been patching you up after every mission.” 

“And I’m the one who’s trying to keep us focused,” you snapped back. “You think I don’t see how reckless you are? How every time you're the one lets something slip, who makes us lose our lead?”

Jungwon took a step back, your words hitting him like a physical punch to the gut. “I’m doing my best, ___” he said, his voice quieter now but no less tense than before. “I’m not perfect, but I’m trying.”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” you said, your voice cracking. “We take so many lives everyday, it's our job. But you couldn’t let this one criminal die?? Even when my sister’s life is on the line??!” 

There was a long pause, the weight of your words settling heavily between you two. 

“You think I don’t know that?” he said finally. His voice was painstakingly raw. “You think I don’t feel that pressure every second of every day? That I don’t know if I screw up one more time, it’s all over?” 

“Then why the hell do you keep screwing up?” you asked, your voice breaking now. You knew you were being unfair but you couldn't really bring yourself to care at the moment. 

Jungwon looked away, his hands clenching at his sides. “Because I’m human, ___. I make mistakes. And yeah maybe I let my heart get in the way sometimes, but I’m not going to apologize for that.”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Your heart? Is that what we’re calling it now??” 

“Yes,” he said firmly, stepping closer again. “Because whether you want to admit it or not, I care about people. I care about you. And I’m sorry if that gets messy sometimes, but it's the truth.”

You froze, your breath catching. He cared… he cared for you. For a moment, you looked like you might say something but instead, you turned away, pressing your hands to your face. Rubbing your temple in frustration. 

“This isn’t about me,” you said after a long pause, your voice muffled.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “It’s about us. About the mission. About everything we’ve been through together. And if you think for one second that I don’t care as much as you do, then you don’t know me at all.”

You dropped your hands, turning back once again to face him. Your eyes  were glossy, your anger had faded away into something more vulnerable. “I don’t know if I did the right thing. I don’t know if kissing you was right. And I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” you said quietly. 

Jungwon was stunned for a bit, but he spoke again, his voice softer now. “You can. And you will. Because you’re the strongest person I know. And because I’ve got your back, no matter what.” 

You shook your head, a stray tear escaping and slipping down your cheek. “You could’ve died tonight Jungwon. And for what? A stranger?”

“No, for doing the right thing.” He said simply.

You stared at him for a long moment, your emotions warred within you. Your undeniable care and love for Jungwon, and your worry for your sister and the millions of lives at stake. Finally you sighed, your shoulders slumping. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

“Then don’t say anything,” he said, stepping closer and gently reaching out to take your hand in his own. “Just trust me. Please.”

You couldn’t help the way your breath hitched yet again at his touch. You didn’t pull away, but you didn’t look at him either, closing your eyes and breathing slowly. “I’m tired of losing, Jungwon.”

His grip on your hand tightened. He felt some hope flicker within him. “We’re not going to lose. Not you, not your sister, not this mission. I promise you.”

You finally opened your eyes and met his eyes. They were desperate and apologetic. Your heart made your gaze soften and the tension eased for just a moment. But just as fast, you pulled your hand away, your brain taking over now. You were never too good at thinking with your heart anyway.

“Get some rest,” you said, your voice steadier but colder now. “We’ve got some serious work to do.”

You could almost see his heart shatter. But he didn’t say anything, he just watched as you walked farther away. Farther away from whatever you two had started, farther away from his grasp, farther from these complicated emotions. He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. 

“Good talk,” he muttered to himself before slumping onto the couch, the weight of the mission— and your fractured partnership– weighing heavily on him. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You woke up in a daze as the incessant ringing of your laptop startled you out of your subconscious. You groaned as you sat up, the digital clock showed 4 A.M. You heaved your laptop from the bedside table and opened it. It showed a contact that looked suspiciously like… your sister??

You were suddenly wide awake as you accepted the call. “Hello? Sora? Is that you..?” you whispered. It looked like your sister, but her surroundings were dimly lit and she looked pale. Concern shot up inside you. “A-are you okay? Where is the agency keeping you?”

She was breathing hard, she looked around agitated, “Hey sis, slow down slow down. I’m okay- but I don’t have much time. I found something… about your Mrs. Kwon.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, Mrs. Kwon? Well she had been acting a bit on edge but this was a huge mission. Your voice wavered at her cautious tone and your chest tightened. “What’s wrong? And Sora, where are you? Did something happen?”

Sora hesitated before whispering, “I’m okay, I’m escaping from where the agency kept me. But Mrs. Kwon.. she’s planning to use it for herself.. I heard her talking about how the Codex would give her leverage over every agency in the world. She’s going to blackmail people, threaten them, and use it as a weapon to gain power. She doesn’t have the right intentions and she’s a dangerous woman with all that power already.” 

Your mind reeled from the information, “No… that doesn’t make any sense. The agency, we’re supposed to stop people like Lloyd, not become like him. Mrs. Kwon hates people like him. She.. she wouldn’t do that.” But you knew that she could pull something like this off. Still.. It hurt. It hurt to finally find out that the organization you dedicated half your life to, thinking you were helping people, it actually was all a fluke.

Sora saw the confusion and the pit that was forming in your stomach. She sensed it through the screen. Her voice broke slightly. “I don’t think you know what’s really happening, _____. You can’t trust them, you can’t trust anyone. Please be careful. I’m scared for you.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. Still you manage to give her a reassuring smile that seemed uneasy anyway. “I’ll figure this out, Sora. Stay safe okay? I’ll take care of myself, I promise, and I’ll protect you too no matter what.” 

Sora nodded and returned your smile before the screen went dark. You sat frozen, still stunned at the revelation, your mind spinning. The betrayal felt like a knife twisting in your gut. How could the place- no, the person you put so much trust into stab you in the back like this?? It was done, years of your life had been wasted away but you wouldn’t let Mrs. Kwon do this. You wouldn’t blatantly let her harm innocent people. In two quick actions, you grabbed the burner phone and took out the chip, crushing the feeble metal in your hand. Betrayal burned in the pit that had formed in your stomach, you would stop that crazy lady. No matter what.

You pushed open the adjoining door to Jungwon’s room. He was sprawled out on the bed, his chest rising and falling steadily, the faint glow of the moonlight casting soft shadows on his face. For a moment your breath hitched, he looked so peaceful, so ethereal, almost like an angel- but the memories from a few days ago started to rush in again. Your gaze went from starstruck to cold once more as you stepped closer to his bed. 

“Jungwon,” you said quietly, but he didn’t stir. 

You took a step closer as you gently nudged his shoulder. “Jungwon, wake up.”

He groaned as he rolled over to face you. His eyes were still closed though. “_____, if this is about my snoring again-”

“Get up,” you snapped, your voice cutting through his grogginess. How could he be talking about his obnoxious snoring right now?

He blinked up at you, his confusion quickly replaced with concern when he saw your expression. He was so attuned to your feelings… “What’s wrong?”

You crossed your arms, your jaw tight. “Sora called. She overheard something about the Codex and Mrs. Kwon.” you say as you sigh softly, the dread and betrayal still fresh in your mind.

Hearing about the Codex woke Jungwon up completely. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his expression serious now. “What did she say?”

You hesitated, your voice quieter now. God- even you couldn’t believe it yourself. “Mrs Kwon, she doesn’t want to destroy the Codex. She wants to use it— for blackmail, for power. Everything we’ve been through, risking our lives…. It's all been for nothing. It’s a lie Jungwon.”

Jungwon was shocked for a moment just as you were. His mouth opened but no words came out. You could see the gears turning in his head. Despite your recent… differences, you knew he had risked his life for it too. You knew he had been through what you had for the Codex. He felt the same way you did. He ran a hand through his hair, his brows furrowed, “are you sure about this?” 

“She overheard it directly,” you say as you start pacing around the room, feeling restless. “And she told me not to trust anyone. Not the agency, not anyone.” 

He leaned back against his hands, exhaling sharply. “Well that’s just great. So, we’re completely on our own now? I mean we can’t just go back there and ask Mrs. Kwon to stop being evil nicely right?”

You rolled your eyes at his childish words, you stopped pacing to shoot him a glare. “Pretty much. Which means we need to figure out what to do next.” 

Jungwon observed you carefully. Your shoulders tensed, your eyes absolutely refusing to meet his voluntarily, and your not so gentle bite of your lip. “You’re still mad.” Jungwon voiced, softly.

You turned away from him but your shoulders were still tense. “Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice impossibly softer now, “I get it. I messed up. But right now, we’ve got bigger problems than my poor decision-making skills.”

“You think I don’t know that??” you snapped, spinning to face him. The fire now present in your eyes as you met his. “But I can’t just pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. You almost got us killed for some random criminal. And now Sora is out of any semblance of protection because of our stupid agency.”

He stood up. His expression was unreadable but a hint of determination lingered in his eyes as he approached you. “You’re right. I screwed up. But if there’s one thing you should know by now, it's that I’m not going to give up. Not on the mission. Not on people. And definitely not on you.”

Your breath hitched, damnit, he was making those stupid unnecessary nagging feelings bubble in your chest. But you quickly looked away as you spoke in an ice cold tone. “Don’t do this. Don’t make this about us Jungwon. This is about the mission. About Sora. About—”

“This is about everything,” he didn’t back down. Instead his tone was firm as he continued. “And whether you like it or not, we’re in this together. So, you can stay mad at me if you want, but I’m not going anywhere.” 

You clenched your fists. You hated this, the way you even had to choose between your anger and the comfort his words provided. But even after all of what had happened- you could never bring yourself to hate him. “Fine. But don’t expect me to trust you like I used to.”

“I’ll earn it back” he said easily like it was the simplest thing in the world. His gaze never faltered either. And as much as you hated to admit it, in this uncertain time you were glad to have Jungwon there. At least you knew you had someone who would never tire of you. Who was there even if he made your blood boil.

You held his gaze as you challenged him silently. But he never backed down.. He never gave up on you. You broke away from his eyes as you sighed deeply. “We need a plan.” 

Jungwon nodded. “Then let’s make one, yeah? Together.”

You didn’t respond but still silently sat down at the small desk to start mapping out your next move. You couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of your eye. For all his flaws, you knew one thing for certain— Jungwon would fight for you, for Sora, for this mission. And no matter how angry you were, part of you couldn’t help but feel grateful for that. 

After destroying the chip in Jungwon’s burner phone too, you both sat down with your own laptops. It was time to dig, for a lead, for a radio message, for anything that would help.

It took a while, but after multiple hours of trying to find something- anything a lead popped up. Lloyd had become sloppy with one of his radio messages. He had said something about going underground for a while. His estate in Russia, no one would be idiotic enough to penetrate his heavily guarded and almost unreachable mansion…. Except the two of you of course.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The storm raged over the sprawling Russian estate, casting an ominous shadow over the towering walls and wrought iron gates. Lightning illuminated the sprawling mansion, its sharp spires cutting into the dark sky. Dark walls with crawling vines seemed to threaten and ward off anyone who dared to enter. Icy rain poured down in sheets as it soaked through the gear that adorned your body. The sound of thunder masked the faint rustle of movement as you and Jungwon crouched in the dense shadows near the perimeter. 

“This place screams ‘villain lair’” Jungwon mutters, his breath annoyingly warming up the back of your neck. He adjusted the hood of his black jacket against the freezing rain.

“Focus,” You said sharply, your voice barely audible over the wind. You didn’t spare him a glance, your gaze fixed on the towering structure ahead. More specifically on the armed men who were about to exchange shifts in just a matter of minutes. 

Jungwon sighed, casting a sidelong glance at you. “Wow you sound like you’re going to bite my head off. Personally, I think you should wait until after we grab the Codex to kill me, yeah?”

You didn’t respond. Pressing on to the side entrance you were going to infiltrate. It didn’t help that this was the most important mission of your life. The Codex was finally in your sight again. Not to mention that Sora was still on the move. No place was safe for her as long as the Codex was at large. It was also absurdly hard to get here after you had gone MIA from the agency. Mrs. Kwon seemed to have gone crazy because she stopped some of the most important missions to employ the agents to search for you and Jungwon. 

But what was worse was the ever annoying tension. It was cold and biting like the air that howled around you two. You didn’t like to say that you held a grudge, but your anger still lingered like a storm of its own. And though Jungwon tried to break through it with his normal flattery and charm, you wouldn’t budge. Not yet. 

You moved once again the moment the men turned their backs to change shifts. Stopping by the gate, you pressed yourself against the wall as you were met with the high tech digital lock. “This is it,” you whispered as you nodded to the door. The lock looked a bit advanced but it's nothing you couldn't handle. You knelt as you connected your hacking device into the lock. Your fingers were steady despite the icy rain that soaked through your gloves.

Jungwon knelt beside you, watchful eyes scanning their surroundings. “Still can’t believe you stayed mad this long. You know, if we die here, it’ll make for a tragic love story.”

You shot him a glare for bringing your personal relationships (or lack thereof) into the conversation. “If we die here, it’ll be because you can’t stop running your mouth.”

Not even a minute after the lock clicked. You pushed the door open and closed it just as the next guards arrived for their patrol. 

The interior of the mansion was cold and dark, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and expensive leather. You moved in silence, your footsteps muffled by the thick carpet as you made your way towards the vault. You had to snicker at the hideous pictures of Lloyd that decorated the walls. Him in nothing but leopard fur, him showing off his (nonexistent) muscles, one with two girls fawning over him, and yet another where he was sitting on a pony?? Goes to show just how self centered he was. 

You kept your focus sharp as you two sneaked silently towards the vault. You were blatantly ignoring how Jungwon’s presence at your side felt like both a comfort and an annoyance . You couldn’t afford to be distracted right now anyways. 

Jungwon, for his part, stole glances at you whenever he could. The tension between you was eating away at him. He hated the thought that you didn’t trust him anymore. He thought about this every time, but today it felt more real. This mission could be your last, and he would hate to have that happen with you still angry at him. 

The vault was hidden behind a bookshelf in one of the many studies this estate had. You had thoroughly researched beforehand. There shouldn’t be any people in this part of the estate right now. You turned to Jungwon abruptly as both of you got in place. Your tone was just the slightest bit accusatory as you gave him an unreadable look. “Once we are inside, you know the plan. No distractions, no detours.”

“Understood boss,” Jungwon said, his hands raising in mock surrender. The two of you tugged at the two dark blue books on each side of the study. There was some mechanical whirring behind the door, as it opened with a hiss. The huge metal vault sparkled at you, just the menacing door stood before you and the Codex now. 

You ignored the jab and turned back to the vault door. It was protected by an intricate keypad and a biometric scanner. You pulled out the small device again as you started working once again. The gloves you wore would bypass the scanner no problem. 

“Time’s ticking..” Jungwon murmured, his ears on high alert for any sound outside the closed study door. 

“Almost… there” you said your voice tight with concentration.

The lock disengaged with a heavy click, and the vault door creaked open. Inside, the metal room glimmered with Lloyd’s wealth. Gold bars, stacks of cash, priceless artifacts, ancient jewelry, huge jewels. But at the center of the room, bathed in the glow of a single overhead light, was the long behold Phantom Codex.

The codex was exactly as you had remembered it. How could you forget the piece of tech that had basically ruined your life anyway? Obsidian black, diamond shaped, etched with glowing cerulean symbols. It seemed alive, faintly humming as you listened carefully. You had to shake your head so you didn’t get entranced like everyone had at the gala in Paris. 

“There it is,” you whispered, your breath catching.

“Finally,” Jungwon said, carelessly stepping forward. But before he could even take a single step closer the floor detected his weight. In an instant, lasers shot from the walls as ear blasting sirens rang through the sound of the storm. 

“MOVE!!” you shouted, as you dodged the lasers skilfully but Jungwon beat you to it. He snatched the Codex from the pedestal. 

“I’ve got it, lets go!!” he yelled as the both of you could hear the thunder of the probably hundreds of guards all swarming to your location. 

You both made your way outside the study. You could taste the adrenaline as the window in front of you taunted you. But this time you would do it. This was your escape, your victory. 

Jungwon ran as fast as he could, his focus was on the window just the same as you. The pounding of boots and shouting of the men spurred the two of you to go even faster. You were just a few steps behind him.

That’s when you stopped. The bullet flew through the air as you felt time stop. Your eyes darted to Jungwon’s retreating figure, then to the guards that grew closer. The bullet pierced your abdomen. You felt the stinging pain, not from the blood that stained your gear– no. It was from the realization that this was it.

Still you didn’t care. Jungwon had secured the Codex, he would do what’s right. And you had to protect him no matter what. Instead of running to Jungwon, you turned your back to him. Facing the absurd amount of guards that closed in onto you. For Jungwon. 

But while you tackled one guard to the floor, you knew it. There were way too many. You still placed a kick to another one as they surrounded you. You were sloppy, your movements too slow. Another guard grabbed your arm as suddenly, someone else lifted the butt of their rifle, bringing it down onto your back harshly. You felt pain through your entire being as you inevitably blacked out, watching the window shatter just like your freedom. 

You fell unconscious. Your body crumpled.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Jungwon jumped through the window. The glass shards cutting his face as the rain immediately greeted him in the courtyard. He clutched the Codex tightly against his chest. He turned back, adrenaline and victory coursing through him. He expected to see you, standing victoriously beside him. That satisfactory smirk gracing your lips anytime you both succeeded in a mission. 

But his heart dropped. There was no sight of you. He felt his blood run cold as his chest felt like it was caving in on him. No! This couldn’t be happening. He didn’t feel the tears stream down his face because of the rain that poured down onto him. 

You were captured. Gone from his protection into Lloyd’s demonic hands. His hands shook as he held onto the Codex. He promised himself that he would get it for you. But not like this. Not at this cost. “DAMNIT!!” He yelled your name as his brain finally caught up with the events happening. 

Fear for you clawed in Jungwon’s chest, but more than that white hot rage burned through him. So much so that it threatened to consume his whole being. The what-ifs of what Lloyd could do lingered in his mind for just a moment, but they disappeared the moment he imagined you at that bastard’s mercy. His hands clenched and his jaw set as he stared back at the estate. No rational thought in his mind. He couldn’t think of anything else– didn’t want to. The mission, the Codex, everything else blurred into insignificance. You were all that mattered.

Jungwon moved through the stone halls like a man possessed. He was soaked to the core but he didn’t once shiver. He let himself think with his instinct and his instinct alone. Something you probably would have reprimanded him for. But it was his instinct that was guiding him to you. 

The guards who crossed his path didn’t stand a chance. Anyone who dared to move towards him was struck with precision and speed. His movements were raw and fueled by a fire that burned hot inside him. A punch to the throat, a kick to the ribs, a quick disarm— he left them crumpled in his wake, barely sparing them a second glance. 

The Codex was clutched tightly in his hand. The dark obsidian surface shone with rain. Every time some stupid guard tried to grab it, he twisted away, taking them down before they could make a move. Like the big burly men were some flies he needed to flick away. 

He was there, he was at the inner sanctum now. He was breathing hard and his gaze deathly. His focus never wavering.

The room where you were being held was flanked by at least ten guards. They stiffened at the sight of Jungwon, their weapons raised. But the sight of his gaze and rigid form struck fear into their hearts. 

Jungwon didn’t slow down. “Get out of my way,” he growled out. His voice was low, dangerous, and shaking with rage.

The guards still stupidly didn’t budge. 

Jungwon lifted the artifact that they all were after up high. “If you idiots don’t move. I’ll destroy this thing right here and now.” 

The threat worked. The guards exchanged glances. Debating if they should really move and face Lloyd’s wrath or Jungwon’s. One of them moved and the others followed. Their eyes showed uncertainty but watching Jungwon move swiftly they knew they would have been done for if they hadn’t. 

Jungwon almost broke the heavy wooden door down, his heart pounding as his eyes immediately sought you.

The room was dim, the occasional burst of lightning illuminating it. It was freezing cold and Jungwon observed how there were no guards inside. You were on your knees in the center of the room. Your hands tied behind your back in a rough grip that would leave your wrists red. Your hair was damp still, plastered to your forehead. But your expression remained fierce. Your head held high despite the position you were in. You refused to give in to Lloyd no matter what.

Your heart leaped in frustration and unbelievable relief as Jungwon burst through the door. It was so damn frustrating that he had done this, risked his life and the lives of so many others just for… you. Only for you. You couldn’t help but observe how rigid his form was. The moment he lifted his head to look at Lloyd, it scared you. You had never seen him this uncontrolled, this angry. 

Lloyd was stood behind you with a gun pressed to the back of your head. His face split into a wicked, wide, mocking grin as Jungwon entered the room. The Codex sparkling blue in his grip.

“Well well,” he drawled, his voice oozing amusement. “The knight in shining armor returns. I must admit, I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back for your little girlfriend.”

Jungwon’s gaze was locked on you. His fury only heightened once he saw how Lloyd was holding you at gunpoint. He shook his head as he straightened up. “You don’t understand what I’d do for her.” he said his voice barely audible but full of anger.

“Jungwon!! NO!!!” you shouted, finding your voice once again. “You shouldn’t be here!! Take the Codex and go!!” The shout made your bullet wound in your abdomen sting with unbearable pain, as you gritted your teeth.

Lloyd chuckled, amused by the little display. He menacingly nudged the barrel of the gun into your skull. “Listen to her boy. She’s smarter than you are.”

Jungwon ignored the both of you. His expression was hard, no one could tell what ran through his mind. His focus was entirely you. The grip he had on the Codex tightened. “Let her go, Lloyd!” 

Lloyd almost laughed. He raised his eyebrows “and what position are you in to make that demand? Besides, why would I do that?? She’s quite the leverage. You hand over the Codex, or I blow her pretty little brains out.”

“Jungwon!!” you said in a warning tone, a certain urgency in your voice. “Don’t. Don’t give it to him. It’s not worth it. I did this so you could escape!! SO GO DAMMIT!!”

Jungwon’s heart clenched at the barely masked fear in your voice. His mind still pissed that you cared more about the stupid artifact more than yourself. How could you be so blind? You had to have known. To Jungwon, nothing mattered but you. “You want the Codex? Fine. Take it.”

“Jungwon no!!!” You yelled in vain.

He strode across the room and without hesitation, Jungwon tossed the Codex across the room. It landed at Lloyd’s feet, and the bastard’s grin widened. 

“Ah~ the hero sacrifices everything for the damsel. How predictable.” Lloyd kicked the Codex aside and turned his evil eyes toward Jungwon again. “But you’re a fool if you think this ends well for you.” 

He cocked the gun.

Jungwon moved before Lloyd could even think to pull the trigger. 

With lightning speed, he lunged forward, grabbing a knife from his belt and throwing it with deadly accuracy. His fury at its peak, his vision completely red. The blade sank into Lloyd’s shoulder, forcing him to drop the gun and stagger back with a howl of pain. 

You fell forward as the gun was wrenched away from him, landing hard on the cold stone tiles. 

Jungwon couldn’t see anything but rage. He was already on Lloyd, tackling him to the ground and landing a flurry of punches. The sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed through the empty chamber. The only other sounds being Lloyd’s groaning and Jungwon’s labored breathing.

“THIS IS FOR HER!!” Jungwon growled loudly, slamming Lloyd’s head into the floor. The crack of his skull was loud and clear, but Jungwon didn’t seem to hear it. “For all the people you’ve made suffer. For everyone you’ve hurt. For everything you’ve done!” 

Lloyd was done. He was lifeless, his body limp but Jungwon didn’t stop. Jungwon didn’t think of any intel, of what use he could have been. All he could think of was slamming his skull into the floor over and over and-

“Jungwon stop!” your voice cut through his haze of rage.

His eyes seemed to finally refocus as the anger slowly dissipated. His heart clenched when he looked over his shoulder at how you were struggling to your feet, your hands still bound. 

“He’s done..” you said in a soft whisper. “We need to go.” 

Jungwon’s chest heaved as he stared down at Lloyd, who was lifeless. After he scowled at him, his eyes narrowing, he nodded and stood. Pocketing the gun that laid close to Lloyd. He picked up the damned Codex before making his way towards you.

No words were exchanged between the two of you as Jungwon untied your hands with surprising gentleness. Considering how angry he had just been it was astonishing how he handled you like a porcelain doll. The moment that your hands were free, you threw your arms around him, burying your face into his strong chest. You felt an inexplicable amount of relief and warmth as you were finally able to wrap your arms around him once again.

“You… you’re an idiot, Yang Jungwon.” you whispered, your voice shaking as Jungwon felt you wet his jacket that he wore. He hugged you back tightly. His hands wrapped around your whole body as he pulled you close to him. You cursed as the pain shot up in your abdomen once more.

He immediately pulled back as his hands rested carefully on your hips, “___?? What’s wrong?” he said with big boba eyes that showed nothing but concern. 

“I’m okay won, just got shot.” you told him, the smile on your face looking like an idiotic grin. The tears still shone bright in your eyes. You ran your fingers through his soft locks as your eyes darted trying to memorize every single detail of his beautiful face.

“Just???-” he was about to tell you off, when the door flew open. The remaining guards poured into the room, guns drawn and shouting commands in Russian. 

You and Jungwon immediately broke apart, your instincts kicking in. Jungwon reached for Lloyd’s gun in his pocket while you ducked behind him, your sharp eyes scanning for an opening.

“We’re not out of this yet,” Jungwon muttered, his tone laced with a mixture of irritation and exhilaration.

You smirked at him despite the chaos. The dynamic between you two undeniably felt right again, “thought you liked dramatic exits.”

Jungwon tilted his head, just barely dodging a bullet that whizzed past. “That I do.” 

Jungwon fired a few warning shots wildly into the air. Forcing the guards to take cover as the two of you darted for the hallway. The storm still raged outside but there was a hint of blue skies not too far from the gray clouds. Thunder rumbled as the pair of you sprinted through the sprawling mansion. The ache in your abdomen was still present but you could bear it, because the taste of freedom was too sweet. 

“You could’ve reminded me about the cavalry!” Jungwon called out over his shoulder as you rounded a corner, narrowly avoiding another group of guards. 

You scoffed, breathless but focused. “I didn’t think you would be stupid enough to actually throw the Codex to Lloyd, but here we are.”

Jungwon laughed, his sweet stupid laugh. It rang out in your ears the sweetest melody you’d ever heard. “Anything for you babe! You know that.”

You couldn't afford the butterflies raging within you, but god you couldn’t stop them either. Just like the foolish grin that spread across your face. 

The hallways seemed endless, a labyrinth of opulent decor and deadly ambushes. Guards spilled out from doorways, but you and Jungwon moved in a seamless unit. You kicked a marble bust, sending it crashing into the path of the pursuers, while Jungwon threw his knife that found its mark in another guard’s leg.

Finally, the mansion’s main entrance came into view, its grand double doors flanked by a pair of guards. You didn’t slow down one bit though, your mind racing. You didn’t have a plan sure, but you had Jungwon and his killer instinct. “Left or right?” you hissed at Jungwon.

“Both,” his eyes twinkled as he veered right.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the burst of joy as you saw the look in his eyes. You darted to the left, sliding low as you kicked one guard’s feet out from under him. Jungwon tackled the other, knocking his weapon away before landing a solid punch to his jaw.

The doors were pushed open by the two of you as the storm had seemed to ease up a bit. Rain still softly pelted you as you bolted down the stone steps toward the row of motorcycles parked outside. You flipped off the estate in the background, the grin not leaving your face. “HA!! You bastards!!” 

You let out a breathless laugh as the two of you mounted the Kawasaki Ninjas. You grinned at Jungwon, for the first time in a while feeling the thrill of freedom and success. “How’d you know I’d have these ready?”

Jungwon revved the engine, smirking at you, “Because you’re you.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means you're crazy detailed and brilliant as hell.” 

Your stomach flipped at the unexpected sincerity in his tone, but there was no time to dwell on it. The two of you sped off into the night. Kicking back gravel and mud in your wake. Shots were being fired into the air but you were too far from the estate to worry about any of that. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The cool night air softly tousled your hair. The two roaring engines fell silent as the bikes came to a stop at a beach by the road. The two of you were far off the path of the storm and far enough away that Lloyd’s men weren’t catching up anytime soon. The air was biting at your skin but still it was calm. The only sound was the rhythmic crashing of the waves. The scene in front of you was truly breathtaking. Gray sands giving away to dark waves. Except the fact that the waves weren’t as black as they seemed. On occasion as some of them crashed onto the shore, they lit up to be an azure blue. Bioluminescence graced the waves curves and foam. 

You had time to think. And while on the ride here you contemplated. Jungwon had done something foolish that had no guarantee of working out. But by some godly will it did. You couldn’t help but be just a bit pissed that you risked your life for him just for him to save you in the end. There was a small part of you that said to tell him off for it. Now that you were past the rush of adrenaline you could think clearly once more. 

Jungwon had hopped off the bike shaking the water out of his hair. You couldn’t help but stop and stare for a second as he looked angelic. The moonlight illuminated his pale skin and the moon itself shone bright in his eyes. It’s like he was struck by the beauty of the moon. His broad shoulders tensed when he looked at you. Standing with your arms crossed and an unreadable expression on your face. 

“I hope you know I’m not letting you off the hook. That was stupid what you did.” You say trying to sound stern but there was no real bite to your voice. 

“I heard you loud and clear the first time.” He said with a chuckle leaning casually on his bike. 

You huffed at his nonchalant attitude as you strode towards him. You poked his chest hard. “You threw the Codex at Lloyd like a fool! Do you realize how reckless that was?? You-“

“Saved your life?” He interrupted. His hand laced his fingers with yours as he leaned in closer. His voice dropped to something deeper, more serious.

You were frozen in place. It’s like your brain shut off once again when his hand was grasped in yours. He was way too close too. You could see the soft shadows so his eyelashes and his deep dimple poked out as he smirked. You opened your mouth to say something but the words died on your lips. He was right, he had saved your life. Again. You hated when he was right- you were supposed to be the smart one. You stared at him as your heart pounded for reasons you couldn’t entirely blame on anger. 

“You put the entire world in danger,” you whispered, as if saying anything louder would break this perfect moment. “For me.”

His smirk softened into a smile as he brought his other hand up. Tucking a piece of damp hair behind your ear. His hand lingered for just a moment too long. He stared at you with so many emotions you couldn’t decipher them all. “Baby… you are my world.”

Your breath hitched. You were rendered completely speechless. The only sound was the waves beating on the shore and the thump of your heartbeat. The petname, the way his hand was still in yours, the way his eyes softened just for you. You didn’t think anymore, letting your instincts take over. Just like he would have done.

You grabbed him by the collar of his jacket as you stared into his moonlit eyes before your gaze landed on his lips. You shoved him against the side of his parked bike.

“You’re impossible.” You muttered, but the way your lips twitched threatening a smile betrayed your resolve. 

“And you love it” jungwon managed to shoot back. His grin faltered the moment you pulled him down by his collar. 

Your lips met in a collision of fire and fury, a kiss born of unspoken emotions and pent-up tension. It wasn’t soft or tentative; it was deep, desperate, and raw. The way your mouths moved in sync like they were trying to make up for lost time. The kiss was sure and firm. 

His lips were soft, plump, and pillowy just as you had remembered them. You couldn’t lie and say that you hadn’t missed him. The way he slightly smiled into the kiss. His tongue darting out to trace the outline of your lower lip.

His hands found your waist. Making sure to be extra careful that he didn’t irritate the wound on your abdomen. But the way he slightly tightened his grip when his tongue finally entered your mouth, he was holding on like you might slip away again if he lets go.

Your hands were in his dark and damp locks as your knuckles curled around his soft hair. You tugged slightly, earning a low groan from him that vibrated against your mouth. The sound makes shivers run down your spine. 

You pressed him harder against the bike. Your body molded to his in a way that felt like you were trying to crawl into his skin. His hands roamed over your back as he traced soft patterns, grounding you like an anchor in the moment.

“Jungwon-“ you whined when he pulled away for a breath. The sound only made him cup your cheek as he angled your head while he went in again. You couldn’t resist whimpering against his mouth when he caressed your cheeks with so much tenderness you could melt. 

It wasn’t just a kiss— it was a release, a declaration, an unspoken promise. The world faded into the background, nothing seeming to matter more than the two of you right now. It only left the two of you, connected in a way that felt inevitable. 

When you finally pulled apart, your breaths came in ragged gasps. Your forehead rested against his and your hands remained on his shoulder. You looked into his eyes. And you knew this was right, you’d never felt anything more intense than this. You needed Jungwon and the way he stared right back at you, you knew he needed you too.

“You drive me up a wall Jungwon. Don’t ever scare me like that again.” You whispered. Your voice breaking.

Jungwon chuckled softly as he ran his thumb over your cheek with love in his eyes. His own breathing uneven, “no promises.”

You stayed like that for a few moments. Wrapped up in each other. Just enjoying the other’s presence and touch. But you stepped back slowly, your hands trailing down Jungwon’s built chest before falling to your sides. Your gaze dropped to the object that stuck out of his pocket— the Phantom Codex, its dark, intricate surface glinting in the moonlight. 

You slipped it out of his pocket. Staring at some stupid piece of tech that almost ruined your life and the lives of many more innocent people. The blue hue that it exuded along with the faint whisper of the symbols moving were almost trying to convince you to stop. But without hesitation you held it up in the air before slamming it against the asphalt with all your strength. 

It was done. The Codex shattered into a million pieces, shards scattering across the sand. The sound echoed briefly before being swallowed by the night. 

You straightened your posture as you turned to Jungwon. It was gone. Your sister was free and Mrs. Kwon’s evil plan had come to a halt. Your eyes were a mix of joy, fierceness, and determination. 

“It’s over.” You stated simply.

Jungwon nodded, a small, proud smile tugging at his lips. He slipped his hand on your shoulder as he pulled you close once again. His lips brushed against the crown of your head. “It is.”

You had to gasp softly as the horizon began to blush with the first rays of dawn. Jungwon’s arm fell as he stared in awe at the world slowly emerging once again from the embrace of the night. The golden light stretched over the waves, illuminating the water in hues of pink and gold. The storm had long passed, and the gentle breeze carried the salty tang of the sea. The world was quiet, peaceful. 

You felt the breeze nip at your skin as you hugged your arms around yourself. Jungwon noticed and he silently draped his jacket over your shoulders. You glanced at him, your lips curving into a small smile you didn’t bother hiding. 

“You’re really laying it on thick aren’t you?” You teased, still pulling the jacket closer. 

“Can you blame me?” Jungwon replied with a grin. He stepped closer to you standing by your side with his hands in his pocket like he wasn’t just making out with you a minute ago. “It’s not everyday I get to watch the sunrise with the love of my life who happens to be the woman who also saved the world.”

You tried to hide your blush but it crept up on you anyway. Your smile softened as your gaze returned to the horizon. The rising sun painting your face with warmth. You looked like you were glowing to Jungwon. But even with the warmth your thoughts were heavy. “We didn’t save the world- there is no saving it. We just stopped it from getting worse.”

“Same difference,” Jungwon said lightly. “And we’re not done yet.”

You nodded, your eyes scanning the open sea that stretched in front of you. “We’re on the run now. The agency won’t stop hunting us”

Jungwon smirked. Hid confident aura returning, “let them try princess. We’ve outsmarted Lloyd and destroyed the Codex. What’s a few corporate nerds?”

You rolled your eyes but you couldn’t suppress the laugh that escaped your lips. “You really don’t know how to take anything seriously, do you?”

“Not true,” he said, stepping even closer as his voice softened,. “I take us seriously.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked away desperately trying to hide the blush and idiotic  grin that threatened to break. “Don’t get all sappy on me now.”

“Too late.” He grinned , reaching out to brush some hair out of your face. “____, we’re free now. No rules, no lies, no one pulling the strings but us. We can make a real difference, fight the way we want to fight.”

Your expression shifted, the weight of his words settling over you. For years, you had operated within a system that used people like tools. Simply sacrificing lives for power plays. Now, standing here with the man who had saved you from danger and yourself multiple times, you felt the stirrings of something your prior life hasn’t allowed: hope. 

The sun crept higher. It’s light washing away the remnants of the night, and with it, the shadows of your past.

“If we are going into this chaotic world of crime, corrupt organizations, and horrible people. I’m glad you’re the one I’m doing this with.” Jungwon said suddenly. 

You could hear your heart beating in your ears as you grinned like an idiot. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me Jungwon.” You wrapped your arms around his neck as you took him in again.

“No one I’d rather be with,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. 

everyone always told you that you had terrible luck. this applied to most things: friendships, competitions, meeting a friend’s parents, even.

but love? oh, love was where it stung. this was somehow more painful than everything else, because while you could flaunt at least one instance where a friendship didn’t explode in your face, or a parent actually liked you, or you won a gold star—you could never say you hit it off with a guy, ever.

perhaps the men of this generation were simply too terrible for this to ever be a matter of luck. it felt more like a rigged casino: every bet placed in good faith, every hand played carefully, and still you walked away lighter, bled dry all the same.

you weren’t desperate. no. far from it. you did everything right. you waited, chose the boys who made you feel safe instead of reckless, who offered steadiness instead of the dizzy thrill everyone else swore by. you could say, with a quiet sense of pride, that you followed the rules and played it by the book. hell, even after all that, every guy’s true colours somehow emerged victorious by the end of it: they just want sex, sex, or sex.

the truth was that deep down, you didn’t want anything to do with it. even if it was indeed the sexiest, biggest, smartest guy on campus… there was only one guy you set your sights on. just one, with the light brown hair and charming smile, shooting hoops at the basketball court by the cafeteria—lee heeseung.

though, the problem was simple: you’d never actually talked to the guy. this could’ve been easily solved if you shared even one class, but of course, he’d signed up late—every elective already full, while you, being the good student you are, had locked your choices in the moment the portal opened.

the second solution, proposed by oh jiwon herself, was rejected the instant it left her mouth. you were sprawled in her dorm room on a normal saturday night—you, legs spread indecently across the tiny couch she’d smuggled past security in first year, and her, upside down on the bed, hair brushing the floor.

“why don’t you just bump into him and knock all his books down?” she muttered, teeth chomping down on a stack of (probably) expired bbq-xtra-hot chips.

oh, heeeell no. what the fuck was this? a poorly produced drama plotline?

“was he born yesterday?”

the third option, though, felt a little more… dignified. it came to you on a random thursday evening, when the rain felt a little too heavy and you were wishing that lee heeseung would swoop in and hold a $5 umbrella over your heads.

replaying the events of the day in your head as your boots sloshed in muddy puddles, kim sunoo’s annoyingly pretty face comes into view.

“the fundraiser’s gonna be so busy this year, gosh…”

yes. indeed, it will.

the annual fundraiser organised by the student relations club. you remembered being ridiculously excited for it last year—around the same time you’d first started noticing heeseung. after some careful “asking around”, you’d learned he was attending, too. and, as if the universe was personally apologising to you for your tragic love life: he was trying his luck at the blind date booth.

what a sweet guy. donating his hard-earned money to charity and putting himself out there? he had your heart in his hands, and you came to understand that his was the target of many others.

so, it was obvious what had to be done. you signed up the moment sunoo—thank the angels for him—let the information slip. it’s nothing short of fate that you shared an elective with him; it took a bit of coaxing and more than a few judgmental looks, but by that sunny wednesday afternoon, good had prevailed in the world.

it’s safe to say you did not get lee heeseung as your date. instead, you endured a miserable twenty-minute speed dinner listening to a stranger ramble about his league rank. ou’d never been more thoroughly turned off in your life.

but this year?

this year, it will be different.

─────────────────────────

the house smells like weed and alcohol, and also everything that you should not be doing on a thursday night. you got the call from jiwon in the middle of your assignment, head half buried in your hands as the glow from the laptop screen burned your retinas—it’s twelve midnight now, and you have class in eight hours, but the impending sleep deprivation still beats handing in sloppy work.

the house belongs to the frat heeseung’s in. sigma alpha eta, if you remembered correctly. it’s three stories tall, tacky, and reeks of soju and everything wrong with the male species. you’re not even sure if the place ever gets cleaned, but considering it’s full of rich mama’s boys, they’ve probably hired someone to deal with the mess for them.

“what the fuck is going on?”

oh jiwon’s staring at you like you’re the one who dragged her here. you scan the room for no one in particular (lie), and when you turn back—

she’s gone.

“who’s ready to party?!”

the dj is embarrassingly bad. like, physically painful to listen to. the bass is cranked up so high it rattles the floorboards, vibrating straight through your bones. you cringe, already picturing the culprit: some frat guy who bought a $100 mixing set off amazon last week and now calls himself “up and coming”.

everyone you know seems to be here. you’d brushed shoulders with ahn yunjin and danielle on the way in, only to watch them dart toward the porch with a joint already lit.

you snake your way through narrow hallways packed wall-to-wall—overlapping conversations, smoke blown straight into your face, bodies pressing in from every side as you aim for the kitchen. instead, you stumble into the living room. leather couches are occupied by unconscious adults—drunk, high, or some lethal combination of both—bathed in warm overhead light that all but promises brutal hangovers tomorrow.

it seems like the party started long before you got here. where the hell did your jiwon go, anyway?

your feet start to move again, carrying you mindlessly through the first floor—you cross the hallway, take a turn into another doorway, and finally stumble upon the kitchen; it’s less crowded, with fewer drunk people and comparably quiet in contrast to whatever’s waiting for you outside the threshold of that door. your eyes are hesitant, oddly enough, though you know why.

parties like this usually mean hookups. and when hookups are involved, lee heeseung is the first name that comes to mind. the guy’s practically a walking target—especially in his own frat house, swarming with every girl who’s been blessed enough to know the name.

this whole situation feels like a ticking time bomb. your chest tightens. how long before someone else gets to him? how long before you turn a corner and see his face buried in someone else’s neck? 10 minutes? 10 seconds?

“hellooooo!”

and as fast as the thoughts come, they go; head snapping toward the sound, locking onto oh fucking jiwon—standing there, smiling innocently, as if she hadn’t abandoned you to die in the crowd.

“where the fuck have you been?” you sigh, hands running through your hair, like you’d just spent a whole day looking for her. to be fair, time moves weirdly in places like this.

“refilling!” she hiccups. “see?” she tips her red cup to show a dubious mix of jack and coke.

she’s tipsy—no surprise there. jiwon’s always been a lightweight. still, she manages to wobble over and hop onto the marble island, scooting back until her legs dangle comfortably. she looks down at you with glassy, sparkly eyes.

“sooo… heeseung’s place, huh? didn’t know their frat was so fancy. they literally have wine older than my grandparents in here.”

you roll your eyes and drag a stool out from under the island. it screeches against the tile, making you wince, before you climb up onto it.

“you’ve been snooping in their alcohol?” you giggle, shaking your head in mock disapproval. you’ll have to look through it later, too. “you’re a shit guest.”

“guest is always right!” jiwon babbles, before abruptly sneezing. the action makes you flinch. “oh… sorry. anyways,”

you cross your arms, waiting. she’s halfway to blackout, but you humor her anyway.

“fundraiser!” she slurs. “heeseung’s in the pantry. think he’s lookin’ for chips. i dunno. he was with sunghoon, and then i ran into him while lookin’ for more soju—”

and it’s like the universe wants to show you how much it wants you to stay in this lifetime, as a form of divine mercy, or something similar to an apology, because lee heeseung slides the pantry door open and waltzes right out with chips tucked under his armpit, as he munches on something else. your eyes follow him, and so does everyone else’s, and naturally they trail towards the slightly shorter man behind him.

park sunghoon. the guy with the ridiculously sharp, thick eyebrows, a staring problem, and close to half of the campus’s female population wanting to lick his boots. there’s often two responses to the question ‘who’s the cutest guy on campus’, and many of your peers often utter one or the other: heeseung, or his colder counterpart, sunghoon.

you took an economics class with him last year, and thank god you didn’t hit the lottery and end up in the same group, because you’d heard… things. too many things. stories about him tearing into a girl’s work so viciously, she had to beg the professor to let her switch groups with sunoo (it’s strange, how he seemed to be in almost every class you took, now that you think about it).

you’d never talked to him, or anyone from that little group, really, aside from kim sunoo. you knew sim jaeyun was popular over in the engineering block; all brains and good looks, apparently. nishimura riki was another name you heard in passing—always surrounded by a crowd whenever he danced with his crew in some random corner with a giant mirror. as for jongseong and jungwon… you didn’t even want to think about the things people said. absolutely vile in nature.

it seems like the whole lot of them were heartthrobs, in every sense of the word.

it’s just… park sunghoon?

that guy didn’t deserve half the glowing reviews he got.

you were half convinced that if people had star ratings floating above their heads—complete with scrollable comments—he’d be inflating his own with burner emails.

park sunghoon. 5 stars. wow, this guy is sooooo hot and rich! — nothoon12345. he just looked like the kind of guy who did that kind of thing.

okay, maybe you were being a little harsh, considering you’d never actually spoken to him. still, it felt telling when even other men talked shit about him: apparently being both the most disliked and the most respected player on the ice hockey team was impressive enough to land him the captain title.

he walks a few steps behind heeseung, his own bag of chips in hand. you don’t realise you’re staring until his gaze snaps towards you as he passes—a look equal parts smug, disgusted, and painfully punchable.

“what the hell is that guy’s issue?”

“stop looking at him,” jiwon waves you off, swinging her feet. her heel accidentally thuds against the wood. “heeseung's right there.”

your eyes flick back to heeseung, now hovering near the front door, greeting the flood of people streaming in—tonight’s barely started, but somehow, you feel ten times heavier than when you walked in.

lee heeseung, leaning casually against the wall, all perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfectly charming face… and park sunghoon, just a step behind him, stiff, scanning the crowd until his gaze finally locks on you.

before you can tear your eyes away, he cocks his head and gives you a smile—all mockery, all challenge, like he just told a joke you’d never understand. you shift your weight on the stool, cross one leg over the other, but your eyes stay zeroed on him.

“i don’t like that sunghoon guy,” you mutter, dragging a hand through your hair and pretending to look elsewhere.

oh jiwon rolls her eyes, snorts, and leans her weight back on the counter. “you’d be surprised how many people wanna get in his pants—”

“don’t. talk. to. me. about. park. sunghoon’s. pants.” you snap, stabbing a finger toward her chest for emphasis—she giggles at the action, and you do, too. though your eyes flick back, just once, toward where he was.

but when you do, he’s gone. no sunghoon, no heeseung. just the occasional partygoer opening and closing doors, the sound barely registering to your ears through the shitty music.

“how have you not drank anything yet?”

“i literally just got here!”

────────────────────────

it’s one in the morning, and the party seems to be at it’s peak—there’s no one else coming through the front door, and it’s more packed than you could imagine; you’re leaning against the staircase with a cup swirling in your hands, only having taken two sips out of it. jiwon’s still next to you, chatting to a guy you’ve never seen before.

you look at him, then at her. unimpressive, if anything. you’re turning to look at your cup again and the feeling hits, sudden and sharp as it claws at your chest: you feel extremely out of place, even in a house full of people and possibility. people shove their way past you and you hold your cup tight to your chest as it happens. you barely hear anything with the laughter, chatter, and music all at once.

your eyes drift toward the window—yunjin’s with someone else; danielle must’ve left earlier. you scan the room again, half-heartedly looking for a familiar face to talk to—sunoo, maybe, even if the guy doesn’t really think you’re normal. or for park sunghoon, perhaps for some explanation as to why he’d looked at you like that earlier.

“looking for hee?”

that voice. too close. it sends shivers down your spine, every hair standing before your neck snaps to your left—jiwon’s gone, and so is that guy, instead replaced by a girl you know all too well.

she’s smiling at you with her lips curled in a way that makes your stomach drop—unsettling by its very nature. the lights strobe across her face, red and white, purple and blue, painting her in something eerie as her expression lingers, sharp and all-knowing.

“what the fuck do you want?”

she laughs softly, hands coming up to her face to cover her mouth like she’s some gentle, kind creature that’s come to save the day. kim sooha’s always been like that. ever since high school, ever since you’ve been bestowed the honour of knowing how ruthless she gets when she wants to be.

her hair falls over her face before she moves to tuck it behind her ear.

god, you want to slap her. some things never change, no matter how many years pass.

“you need to learn how to relax. you’ve been staring all night,” she sighs, leaning her back against the wall as she talks—like you two are friends, always have been—and that this is the most normal conversation ever. “you’re definitely looking for heeseung, aren’t you? i got a shortcut, if you’re interested.”

you don’t answer. you’ve learnt it’s best to shut your mouth instead of lie, because with girls like sooha, the snake always bites first.

your mind flashes, briefly, to the image of him again: light brown hair falling over his face, his genuine smile as people poured in from the front door, eyes squinting as he spots a good friend from a few feet away. your eyes had never truly left him, until you caught park sunghoon staring daggers at you right behind.

and, strangely, it’s never found him again since.

“listen, i have his number—it’ll save you a looot of trouble.”

you don’t realise you’ve turned away from her until you glance back. her smile widens as you meet her eyes—glinting with something dangerous, like this isn’t truly all there is to her offer.

kim sooha is not about goodwill and donating to charities. the charity would have to return her 110% before she could ever consider doing so; in this case, the charity seems to be you.

“what do you want?”

and it feels like you’ve just sold your soul to the damn devil with how bright her face gets. like a child on christmas morning, unwrapping a brand new toy. well—you suppose you’re a toy, too, in this.

she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, the jingle of her phone charm barely cutting through the kendrick lamar song that’s causing the floor to vibrate. you wonder how long until someone calls the cops on this place—it’s too loud, too much, and you don’t even want to think about what the second and third floor looks like right now.

“one click, and i’ll send it to you.”

you scoff, breaking the eye contact to take a sip of the peach soju in your hands. you almost roll your eyes before remembering that this was sooha you were getting in bed with—one wrong move, and she’s retracting, and you’ll be left to awkward waves and stuttered hello’s at the fundraiser three months from now.

“my jacket’s upstairs, and i need you to get it.”

if you weren’t confused before, you definitely are now.

“your fucking jacket?” you repeat, and it almost comes out as a laugh. she doesn’t think it’s funny, though, because she’s quick to fire back a response:

“i don’t want to bump into whoever you’re gonna bump into. not in the mood. consider it a gift from me,” she pokes a finger at your collarbone, “to you.”

you flinch, her sharp nail making you stumble back, just a little. her eyebrows raise as you tilt your head towards the stairs, watching you glance up and towards the flight of stairs above your heads—there’s people moving up and down, and it just doesn’t click—why not someone else?

“so… are you doing it? don’t have time to sleep on—“

you chew on the lining of your cheek. something isn’t right. she’s looking at you like she doesn’t care if her jacket actually makes it back to her—all that matters is that you fall into whatever she’s setting up.

“fine. keep your fucking word when i get back down here.”

the smile that spreads across her face makes your heart drop straight to your ass. you don’t like this—not the feeling of being a step behind, not the way it feels like she’s holding something over you.

but… like she said. it’s not as if you have a whole day to sit on your ass and think it through.

“you should know by now. i always do,” she sings, voice lilting and smug, watching as you turn away and head for the stairs. “thank you, dear [name].”

you pause at the bottom, fingers curling tighter around your cup as you glance upward. bodies move through the hallways above—laughing, stumbling, disappearing into rooms that smell like sweat, alcohol and poor decisions. the music thumps faintly through the walls, distorted here, like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to you.

your head feels light, almost dizzy, but you go anyway. one step. then another. your shoes stick slightly to the floor as you climb, each step feeling heavier than the last.

“this yours?”

your head cocks up, eyes locking onto a familiar face—park sunghoon, standing at the top of the staircase, with a leather jacket haphazardly folded into his hands. it looks expensive when it’s under this kind of light, and knowing sooha, it probably is.

“yup,” you say, the word coming out more clipped than you intend. reluctant, wary—but who the hell could blame you? the guy who’s been staring all psycho and weird, treating you like an out-of-earth entity is holding onto the one thing you need to finish this amazing deal. “thank you!”

he’s tall. towering. with you two steps below him, he’s giving himself a stiff neck just looking at you. his face gives nothing away—not surprise, barely any curiosity, perhaps slight irritation. more than anything, there’s that unreadable calm, like he’s not only three steps ahead of whatever this is, but also skies above it.

your arms reach out to grab it from him, but sunghoon’s quick to retract his hand. he dangles it in front of you, an eyebrow raised, still staring as if you were some kind of odd specimen—you blink a few times, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“i’d watch out if i were you.”

his voice is low, nearly lost beneath the bass thudding through the floor below. it’s flat enough that it barely registers as a voice at all.

but just why the hell is he telling you this? park sunghoon’s talking like he knows kim sooha personally.

really, if you had to pick between the two of you… you’d have to consider yourself the expert.

“o… kay?” you mouth, the word barely audible over the bass thrumming through the walls.

for a moment longer, he just looks at you, then lowers the jacket into your hands. you don’t manage to thank him, because you’re turning around before you can even utter another word.

nothing else matters right now. you’re praying that by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, sooha will be there—phone in hand, ready to send those digits your way, just like she promised.

though, even if she isn’t, you’re not entirely sure what you’d do about it. there’s no backup plan. you’re definitely not asking sunoo—because you’re not an idiot with a weird obsession with lee heeseung (lie), and you’re not that desperate to talk to him (lie), enough to corner one of his closest friends and expose yourself completely (truth).

well… you guess you’ve already done so by poking around about the fundraiser, but his number is crossing the line. apparently.

you square your shoulders and keep walking, clinging to the thought that this will all be worth it once lee heeseung’s finally a button away, instead of thirty meters and 6 men apart.

“you’re quick with it,” sooha yells over the song playing, now a remix of some chainsmokers single. roses, a classic, which also means people are starting to get oddly energetic despite it reaching two in the morning.

you watch her eyes flick down to her phone, the screen lighting up her face as she brings it to her chest—typing, swiping, pausing just long enough to be irritating—until your own phone vibrates against the back pocket of your shorts.

“thanks a bunch, y/n.” she says lightly. “always so obedient.”

your jaw tightens. you don’t bother responding—just thrust the jacket into her abdomen, harder than necessary. kim sooha doesn’t take it personally, she never does. the flare of your nostrils, the way your fingers curl like you’re holding yourself back—that’s more than enough to make her night.

a sweet, disingenuous smile blooms across your face, as if to say: ‘no problem, bitch.’

she slips past you, shoulders barely brushing, already headed for the front door. just before she disappears, you catch it—the smudged eyeshadow, the eyeliner dragged unevenly beneath her eyes, foundation streaked down her cheeks like she hasn’t bothered to check herself in a mirror.

for a fraction of a second, you find yourself worrying—for her, and for yourself. you’ve never once seen sooha with makeup this (for lack of a better word) bad; she’s always immaculate, flawless, even if that bruises your ego to admit out loud.

which means there are only two possibilities: she’s just fucked someone and realised, far too late, what a mistake it was—or her heart has just been torn into a million tiny, irreparable pieces.

you don’t take much time to dwell on it, before you tear your eyes away from sooha’s figure slowly fading into the distance. her boots clack against the concrete pavement before it comes to a stop, and for a moment, she just stands—until a car pulls up and she ducks her head to fit into it.

what the hell was that?

the front door slams shut from someone else pulling it closed, the sound cutting clean through the music, and your head turns instinctively toward the staircase.

park sunghoon.

the second floor is quieter, stripped of the flashing colours and strobe lights below. in that softer, warmer glow, park sunghoon comes sharply into focus.

he’s leaning over the railing, forearms bearing his weight. an empty soju bottle hangs loosely from his hand, head bowed, expression obscured by shadow—almost like he’s staring straight down at you.

he’s annoyingly gorgeous. his side profile is so lethal that you think if not for his shitty attitude and tendency to stare at everyone sideways, he’d be a model.

you catch yourself wishing he’d just fuck off and do that instead.

your breath catches in your throat. you’re not really sure why—but your body makes the decisions for you tonight, thoughts of sunghoon quickly dissolving as fast as they invaded, feet carrying you toward the front door.

sleek wood and cold metal doorknobs in all their unassuming glory. it’s an exit. a way out of the noise, the lights, and the man upstairs who feels far too aware of your existence.

you move. fluid, deliberate, like this was always the plan.

sunghoon’s gaze tracks you as you slip through the crowd, hair brushing shoulders, bodies pressing in too close. the lights repaint you with every step—pink, purple, red—until you glance back once, just for a second, and the colours smear into something unreadable.

when you finally cross the threshold of the front door, your body is hit with cold wind; unsurprisingly, there’s scattered groups of people across the front yard, smoking and drinking in their quiet bubbles. you inhale the relatively cleaner air, deep, slow, until it settles in your lungs and you’re spared from the remnants of vape flavours and fruity alcohol.

the music dulls behind you, but the vibrations still reach your feet nonetheless.

you sigh, a hand dragging through your hair, before you make your way towards a stone pillar, only to lean your weight against it. you didn’t realise how quiet it could be, after almost two hours in that god forsaken party—the quiet chatter doesn’t make your head spin out here and the occasional laugh isn’t as annoying as the screams inside.

that’s when you see him.

lee heeseung—smoking—with that guy from engineering. jake sim.

the cigarette is pinched between his fingers, and he takes slow drags like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this messy, overgrown scene. jake’s rambling beside him, hands flying as he retells some story you can’t hear, and heeseung just nods along, offering the occasional laugh that reassures his friend that he finds it equally as funny.

everything feels slowed down. time is suspended. his hair slips into his eyes, and every now and then he shakes his head, a small, unconscious motion to clear his vision.

this is kind of creepy. you’re watching lee heeseung smoke at two in the morning from his front porch. you, a year ago, wouldn’t have believed this even if someone swore on it.

okay. that’s enough. you’re leaving—immediately.

but not before you bring your phone to your face—the blue light stings, almost burns your retinas. you blink hard once, twice, until the haze clears. your thumb swipes into your messages.

kim sooha has kept her word.

sooha (do not reply): +82-xx-xxxx-xxxx 01:53

sooha (do not reply): enjoy yourself! <3 01:53

bitch.

you add the contact while lee heeseung is still laughing in your peripheral vision, smoke curling into the dark, completely unaware that—through totally legitimate and ethical means—he’s now a button away.

─────────────────────────

park sunghoon was not interested in love.

this was, somehow, a known fact across campus.

anyone could guess by that stoic look on his face and that gigantic duffle bag he drags around everywhere, that the man couldn’t be paid a million dollars to be locked down—that’s what so little time and too many (non-romantic) commitments does to you.

mondays were the gym. tuesdays, practice. wednesdays, rest. thursdays, practice again. fridays, the gym, and a night run. saturdays and sundays, practice too. he was surprised he even had time to fit kim sooha into his schedule, though, it was not as often as she preferred.

okay, he admits it was just sex—but an hour or two once or twice a week was already cutting it close.

sunghoon was an ex-figure skater turned ice hockey player, so it was clear what the future held for him: he’s talented, rich, disciplined, a genius—the world was his oyster. everyone around him was in his court.

who would he be if he let someone make the rules for him?

you see: park sunghoon couldn’t be bothered with the girls throwing themselves at him, or the ones who acted shy. in his eyes, it all ended the same.

they wanted more. he couldn’t give more. he didn’t want to give more.

kim sooha was no different. of course she wasn’t—park sunghoon couldn’t deny it, because she fit the stereotype of every girl who’d ever wanted him: bashful, a little self-deprecating, and far too clingy.

at least he had been decent enough to tell her that sex was all it would ever be, and all he could afford to give. but what do you know (park sunghoon always knows), someone ends up wanting more.

the night of the party, around ten, sunghoon found himself holed up in his bedroom trying to finish up a paper before the house had started swarming with people. one moment he’s typing, fingers mashing away at his keyboard as the words flow flawlessly, perfectly, and his mind occasionally drifts to the grade he’d get for this assignment. nothing less than 100, of course. he wouldn’t expect anything less from himself.

“hoon!”

and his genius flow is disrupted by none other than jake, peeking his head from behind the doorway, with an idiotic smile painted across his glowing face.

“what do you want?” sunghoon mutters, head turning back to the screen of his laptop. jake sim’s prsesence usually meant the message wasn’t all that important—if it was, it’d be jungwon up here instead. “i’m busy.”

“sooha’s here,” he says. “she wants to see you.”

sunghoon kisses his teeth in annoyance, solely out of instinct, an action which jake pretends not to notice. it only irritates sunghoon even more, really—he’d rather jake just be honest with him, instead of pretending to be polite just for the sake of being polite. he knows better than anyone that all of his brothers hate when kim sooha is around, and that hiding it won’t convince park sunghoon otherwise.

for varying reasons.

he recalls that one dinner two weeks ago, when jay told sunghoon to ‘do a better job at shutting sooha up’. he could barely eat the rest of his food.

“please don’t send her up here. i’ll be downstairs soon,” and jake is almost ready to turn his pretty face right around and back downstairs to help set up the speakers, before sunghoon asks: “why is she even here?”

“hey, you’re the one fucking her, man.” jake shrugs, before he turns around for the final time. sunghoon’s face morphs into one of disgust, weirdly fast, even though the statement isn’t exactly false—still, it doesn’t stop him from wanting to crawl into a hole and die.

there’s something wrong with him. he can’t deny the sex was good, and yes, kim sooha was gorgeous… but commitment? staying? forever? that was different.

he remembers when yang jungwon had a girlfriend. those were not good times. definitely. the guy refused to leave his bedroom for two days after they broke it off—and sunghoon, as much as he cared for poor jungwon, couldn’t stop thinking about how two days meant two lifetimes of missed productivity.

just how much of an asshole could he be?

so, that’s precisely why he settles for sex. a dopamine hit to get himself off edge, so he’s ready to stretch himself thin all over again.

lee heeseung says it’s not healthy, but what the hell would he know? he’s too busy drowning in love letters, home-baked cookies, and instagram requests to understand why this is the best option out of any presented to him. the golden boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about—the only reason he even bothers giving advice is because of the one, maybe two girlfriends he had in first year, which he seems to think qualifies him as an expert in sweet, innocent, and healthy love.

park sunghoon doesn’t even have instagram. it’s a waste of time.

why the fuck doesn’t he get cookies, anyway? why don’t girls approach him just to talk, instead of trying to grind on his crotch at parties? why doesn’t he have someone sweet and steady, sitting in the stands and watching his games—wiping his tears when he plays like shit, or being the first one he looks for when he scores an amazing shot?

never mind the way he takes their hand and leads them upstairs. never mind how easily he leans into a stranger’s touch and lets himself pretend it means something. never mind that he’s learned to let names slip past him, unheard, while his gaze drifts instead to the shape of their lips.

never mind all of it.

he tells himself it’s circumstantial—something inevitable, something learnt. that he would be different, could be different, if the world around him didn’t demand this version of him in return.

lee heeseung gets to commit. he gets to feel it all—the highs, the warmth, the quiet safety of having someone stay, and he makes it out unscathed, unhurt. he gets to ground himself in knowing that she won’t walk out of that door when shit hits the fan, too—fuck, he doesn’t know anything at all.

footsteps thud from the hallway, but he knows it’s just jay and riki shifting furniture around—boards scraping, chairs sliding—enough to rattle the plaster on the walls. jake’s voice cuts through the mess, yelling at heeseung to find the extra loud speakers jungwon had “borrowed” for his own use. somewhere upstairs, sunoo’s probably napping, blissfully unaware of the chaos below.

sunghoon doesn’t mind. five people are more than enough to handle party prep, and he refuses to be dragged into it. the music, the clatter, the erratic shouts—it all feels like someone else’s life, a background noise he doesn’t need to claim.

instead, up here, he can focus on what matters: finishing his paper, keeping his head down, staying untangled in this mess that’s about to spill over the entire house in about an hour.

he leans back against the leather of his chair, shoulders finally relaxing, and lets his gaze wander over the room. the house smells like air freshener, a somewhat helpful idea proposed by riki, but the sharp tang in his nose makes him grit his teeth.

for the first time that evening, he almost smiles at the absurdity of it all, the chaos of his brothers trying to pull off another last-minute party. he knows it’ll all work out fine, and that this will be the talk of campus until it fizzles out in two weeks, but it’s still ridiculous how these people never learn to plan ahead.

he remembers the last party sigma alpha eta threw—someone broke a table, then went swimming naked in the pool. safe to say, jake and him had to track the culprit down the next morning and demand the funds to get it cleaned.

“hoonie?”

a soft click from the front door snaps him out of his thoughts.

he knows exactly who it is.

kim sooha. standing by the dark frame of his door, dressed in something that would’ve had him weak in the knees if he was some random horny loser—skirt smooth, tight against her skin, a leather jacket framing her small body. it’s too bad that he doesn’t give two shits, though.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” she announces, voice sharp yet playful, as if she owns the room that sunghoon’s made his. it irks him.

she leans against the doorframe, one hip jutting out, arms crossed with a face so smug that it makes him want to flip her off. “so, i came early. just to… check in.”

he looks back at the screen of his laptop, bright blue light shining in his face, and barely moves another muscle. “you know where the rules stand. i’m busy.”

“hoonie—“

“told you to stop calling me that.” sunghoon cuts her off, “i don’t need you checking on me, thanks. party’s not starting for another hour. maybe you can help them prep?”

the words land like a slap. sooha’s jaw tightens, but she forces a smile, refusing to let him see the way it stings.

she steps closer anyway, as if proximity can wear him down, break the walls that are already hardening—or climb over whatever’s already there.

“come on. it doesn’t have to be like this.” she tilts her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, “i’ve been asking you for weeks, hoon. i’ve always wanted—”

“no.” sunghoon exhales, forcefully slow, as if that’ll help him calm down. “i’ve been saying the same shit for weeks. you’re pushing me.”

she takes two steps closer, heels tapping against the shiny wood floor. the space between them closes as she leans over his desk, shadow casting over the dark oak. he feels like slamming his head into it—the bruise would be less painful than this, the sharp smell of her fruity perfume that sunghoon never bothered to register, but hates anyway now that it finally has.

he never thought he’d have to tell her that he hates the notes of citrus. it didn’t matter if she never stayed long enough to get the words out.

“hoonie,” sooha mumbles, hands bracing the surface of his table. “i thought we were getting somewhere.”

“even after i told you we weren’t?” sunghoon shifts his chair backwards, widening the gap just so he could feel like he wasn’t going to choke at the smell of her perfume. “know what? i’m done. can’t fucking draw any lines with you—“

“that’s it? we’re just—“

sunghoon’s jaw tightens, and he leans back slightly in his chair. “i said it was just sex. nothing more. if you’re begging for a hug and some kisses, go somewhere else.”

the silence hangs in the air, thick, impenetrable. for a minute, sunghoon wonders if he’s gone too far—sooha’s face falters, her sultry smile now replaced by lips that tremble before her teeth bite down on them. she nods once, slow, looking at park sunghoon like he’s driven a ten-foot pole straight through her chest, twisted it, and ripped it back out.

his eyes flick from his laptop screen to her irises. if one thing’s admirable about park sunghoon, is that if he was going to tear you to pieces, he’ll have the decency to look you in the eye.

at least, for that final word. it’s about as much emotion as he can manage.

“get out.”

so she does—nods slow, before turning on her heel, the sharp click of her shoes echoing once, twice, until it fades down the hallway.

the door shuts behind her with a quiet finality. sunghoon doesn’t watch it close.

the smell of sooha’s perfume lingers in the air, unwanted, and he feels petty for even trying to block it out. after all, they’ve shared a bed before, even if they skipped every prerequisite to get there—but it rarely ever felt worth it to him, if at all.

he’s had his fair share of women. he’s always prided himself on being honest about what he wants—in his mind, there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as everyone’s on the same page.

no promises, no expectations, yet it always ends the same way. someone always reaches for more pieces of him than he’s willing—or able—to give. pieces that have were never there to begin with.

jake tells him he’s lucky. says it with a laugh, like sunghoon should be grateful for the attention, the bodies, the ease of it all. heeseung tries to offer half-assed couch therapy, something about “opening up” and “not shutting people out,” advice sunghoon knows was pulled straight out of his ass—or worse, his tiktok feed.

god, if he wanted someone to tell him what was wrong with him, he’d just pay someone with a degree five hundred a session to do just that.

park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not. interested. in. love.

it’s inefficient—unstructured, demanding, and prone to spilling into places it doesn’t belong. it asks for time he doesn’t have, space he’s already accounted for, pieces of him that are scheduled, measured, calculated and spent elsewhere, where it should be.

he repeats it like a mantra: no one is looking at him and realizing he’s absent more than he’s present—because sooner or later, they always want more, and he’s learnt that it’s better to draw the line early than to watch disappointment set in later.

this is mercy.

but to whom, he can’t answer.

─────────────────────────

you’re not very sure where you’re going with this.

there’s a list of problems so long it could double as a grocery store receipt:

one) how do you even explain that you got lee heeseung’s number, and

two) what excuse do you have to actually talk to him?

still, you’re laid in bed, the glow from your screen washing your face in harsh white light, painting the ceiling in sharp rectangles. your eyes squint, blinking against the burn, as if staring long enough might make this whole thing less terrifying.

it’s nearing four in the morning, and you’re fairly certain the party has been over for hours—probably everyone has stumbled home or collapsed on some couch somewhere, except for you, hovering in your room like a guilty ghost.

okay, no. these are excuses, and this is you overthinking, twisting your brain into knots. once you finally text that damn number kim sooha “gifted” you—reluctantly, no less—you’ll either regret it or… regret it. either way, there’s no turning back.

you: hiiiii

creep.

you: hi

ominous…

you: is this heeseung?

too direct.

this isn’t working. your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling slightly, and the numbers stare back at you like a puzzle you’re too tired to solve. maybe, if you stare long enough, they’ll rearrange themselves into an opening line that isn’t mortifying.

though, instead of the numbers moving, your thumb does.

“shit. shit, shit, shit—“

oh, yes, your butter fingers saved you the trouble of texting him: why don’t you just fucking call him, instead? like that’s so much better, real smooth of you.

riiing. riiing. riiing.

you barely have time to process before the line goes quiet.

the silence swallows you whole—your ears ring with it. it’s the kind of quiet that makes you question if you’ve suddenly lost all ability to hear.

oh my god. this is hell. you’re either died, or the world has ended, or some black hole just opened up in your room, because it’s too silent for it to be even remotely normal.

“hello?”

the voice on the other end of the line sounds sharp, clipped, like you’ve interrupted something important—or worse, like you’ve woken him up.

you can’t even fault him for it. it’s four in the morning, after the biggest party this term, and you’re an unknown number calling like you’ve lost your damn mind. still, it makes your heart twist a little.

“who is this?”

it’s not rude… not exactly. still, something in your chest sinks because you know what that tone usually means.

you have, roughly, three seconds to justify your existence before lee heeseung hangs up and you become another embarrassing almost in your own head.

maybe one.

“hi,” you mumble, and somehow almost stutter—if that’s even possible over the phone, with a single word—it comes out thin, fragile, and utterly useless.

the line goes quiet again, and you genuinely consider slamming your head into the wall just to feel something else other than the tiny voices evil-laughing in your head. “heeseung, right?”

more damn silence.

not the dead-line kind. it’s worse. it’s the thinking kind.

you picture him on the other end, phone held away from his ear, brow furrowed as he debates whether this is worth his time. unknown caller. 4 in the morning. zero context. and it’s some girl who can’t even say ‘hi’ right.

if you were him, you’d hang up. you’d block the number, move on, this becoming nothing but a blip in your already eventful life.

your grip tightens around your phone. “i—sorry,” you rush out, words tumbling over each other now that the dam’s broken. “this is probably really weird, i know. i wouldn’t usually call, i swear. i just—i got your number earlier and—”

“earlier?” he cuts in.

there’s something in his voice now—not annoyance. interest, maybe. a sprinkle of curiosity edged with suspicion that you weren’t exactly authorized to clear.

your pulse stutters. you should’ve consulted with jiwon before doing something as stupid as this—or sunoo. hell, even the neighbour next door. anyone would’ve been better than diving into this unprepared.

“yeah. tonight, at the party.” you say quickly, like saying it fast will make it make more sense. lee heeseung, pleaaaase be hungover. just this once. “you hosted, right? sigma alpha eta?”

“riiight,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “and who gave you my number?”

your stomach drops.

shit.

“uh,” you hesitate, immediately regretting it.

lying feels wrong. lying is wrong, actually, according to everyone ever—but the truth feels… way messier.

you weren’t going to hang kim sooha to dry—who knows what she’ll do to you? you can’t risk heeseung finding out the lengths you went to for some digits. besides, you practically played fetch with her.

“a friend,” you say finally, wearing a prideful grin on your face, as if anyone couldn’t have come up with that ridiculous excuse. “yep.”

“a friend,” he repeats, flatly, like he doesn’t believe a single thing coming out of your mouth. “what friend?”

you squeeze your eyes shut. god, this is going terribly. divert!

“look, if this is a bad time, i can hang up. i really didn’t mean to bother you, i just—”

“you already are,” he says, but there’s something off about it. his tired voice crackles, but it barely sounds angry. almost amused in nature.

you blink. “oh.”

there’s a heavy breath on the other end. you can hear it clearly, like he’s shifted positions, maybe sitting up now, or turning over in bed. definitely more awake than he was a minute ago.

gosh. you’re imagining bed-hair heeseung now. this isn’t good.

“you usually call people you don’t know at four in the morning?” he asks.

“no,” you respond immediately. “never. absolutely not. this is a first and hopefully, a last.”

that gets him—you can tell, even without seeing him. there’s a soft huff through the speaker, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your chest flutter traitorously.

“so, i’m the trial run?”

you hesitate, then answer honestly, because at this point, what do you have left to lose? your dignity that’s already been thrown out the window and run over by a car?

“i wanted to talk to you.”

another pause. this one lingers, stretching just long enough to make your fingers tingle around your phone. strangely, it comforts you, the idea that he might hang up—that this could end cleanly right here, because you’ve (smartly, or accidentally) yet to tell him your name.

he’ll never have to know if he just—

“yeah?” he says, quieter now.

“yeah,” you echo, barely above a whisper.

something shifts. you can feel it, even through the line—the way he’s genuinely listening now, leaning into every word instead of brushing you off. your heart flutters, warmth blooming from somewhere in your chest (you can’t pinpoint it), and lee heeseung seems to be at the center of it all.

“well,” he says finally, voice way smoother now, like he’s got all the time in the world to offer you. “you’ve got my attention.”

“i do?” you ask, genuinely amazed by yourself. “you’re not hanging up?”

“do you want me to?”

“no,” the word slips out before you can stop it—soft, a little too quick, and much too honest to take back.

for a beat, there’s nothing, then a breath on the other end of the line—slow, deep—followed by a low sound that might be a laugh, or might just be him exhaling tension.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i thought so.”

you roll onto your side, sheets whispering against your skin. the ceiling blurs above you, white and featureless, while the rest of the world stays asleep—unaware that something small yet irreversible is happening at four in the morning, right in this room, in your hands.

“so,” he says, “why’d you really call?”

your fingers tighten around your phone. your phone peels away from your cheek, and for a brief moment, you just stare at the glow of the screen, at his contact—*heeseung lee—*like it might blow up if you lie.

“well,” you mumble, chewing on the lining of your cheek. “i just wanted to introduce myself.”

“ah,” he says. there’s movement again, like he’s forcing himself to stay awake and hear you out. “did your… friend warn you i’m not friendly at this hour?”

you can almost picture him now. propped up against his headboard, hair a mess from sleep. his arm slipping under the hem of his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at an itch on his lower abdomen. knuckles rubbing hard at his eyes, chasing away the last stretch of drowsiness you interrupted—before you called, that is.

“i don’t think she mentioned that,” you say, a nervous smile tugging at your lips despite the fact that he can’t see it. your knees draw tighter to your chest, arms locking around them like you’re bracing for impact. it feels like there are insects beneath your skin—restless, frantic, crawling along the lining of your stomach. “she just said you wouldn’t hang up.”

“you trusted that?” his laugh filters through the speaker, low and unexpectedly warm, the sharpness from earlier dulled into something almost fond. “what if she gave you a fake?”

“then i guess i just woke up some random guy at four in the morning,” you say after a second, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. “which would be… humiliating.”

“hm.” there’s movement on his end again—fabric shifting, a quiet thud like he’s moving around the room. god, you wish you knew what his room looked like. “so, you’d just apologize and hang up?”

“…literally what else would i do?”

there’s a pause before he speaks. you can almost hear him think out loud. “don’t know. try harder?”

the words are simple, but they settle heavy in your chest. what the hell does he mean by try harder?

“try harder?” you repeat, incredulous, a little astonished that the man you’ve dreamt up is a little different from what you’re hearing.

“yeah.” his voice lowers a fraction, losing the teasing edge and gaining something steadier. “if you wanted to talk to someone that bad, i’d hope you wouldn’t give up after one wrong number.”

your fingers curl tighter around your phone. “you don’t even know why i called.”

“don’t i, though?”

okay—what the fuck? you’ve moved somewhere closer to your window by now, staring at bright windows, counting the very few amount of people walking around at this hour downstairs. anything that’ll fill the silence between his words and your reply, which your brain has yet to compute.

do not call boys you like at four in the morning. note taken.

“anyway,” his voice sends a soothing relief through your body. “what’s your name?”

the question feels strangely intimate.

“why?” you deflect, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you are. there’s no going back from this—once he knows you’re you, it’s sealed.

you might have to discuss… alternative routes tomorrow. there is no way in god’s green earth that you’ll be able to face lee heeseung in those hallways once this is done.

“because,” he say purposefully slow, like he’s explaining things to a toddler. “if you went through the trouble of getting my number, i should at least know who i’m losing sleep over.”

“y/n.”

okay—flights to antarctica. a new name. a new identity is what you need right now, in order to combat the nerves in your body going into overdrive.

he goes quiet for slightly less than ten seconds—though you’re not exactly sure why you’re counting—and the quiet literally burns. it’s embarrassing to hear his breathing on the other end of the line, because what does it mean? is he disgusted? is he shocked? is he going to block you, or fall in love with you right now?

“it’s a pretty name,” he says. “haven’t heard it before.”

you’re fighting every urge in you to scream.

this feels oddly reminiscent of that middle school crush you had back when you were 13. it’s all butterflies and shaky hands, and even sweatier palms.

lee heeseung’s voice is silky smooth at this hour. exhaustion creeps up on him like it’s claiming his sleep debt, and you hear it in the tiny yawn that sounds through your speakers. you hoped that not holding your screen to your cheek would aid in the worry that he could hear your nervous breathing.

“well, we’ve never talked directly before, so…”

he hums in response. “well, it’s almost five.”

“trying to get rid of me?” you joke, and boy, does the post-flirt-humiliation hit—your eyes screw shut as you silently mutter a ’what the fuck?’.

he scoffs, “am i?” with the faintest trace of a smile in his voice. you can hear it well enough without the need to look at him—though that would be preferable—which only sends you further into a delusional spiral.

lee heeseung finds you funny.

you bite back a grin, pressing your lips into a thin line. your cheeks ache. you’re probably flushed tomato red from this conversation alone.

you stand up just to keep yourself busy. sittig still feels dangerous, like if you let your body settle, your mind will only follow.

the fear of focusing too much on him—on the way his voice dips at the end of certain words, on how easily he fills the quiet with that strangely confident tone—could be catastrophic.

your fingers trail along the edge of your desk, feeling the shallow nicks in the wood, the uneven varnish near the corner. you latch onto the smallest details: the coolness of the surface, the faint tremor in your hand.

anything to keep yourself grounded to the earth, in the very possible case that lee heeseung sends you into orbit.

on the other end, there’s the muted shift of fabric, like he’s rolling onto his side. you picture him staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head, the phone resting against his cheek.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to be so responsible.”

“one of us has to be,” he says easily. “you don’t sound like someone who keeps track of time, no?”

us.

the word slides into your chest and sits there, heavy and bright all at once.

us, us, us.

you hook a finger through the metal ring of the keychain hanging from your backpack and start spinning it slowly, watching the small charm catch the faint light from your desk lamp. “i absolutely do,” you protest, but the retort comes out thinner than intended.

“do you?” he presses, gentle but unrelenting. “you called me at four in the morning.”

“it wasn’t exactly planned,” you mutter.

“impulsive, then.”

there’s no judgment in his tone. he talks to you like you’re something intriguing under the lens of a microscope.

you cross your room in slow, restless steps, phone held up to chest-level as if the added distance will somehow steady you. the floor is cool beneath your feet. outside your window, the sky is beginning to pale, the darkness thinning into something bluish and uncertain.

“you picked up, though. you didn’t have to.”

the counter-argument is weak. there’s a brief pause before he admits, “yeah, so?”

“so, what does that say about you?”

your fingers still against the keychain. your feet stand still across from it, refusing to move until he says something to keep this seemingly empty conversation moving. there’s a short, succinct moment of quiet that makes you swallow.

and then—a breath. a faint exhale that sounds nothing like a laugh, but more acknowledgement than anything else.

“i make bad decisions before sunrise. i need my sleep,” he answers. “i got an early morning.”

huh. okay. your eyes are narrowing in suspicion before he can get the last word out. “how early?”

“early enough.”

you let it go, though the curiosity lingers. instead, you’re turning around to lean your weight back against your desk, pressing yourself against the solid wood edge, focusing on the cadence of his breathing. “you don’t sound tired anymore."

“that’s your fault.”

your pulse stutters. “mine?”

“hard to sleep when someone’s interrogating you.”

you huff out a quiet laugh, but your grip on the phone tightens. “i’m not interrogating you.”

“right.” the sound vibrates low through the speaker. you imagine him dragging a hand down his face, sitting up now, feet touching the floor. there’s a faint creak—wood under weight—followed by the soft scrape of something being nudged aside.

“i should probably end this,” he says after a moment, words slowed. “tomorrow’s going to be brutal.”

right—he’s crazy popular. probably has a lot going on.

you straighten instinctively. the conversation has shifted into its closing act without warning. “right, yeah. of course.”

“don’t stay up,” he adds, tone a smidge lighter, yet it doesn’t quite hide the undercurrent. “you’ll blame me when you miss your alarm.”

“bold of you to assume i’d admit that.”

“you wouldn’t,” he agrees easily. “you’d just call again. wake me up for the second time to complain, yeah?”

again.

“goodnight, heeseung,” you say before you can dissect the word further. any longer and you might’ve memorised the oxford definition for it.

a beat. you can hear a snicker on the other end of the line, but before you can say much, lee heeseung beats you to it.

“goodnight.”

the line disconnects. you remain standing in the corner of your room, keychain still looped around your finger. your heart’s drumming against your ribs as the early light creeps further across your walls.

your mind’s swirling again—it’s sending you further into that rabbit hole that looks a lot like heeseung’s perfect hair and charming smile.

note to self: call lee heeseung again. tomorrow. four in the morning.

─────────────────────────

the line goes dead.

the sun is barely peeking above the trees now, as if easing it’s way into the sky. he thinks it’ll be fully up by the time he finishes brushing his shower—and there’s that faint smell of citrus. again. disgusting.

a dull, faint thudding sound comes from downstairs. the sound of glasses clinking together reaches all the way up here; echoing in the dimly lit house.

it must be sunoo. making breakfast, he guesses.

there’s sunlight diffusing into the room, divided into slits by his white blinds that’ve all but stayed drawn throughout the night. skin’s sunken in under his eyes, partially, as a result of microsoft word creeping it’s way into his routine again—he supposes he should know better by now, but still. time is short.

his hands trail under his tank, scratching at a small itch under his chest. the metal hanging on the far wall catches the widening morning light, thin ribbons casting fragile shadows against white paint. a golden trophy sits dead centre on his dark oak bookshelf, polished to an almost obnoxious shine.

“fuck…” he groans, dragging both hands through his hair, fingers pressing against his scalp like he can physically push the night out of his system.

the strands fall back obediently, barely disturbed—as if exhaustion has weighed them into submission. there’s something irritating about that, too. like even his body refuses to reflect the fact that he was up until sunrise.

the weekend usually goes like this: brush. shower. dress. breakfast. run. shower. practice. assignments fit somewhere in between.

he begins to crawl out of his duvet. it’s cold—it always is when it’s this early into dawn. the wind kisses his skin like it’s reminding him of this fact, clinging to him as he drags his feet against the wood floor: slow, lazy shuffles until he actually manages to wake up.

open the door, down the hall, to the right. he passes by rooms, involuntarily listening to the muffled snores through wood as his feet carry him to the tiled room at the end of the hallway. the light in sunoo’s room casts shadows at his feet, peeking under the door, which confirms his suspicion: the waffle smell is coming from downstairs.

the door hits the wall with a soft thud. one perk about being the first one up is that the bathroom is almost always spotless.

his toothbrush sits in a black mug, along with six others. it’s a plain white, his name written in permanent marker at the handle. just in case a repeat of five months ago happened—nishimura riki, of course, making that mistake.

toothbrush in the mouth. bristles against teeth. back and forth, left and right, circles. gums. tongue. he stares at the stupid smiski figurine that jake left on the shelf just to give himself an excuse not to look at how tired he is.

and as he spits the mint paste out of his mouth—his phone vibrates against the marble counter. there’s water on his screen from putting it face down.

we2fuckincold🥶 (informal gc)

yeonjun (vice): good morning princesses 06:01

yeonjun (vice): rink opens at 6pm 06:02

yeonjun (vice): game’s coming up. do not be late or our dear captain will not be happy! 06:05

yeonjun (vice): can we all strive for a happy hoonie today 06:05

yeonjun (vice): also send ur fucking food logs bro @nicho 06:07

for fuck’s sake.

he groans, yanking the phone closer, tilting it to shake off the water droplets. the screen lights up his tired face in brief flashes of fluorescence, each message a reminder that the world outside this house has already started without him.

shower. breakfast. run. practice. the ritual is looping in his head, mechanical, familiar—but today, each step feels like it’s being forced through molasses. it’s definitely the microsoft word.

he squints against the glare, ignoring the faint taste of toothpaste still clinging to his tongue, scrolling past the ridiculous group chat chatter to land on the pinned schedule.

2027 training schedule.pdf

and at the top—his name, in bold, for everyone to remember, as if he hasn’t spent long enough drilling it into his team’s heads.

“captain: park sunghoon/vice captain: choi yeonjun”

sunghoon leans against the counter, elbows braced, letting the faint vibrations of the phone thrum through his fingers. the early sunlight, spilling in at an angle the shitty blinds can’t fully block, makes him want to shut his eyes and go back to bed—jungwon’s interior design choices continue to do him no favors.

he stares at the phone a moment longer, thumb hovering over the text threads he knows he should respond to. teasing from his fellow teammates that they know gets under his skin. stupid morning selfies that no one asked for, because the informal group chat is run by no one but the noisiest.

he showers. he’s downstairs. he’s shoving a spoonful of oats into his mouth, gulping down a protein smoothie like it’s water, and only then is he outside and tying his laces. it’s like he’s fucking teleporting around this place.

something feels off. he almost forgets his apple watch before crossing the threshold called sigma alpha beta’s front door. forty minutes later and the morning air is still damp with dew, the neighbourhood quiet save for the distant hum of traffic that hasn’t fully reached it’s potential yet.

the door shuts behind him with a click. heart rate: 93 bpm.

sunghoon begins his run like any other morning. the stretch of his limbs feels mechanical at first, the stiffness in his bones finally relenting after hours spent hunched over his laptop. he jogs in place, letting his blood move, allowing his muscles to remember their morning rhythm.

the street around him is quiet, edges softened by dawn—a stray leaf skitters across the sidewalk and the faint smell of a house’s breakfast drifts through the wind. everything is ordinary, almost painfully so, except for the faint pull in his chest.

god knows why.

a heavy sigh leaves him, curling into vapour the second it meets the cold. his calves are warm, ready to move, muscles primed for the first push forward—

bbrrr. bbrrr. brrrr.

choi fucking yeonjun.

“the hell?” he mutters, wrist lifting automatically as he taps the flashing green icon. “what the fuck do you want?”

there’s a small, sacred list of things that can truly get under park sunghoon’s skin. missed passes. sloppy drills. people who don’t keep their word. anyone who interrupts him. and now, apparently, choi yeonjun calling him at six-fifty in the morning, on a fucking sunday.

“are you on your period or something?” yeonjun’s voice comes through crisp and far too alive. “good morning, my honey bun.”

“stop bothering me.”

“how did you sleep, huh? why do you sound so angry? you usually save it for practice, in case you don’t remembe—”

the thought interrupts him so abruptly it almost throws off his breathing.

okay, to be fair, it was the assignments first. the blinking cursor, and the way microsoft word has this sick habit of stretching minutes into hours until the sky outside starts lightening without permission. he’d told himself he’d sleep right after submitting. just one more paragraph. one more edit. one more citation.

it sounded a lot like a random girl calling his phone at four in the morning. asking about lee heeseung, no less.

gravel crunches harder beneath his shoes as he picks up his pace without meaning to, breath sharpening on the exhale.

“i slept,” sunghoon says flatly, somehow. his eyes stay fixed on the long stretch of road before him.

“no,” yeonjun replies instantly. “you sound tired. sooha kept you up?”

he doesn’t bother to address that. not worth his time. “i’m running.”

a snort crackles through the tiny speaker. “yeah, no shit. i can hear you trying to outrun your personality.”

sunghoon rolls his eyes, though there’s no one there to see it. the park path stretches ahead, thin and empty, washed in early gold. right foot over the left, his stride perfect, pace never faltering. “why are you psychoanalysing me at seven in the morning?”

“it’s six fifty,” yeonjun corrects. he keeps running. “and it’s only cause you sound like you died yesterday.”

and just what the hell am i supposed to do about that, he thinks—it’s not his fault someone rang him in the middle of the night, asked for his best friend like it was urgent, like it mattered at all. it’s not his fault she ate up the remaining hours of sleep he’d planned to ration carefully. it’s not his fault she sounded so intent—so utterly determined—to talk to lee heeseung.

his jaw tightens slightly.

it’s also not his fault that she doesn’t know anything—who she was actually talking to. how easily she let the conversation stretch. how readily she laughed. how she filled silences that would’ve seemed suspicious to anyone else.

you’re so fucking naive. it makes him sick.

“are you trying to break a record right now?”

sunghoon glances down at his watch. his pace has increased by almost thirty seconds per kilometre.

what exactly was he supposed to do, anyway? interrupt her mid-laugh and tell her she’d reached the wrong person? tell her she’d misdialed and should try again? hand her off like a misplaced package?

park sunghoon tells himself he only kept the call going because it was easier, and that it was late—and most of all, it’ll only happen once.

that’s all.

“sunghoon.”

“what?”

“did you hit your head or something?”

sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose, pace steady, shoulders squared like they always are when he runs. unshakeable. “focus on your own head.”

yeonjun laughs. “wow. so cold. captain, your bedside manner is terrible.”

“goodbye, yeonjun.”

he ends the call before the vice captain can squeeze in another comment. silence rushes back in, thick and uninterrupted, save for the steady impact of rubber against pavement. sunghoon’s eyebrows knit together as he continues down the path, watching windows flicker to life in real time—one square of yellow, then another, then three in a row. the campus is waking up, unaware of the private absurdities that unfolded at the expense of park sunghoon’s rest.

and he wonders, briefly, if you slept soundly after that call.

if you rolled onto your side with a faint smile, phone still warm in your palm, thinking about lee heeseung.

or if he were the one you believed you were talking to, would it have sounded the same?

would you have laughed like that—would you have fallen for every word?

the thought is almost amusing.

perfect lee heeseung, who forgets half his deadlines. who shows up five minutes late with an apology grin that fixes everything. who doesn’t have to hold a locker room together or pretend his moods don’t exist. who can afford to be charming because nothing rests on his shoulders long enough to bruise. and still, you never fucking noticed the difference.

but the thing is this: park sunghoon might as well have his face plastered on billboards, because everyone around him knows—or thinks they do. they all see him. they’re all watching him.

a slightly clipped tone. a delayed response in the group chat. half a second too long between reps at practice. they notice. they always notice.

if he’s irritated, the team feels it. if he’s distracted, the drills get sloppy. if he’s quiet, the locker room gets tense. his mood isn’t just his—it’s contagious. spreading like hazardous, passionate wildfire. a fucking plague that everyone’s afraid to upset.

heeseung doesn’t need to think about that, does he?

heeseung doesn’t have thirty pairs of eyes scanning his expression the second he walks into the rink. doesn’t have rookies straightening their posture when he passes. he doesn’t have to calculate the weight of every word because one careless comment could echo for weeks.

how pathetic. sunghoon really has to stop throwing himself into self-deprecating chains of thought in the middle of his morning runs.

─────────────────────────

you move through the day like you’re on autopilot.

your alarming lack of errands feels like the source of your misery—nothing fills the time well enough. the clock drags its feet out of spite, each minute stretching thinner than the last, and there are simply not enough tiktoks in the world to scroll through until four in the morning.

…does it even have to be four in the morning?

you’re sprawled across the couch in your apartment, limbs loose, attention even looser. jiwon’s out tonight—dinner with that guy she met at sigma alpha eta—and you waved her off earlier with a distracted nod after sitting through a solid hour of her spiralling about how she’s “not sure if he’s the one.”

your fingers tapped impatiently against your phone while she twirled in front of you, once, twice, the fabric of her dress catching in the stale air of the living room. you were slumped against the backrest, head heavy in your palms, fighting sleep that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with boredom.

“i literally told you my opinion,” it escapes as a groan, your lashes fluttering shut before your head lands against the cushions. “if you’re just gonna keep going back to this dress, just wear this one.”

jiwon looked at you like you’d shot her in the chest. “you’re just so patient, aren’t you?”

your arm drifted lazily toward the glass table, fingers stretching for your phone like a dying man reaching for water. it’s barely out of reach, but somehow still too far.

you hook it toward you at last. the screen lights up: nothing. of course.

and then she continues to talk—something about silhouettes, about first impressions, about how boys apparently notice everything—but her voice dissolves into background noise. you nod when it feels appropriate. hum when she pauses, look over when she calls your name.

sorry, oh jiwon. you do not have the capacity to give a fuck right now—lee heeseung’s name is sitting on the top of your call log like a secret, ready to be shown off to the world.

“fine. i’ll just wear this—“

she leaves with her keys jingling down the hallway. you chew your lip like the short-lived guilt might manifest into an apology and hunt her down that corridor, but between you and literally anyone else?

it will be forgiven and forgotten when she returns tomorrow morning, you assume, only because there’s smuggled condoms in her purse—like she’s starring in some coming-of-age film.

the rest of the evening passes in a strange, slippery blur.

you’re cooking dinner at one point, staring absently at the stove while oil crackles in the pan, nearly burning the garlic because you drifted too far into your own head. later, you’re in the shower, steam clinging to your skin while you tilt your face away from the showerhead, replaying last night’s conversation in fragments—the way he laughed. the pause before he answered certain questions. the tone of his voice when he teased you.

you’re checking your phone again. this is definitely worse than that crush you had when you were thirteen.

─────────────────────────

a few miles away on campus soil, practice runs longer than it should. park sunghoon has sweat clinging to his skin, darkening the collar of his shirt, tracing the lines of muscle that took years to carve into something worth respecting. every movement feels marginally heavier than usual despite the near-flawless precision of his drills. his turns are clean. his stops sharp. his passes calculated.

still, there’s just something about today.

he pushes the team harder than usual. he tells himself it has nothing to do with your voice bouncing around in his head like an insufferable little ping-pong ball. absolutely nothing to do with the way you laughed at something he said at four in the morning.

it’s discipline. that’s all.

there’s hesitation in the juniors’ movements. it’s especially obvious in the way they avoid him—questions rerouted to choi yeonjun instead, who is currently preoccupied with his self-assigned duty of shooting nicholas with two pucks at once for reasons known only to him. sunghoon watches it unfold with a faint twitch of annoyance—he has to take off his helmet just to breathe right. sometimes, he genuinely wonders how yeonjun managed to snag vice captain.

eventually, though, the confusion climbs its way back to him like it always does. a hesitant shuffle. a cough. a poorly disguised glance in his direction.

“captain—”

his voice cuts through the rink’s cold air with surgical clarity. he explains every movement, every angle, every adjustment with mechanical perfection. there is no room for misunderstanding when he speaks. there rarely ever is when he’s this worked up.

by the time he gets back to sigma alpha eta, his muscles ache and his head feels heavier than it should—his skull weighing on his spine, every knot tightening in a body that was already rigid to begin with. even if he swears he warmed up enough, his gait still comes out stiff.

he heads straight for the bathroom after tossing his bag onto the floor, haphazardly by the doorframe of his room. the tiled floor is slightly slippery from someone else’s shower, much to his dismay.

he peels his clothes off, the overhead light catching the sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. his gaze lingers, unintentional, over the familiar outline of his body—something he built, piece by piece, over years of repetition and restraint.

it’s taken him so long to get here.

park sunghoon turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder. his eyes squint at the subtle tints of blue and purple, an occasional yellow and familiar reds.

a faint bruise blooms along his back—noticeable enough to catch his attention, but still subtle enough to ignore. his thumb presses into it briefly. it doesn’t hurt much, sitting in a valley between his shoulder blade and the deep impression of his spine.

he doesn’t dwell. no time. there’s roughly ten minutes before his eyes have to shut and his cells get to work at repairing the strain he never fails to put himself through.

the shower is quick. burning hot water pelts his shoulders, steam gathering thick against the tiles as the tension in his body dulls into something manageable. afterward, he downs another protein shake, the grainy texture catching in his throat like it’s meant to fill more than just hunger.

then, the sheets rustle as he settles in. tonight feels cooler than usual, though that might have more to do with the window he left wide open—jake sim always made the habit of reminding him to, otherwise, it’d be too stuffy. the blinds sway with the wind, wood tapping lightly against the glass in a steady, hollow rhythm.

no assignments. class begins early tomorrow. park sunghoon needs all the energy he can get if he wants to maintain that stellar gpa of his—it’s reason enough to shut his screen off and reach for the charger without hesitation.

this is what most nights look like. the temperature shifts by a degree or two. the sounds outside change. the air moves differently. but if he squints, it’s all the same, really. park sunghoon—the captain, the leader, the one everyone watches—falls asleep the same way every night, staring at what he’s built.

his gaze drifts back, almost involuntarily, to his now-dimmed phone. the last item on his mental checklist has been crossed off, but the weight on his shoulders doesn’t lift. if anything, it settles deeper, heavier, as the thought of monday presses in.

there will be mondays for the rest of his life. obviously.

it’s sunday nights like this—quiet, cold, stretching endlessly before them—that serve as meaningless prologues that do nothing but make park sunghoon feel like the loneliest man in the world, at the top of the chain that he’s tried so desperately to scale.

his eyes shift to the wall instead. an attempt at distracting himself.

medals, trophies, certificates. plaques stacked where there’s no space left for more.

there’s boxes shoved beneath his bed, too. filled with the rest of it, or rather, everything that didn’t make the cut. almost all of it’s in there—wrinkled homework from the when he first learned how to write his name coherently, all the way to the year he left his hometown.

it’s taped shut with cheap, barely-there adhesive, the kind that curls at the edges if you look at it for too long. he’s almost certain his mother shoved it in the car, insisted he bring it with him to college—something about keeping memories close, about not forgetting where he came from. he can’t recall how else it would’ve ended up here, with him, haunting his conscience like a guilty ghost.

sunghoon plugs the cord in, the battery icon flashing obediently on the corner of his screen. that should be the end—

ding!

his jaw tightens. his tooth almost cracks from how hard he’s gritting them. it’s even more annoying, because his arm’s already bent over the table, ready to drop the device on his small night stand.

so god help him, if it’s choi yeonjun asking for the practice footage again, or sending another half-coherent voice note about formations he absolutely should have memorised by now—

ding!

sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose and retracts his hand. the attention-aware feature on his phone causes his screen to light up almost immediately, and despite the fact that he was just staring at it moments ago, it burns all the same.

unknown contact.

he doesn’t even need to see the name. sunghoon sees the call log from last night, ending at five in the morning, and immediately knows.

y/n l/n: day went great btw 01:21

y/n l/n: not a single yawn 01:21

he’s going to bed. he’s tired, and he’s not definitely past dealing with a girl who doesn’t even care that he doesn’t sound like lee heeseung—or at the very least, not enough to verify that it is indeed park sunghoon on the other end of the line.

y/n l/n: i know you said 4am but i have class at 8 tmr sooo 01:21

absolutely. fucking. not.

riiiiing. riiiing.

park sunghoon is not picking up the phone.

─────────────────────────

“and then?”

he lied.

there are a few things park sunghoon would never admit to anyone else. firstly, that he’s terrible at making his own coffee and still gets riki to do it for him. secondly, that he needs to hug his ridiculously large, sausage-shaped pillow to fall asleep, or he wakes up worse than usual.

and third—

that he’s genuinely listening to a random girl on the phone, without slipping in a quiet, so are you coming over or not? somewhere between her sentences.

it doesn’t feel like a decision. there’s something settling into place, clicking in his chest before he has a real chance to question his own intentions. the words come out easily, slipping off his tongue and past his lips like water, because that’s what this is—natural, for reasons beyond him.

sunghoon lies back with one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone loosely against his cheek. moonlight spills into the room through the half-open blinds, stretching across his ceiling like it has nowhere else to go. he knows he should’ve closed them earlier, but the thought passes without consequence, dissolving somewhere between the moment your name lit up his screen and now.

his hair falls in soft streaks across his forehead, long since dried from the aggressive towel action he’d put himself through not even half an hour ago—something he refuses to think about too meticulously, especially not in relation to the notification that had pulled him back to his phone.

incoming call from y/n l/n.

there’s a dull ache pressing at his temples, insistent, like it’s trying to remind him of something he’s choosing to ignore. he knows better than this, he really does. in the same way he knows that you think he’s someone else entirely.

he breathes, slow and deep like it’ll undo all the knots in his muscles. it’s strange that it’s working now, compared to all the times where he got a sports massage after practice with no real effect, and he wonders—no matter how absurd it is—that if it’s your voice that’s making him so, so sleepy.

on the other end, you never hesitate. you answer him with a kind of ease he isn’t used to, words flowing like there’s nothing in the world worth holding back. there’s something almost intimate in it—not intentional, barely meaningful, but there all the same. like two people who have already decided, somewhere along the way, that they belong in each other’s space.

the thought comes uninvited.

is this what couples do?

it makes him want to shut his eyes and forget he ever had it.

your voice carries through the line with the same unfiltered simplicity that he’s already starting to recognize—light, animated despite the hour, spilling from one thought to the next with barely any pause. there’s a lack of calculation in the way you speak, a clear absence of consideration in what words were okay to say, and what details were appropriate to omit—in which there were none. you even told him about your ten minute doomscroll session on the toilet midway through biochemistry.

it fills the silence before it can exist. it’s not like he’s not used to the noise—he’s surrounded by idiots who can’t keep their mouth shut, and god, has he wished for years that everyone around him would just be quiet for at least ten minutes—but when your soft, sweet voice rings in his ears, he’s not even sure what he’s feeling.

the realistic part of him, however useless he may be now, knows that everything is a lie. there’s you, rambling to him solely because you think he is the man you have that miserable crush on, and then there’s him: feeding your delusions, for his own selfish intents, as if that makes him any less dumber than you.

you’re talking to him because you think he’s someone else. because you’ve attached yourself to a version of a person that doesn’t exist on this end of the line.

he lets it happen, anyway.

sunghoon shifts against his pillows and the mattress dips slightly beneath his weight. the room remains dim, lit faintly by the fluorescent lighting radiating from his screen, probably killing off all his melatonin receptors by now—the dull wash of streetlight slips in, occasionally cut off by a passing car through half-open blinds. the air moves lazily, wind brushing past his skin, cooling what little heat still lingers from his shower.

his responses lag. he lets you talk. it’s intentional at first, an easy excuse for something he can fall back on. you seemed like the type who didn’t need much prompting, anyway—your words come in soft bursts of laughter, half-finished thoughts and tangents that circle back around before he can fully follow them. it should be difficult to keep up with, but as with everything that’s occuring, it’s unknown to him why it isn’t.

somewhere along the way, it stops being passive. there’s things that he’s noticing that he doesn’t want to notice. hearing things that he never means to. it’s lodged into his brain that’s already fighting for more storage space—your tone that shifts when you’re about to say something embarrassing, or how you rush through it a little faster, before doubling back as if to justify it. there’s pauses that aren’t quite pauses, just brief breaths where he can almost picture you thinking, deciding whether to keep going or jump to the next part of your day.

he remembers that party. he remembers how your hair fell on your face, and in the moment, sunghoon thought you’d just be passing in his already busy life—he finds it extremely irritating that he can recall almost every mundane feature on your face as if you were the most beautiful girl he’d seen. that dress that you probably found deep in your dresser and didn’t bother to smooth out, or that cup in your hand that’s barely holding any liquor. you were there for someone, after all.

he stood at that stairwell, watching, as if you were someone he couldn’t approach. please—if lee heeseung wasn’t the one you already set your sights on, he bets he could have you in his bed that very night.

if only he hadn’t froze.

you’re not anyone meaningful to him. you’re not supposed to take up what precious space he has for himself, and yet, here you are, barging into his life like you demand his attention.

it’s not like he’s any better, honestly. he knows that much.

“i was wondering if i should call, y’know,” you mumble through his phone’s speaker. he raises an eyebrow, as if you could see it. “it’s really late. don’t you have class tomorrow, too?”

“i do,” sunghoon sighs. he makes a conscious effort to stop himself from sharing which. “all day.”

unknown to park sunghoon, you’re lying upside down on your pink duvet, hair falling over the edge of your bed. you’re acting like you have no real responsibilities or hour long classes tomorrow morning, and that energy is somehow infecting him, too.

his grip around the phone shifts, thumb brushing absentmindedly along the edge of his thick case. the thought of telling you who he really is comes and goes without fully forming, though the feeling that claws at his ribs is quieter than guilt. it’s not sharp enough for him to address just yet.

you say something. he doesn’t catch all of it, only the way your laughter follows right after. sunghoon almost thinks you must love hearing your own voice with how giggly you are.

nevertheless, it pulls something out of him before it can be stopped. a response—low and tired in nature, slipping into the conversation as if he didn’t spend the past ten minutes wondering if anything he’ll say will give him away.

and still, you respond, picking it up without hesitation, folding his words into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i didn’t even realise the time until i checked my phone,” you lie. “i’m sorry if you were just kidding yesterday… and didn’t want me to actually call. i wasn’t sure.”

“it’s fine, really.” sunghoon murmurs, voice low and threaded with sleep. “but you really should’ve called earlier. i’m about to knock out.”

there’s a soft scoff on your end, fabric shifting faintly. sunghoon’s ears pick that up, too. “you picked up anyway, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t respond to that, and the silence continues. it’s not empty or uncomfortable, filled with something else that simmers under his skin. he lets it stay.

you don’t push, instead humming like you’ve already moved on. you talk more about your day, admitting to things that you probably shouldn’t, voice drifting back into that easy rhythm that makes him want to turn over and shut his eyes for the night. “i kept checking my phone like something interesting would happen today, but…”

“nothing did?” he asks, eyes half-lidded—his eyelashes feel heavier now.

“wellll…” you drag out the word slightly, a hint of a smile tucked into it, like sunghoon couldn’t already hear the teeth in your voice. “i’m telling you about my day now, so i guess it all worked out.”

he exhales softly. his finger comes up to his face to rub at his nose, and he sniffles before responding, “that’s a really low bar.”

“i’m being honest,” you admit, voice dipping just slightly, unaware of the cliff you’re driving yourself off of. “you seem like someone who’s always busy.”

he supposes, in a sense, he is. just not in a lee heeseung way. “i’m not that busy.”

there’s a hint of disbelief in your laugh that fades quickly. it gives way to something more curious, and all it does is ease the conversation into something quieter and more fluid. your voice lowers as words blend together, and sunghoon finds his shoulders caving into his chest.

he shifts against the pillows, letting the weight of the night settle into his tired limbs. you wrap around him like a thread pulling taut—he doesn’t need to respond immediately; the words coming from you are enough to fill spaces he’s left behind.

sunghoon blinks slowly. “you’ve got me wrong.”

“yeah, now that i think about it,” you whisper. “i don’t think i know enough to be right.”

park sunghoon rarely gets nervous, if ever. there were a few times in fifth grade that he’d gotten a tummy ache before going up on stage, or in middle school when he had to give a presentation on the cultural history of korean calligraphy. he supposes the habit just vanished, because by the time he turned sixteen and played in his first hockey match, it never manifested again.

there’s a relief that comes with finding your coping mechanism. sunghoon never really examined why he would feel like throwing up before getting in front of a bunch of strangers, but he understood, even if on a very basic level, that hockey took that away from him—it’s the smooth slide of his skates against ice that tends to narrow down the world to just him, where nothing and no one else matters.

he’s not exactly sure why that is; reflection wasn’t really his thing. he knew it when his teacher would set him aside from other kids and ask ’how are things at home?’, to which he had no answers.

as long as it works, right?

still, it’s here now. that feeling of his heart dropping straight through his mattress, and his stomach churning something that refuses to let him speak.

“i feel like i’ve just been yapping,” you say. you aren’t wrong. it’s barely your fault, though he can’t really tell you that.

sunghoon swallows, throat dry and constricting around nothing. the grip he has on his phone tightens momentarily before easing again, his gaze darting around the room like he’s searching desperately for answers that’ll magically manifest.

he could say something. he should. something vague would be good. easy to follow up with, or be mysterious about. slightly personal so you don’t pry too much, that doesn’t let this tip any further than it already has.

and yet—the words don’t come. it barely makes it past his throat.

sunghoon exhales and the sound is almost lost against the line. “it’s getting late.”

it’s been ’getting late’ for the past two hours. his voice sounds worn, and he blames no one but himself—for letting his schedule fall apart like this, and still picking up the phone anyway.

and you, being the unsuspecting, naive girl you are—humming softly as if to tell him you understand. “yeah, i guess so.”

park sunghoon tears his screen away from the warmth of his cheek. only now does he realise how long it’s truly been; the absence of his warm device and the presence of cold wind hitting his face helps him remember how absurd this is.

he looks at the duration of the call, now barely over two hours.

the number sits there, steady and indifferent, as if it doesn’t account for the way time had slipped past him without resistance. as if it doesn’t mean anything at all.

for a moment, he just stares at it, his thoughts lagging behind the reality of it. two hours of listening, of responding, of letting himself exist in something that shouldn’t have been this easy.

this should end here.

sunghoon brings the phone back to his ear, the warmth returning in a way that feels almost deceptive now. he blinks once, twice, before clearing his throat. “goodnight, y/n.”

“goodnight, heeseung.”

the line cuts. sunghoon lies still in his white sheets, the duvet crinkling softly beneath his weight—though it feels heavier than it should, like it’s dragging him deeper into the earth. he stares blankly into the space above him, eyes fixed on nothing, as if he can’t quite register the way the room seems to close in, inch by inch.

outside, the world goes on, completely unaware.

cars pass. lights flicker somewhere beyond his window. time moves the way it always does—steady, indifferent to him, and for a fleeting moment, he wishes he wasn’t in this body.

the thought comes quietly, almost absurd in its simplicity. the thought that he could step out of himself and into someone else—someone forgettable, someone ordinary—someone who doesn’t carry the weight of expectation so tightly wound around his chest. he imagines it briefly, the ease of it: letting tomorrow belong to someone else.

letting the responsibilities, the precision, the constant awareness slip from his grasp for just a day.

just once where he doesn’t have to move like he knows exactly what he’s doing, or carry himself like someone people look up to—like someone who has everything under control, when the truth is that he’s no different from anyone else. just one fucking day is all he asks.

it was nice—the two hours sunghoon got to pretend like he wasn’t sunghoon. he could say it was almost natural, which only unsettles him even more.

he shifts slightly against his sheets, and the loud rustle only anchors him further into the reality he’s in. he blinks slowly before letting his eyelids shut, and almost as if to say ‘you’re never living this down’, your face appears right behind them.

here you are, reconstructed behind his shut eyes like you’re something worth remembering—it's your perfect hair. your eyes that dulled the lights strobing in your face. that dress that looked weirdly good on you.

this is so fucking frustrating.

─────────────────────────

you only see kim sunoo once a week. there’s careful planning that goes behind the days leading up to psychology of mass media—it’s the only hour you can get any intel, if at all, due to the convenient fact that sunoo likes to be the first to leave and last to arrive.

in reality, it’s just you showing up earlier than necessary, and lingering a little longer than you should in hopes that you’ll catch sunoo again.

you have one question. just one. he won’t mind, would he?

the lecture hall is still half-empty when you slip in, and the fluorescent lights actually burn—rows of seats stretching out in that familiar, uninspired gradient of grey and black. there are a few scattered groups that have already settled in, most of them slumped over their desks with jackets thrown over their heads. the sound of keyboard clicking echoes, bouncing off the sterile walls, and you do your best to tune it out.

it takes two minutes for kim sunoo to walk in, beige tote slung over his shoulder, stride light and easy—he always looked put together despite the hour. there were times you considered if he was a vampire, considering how he never looks tired, but the thought never sticks long enough to matter.

he slides into his usual seat without much ceremony, setting his bag beside him before pulling out his macbook. there’s a faint glow of white casts over his face, highlighting the smoothness of his skin, and it feels ridiculous—that split second when you feel a little jealous of him.

fifty five minutes left.

you move before you can think too hard about it, because you already know how that ends. your sneakers thud softly against the carpeted floor as you make your way down the steps, gaze flickering briefly around the room—not because there’s anything to actually be wary of, but because it feels like there should be.

as if anyone here could read your mind, and as if they’d even care enough to judge you for it. the thought lingers in the back of your mind all the same.

you slow just a fraction as you near his row, like the sensible part of your brain’s giving you one last chance to turn around and act like the normal girl who doesn’t care that much. there’d be some grace in taking that empty seat behind him and pretending like the thought of snooping around lee heeseung’s love life never crossed your mind at all—but it has to happen, and unless the gift of time travel is suddenly bestowed upon you, your ass is about to meet the plastic chair beneath you.

the chair creaks softly under your weight, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the low hum of the room. everyone’s blissfully unaware of the humiliation you’re about to put yourself through, though it somehow makes your courage muster a little easier.

“you’re staring at me.”

sunoo’s voice is monotonous. he doesn’t bother to spare you a look, because in truth, he doesn’t need to turn his head to see the way you’re burning holes through his.

“i’m not.”

he scoffs, though he means nothing spiteful of it. as much as he hates to admit, you were one of the nicer seatmates he had this year. “you are.”

“okay, well,” you begin, hands coming up from under the long, laminated wooden desk in front of you. you press them together, like that’d make things less awkward—your fingers fidget just for the sake of doing something other than staring at sunoo. “i was thinking—”

“about me?” kim sunoo smiles, still not looking at you. the corner of his lip is lifted up in something similar to genuine amusement, but it does nothing to help the embarrassment that’s stabbing at your nerves. “you’re blunt, [name].”

“ha ha,” you mock. sunoo can’t help but giggle at that. “the posters. outside. i saw them.”

ah. he sees what this is about.

soul searching ✦ booth 35, level 1, outside block A friday, 10th september 2026, 1pm-8pm ❤︎ love life in shambles? wanna meet new people? come visit our booth to find your perfect match! ❤︎ a quick questionnaire, a curated pairing—one conversation might change everything. rumour has it that the first person you meet… might just be the one. for early bird tickets, scan here!

the promotional poster that you stumbled upon was one of many pasted across campus. there were a few that jiwon mumbled to you about this morning, over the phone, and while you can’t exactly recall the exact details of the conversation, you just know it made her reconsider attending. it was obvious in the way she kept asking, ‘should i?’ followed by ‘i don’t know, maybe i should’, circled back with ‘i’ll think about it’.

it was for, roughly, five seconds that you wondered just how many girls would be lining up for it as well. you remember standing there a little longer than necessary, eyes skimming over the bold lettering like it was supposed to mean more than it did. the paper had been slightly wrinkled at the edges, tape barely holding it against the wall like it had been put up in a rush—but it was bright, unapologetically pink, and you almost grimaced at the thought of other people stopping to stare at it the same way you did.

you’d already decided you were going to go.

scanned the qr code right then and there, shamelessly, in the middle of the hallway on the way here—thumb hovering for less than a second before pressing submit, like hesitation would somehow make it worse.

the soulmate part, though—that stuck, unfortunately. it clung in a way that was irritatingly persistent, like gum pressed into the grooves of your thoughts. not because you believed it, necessarily, but because it was the kind of idea that refused to leave once it had somewhere to sit.

“so…. details?” you ask, a bright and inviting smile plastered onto your cheeks. “is heeseung going for sure? how does it even work?”

kim sunoo shrugs, typing briefly into his laptop before looking at you. “it’s a fundraiser booth. students sign up and get paired at random. i think, like, five seniors found their husbands here a few years back, and it’s been a myth ever since.”

you blink. “wait—so the first person you meet thing, that’s real? the soulmate shit?”

“yeah. haven’t you seen how many campus couples made it because of us? it’s really weird.”

soulmates. it’s all bullshit.

people talked about fate like it was something clean and predictable, like they didn’t sit behind the steering wheel of their own life. it’s as if someone or something invisible was guiding them—like there was a line drawn somewhere out there with your name on it, waiting for you to follow it without question until it led you to the right person.

you’ve never experienced it that way. if anything, your history with relationships feels like the opposite: bad timing, poor judgement, moments that almost worked until they didn’t. near misses are dressed up as something meaningful, but conversations fizzle out just when they start to feel like they might matter.

nothing stayed. nothing was ever meant to. you, having a soulmate—in that sense—it felt extremely unlikely.

it isn’t in a dramatic, self-pitying way—it’s the same way you understand that most things in life don’t fall neatly into place without sustained effort and consistency. relationships aren’t something pre-built that you stumble into, perfectly right and accommodating despite yourself, and they’re definitely not something you keep just because the universe decided you should.

couples will look you in the eye and tell you they’re meant to be, like it was written somewhere long before they ever met, but they barely talk about the parts where they almost walked away, or the moments where instinct told them to leave and they didn’t. the hesitation. the doubt. the very real option of not choosing each other.

fate, soul ties, forever. there are a lot of excuses people make when they don’t want to admit their own fault in something. it’s easier to dress things up as something inevitable than to acknowledge the effort it took to keep it going—or the moments where it almost didn’t.

do people just like pretending that they don’t have a say in what they do?

sunoo pauses, shifting his dark hair from his eyes before glancing at you. “do you think it’s cringey? saeri told me to remove that part of the poster… but i didn’t. it’s the charm of our booth, i think.”

“i don’t think so,” you lie, adrenaline humming through your veins. it is kind of corny, but who would admit that to him—kim sunoo probably doesn’t need more people hating on his poor slogan choices, and the more you act like it was a wise move, the better the chance you get paired with heeseung once he realizes you signed up. “i think it’s… uhm, plausible.”

anything but asking him directly, though.

“anyway,” sunoo glances back at his screen. microsoft word fills the entire monitor with graphs and figures you’re sure are from jiwon’s econ class. “i think everyone’s coming, except sunghoon. that guy…”

you raise an eyebrow. this is the first you’ve heard of him since that party two weeks ago—at this point, he almost feels like a hallucination. “sunghoon? what’s his deal?”

“he’s not a relationship guy. i think he knows it’d be a waste of time to sign up and make the girl feel like shit for five minutes straight,” sunoo sighs, leaning into his palm as if this were the harsh reality he’s learned to accept. “he cares, but has no idea how to show it. he’s like a three year old.”

you nod slowly, like you understand. you don’t.

though, something’s happening in your body that’s reminiscent of sunday night. it’s that odd, simmering sensation—proof. it flickers at the edge of your mind like a fuzzy memory, echoing that same low, lingering pull that sat right in the centre of your sternum.

sunoo’s cheek leans back into his palm, his eyes following professor choi’s figure that’s just strolled in. it’s your queue to shut the hell up and start preparing your materials for class, but it sets something else off.

you try, briefly, to chase it. to trace it back, to link it to something tangible and real and concrete. a face, a voice, a moment that would justify the way it settles into you so easily, but it slips through your fingers just as quickly, dissolving before it can really take shape.

“i see,” you hum. “well, i’ll come. don’t worr—”

“i wasn’t worried.”

“okay, then.”

─────────────────────────

the text comes while he’s brushing his teeth. his hair’s a mess as he stares into himself, eyes flicking down to the sink where some of his toothpaste’s fallen off his toothbrush—your voice is replaying in his head like a sick alarm, though he knows that it’s only because he’d hung up the phone only two hours ago.

sunghoon found himself silently praying that practice was cancelled. it was unlike him; the way he lingered in his sheets and had to take a deep breath before getting up. he dragged himself to the bathroom, hand swiping at the towel rack outside the door—hoping that he didn’t take jake’s by mistake, and begging (to whom?) that he wouldn’t need to use it.

snu hockey boys ’26 ⛸️🏒

yeonjun: practice is cancelled 06:32

yeonjun: coach has an emergency but pls send your food logs by 2200. whoever misses = double ur distance tmr 06:32

yeonjun: rink is still open tho 06:32

he took one good look at his to-do list this morning and resolved that he was going to the library. he’s fully convinced that if he lets his assignments pile up any more, his professors will start to think he’s slipping. god forbid—as if the boy hasn’t gotten less than a a in years.

we2fuckincold🥶 (informal gc)

nicho: guys pls stop eating by the benches too the janitors r gonna beat us :( 06:45

yeonjun: u guys cant fucking control yourselves can you 06:56

park sunghoon moves through the early dawn like he usually does, except that he walks right past the folded jersey and duffle bag already sitting on his desk. he lets himself slouch a little as he walks downstairs; the tiredness is already seeping in despite the constant self-correction.

it’s going to be a long day of cramming if he wants to get anything done, clearly—so he decides on unplugging his laptop charger, folding it neatly into the small zipper of his backpack, and leaving the house without his running shoes packed.

he’s still stretching when he hears the shuffle of footsteps outside. it’s too early for any one of his brothers to be up—on weekdays like this, park sunghoon was always the first to get moving, followed by jay in another hour.

it’s only six. nobody else gets up at six.

sunghoon reaches for the strap of his backpack as he makes his way towards the door—slightly ajar, swaying faintly with the draft, about to shut itself. it’s only when he’s a step away from the frame that he catches sight of lee heeseung walking past.

lee heeseung doesn’t get up until eleven.

reaching for the metal knob, sunghoon pulls back the door with more force than he’d like to admit, only to see heeseung—already at the top of the stairs, leaning lazily against the railing like the early hour means nothing—plaid boxers slung low on his hips, hair flattened in odd directions, and the faint imprint of wrinkled sheets still pressed into his back.

he just watches. doesn’t want to ask. the answer is already written across heeseung’s body in fading purples and reds, scattered along his neck and arms, threaded between the pale, healed superficiality of old scars.

instead, park sunghoon makes his way towards the stairs as well, with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an undeniable tiredness in his bones. he passes his dear friend before making his way down the flight of wood steps, feet thudding against the floor, eyes occasionally glancing towards the big entryway before him.

there’s a girl by the front door, half-crouched as she slips her shoes back on. her hair is messy in an unmistakable way, fingers combing through it as she balances herself against the wall using her other hand. she doesn’t look up, too preoccupied with fixing herself—it’s the last thing on her mind, and all she wants is to fit her heel into the mary janes she’s got sitting outside.

she pulls the metal handle, and looks back up at lee heeseung. nothing else is said, not even a wave, nor does he dismiss her presence—he just watches her warm smile curve up.

it feels like he’s walked in on something intimate. heeseung has a faint smirk that sunghoon was never able to wear when sooha was around, no matter how satisfied she made him feel, and he’s wearing that look of comfortable, guilt-free laziness that he recognises in the mirror every morning, after he hangs up on you.

─────────────────────────

sunghoon walks into the library like he owns it. professional poker face and all, heading straight for that seat by the windows that aren’t facing east, so the sun doesn’t burn his face off. just how he likes it.

the air-conditioning hits his skin and the lights above him are bright enough to sting. it’s enough to keep him awake for the next few hours, combined with the warm black coffee swishing around in his tumbler as he takes his time setting his stuff down.

a few stares and silent whispers are expected as he passes by the busier sections. he takes his usual seat—not many people know about it, due to the fact that it’s shoved so far away in isolation, miles from the bathroom and entrance, but park sunghoon appreciates this fact. nobody is around to stare at him sideways while he does his work, and there won’t be any eyes that refuse to leave his when he finally looks up.

the large, wood-laminate six-seat table was completely empty, and spotless. no coffee stains or broken sockets, and completely cut off from student civilization.

he settles into a bright orange chair by the window, where his face is obstructed by a large pillar—the sun warms his hands up as they pull his laptop out, already booted up from the night before, on the microsoft word home screen.

he groans when he sees at least three empty documents, all of which he meant to start yesterday. of course, that was the plan prior to your call, and sunghoon swore he’d at least try to multitask, if only not to feel the guilt later on. it’s obvious that he can’t do that anymore.

his slender fingers slide over the touchpad, navigating to his most urgent assignment for economics.

the cursor blinks at the top of his toolbar—it’s waiting for him to click something, anything, and he almost does. it circles around the add text box and darts away again, to open chrome. park sunghoon is staring at his screen like it’s a foreign, alien-sent object.

once upon a time, this would’ve sufficed. a quiet corner, an uninterrupted day, and his laptop on full-charge. work and productivity comes easily to someone as hard-working as him, and when there’s nothing else competing for his attention. compartmentalization is an incredibly common skill, but sunghoon is different, in the sense that he could live two separate lives in a single day, if need be.

though, these days, concentration feels far rarer than he’d like to admit.

the sound of soft, carpeted footsteps approaching barely registers in his ears. he’s too focused reading over the same one line he’s written—his name and student id number—to shift his eyes elsewhere.

his peers pass through this section all the time. not many, but enough for it not to be alarming. this was still a public space, after all.

his eyes remain fixed on the screen as he reaches for his tumbler, taking a slow sip of coffee. outside, the sky is finally brightening into that familiar golden, instead of a depressing, cold blue. few students pass by the large glass panels, some in clusters and others alone.

this is simple enough. all he has to do is write. sunghoon has the brains for this, the attention span, and overall capability to complete this useless assignment—so he adjusts himself further into the chair and begins skimming through the brief for what feels like the tenth time since it’s released. it’s all market trends, consumer psychology, something about forecasting models by the time the words begin to blur together.

the caffeine isn’t circulating fast enough. he reaches, sips again, and draws a deep breath in through his nose. halfway through his second paragraph, a chair thuds quietly against the carpeted floor, before the faintest “shit” is heard.

libraries are full of idiots. nobody can even drag a chair out properly anymore, apparently. now that the sound has derailed his train of thought, sunghoon can’t help but to flick his dark brown irises up, locking right onto you.

for a second, he genuinely wonders if his sleep deprivation has evolved into hallucinations.

of all the tables and empty seats scattered across four. fucking. floors.

park sunghoon’s grip tightens slightly around his black, metal rimmed tumbler, an action you thankfully do not notice. this corner of the library is so damn meaningless to him—but now that you’re here, it’s like this is all he’ll ever remember, all he’ll ever associate with the place.

the moment of recognition doesn’t last very long. surprisingly, it doesn’t send panic through his bloodstream, nor does it get his heart bursting out of his chest—though, he can still feel it pounding a little harder—instead, it’s just vague acknowledgement written all over that pretty face of yours, reserved for familiar faces.

park sunghoon. hockey captain guy. heeseung’s friend, the one who unintentionally stared at you sideways that one friday night (that he’ll never forget).

“oh.”

the tension binding his shoulders tight is loosened, just a fraction. the tiny sound leaves your mouth quietly, though it sounds nothing like shock, and it’s more to yourself than to him.

“hope you don’t mind if i—”

sunghoon’s response comes out rougher than intended. “no.”

you smile in response, and god, sunghoon wants to fucking drive a ten foot pole into his chest at the sight of your cheeks puffing up. there’s a faint flush on your cheeks from walking in the morning sun, and he notices a few blemishes on your skin as the sun almost blinds you—he can tell it’s getting into your eyes because you’re squinting. “you can sit here.”

you almost choke by the time sunghoon realises what he’s just said. “what?”

“it’s hot on that side.”

there’s three chairs on his side of the long, dark side of the table. it’s oddly poetic how he’s sat in the dark and you’re standing across from him, bathed in that golden sun like it’s your rightful place, and how he can’t help but have you next to him, even now, even selfishly.

fortunately, you save him the humiliation of walking away or just planting your ass down in the sun. you circle around the table, keychains on your backpack jingling as you do, and pull out the plastic chair two seats away from him.

perfect. it’s enough distance for him to pretend like you’re not even there. your gaze flickers between him in the corner of your eye, to the span of other empty seats in front of you. why the hell are you even here?

there’s a moment where he thinks you’re going to change your mind, get up, and walk away without looking back. it’s mostly due to the fact that you haven’t even set your things down yet, organised your stationery or even took out your sleek, plastic-shielded macbook. sitting next to park sunghoon when there was an entire eight-seat table like, ten feet away made most people nervous.

and still, when he turns (or merely pretends to by reaching for his tumbler again), he realises you’re far from nervous, and instead very confused.

your eyebrows are still raised in slight confusion, and you’re scrambling to find a pen you lost somewhere deep in your bag. flecks of dust float in the air, and one lands right on the top of your head—shining so beautifully in this terribly congested space, warmth bouncing off the dull carpet and reflecting back onto your face, dusting your skin like it knows how exactly to make him weak.

you don’t notice, but he does. park sunghoon is noticing everything, and for suddenly, painfully, and very unpredictably, he realises why people write songs about these kinds of feelings.

“do you need something?”

god, you’re so pretty. your eyebrows lift slightly, out of genuine curiosity (or perhaps concern, with the way sunghoon is staring at you… he can’t find a fault), and those lips of yours look so effortlessly perfect, soft, a faint sheen veiling it thanks to the lip-balm chained to your backpack zipper.

“no.”

and it’s like he’s slammed the door on you again.

again?

you’re not sure why you dwell on it too much, actually. most of the evening is spent staring at blank documents, because this module unfortunately included math, and for some odd reason, lee heeseung was always good at math despite being an arts major. he’d know what to do, and for a good minute you wonder if you should just call him right now.

you pause for a moment before your attention slips away from him again. turning back to your bag, hands still searching for something you apparently cannot find, your fingers moving with growing frustration through compartments that seem to hold everything except what you actually want.

sunghoon should probably mind his own business now, yet instead, he’s glancing over your shoulder and at your empty document.

he turns back to his laptop, slightly, or pretends to, lifting his tumbler just enough to give himself something to look at that isn’t you. in doing so he finally catches the full spread of your movement as you settle in, pulling your laptop out, then your charger, then your pencil case, then a small pouch that seems to contain an entire separate ecosystem of items, all of which you organise with a kind of quiet determination that feels oddly intimate to witness.

your brow furrows as you dig deeper into your bag, hand disappearing and reappearing empty more than once, and he notices the way your mouth presses into a line of mild frustration that never fully escalates into anything outright upset, just plastered there as an expression of someone mildly inconvenienced by their own decisions.

somewhere between your second and third attempt at finding whatever it is you’re looking for, your phone appears in your hand, screen lighting up briefly before you unlock it. sunghoon’s attention shifts almost against his will because the movement is too familiar now, even to him, with something he shouldn’t be aware of.

your thumb hesitates over the contacts screen. lee heeseung.

god, please don’t call. please, please, please, please, please.

his eyes are beginning to strain with how hard he’s trying to make himself appear unsuspicious. you hover over his contact, before looking back up at your empty document, and then down again. hesitantly you settle for resting your phone atop the mahogany, letting the screen darken on the words ‘lee heeseung’, then typing your very first words.

the mistake on your screen comes predictably. that’s not to say sunghoon thought you were stupid—it’s only honest for him to say many people messed up the way you did. careless, happens when you haven’t spent the days prior drilling these kinds of theorems into your head. his eyes were starting to hurt, squinting, trying to see how to help you.

the guilt creeps up on him, unexpectedly. he just can’t.

it’s unfortunate that sunghoon already knows exactly what he’d do if he were sitting right next to you, looking over your shoulder properly instead of pretending not to while still catching every mistake you make.

unfortunate that the assignment in front of him is something he could finish in less than an hour if he actually tried, something so mindless it doesn’t even deserve the amount of attention he’s currently refusing to give it, and yet he keeps sitting there anyway as if the decision is more complicated than it actually is.

“swap your x and y values.”

sunghoon has never in his life packed his things so quickly. he’s already moving before he fully processes what he’s done.

his chair scrapes back lightly against the carpet as he gathers his things in motions so quick it almost feels automatic—laptop closing before his assignment is anywhere near complete, tumbler shoved into his bag without care for whether it spills or not.

you’re still looking at him when he straightens, your brows drawn together slightly as you glance down at your screen again, scrolling back to where you left off.

your expression only changes the moment you realise what he said was correct. the mistake is exactly what he pointed out, sitting there so obviously wrong now that it feels almost insulting that you didn’t see it earlier.

sunghoon slings his bag over his shoulder too quickly, the strap wrong-side up, before he quickly settles it in place. he doesn’t look at you directly again, even though he can feel your attention still on him.

there is no explanation he can give that wouldn’t make it worse. no version of this situation exists where staying longer feels safer than leaving immediately, because the longer he sits here, the more likely it becomes that something small will slip.

you will notice. it may be something in the way he speaks or pauses or breathes that does not belong to heeseung at all. he knows you will put it together, because these are things he notices about you, unwillingly.

so, he leaves.

sunghoon’s footsteps are steady as he moves between tables, fiddling with his car keys between his slender fingers—until he reaches the aisle where the library opens up toward the exit.

only then does he allow himself one brief glance back.

you’re looking at him, still. like you haven’t decided whether you’re supposed to stop or keep watching, eyes slightly wider than they were a moment ago, as if you’re still catching up to the fact that he actually spoke, actually stood up, and actually left without giving you anything close to an explanation.

it’s not like he owed you one, anyway. right?

there’s a faint crease between your brows now, nothing like frustration, instead softened into something that makes his heart twist and do all sorts of things against his ribs. it’s not an exaggeration to say that he’s never felt such a feeling, and it’s even more of an understatement when he says it scares him.

he almost trips over his jeans when he crosses the threshold of the library, out into the pavement and in front of the carpark.

sunghoon needs to go home. he needs to get his shit together and go to practice, like how he’s always done in the months before this, and how he’ll continue to do—and yet, god knows why he can’t even drive out of the lot, instead he’s glued to his seat with his feet planted on the mat like it’ll kill him if he stepped on the gas pedal.

sunghoon is already outside the library by the time he’s back in his own body, aware that he’s moving.

the air hits him colder than expected. sharp against skin still warmed by the inside of the building, and for a moment he just stands there, half between steps, like his body has forgotten what it was supposed to do next. the carpark stretches out in front of him in clean, repetitive lines, familiar enough that it should be automatic, but nothing about his movements feels familiar anymore.

“fuck—“

sunghoon almost trips when he steps down the last curb, not because he isn’t paying attention, but because his body is slightly ahead of his thoughts and neither of them are aligned with anything resembling control. he corrects himself quickly, hand tightening briefly around the strap of his bag, and continues forward in a way that would look normal to anyone watching from a distance.

sunghoon’s car is where it always is. he gets in, sits his ass down, and doesn’t move.

the engine is not on yet, keys resting in his hand without being inserted, and his foot stays planted on the mat as if there is some unspoken rule that says starting the car will make something irreversible happen. he stares at the steering wheel for a long time without really seeing it, jaw set in a way that suggests focus but is really just restraint.

that look on your face is so easy to remember. park sunghoon knows he has to tell you, if there’s any chance—any at all—that he gets to look at you like that again.

a curse, truly, because now he knows what it feels like to be so close to you, to have such a feeling strike him so deep, lodging itself in his chest; whenever your face pops up uninvited in his peripheral, or in his daydreams, or on his cell. almost humiliating and actively consuming his sick brain.

the honesty might not even make you stay, and it probably will not make the confession noble—it feels ridiculous to him, almost absurd, because the only thing keeping him tethered to his car mat is the replay of your face in his mind: so painfully uncomplicated that he can’t stand the thought of touching it with borrowed hands and stolen time.

he can still picture the way you looked at him across that table, brows faintly drawn together in confusion, not because you were intimidated or nervous or trying to figure out if sunghoon was really as the rumours say, but because you genuinely did not understand why he had stood up and left.

no expectant eyes, no carefulness, barely any fear. frowned when you were confused and smiled when something amused you, all with the kind of ease that feels so natural on you that he doubts you even notice it yourself. it is the sort of thing most people take for granted, he thinks. the sort of thing people are lucky enough to have for so long that they stop recognizing it as freedom.

sunghoon only notices because he does not have it.

hockey captain, top student, dependable, intimidating, disciplined, the guy could make his own dictionary with the obnoxious amount of adverbs attached to his image. almost every room he walks into seems to demand something from him before he even opens his mouth, and somewhere along the way he stopped questioning it. teammates watch his reactions before deciding how to react themselves. juniors reroute questions through other people because they are too nervous to ask him directly. professors talk to him like they actually have expectations—classmates wait for him to know the answer. even the fraternity treats him like a fixed object, something solid and predictable that will always be exactly where it is supposed to be.

then, there’s you. all perfect hair and soft lips and weirdly adorable frustration carved onto your face, sitting beside him with a pen between your fingers with the other hand on your keyboard. your entire life is on the verge of spilling out your mouth whenever you talk, completely unaware of how rare it looks from where he stands, saying things because you want to say them—because it’s funny, even if it’s meaningless, even if it contributes nothing of value to the conversation.

you call when you miss him, you laugh at his unintentionally self-deprecating humour, you ask questions when you don’t know. you get sad, you cry on the phone, and you get so ridiculously angry about such trivial matters, that he can’t help but smile at his screen.

for one brief, stupid, and careless moment in that library, sunghoon thinks he wanted to stay because you were pretty.

the thought survives all of five seconds. pretty girls are not exactly rare, but the feeling stirring in his chest and the warmth spreading through his body definitely is.

barely any of it has to do with the curve of your smile or the sunlight caught in your hair. instead, it had everything to do with the feeling of being around you, the uncomplicated nature of it all, and the subtle identity crisis where he did not have to be a captain, student, impressive or disciplined.

you will probably leave him, he thinks. the only other option seemed much too cruel, even for him, stripping that choice from you.

You: can we meet up? 12:34

─────────────────────────

ever since you moved into your apartment, you’ve been trying to build a routine—something efficient and optimal, taking up the least amount of time and effort, while maximizing the amount of tasks done.

the first few weeks were horrible—every small decision felt disproportionate and too time-consuming. there’s ten minutes you could’ve used to get ready for bed that you spent cooking dinner, which you should’ve made prior to leaving the house, bla bla bla. you knew it was bad when the sequence after unlocking your door alone was enough to irritate you: whether to eat first or shower, how long to wait before brushing your teeth so you wouldn’t scrub your enamel off. it was stupid, the amount of thought you poured into things that were supposed to be automatic, but you couldn’t help it. everything had to fall into place in this busy life of yours and serve it’s rightful purpose.

there were too many small decisions like that. too many things to get right.

maybe that’s why this feels so off. because there’s nothing to figure out, and no reason for it to happen so often.

there’s no adjustment period, no careful slotting of time or reshuffling of habits. he just fits into the spaces you’ve already made. it’s incredibly mundane and underwhelming in the way it happens.

for now, heeseung calls you almost every damn night, and you feel weirdly normal about it.

it starts on a random thursday. then it’s saturday, then monday, then tuesday. somewhere along the way, it stops being a coincidence or convenience.

by wednesday, you’re calling him to help you pick out an outfit for a department event, holding up different tops to your mirror like he can somehow see through the line. you’re describing the colours, the cut, every minute detail, assuming his imagination could keep up with your rambling.

on thursday, you’re complaining about how much you hate psych, words spilling faster than you can filter them. by the time friday rolls around, he’s the one calling—something about needing help with an assignment, though it diverges quickly into him venting about a useless groupmate in his behavioural economics class.

it morphs into something consistent, though, still strange regardless.

you could’ve sworn lee heeseung took his electives in art culture this year. yet, with the way he’s talking about stock markets and all rationality being lost on the modern day consumer, it sounds like he’s well-versed with the contents.

“you ate an entire block of cheese for dinner?” he repeats back to you. now that you’ve retold the entire process of cooking dinner, down to the amount of parmesan cheese you used, hearing it repeated back to you makes it sound a little insane. “you couldn’t just salt it?”

“are you judging me?” you giggle, turning over in your sheets. the fabric twists with you, cool against your skin and your joints protest almost immediately—your right shoulder’s starting to cramp from how long you’ve been hunched over on your side.

you let out a quiet sigh into the air. “it was a better choice. tasted good, so… i don’t see any problem.”

there’s a pause on his end. you fidget as you wait—picking at your cuticles, long overgrown and in desperate need of a maintenance check, even cracking your knuckles just to fill the silence.

“i think that’s the issue,” he huffs. your shoulders finally relax at the sound of him—lacking any true judgment despite his words.

there’s faint rustling that crackles through your device, and for a minute, you imagine how he must look like right now: laid up in bed in some old jersey, shorts barely hanging onto his hips from how lazy he is to tie the drawstrings tighter. the night’s winding down and you’re still here, with him, like this is an absolute must-do before your eyes shut.

and the routine must repeat tomorrow, of course. not that you’re complaining.

the rest of the conversation flows without much resistance. lee heeseung talks about his afternoon run that seemed to piss him off a great deal, because he got a call from choi yeonjun—something about being five minutes late to the gym and how he’s clearly not committed.

“oh. you’re friends with him? isn’t he in a completely different department from you, though?” you mumble, hoping that it doesn’t come off as blunt—you very well could have missed this detail in your earlier conversations. *“*how do you guys get to the point of going to the gym together?”

“he’s been bothering me ever since freshman year.” heeseung responds, “seriously. i don’t know how i haven’t strangled him yet.”

you chew on your bottom lip, searching for a response. the silence stretches just a little too long, and something about it starts to itch—like you’ve asked the wrong question and you’re pushing somewhere you shouldn’t.

“ah,” you say finally. “i see… he’s really popular, so i’m not surprised.”

“yeah, he is. it gets annoying as fuck when he brings his girls to lunch…” heeseung mutters under his breath—you’re toying with the string of your hoodie, if only to make yourself feel less awkward. there’s another long and excruciating pause before you finally decide to push the conversation in another direction:

“are you going to that fundraiser?” your voice comes out softer than intended. you can only hope that heeseung doesn’t make you repeat yourself. “sunoo’s… one. you know.”

“sunoo’s one…” he repeats back to you, slower. the concept almost sounds abstract to him. “no. not my thing.”

not his thing.

you’re back to fiddling with your fingers again. suddenly, the drawstring of your sweats seems more interesting than anything else you can hear from the other end of the line.

his voice fizzles out. you hear him, yes—his tired, monotonous voice crackling through the speaker reaches your ears and lands straight in your stomach. between short breaths and awkward pauses, you hyperfocus on the wind howling past your thin curtains.

“oh,” you manage after a moment. the word escapes weakly, scratching at your throat before you clear it up. “thought you were. my bad.”

you don’t realise how sweat-slicked your palms are until your phone almost slips from your hand. you turn over in bed, just to save your eyeballs from the sting of streetlights hanging outside your window—it’s almost three in the morning, and despite that dreadful fact, cars are still honking like they own the neighbourhood.

“are you?” heeseung asks. “probably, huh?”

“shut up,” you laugh. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

a quiet huff escapes through the line. your free hand traces the hem of your blanket, now tangled between your legs, serving no real purpose.

“it just sounds like something you’d be into.” heeseung states without a hint of laughter or a smile. “trying new things, even if they’re childish and embarrassing.”

“well—”

“it’s not a bad thing.”

you don’t respond immediately. a soft hum of acknowledgment is heard through the device—it’s barely triumphant or teasing—like he understands the reasoning behind why you’re throwing yourself out there, unknowingly, to him.

you roll onto your back again, tucking your arm over your belly. the cotton’s cold from the absence of your body against it, pillows still damp from your wet hair and impatient self; phone pressed awkwardly against your cheek, the heat almost battles that of sunday mornings.

speaking of, you haven’t experienced in it’s entirety for the past few weeks.

“why don’t you try it, then? it could be fun.” you murmur, eyes screwing shut at the instant the words rolled off your tongue. “sorry. you don’t have to… if you find it weird.”

his laugh makes your heart rate stutter, then spike.

it’s sweet. genuine. warm and unrehearsed in it’s charm, filling the dimness of your room and settling right under your ribs. your face burns up like you’ve just swallowed something hot, and the heat blooms right in your abdomen and crawls up your neck ridiculously fast.

“relationships aren’t my thing.”

lee heeseung says it like it’s already been decided—something fixed and immovable, written in bold or carved into a rock somewhere far beyond him. existing outside of his control, predetermined, and he’s made peace with it—it’s simply the way things are—though the heavy sigh that follows betrays him, outlined faintly with something that sounds nothing like acceptance.

the past few weeks have unfolded into something more than they should’ve. conversations stretching deeper than expected, softening and melting into quiet teasing that feels almost familiar, like you’ve known each other your entire lives.

“really?” your lips can’t help but to curl slightly upward. “you’ve never dated?”

“never had time for that. i’m not the best with affection. people talk to me like they’re scared of me, that kind of thing. even at that stupid party, i just drank by myself upstairs.”

perhaps your memory is failing you, then.

it’s strange, in hindsight, how most of your attention that night had never really stayed where it was supposed to. you remember the first few times you saw lee heeseung—his best friend following shortly after—and your gaze always seemed to lag behind who you claimed to like.

just how did those two end up together?

your seniors used to tell you to look forward to college. new place, new faces, new prospects—like the world finally opens up and hands you options you didn’t know you had. one day, you’re trapped in a classroom from seven to six; the next, you’re weaving through a campus that doesn’t know you yet, trying to decide who you get to be in it.

lee heeseung made it easy to know. he was the kind of person people noticed without trying. effortless in a way that felt almost unfair—hair falling exactly how it should, skin catching the light like it was always meant to. you’d pass by his friend group and hear him before you saw him, laughter loud and uncontained, a basketball tucked under his arm like it never knew how else to store itself. he fit into everything so naturally that it almost felt like the world was his and his alone.

it made sense to like him. and even then, your attention seemed to stray—slipping quietly and slowly just past him.

sunghoon hangs behind like it pained him to be around other people. always a little removed and distant enough to not involve himself in the conversation but not to turn around and walk away unnoticed; broad shoulders angling themselves slightly away, eyes flicking over other people like it physically pained him to see other humans.

it’s small, useless things. the way he’d shift his weight from one foot to the other when conversations dragged on and he was tired of it. his hands would stay tucked into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise. watching more than he spoke, like he was just slightly out of sync with everyone else.

you’ve only ever seen him laugh once*.* it was weirdly off-timed and the rest of his friends laughed only three seconds later. you wondered if all of heeseung’s friends were as strange as that, or if it was just him.

it’s weird, actually. thinking about it now, you realise you remember more about park sunghoon than you should for someone you never consciously paid attention to. his name seemed to be the last piece to his mysterious identity, no thanks to oh jiwon.

“i’m sure that’s not true.”

“it is,” he says. “i try to stay, but things don’t work out. rarely ever do.”

you raise an eyebrow. “work out? so you almost dated?”

“i show up. i do what i’m supposed to. it just stops feeling like something i want to be in after a while.”

“so you just dip?” you question.

“not all at once. i get scared. i pull back and i cancel things that i already fought to fit into my schedule,” he pauses. “i say it’s nothing. they don’t press much after that.”

you hum. the line goes quiet for a few seconds. you’re trying hard not to bombard him with every invasive question on your mind: who’s your most recent girlfriend? how long ago was the relationship? why do you run away?

he continues regardless.

“people get frustrated with me,” he mutters. “i can’t even handle my own emotions. i run from my issues and go on pre-workout to deal with my baggage. nobody sane does that shit.”

“heeseung—”

the name slips from your tongue like a mistake. you bite down on your bottom lip as if that would stop the words from echoing into his ears, somewhere, miles away.

“you’re the only girl that doesn’t treat me like that. i still don’t get it.”

just where did all these thoughts come from? there's weeks of conversations that stretched until midnight. unfiltered words that you silently agreed to keep between you two. your heart’s begun to match the rhythm of his voice, unintentionally, from the moment he picks up the phone to the second he cuts the line. somewhere between your first call to now, you’ve gotten to know him—it’s exactly why you can’t blame the confusion bubbling in your head or the pit in your stomach that only seems to sink deeper.

“aren’t you scared of me, too?”

and here you were, thinking that the answer was abundantly clear. he cuts himself off when you want to start rambling. he finishes your sentences when you’re falling asleep. he asks what ridiculous, unhealthy dish you cook up for dinner every single day without fail—so why does he still sound like that?

you shift slightly against your sheets, phone pressed a little tighter to your ear as if proximity could make sense of it. “i don’t get it,” you admit quietly. “why would anyone be scared of you?”

there’s a pause on the other end. it doesn’t feel empty. things rarely ever do when you’re on the phone with him; it feels more like he’s weighing whether to answer honestly, soften the blow or leave it alone entirely. “this is what i mean, [name].”

you frown. there’s a shuffle of feet upstairs, thudding against your ceiling, which momentarily distracts you. it’s almost four in the morning and nothing feels any clearer than it did ten minutes ago. “what?”

“you don’t care,” he continues. “simple.”

he doesn’t bother to explain further. he hasn’t bothered to say much at all, actually—not in a way that should make sense to you or anyone that knows the name heeseung. still, you understand it anyway, in that vague, unspoken way that two people manage to do, where language feels slightly too slow for what’s already being felt, and too shallow to tell the other person what you really mean.

there’s a hollow kind of discomfort sitting low in your stomach. you’ve learned by now that this is usually a warning sign, even if you don’t always know what it’s warning you about.

you’ve never had particularly good luck with these things, anyway. whatever invisible logic governs timing, people, attachment—it has never seemed especially fond of you.

you exhale softly, pulling your blanket higher over your shoulder, as if that might settle something internally. your gaze drifts to the empty space beside you, unoccupied, waiting in a way that feels louder than it should at this hour.

“what don’t i care about?”

your voice comes out as a whisper, unintentionally. the sound barely makes it past your lips, weak and soft like it’s embarrassing that you even thought about saying it and just plain humiliating that you let it out. either way, heeseung’s answering it seconds later.

“what people say about me,” he sighs, “i like it better like that.”

you don’t really know what he means by that—your hair scratches against the cold, crisp pillowcase under your head as you turn over anxiously. lee heeseung was very known, yes, but the way the words land just feels so… odd.

sniffling when he speaks again, the responses that follow never reaches your ears.

─────────────────────────

finals week has made you it’s bitch.

there’s something almost childish in how irritable you get in the days leading up to exams. you’ve never learnt to move past it, and soon enough, the people around you eventually adapted to the sensitive storm that is you, minimally three days before a major paper.

three rules:

one) do not disrupt y/n l/n’s naps;

two) do not text, call, or approach first, and

do not ask how studying is going. the answer is never changing: it’s bad, i’m going to fail, my life is over.

okay, to be fair, these rules were not as strict as they sound. most of the time, people are already cooped up in study rooms and occupied with their own revision—clearly much too busy to talk to anyone else, much less you. so, when your entire friend group goes awol, you do nothing but let it happen.

though, there is just one person that remains.

lee heeseung, sounding entirely too relaxed over the phone with a blender going somewhere in the background, because he’s making his second protein shake of the day. he doesn’t sound very… worried about the approaching three-hour exam.

your feet are folded together, criss-cross on your office chair as you hunch over your desk. your room is pitch dark, save for the bright, white light radiating from your study lamp—sprawled over the surface of your cheap table is rewritten notes, scribbled equations and the occasional bible verse (for good measure).

“you sound upset,” he says.

“oh, do i, now?”

you almost drop your phone at that. you’ve been silently panicking for the last forty minutes without realising you’ve been breathing like that, and talking like this. you’ve spent even more time, close to five hours on this laptop that’s crying for you to shut it down, on lectures that you should’ve watched weeks back.

there’s a pause on his end, something shifting in the background—cupboard, blender stopping, maybe him leaning against the counter—and when he speaks again, it’s slower. “which one are you on?”

“twenty,” you say.

“how many left?”

“twelve,” you admit, already hating how it sounds when spoken out loud. somehow, all hope seems lost when you utter that forsaken number, despite it being (very) obviously displayed on the top left of your screen for the past few hours. “…fuck.”

this morning felt like hell. you’re sure your eye-bags have magically darkened themselves in the past few hours, and for a minute, you grimace at the thought of having to show up to school like that every damn day, all because you’re too tired to seem put together. breakfast was skipped, which was unfortunate, cause the guilt of preparing a heavy lunch only made the stress worse. heavy eyelids blinking open, slow, regretful for every delayed hour of sleep—limbs still tangled in cold sheets like it physically pained you to leave.

the sun bled through your blinds, warm over your ankles and blinding you through your eyelashes. you walked around the house in nothing but your underwear, even forgetting your slippers under the bedframe; there was only one thing on your mind. that much stayed consistent today, with the only variable factor being lee heeseung on the phone.

you didn’t think he’d call. schedules do that.

“it’s manageable,” his voice crackles through the speaker, and then there’s the sound of a cupboard slamming shut, along with the soft shuffling of… something. you actually consider hanging up on him, just for a brief moment. “how many topics?”

to be honest, you’d half-expected heeseung to tease you. laugh, even. maybe even tell you to stop being so dramatic, to answer his texts, and that he doesn’t understand why you’re freaking out over a dumb test—but here you are, and here he is, telling you that you have it figured out.

“four. it’s over,” you answer flatly, staring at the lecture list like if you looked hard enough another topic might spontaneously disappear. “it’s actually so over.”

“it’s not, y/n.”

heeseung’s voice stays annoyingly level. the speaker crackles with something that sounds like a spoon scraping against plastic and the jealousy almost gives you whiplash. he’s making a fucking protein shake while you’re stuck here memorising lecture slides on two-times speed and slowly developing permanent neck damage.

“you said your paper’s next tuesday. if there’s four topics left and you stop rewriting things you already know, you’ll finish tonight and still have time to revise.”

your head hits the table before you even realize you’ve moved. forehead pressed into paper, warm skin sticking slightly against cheap ink and printer sheets, you let yourself rot there dramatically. with your phone right beside your face, his voice sounds clearer than before—too clear, actually—and it feels vaguely humiliating, how quickly your chest warms when he talks like this.

you let out a long breath instead of responding, eyes drifting downward toward the floor beneath your desk. there’s crumpled paper scattered near your chair. a few sticky notes had missed the bin entirely and ended up attached to the outside of it instead, clinging there stubbornly like even they didn’t want to commit to failure.

he’s talking like he knows you.

“how’d you know—”

heeseung cuts you off with little trouble. “you’ve told me. pretty sure you can cut some lectures out, since you’ve been learning them for the past few weeks.”

you don’t answer. you narrow your eyes at his response, because who the hell is that observant? he doesn’t even need to confirm your schedule anymore—he just talks and cuts you off, knowing he’s completely right, because he listens that intently—but god.

he has no idea how warm that makes you feel.

on the other end of the line, heeseung walks back upstairs with his phone trapped awkwardly between his cheek and shoulder, head tilted enough that his neck would probably hurt later. his laptop balances in one hand, tumbler in the other, and his steps slow unconsciously as your breathing filters through the speaker.

his room looks exactly the same as always.

his duffel is already packed for practice tonight despite being excused for finals week. the afternoon sun catches against the medals mounted along his wall and reflects across his desk in strips of gold, schedule taped beside his wardrobe. his calendar is updated three weeks in advance, with a single day blocked out for the day you end your exams.

his eyes drift over the reminders stuck to his wall, and he’s reminded of it—the reason why he decided he was still going to practice today.

studying isn’t enough, clearly, if he’s still on the phone with you.

he already decided that he’d wait. finals week meant distance. finals week meant no showing up unexpectedly and no making this worse than he already has. finals week meant letting you breathe and not letting himself confuse temporary loneliness for something else, and finals week also meant not sinking deeper into you.

it’s just two weeks.

two weeks, and then, he’ll tell you.

“do you think i’ll do okay?” you mumble, so soft that you almost don’t hear yourself. it’s so quiet that you can hear the exact moment his fingers stop clicking against his keyboard, and so intense that the second he answers, your heart begins to pound.

“yeah. i know you will.”

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you don’t think much of it when you tell heeseung where you’ll be tomorrow, or rather, today. truthfully, you haven’t been thinking much at all lately—unless you count the thirty-second ponder about lunch options earlier this morning.

finals week does something deeply unfortunate to people. everybody becomes uglier in small, socially acceptable ways, because everyone around you just… gets it. hair goes unwashed for an extra day, clothes repeat twice, thrice in a row, and eyebags sink further in with no substantial effort to conceal them. entire friend groups, including yours, quickly dissolve into delayed replies and weak promises to hang out after exams, because who the hell wants a mass social gathering after four all-nighters?

your room starts becoming unbearable by day four. there’s something fundamentally wrong with spending twelve hours in one place—any longer and you might’ve begun associating your digital lock chime with impending doom.

the second you sit at your desk, your chest tightens automatically. it’sm like your brain immediately morphs the cute wallpaper around you into blank rows of seats, and your ears only hear mindless scribbling, despite the cheerful music blasting through your headphones.

by the time noon comes around, you’ve scarfed down every grain of rice from your takeout container—dragging your feet and will to live through your apartment, searching for your purse before leaving.

it’s wednesday. the sun is shining on you, warm and consequentially irritating as the sweat begins to pill on your temples. they roll down your cheek in fat beads, and it almost serves as motivation for you to get your ass into that library as soon as possible.

your macbook is pressed against your side, tote slipping down your shoulders every few minutes, only to be caught by the crevice of your elbow. there’s an iced coffee from last night, standing in for your mid-day snack; and, as if you hadn’t eaten just an hour ago, your stomach rumbles in defeat.

the library doors open as you stomp against the carpeted sensors. the cold air hits your face hard enough that you nearly stop walking, but you settle for a deep, relieving sigh before turning left and speed-walking down those winding corridors built out of metal shelving.

your body already knows where to go now—past the noisier floors, up the stairs, away from printers and bathrooms and groups of students pretending to study while giggling about their situationships at full volume. roughly fifty-six seconds later, your consciousness kicks back in full gear, and you’re dumping your things down onto a familiar table before immediately realizing that you forgot your fucking charger.

“are you fucking—”

oh, well. problem for future you. worse comes to worst, you’ll scare some freshman away with your horrendous, sleepless eyes and unusually wide smile and steal theirs.

libraries distort time as well as they force you to keep track of it. hours behave well in the quieter corners, but if you’re somehow in urgent need of completing an assignment, they start speeding themselves up. it’s exactly why you’re chanting mantras to yourself now: studying isn’t urgent at all. this exam will not kill me! yes! i already know everything there is to know!

afternoon becomes evening rather quickly. suddenly, your water bottle is empty, your iced coffee splits into two separate layers of cloudy water and room temperature caffeine, and the light crawls across the carpet so much that your chair is no longer in the same patch of sun you sat down in.

you stopped checking the time thirty minutes ago. notes multiply, hair becomes tangled at the back of your neck, and your spine hurts. you spent forty minutes writing notes on a lecture, not realizing it’s a replay.

sometime later, when your legs are beginning to feel like tv static, movement catches in your peripheral and your eyes lift automatically before your brain even has a chance to catch up.

“sunghoon?”

my god. just stand up and run into his arms, why don’t you?

his reaction comes a fraction of a second later. despite the prior brain lag, you’re suddenly thinking about his face—sunghoon looks different outside of wherever you usually see him. less assembled, with a ridiculously large hoodie hanging loose around his frame, which only makes him look even bigger from where you’re sitting; there’s shadows beneath his eyes that soften his face unexpectedly.

his hair looks horrible. his sweatpants are dragging against the floor, too. sunghoon looks exhausted, and his gaze hangs low, until you call out for him, that is.

the corners of your lips curl upward before you even realise it’s happening. his expression doesn’t change much, but the faint raise of his thick eyebrows tells you enough. his eyes flick toward the empty chairs around you, and you almost assume that you weirded him out—great, he’ll walk away now—but all sunghoon does is return a soft, supposedly meaningless smile in your direction.

there’s that brief moment, where people who know each other silently debate whether acknowledging the other’s presence is necessary in public—and then he gives you a small nod, right before he takes his laptop out and sits right in front of it.

two seats away from you. like last week. if you hadn’t met the man before, you would’ve thought he wanted to kill you with a face like that. eyebrows knit together in frustration, typing furiously at his keyboard like it owed him twenty bands, tapping his foot against the carpet like he was thinking about something deathly important.

cute—wait, what the fuck, said you, around fifteen times over in the past two hours.

you become aware of him in entirely useless ways. he drinks water without looking away from his screen, sometimes even types with one hand as the other holds that tumbler to his lips. he cracks his knuckles at every given opportunity, and his fingers hover over the keyboard occasionally when he thinks. you leave for more coffee, come back, go to the bathroom, and he’s literally still there.

at one point, you look up because your neck hurts, and caught yourself stretching. fucking stretching, left to right, just for an excuse to get a full view of his side profile. in that tiny, meaningless moment, you witnessed him rub his eyes and immediately return back to typing his unfinished methods section.

it’s strangely comforting that park sunghoon is there for you to look at. oddly. it helps with the whole ‘i’m the only one in this universe, it’s all a simulation’ delirium.

regardless, at around six, the words on your screen are beginning to morph into one big demonic face, and every letter on your keyboard just resembles an egyptian hieroglyphic. words are decorative, english is just a bunch of made up gibberish, and you need to get out of this plastic seat before you melt into it—so after rereading the same paragraph four times, absorbing nothing (shocker), your eyes begin to ache and decide: changing tasks will fix all these worldly pains you have.

the ‘changing tasks’ arrives in the form of a reference nook your professor mentioned. standing, stretching, you’re doing it all before disappearing into the shelves.

it’s warmer here than it is at the tables, somehow. perhaps it’s the way the sun is setting now, and it’s getting all in your eyes and in your hair, just like it did this morning. though, when you turn towards the closest, wide-set window, your breath almost gets taken away at the blend of pinks and oranges that colour the sky.

you see this sunset almost every day. still, it doesn’t take any of the beauty away.

dust catches in the overhead light, paling in comparison to the golden hue that the light is bathing the room in—the smell of old books penetrates your nose in a way that makes you think about middle school. you drag your fingers across rows of spines, reading titles under your breath, stepping slower in each aisle because your brain refuses to remember the author’s name. you bet sunghoon doesn’t struggle with things like that.

“behavioural psychology… where the fuck even is that?”

─────────────────────────

following a mini mental breakdown, park sunghoon’s brain decides not to accomodate a single molecule of information until he gets up and got his blood moving.

there was only so much economics and statistics a person could consume before words stopped behaving like language and started looking like numbers flipped around. his screen brightness had been lowered twice, and his coffee had gone cold sometime around four—the sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up his forearms and there was a faint imprint from resting his cheek against his knuckles for too long, which he finds immensely humiliating.

he closes the document, opens it again, reads the same words over and over, and realises he won’t get anything done like this; so his eyes leave the screen for the first time in twenty minutes and settle automatically on the empty seat in his peripheral.

his head back turns so fast that he almost curses at himself.

and, to make things extra embarrassing, his mind starts to weigh the odds of whether you’re about to leave, or if you’re just gone for another break. scanning your side of the desk, taking in your untouched water bottle, open laptop and tangled wired headphones—you’re somewhere nearby, a conclusion he unwillingly comes to.

sunghoon’s fingers drum once against the tumbler before he remembers there was a book he wanted earlier. or needed. something vaguely related to an assignment he’d been putting off. either way, he stands, pushes in his chair halfway, and makes his way into the shelves.

it really does feel different in here. the high-pitched clacking of mechanical keyboards is muffled, almost muted behind these thick walls of books, where light filters in through strips and catches every speck of dust floating around. he turns once, twice, passing business ethics—until he finally reaches behavioural psychology, and stops dead in his tracks.

it’s not even about the book. if he remembered correctly, the one he was looking for’s two floors down, but this—here, in front of him, on this floor, was you.

sunghoon ducks into the next aisle like he’s guilty. he presses his back lightly against the endcap of the shelf, as though the solid structure might help him reset whatever just short-circuited in his brain.

this is ridiculous. he’s in a library. on a weekday. trying to study. and yet, somehow, his entire nervous system has decided that walking in a straight line is suddenly the most difficult thing in the world.

he exhales, before trying to occupy himself by looking for something similar to what he’s studying for another module. he stands still for a second longer than necessary, fingertips running against this one book which he can’t bother to know the name of, and all it does is feel like a weak alibi.

business psychology is a popular section. lots of students with sunghoon’s major share modules, hence, explaining why the other book he’s pretending to need isn’t even here. it also explains why the fuck his eyes keep gravitating towards you, through tall-enough gaps, locked on your concentrated face and frustrated pout.

every interruption in his life, somehow, becomes framed with you. a horizontal slit between two rows of books, a deliberate architectural hesitation, tall enough to fit even the thickest and tallest of publications out there—and you, existing between it.

it’s closer than before, not in distance but in clarity. the kind of proximity that does not require physical reduction to feel intimate. the light falls differently here, angled through a window he cannot fully see, softening the edge of everything it touches—your tip of your nose, the ends of your hair, and the faint movement of your hand as you adjust your page.

you look so beautiful. nothing has changed. he knew it when he saw you sitting in front of him today, he knew it when you walked into this place last week, and he knew it when he saw you at that party, wearing a dress that seemed so inclined to his attention and a smile that made all the flashing colours pale in comparison.

and, most of all, he knows it now. a fool he is, for thinking that these feelings would fade.

sunghoon tries to locate himself properly in the task he came for—something about organisational theory, a phenomenon he can usually reduce into clean frameworks and exam-ready structure. his hand has been resting against the spine of the book for the past twenty seconds, fingers curled just enough to suggest intent, but nothing in him is actually compelling the pull.

the thought arrives with a sharpness that feels almost physical, like pressure behind the ribs.

park sunghoon wishes he could redo college from the start. not in the abstract, as nostalgia or regret type thing, instead with specificity—clean edits to timing, tone, and presence. a revision pass on himself. one that would let him stand a few steps closer to you now, without feeling like the distance between yourselves is self-inflicted.

his thumb shifts minutely along the book’s spine. the motion is absent-minded, almost mechanical.

once you know who he really is—strip away whatever version of him you’ve only seen in passing corridors and half-glances at the long oak table—will you stop looking for him?

fuck. he doesn’t even care enough to stop looking at you. hair falling over your face, your lips blowing air to get the tiny, annoying strands to stop itching your nose.

selfish. selfish, selfish, selfish. that’s all he is.

─────────────────────────

─────────────────────────

august meant summer.

the sun is unforgiving, blazing hot rays beating down on your back as sweat trickles down your shoulder blades—everything about today seemed relentless, exam included. around you, people are already decomposing the paper in clusters: comparing answers, laughing too loudly, swearing they’re finished in voices that sound almost celebratory. someone says question 47 was impossible. someone else says it was free marks. you keep walking.

there’s that feeling when you finally press submit on a paper. not relief exactly—more like your body forgetting what to do after operating at full capacity for too long. to be truthful, there were multiple times where you thought you were fucked throughout the exam, and then you’d look at the bottom of your screen and see: 21 out of 80 questions saved.

you really, sincerely thought handing in that empty thing was better than typing whatever you studied. no matter how hard you worked these past few weeks, there was always that irritating, sly little voice whispering into your ear that it was for nothing. that all those late nights, colour-coded notes, skipped breaks and panic-induced productivity spurts would collapse into one single, defining moment that you were never going to catch up.

somewhere around the second hour—after your eyes started blurring and the timer at the corner of the screen felt less like a clock and more like a countdown to execution—you broke. quietly, of course. you had enough tact not to lose your shit in front of a hundred other students in the same venue.

you understood less than you thought. you should’ve started earlier. you’re embarrassing yourself.

you just stared at question 22 for three minutes straight and felt your throat tighten because suddenly, everything became impossible at once. reading felt impossible. thinking felt impossible. even moving your cursor felt weirdly impossible. you literally just bought it yesterday, because you were convinced the one you always use would die.

fuck everything, you thought, until some other voice started talking to you—in that calm, gentle demeanour that you’ve gotten used to over months. low and amused in tone when he said, “why’re you so hard on yourself, y/n?”

last night, he was on the phone with you. you remember lying flat on your bed with your notes open but untouched, your lamp the only thing still awake in your room. coffee wasn’t doing it, or maybe it was just the fact that it was your sixth cup today; he’d called later than usual, and somehow the conversation drifted away from exams, and shifted more toward your incessant need to be perfect, despite and in spite of the circumstances.

“what do you mean?”

moonlight spilling in through thin curtains, the thrum of public transport and dogs taking late-night walks with owners who talk too loud on the phone. no one knew where you were, no one cared what you were doing, but it didn’t matter. he knew. he cared.

you don’t even remember how the conversation got there, either. was it some joke about failing? one too many of those were made, now that you think about it. it wasn’t even self-pitying, either—all casual in the way that people talk, repeating the same thing enough times that it sounds like truth—but then he went quiet and said, “you talk like you’ve already decided on fucking it up.”

you remember laughing. whatever, because what do you do when someone says something so accurate? what the hell do you say when someone sees right **through you?

“i just have bad luck in these things.”

he laughed. fucking laughed. it was this short, incredulous breath through his nose like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. “you study all day, every day, and act surprised when you know the material.”

you frowned automatically. “well—”

“no,” he interrupted. “you’re smart. hard working. you’re trying, and i don’t think you should dismiss those efforts.”

“but—”

“i have to get back to work,” he breathed into the phone. his voice dropped slightly at the end, words softened by distance and whatever position he’d shifted into. you could hear movement through the phone—the subtle crackle of fabric, the hollow acoustics of a room that sounded emptier than yours. “get some sleep before your exam. goodnight.”

no good-lucks, no you’ll-do-wells, no last minute reassurance that would only soothe your nerves for ten minutes before you’d spiral again. last night, it had seemed cruel. not in the obvious sense—he wasn’t mean nor dismissive—but there was something irritatingly unsympathetic about the way he refused to give in to you. you’d left that call mildly offended, convinced he was sick of hearing you talk like that. sick of your catastrophizing, sick of your weird habit of turning every achievement into an exception and every mistake into evidence. sick of you.

yet, now, walking towards your car with the heat sitting heavy against your skin and your student id still peeking out the pocket of your jeans, it seemed more like belief.

in you, that is. almost as if that you doing terribly had never come across his mind, occurring as a possibility.

you recall staring at your ceiling, phone falling face flat to your mattress, face flushed with embarassment and annoyance that only seemed to erupt when it came to late replies and slightly off-sounding tones. it’s almost exclusive to him—you were never that great at reading rooms, after all.

your car keys twirl around your index finger, a different spring in your step now that the bitter taste of last night has dissolved completely. you’ll call him tonight, later, maybe once your foot crosses the threshold known as your front door, or once you step into the car. you’ll tell him about the exam, about how there was a moment where you genuinely considered submitting half a paper because, somehow, failing after trying felt more humiliating than failing without trying.

you’ll tell him that his stupidly calm voice somehow survived twelve hours and a three-hour exam. that while you were sitting there spiralling and preparing to abandon the entire thing, you remembered the way he said it—like he knew, understood, and reached for you when you abandoned yourself.

you’re already halfway through mentally composing the conversation when movement ahead catches your attention. someone’s walking towards you from the opposite direction, feet dragging against concrete in a way that would usually annoy, but instead of diverting your attention to the phone in your pocket—you look up.

you recognize him immediately. lee heeseung.

weirdly enough, you haven’t seen him up close around campus for the past three months. you assumed it was probably because he was just that busy—you’d seen his figure in the distance, but by the time you caught up, he’d be gone. there were tons of excuses that he made up on the phone, too, earlier into your relationship: personal projects, mostly, though the details were always lacking.

perfect hair. perfect face. perfect stride. even now, people notice him as he walks past. conversations soften for half a second, eyes lifting instinctively and following his pace before returning to wherever they were before. heeseung moves through it without acknowledging anything, shoulders relaxed, expression neutral, looking exactly like someone who’s long stopped recognizing attention as something unusual.

you straighten automatically, lifting your hand, almost waving, but not quite yet. heeseung doesn’t even need to see it in motion for him to look right into your eyes.

his expression shifts—something adjacent to confusion, an eyebrow raised as if to say, where do i know you from?

what. the. fuck.

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the small dorm window, painting Heeseung’s single room in stripes of gold and dust. You were flat on your back on his unmade bed, your head pillowed on his stomach. Heeseung’s own back was against the headboard, one of his hands absently playing with the ends of your hair where it fanned out over his grey sweatpants.

“I’m serious, Hee,” you groaned, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. “It’s like a conspiracy theory. Hayoon got her guy from the chem lab. Sohee’s been dating that barista for, like, three months. Even Jiwon, who swore off men after the Great Tinder Disaster, is ‘exploring a situationship’ or whatever. And look where I am.”

Heeseung’s stomach moved with his low chuckle. “You’re here complaining to me. It’s a prestigious position.” His fingers tugged gently on a strand of your hair.

“It’s not funny!” You tilted your head back to glare up at him, but you could only see the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips quirked up into a smile. “I’m going to die a virgin. Fossilized. They’ll dig me up in two hundred years, perfectly preserved, with my vibrator still in the box.”

The hand in your hair stilled. The comfortable rise and fall of his abdomen beneath your head paused for a beat too long. The dorm was suddenly quieter, the distant sounds of students in the hallway fading into a fuzzy background hum.

“That,” Heeseung said, his voice dropping lower into a register you rarely heard, “is a tragic fate.”

“Right?” you said, the word coming out a little breathless, your joke suddenly feeling too loud.

Another pause, thicker this time. Then, he spoke, the words deliberate, measured. “You know,” he started. “I could show you. What it feels like.”

You blinked, the sentence not computing at first. It was so utterly, bizarrely out of left field that your brain short-circuited. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, twisting to look at him fully. He was already looking down at you, his dark eyes unreadable, a strange intensity in them that made your stomach flip.

“What?” you laughed, a nervous, disbelieving sound. “Hee, you’re my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were in diapers. That’s… that’s so weird. Don’t be gross.” You reached out and swatted his shoulder, the gesture automatic, a reflex to dispel the sudden tension.

But he was faster. His hand shot out and caught your wrist before your palm could connect, his fingers wrapping around it with a firm, warm grip. He didn’t let go. Instead, he turned your hand, his gaze holding yours captive as he brought your inner wrist to his lips. You felt the soft, dry press of his mouth against your pulse point, a kiss so gentle it was devastating. A shiver, sharp and electric, raced up your arm and curled deep in your stomach.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “I promise.”

Your mind was a white-noise scream of whatwhatwhat. This was Heeseung. Heeseung. The boy who’d eaten a worm on a dare in second grade. The one who’d held your hair back when you puked after your first college party. The man who’d seen you in every state of undress, who’d borrowed your clothes, who knew your deepest, dumbest secrets. The sheer, monumental weirdness of it should have had you scrambling off the bed, laughing it off, calling him a pervert.

But you didn’t.

Because beneath the shock, a traitorous, pent-up heat was uncoiling inside you, spreading like spilled ink. You’d been so frustrated lately, so achingly aware of your own untouched body, fantasizing about faceless strangers in the dark. And now here was Heeseung—beautiful, familiar, safe Heeseung—offering a solution with a look in his eyes that promised he knew exactly what he was doing.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Your wrist was still in his grasp, your skin tingling where his lips had been. You were confused, yes. Terrified, a little. But more than anything, you were aroused, a dull, heavy throb settling between your legs that you couldn’t ignore.

You swallowed, your throat dry. “You’re—you’re serious?”

“Deadly.” His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist.

“But… we’re…” You couldn’t even form the argument. The logic had dissolved.

“Best friends,” he finished for you, his voice a low rumble. “Which means I know you. And you trust me, right?” He let go of your wrist, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His touch was impossibly tender, a contrast to the fire in his eyes. “Let me take care of you. Just this once. Let me show you.”

The last of your resistance crumbled. It was madness. It was maybe the worst idea in the history of your life. But the needy ache between your legs was voting yes, a loud, insistent yes.

You took a shaky breath. “Okay.” The word was barely a whisper. Then, forcing a bravado you didn’t feel, you added, “Fine. Okay. Let’s see what you got, hotshot.”

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. “That’s my girl.”

Before you could process the possessiveness of that phrase, he was moving. In one smooth motion, he shifted off the headboard, and he was hovering over you, caging you in with his arms. His face was inches from yours. You could see the faint scar through his eyebrow from a childhood bike accident, the flecks of amber in his brown eyes.

“We’re gonna take this slow, ‘kay?” he said, his voice a hypnotic murmur. “Tell me to stop anytime you want. Anytime, alright?”

You just nodded, your lips parted, unable to speak.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

His mouth slanted over yours with such hunger that it stole the air from your lungs. His tongue traced the seam of your lips and you opened for him on a gasp, letting him in. One of his hands slid into your hair, angling your head for better access, while the other splayed over your ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your thin t-shirt.

You moaned into his mouth, a sound of pure, shocked pleasure. Your hands came up, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, then sliding around to his back, feeling the hard planes of muscle flex under your palms. You’d hugged him a thousand times, but this…

He kissed you until you were dizzy, until your body was arching off the mattress seeking more of his heat. Only then did he pull back, his lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, to your throat. He sucked gently at the pulse point there, and you cried out, your hips jerking involuntarily.

“So responsive,” he breathed against your damp skin, his voice thick with approval. “Knew you would be.”

His hand, which had been on your ribs, drifted down, over the soft cotton of your shirt, past the waistband of your shorts, to rest on your lower stomach. The heat of his palm burned through the fabric. “Just your shirt, okay?” he asked, though it was barely a question.

You nodded frantically. “Okay.”

He sat back on his heels, pulling you with him so you were sitting up. With a deliberate slowness that made your skin flush, he gripped the hem of your oversized t-shirt—one of his old ones, you realized with a jolt—and pulled it up and over your head. The cool dorm air hit your bare skin, and your arms instinctively crossed over your chest.

Heeseung’s eyes darkened, his gaze a physical weight as it traveled over you. “I’ve seen you in a bikini,” he teased, but his voice was rough. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

“This is different,” you managed to choke out, your face on fire.

“So different,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. He reached out, his fingers gently prying your arms away, lowering them to your sides. “Let me look at you. Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

The raw admiration in his tone undid you. You let your arms fall, sitting exposed before him. His gaze was rapt, taking in the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your breasts, the tight peaks of your nipples already hardened into tight buds from the cool air and his attention. He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over one peak, and you shivered.

“Heeseung…”

“Shh.” He didn’t use his mouth, not yet. Instead, he brought his fingers up, tracing the outer curve of your breast with a feather-light touch that made you gasp. He circled closer and closer to the nipple, his eyes watching your face, cataloging every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your eyelids. When his thumb finally, finally brushed over the taut peak, you whined, your back bowing.

“Sensitive here,” he noted, a smirk playing on his lips. He did it again, firmer this time, rolling the pebbled flesh between his thumb and forefinger. A bolt of pure pleasure shot straight to your core, and you felt a fresh gush of wetness between your legs. “And here, I bet.” His other hand came up to mirror the action on your other breast, pinching and rolling until you were panting, your head falling back.

“Please…”

“Please what?” He was leaning close again, his lips hovering just above your nipple. His breath was hot.

“I don’t know,” you whimpered. “Just—just touch me, please—”

He closed the distance, his mouth capturing your nipple, sucking it deep into the wet heat of his mouth.

You cried out, your hands flying to his head, fingers tangling in his soft hair. He sucked hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive tip, and the pleasure was so acute, so focused, it was almost painful. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, biting down gently on the peak before soothing it with his tongue. You were writhing beneath him, a high moan torn from your throat.

When he pulled back, your nipples were glistening and red, throbbing in the cool air. He looked down at his work, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Lie back,” he instructed, his voice gravelly.

You obeyed without thought, sinking back into his pillows. He knelt between your legs, his hands going to the waistband of your shorts. He hooked his fingers into the fabric and your panties beneath, and in one smooth motion, peeled them both down your legs and off, tossing them aside. You were completely naked now, spread out before him, and the vulnerability should have been crippling. But the look on his face—a mix of awe and sheer, unadulterated lust—made you feel powerful instead.

“Open for me,” he said, his voice barely recognizable.

You let your knees fall apart, exposing yourself to him fully. The air touched your wet folds, a cool contrast to the burning heat there. Heeseung’s gaze dropped, and he let out a shaky breath. “Jesus. Look at you. Soaked already.”

He didn’t touch you there yet. Instead, he leaned down, placing a soft kiss on your inner thigh, just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another, each kiss a brand, moving agonizingly slowly up the sensitive skin of your thigh towards your center. You were trembling, your hips making tiny circles, seeking friction, seeking anything.

“Heeseung, please, touch me,” you begged, the words a ragged plea.

“I am.” His breath fanned over your wetness, and you jerked. “Patience, baby.”

His thumb, broad and warm, swept through your folds, gathering the slick moisture, and pressed firmly against your clit.

Your vision blacked out for a second. A sharp, keening sound ripped from your throat. He didn’t move, just held that steady, perfect pressure, letting you ride the first overwhelming wave of sensation.

“Oh, god,” you sobbed.

“Just me,” he corrected, a smile in his voice. Then he began to move. His thumb started to circle your clit, slow, deliberate circles that had your thighs trembling. His other hand came up to spread you open wider, his fingers slipping through your slick folds, probing, learning your shape.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed, his own arousal evident in the strained quality of his voice. “So fucking perfect.” One finger, slick with your arousal, teased at your entrance. He rubbed the pad of it around the rim, coating himself in you, before pushing in, just to the first knuckle.

The intrusion was strange, a stretching, filling sensation that was foreign but not unwelcome. You gasped, your inner muscles clenching around him.

“Easy,” he soothed, his thumb never stopping its maddening circles on your clit. “Just relax.” He pushed his finger in deeper, sinking it to the hilt inside you.

A full, aching feeling bloomed in your lower belly. It was overwhelming, but as he began to move, a slow in-and-out glide, the friction ignited a deeper pleasure, one that built in tandem with the focused torture of his thumb on your clit. He added a second finger, the stretch more pronounced, a delicious burn that made you cry out.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his eyes locked on where his fingers were disappearing into your body. “Fuck, you feel incredible. So hot. So wet for me.”

His words were filthy, degrading in the best way, and they sent another rush of heat through you. You were babbling, nonsense pleas and his name, over and over. The tension in your gut was winding tighter, tighter, a spring about to snap. The pleasure was a crescendo, building to a peak you could almost see, almost touch. Your back arched off the bed, your heels digging into the mattress.

“I’m… Hee, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.” His fingers stilled inside you. His thumb lifted from your clit.

The sudden absence of sensation was a physical agony. You whimpered, a sound of pure protest, your hips chasing his retreating hand. “No, please, Heeseung, I was so close!”

He leaned over you, his face flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you. “I know, baby, I’m sorry,” he murmured. He reached for the nightstand drawer, fumbling for a moment before pulling out a small foil square. “But I’m gonna make you feel even better. Trust me.”

You watched, entranced, as he tore the packet open with his teeth and rolled the latex down his length. You’d never seen him fully hard before, but he was impressive. Thick and long, the head flushed a dark red, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. Another wave of nervousness and anticipation washed over you.

He positioned himself between your legs again, his hands on your hips, lifting you slightly. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudged against your soaked entrance. He paused, his eyes finding yours. They were almost black with desire, but still, he stopped one last time.

“You sure?” he asked, the words strained.

You nodded, beyond words. You reached for him, pulling him down for a desperate, sloppy kiss. “Yes. Please. Now, Hee.”

He groaned into your mouth. “Okay. Okay, baby.”

He pushed forward.

The stretch was immense, overwhelming. It burned, a sharp, tearing sensation that made you gasp and freeze. He stilled immediately, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

“Breathe,” he whispered, kissing your temple, your cheek. “Just breathe through it. It’ll pass.”

You took a shuddering breath, and as you exhaled, your body seemed to open for him, accepting him. The burning faded, replaced by a staggering feeling of fullness, of being filled up in a way you’d never imagined. He slid in deeper, inch by inch, until his hips were flush against yours, and he was buried inside you to the hilt.

He let out a shuddering groan, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Holy shit.”

You were full. So impossibly, wonderfully full. You could feel him inside you, hard and thick. You shifted experimentally, and the drag of him along your inner walls made you moan.

He lifted his head, his eyes wide. “Look,” he breathed, his voice full of awe.

Confused, you looked down, past where your bodies were joined, to your own stomach. There, just below your navel, was a subtle but unmistakable swell. A small, rounded bulge where his cock was stretching you from the inside out, pressing against your abdominal wall.

“Holy shit,” you echoed back, the sight sending a jolt of pure, carnal thrill through you. It was filthy. It was animal. It was the most erotic thing you’d ever seen.

Heeseung’s eyes snapped back to yours, and then he began to move again.

He pulled back almost all the way, the sensation of him leaving a strange, empty ache, before sliding back in with a slow, controlled thrust. The friction was exquisite, a deep, grinding pleasure that started in your core and radiated outwards. He set a deliberate, deep rhythm, each stroke hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars.

“Feel good?” he grunted, his muscles corded with tension as he held himself above you.

“So—hah—good,” you choked out, your nails digging into the sweat-damp skin of his back. “Don’t stop, Hee, please—”

“Wasn’t planning to.” He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss as he thrust. His pace remained slow, almost torturous, each movement deep and purposeful, designed to drag against every nerve ending. You could feel every ridge, every vein of him as he moved within you.

His mouth left yours, trailing down your neck to your breasts. He took a nipple back into his mouth, sucking hard as he drove into you, and you found yourself unraveling fast.

“Hee, I can’t—it’s—hn—too much—”

“You can take it, baby,” he replied, his voice guttural. “You’re doing so good for me. Just let go, yeah?” he panted. “I’ve got you.” He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he slammed into that perfect spot with unerring accuracy.

You mewled, your body bowing off the bed. The climax hit you like a freight train, a cataclysmic explosion of pleasure that ripped through you. Your inner muscles clamped down on him in rhythmic, pulsing waves, milking his length. White light flashed behind your eyelids, and for a moment, you were nothing but sensation—the stretch, the fullness, the shocking, all-consuming pleasure of your first real orgasm.

Heeseung swore, his thrusts becoming ragged, losing their careful control. “Hah—ah—you’re squeezing me so tight—gonna make me come—”

He drove into you, hard and fast, three more thrusts, and then he stilled, buried deep. A deep, ragged moan tore from his throat as he came, his body shuddering violently against yours. You felt the hot pulse of him through the condom, and then he flopped back.

The room was filled with the sound of your ragged breathing, the smell of sex and sweat. His cock, still semi-hard inside you, gave a little twitch, and you clenched around him instinctively, drawing a soft groan from him.

After a long moment, he shifted, pulling out slowly. You winced at the sensitive, overstimulated feeling, a strange emptiness following the loss of him. He disposed of the condom and then hurried back to you, pulling you against his side, your head on his chest. His heart was thundering against your ear.

The silence stretched out for a couple of minutes. Heeseung was the one who broke it, his voice a sleepy rumble in his chest. “So,” he said, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare shoulder. “Not gonna die a virgin anymore.”

The sun beat down on the driveway, turning the concrete into a shimmering mirage. You squeezed the sponge, the soapy water running in rivulets down your arm and dripping from your elbow to the hot ground with a soft hiss. You were bent at the waist, ostensibly scrubbing the rear passenger door of your parents’ sensible sedan, but your focus was laser-sharp on the property line to your left. The fence was low, just chest-height, designed for neighborly chats.

You’d chosen the outfit with a precision even a military strategist would admire: faded denim booty shorts that hugged every curve, showed an indecent amount of thigh, and rode up with any movement, and a thin, white cotton tank top that you definitely hadn’t doused with the hose on purpose. It clung to you now, transparent in patches, the peaks of your nipples visible even through your bra. You’d seen Jay’s black Rolls-Royce pull into his driveway twenty minutes ago. The timing was perfect.

Just be casual. You’re just washing the car. Just being a super helpful daughter.

You heard his door open and shut. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You didn’t turn. You just bent over further, reaching for the hubcap, knowing the position showcased the full length of your legs and the round swell of your ass.

“Well, well, look who it is.”

His voice, deeper and more resonant than you remembered, sent a bolt of arousal straight through you. You straightened up slowly, turning with the sponge in your hand, forcing a smile you hoped looked surprised and not predatory.

“Jay! Hi. Yeah, just… you know. Earning my keep.” You gestured vaguely with the sponge, sending a droplet flying. It landed on your thigh and traced a slow, tantalizing path down your skin. Much to your dismay, his gaze remained trained on you.

Park Jongseong hadn’t changed much in four years. If anything, time had been kind, sanding away any softness and leaving behind sharper, more defined angles. His black hair was neatly styled, his jaw clean-shaven. He wore dark trousers and a crisp, light blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with fine dark hair and corded with tendon. He looked like what he was: a successful salaryman in his mid-thirties. And he looked at you with a polite kind of curiosity that made you feel like you were seventeen with braces and a huge crush on him all over again.

“I heard you were back. Congratulations on graduating, kiddo.”

Kiddo. The word was a bucket of ice water. You felt your smile tighten. “Thanks. It’s…um. It’s good to be back. For the summer, anyway.”

“Only for the summer?” he asked. “What’s the plan? Back to the city after that?”

“Yeah,” you said, a little too eager to make conversation with him. “That’s the goal, at least. I want to move back once I find something. But the job market is, like, super rough. Everyone wants at least three years of experience for an entry-level position.”

He hummed, thoughtful. “That hasn’t changed.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Apparently not.” You stared down at your feet, suddenly self-conscious. “So, um. Yeah. This is just me trying to save a little money, I guess.”

“Mm, that’s smart. Get your bearings before you conquer the world.” He leaned against his car, crossing his arms. The motion pulled his shirt taut across his chest. “Your parents must be thrilled to have you home again.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you joked lightly, squeezing the sponge again. “I think they forgot how much laundry one adult child can go through.”

He chuckled, brief and polite. “That checks out.”

There was a pause. The sun pressed down, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the trees, and suddenly you were acutely aware of how close he was standing, of how small the space felt between the fence and the car.

“Actually,” you said, glancing down at the suds collecting at your feet, then back up at him, “my mom mentioned something yesterday. About you. About… um. Next door.”

His brows lifted slightly. “She did?”

“Yeah. She said you’d been on your own for a while.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I didn’t… realize things had changed.”

He blinked, then understanding dawned. “Ah. The divorce.” He said it so casually, as if commenting on the weather. “Yeah, three years now. Your parents didn’t mention it before? Huh. Well, no hard feelings. We were young. Jumped into things too early, maybe. It was amicable.”

He delivered the information in a factual, unemotional way. You searched his face for any hint of pain, regret, anything that would make him seem more vulnerable, more reachable—but there was nothing but a mild, pleasant detachment.

“Oh,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted. “I’m… sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be.” He waved a hand, dismissing your concern along with his past marriage. “It’s life. We’re both fine. So, what was your degree in?”

The conversation was so normal, so utterly mundane, it was maddening. He was talking to you like you were the neighbor’s kid who’d gone off to camp and come back a little taller. The tank top might as well have been a potato sack. The shorts might as well have been snow pants. You answered his questions about your major, your vague career plans, all while your skin burned under the sun.

“Well, I should let you get back to it,” he said, pushing off his car. “Don’t want your dad thinking I’m distracting his little girl from her work.”

There it was again. Little girl. You wanted to scream. Instead, you squeezed the sponge so hard soap suds oozed between your fingers. “Yeah. Sure. Nice to see you, Jay.”

“You too, kiddo. Welcome back.”

He gave you a final, easy smile and turned, walking into his house without a backward glance. You stood there, dripping and furious, a knot of frustrated desire tightening low in your belly. The hope you’d sworn you wouldn’t entertain was now a live wire, sparking and dangerous. He was single. He was right there. And he still saw you as a child.

That night, lying in your childhood bed, the same bed where you’d spent countless nights five years ago fantasizing about your handsome new neighbor, the frustration metamorphosed into a raw, aching need. The memory of his rolled-up sleeves, the deep timbre of his voice. Your hand slid under the waistband of your sleep shorts. The cotton was soft, but your skin was softer, hotter. You imagined it was his hand, calloused and sure from work, not your own trembling fingers. You traced circles low on your stomach, then dipped lower, through the neat patch of hair. You were already wet, the slick evidence of your own pathetic longing. You let out a shaky breath, biting your lip to stay quiet as your parents’ soft snoring echoed down the hall.

You thought of him leaning against the car. You imagined him walking over, his polite smile fading into something darker. You pictured him taking the sponge from your hand, his fingers brushing yours. “You missed a spot,” he’d say, his voice dropping to a whisper. His hand, wet and soapy, would slide up your inner thigh, under the shorts…

Two fingers slid inside yourself, and you gasped, arching your back off the mattress. The fantasy crystallized. It was his fingers, thick and probing, curling inside you. It was his thumb rubbing tight, insistent circles against your clit. You moved your hand, setting a rhythm, your hips rising off the bed to meet your own touch. The images came faster, more vivid: his mouth on your neck, his body pressing you against the cool metal of the car, his belt buckle digging into your stomach…

Pleasure coiled, tight and urgent. You pressed the heel of your hand harder against yourself, your breaths coming in short, sharp pants. Jay. Jay. Jay. The name was a silent mantra on your lips as the climax ripped through you, a wave of release that was immediately followed by a crushing wave of emptiness. You lay there, spent and slick, the fantasy evaporating and leaving behind the stark reality of your quiet room. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You needed him to see you. To want you.

The seduction campaign began in earnest the next day. Operation Seduce-Jay was a go.

You took your yoga mat to the most visible part of the backyard, right where the morning sun hit and where the sightlines from his kitchen window were unobstructed. You wore a sports bra and leggings so tight they felt like a second skin. You moved through your sun salutations with exaggerated grace, bending and stretching, holding downward dog for what felt like hours, knowing the position made the leggings strain across your ass. You saw his silhouette at the window once, just a dark shape, but he didn’t come out, and you finished your session vibrating with frustration, your body buzzing with unused energy.

A few days later, you “accidentally” locked yourself out. You walked to his door in just a short sundress and—you hoped—an innocent smile. “Jay, hi! So sorry to bother you. I was gardening and the door slammed shut… do you have the spare key my mom gave you?”

He opened the door, already dressed for work. His eyes did a quick, automatic scan down your body. The dress fell mid-thigh. Your legs were bare. For a glorious second, you saw something flicker in his dark eyes—a pause, a hesitation. Then it was gone, buried under a layer of neighborly concern.

“Of course, Y/N, come in.” He stepped aside, ushering you into a house that was impeccably clean and minimalist. He fetched the key from a hook by the door. “Here you go. Tell your mom her begonias are lookin’ great.”

“Thanks,” you said, taking the key, your fingers brushing his. A jolt. Did he feel it? His expression didn’t change. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Any time.” He opened the door for you, the perfect gentleman. “Stay out of trouble.”

You baked chocolate chip cookies and brought them over, offering them with a story about practicing domestic skills. He accepted the plate with a grateful smile, called you ‘sweet’, and closed the door. You washed your car again, this time in a bikini top and cut-off jeans. He waved from his lawnmower, shouted, “Don’t forget the sunscreen!” and kept mowing.

The more he treated you with this infuriating, benign kindness, the more it became an aphrodisiac of sorts. Your desire curdled into something desperate and hungry, and your nighttime and shower rituals became a twice-daily release valve for the pressure building inside you. In the shower, with the water beating down on your back, you’d lean against the cool tiles and imagine him joining you. You pictured his hands, slick with soap, sliding over your breasts, cupping them, his thumbs brushing your nipples until they were hard peaks. You imagined him turning you around, bending you over, his hands gripping your hips as he—

The fantasies were so vivid and visceral that you could almost feel the ghost of his touch, the phantom pressure of his body. You’d come with a muffled cry against your arm, the water drowning out the sound, your legs trembling. Afterwards, leaning against the wall, breathless, the frustration would return, redoubled. It was a feedback loop of your own making: his indifference stoked the fire, and only fantasies of him could temporarily quench it, which only made the real-life indifference more unbearable.

A week after the car wash incident, you saw him struggling with a large, flat-pack furniture box on his driveway. It was a bookshelf, teetering dangerously as he tried to maneuver it alone.

Opportunity.

You jogged over, putting a little extra swing in your hips. You’d just come from a run and were still in your tight running shorts and a sleeveless vest, your skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

“Need a hand?” you asked, your voice bright.

He looked up, strain evident on his face. “Ah… it’s heavy, kiddo. I’ve got it.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m stronger than I look.” You didn’t wait for permission. You grabbed one end of the box, your fingers brushing his as you took the weight. The contact was electric. You saw his jaw tighten. “See? Lead the way.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Just to the living room. Slow and steady.”

Moving the box was an intimate, awkward dance. The space was confined, forcing you close. Your shoulder brushed his chest. Your hip bumped his thigh. With every shuffle-step, you were hyper-aware of the thin layers of fabric between your bodies.

“You’ve definitely gotten stronger,” he grunted, adjusting his grip. His forearm flexed next to your face.

“Told you,” you said, smiling up at him. You made sure to look him directly in the eyes, holding the gaze for a beat too long. “I’m not the scrawny high schooler you remember.”

He held your gaze, and for the first time, you saw a crack in his polite mask, a wariness. A reassessment. His eyes darted down to your lips, then back up, so fast you might have imagined it. But you knew you didn’t.

“No,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble. “You’re not.”

It was the first acknowledgment, however small, that you were an adult. A woman. The words sent a thrill so intense it made your knees weak. You held onto the box for support.

You got the box into his living room and set it down with a collective groan. You were both breathing heavily. You straightened up, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand, letting your tank top ride up and expose a sliver of your stomach.

“Thanks,” he said, not looking at the box. He was looking at you. His gaze was different. It was no longer glancing; it was taking you in. The sweat on your collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the defined line of your waist where your shorts met your skin. The air in the room felt thick, charged.

“Any time,” you breathed. This was it. The moment. You took a half-step closer, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You saw his eyes darken. His hands, which had been hanging at his sides, flexed slightly.

Then, he blinked. He took a deliberate step back, breaking the spell. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that seemed suddenly nervous. “I, uh… guess I should let you get back to your run. Don’t want to keep you.”

The dismissal was gentle, but it was a dismissal all the same. The whiplash from the heat in his eyes to the retreat in his posture left you reeling. The hope that had surged moments ago curdled into something bitter and sharp.

“Right,” you said, the word clipped. “My run.”

You didn’t wait for another ‘kiddo’. You turned and walked out of his house, the screen door slapping shut behind you.

The final straw came a few days later. You’d spent the morning concocting the most obvious, shameless scheme yet. The forecast called for a heatwave. Your parents were out for the entire day at a family friend’s anniversary party. The backyard sprinkler system was on a timer.

You dug out the red bikini you’d bought for a college spring break trip and never worn. It was minimal, scandalous, all triangles of fabric and strings. You laid a large, colorful beach towel in the center of the lawn, directly in the splash zone of the oscillating sprinkler. You positioned a pitcher of iced tea and a romance novel with a particularly lurid cover within easy reach.

At precisely 2 PM, as the sun reached its peak, the sprinklers kicked on with a chk-chk-chk. A fine, cool mist filled the air, catching the light. You walked out, the grass tickling your bare feet. You could feel the heat of Jay’s gaze before you even saw him. He was on his back deck, reading the newspaper. You didn’t look at him. You just walked to your towel, lay down on your stomach, and untied the back of your bikini top.

The sensation of the sun on your bare back, the intermittent spray of cool water from the sprinkler, was incredible. But it was nothing compared to the thrill of knowing he could be watching. You could almost feel it, and you arched your back slightly, letting the strings of the top dangle loose. You reached for your iced tea, the movement making your muscles flex, and took a long, slow drink, letting a few drops trail down your chin and onto your chest.

You waited. One minute. Two. Five. The suspense was agony. You heard the rustle of his newspaper. A chair scraping. Was he coming over? Was he finally going to break?

Then, you heard his back door open and shut. Not the screen door to the yard. The solid, interior door.

He was going inside.

A rage, hot and humiliating, boiled up in you. You sat up abruptly, clutching the loose bikini top to your chest. You stared at his empty deck. That was it. You were done. You’d paraded yourself in front of him like a prize heifer at a county fair, and he’d just—just gone inside! To do what? Watch golf? Balance his checkbook?

The frustration of the entire summer coalesced into a single, white-hot point. The sexual tension, once a thrilling game, was now a torture device. You were horny, aching, and so unbelievably mad you could scream. You stomped back into the house, not even bothering to retie your bikini. You let the top fall away as you slammed the kitchen door behind you, storming through the silent, empty house towards your room, your skin still damp with sprinkler water and the humiliating heat of utter, complete rejection.

The weekend arrived, a blistering, stagnant Saturday that felt like a physical extension of your frustration. Your parents had left that morning for a two-day trip to the coast, their cheerful “be good!” echoing in the suddenly cavernous house. Their absence should have felt like freedom, an opportunity. Instead, it felt like a taunt. The silence of the house was a mockery of the silence from next door. Jay hadn’t so much as glanced your way since the sprinkler incident three days prior, and you were so wound up you felt like you might snap. The horniness was a physical ache, a persistent throb between your legs that no amount of your own desperate, furious touching could satisfy. The fantasies had become stale, pathetic echoes that only highlighted the absence of the real thing. You needed something, anything, to shatter the tension coiling inside you.

But then your phone lit up—

It was Yunjin.

yunjinnie ♡: going to the club 2nite!!! u in?

You stared at the message. A club. Loud music, dark corners, bodies moving without thought. It was the exact opposite of the quiet, calculated siege you’d been waging on your own street, and a reckless, wild idea took root.

If Jay wouldn’t see you as a woman, you’d find someone who would. You’d prove it to yourself. And maybe, in some twisted way, you’d prove it to him.

you: duh, you typed back, your fingers trembling slightly. pick me up at ten.

The Uber dropped you and your two friends in the pulsing heart of the city after 11 PM. The club was a thrumming beast of bass and neon. You’d dressed for vengeance: a little black dress so short it was barely legal, the neckline plunging, the fabric clinging to every curve you had. You’d spent an hour on your makeup, smoky eyes and a dark, glossy lip. You looked nothing like the girl next door—no, you looked like a woman who knew what she wanted.

And for a few hours, you almost convinced yourself you were her.

The music was deafening, the crowd a sweaty, undulating mass. You drank the fruity, too-strong cocktails at the bar. You danced, losing yourself in the rhythm, letting your hips sway, your head fall back. You caught the eyes of men across the room. You held their gazes, you smiled, you turned away. The power was a heady, temporary drug.

His name was Leo, or maybe Liam—you didn’t quite catch it over the roar of the speakers. He was tall, with artfully messy brown hair and a smile that was all straight, white teeth. He’d sidled up to you on the dance floor, his hands finding your hips, his body moving in time with yours. He was handsome. He was interested. His gaze didn’t skate over you with polite detachment—it devoured you, lingering on the swell of your breasts above the dress, the length of your thighs.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he shouted into your ear, his breath warm and smelling of vodka.

A thrill went through you, sharp and validating. See? you thought savagely, your mind flicking to a certain neat house with a dark window. Someone wants me.

You let him pull you closer. You let his hands slide from your hips to the small of your back, then lower, palming your ass over the thin fabric of your dress. You didn’t stop him. You arched into the touch, a silent permission. His eyes darkened, and he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna get out of here?”

Your friends were lost in the crowd, paired off with their own conquests. The house was empty. The night was young. And you were so, so tired of being the one who waited, the one who hoped, the one who touched herself to the thought of a man who would never look her way.

Yes.

You nodded, the motion feeling both decisive and numb. You didn’t look back as you followed him through the crush of bodies, out into the relative quiet of the street. The humid night air hit your sweat-slicked skin, a shock after the club’s furnace. He hailed an Uber, his arm slung possessively around your shoulders.

The ride was a blur of streetlights and anticipation—he didn’t waste time. As soon as the car pulled away from the curb, his mouth was on yours. It was hungry, sloppy, all tongue and teeth and the too-sharp taste of his cologne. His hands were everywhere, cupping your face, dragging down your neck, groping your breast roughly through your dress. You kissed him back, forcing enthusiasm, trying to lose yourself in the physicality of it.

But your mind, traitorously, wouldn’t switch off. As his mouth moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, you thought, A hickey. Good. The mark would be there tomorrow, a purple-black brand just below your jaw. Let Jay see that. Let him see that someone wanted me enough to mark me. It was a petty, vicious thought, and it gave you a twisted sliver of satisfaction.

Leo—Liam—whoever—moaned against your skin, his hand hiking up your dress to squeeze your bare thigh. “Fuck, you’re so hot,” he mumbled, his lips wet and roaming. “Can’t wait to get you into bed.”

You made a sound that was supposed to be agreement, but it got lost as the Uber pulled up to your dark, silent house. It was past 1 AM. The street was deserted, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the old-fashioned streetlamps. The only light was the faint, blue flicker of a television behind the curtains of Jay’s living room window. He was still up.

Good, the vicious part of you thought again.

You fumbled with your keys at the front door, your fingers clumsy from alcohol and the relentless, distracting pressure of his body. He had you pinned against the wood, his hips grinding into your ass, his mouth working at that same spot on your neck, making the skin there feel swollen and tender. His breath was ragged in your ear.

“C’mon, baby, get it open,” he urged, his voice thick.

You finally slid the key into the lock. The click was loud in the quiet night. You pushed the door open, stumbling backward into the dark foyer, pulling him with you by his shirt collar. His hands were already on the thin straps of your dress, tugging them down your shoulders. The cool air of the house hit your overheated skin. You were a breath away from crossing a threshold, from making this pathetic rebellion real.

“Y/N? What the fuck are you doing?”

The voice sliced through the dim hallway, cold, hard, and utterly, terrifyingly familiar.

Your blood turned to ice. Your heart seemed to stop entirely, then slam against your ribcage like a trapped bird. You froze, your dress half-off one shoulder, Leo’s mouth still attached to your neck. You slowly, painfully, turned your head.

Jay stood in the arched doorway that led from the foyer to the living room. He wasn’t in pajamas. He wore dark sweatpants and a plain grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest, the sleeves tight around his biceps. He must’ve used the spare key. Your parents had probably told him to look after you, or something. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek. His dark eyes, usually so carefully neutral, blazed with an intensity that pinned you to the spot.

Leo—definitely Leo—jerked back from you, wiping his mouth. “Whoa, man, what’s your problem?”

Jay’s gaze didn’t even flicker towards him. It stayed locked on you, burning with a disgust that made your stomach plummet. “Get your hands off her,” he said, his voice low but carrying a vibration of threat that seemed to shake the walls. “Now.”

Leo, emboldened by alcohol and interrupted lust, puffed out his chest. “Hey, she invited me, alright? We’re just—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you were,” Jay cut him off, taking a single step forward. He wasn’t a large man in the bulky sense, but the sheer, controlled rage radiating from him made him seem to fill the entire space. His shoulders were set, his posture rigid. “You’re leaving. Get out.”

Leo blinked, the bravado starting to crack under the weight of Jay’s palpable anger. “Look, buddy, I don’t know who you think you are—”

“I’m the man telling you to get the hell off this property before I make you.” Jay’s tone was glacial, final. It wasn’t a shout. It was worse. It was a promise. “Go. Home.”

Something in Jay’s eyes, some flinty, dangerous certainty, got through Leo’s drunk haze. He looked from Jay’s furious face to your pale, shocked one. He held up his hands in a placating gesture, taking a stumbling step back towards the still-open front door. “Okay. Okay, Jesus. Sorry, man.” He shot you a quick, confused look, mouthing ‘call me’ before he vanished into the night.

The door swung shut with a soft, definitive click.

The silence that followed was absolute, and so much more oppressive than the noise of the club. You stood there, your dress askew, the hickey on your neck throbbing like a fresh wound. The adrenaline of the confrontation was ebbing, leaving behind a cold, creeping shame—and beneath it, a hot, searing anger. How dare he?

You finally found your voice, though it came out thin and shaky. “Why the hell did you do that?”

Jay turned his head slowly to look at you. The fury was still there, banked now but simmering just beneath the surface. “Y/N, that was so irresponsible.” He said your name like it was a curse. “Your parents not being home doesn’t mean you bring random guys you picked up at a club into your house. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

The chiding tone, the sheer, infuriating concern. All the weeks of being called ‘kiddo’, of being ignored in bikinis, of having your offers thrown back in your face with a polite smile. You’d had enough.

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” you snapped. “And it’s none of your business!” You turned on your heel, the movement wobbly, and marched towards the kitchen, needing space, needing to get away from his judging eyes. You heard his footsteps behind you, quick and sure.

“I was just trying to look out for you, Y/N,” he said, following you into the dark kitchen. The only light came from the digital clock on the stove, casting the room in a faint green glow. “You don’t know what boys are like. You don’t know what they want from you—”

You whirled around, your back hitting the edge of the cold granite countertop. The impact jarred you, fueling your rage. “I know exactly what they’re like!” you shouted, the sound raw in the quiet house. “Jay, I’m not a kid anymore, for fuck’s sake! I know what he wanted from me, okay?” You took a heaving breath, the most humiliating, honest truth ripping out of you. “Is it so bad I wanted him to fuck me too? Huh?”

The words hung between you, filthy and stark in the dark.

Jay went very, very still. The anger on his face shifted, morphing into something more complex, more dangerous. He took a step closer, and then another, until he was standing right in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean, sober scent of him, so at odds with the club sweat and cheap cologne still clinging to your skin.

He scoffed, a low, derisive sound. “So you thought the best thing to do was find a boy at a fucking club and take him home with you?” His voice was a soft, deadly rasp. “That’s your solution?”

The condescension cracked the last of your restraint. You lifted your chin, meeting his blazing eyes head-on. “Yeah,” you shot back, your voice trembling with fury and something perilously close to tears. “So what? You weren’t gonna do it, were you?”

The moment the words left your mouth, you knew you’d crossed a line there was no coming back from.

Jay’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then to the lurid mark on your neck. A low, almost inaudible growl rumbled in his chest.

“You think that’s what this has been about?” he asked, his voice so quiet you had to strain to hear it. He took the final half-step, eliminating the last inch of space. His hands came up, not to touch you, but to plant themselves on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in. Your body was flush against the cool granite, his torso just a breath away from yours. “You think I haven’t seen you?”

Your breath hitched. You couldn’t speak. You could only stare up at him, your heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm.

“I saw you,” he murmured, his head dipping so his lips were beside your ear. His breath was hot against your skin, raising goosebumps everywhere it touched. “In those fucking shorts, bent over that car. Dripping wet. I saw you on that yoga mat, every fucking stretch. I saw you in that bikini.” Each sentence was a soft, searing indictment. “I saw it all.”

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes again. His own were black pools in the dim light, devoid of any gentleness. “And you know what I did? I went inside. I closed the door. I took a cold shower. I read the goddamn financial section twice.” His jaw ticked. “Because you’re my neighbors’ daughter. Because you just graduated college. Because I’m supposed to be the responsible one. The adult.”

His words were a confession, but they were hurled at you like accusations. Every denial, every dismissal, recast as a brutal act of restraint.

“But you,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a husky, intimate scrape against your nerve endings. “You didn’t make it easy, did you? Parading yourself around. Testing me.” His eyes flicked again to the hickey. A muscle in his neck corded. “And then you go and bring that home.”

He leaned in again, but this time, he didn’t speak near your ear. He brought his face to the side of your neck, right next to the mark that the other man had left. You felt the whisper-soft brush of his nose against your sensitive skin. It wasn’t a kiss. You shuddered violently, a whimper escaping your lips.

“Do you have any idea,” he breathed, the words vibrating against your throat, “how hard I’ve been holding back?”

The sound that left you was pure, undiluted need. All the fight drained out of you, replaced by a wave of such intense, shocking desire it left you weak. His large, warm body surrounded you, his heat seeping into your chilled skin, and you could feel the tension thrumming through him, a live wire of suppressed want that mirrored your own.

His nose traced a path from the hickey up to the hinge of your jaw. “You wanted some boy to fuck you?” he murmured, his lips so close they brushed your skin with every syllable. His voice was thick, laced with a possessiveness that made your knees buckle. “That’s what you were after? A quick, messy fuck?”

You couldn’t answer. You could only press yourself back against the counter, as if trying to escape the intensity of his proximity, but only succeeding in arching your chest closer to him.

He made another low sound. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.” One of his hands left the counter. He didn’t grab you. His fingers, warm and slightly rough, came up to lightly trace the line of your collarbone, exposed by your slipping dress strap. The touch was electric, a brand. “I’m not some college kid just looking to get his dick wet.”

His fingertips trailed down, over the swell of your breast, just above the neckline of your dress. You stopped breathing. Your nipples hardened into aching points, straining against the tight fabric.

“If I touch you,” he said, his voice now a dark, solemn vow in the dark, “it won’t be a game. It won’t be you trying to prove a point.” His hand slid around to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the hair at your nape. It wasn’t a gentle hold. It was firm, anchoring. He forced your head back just a fraction, exposing your throat fully to him. “If I touch you, I’m going to ruin you for anyone else. Do you understand that, Y/N?”

His words should have scared you. They should have sent you running. Instead, you felt so desperate you thought you might die if he stepped away now. You managed a tiny, jerky nod, your eyes wide and fixed on his shadowed face.

He searched your eyes for a long, agonizing moment. Looking for hesitation. For fear. But he must have only found the same wild, reckless hunger that was tearing him apart, because with a groan that seemed ripped from the core of him, he finally gave in.

His mouth crashed down on yours.

It was nothing like the sloppy, impatient kiss in the Uber. This was a conquest, hard, hungry, and devastatingly skilled. His lips moved over yours with a ferocious certainty, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. The hand at your nape held you steady, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you flush against him. The feel of his hard, muscular body against yours, the proof of his arousal pressing insistently against your belly through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, made you moan into his mouth.

He swallowed the sound, kissing you deeper, his tongue tangling with yours in a fierce, silent battle. It was all heat and pressure and the faint, tantalizing scrape of his teeth. He kissed you like he was starving, like he was trying to drink you in, to consume the weeks of frustration and denial in a single, searing act. Your hands, which had been limp at your sides, flew up to clutch at the solid planes of his back, your fingers digging into the muscle beneath his t-shirt.

He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d started it, both of you gasping for air. His forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in ragged gusts against your lips. His eyes were closed, his features taut with strain. Then his mouth was on your neck again, but this time, it was on the unmarked side. His lips were hot and seeking, his tongue tasting your skin. Then his teeth scraped lightly over your pulse point, and you cried out, your head falling back against the cupboard behind you.

“This,” he growled against your skin, his breath scalding. “This is mine.” He sucked hard, a sharp, deliberate pain that melted instantly into a pooling, liquid heat between your legs. You knew he was leaving his own mark, erasing the other one, branding you as his. The possessiveness of it should have felt archaic, oppressive. It felt like absolution.

His mouth trailed lower, down over your collarbone, to the straining neckline of your dress. His free hand came up, his fingers hooking under the thin strap and dragging it down your arm, followed by the other. The top of your dress pooled at your waist, leaving you bare from the waist up in the cool, dark kitchen. The air prickled against your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he looked down at you.

He went perfectly still, his eyes devouring the sight of your breasts, heaving with every ragged breath you took. “Christ,” he breathed, a reverent curse.

Then his head dipped, and his mouth closed over one taut, pebbled peak.

You gasped, a sharp, shattered sound. His tongue was hot and wet, laving over your nipple before he drew it deep into his mouth, sucking strongly. The sensation was so intense, so direct, it arrowed straight to your core, making you clench around nothing. Your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud until you were writhing against him, little pleas falling from your lips.

He lifted his head, his lips glistening, his eyes black with lust. “You’ve been driving me out of my fucking mind,” he said, his voice guttural. He leaned in again, his mouth finding yours in a slower, deeper kiss that was all tongue and shared breath and desperate, building need. His hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh there, and he lifted you effortlessly, setting you on the cold granite countertop. The shock of the cool surface against your bare thighs made you jolt, but then he was there, stepping between your legs, pushing them wider with his hips.

The thin fabric of your dress and your flimsy underwear were the only barriers left. He was so close you could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against your damp center. You rocked against him instinctively, seeking friction, and a ragged groan tore from his throat.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his hands sliding up your bare thighs, pushing the bunched dress higher. His thumbs brushed the edges of your panties. “Tell me what you wanted that boy to do to you.”

His hands were on your bare thighs, his thumbs a hair’s breadth from the soaked fabric of your panties. The demand hung in the air, thick with the promise of humiliation and reward. You were laid bare on the cold granite, half-naked and utterly at his mercy, and the words he wanted were like ash in your mouth—but you wanted to give them to him. You needed to.

“I…” you started, your voice a breathy, broken thing. You swallowed, your throat dry. His dark eyes watched you, unwavering. “I wanted him to—to touch me.”

Jay’s expression didn’t change, but his thumbs began a slow, maddening stroke along the crease of your thighs, just outside the lace of your panties. “Too vague,” he chided, his voice low. “Be specific. What did you want his hands to do?”

The heat of his touch was a brand. You squirmed. “I wanted… his hands on me. Here.” You gestured weakly toward your core, cheeks burning.

“Here?” he murmured, and finally, finally, his hand slid up, his palm cupping you over your panties.

A sharp, punched-out gasp left you. The pressure was firm, deliberate, and the thin, damp fabric did nothing to mute the sensation. You could feel the heat of his hand searing through the lace, the rough texture of his palm.

“Like this?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

You nodded frantically, your hips canting up into his touch, seeking more. “Yeah,” you breathed out. “Yeah, just like that.”

“And then?” he prompted, his other hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your fevered cheek. The gentleness of the gesture was at odds with the intensity in his eyes. “You brought him home. What did you want next?”

You were drowning in his gaze, in the scent of him, in the possessive pressure of his hand. The truth spilled out. “I wanted him to fuck me,” you whispered. “I wanted to not think. I just wanted to be—hngh—used.”

A low, dark sound rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t quite a laugh.“You wanted to be used,” he repeated, his fingers flexing against you, making you whimper. “By some boy who wouldn’t know what to do with you. Who wouldn’t know how to make it last.” He leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “Who wouldn’t even know how to make you beg for it.”

His mouth captured yours again. It was hard, consuming, possessive, his tongue sweeping in. At the same time, his hand began to move. He rubbed you through your panties, the lace scratching deliciously against your swollen flesh with each slow, deliberate circle of his palm. You moaned into his mouth, a desperate, hungry sound. He swallowed it, his other hand sliding into your hair, holding you still for his kiss. He was everywhere, overwhelming all your senses. The taste of him, the feel of his hard body between your thighs, the scent of his skin, the pressure of his hand—it was a sensory assault that left you boneless and wanting.

He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down your jaw, to your neck, to the new mark he’d left. He kissed it softly, then bit down gently, making you cry out. “You wanted to be touched?” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “You have no idea.” His hand on you became more insistent, the circles tighter, faster. The fabric was soaked through, a slick, hot barrier. “Is this what you needed? Hmm? This little bit of friction?”

“Jay,” you gasped, your head falling back. Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders, clutching the soft cotton of his t-shirt. You were already teetering on an edge, weeks of pent-up frustration coming undone under his skilled hand.

“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice a dark rasp in your ear. His mouth was on your neck again, kissing, sucking, marking you further as his hand worked you. “Tell me what you want now. Right now.”

You were beyond pride, beyond games. You were a live wire of need. “More,” you choked out, grinding yourself against his palm. “Please, Jay. I need more.”

He chuckled, the sound condescending and darkly thrilling. “More? You’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that, baby.” He slowed his hand to a torturous, teasing stroke. “Use your words. What does this greedy little pussy want?”

The vulgarity, the sheer meanness in his tone, sent a shock of pure, liquid heat straight to your core. You were so wet you could feel it begin to trickle down your thigh. “I want your hand,” you begged, the words tumbling out. “Under my panties. I want you to touch me, Jay, please touch me.”

“Good girl,” he purred, and the praise was like a drug.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties. In one smooth, ruthless motion, he dragged them down your thighs and let them fall to the floor. The cool air kissed your bare, exposed flesh, making you gasp, and then his hand was back, but this time, there was no barrier.

His touch was electric. His fingers, warm and slightly rough, slid through your slick folds with an intimate familiarity. A deep, guttural groan left him. “Fuck, you’re dripping.” He stroked you, gathering your wetness, spreading it, his touch agonizingly slow. “All this for me? After your little field trip?”

“Yes,” you whined, bucking your hips, trying to force his fingers where you needed them. “Only for you. It was always for you.”

He made a sound of dark satisfaction. His index finger circled your clit, a feather-light, maddening touch that had you seeing stars. You were panting, little punched-out noises—hngh, ngh, ah—escaping with every breath, grinding shamelessly against his hand, against the hard ridge of his cock still trapped in his sweatpants, anything for more friction.

“So eager,” he mused, his voice thick with lust. He watched your face, your desperate movements, with a predatory focus. “Can’t even control yourself, can you?” His finger dipped lower, sliding through your entrance, coating himself in your arousal, but not pushing in. “Is this what you do in your room at night? When you think no one can hear? You touch yourself and think of me?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, the admission torn from you. “Every night.”

“Pathetic,” he breathed, but there was no disgust in it, only a raw, hungry pride. Finally, he gave you what you craved. He pushed a single finger inside you, deep and slow.

Your cry echoed in the quiet kitchen. It was a stretch, a delicious, filling invasion. Your inner muscles clenched around him instantly, gripping his finger with a shocking tightness. He groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Christ. You’re so fucking tight.” He began to move, a slow, deliberate pump in and out, his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust.

It was too much and not enough. The coil inside you was winding impossibly tight, your hips meeting every stroke of his finger.

Then he added a second finger.

You screamed, the stretch a blinding flash of pleasure-pain. He scissored them inside you, stretching you wider, curling them just right to brush that spot deep inside that made your vision blur at the edges. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles.

“You’re going to come on my fingers,” he murmured into your ear, his own breath ragged. “Aren’t you? You’re going to scream for me and come all over my hand like a good girl, and then you’re going to get on your knees and show me just how grateful you are.”

Your orgasm made your whole body shake, your back bowing off the counter, a strangled, wordless scream tearing from your throat as you convulsed around his fingers, your walls milking them as wave after wave of electric pleasure crashed through you. It seemed to go on forever, your body shaking with the force of it, your cries dissolving into broken sobs.

He held you through it, his fingers still moving inside you, gentling now, drawing out every last shuddering pulse. When you finally went limp against the counter, he slowly withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his mouth, his dark eyes locked on yours, and slowly, deliberately, sucked them clean.

The obscenity of it made a fresh jolt of desire spear through your sated body. You watched, mesmerized, as he tasted you.

“Sweet,” he said, his voice raspy. He leaned down, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. When he pulled back, his eyes were blazing. “Now,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Get on your knees.”

A shiver of pure anticipation raced down your spine. You slid off the counter, your legs wobbling, but he caught you, his hands firm on your hips. He guided you down until you were kneeling on the cool tile floor of the kitchen, right between his feet. From here, you were eye-level with the prominent bulge straining against the front of his grey sweatpants. The sight made your mouth water.

He looked down at you, his expression a mix of fierce desire and dark amusement. “Were you going to suck him off?” he asked, his voice soft. “That boy. Were going to get on your knees for him in your pretty little dress?”

You shook your head, your eyes wide. “No, no—not him,” you vehemently denied. “Only you.”

“Prove it,” he said, the challenge clear.

Your hands trembled as you reached for the waistband of his sweatpants. You hooked your fingers in, and he didn’t help, just watched you, his hands now resting at his sides. You tugged, and the soft fabric slid down his hips, taking his boxer-briefs with them.

His cock sprang free, and you actually whimpered.

It was thick, long, and beautifully veined, the head flushed a deep, angry red and already wet with pre-cum. It curved upwards slightly, imposing and perfect. You’d fantasized about it, sure, but the reality was much, much better than any figment of your imagination. You almost drooled.

A low chuckle above you. “Fuckin’ cockslut.”

You looked up at Jay, your lips parted. He was watching you with a heated, expectant gaze, one hand coming to rest on the top of your head.

You didn’t need to be pushed. You leaned forward, your eyes locked with his, and pressed a soft, reverent kiss to the tip of his cock. You heard his sharp intake of breath.

Encouraged, you opened your mouth and took just the head inside, sucking gently. His fingers tightened in your hair. You swirled your tongue around the sensitive ridge, licking away the bitter-salt pre-cum, giving little kittenish licks along the underside. You were exploring him, worshiping him. Just the power of having this formidable, composed man at your mercy, even for a moment, was intoxicating.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk.

You took him deeper, relaxing your throat as you’d practiced in fantasies, letting his thick length slide into the wet heat of your mouth. You couldn’t take all of him, not yet, but you took as much as you could, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked. One of your hands came up to wrap around the base of him, stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

He let out a string of low, guttural curses, his hand in your hair now guiding the pace. You followed his lead, bobbing your head, sucking him properly, the sounds lewd and wet in the silent kitchen. Fuck, it felt so good. You couldn’t help but be turned on by the act itself, by the weight of him on your tongue, by his groans of pleasure, and before you knew it, you began to move. Still on your knees, you started to rock your hips, grinding your aching, sensitive pussy against the hard leather of his shoe.

He noticed, of course. He looked down, saw the desperate, shameless movement, and he laughed. It was a dark, condescending, mean laugh. “Look at you, baby,” he said, his voice rough with lust. “Rutting against my shoe. You’re so fucking easy, Y/N.” he remarked incredulously.

His words were gasoline on the fire of your arousal. You moaned around his cock, the vibration making him curse again. You ground harder against his shoe, the pressure against your clit through the thin leather sending jolts of pleasure through your oversensitive body. You were close again, so close, just from sucking him and frotting against his shoe like a mindless slut.

You pulled off him with a wet pop, your lips swollen, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his glistening cock. You were panting. “Do you—” you gasped, looking up at him through your lashes. “Do you want to fuck my mouth? You don’t have to hold back.”

His eyes darkened to near-black. A raw, hungry groan was torn from his chest. His hand tightened in your hair. “Open,” he commanded, his voice strained. “Wider.”

You obeyed, dropping your jaw, sticking your tongue out, presenting yourself. There was a wild, almost feral look in his eyes as he looked down at you, his cock in his hand, poised at your lips. Then he pushed forward with a firm, controlled thrust that buried his cock deep in your throat.

You gagged, tears springing to your eyes, but you forced yourself to relax, to take him. He held himself there for a moment, letting you adjust, his thumb stroking your cheek with faux-gentleness. Then he pulled back and thrust in again. And again. He set a relentless, deep rhythm, fucking your mouth in earnest, his hips pistoning, his grip on your hair keeping you perfectly in place.

The sounds were obscene—wet, guttural, choking sounds from you, groans from him. Tears streamed down your cheeks, but you didn’t try to stop him. You looked up at him, your eyes watering, and the sight of his face, taut with pleasure, his gaze locked on where he disappeared between your lips, was the most erotic thing you’d ever seen. You brought your hands to his thighs, holding on as he used your mouth.

All the while, you kept grinding against his shoe, the rhythm of your hips matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The sensations—the fullness in your mouth, the pressure on your clit—were driving you insane. You were a mess of need, a tool for his pleasure, and you loved it.

You felt his rhythm stutter. His thrusts became harder, deeper, less controlled. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a ragged snarl.

You didn’t pull away. You looked up at him, pleading with your eyes, and took him even deeper, humming around his cock.

That was his undoing. With a half-growl, he came, hot jets of bitter salt flooding your throat. You swallowed desperately, gulping down every drop, not letting a single bit escape until he was spent, until he was softening in your mouth, his body shuddering with the aftershocks.

Only then did he gently pull himself free. You slumped back on your heels, panting, your lips bruised and wet, your throat sore. Your own climax had been cresting the whole time, and the frantic grinding against his shoe finally tipped you over the edge. With a choked, silent moan, you came again, your body convulsing as you soaked your own thighs and the floor beneath you, your orgasm somehow more intense for being so utterly debasing.

He looked down at you, kneeling in the stickiness of your own release, face tear-stained and mouth used, and he shook his head, a slow, condescending smile playing on his lips. “You came from that?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “From humping my shoe while I fucked your throat? You really are a desperate little whore.”

He reached down, his hands under your arms, and hauled you to your feet. Your legs were like jelly. He kissed you hard, tasting himself on your tongue, his hands roaming your bare back. “So fucking dirty,” he muttered against your lips, backing you up until your ass hit the cold granite counter again. He lifted you, seating you on the edge, and stepped back between your spread thighs.

His eyes were ravenous again, his cock, though spent, already beginning to harden once more. His gaze dropped to your glistening, swollen folds. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick and full of awe. “You’re a complete mess, baby.”

He leaned in, kissing you hungrily, one hand coming down to cup you again. This time, he didn’t tease. He slipped two fingers back inside your soaked, sensitive cunt, his thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you cried out into his mouth, your body jerking. You were so sensitive it was almost painful, but at the same time, you couldn’t get enough.

He started fingering you again, his thrusts deep and sure, his thumb rubbing tight, relentless circles. “You’re still so greedy for it,” he observed, his lips trailing down your neck to your breasts. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, as his fingers worked you. “Can’t get enough, can you? Are you going to take everything I give you? Hm? Gonna be my good girl?”

“Yes,” you moaned, your head thrown back, your hands clutching at his shoulders. Your moans were loud in his ear, heavy, panting breaths. “Jay, please, I need you. I need you so bad.”

“You need what?” he prompted, curling his fingers inside you, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

“I need you to fuck me,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Please, Jay, fuck me. I need your cock inside me,” you sobbed. “I can’t wait anymore.”

He groaned, pulling his fingers free and resting his forehead against yours, his body trembling with the effort of his control. “I can’t, baby,” he said, his voice strained. “I don’t have a condom on me. I wasn’t exactly planning this.”

The denial was a physical blow. You whined, a high, pathetic sound, grinding your hips against his, feeling his renewed hardness press against your belly. “Please, I need it. I don’t care. I need you.”

He gripped your hips, holding you still. “It’s not safe, Y/N. I’m clean, but you—”

“I don’t care!” you cried, your desperation breaking through. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I want you inside me. Raw.” you whined, too far gone to care what you were saying. “I need your cock in me, please.”

Jay let out a tense breath. “Yeah, baby?” he asked. You could almost feel his self-control slipping.

Your eyelashes fluttered as you canted your hips towards him again. “Hn—yeah, Jay,” you wrapped your arms around him, pressed your mouth to his ear as though you were about to tell him a secret. “Want you to come inside,” you whispered breathlessly. “Want you to put a baby in me.”

Your words, your utter, shameless abandon, were the final blow to his self-control. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and shocked for a split second before they darkened with a ferocious, primal hunger.

“Such a dirty fucking mouth,” he breathed, awe and lust warring in his voice. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

He reached between you, taking his thick, hard cock in his hand. He guided it to your entrance, the swollen head nudging against your slick, swollen folds. He rubbed it up and down, coating himself in your wetness, slapping the heavy length of it against your clit a few times, making you shiver and cry out with each sharp impact.

“You want it raw?” he growled, his eyes locked on yours. “Want me to fill you up?”

“Hngh—yeah—”

With a final, guttural curse, he positioned himself and thrust forward, burying himself inside you in one long, deep, searing stroke. The sensation of him filling your cunt, completely unhindered, was so profound it stole the air from your lungs. Your mouth opened in a silent scream, your eyes wide, as he seated himself to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against yours. There was a split second of pure, blinding stretch—a hot, perfect ache that bloomed into a consuming, liquid heat. You could feel everything, every ridge and vein, the throbbing pulse of him buried deep inside you. It was more intimate than anything you’d ever experienced before.

“Fuck,” Jay groaned, his voice a shattered rasp against your neck. His whole body shuddered, his arms trembling where they braced on the counter beside your hips. He didn’t move for a long moment, just stayed sheathed within you.“You’re… god, you’re so tight, baby. It’s so fucking hot.”

You finally remembered how to breathe, a ragged, choking gasp. Your inner muscles fluttered around him, a helpless, welcoming clench. “Jay,” you whimpered, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back. “Oppa.”

That broke his stillness. He pulled back, a slow, dragging retreat that made you cry out at the loss, then slammed back in. The force of it jolted you up the counter, your shoulders scraping the cold granite.

“Yeah,” he growled, his eyes dark and wild. “That’s it, good girl. Take it.” He drove into you, deep, hard thrusts that knocked the breath from you. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider, holding you open for his relentless pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and obscene, filled the kitchen, mingling with your high, desperate whimpers and his guttural grunts.

It was too much. The weeks of frustrated longing, the humiliating attempts at seduction, the searing jealousy—all of it combusted into this. You couldn’t think, couldn’t form a coherent sentence—right now, you were nothing but a fucktoy for him, each thrust sparking white-hot pleasure deep in your belly, radiating out to your fingertips and toes.

He leaned over you, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Look at you,” he snarled, his voice thick with a vicious, possessive delight. “Look what you’re doing. What would your parents say, huh? If they walked in right now?”

A fresh wave of heat, shameful and thrilling, washed over you. You moaned, your head thrashing side to side.

“They trusted me,” he continued, each word punctuated by a hard, deep stroke that made you see stars. “Their good neighbor. Keep an eye on our daughter while we’re out, Jay. Make sure she’s safe.” He laughed, a dark, humorless sound. “And here you are. Spreading your legs for me. Letting me fuck your slutty little cunt raw. Aren’t you?”

“Yes!” you sobbed, the admission torn from you. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, to take more of him. “Yes, I am—ah—I’m your slut, please—”

“That’s right,” he hissed. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot so deep and sensitive your vision blurred. A broken scream ripped from your throat. “Scream for me. Let the whole fucking neighborhood hear what a whore you are for oppa’s cock.”

You were babbling, a stream of filth and praise and pure, unadulterated need. “It feels so—hngh—good, Jay oppa, you’re so deep—hah—you’re gonna ruin me for anyone else, please—ah—don’t stop, fuck me harder, make me yours—”

He obliged, his pace becoming brutal, animalistic. The counter was rocking with the force of his thrusts. One of his hands left your thigh and fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to force you to look at him. His face was a mask of carnal intensity, sweat beading on his temple, his jaw clenched. “Mine?” he growled. “You want that, baby, wanna be mine? Want me to breed you, so everyone knows you’re mine?”

The words sent thrills of excitement and arousal down your spine. Your inner muscles convulsed around him, a prelude to an orgasm that was already building, getting closer and closer with every punishing stroke. “Yes,” you gasped, your mind fracturing. The thought, the dangerous, impossible thought, spilled out. “A-and then if you get me pregnant,” you smiled, dazed and cockdrunk. “You’ll—ah—have to make me your wife.”

He froze for a fraction of a second, his hips still buried deep within you, his eyes widening in stunned surprise. Then a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. It wasn’t kind. “Yeah?” he rumbled, his voice dropping to a low, thrilling register. He began moving again, slower now, but with even more deliberate, grinding force, rotating his hips to press against that magical spot with every inch of his cock. “You wanna be oppa’s pretty little wife? Hmm? You’d like that? Wearing my ring while you walk around swollen with my kid?”

“Yes,” you mewled. “Please, Jay oppa, please.”

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing, dominant kiss. When he broke it, his lips were against yours as he spoke. “You’d wait for me to come home every night? Have dinner ready?” His breath was hot against your mouth. “And then what, baby? You’d get on your knees the second I walked in the door? Or would you just bend over the table and let me take what’s mine?”

“Anything,” you promised, your voice trembling. “Anything you want. I’d be so good for you. I’d be so much better than her.”

The mention of his ex-wife slipped out, fueled by a sudden, fierce jealousy that cut through the pleasure haze. You felt him stiffen inside you again. His eyes searched yours, and you saw a flicker of something vulnerable before it was swallowed by a darker, hotter fire.

“Is that right, Y/N?” he murmured, his thrusts becoming deep, purposeful rolls of his hips that rubbed every nerve ending inside you just right. “You think you could be better?”

You nodded frantically, your nails scratching down his back. “Wouldn’t I?” you demanded, the possessiveness in your own voice surprising you. “Won’t I? Tell me I will.”

He laughed darkly then, a rich sound of satisfaction. He kissed you again. “Of course you will, baby,” he whispered against your lips, his tone shifting into something filthy and reassuring all at once. “You already are. Look at you. Taking my cock like you were made for it. Fuck.” His composure cracked on the last word as you clenched around him instinctively. “Fuck, oh—I’m close, baby. Are you sure? Are you sure you want this?”

You whimpered, your body trembling, your mind hazy and drunk on him, on everything he was giving you. “Yes, yes, please,” you begged, your voice a broken moan. Begging. That’s all you could do now. “I need it. I want it. Fill me up. I wanna feel you come inside me, wanna feel you dripping out of me later. Please—oh—don’t stop, don’t hold back. I’m yours, oppa, I’m all yours—”

His breath hitched, and you saw the conflict flicker in his eyes—the last shred of restraint warring with the dark, possessive hunger that had taken over. But with your words, your begging, your shameless need for him, he buried himself to the hilt, his hips grinding against yours. His hand slid between your sweat-slicked bodies, and he rubbed your clit unerring accuracy in fast, tight circles, the pressure perfect, relentless. At the same time, his thrusts became shorter, harder, frantic, losing all rhythm as he chased his own peak. It was the final trigger—the build-up inside you snapped, and your third orgasm of the night wracked your body, a supernova of pleasure. You screamed, a raw, continuous sound, as your body arched off the counter, convulsing around him, your inner walls fluttering and clenching in rapid, uncontrollable pulses, milking his cock.

The sensation of you clamping down on him, so tight and hot and wet was what made him finally let go. You felt it—the hot, pulsing release of him deep inside you, painting your walls. His head dropped to your shoulder, his breathing ragged, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. The feeling prolonged your own climax, drawing out the waves of pleasure until you were sobbing, oversensitive and utterly spent.

“God,” he muttered, his voice thick and rough against your skin. “You’re gonna feel me for hours, baby. You’re gonna remember this every time you move.”

“I really am,” you groaned, your head lolling back against the cool cupboard door, your body a soft, pleasantly ruined mess.

Jay’s soft chuckle vibrated through his chest, where your cheek was pressed. He was still inside you, softening, both of you sticky and spent and tangled together on the kitchen counter. His arms were looped loosely around your waist, holding you up more than you were holding yourself.

“Serves you right,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “Terrorized the neighborhood all summer.”

You pinched his side, but there was no strength in it. “You loved it.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he pulled back just enough to look at you. His expression was softer now, the fierce, possessive edge smoothed into something warm and sated. He looked more amused. He traced a finger down your cheek, catching a stray tear track from earlier. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Shut up,” you retorted, but you couldn’t help smiling.

He kissed you then. It was nothing like the earlier kisses—not the desperate crash of his mouth on yours in the hallway, nor the filthy, panting exchanges against the counter. This was slow and sweet and romantic. You sighed into it, melting against him all over again.

When he pulled away, you chased his lips for a second, making him laugh—a real, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. You’d never heard him laugh like that before. It did something funny to your chest.

“So clingy,” he teased, bumping his nose against yours.

“You just fucked me senseless on a kitchen counter. I think I’m allowed to be clingy,” you mumbled, grinning, your noses still touching.

He hummed, his hands sliding up your bare back in a slow, soothing stroke. “I did, didn’t I?” He said it with a note of wonder, as if he was just realizing it himself. “Your parents’ kitchen counter.”

A giggle bubbled out of you, absurd and giddy. “They eat breakfast here.”

Jay shook his head, laughing. “Oh my god, Y/N. Don’t. I’ll never be able to look your dad in the eye again after this.”

“He thinks you’re such a nice, responsible young man,” you said, doing a poor impression of your mother’s voice.

“Was,” Jay corrected, grinning. “Was a nice, responsible young man. Then his neighbor’s daughter decided to destroy his sanity with a pair of booty shorts.”

You swatted his arm. “As if. Until today, I thought you had the self-control of a saint.”

“Saint Jay,” he mused, kissing the tip of your nose. “Patron saint of cold showers and repressed desire. I should get a medal.”

“You just got your reward,” you said, shifting slightly and wincing at the sticky, oversensitive feeling between your thighs.

He noticed immediately, his expression shifting to one of gentle concern. “Alright, come on. Up you get.” He lifted you easily off the counter, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist again as he carried you like you weighed nothing. You yelped, clinging to his shoulders.

“I can walk!”

“Humor me,” he said dryly, navigating out of the kitchen and down the dark hallway towards the bathroom. “All you have to do is hang on, baby.”

He pushed the bathroom door open with his foot and set you down carefully on the closed toilet lid. The light he flicked on was mercifully dim. He rummaged in the cabinet, pulling out a clean washcloth. You sat there, watching him, feeling strangely shy now in the aftermath. You were naked except for the dress still tangled around your waist, covered in sweat and him and your own release. He was still mostly dressed, just his sweatpants and boxers around his ankles, his t-shirt rumpled.

He ran the washcloth under warm water, wringing it out. Then he knelt in front of you, his movements deliberate and tender. “Okay?” he asked softly, looking up at you.

You just nodded, words stuck in your throat.

He started gently, wiping the smudged makeup from under your eyes, cleaning the tear tracks. His touch was so careful, so at odds with the man who had just been snarling filth in your ear. He moved the cloth down your neck, cleaning the new, tender mark he’d left, then over your collarbones and shoulders. He cleaned your breasts with a sort of gentleness that was incredibly intimate, wiping away the sweat and the faint stickiness. You shivered.

“Cold?” he asked.

“Not really,” you admitted.

He smiled, a small, private thing, and pressed a kiss to your knee before continuing. He nudged your thighs apart and began cleaning between them, his touch light and respectful.

When he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the hamper and stood, offering you his hands. “Shower?” he suggested.

“You’re asking?” you teased, taking his hands and letting him pull you up.

“I’m trying to be a gentleman now. The monster has been sated,” he said, pulling his t-shirt over his head and finally kicking his pants the rest of the way off. You got a proper look at him—all taut muscle and smooth skin, dusted with dark hair. He was beautiful. He saw you looking and raised an eyebrow.

“Like what you see?”

“Maybe,” you giggled, stepping out of the puddle of your dress and letting it fall to the floor. You reached past him to turn on the shower, the pipes groaning to life.

He stepped in first, holding the curtain for you. The water was blissfully hot, and you both sighed as it cascaded over you, washing away the last physical remnants of the kitchen. He reached for the shampoo, pouring a generous amount into his palm.

“Turn around,” he said.

You complied, leaning back against his chest as his strong fingers worked the lather into your scalp. It was possibly the most luxurious feeling you’d ever experienced. His thumbs massaged your temples, then worked down the tense muscles of your neck and shoulders. You sighed, your head lolling back against him.

“You’re good at that.”

“I’ll have you know that I have many hidden talents,” he said, his voice a rumble against your back. He rinsed your hair carefully, shielding your eyes from the soap with his hand. Then he took the body wash, lathering up his hands before sliding them over your shoulders, down your arms, over your stomach, washing you with thorough, tender care.

“Your turn,” you said, turning around and taking the bottle from him.

You mimicked his actions, lathering your hands and washing his chest, his arms, his back as he turned for you. You scrubbed at the faint red marks your nails had left on his shoulders, and he chuckled. “Battle scars.”

“You started it,” you countered, soaping up your hands again and, with a bravado you didn’t entirely feel, sliding them down his stomach, to his hips, and taking him in hand. He was soft now, but you washed him gently, thoroughly, and he let out a soft, appreciative sigh, his head bowing to rest against yours under the spray.

“Feels nice,” he mumbled.

You finished, rinsing him off, and for a few minutes, you just stood there under the hot water, wrapped in each other, letting the steam and the warmth seep into your bones.

Finally, he turned off the water and reached for a towel, wrapping you in it first and rubbing you dry before briskly drying himself. He found two more towels for your hair. Back in your room, he dug through your drawers without asking, pulling out an old, soft t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts for you, and borrowing a pair of your dad’s sweatpants he found in the laundry room for himself. They were comically short on him, hitting mid-calf.

You both collapsed onto your bed, the sheets cool and clean. He pulled you into his side, your head on his chest, his arm around you. The digital clock on your nightstand glowed 3:47 AM.

“So,” he said into the quiet darkness, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. “Operation Seduce-Jay. Was it a success?”

You snorted. “I’d say it was a catastrophic, overwhelming success. I think you broke me.”

“You broke me,” he reminded you. “With your fuckin’ cookies. And the yoga. And that goddamn red bikini,” he sighed. “Should be illegal.”

“You went inside!”

“I had to!” he protested, laughing. “I was two seconds away from jumping the fence to get to you. I had to go read about municipal bond yields to calm down.”

You giggled, the absurdity of it all washing over you. “Ew, you’re such a dork.”

“And you are a menace.” He kissed the top of your head. “A beautiful, frustrating, incredibly sexy menace.”

You were quiet for a moment, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “What happens now?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

He was silent for so long you thought he might have fallen asleep. Then, “Well, your parents get back tomorrow afternoon. So I should probably not be here when they arrive.”

Your heart sank a little. “Oh. Right.”

“But,” he continued, his voice thoughtful, “I was thinking. My aircon is making a weird noise. A rattling sound. Very concerning. I might need a second opinion on it.”

You lifted your head to look at him. He was smiling, a playful glint in his eye. “You need a technician.”

“I need a helpful neighbor,” he corrected. “Maybe tomorrow evening, after they’re back and settled, you could come over and listen to it? I’d make dinner. As a thank you.”

A slow smile spread across your face. “I don’t know anything about air conditioners, Jay.”

“That’s okay,” he said, pulling you closer. “We’ll look it up on YouTube.”

You laughed, burrowing back into his side. “That sounds like a very thorough plan.”

“I’m a very thorough guy,” he said, his voice growing sleepy. “As you’ve recently learned.”

You lay there together, in the quiet dark of your childhood room, and for the first time all summer, the aching, frantic need was gone. You lay there a little longer after that, listening to the house breathe around you—the faint tick of cooling pipes, the birds and insects outside, the steady rhythm of his breathing slowly evening out against your shoulder. It felt unreal, how ordinary it all was, how gentle.

Jay’s arm tightened around you in his sleep, and you stared into the dark and smiled to yourself.

Tomorrow, there would be a thousand practicalities to untangle: how to tell your parents without making it weird, how to explain the age gap without making it sound wrong, how to navigate dating when one of you still lived down the hall from their childhood bedroom and the other woke up early for meetings. But that was tomorrow, a distant land, far away from tonight, from this moment with Jay’s hair brushing your neck and his breath soft on your skin.

Because tonight, the summer finally felt complete.

The first time you heard the giggling, you tried to excuse it.

It was past midnight, and you were hunched over your laptop at the kitchen table, the blue light a lonely island in the dark apartment. Your dissertation draft glowed on the screen, a mess of half-formed arguments and citations you needed to cross-check. The key turned in the lock, the door opened with a soft shush, and then the sound: a bright, airy laugh, followed by a lower, familiar chuckle. Riki’s.

You didn’t look up. You kept typing, the clack of the keys a little louder than necessary. This is fine, you told yourself. He’s a college kid. He’s social. Hana said he would behave.

“Oh, you have a roommate?” the girl’s voice floated into the kitchen, tinged with curiosity.

“My sister’s friend,” Riki’s voice replied, casual, dismissive. “Don’t worry about it.”

My sister’s friend. The phrase needled you. It was true, of course. You were Hana’s friend. You’d met Riki when he was a wobbly toddler trailing after his big sister, his cheeks perpetually smudged with dirt or candy. You’d spent countless afternoons at the Nishimura house, and your memories of Riki were a highlight reel of childhood absurdity: the time you and Hana convinced him that eating a whole lemon would give him superpowers (he cried for an hour), the elaborate tea parties where he, draped in Hana’s old ballet tutus and your sparkly scarves, would serve imaginary cakes with grave seriousness. You remembered his high, squeaky laugh, the way he’d cling to your leg when a dog barked too loud, the nightlight shaped like a rocket ship that had to be on or he wouldn’t sleep.

But that boy was gone.

The one who’d shown up at your door with a single duffel bag and a lazy smile was a stranger to you—a strikingly handsome stranger, which was its own confusing problem. He’d shot up, for one thing. He had to be at least six feet now, all long, lean lines. His face had lost all its baby fat, revealing sharp cheekbones and a jawline that looked like it could cut glass, and his eyes, once wide and innocent, were now a dark, perceptive brown that seemed to take in everything and give nothing back. His hair was a messy, artful tumble of black and bleached-blonde, and he moved with a relaxed, almost languid confidence that felt utterly alien. He’d thanked you for letting him crash, his voice a smooth baritone that held none of the warmth you remembered.

“I’ll be quiet,” he’d promised, his gaze briefly meeting yours before sliding away to appraise the living room. “Won’t get in your way.”

For the first few days, he was true to his word—the perfect roommate. He’d leave early, come back late, wash his single dish, and disappear into his room. You’d see him sometimes in the morning, scrolling through his phone with a faint, unreadable smile while he ate breakfast. You’d mutter a “morning,” and he’d give a slight, noncommittal nod.

But the problem started that first weekend.

It was a Friday. You’d finally collapsed into bed at 1 AM after a brutal day in the library. Just as the fuzzy edges of sleep began to pull you under, you heard it. The murmur of voices from his room, down the hall. Then a giggle. Then a low, masculine rumble you recognized as Riki’s laugh, but different—slower, richer. Your eyes snapped open in the dark.

You told yourself it was a one-off. A Friday night. He was a young, attractive guy in his second year of university. It was normal.

But then it was Saturday. A different voice, higher-pitched. More giggling. Then, around 1:30 AM, a different sound cut through the wall. A soft, breathy moan. Then another. Then the rhythmic, unmistakable thump-thump-thump of a headboard meeting the wall with a steady, cadence.

You lay there, frozen, heat flooding your cheeks. You were angry, you decided. Purely, righteously angry. It was inconsiderate. It was rude. You had a dissertation to write. You needed sleep. You squeezed your eyes shut and shoved a pillow over your head, but it was no use. The sounds were a vivid, unwelcome painting in the dark: the creak of the bed, the girl’s escalating cries, Riki’s voice, a rough whisper you couldn’t make out but whose tone was unmistakably filthy, urging her on. It went on for what felt like an eternity before culminating in a sharp, female cry and then a heavy, satisfied silence.

You got maybe two hours of sleep.

Sunday was quiet. You saw him briefly in the kitchen, making coffee. He looked tired but content, a faint bruise-like mark on the side of his neck. He caught you looking and raised an eyebrow. You looked away first, your face burning.

“Sleep okay?” he asked, his voice bland.

“Just fine,” you lied, your voice tight.

The pattern solidified over the next week. Monday: a blonde. Tuesday: a redhead. Wednesday: quiet. Thursday: a brunette with a particularly loud, theatrical vocal range. It was like living next to a poorly soundproofed brothel. Your sleep fractured into miserable chunks. Dark circles bloomed under your eyes. Your focus, already strained by the mountain of academic work, shattered completely. You’d be reading a dense theoretical text and your brain would supply the sound of last night’s gasps. You’d be trying to formulate an argument and all you could think about was the rhythmic thumping against your shared wall.

The worst part was the confusion that churned in your gut alongside the anger. Because it wasn’t just noise. It was him. The transformation was so absolute it felt like a personal betrayal. That sweet, funny little boy who used to hide behind you during scary movies was now a… a philanderer. A player who cycled through women with a casual, almost bored kind of efficiency. And your body, traitorously, had noticed the details. The way his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders when he reached for a glass. The defined muscles of his biceps. The full, surprisingly soft-looking shape of his mouth, which you’d only ever seen quirked in that infuriatingly detached smirk.

It made you feel gross, this flicker of awareness. He was Hana’s little brother. You’d seen Mrs Nishimura potty-training him, for god’s sake. You’d seen him with a bowl-cut and braces. This… this physicality of him now was wrong. But when you saw him reaching for a cereal box one morning and you saw the fabric of his t-shirt pulling tight, outlining the powerful V of his torso, you couldn’t help but look away, your heart doing a stupid little stutter.

Another time, you’d dropped your pen and bent over to pick it up in the hallway. When you straightened, he was leaning against his doorframe, having just emerged from his room. His eyes weren’t on your face—no, they were on your ass, clad in sweatpants, and the look was so blatant, so slow and appraising, it felt like a physical touch. It wasn’t a glance. It was a stare, and he didn’t look away when you caught him, just let his gaze drag slowly back up to meet yours, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly before he pushed off the frame and walked to the bathroom without a word. Your skin had prickled for an hour afterwards.

Then there was the afternoon you came out of the shower, wrapped in just a towel, hair dripping. You’d thought he was in class, but it must have been cancelled, because he was in the living room, lounging on the couch, scrolling on his phone. His eyes lifted, and they didn’t dart away in polite embarrassment—they traveled from your damp hair, down over the towel tucked securely over your breasts, along your bare legs, and back up. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was heavy, hungry. It felt like he was undressing you with his eyes, mentally peeling the towel away. You’d scurried to your room, flushing from the tips of your ears to your toes, that confusing, unwanted heat pooling low in your belly. He’s Hana’s little brother, you’d chanted to yourself. You saw him in footie pajamas.

But that was the thing: you had to accept, eventually, the boy in footie pajamas had ceased to exist, and it became increasingly clear to you by his nightly routines.

You tried subtlety first. You started playing white noise on your phone: rain sounds, ocean waves, the whole lot of it. It drowned out the talking and the giggles, but the thudding of the headboard and the sharper cries pierced through. You took sleeping pills, but they left you groggy and useless the next day, and your dissertation couldn’t afford a groggy brain.

You considered texting Hana, but what would you even say? Your brother is a sex fiend and it’s keeping me awake? It felt pathetic. And a part of you, a stubborn, prideful part, didn’t want to tattle. You were an adult. He was an adult. You should be able to handle this.

So you stewed, and let the anger ferment into a thick, toxic resentment. Every polite, vacant smile he gave you in the hallway felt like an insult. Every time you heard the front door open late at night, your shoulders would tense. You began to catalog the sounds, each one a fresh brand on your patience. The click of the lock. The whispered conversations. The first, tentative moan. The dirty talk would even seep through the walls, much to your dismay. You’d be trying to read, and his voice, low and gritty, would cut through your concentration.

“Does it feel good? Taking all of me?”

A whimper in response.

“Yeah, you do. So fucking tight for me. Tell me.”

“I… I like it, Riki…”

“That’s it. Let the whole building know who’s making you feel this good.”

And she would. She’d cry out, and the headboard would pound faster. Yet another night, yet another different girl.

“Look at you. So greedy. Riding me like you’re trying to milk me dry.”

The wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin.

“Come on, baby. Squeeze me. Make yourself come on my cock.”

And she would, with a shattered scream that made you flinch at your desk. The sounds were graphic, instructional. You’d find yourself imagining the positions, the angles—you couldn’t help it. You’d imagine his hands, those large, long-fingered hands you’d seen holding a game controller or a water bottle, gripping a girl’s hips, digging into her thighs. You’d imagine his mouth, that surprisingly soft-looking mouth, on other parts of a woman’s body. The fantasies would pop into your head unbidden, shocking you with their clarity and their heat. You’d shake your head, trying to dislodge them, but they’d linger, leaving you restless and irritated.

Your work suffered. Your advisor sent a concerned email about your last draft. You snapped at a classmate over a minor disagreement. You were a raw nerve, and the constant, nightly soundtrack from Riki’s room was a cheese grater dragged over it.

The breaking point came on a Tuesday. A Tuesday. Who had loud, raucous sex on a Tuesday night before a midterm week? Nishimura Riki, apparently.

It started at 11 PM. You’d gone to bed early, desperate for just one full night of rest. The giggling started at 11:30. The headboard thumping began at midnight. You lay there, fists clenched in your sheets, counting each impact like a prisoner marking days on a wall. At 1 AM, the girl’s first orgasm echoed down the hall, a long, wailing cry that seemed to vibrate in your own bones. You shoved a second pillow over your face.

They took a break. You heard the faucet run in his room, low murmurs, a soft laugh. Please be over, you prayed. Please let him be done.

They were, in fact, not done.

Round two began. You could hear Riki’s voice now, a low, continuous stream of dirty talk.

“That’s it. Take it deeper. You can do it, I know you can.”

“Riki, please…”

“Please what? Say it.”

“Please—ngh—fuck me harder.”

“Good girl.”

Soon enough, a second, sharper climax came around 2:15 AM. You were sweating under your covers, your heart pounding with a rage so pure it felt like a fever.

And then, at 3 AM, it was still going. A third, shattering orgasm from the girl echoed down the hall, this one raw and sobbing. That was it.

A red haze descended over your vision. You threw off your covers, the cool air hitting your sweat-damp skin. You didn’t think. You just moved: stormed out of your room, feet slapping against the cool hardwood floor. You didn’t bother knocking. You didn’t even pause. You just shoved his door open, the knob rattling against the wall behind it.

The scene was illuminated by the dim, orange-pink glow of his salt lamp, casting long, suggestive shadows. Riki was on his bed, shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist. A brunette girl—a different one from last week—was straddling him, her back to the door, her head thrown back in abandon. They were moving together in a slow, deep, grinding rhythm, and he had one large hand gripping the curve of her hip, fingers digging into her flesh, the other tangled in her hair, guiding her movements. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed with deep, uncomplicated pleasure, snapped to the door the moment it opened.

For a second, there was only the sound: their synchronized heavy breathing, the wet, slick sound of their joining, the soft rustle of sheets. The girl gasped, trying to twist to look, but Riki’s grip on her hip tightened, keeping her firmly in place on him. His gaze locked with yours, and in the dim light, you saw the surprise morph, in a heartbeat, into something else. A slow, infuriating smirk spread across his face—a smirk of pure, unadulterated amusement, the smirk of a guy who knew exactly what he was doing and found your furious intrusion the most entertaining thing that had happened all night.

“Well, hello,” he drawled, his voice hoarse and ragged from use. He didn’t stop moving beneath the girl. If anything, his upward thrusts seemed to become more deliberate, more pronounced, a blatant, theatrical show for his audience of one. The girl whimpered, her body shuddering. “Need something?”

All the angry, rehearsed speeches you’d composed in the dark dried up and turned to dust in your throat. You were face-to-face with a version of Riki you didn’t recognize, a version that was all animal heat and arrogant challenge. The salt lamp light painted his torso in gold and shadow. Sweat gleamed on the defined planes of his toned chest and the hard ridges of his abs. A light sheen coated his skin, highlighting the muscles of his arms and shoulders as he held the girl. His expression was a jarring mix of carnal satisfaction and mocking defiance, and the air in the room was thick, humid, and saturated with the musky smell of sex and sweat. It somehow felt both invasive and disturbingly intimate.

“Are you kidding me?” you finally spat out, your voice trembling with a rage so intense it vibrated in your teeth. “It’s three in the fucking morning on a Tuesday, Riki!”

He chuckled, the sound low and vibrating in his chest, a sound you felt in your own. The girl on top of him let out another soft cry, her back arching. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. His dark eyes raked over you, taking in your old, worn sleep shirt, your disheveled hair, your bare legs. His gaze felt physical, like a slow drag of a fingertip. “We lost track of time.” He paused, his hips giving another slow, deliberate roll that made the girl gasp. “You could always join. Might help you relax. You always look so… tense.”

The audacity. The sheer, unbelievable gall of it. It ignited something white-hot and explosive in your chest, burning away any last shred of awkwardness or misplaced nostalgia. “You insufferable, egotistical child,” you hissed, the words sharp as glass. “This isn’t a frat house! I have a life. I have work! I haven’t slept properly in ages because of your… your nightly activities!”

His smirk faltered for a millisecond, the corners of his mouth tightening. His eyes narrowed slightly, the mockery replaced by a flicker of something else—genuine surprise, maybe. He slowed his movements, his hands coming to rest more gently on the girl’s waist. “Hey, come on. It’s not that big a—”

“It is!” you shouted, the volume startling even you. The girl on top of him flinched violently. “You think this is funny? You think your little playboy act is cool? It’s pathetic and it’s rude! I didn’t agree to live with a walking, talking porno soundtrack!” You took a step further into the room, the smell of them hitting you harder. “I remember when you used to be afraid of the dark and needed a nightlight, Riki. I remember when you cried because you thought the monster in the closet would eat your toes. And now you just keep the whole building up with your disgusting noise!”

The references to his childhood hit their mark like a scalpel: his face shut down completely, the smirk vanishing, replaced by a blank, unreadable mask of stone. All the lazy confidence drained away, leaving something cold and hard in its place. The girl, now thoroughly uncomfortable and exposed, scrambled off him with a yelp, grabbing frantically for her clothes strewn on the floor. “I should, um, go,” she mumbled, her face scarlet, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Riki didn’t move to stop her. He didn’t even look at her. His eyes were still fixed on you, dark and intense. He sat up slightly, the sheets falling lower, and you forced your gaze to remain on his face. The silence she left in her wake was deafening, broken only by the rustle of fabric as she dressed hurriedly. She slipped past you without a word, and a moment later, you heard the front door open and click shut.

Now it was just the two of you, in the aftermath. The bed was a mess. The air still hummed. Riki finally moved, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was still gloriously, infuriatingly shirtless, and he made no move to cover himself. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, looking at you. The dim light carved the tension in his shoulders, the line of his spine.

“Feel better?” he asked, his voice flat, devoid of all its previous teasing warmth.

You stared at him, the adrenaline still coursing through you, making your hands shake. The flatness of his voice, the complete lack of remorse, was somehow more infuriating than the smirk. It was a dismissal. You were just a nuisance he was tolerating.

“No,” you said, your own voice cold and final. “I don’t.”

You turned on your heel and walked out, pulling his door shut with a firm, quiet click that felt more damning than a slam. You half-expected to hear it fly open again, for him to call after you, to offer some half-assed apology just to smooth things over.

Silence.

You stood in the dark hallway, listening to the absolute nothing from his room. No footsteps. No call of your name. Nothing. This brat.

The fury curdled into a sick, hollow feeling in your stomach. You went back to your room, climbed into your cold bed, and lay there staring at the ceiling. The apartment was now profoundly, unnervingly quiet. You could hear the hum of the refrigerator. The distant sound of a car passing. Your own heartbeat, slowing from its frantic pace.

You didn’t sleep. You just waited for dawn, trapped in the buzzing aftermath of your own outburst.

If it had been awkward before, the following week was on a completely different level.

Riki went back to being a ghost, but this time it felt intentional and punitive. He’d leave before you woke up. He’d come home long after you’d gone to bed. On the rare occasions your paths crossed—you coming out of your room to make lunch, him grabbing a protein shake from the fridge—the air would freeze solid. You’d mutter a tense “hey,” and he’d give a silent, barely perceptible nod, his eyes sliding past you as if you barely existed. The easy, if infuriating, nonchalance was gone, replaced by a frosty politeness that was infinitely worse.

The only benefit, you supposed, was the silence. No giggles, no headboards, no chorus of female pleasure echoing down the hall. The peace was absolute, and it should have been everything you wanted. You caught up on sleep. The dark circles under your eyes began to fade. You made actual, solid progress on your dissertation.

But the quiet felt loaded. You’d catch yourself listening for sounds that never came, and the absence felt louder than the noise ever had. A part of you, a part you hated, wondered where he was. Was he taking his “nightly parades” elsewhere? To some girl’s dorm, a hotel room? The thought shouldn’t have bothered you, but it did, a persistent, itchy curiosity in the back of your mind.

You felt guilty sometimes, in weak moments. You’d remember the look on his face right before you left. You’d told Hana’s little brother he was disgusting. You’d shamed him in front of a stranger. But then you’d remember the weeks of sleep deprivation, his arrogant smirk, and the guilt would harden back to anger.

He was being inconsiderate. You were in the right. You repeated it like a mantra.

One evening, about ten days after The Confrontation, you were in the kitchen making a late dinner when you heard him in his room. It was a Thursday. You’d just submitted a draft chapter to your advisor and felt a rare, buoyant sense of accomplishment. You were humming, chopping vegetables, when his door opened.

He emerged, and you instinctively stilled. He was dressed to go out: dark jeans that hugged his long legs, a simple black t-shirt that stretched across the defined muscles of his chest and shoulders, a leather jacket slung over his arm. His hair was artfully messy, and he smelled clean. The sight sent a stupid, unwelcome jolt through your system.

He was heading for the door, not even glancing toward the kitchen.

“Going out?” you heard yourself ask, the words coming out before you could stop them. You aimed for a tone of casual, neutral inquiry.

He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and slowly turned his head. His expression was carefully blank. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” You nodded, forcing yourself to resume chopping a bell pepper. “Okay. Well. Have fun.”

“Party,” he offered shortly. “I’ll probably be late.”

A party. Of course. That’s where he’d been exporting his activities. Relief and something else, something sharper, twisted together in your gut. “Right. Well. Don’t… don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” It was an old, stupid joke you and Hana used to say.

His eyes met yours for a fraction of a second, a flash of something unreadable in their dark depths. “Alright,” he said, his voice still flat. Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

You stood there, the knife idle in your hand. The apartment was empty. Truly, completely empty. For the first time in weeks, you had the space to yourself, with no threat of interruption, no ambient tension humming through the walls. The sense of freedom was immediate and heady. You finished your dinner, ate it watching an absolutely awful episode of Married At First Sight, and felt the knots in your shoulders begin to unwind.

You were ahead of your deadlines. The silence was a gift. And your body, which had been wound so tight for so long, was thrumming with a restless energy that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the sudden, profound absence of the very thing that had been driving you crazy.

It started as a simple thought. You’re alone. You’re stressed. You deserve to relax.

You took a long, hot shower, washing away the mental grime of the day. You didn’t rush. You luxuriated in the steam, letting your hands slide over your skin. When you got out, you didn’t put on your usual sleep shorts and baggy t-shirt. You pulled on your silky pajamas instead, and climbed into bed, the sheets cool and smooth against your skin. You picked up your phone, scrolled aimlessly for a few minutes, but your mind wouldn’t settle. It kept drifting back to the fact that he was gone. That you could make any noise you wanted, and no one would hear.

A slow, warm pulse began low in your belly. It was an idle throb at first, easily ignored. You shifted to your side, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only pressed the seam of your panties against your clit, sending a tiny, electric spark through you. You let out a soft breath.

Why not?

Your hand slid down your stomach, under the waistband of your pajamas, and over the thin cotton of your panties. You were already damp. The realization made your cheeks heat, but you didn’t stop. You pressed the heel of your hand against yourself, applying a firm, steady pressure. A low sigh escaped your lips. It felt good. So good. To finally touch yourself without the subconscious fear of being overheard, of having to be quiet.

You let your eyes drift shut, focusing on the sensation. The initial tension began to melt, replaced by a spreading warmth. You slipped your hand beneath the your panties, your fingers finding your wetness with a sense of relief. You were slick, already swollen and sensitive. You circled your clit with two fingers, a slow, lazy rhythm, letting the pleasure build in gentle waves.

But your mind, treacherous thing, needed a focus. It drifted from abstract sensation to memory. And the memories that surfaced weren’t from old boyfriends or fantasy scenarios. They were auditory. They were his.

The low, rough whisper from through the wall. “You look so fucking pretty like this.” You could hear it perfectly, the timbre of his voice when it was stripped of its usual casual detachment, thickened with desire. Your fingers moved faster.

Another memory. The brunette from the other week, her breathy, desperate pleading. “Riki, please, I’m gonna—” and his response, a guttural, commanding, “Come for me, baby.” A full-body shudder wracked you. Your hips lifted off the mattress, seeking more pressure. You imagined that voice directed at you.

You were panting now, your free hand coming up to palm your tits through your shirt. You pinched your nipple through the fabric, rolling it between your thumb and forefinger, the pleasure of it making you cry out softly. The images in your head were getting clearer, more invasive. Not just his voice, but the sight of him from that night—shirtless, powerful, in control, sweat gleaming on his skin, his hands gripping those hips, that dark, intense gaze locked on yours even as he moved inside someone else.

“You always look so tense.”

A whimper tore from your throat. You were so wet, your fingers sliding easily, the sounds obscene in the quiet of your room. You added a second finger, dipping inside yourself, curling them, searching. Your back arched. You thought of his hands. Big, with long fingers. Capable hands that could grip a basketball or a girl’s waist with equal ease. You imagined them on you. One tangling in your hair, pulling your head back. The other spreading your thighs apart, his thumb replacing your frantic fingers on your clit, applying a ruthless, perfect pressure.

“That’s it, take it all. Good girl.”

The fantasy spiraled, out of control and all-consuming. It wasn’t the faceless girls anymore. It was you in his bed. You under him. You on top of him, riding him the way that girl had, his hands guiding your hips, his eyes dark and hungry only for you. The rhythm of your fingers matched the imaginary rhythm of his thrusts—deep, slow, then fast and punishing. You could almost feel the stretch, the delicious, filling pressure of him. Your breaths came in ragged gasps. You were moaning openly now, the sounds muffled only by your own pillow. You were so close. The coil in your core was wound impossibly tight, shimmering on the edge of release.

You needed one more thing. One more anchor to tip you over. Your brain, fogged with lust, supplied it.

“Riki,” you moaned into the darkness, the name a broken sigh. It felt forbidden and thrilling on your tongue. “Oh my, hngh, Riki.” You said it again, louder, as you drove your fingers deeper. “Riki…”

The climax was rushing toward you, a tidal wave of sensation. Your eyes were squeezed shut, your entire world narrowed to the frantic movement of your hand and the filthy, perfect fantasy in your head. You were chanting his name now, a soft, desperate litany against the onslaught of your pleasure.

“Riki—ah, oh—Riki… fuck, Riki…”

You were right there. The peak was a white-hot point of light behind your eyelids. Your body tightened, every muscle straining. One more second. One more—

“Y/N?”

This time, the voice was real. It was low, husky, and came from the doorway of your bedroom.

Your eyes flew open.

The light from the hallway silhouetted him, tall and broad-shouldered, filling the frame of your open door. Riki. He was still in his jacket, his hair slightly wind-tossed. He must have come back. He must have been standing there. For how long?

The shock was so absolute, so seismic, that it triggered your orgasm. The wave you’d been teetering on crashed over you with devastating, uncontrollable force. A sharp, punched-out cry ripped from your throat as your back bowed off the bed. Your hips jerked, your inner muscles fluttering wildly around your own fingers. Pleasure, white-hot and blinding, electrocuted your system, magnified a thousandfold by the sheer, horrifying shame of being seen. Your vision blurred at the edges. The sensations rolled through you in endless, punishing waves, your body convulsing through the orgasm he had witnessed, that his voice had caused.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. You were trapped in the aftershocks, your hand still buried between your legs, your shirt rucked up, your chest heaving. The air in the room, so charged with your own solitary pleasure a moment ago, was now thick with something else—a stunned humiliation.

Riki didn’t move from the doorway. The shadows hid his expression, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, on your exposed skin, on the visible tremors still wracking your body. The silence stretched, taut and unbearable, broken only by your ragged, slowing breaths.

Finally, he took a single, slow step into the room. The floorboard creaked under his weight. The dim light from the hall caught the sharp line of his jaw, the dark intensity of his eyes as they adjusted to the deeper gloom of your bedroom. He was looking right at you, his gaze dropping to where your hand was still tucked under the covers, to the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

A slow, deep breath escaped him. It wasn’t a laugh. It was something more considering.

“So,” he said, his voice a low, rough rasp that scraped over every nerve ending you had. It was the voice from your fantasy, but it was real, and it was directed at you. “That’s what you do when I’m not here.”

“What are you doing back already?” you stammered, your voice a thin, reedy thing. You jerked your hand from under the covers, tugging the hem of your shirt down and yanking the sheet up to your chin. The movement was frantic, pathetic. “I thought you were going to be out longer.”

Riki didn’t move from where he stood, just inside your door. He shrugged, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. “Was boring,” he said, his tone flat, but his eyes were anything but. They were tracking your every twitch, every rapid breath. “Didn’t wanna waste my time there.”

“Oh.” The syllable was useless. Your brain was scrambling, trying to find solid ground. You forced a weak, brittle laugh. “Um, wow. Didn’t know you could run out of prospects.”

His lips, those infuriatingly perfect lips, quirked in a shadow of his old smirk. It wasn’t amused. It was predatory. “Maybe the one I wanted wasn’t there.”

The implication hung in the air between you, a live wire. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You brushed it off with an awkward, choked sound that was supposed to be a laugh. It came out as a gasp. You cleared your throat, the sound absurdly loud. “So, um.” You couldn’t look at him. You stared at the pattern on your duvet. “How much of that did you hear?” The question was a desperate, hopeful prayer. Please, please say you just walked in at the end. Please say you didn’t hear me moaning your name like a desperate, pathetic—

He took another step forward. The dim light from the hall now fully illuminated his face. His dark eyes were gleaming, intense, fixed on you. That slow, knowing smile spread across his face again.

“Enough,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, rough rasp that made your stomach clench. “Enough to hear you calling for me. My name sounded real pretty coming from your mouth, Y/N. All breathy and fucked-out.” He took another step.

You flinched as if he’d struck you. “That’s not—”

“All that time,” he continued, cutting you off, his voice gaining a hard, possessive edge. He was standing at the foot of your bed now, a tall, dark silhouette of intent. “All that time you were banging on my door, so fucking mad about the noise… you were just mad about not being the one in my bed, huh?”

“No,” you whispered, but it was a lie, and he knew it. The memory of your own fantasy, of his imagined voice and hands, was seared into your mind, undeniable. Your protest died in your throat.

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the footboard. The movement made the muscles in his arms flex, defined even under the jacket. Your breath hitched.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in your flushed face, your wide eyes, the rapid pulse beating in your throat. “Your eyelashes are fucking fluttering. You’re breathing like you just ran a mile. For me.”

You were. You couldn’t stop. Every inhale felt like a struggle. He was so close. The energy radiating from him was overwhelming, a magnetic pull that your body was desperate to answer. Your mind was a riot of conflict—shame, desire, a lifetime of seeing him as Hana’s little brother, and the undeniable reality of the man in front of you.

“Riki, this is—we can’t,” you managed to say, your voice trembling. “This is a bad idea. You’re Hana’s baby brother. This is so wrong.”

The words were the wrong ones.

His face darkened instantly. The possessive heat in his eyes hardened into something fierce, almost angry. He pushed off the footboard and in one fluid, startlingly fast motion, he was on the bed, kneeling over you. He didn’t touch you, but his presence caged you in, his knees on either side of your legs under the sheet.

“‘Baby brother’?” he repeated, the words a low, dangerous growl. “Is that what you see? After what you were just doing? Moaning my name while you fucked yourself on your fingers?” He leaned down, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm against your lips. “How much more do I need to do to prove to you that I’m a man now, Y/N? A man.” He looked away momentarily, scoffing and running a hand through his hair. “And this man,” he emphasised, “is going to fuck you so hard the only name you can remember is his. Do you understand me?”

The words shouldn’t have made you clench with a fresh, aching throb of need, but they did. You stared up at him, mesmerized and terrified.

“I…” you began, but no other words came.

“I’ve wanted you,” he said, his voice dropping to a tortured, confessional rasp. His forehead tipped against yours. You could feel the tension thrumming through him. “Since I was old enough to remember. Every time you came over with Hana. Every time you smiled at me. Every fucking time you wore some tiny little outfit and talked to me like I was a kid, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to peel it off you with my teeth. Every boyfriend I saw you with, every single one who made you cry—I wanted to break their faces, Y/N. Hana would hug you, and I’d just sit there, shaking with anger. Because it should have been me. It should have always been me.”

The obsession in his voice stole the air from your lungs. It was terrifying. It was the most thrilling thing you’d ever heard.

His lips brushed yours, the lightest whisper of contact. “You have no idea,” he murmured against your mouth. “No idea what you do to me. Seeing you like this… hearing you…” he breathed out a laugh. “I’m about to lose my fucking mind.”

Then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. His lips were firm, demanding, and you opened for him instantly, a soft whimper escaping you. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss, while the other finally, finally pushed the sheet away.

The cool air hit your skin, but you were burning up. His kiss was consuming, a feedback loop of pent-up desire. You kissed him back with a desperation that matched his own, your hands coming up to grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and the hand in your hair tightened just shy of painful.

He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against yours. “Fuck, you taste good,” he rasped. His eyes were black with want.

Before you could process what was happening, he was moving. He shoved your shirt up, exposing your breasts, and ducked his head. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard through the flimsy fabric of your bra. You cried out, arching off the bed. Then he lavished the same attention on the other, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, making you gasp and writhe.

“Riki…” you moaned.

“Yeah,” he muttered against your skin, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your sternum, over your trembling stomach. “That’s it. Say it again. Louder.”

He hooked his fingers in the sides of your pajamas and panties and dragged them both down your legs in one rough, swift motion, the fabric scraping against your thighs before he tossed them aside like they were nothing. You were completely exposed to him now, your bare pussy glistening in the dim light, folds swollen and slick from the earlier fucking, arousal dripping steadily from your entrance. He knelt between your spread legs, his strong hands shoving your thighs wider apart, knees pressing into the mattress to lock you open for his inspection.

“Jesus,” he breathed, the crude confidence momentarily replaced by something like reverence. His eyes locked on yours, dark and predatory, as he stared at your exposed core, taking in every detail—the way your outer lips parted slightly to reveal the pink, wet inner folds, your clit peeking out hard and throbbing, begging for attention. “Look at you. Soaked. All for me.” He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over your heated skin, and you shuddered violently. “Been dreaming about this cunt since I knew what to do with one.”

He reached forward with both hands, thumbs and fingers gripping your outer lips firmly, pulling them apart wide to expose your dripping hole completely. The cool air hit your sensitive inner walls, making you clench involuntarily, a fresh bead of your juices trickling out. Riki’s gaze zeroed in, obsessed, his breath coming faster as he watched it glisten. Then he leaned down close, his face inches from your spread pussy, he pursed his lips and spat directly onto your open entrance—a thick, warm glob of saliva landing right on your clit before dripping down slowly, mixing with your arousal and sliding into your folds. You watched it all, mesmerized by the filthy sight of his spit trailing over your most intimate parts, coating everything in a shiny, messy sheen. It was so degrading, so gross, but the heat pooling in your core said otherwise—your pussy fluttered at the sensation, more wetness gushing out to join the slick mess.

Fuck.

You tipped your head back against the pillow, a whimper escaping as you covered your eyes with your hands, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Why did this turn you on so much? It should feel wrong, humiliating, but your body betrayed you, hips twitching toward him desperately.

“Nuh-uh, baby,” Riki growled, his voice low and commanding. He grabbed your wrists in one hand, yanking them away from your face and pinning them above your head with bruising force. “Don’t you dare. Keep those eyes on me, Y/N. You better remember every single second of this.”

The first touch of his tongue was a revelation—hot, wet, and insistent, a long, flat lick from your spit-slick entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit, lapping up the combined mess of your juices and his saliva in one greedy swipe. You jolted, a broken sound tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop, dragging his tongue back down and up again, slower this time, his nose bumping against your mound as he buried his face deeper, and you couldn’t stop your hips from lifting off the mattress, seeking more.

“Hold still,” he ordered, his voice muffled against you. His hands came up to grip your thighs, his fingers digging in, holding you open, holding you down.

He zeroed in on your clit then, swollen and aching for him, circling it with the tip of his tongue in tight, teasing loops that had your hips bucking despite his grip. Then he sucked it into his hot mouth, lips sealing around it as he nursed hard, tongue flicking rapidly against the underside. The suction pulled a mewl from you. He alternated—gentle laps to build the ache, then harsh sucks that bordered on too much, his teeth grazing lightly to send spirals of mixed pain and bliss racing up your spine.

“You’re so goddamn wet, baby,” he breathed out, the vibration against your most sensitive spot making you cry out. Your hands tangled in his hair, clutching desperately, knuckles white as you held on for dear life. He growled in approval, the sound rumbling through your pussy, and slid two thick fingers into your clenching hole without warning. They sank in easily, your walls sucking them deep, and he curled them immediately, hooking against that spongy spot inside you, stroking it with precise, come-hither motions that made your toes curl and your vision spot.

Pumping his fingers in and out, he matched the rhythm to his tongue’s assault—thrust, lick, suck, thrust—building the pressure. Your arousal squirted out around his knuckles with each plunge, soaking his hand, wrist, and the sheets below in a growing puddle. “Fuck, listen to that squelch,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to spit on your clit again, watching it drip down to where his fingers pistoned. “Listen to the sounds your pussy’s making, baby. Creaming all over my hand like you can’t get enough.”

The pleasure coiled tighter in your belly, hotter and more intense than before, every flick, every curl, every filthy word unravelling you further, your thighs quaking uncontrollably around his head.

“I’m—I can’t, Riki, please,” you babbled, voice breaking as the edge hovered, your body a live wire under his touch.

“You can,” he commanded, his voice a dark promise. “Come on my tongue, Y/N. Do it.”

It was his commanding tone that tipped you over the edge. The first orgasm tore through you, your inner muscles fluttering wildly around his fingers, your release coating his hand and chin. He didn’t let up, licking and sucking you through the shattering waves, drawing out every last pulse of pleasure until you were a boneless, trembling heap, sensitive and overstimulated.

Only then did he lift his head. His lips were glistening, his chin wet. He looked up at you, his eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction, and slowly licked his lips. The sight was the most obscenely erotic thing you’d ever witnessed.

“Fuck,” you whispered, utterly spent.

He crawled back up your body, his weight settling over you. He kissed you again, deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. It was intimate and filthy and it made a new, aching throb of desire pulse deep inside you.

“We’re not done,” he murmured against your lips. He sat back on his heels and shrugged off his leather jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Then he pulled his black t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

Your breath caught. You’d seen him shirtless that night in his doorway, but this was different. This was up close, for you. The defined planes of his chest and abdomen, the cut of his hips above his jeans, the way his muscles moved under smooth, golden skin. He was beautiful. He was all man. He leaned over you again, kissing you, his bare chest brushing against your sensitive nipples. You could feel the hard length of him straining against his jeans, pressed against your thigh. The evidence of his want, for you, was undeniable.

“Condom,” he muttered, breaking the kiss. “In my back pocket.”

You fumbled for it, your fingers clumsy as you reached around to the back pocket of his dark jeans. You felt the foil packet, pulled it out. He took it from you, his eyes never leaving yours as he ripped it open with his teeth. He shifted back, making quick work of his belt and the button of his jeans. He pushed them and his boxers down just enough to free himself.

You looked. He was thick, length curving slightly, the head already flushed and wet, intensely impressive and kind of intimidating.

Sheathing himself, he moved back over you, settling between your thighs. The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, which was still pulsing and slick from your orgasm and his ministrations. He paused, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice rough.

You dragged your gaze from where your bodies were about to join, up to his eyes. They were burning.

“You’re mine now,” he stated, no room for argument. “This pussy is mine. You understand? No one else gets to have it. Ever. And after tonight, you’re never going to look at me like I’m a kid again. You’re going to look at me and remember how deep I can fuck you. How hard I can make you come. You’re mine.”

You nodded, a desperate, eager sound escaping you.

He didn’t wait. He pushed forward, sinking into you in one slow, inexorable thrust.

The stretch was exquisite, a perfect, filling pressure that made your eyes roll back. You were so wet, so ready, he slid in to the hilt without resistance, his hips meeting yours with a soft, final sound.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. His breath came in ragged bursts against your skin, hot and uneven, as he held himself still inside you, letting the sensation of your tight walls gripping his thick cock sink in. Every inch of him throbbed, pulsing deep in your core, and you could feel the way your pussy clenched around him involuntarily, clutching him like it never wanted to let go.

Riki lifted his head slowly, his eyes locking onto yours again, that possessive fire blazing brighter than ever. “Goddamnit, baby, you feel like fucking heaven wrapped around my dick. Waited years for this,” he panted. “Used to jerk off in my room thinking about burying myself balls-deep in this sweet little cunt.”

You whimpered, your hands clutching at his shoulders as the fullness of him stretched you so perfectly it bordered on overwhelming.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest, and he pulled back just an inch, the drag of his veined shaft against your sensitive inner walls sending sparks shooting through you. Then he snapped his hips forward again, slower this time, deliberate, making you feel every ridge and bump as he sank back in. The wet slide was obscene, your arousal coating him already, easing the way but making a slick, squelching sound that filled the room. “Listen to that sloppy cunt of yours,” he breathed, his voice husky with awe and filthy pleasure. He pulled out again, almost completely, watching with rapt attention where you were joined. “Fucking dripping for me. Can you hear it?” He thrust back in, a little faster, and the wet, rhythmic schlick echoed in the quiet of your room.

“Riki,” you moaned, the humiliation of the sound mixing with an intense, perverse thrill.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his hips beginning to set a steady, deep rhythm. He wasn’t frantic. He was savoring. Each stroke was a long, slow withdrawal followed by a firm, full re-entry that punched the air from your lungs. “Let me hear it. Let me hear how fucking wet you are for me.”

He leaned down, bracing his weight on his forearms beside your head, his face inches from yours. This close, you could see the sweat beading on his temple, the faint tremor in his jaw as he controlled his pace. His thrusts were deep, each one grinding the base of his cock against your clit in a way that had your toes curling into the sheets.

“Did I tell you to look away?” he asked, his voice strained with effort.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his burning gaze. Sweat was already beading on his brow, dripping down the strong column of his throat. His biceps corded with each push and pull. He was a work of art in motion, all predatory grace and raw power.

“This is what you wanted,” he said, not a question, a fact. He punctuated it with a particularly sharp thrust that made you cry out. “Wasn’t it? You were fucking jealous. Admit it.”

You shook your head, but it was a weak denial, shattered by the pleasure drawing tight in your belly. “N-no…”

He laughed, a dark, breathless sound. “Liar.” He shifted his angle slightly, leaning over you, one hand braced by your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. The new position made him go even deeper, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every punishing stroke. “You heard those other girls screaming my name and you pictured yourself here. Under me, taking every fucking inch. Didn’t you?”

A sob broke from your lips. It was too much. The physical sensation, the psychological dismantling. He was right. He’d seen straight through you from the start. “Y-yeah,” you gasped, the confession torn from you.

“Yeah,” he echoed, a feral triumph in his voice. His thrusts became faster, harder, less controlled. The wet, slapping sounds of your bodies meeting grew louder, mingling with his ragged grunts and your helpless moans. “Say it again. Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” you choked out, arching into him. “It’s yours, Riki.”

“Damn right it is.” He drove into you, over and over, the force of it jolting your entire body. The coil inside you was winding to a impossible tightness again, a spring ready to snap. You could feel your second orgasm building.

“I’m gonna come,” you warned, your voice a shattered whisper. “Riki, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he snarled, his control snapping. His hips pistoned into you, brutal and perfect, and your orgasm washed over you. Every muscle seized in electric waves. Your pussy spasmed wildly around his thrusting cock, inner walls rippling in frantic contractions that squeezed him like a vice, gushing a hot flood of your juices that soaked his balls and thighs, dripping down to puddle on the sheets. Your eyes filled with hot tears, your body shaking uncontrollably. He fucked you through it, relentless, drawing out the pulses until you were sobbing, oversensitive and wrecked, your clit pulsing against him in aftershocks. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He kept moving, his thrusts becoming shorter, more frantic, chasing his own release. You whimpered, overstimulated, trying to shift away, but he held you pinned.

“Uh-uh,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “Not done. I’m not even close.” He pulled out of you suddenly, leaving you feeling achingly empty and exposed. The cool air hit your skin, making you shudder.

But before you could process the loss, his hands were on you, pulling you up with a startling ease. He pulled your hips up, forcing you onto your knees.

“Up,” he ordered, his voice gravel. “Sit up. On me.”

Your mind foggy, you let him maneuver you. He sat back against the headboard, his newly sheathed cock standing straight up, glistening. He guided your trembling thighs to straddle him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his hands strong on your waist. “Now put it back in. Take what’s yours.”

You were shaking, your muscles liquid. You reached between your bodies, your fingers wrapping around his hard, hot length. You guided him to your entrance, which felt swollen, tender, and impossibly wet. You sank down slowly, a low, continuous moan falling from your lips as you sheathed him inside you once more, taking him all the way to the base. The feeling of fullness was breathtaking, different now that you were in control, that you were the one lowering yourself onto him.

“Oh, god,” you breathed, your head falling back.

“Look at you,” he marveled, his hands smoothing up your sides, over your ribs, to cup your tits. His thumbs brushed your nipples. “Riding my cock. Look how well you take it.” His gaze dropped to where your bodies joined. “So fucking pretty.”

He didn’t move his hips. He let you set the pace. You rose up slowly, the drag exquisite and torturous, until just the head of him remained inside you, then sank back down, swallowing him whole with a soft, wet sound. A shiver wracked you.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a dark caress. “Use me. Fuck yourself on my dick. Get yourself off again. You can do it. I know you can. This hungry little pussy can come all night for me.”

His words fueled you. You began to move in earnest, bouncing on his lap. Each time you came down, his pelvis ground against your clit, sending jolts of sharp, oversensitive pleasure-pain through you. Your juices coated his shaft, your thighs, making the slide easier, louder. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping, of wet, sucking noises, of your mutual groans.

“Talk to me,” he gritted out, his hands gripping your hips, helping to guide you. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It feels… so full,” you gasped, your hands braced on his shoulders. “So deep… you’re so deep, Riki…”

“Yeah? You like being stuffed with my cock? Like having it stretch out that pretty, used-up pussy?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, riding him faster. “I love it. I love it, Riki.”

“Tell me what you love.”

“I love… your cock,” you admitted, the words feeling dangerous and freeing. “I love how big it is… how it feels inside me… I love how wet you make me… how sloppy…”

He groaned, his head thudding back against the headboard. “Fuck. Keep going.”

“I love the sounds,” you babbled, lost in the sensation, in the permission his dirty talk gave you. “The wet sounds… I used to hate… them… but I love them now… because it’s you—it’s us…”

“It’s always been us,” he rasped, his eyes blazing up at you. “Everyone else was fucking nothing. You were made for me. Weren’t you?”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded frantically, your movements becoming desperate, chasing that peak again. You were so sensitive it was almost painful, every nerve ending screaming, but the need was too great. You were a creature of pure need, reduced to this.

He saw it. He felt your inner walls beginning to flutter. “That’s it. I can feel it. You’re gonna come again, aren’t you? Go on, then, make a fucking mess for me.”

The third orgasm hit like a sloppy, uncontrollable explosion, tearing a ragged, ugly scream from your throat. Your vision tunneled to black spots, head thrashing side to side as your body locked up, then jerked in harsh, erratic spasms. Inside, your cunt clamped down hard on his pistoning dick, walls contracting in messy, uneven squeezes that forced out spurts of your slick, spraying messily over his groin and the sheets below. You were a sweating, shaking wreck, drool slipping from your parted lips as the waves dragged on, your hole twitching greedily, trying to pull him deeper even as you whined from the overstimulation.

“Fuck… I’m gonna… Y/N…” he gasped, your name a prayer and a curse, his voice cracking with the strain. He held you through it, his arm like a steel band around your back, his hips never stopping their relentless, upward drives. He was fucking you through your climax again, extending it, pushing you into a place of near unbearable sensitivity where pleasure and pain blurred into one blinding, brilliant sensation.

Your tits bounced wildly with the force of his thrusts, the peaks tight and pebbled. Through the haze of your own release, you saw his eyes drop, his gaze locked on the frantic, jiggling motion. A low, animal groan rumbled from him.

Before you could even come down, before the last tremors had fully subsided, his grip shifted. The hand in your hair tightened, pulling your head forward again, while the arm around your back urged you down, closer. “Come here,” he rasped, his voice thick with imminent release. “I want them—need to—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He guided your upper body down until your breasts were level with his face. Your nipples brushed his lips, and he didn’t hesitate. He took one into his mouth, hot and wet and hungry.

You cried out, a sharp, shocked sound, as his tongue lashed the sensitive peak, his lips sucking hard, teeth scraping occasionally.The direct, intimate stimulation on your already screaming nerves was too much, and yet not enough. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same fierce, devoted attention, sucking and nipping with just the right edge of teeth. Your tits were bouncing right against his face with the continued, desperate rhythm of his hips, and he leaned into it, nuzzling, kissing, worshipping you with a fervor that bordered on desperation.

The visual, the feeling—his hot mouth on you, his hard cock buried to the hilt inside you, the obscene wet sounds of your joining, the sweat-slick slide of your skin against his—it was all too much. You could feel him swelling even more inside you, feel the frantic, telltale pulse of his shaft against your inner walls.

He released your nipple with a wet pop, his head falling back against the headboard, his eyes squeezed shut. His beautiful face was a mask of agonized pleasure, his jaw clenched, a vein throbbing in his temple. His thrusts became shallow, frantic jerks, losing all rhythm.

“Y/N—” he gasped. His eyes flew open, locking onto yours. “Come with me,” he begged, his voice breaking. “One more time. Come with me, baby. Please.”

You didn’t think you could. You were spent, hollowed out, a trembling shell. But the sight of him, Nishimura Riki, brought to his knees—literally beneath you—by the feel of your body, by you… it ignited one last, faint ember. You focused on the feel of him, on the thick, urgent pulse of him inside you, on the possessive grip of his hands on your body. You bore down, clenching around him with every last bit of strength you had,  feeling the latex barrier of the condom as his shaft swelled impossibly thicker.

It was enough.

A broken shout tore from his lips, a raw, ragged sound of pure release that vibrated through his chest. His entire body went rigid beneath you, then shuddered violently, hips bucking up in sharp, erratic jerks. You felt the hot, thick pulse of his come inside the condom, a rhythmic flooding that ballooned the tip with his load, the barrier filling with spurt after heavy spurt until it leaked a bit at the base from the pressure. His grip turned bruising, grinding you onto him as he emptied himself, grunting like an animal, sweat pouring down his temples.

The feeling of him coming undone made a weak, breathy moan escape you as a tiny, fluttering orgasm rippled through you, your inner muscles giving feeble, lazy twitches around his still-throbbing cock, a last trickle of your arousal seeping out to mix with the sweat and mess between you.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged, gasping breaths, the frantic hammering of your hearts. But slowly, the tension bled from his body. His grip on you loosened, his arms falling to his sides, boneless. His head lolled back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in deep, heaving breaths. A sheen of sweat covered him from head to toe, gleaming in the dim light.

You were still straddling him, still impaled. You felt too heavy to move, your muscles utterly useless. You simply slumped forward, your forehead coming to rest against his sweaty shoulder.

Then, a low, breathless chuckle vibrated through his chest. You felt it against your cheek.

You lifted your head, just enough to look at him. His eyes were still closed, but a slow, utterly spent, and genuine smile was spreading across his face. It wasn’t the smirk from the doorway. It wasn’t the feral grin from when he’d first entered you. This was softer. Younger, somehow. Tired and happy.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, the words barely audible.

You couldn’t help it. A weak, shaky laugh bubbled out of you too. It sounded slightly hysterical. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from screaming.

He opened his eyes then, and looked up at you, his gaze traveling over your flushed face, your messy hair, your body still draped over his. His smile widened.

“You,” he said, his voice rough but tender, “are fucking incredible.”

Your chest felt tight at the words.

He seemed to read the hesitation in your eyes. His smile softened further. He lifted a heavy hand, his fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was startlingly gentle. “C’mere,” he murmured, his arms coming up to wrap around you properly, pulling you fully against his chest.

You went willingly, your body melting into his. The position was awkward with him still inside you, but neither of you made a move to separate. You rested your head in the crook of his neck, your nose pressed against his skin. His heartbeat was a steady, strong drum against your ear, slowly returning to normal.

You lay like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other.

But eventually, the practicalities began to intrude. You were starting to feel sore in places you hadn’t known could be sore. He shifted slightly beneath you, a wince crossing his features.

“Okay,” he sighed, his voice sleepy. “We gotta… deal with this.” He patted your back gently. “Up you get. Careful.”

You nodded, bracing your hands on his shoulders. With a soft, wet sound, you lifted yourself off him, his softening cock slipping free. A wave of sensitivity, and a sudden, strange feeling of emptiness, washed over you. You collapsed onto the mattress beside him, onto your back, staring up at the ceiling.

You heard him move, the rustle of him dealing with the condom, the soft thump as it presumably landed in the trash can by his bed. Then the bed dipped as he lay down beside you, on his side, propped up on an elbow. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

You turned your head to meet his gaze. “What?”

He shook his head slowly, a faint, wondering smile on his lips. “Just looking.” His eyes traced over your face, down your neck, over your bare, heaving chest. “You’re real. This was real.”

“Yep,” you said, your voice still a whisper. “All real.”

He chuckled. “Understatement of the century.” He reached out, his fingers tracing a lazy pattern on your stomach. “You okay?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay. Sore. Wrecked. But okay.” You paused. “You?”

“Best I’ve ever been,” he said without a hint of irony. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder. “Seriously. That was… I have no words.”

You believed him. The awe in his voice was real.

Silence fell again, but it was comfortable now. The tension that had crackled between you for weeks, all the anger, the jealousy, the unspoken desire, was all gone, dissipated. And the aftermath of it felt peaceful, if a little complicated.

“Hana’s gonna kill me,” you blurted out suddenly.

Riki’s laughter was a warm, rich sound that filled the room. He rolled onto his back, one arm flung “Oh, don’t you worry, she’s gonna murder me first. Slowly and painfully.” He peeked out from under his arm at you. “Worth it, though.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Worth it,” you echoed back softly.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You stared at the two men in your brother’s cluttered living room with a distinct sense of dread curling in your stomach.

Your brother, Beomgyu, at least had the decency to look sheepish, scratching the back of his head with a wince. “Look, Y/N, it’s just for a few days. His apartment’s getting fumigated. He’ll even sleep on the couch.”

The other man, Lee Heeseung, also known as the bane of your existence, leaned against the kitchen counter with an infuriatingly casual grace that had grated on your nerves for a decade. He offered a lazy, lopsided smile. “Don’t worry, Choi. I’ll try not to be too much of a nuisance.” The way he said your surname, as though it was a private joke between you two—which it was, a joke where you were always the goddamn punchline—made your teeth click together.

“You’ll try not to be a nuisance?” you repeated, your voice dangerously low. “Heeseung, the last time you ‘crashed’ here, you used my limited-edition shampoo as body wash and left the cap off so it all congealed into a disgusting gel.”

“It smelled pretty good by the end of it,” he shrugged, as if that justified the thirty-dollar waste. “And hey, I got confused. All your little bottles look the same.”

“And the time before that,” you continued, stepping further into the room, “you ‘accidentally’ ate the entire birthday cake I spent three hours baking for Mom’s surprise party.”

“In my defense, it was on the counter. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t up for grabs?” His tone was light, teasing, but his dark eyes watched you with a sharp, unnerving focus that had always felt like too much. When he did that, it always felt like he was seeing past the carefully constructed walls you’d built against him, and you hated it.

Beomgyu sighed, the peacekeeper as always. “Guys, come on. It’s three days. Four, max. Can we not do the whole snarling-at-each-other thing? We’re not kids anymore.”

But you felt like you were, all over again. In a way, you always would be whenever Heeseung was around. The history between the two of you was a live wire.

It had started when you were thirteen. Beomgyu, two years older and infinitely cooler, brought home his new best friend from school: Lee Heeseung, fifteen, all long limbs, sharp wit, and a quiet intensity that set him apart from Beomgyu’s more boisterous friends. You’d been a nerdy kid, predicted to present as an omega in the next couple of years.

But that was the thing—we’re all equal now, the societal mantra went. Alpha, Beta, Omega: they were all just biological quirks. True mates? Fairy tales for children. Your own parents were betas, wonderfully mundane and loving, who’d met at a library and bonded over a love of bad mystery novels. They’d raised you to believe your omega nature was just another facet of you, like your hair color, nothing to define your life. You didn’t use scent-blockers out of shame—no, it was more out of convenience, to keep public spaces neutral.

But Heeseung… Heeseung was an alpha, through and through, and as expected, he presented as one when you were 14. And he wasn’t just any alpha. He was the kind who made the whole “it doesn’t matter” philosophy feel like a flimsy lie. He carried his alpha energy not with the chest-thumping arrogance of stereotypes, but with a coiled, potent presence. It was in the way he commanded a room without saying a word, the way his gaze could feel like a physical weight, the subtle scent of bergamot and cedar that even the strongest blockers couldn’t quite conceal if you were standing close enough.

And he’d disliked you on sight.

Or so it seemed. Your first interaction was him looking down at the fantasy novel in your hands, his lip quirking. “Realm of the Moon Goddess? Isn’t that for kids?” he’d asked, not maliciously, but with a bored condescension that lit a fire in your thirteen-year-old soul.

“It’s about complex political dynamics in a matriarchal society,” you’d shot back, your voice trembling only a little.

“Sure it is,” he’d said, sharing a look with Beomgyu that clearly said, ‘Your sister is a weirdo.’

From there, it was a decade-long war. He was the arrogant, too-perfect golden boy, top of his class, star of the basketball team, effortlessly talented at everything he tried. You were the prickly, overly-sensitive little sister who was too smart for her own good and had a habit of pointing out his flaws with ruthless precision. You stole his homework answers just to change them to be wrong before he turned them in. He’d set your alarm clock two hours early on the day of a big exam. You’d argue about everything—music, books, the best way to make ramyeon. The hostility was familiar, almost comforting.

But…well, there were layers to it.

At seventeen, you’d tried to date. A nice beta from one of your AP classes asked you to the winter formal. You’d said yes. Two days later, he approached you at your locker, face pale. “I, uh… I think it’s best if we don’t go,” he’d stammered, not meeting your eyes. “Your um… friend? Heeseung? He had a talk with me, and—” his bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry.” Then he’d scurried away. You’d found Heeseung leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, casually sipping on an iced coffee. “What did you do?” you’d demanded. “Nothing,” he’d said, his dark eyes glinting. “Just had a little chat with him.”

When you were nineteen, you brought an alpha from your university to a family barbecue. His name was Kai, and he seemed perfect on paper—smart, charming in a way that didn’t scream macho alpha bravado. You’d thought, maybe this time, maybe this was the one who wouldn’t make your instincts prickle or send Heeseung into one of his inexplicable moods. Kai even brought your mom flowers, which earned him points before the grill was even lit.

Heeseung, however, had other opinions.

He’d been home for the weekend, lounging in his usual spot on the patio, a beer in hand and a smirk that could cut glass. But the moment Kai walked through the gate, Heeseung’s easygoing demeanor shifted. His posture stiffened, his jaw tightened, and though he didn’t say a word, his presence became suffocating. His scent, usually so controlled, betrayed him, turning sour.

Kai tried to make conversation with him. “So, Heeseung, Y/N was telling me you’re a music producer. That must be intense.”

“It is,” Heeseung replied curtly, his eyes flicking to you as if daring you to intervene.

You’d rolled your eyes and dragged Kai away, determined not to let Heeseung ruin the day. But it was no use. By the time the burgers were served, Kai looked pale and uncomfortable. He excused himself early, claiming a sudden headache. You walked him to the gate, apologizing profusely.

“It’s not you,” he said, glancing over your shoulder toward the house where Heeseung stood watching like a sentinel. “It’s just… your brother’s friend. He’s…” Kai cleared his throat. “Intimidating. And I don’t think he likes me very much.”

You sighed. “I’m sorry. He’s just… like that, I guess.”

Later, you overheard Heeseung talking to Beomgyu in the kitchen, his voice a low, frustrated rumble. “He wasn’t right for her. Y/N deserves better, you know? Not some random guy.”

Beomgyu chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, big bad alpha protector. Who is right for her then? You?”

Heeseung hadn’t answered, and you hadn’t known how to take that.

The older the two of you grew, the more the simple dislike mutated. There were stolen, confusing moments where the animosity would crack. The time he found you crying in the backyard after your first real heartbreak at seventeen, not from a person, but from a rejection to your dream university. He’d said nothing, just sat beside you on the grass for an hour in silence, his bergamot and cedar scent strangely calming. The time you sprained your ankle at Beomgyu’s, and Heeseung, without a word, carried you all the way back to your dorm, his grip firm and careful, his jaw tense the entire way. You’d felt his heart hammering against your side, or maybe it was yours.

And then, there was The Scent ™.

It was the great, unspoken mystery of the last year. Heeseung had started talking about it with Beomgyu, and by extension, within your earshot, with a single-minded obsession that was completely unlike his usual detached self.

“It was at your gallery opening,” he’d say, his voice taking on a rare, almost reverent softness that made your skin prickle. “You remember? Last fall? I was by the installations near the back, and it just… hit me. Like jasmine and summer rain on concrete.”

You’d been frozen, listening from the hallway outside Beomgyu’s room. Jasmine and rain.

Your scent.

“I’ve never smelled anything like it,” Heeseung continued, frustration creeping into his tone. “It was—it just smelled like… my mate. I know how that sounds, Gyu. I know we’re supposed to think it’s all bullshit. But it was real. And it was gone as fast as it came. Like—I don’t know, whoever it was put their blocker back on or left the room, or something.”

Beomgyu laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Dude, you’re losing it. True mates? Come on. You’ve never believed in all that,” he’d snorted. “You probably smelled some fancy new air freshener the gallery was testing.”

“It wasn’t an air freshener,” Heeseung insisted, his voice low and intense. “It was a person. My person. And I’m going to find them.”

And you’d stand there, your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest, your own scent threatening to spike with panic. No. No, no, no. It was impossible. You’d slid down the wall, hand clamped over your mouth, remembering—

You were fourteen, Heeseung sixteen. He’d leaned over your shoulder to mock your homework, and his scent had washed over you. A bolt of electricity had lanced through you, a feeling of something so intense it stole your breath, but… you’d written it off as just a weird omega response to a potent alpha, just a fluke. That’s all it could’ve been, right? But now, hearing his words, you could see the truth assembling itself with terrifying clarity before your eyes. The pull that had always been there, the overt protectiveness Heeseung had towards you, the way your recent arguments had started feeling like a desperate, fucked-up form of foreplay…

Fuck, it had to be some sort of cosmic joke. Lee Heeseung, your personal nemesis, the man you’d spent half your life building a fortress of dislike against, was apparently your… mate? The one person biologically, primally, tuned to be your perfect match? You could have cried. It was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.

First, because it was Heeseung. Arrogant, insufferable, messy, condescending Heeseung.

Second, and more importantly, because he was Beomgyu’s best friend. His brother, in all but blood. The unspoken rule in your family, in any sane family, was clear: friends’ siblings were off-limits. It was a recipe for nuclear fallout. If things went bad—and with your history, how could they not?—it would shatter Beomgyu’s longest and dearest friendship and tear your family apart. You’d be the selfish little sister who seduced her brother’s best friend. He’d be the betraying friend who couldn’t keep it in his pants. The potential for ruin was catastrophic.

So you’d doubled down. You’d become colder, sharper, more hostile towards him. You made sure your scent-blockers were the strongest possible. You became, if possible, an even bigger pain in Heeseung’s ass, hoping to drive him so far away that the fragile, impossible thread of that scent in his memory would snap.

And now he was going to be sleeping on your couch for four days.

“Fine,” you bit out, the word tasting like ash. “But you touch my stuff, you breathe wrong, you so much as look at my food, I will castrate you with a rusty spoon.” you threatened. “And for the love of god, shower regularly. Your…” you sneered witheringly. “Alpha musk is overwhelming.”

“Crystal.” he smirked infuriatingly. “Wouldn’t dream of offending your delicate omega sensibilities, Choi.”

The designation in his mouth was another barb.

“Good,” you snapped, turning on your heel and marching to your room, slamming the door just hard enough to be satisfying, but not so hard that Beomgyu would lecture you.

Then you leaned against the door, your breath coming in short, quiet gasps. Jasmine and rain on hot concrete. You could still hear the awe in his voice from a year ago. And now there was a terrifying, traitorous curl of heat low in your belly that had nothing to do with anger.

The first day, you woke to the sound of someone Heeseung whistling off-key in the kitchen. The smell of burnt toast and overly strong coffee invaded your perfect sanctuary. You emerged from your room, dressed in your work-from-home attire—sweatpants and an oversized sweater—your scent-blockers freshly applied.

Heeseung was at the stove, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants. His back was to you, the defined lines of his shoulders and spine shifting as he attempted to flip a pancake. It landed half on the counter, half on the floor.

“Typical,” you muttered, heading straight for the coffee maker to salvage what you could.

He turned, a boyish grin on his face, completely unbothered by the mess or his state of undress. “Morning, sunshine! Sleep well? I tried to be quiet but the cabinet door kinda fell off when I was looking for a plate. It’s propped up now, though. Good as new.”

“It’s 7 AM,” you said, your voice flat. “Why are you shirtless?”

He shrugged, the movement fluid. “Got syrup on my shirt. It’s soaking. Don’t worry, I’m not offended if you stare.” He winked, and you rolled your eyes in response.

“I’d rather stare at that pancake carcass on the floor.” You poured your coffee, deliberately keeping your gaze away from the expanse of his chest, the faint trail of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband. Your omega, usually a quiet, dormant thing, gave a faint, restless stir of awareness, recognition of an alpha in your space. It put your senses on alert.

“So, what’s the plan today, roomie?” he asked, scraping the failed pancake into the trash.

“I’m working. In my room. With the door closed. You are going to be quiet and not disturb me.”

“You got it, boss,” he said, giving you a mock salute. His bergamot-and-cedar scent, warm without the usual blocker-dulling, was already filling the small apartment. It wasn’t oppressive by any means, but it was everywhere. It seeped into the fabric of the couch, mixed with the smell of food, clung to the air. Your own scent, carefully locked-away, prickled beneath your skin in response desperately. 

You retreated to your room, shutting the door firmly. For a few hours, it worked. You focused on spreadsheets and video calls, the mundane routine a shield. But your body was betraying you. A low, steady warmth had taken up residence in your lower belly, unrelated to the coffee. Your skin felt hypersensitive; the brush of your sweater against your arms was a minor distraction, the seam of your sweatpants a faint, persistent annoyance. Pre-heat symptoms. Of course, you were familiar with them—they came sometimes, mild and manageable, triggered by stress or hormonal shifts. And having an unmated, virile alpha in your living space with his scent was the definition of a hormonal shift.

You tried to ignore it. Around noon, you heard the TV click on, the sound of some loud sports commentary filtering through the door. Then, the sound of him talking on the phone, his voice a low, animated rumble.

“—no way, man, I told you, the stats from the second half completely invalidate that argument… Yeah, well, your mom’s—oh, hey, gotta go, my warden is emerging for her lunch break.”

You opened your door to glare at him. He was sprawled on the couch, one arm behind his head, phone still in hand. He’d put a shirt on, thank god, a thin, worn grey cotton one that did little to hide the shape of him.

“I’m not a warden,” you said, marching to the kitchen.

“Prison guard, then. Room monitor. Supreme overlord of the apartment.”

“Just because you have the maturity of a frat boy who never graduated doesn’t mean you have to sound like one,” you shot back, pulling out leftover stir-fry from the fridge.

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that did things to your stomach it had no business doing. “Aw, come on, Choi. You love it. Admit it, life is boring without me around to keep you on your toes.”

“Life is peaceful without you around,” you corrected, busying yourself with the microwave.

“So, Beomgyu’s got that big date tonight after work, huh?” Heeseung said, changing the subject. “The chef guy?”

“Mhm.” You didn’t turn around.

“He’s nervous. Called me three times from work about what flowers to bring. Like I’m some florist. I told him if he’s stressing that much, just bring a bouquet of cash. Everyone loves money.”

A surprised laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. You clamped your hand over your mouth. Heeseung’s silence behind you was palpable and pleased.

“See?” he said, his voice softer. “Not so bad, is it? A little civil conversation?”

You swallowed, the laugh still echoing in your chest. “It was a moment of weakness, Lee. Don’t get used to it.” You took your heated food and headed back to your room. “And remember, be quiet!”

The afternoon was worse. The warmth in your core was building, a slow, sweet ache. Your thoughts kept drifting from your work, snagging on inconsequential things: the memory of his bare back that morning, the way his laugh sounded, the intensity of the brown in his eyes when he wasn’t pissing you off. You found yourself listening for sounds of him—the creak of the floorboards, the tap running, the low murmur of his voice if he was on another call.

This is just biology, you told yourself sternly. Stupid, primitive omega biology reacting to an alpha in close quarters. It doesn’t mean anything.

But it did feel like something. It was a magnetic pull, and you were restless, shifting in your chair, finding excuses to get up and pace the few steps your room allowed.

At around 6 PM, you gave up on work. You needed a shower, something to cut through the scent of him that seemed to have permeated your very walls and the growing, needy feeling of your own impending heat. You gathered your things and moved quickly to the bathroom, locking the door. The hot water was a relief. You scrubbed your skin, washing away the day, then used a neutral, unscented bar of soap, avoiding anything that might trigger a more potent omega response. But as you dried off, the symptoms persisted. A faint, pleasant slickness that wasn’t from the shower. A tenderness in your breasts. That persistent, hungry warmth in your core.

You dressed in the softest, least restrictive clothes you owned: a thin, sleeveless camisole of pale silk and a pair of loose, cotton sleep shorts. You were brushing your teeth when you heard the crash.

It was loud, a shatter of glass followed by a solid thump and a sharp, pained hiss from Heeseung.

“What did you break now?” you called, padding into the living area.

Heeseung was by the sink, clutching his hand. A shattered glass lay in the basin. “It slipped,” he muttered, his face pale.

You saw the blood then, a bright red rivulet running down his palm. “Oh, for—come here.” Your medical instincts, honed from years of patching up a clumsy Beomgyu, took over. You grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink and pointed to a kitchen chair. “Sit.”

He obeyed, uncharacteristically silent. You pulled up another chair, sitting close as you took his hand. It was large, his fingers long and elegant, now marred by a nasty gash across the palm. You set to work, cleaning the cut with antiseptic wipes, completely focused and thorough, until—

A tremor.

There was a fine, uncontrollable shake running through his hand and up his arm, and his scent… changed. The bergamot-and-cedar deepened, warmed, becoming almost smoky. Alpha… distress?

Your head snapped up. You were close, so close you could see the gold flecks in his dark brown eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. His gaze was locked on you, not on his injury, and suddenly, you smelled it. Not just his scent…

Yours.

Your scent was rising from your own skin, reacting to his proximity, his pain, his attention. The shower had washed away the edges of your blocker’s effectiveness, fuck—why hadn’t you remembered?

You saw the exact moment it registered with him: his eyes, already dark, seemed to swallow all the light in the room, widening, then narrowing, his pupils blowing out. His nostrils flared, once, twice, and the tremor in his hand stopped, replaced by a sudden tension.

“Choi,” he breathed, the word barely a whisper, ragged and full of dawning, earth-shattering realization.

You froze, the antiseptic pad dangling from your fingers. No. No, no, no.

“That… scent…” His voice was rough, scraping over gravel. He leaned in, just an inch, inhaling slowly, deeply, right at the junction of your neck and shoulder where your scent gland lay beneath the patch. A low, involuntary sound rumbled from his chest, not quite a growl, but a visceral, hungry vibration that went straight to your core.

You should have shoved him away. You should have run. But you were paralyzed, caught in the gravity of his shock.

His uninjured hand came up, not to touch you, but to hover near your cheek, his fingers trembling. “It’s you,” he said, the words filled with devastating, terrifying awe. “All this time… it was you?”

The spell broke. You jerked back, the chair legs screeching on the floor. “No,” you said, but it was a weak denial, your voice shaking as badly as his hand had been. Your scent was everywhere now, a sweet, rain-soaked confession in the air.

He stood up slowly, looming over you.. The blood on his hand was forgotten. All his focus, that relentless, hunting focus he’d had for a year, was now laser-locked on you. “The gallery,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, piecing it all together. “You were there. You were wearing that blue dress. You spilled champagne on your wrist and went to the bathroom to wash it off… you must have taken your blocker off to clean it properly.”

You remembered. You’d been annoyed, worried the sticky sugar would attract insects. You’d scrubbed your wrist raw in the sink, the little patch peeling off from the moisture. You’d been in a hurry, exposed for maybe ninety seconds in a secluded hallway.

Ninety seconds. That’s all it took to derail your entire life.

His question hung between you, a guillotine blade waiting to drop.

“So the whole time, t was you?”

No. Lie. Run.

You stumbled back another step, your spine hitting the cool edge of the kitchen counter. “You’re confused,” you choked out, the words tasting like a pathetic, transparent falsehood. “The antiseptic. It probably smells like—like, um, like flowers or something. You’re concussed from the shock of the glass.”

He didn’t even blink. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance you’d created. His wounded hand hung at his side, blood dotting the linoleum, but his good hand came up again to hover beside your head, caging you against the counter. His scent was a raging storm now. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave that crashed against your senses, making your knees weak.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low, a gravelly vibration that traveled straight down your spine. “Don’t insult us both by lying. I’ve been hunting this scent in my sleep for a year. I’d know it in a burning building. I’d know it on my deathbed, Y/N.” He leaned in, his nose brushing the air just beside your ear. You flinched, a full-body shudder wracking you. “It’s jasmine. After a summer rain.”

A whimper caught in your throat. You pressed your palms flat against the cold counter behind you, seeking an anchor. “Heeseung, please.”

“Why?” The word was a breath against your temple. “Why did you hide? All those times I talked about it right in front of you… with your brother—you just sat there, knowing?”

“Because it’s not real!” you burst out, pushing against his chest. Your hands met solid, unyielding muscle beneath his thin t-shirt. The contact was electric, a jolt that made you snatch your hands back as if burned. “It’s biology playing a stupid trick! It doesn’t mean anything! We live in apartments and pay taxes, for god’s sake! True mates are—are an olden-day concept for children’s stories!”

“It doesn’t mean anything?” Heeseung repeated, his voice dropping to a husky, disbelieving whisper. He didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned in closer, his body a solid wall of heat that you felt through the thin cotton of your camisole. His breath fanned over your lips. “You feel this,” he said, his eyes darting between yours, searching for the lie, “this… thing between us, and you tell me it’s a trick?”

“It’s adrenaline,” you insisted, your own breathing shallow and rapid. Your chest rose and fell, the neckline of your camisole brushing against him with every gasp. “You’re bleeding. I’m panicking. It’s basic physiology.”

A low, humorless chuckle escaped him. “Right. Physiology.” His good hand finally touched you, not to restrain, but his fingertips grazed your bare arm, from your shoulder down to your wrist. The touch was feather-light, but it ignited a trail of fire under your skin. You jerked, a full-body flinch that had nothing to do with wanting to get away and everything to do with the sheer, overwhelming sensation of his hands on you.

“See?” you breathed, your voice trembling. “I don’t like that.”

“You sure about that?” he murmured, his eyes dark pools of intensity. His fingers traced back up, this time with more purpose, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner arm. A shudder you couldn’t suppress racked you, and a small, traitorous sound—a sigh, a moan, you didn’t know—escaped your parted lips.

Fuck.

You saw the flash of smug, hungry triumph in his eyes.

“Heeseung,” you whispered again, but it lacked all conviction.

“Can’t believe it,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress. His head dipped, his lips now hovering a hair’s breadth from yours. You could feel the phantom pressure, the promise of a kiss that felt as inevitable as your next heartbeat. The air between the two of you was thick with the mingling of your scents—his thick bergamot-and-cedar, your jasmine-and-rain now laced with the sweet, unmistakable spike of arousal. You couldn’t hide it. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

“I hate you,” you gasped out.

“I know,” he said, and he sounded almost sad. “You’ve made that brilliantly clear for ten years. But you know what I think, Choi?” His nose brushed yours, the most intimate, non-kiss imaginable. “I think,” he murmured, his lips so close they moved against yours with the words, a ghost of a kiss that made your stomach clench, “that you don’t hate me at all. I think you’ve been at war with the same thing I have.”

You couldn’t breathe. His thumb stroked your arm again, a slow, deliberate caress that felt like it was branding you. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” he said simply, and finally, he closed the last, imperceptible gap.

His mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. His lips were firm, demanding, moving against yours with a hunger that stole the last of your resistance. A shocked, muffled sound escaped you, lost in the heat of his mouth. You should have pushed him away. You should have slapped him, screamed, done anything. But your body, traitorous and alive in a way it had never been, betrayed you utterly. Your hands, which had been flat against the counter, flew up of their own accord, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his t-shirt to hold on as the world tilted on its axis. Your lips parted on a gasp, and he took the invitation, his tongue sweeping into your mouth hotly.

The taste of him flooded your senses, and it was familiar and alien all at once, a flavor you’d somehow known you’d been missing your whole life. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours, and you echoed it, the sound weak and desperate.

He kissed you like a man starving, like he was trying to consume every argument, every biting remark, every stolen glance across a crowded room in the last couple of years. His good hand slid from your arm to cup the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair, holding you firmly in place. His injured hand came up to rest on your hip.

The kiss broke, but only just. He rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing harsh, ragged gulps.

“See?” he panted, his voice wrecked. “Not hate.”

“Not true,” you retorted automatically, but before you could really think it through, you dragged his mouth back to yours.

This time, you kissed him back. You poured every ounce of that confused, furious energy into it. Your tongue met his, fierce and slick, and you bit his lower lip, a sharp, punishing nip, making him growl, answering with a deeper, more devouring kiss that made your head spin.

His hand on your hip slid lower, gripping the curve of your ass through the thin sleep shorts, pulling you flush against him. You felt him then, the hard length of him pressed against your stomach, and the evidence of his arousal, so blunt and physical, sent a fresh, liquid wave of heat between your own legs. You whimpered into his mouth, arching into him, your tits crushed against him.

“Fuck, Choi,” he groaned against your lips, his voice thick with a need that mirrored your own. “You’re driving me insane. You—hah—really have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

“You started it,” you accused breathlessly, dragging your mouth down to his jaw. “Talking about it… hunting for it… like some… mm, some tragic hero.” You punctuated each broken phrase with a kiss, a nip, along his stubbled jawline.

He threw his head back with a sharp hiss, giving you better access. “I was. I am. And I found you.” His hand left your hair, sliding down your back, under the hem of your camisole. His palm was hot, slightly rough, against the bare skin of your spine. You shivered violently. “Hiding in plain sight,” he murmured, his lips at your ear now, his teeth grazing the lobe. “My best friend’s infuriating, beautiful little sister.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you muttered, but you were rubbing yourself against the hard ridge of his erection, a fast, mindless grind that had him cursing softly.

“What should I call you then?” His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, cupping the bare flesh of your ass cheek. You jolted. “Y/N? Is that better?”

“Shut up.”

“Y/N,” he repeated against your mouth, the sound vibrating through your bones. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you’ve thought about it.”

His words were a challenge, a dare thrown down in the heat-drenched space between your bodies. You broke the kiss, gasping for air. “I’ve thought about strangling you,” you panted, your fingers still twisted in his shirt. “Daily.”

A dark, knowing smirk curved his kiss-swollen lips. “Yeah? Is that why you’re dripping for me, huh? Is that why your sweet little omega scent is screaming for me to bend you over and fuck you?”

You hated him. You hated the way he saw right through you, the way his words sent a fresh, slick pulse of heat between your thighs. You tried to shove him back, but your body refused the command, your hips instead canting forward, seeking the delicious friction of his length against you. “Shut up,” you repeated, your voice a broken whisper.

“Make me,” he taunted again, his voice dropping to a husky register that vibrated through your very bones. His good hand, still splayed on your ass, squeezed possessively. “Go on. Tell me to stop. Say the word, and I walk away right now. We’ll pretend this never happened.”

He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes searching yours, giving you an out you didn’t want. You didn’t say the word. You just stared at him, your chest heaving, your lips parted, every frantic breath giving you away more and more.

The smirk sharpened into something more predatory. “Didn’t think so,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on yours again, swallowing your gasp.

This kiss was different. It was slower, deeper. He licked into your mouth, exploring you with a thoroughness that made your knees weak. His hands began to move, mapping your body through the thin fabric of your camisole, and he palmed your tit, his thumb finding your nipple and rubbing it into a hard, aching point. A sharp cry escaped you, muffled by his lips.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing a wet, hot path down your jaw to your throat. “All those times,” he breathed against your fluttering pulse, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “All those guys you brought around…”

You whimpered, your head falling back against the cabinet. Your hands were in his hair now, clutching the dark, soft strands. “Wh-what about them?”

He bit down gently, not enough to mark, but enough to make you jump, a jolt of pure lust shooting through you. “Drove me fucking crazy,” he confessed, his voice a rough growl against your skin. “Seeing them look at you. Talk to you. Smile at you. That fucker Kai even brought your mom flowers. I wanted to rip his throat out with my teeth.”

Much to your disappointment, your omega preened at the violent jealousy in his voice. “You—you scared him off,” you accused, your voice trembling.

“Damn right I did.” He licked the spot he’d bitten. “He wasn’t good enough. None of them were.” His mouth moved lower, his lips closing over the thin silk covering your nipple. He sucked, hard, through the fabric, the damp heat and the rough friction of the wet material sending sparks exploding behind your eyelids. “You’re mine,” he said, the words vibrating against your sensitized flesh. “You always have been. You were just too stubborn to see it.”

You wanted to argue, to fight the words, but all you could do was moan, your back arching off the kitchen counter as his mouth worked you through the silk. The fabric was soaked, clinging to your tight nipple, and every pull of his lips, every scrape of his teeth, sent waves of desperate pleasure straight to your throbbing core.

His hand left your breast, sliding down your trembling stomach, over the thin waistband of your shorts. He didn’t hesitate. His fingers slipped beneath the elastic, delving through the curls, and found you.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned against your breast, his voice muffled and ragged. “You’re fucking soaked. Is this all for me? All for your alpha?”

You couldn’t form words. His fingers slid through your folds, gathering your wetness, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. He pressed the pad of his thumb against your clit, and your hips bucked violently off the counter, a sharp cry tearing from your throat.

“Answer me,” he demanded, his eyes blazing up at you. He rubbed slow, torturous circles. “Is this because of me?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, your head thrashing side to side. “Yeah.”

“Good girl,” he purred, and the praise, in that cocky, teasing tone of his, made you clench around nothing. His fingers slid lower, one, then two, pressing against your entrance. “Always so fucking difficult with your words, but your body… your body doesn’t lie to me, does it, Choi?”

He pushed inside you, and you saw white. Your inner muscles fluttered, gripping him greedily. He was deep, his fingers long and clever, curling just right as he began to pump them slowly and maddeningly.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his mouth back at your ear, his breath hot. “That’s how perfectly you take me. You were fucking made for it. For me.”

“Sh-shut up,” you moaned, but you were grinding down on his hand, meeting every thrust, your hands fisting in his hair. “Give—hn—give me more.”

“More what?” he teased, adding a third finger, the stretch making you gasp. “Use your words, princess. You want my fingers? Or do you want something else?”

He scissored his fingers inside you, hitting a spot that made your vision blur. “Heeseung—!”

“That’s my name,” he said, his own breathing growing harsh. He was watching your face, drinking in every twitch, every desperate expression. “But it’s not an answer, baby. Tell me what you want.”

You were unraveling, the coil in your belly tightening to a painful, exquisite point. His fingers, his scent, his voice, it was all too much. Your omega was screaming, a frantic, pulsing need for him, for his claim, for his knot. The thought should have terrified you, but it only made you wetter.

“Your cock,” you blurted out. “I want your cock, you insufferable asshole. Now.”

He laughed at that, withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, and brought them to his mouth. Then he sucked them clean, his eyes locked on yours, and you nearly came from the sight alone. “Fucking delicious,” he murmured. “Now, since you asked so nicely.”

In one swift motion, he hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you off the counter. You yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you the few stumbling steps to the living room couch. He fell back onto it, landing with a soft grunt, with you straddling his lap.

“You’re in charge,” he said roughly. His hands settled on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin. “Go on, show me how much you want it.”

You looked down at him, at his kiss-swollen lips, his flushed skin, the raging need in his eyes barely held in check. The bulge in his sweatpants was enormous, straining against the fabric. With trembling fingers, you tugged at the waistband, pulling them down just enough to free him.

He sprang out, thick and long, the head flushed a deep red and already beading with pre-cum. A shudder wracked you. You’d imagined what he’d look like, in dark, shameful moments during your heats, but the reality was… more. So much more.

“Good enough for you?” he taunted, but his voice was strained.

“It’ll do,” you shot back. You positioned yourself over him, the head of his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. You sank down, just an inch, and both of you cried out. The stretch was immense, a burning, perfect fullness that left your heart hammering against your chest.

“Fuck,” Heeseung hissed, his head falling back against the couch, his knuckles white where he gripped your hips. “Slow down, baby, fuck, you’re so tight—”

But you were done with slow, done with waiting. With a low moan, you dropped your weight, sheathing him completely in one swift, brutal motion.

The sound he made was pure animal—a choked-off groan. You were full, so impossibly full, stretched to your limit around him. You stayed there, panting, adjusting to the sensation, your inner walls fluttering and clenching around him involuntarily. He groaned, his hips jerking up minutely.

“Ride me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Ride me, Y/N. Come on.”

You began to move. It was awkward at first, then instinct took over. You rose up until just the tip remained inside you, then sank back down, taking him deep. A rhythm found you, slow and rolling at first, then faster, driven by the building, screaming want in your core. Your hands braced on his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his shirt.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his own hips meeting your downward strokes, driving even deeper. “Use me. Take what you need. You feel so fucking good, I can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t think.”

You were losing yourself in the overwhelming rush of it all—the relentless slap of your skin against his, the obscene, wet squelch of your pussy swallowing his thick cock over and over, his guttural groans vibrating through your core. His hands roamed possessively, squeezing the firm globes of your ass, fingers digging into your hips to guide your frantic pace, then sliding up to grope your tits through the thin, sweat-soaked camisole. With a rough tug, he yanked the damp fabric down, exposing your heaving breasts to the cool air. He surged forward, capturing a stiff nipple between his lips, sucking hard with a swirl of his tongue.

You cried out, the feeling of his hot mouth latching onto your sensitive peak and his cock spearing deep into your clenching heat shoving you perilously close to oblivion. Your thighs burned as you bounced on him, thighs flexing with each desperate rise and fall, your ass slapping down onto his lap in a hypnotic rhythm. Your pussy gripped him tighter with every descent, the slick drag of his veined shaft against your inner walls bring you closer and closer.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his head tipped back against the cushion, eyes slitted with pleasure as he watched you ride him. “Fucking look at you. All that fucking attitude, and now you’re just a dripping, desperate little thing for my cock, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” you gasped, but it was a weak protest, lost in the slap of skin and your own ragged breaths. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, changing the angle. He hissed, his cock hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. “Oh, god—“

“There it is,” he snarled, his grip tightening. “Right there. You found it. Fuck, Choi, just like that.” His hands slid up to your breasts, thumbing your hard, wet nipples. The sensation was almost too much, a sharp, sweet overstimulation that had you crying out. “You gonna come? Hmm? Gonna come all over my cock after all that big talk?”

You couldn’t answer. You were a mess of sensation—the stretch and burn of him filling you, the delicious friction on your clit with every grind, the possessive heat of his hands on your skin. Your scent, jasmine and rain, had gone heavy and sweet with vanilla and musk, saturating the air. His own scent was a wildfire of bergamot and cedar and pure, undiluted alpha.

His own control was fraying. You could see it in the tense cords of his neck, the way his jaw was clenched, the desperate, hungry rolls of his hips. He was holding back, letting you take your pleasure, but the alpha in him was straining at the leash.

“Heeseung,” you whimpered, your rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled, tight and unbearable, in your core. “I—I can’t—“

“Yes, you can,” he commanded, his voice rough. He sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around you and flipping you onto your back on the couch cushions in one swift, powerful motion. You yelped, the movement driving him even deeper, making you gasp. He was on top of you now, caging you in, his weight a delicious, crushing pressure. “You can take it. You’re gonna come for me. Say it.”

He began to fuck you in earnest, his thrusts deep, measured, and devastatingly accurate. Each one punched a broken sound from your throat. “Say it, Y/N,” he demanded, his lips against your ear.

“I’m gonna come,” you sobbed, the admission torn from you. “Fuck, Heeseung, I’m gonna—“

“That’s it,” he growled, his pace turning brutal. “Let go. Come on my cock. Show me.”

The world shattered. Your orgasm tore through you, and your back arched off the couch, a silent scream on your lips as your body clamped down on him in a series of ruthless, fluttering spasms. Pleasure, white-hot and endless, flooded every nerve ending, leaving you trembling and boneless beneath him.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts turning shallow and frantic as he chased his own peak. “So good, baby, so fucking tight,” he chanted, his voice ragged. “Gonna knot you. Gonna fill you up. You want it? You want my knot?”

Through the haze of your climax, his words registered. Knot. Your omega screamed yes, a frantic, inner howl of need. Your body, still convulsing with aftershocks, clenched around him eagerly, milking him, pulling him deeper. “Hngh—yeah,” you slurred, your mind foggy with pleasure. “Knot me. Do it, Heeseung, please.”

He let out a choked, guttural sound. His thrusts became erratic, then stopped, buried to the hilt. You felt him swell, the base of his cock thickening, expanding, locking him inside you. It was incredible, overwhelming, a fullness so complete it bordered on pain. With a final, shuddering groan, he came, his release hot and endless, flooding you in pulsing waves.

You could only hear the sound of your combined panting, the feel of his weight on you for a long while. But slowly, you came back to yourself. The rough fabric of the couch under your back. His heavy, warm weight. The dull, pleasant ache between your legs where he was still locked inside you. His knot was beginning to subside.

He lifted his head, his dark eyes glazed with satiation. He looked wrecked, beautiful. He brushed sweat-damp hair from your forehead. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word full of awe.

You were too spent for your usual barbs. You just stared up at him, your mind a sluggish, post-coital blank. Then, your eyes drifted to the side of his neck, to the strong, corded line of it. His scent gland.

You tilted your head, nuzzling into his throat. Your lips brushed over the spot where his scent was strongest, where his pulse thrummed steadily. You inhaled, and a low, needy whine escaped you.

He went very still. “Y/N…” His voice was a frail warning.

“You said I was yours,” you murmured against his skin. “Prove it.”

He shifted, trying to pull back to look at you, but the knot still held you together. “Baby, we’re… I don’t know about this. A bite is… it’s permanent.”

You felt a sharp, irrational sting of rejection. You pulled your head back, meeting his eyes. The fog of pleasure was receding, replaced by a sudden, vulnerable ache. “You don’t want to?” you whispered, insecurity flaring up inside you. “You hunted for me for a year, you just knotted me on my brother’s couch, but you don’t want to mate me?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, wide with shock. “What? No. Fuck, no, Y/N, that’s not it.” He shifted, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at your joined bodies. “I want to. God, you have no idea how much I want to sink my teeth into you right now and make sure every alpha on the fucking planet knows you’re mine.” The raw possessiveness in his voice made your stomach clench. “But… a mating bite? That’s not just… this.” He gestured weakly between your bodies. “That’s forever. That’s it. And we just… we just fucked on a couch after ten years of screaming at each other. We’re not… we might not be thinking straight.”

The logical part of your brain knew he was right. It was the sane, responsible thing to say. But the omega in you, the part that had just been thoroughly claimed and knotted by her alpha, the part that could still feel his seed inside her, didn’t give a single damn about logic. It wanted the claim. It wanted the finality. It wanted him, irrevocably.

A low, pathetic whine escaped your throat before you could stop it. You hated the sound, but you couldn’t help it. You nuzzled into his neck, inhaling his scent, your lips brushing over his own gland. “Please,” you breathed against his skin, the word barely audible.

He sighed. “Y/N…”

His tone pissed you off. “Don’t you dare talk down to me, Lee Heeseung,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength. “You don’t get to decide what I want or what state I’m in to want it. I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember,” You arched against him, feeling him twitch inside you as your inner walls clenched reflexively. “So either bite me, or get the hell off me and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

His eyes flashed, the alpha in him rising to the challenge in your tone. The possessiveness you’d seen earlier roared back to the surface, hotter and fiercer. “You don’t mean that,” he growled.

“Try me.”

The standoff lasted three heartbeats, and then, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, lowering his head again.

This time, when his mouth found your throat, there was no hesitation. His tongue laved over your mating gland, the sensitive skin there prickling instantly under the wet heat. You moaned, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Heeseung…”

“Last chance to tell me no,” he breathed, his teeth grazing the spot. A shiver of anticipation racked you.

“Do it,” you begged, the words a raw, honest plea. “Please.”

He bit down.

It wasn’t a gentle nip—it was a deep pressure that broke the skin. There was a sharp, bright pain that melted almost instantly into a wave of dizzying, overwhelming pleasure. It felt like a circuit completing, a final, missing piece slotting into place. A bolt surged through you, and he laved his tongue over the bite, soothing the sting.

Then he finally eased off you, his knot having subsided enough for him to slip out. The loss of him made you feel empty and cold, but he didn’t go far. He gathered you against his chest, turning so you were both on your sides, facing each other on the cramped couch. He tucked your head under his chin, his arms wrapping around you in a warm hold. He turned your face toward his and kissed you, deep and slow.

“All mine,” he breathed against your mouth.

But before you could answer, before you could even process the seismic shift in your universe, the sound of a key rattling in the front door lock cut through the air.

Click. Clack.

Your eyes, still locked with Heeseung’s, widened in identical, dawning horror.

Beomgyu’s cheerful, unsuspecting voice called out from the entryway. “Hey, losers! I’m back early. The date was a bust. Who wants takeout?”

for the anon who requested !!! ♡ i hope i did ur request justice - as i said this is my first time writing het omegaverse and even omegaverse as a whole i havent written in a while so HOPEFULLY it was okay 🥹 didn’t turn out exactly how i wanted it to but oh well 🚬 also the chef guy beomgyu was on a date with was soobin

THE LAST THING YOU REMEMBERED WAS THE BLARING HORN, the sound of screeching tires, and a truck’s grille filling your entire world. Then—

—nothing…?

You woke up to the pleasant smell of expensive linen and the feeling of your face pressed into a pillow softer than any cloud you’d ever imagined. Your head throbbed dully, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on elbows that felt strangely delicate, blinking against the morning light filtering through gigantic windows that showcased a city skyline you didn’t recognize at all.

What the hell?

The room looked like something from a spread from a luxury magazine. A chaise lounge in dove grey sat in the corner, next to a vanity table littered with crystal perfume bottles and jewelry boxes spilling over with gold chains and diamonds that glittered even in the soft light. You swung your legs out of the bed, your feet sinking into a plush, cream-colored rug. You were wearing silk pajamas—silk fucking pajamas!—a matching set in a blush pink that felt alien against your skin.

A full-length mirror stood opposite the bed. You stumbled toward it.

The reflection staring back was yours, and yet—it wasn’t. Your face, but perfected, hair that you usually kept in a hurriedly-brushed ponytail fell in artful, salon-fresh waves. Even your skin was flawless, glowing with the kind of health that only comes from expensive facials and a complete lack of real-world stress.

“Okay,” you whispered to the stranger in the mirror. “Okay, breathe. This is a dream. It has to me. A very, very detailed dream brought on by that last glass of soju and that novel you stayed up way too late finishing.”

The novel. Melting the Cold CEO’S Heart. It was a trashy, addictive romance you’d read on a whim, and the male lead, Park Sunghoon, was cold, ruthless, and unfairly handsome, trapped in a business arrangement—an engagement with a shallow, gold-digging socialite named… your blood ran cold as you remembered.

Y/N.

Your namesake, and the villainess of the novel. The one who was pathologically obsessed with Sunghoon’s money and status, who made the female lead’s life miserable, and who was unceremoniously dumped when Sunghoon finally broke free of his family’s shackles to be with his one true love, the sweet and humble wedding planner, Soojin.

You looked at the room around you. You looked at your perfect, manicured hands. You remembered the truck.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you said, your voice echoing in the cavernous room.

The plot, as you remembered it, was straightforward. The real Cha Y/N would play the devoted fiancée, clinging to Sunghoon’s arm at every event, while secretly making the life of the female lead, Lee Soojin, a living hell. Sunghoon, cold to his fiancée, would find himself drawn to Soojin’s genuine warmth and resilience, and after a series of public scandals orchestrated by Cha Y/N, Sunghoon would finally snap, publicly denounce her, and run into the rain to confess his love to Soojin. Roll credits.

Your old life, by comparison, had been pleasantly predictable. You worked a mid-level office job at a small logistics firm, a job you were competent at but which offered no real passion. Your days were a blur of spreadsheets, lukewarm coffee from the breakroom machine, and polite, surface-level conversations with colleagues you’d never see outside of work hours. Your apartment was a snug, lightly cluttered one-bedroom. Your social life was limited to your best friend, Abby, who you only got to see about once a month for dinner when she wasn’t busy with her boyfriend, Heeseung. Weekends were for laundry, grocery shopping, and maybe a movie if you could muster the energy. It was fine, by all means. Safe. And, if you were being brutally honest with yourself in your most vulnerable moments, a little bit boring.

The thrill, the color, the feeling in your life came from elsewhere:

Webnovels.

They were your escape. During your lunch break, hunched over your phone at your desk. On the subway ride home, packed between strangers. Late at night, curled under your blankets with the screen’s glow the only light in the room. You devoured them. Regency romances, fantasy epics, modern-day dramas. You loved them all, but you had a particular, guilty fondness for the tropiest of the tropey: the cold, domineering male lead and the plucky heroine who thawed his heart.

You knew the formulas by heart. The accidental touch that sent sparks flying. The possessive glare across a crowded room. The misunderstanding that drove them apart for three agonizing chapters before the grand reconciliation. It was comfort food for your soul. In those pages, you could experience earth-shattering love without the risk of a broken heart.

Now, standing in this silent, opulent bedroom, the irony almost made you laugh. You’d fantasized about being in a story like this a thousand times, but—you’d always imagined yourself as the heroine, not the villainess slated for a spectacular downfall.

A soft knock at the door made you jump nearly a foot in the air.

“Miss Cha?” a polite, older woman’s voice called through the wood. “Your breakfast is ready. The car will be here in one hour to take you to Mr. Park’s office for the wedding planning consultation.”

Wedding planning. You felt, suddenly, very awake. That was today. Chapter Four, if you recalled correctly. The first official meeting between Cha Y/N, Sunghoon, and the wedding planner, Lee Soojin. The scene where the villainess would size up her rival with thinly-veiled contempt, make snide remarks about her choice of clothing, and generally establish herself as the obstacle to Sunghoon and Soojin’s true love.

Your stomach churned. You couldn’t do that. You physically couldn’t. The thought of being cruel to some innocent woman just trying to do her job made you feel ill.

But what was the alternative? If you weren’t the evil Cha Y/N, then who were you? A random office worker from another world, trapped in a fictional character’s body. If you started acting completely out of character, what would happen? Would the universe correct itself? Would you be thrown into a mental institution? Would Sunghoon’s powerful family have you quietly disposed of for being an unpredictable variable in their business merger masquerading as a marriage?

Panic, sharp and acrid, rose in your throat. You gripped the edge of the vanity table, your knuckles turning white. Think, Y/N. You have to think.

The original Cha Y/N’s fate was bankruptcy and social ruin after Sunghoon cut her off. She’d tried to fight it, to cling, to scheme, and it had only made her fall harder and more publicly.

So you had to survive. You couldn’t be that person. You wouldn’t. It was simple: do no harm, collect the checks, and get the hell out. Let Sunghoon and Soojin have their epic romance. You’d take the alimony and live quietly on a beach somewhere, far from this world of cutthroat socialites and emotionally constipated CEOs.

It was a coward’s plan, sure, but it was the only one that seemed to offer a path through this nightmare that didn’t end with you being publicly eviscerated.

You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the reflection again. “Okay, Cha Y/N,” you said to her. “Let’s do this.”

An hour later, you were in the back of a sleek, silent sedan, watching the city blur past. You’d chosen an outfit from the walk-in closet that felt the least like a costume and foregone most of the jewelry, wearing only small studs in your ears.

The driver held the door open for you in front of a towering glass skyscraper that seemed to pierce the clouds. The logo was etched into the side.

The lobby was cold and elegant, people in sharp suits moving with purpose across the vast marble floor, footsteps echoing everywhere. The receptionist, a woman with a smile as polished as the granite desk, took one look at you and nodded.

“Miss Cha. Mr. Park is expecting you. 67th floor, please.” She gestured to a private elevator whose doors were already sliding open.

The ride up was smooth and swift, and you watched the numbers climb, your heart doing a nervous tap-dance. The doors opened directly into a corner office.

The view was breathtaking, a panoramic sweep of the city and the river beyond. But the room itself was as cold as the man standing before the window, his back to you. He was tall, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, silhouetted against the bright sky. He wore a charcoal grey suit that looked like it had been tailored directly onto him.

Then he turned.

Park Sunghoon.

The description from the novel didn’t do him justice. He was handsome in a way that felt almost aggressive. Sharp jawline, dark, intense eyes under thick, perfectly shaped brows, hair styled in a way that looked effortless and expensive. But it was his expression that really hit you. There was no warmth in his gaze, no flicker of recognition or welcome for his fiancée. And how could you fault him? Cha Y/N had been a piece of work.

“You’re early,” he intoned.

“Looks like I am.” you managed, your own voice sounding too small.

He said nothing, just looked at you for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then he gestured with a faint tilt of his head toward a large meeting table off to the side. “Sit. The planner will be here shortly.”

You walked to the table, hyper-aware of the click of your heels on the polished concrete floor. You sat in the chair he’d indicated, folding your hands in your lap to keep them from trembling. He didn’t sit. He remained standing by the window, the picture of impatience and disinterest.

The silence stretched, and you studied the grain of the table, the way the sunlight caught the edge of a glass water pitcher. Anything to avoid looking at him.

You’d read about his coldness, of course you had. You’d found it thrilling in the abstract, a challenge for the heroine to overcome, but experiencing it firsthand was different. It was isolating. It made you feel invisible, inconsequential. You understood, with sudden, painful clarity, why the original Cha Y/N had become so obsessed with his wealth and status. If you couldn’t have his warmth, you’d settle for the things his name could buy. It was a pathetic, hollow consolation prize, but it must have been something to hold onto.

Another soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” Sunghoon said, not moving from his post.

The door opened, and a woman stepped in. She was around your age, maybe a year or two younger. She wore a simple, professional cream-colored blouse and a black skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, low ponytail. She carried a large portfolio and an iPad.

Lee Soojin.

Your pulse quickened. The female lead. The woman who, according to the plot, you were supposed to torment.

She bowed slightly. “Mr. Park. Miss Cha. Thank you for having me. I’m Lee Soojin, from Ever After Planning.”

She was exactly as described, warm and beautiful. She had a kind, fresh face, warm brown eyes, and a smile that seemed genuine, though right now, it was tinged with nervousness as her gaze darted between you and the imposing figure of Sunghoon. She clutched a large portfolio to her chest like a shield.

“Please, come in,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was different, softer.

The meeting was awkward, to say the least. Soojin presented floral arrangements and color palettes, her voice occasionally trembling. You, desperate not to play the villain, said nothing except, “That looks lovely,” or “Whatever you think is best, Miss Lee.” You kept your eyes on the swatches, avoiding Sunghoon’s probing stare. You could feel it on you, a laser of suspicion. The real Y/N would have been picky and dismissive, finding fault with everything to assert dominance.

Sunghoon, surprisingly, engaged. He asked practical questions about logistics, timelines, vendor reliability. His questions were sharp and intelligent. Soojin, after a few stumbling starts, began to answer with growing confidence, her passion for her work shining through. You saw the exact moment he noticed it: a slight tilt of his head, a fraction of a second where his gaze lingered on her animated face instead of the brochure.

There it is, you thought, a strange pang hitting you square in the chest. The beginning. The plan was working.

But then he turned that gaze on you. “You’re not yourself today.” His tone was neutral, but the question in it was clear: What’s your deal?

You met his eyes for the first time that day. “Well,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “Ms. Lee seems very competent. I just trust her expertise.”

He stared at you again, then gave a curt nod, turning back to Soojin, and the rest of the meeting passed in a blur.

THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED WERE A BIZARRE SORT OF DANCE. You attended obligatory social events on Sunghoon’s arm, fit the role of a silent, smiling accessory perfectly. You learned the rules of this world: who to nod to, who to ignore, which fork and knife to use where and why. And through it all, you were forced into proximity with Park Sunghoon.

At first, it was nothing but ice. Silent car rides, silent meals. You didn’t think there was ever a way to hold a conversation with Park Sunghoon. But survival instinct was a powerful thing when it kicked in, and the more nervous you got, the more your immediate instinct to be yourself began to show, especially once you moved in together.

The incident that started the thaw was, of all things, congee.

It was three weeks in. A late-night business dinner had left Sunghoon looking paler than usual, the sharp lines of his face drawn tight. You’d heard him return, the quiet click of the door, then nothing. An hour later, a faint, pained sound from the kitchen. You found him leaning against the island, one hand pressed to his stomach, staring into the empty fridge with blank eyes.

“Stomach ache?” you’d asked, hovering in the doorway.

He’d just grunted in response.

The real Y/N would have called for a maid, despite the ungodly hour. You, on the other hand, having grown up middle-class, were a veteran of questionable street food and late-night stress-eating, so you simply nudged him aside with your hip and rummaged through the pantry. “Sit,” you said, your tone brooking no argument. “You’re blocking the rice.”

He’d watched, silent and wary, as you boiled the rice into a soft mush, shredding the leftover roast chicken from yesterday’s dinner and adding slivers of ginger. The kitchen filled with a warm savory scent, and when you slid the bowl across the island to him, he looked at it like it was a foreign artefact.

“It’s just congee,” you said, suddenly self-conscious. “My mom used to make it when I was sick.”

He took a cautious spoonful. Then another. You had never cooked for someone before, but seeing the almost imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders, the way the tension drained out of his body, made you realize why your mother had loved it so much. When he was done, he placed the spoon neatly in the empty bowl and met your eyes. “It was nice. Thank you.”

You’d snorted. “High praise, coming from you.”

A brief flicker of a smile touched his lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

That was the crack in the ice, and after that, indifference became harder to maintain. The silent car rides began to fill with your commentary on the city passing by, or his dry observations about the people you’d just met at some function. Once, you found him one evening in the library, staring blankly at a contract, his tie loose. You’d placed a cup of tea next to his elbow without a word. He’d looked up, surprised, then nodded in thanks. Another time, you’d gotten locked out on the massive balcony during a sudden rain shower. He’d found you, drenched and laughing, and instead of chastising you, he’d handed you a towel with a shake of his head, a genuine, if exasperated, smile on his face. “Only you,” he’d muttered.

Then came the charity gala for the Seoul Arts Foundation. It was a stuffy, black-tie affair, and the champagne was flowing too freely. You, nervous under the scrutiny of a hundred socialites who knew the real Cha Y/N, drank more than you should have. Sunghoon, for reasons unknown, matched you glass for glass.

It was no surprise that the car ride home, inevitably, was filled with giddiness. You were slumped in the backseat, giggling at nothing, the city lights streaking past the window like liquid silver. He was beside you, his posture less rigid, a soft, unfocused smile on his face as he watched you.

“You’re different,” he said suddenly, his voice a low rumble in the dark car.

“Am I?” you hiccupped, turning to him. His face was so close. The sharp angles were softened in the shadows.

“Mm. Before. You were so… loud. Demanding. Everything was—all about money for you.” He reached out, his finger hovering near your temple, not touching. “But now…”

“Maybe I just grew up,” you offered, the lie tasting bitter.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes searching yours with an unnerving intensity. “No. It’s not that. It’s like you’re a completely different person.” He leaned closer, his breath warm and faintly sweet with champagne. “Who are you?”

Your heart hammered in your chest. The truth was a wild, desperate thing clawing at your throat. In your tipsy state, it slipped out, covered up in a joke. “Maybe I’m from a different universe,” you whispered, a playful, dizzy smile on your lips. “One where I’m not a horrible person.”

He stared at you. Then, to your utter astonishment, his lower lip pushed out in the faintest, most fleeting pout. You had never seen an expression so disarmingly childish and vulnerable on his face, but it was gone in a second, replaced by a slight scowl. “Stop messing with me,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it. He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes, a small sigh escaping him.

The hangover the next morning was brutal, but at least it was a shared misery. You found him in the kitchen, grimacing over a glass of water, still in his rumpled dress shirt from the night before. You wordlessly made tea, and when you handed him a mug, your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away.

Then you got sick.

It was a brutal flu, a personal betrayal from your own immune system. One day you were fine, the next, you were a shivering, aching heap buried under the duvet in your room. The maids fluttered in and out with tea and towels, but the apartment felt cold.

You drifted in a feverish haze, only semi-aware of the passage of time. But then—

You heard the firm, quiet tread of leather soles on parquet. The room darkened as a tall silhouette blocked the light from the hallway.

Sunghoon stood there, still in his work suit, his tie slightly loosened.

“The staff said you haven’t eaten,” he stated, his voice softer than usual.

“Can’t,” you croaked, turning your head into the pillow. “Everything hurts.”

You heard him set something down on the bedside table—a small tray. Then, to your shock, you felt the bed dip near your hip as he sat on the very edge of the mattress. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with fever.

For a long, long while, all you could hear was your congested breathing. Then, a touch. Light, hesitant. Fingertips, surprisingly cool, brushing the sweat-dampened hair back from your forehead. The gesture was so tender, so utterly at odds with the Park Sunghoon you knew, that your breath hitched. His fingers stilled for a second, thinking he’d woken you. When you didn’t move, they continued, tucking the hair gently behind your ear.

He didn’t say a word. He just sat there,  his hand eventually coming to rest, palm down, on the duvet beside your shoulder. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he stood up. You heard the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic. “There’s broth here when you can manage it,” he murmured.

He worked from the armchair next to your bed that day, the quiet tap of his laptop keys a strangely comforting sound. He’d glance over every so often, refilling your water glass without being asked. It was the most mundane kind of care, but it made your heart squeeze. No one in this glittering, fake world had taken care of you like that. It felt more intimate than any kiss the novel had described between him and Soojin.

Life settled into a strange, peaceful rhythm that was nothing like the plot you remembered. You weren’t friends, not exactly. But you were… something. Allies due to the nature of your situation, perhaps. Your conversations became longer. You discovered he had a dry, wicked sense of humor that only emerged when he was truly relaxed. You learned he hated mint chocolate and loved coffee-flavored ice-cream. And then, one evening, you were in his study, looking for a book he’d said was in there. Your fingers trailed over the spines on a high shelf when you knocked a small, ornate wooden box to the floor. It sprung open, spilling its contents: not jewelry or documents, but a handful of old, laminated badges and a single, well-worn ice skate blade guard.

Curious, you picked up a badge. Seoul Junior Figure Skating Championship, 1st Place, Park Sunghoon, Age 12. Another: National Youth Competition, Finalist. There were photos, too. A young boy with solemn eyes and a shock of dark hair, poised on the ice, his arms outstretched. The resemblance was unmistakable.

You were staring at a photo of him, gap-toothed, holding a trophy with a rare, bright, unguarded smile, when his voice came from the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

You jumped, the photo fluttering from your hand. He was leaning against the doorframe, his expression closed off, but you saw the flicker of something—embarrassment? pain?—in his eyes before the shutters came down.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, gathering the items with clumsy hands. “I knocked the box over. I didn’t mean to pry.” You held up one of the badges. “You were a figure skater?”

He walked in, taking the badge from your fingers. He looked at it for a long moment, his thumb tracing the raised lettering. “It was a long time ago.”

“Why did you stop?” The question was out before you could stop it.

He didn’t answer immediately. He carefully placed the badge back in the box, his movements precise. “My father,” he said finally, his voice flat. “He decided it was a frivolous pursuit for the heir of Park Holdings. That it wouldn’t build the ruthlessness required for business.” A humorless twist of his lips. “I suppose he was right, in a way.”

The sadness in his tone made you inexplicably upset. You thought of the cold, ruthless CEO you’d read about, the one who only melted for one person. You were seeing the fossil of the boy who had been melted down and reforged into that man.

On an impulse you didn’t fully understand, you spoke. “When was the last time you were on the ice?”

He looked at you, startled. “I don’t know. Over ten years?”

“We should go.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Ice skating. We should go. There’s that new private rink at your country club. We could rent it out. No one would have to know.”

He stared at you as if you’d suggested flying to the moon. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it?” You pressed, a sudden boldness rising in you. “You loved it once. Don’t you ever… you know, miss it? Just the feeling of it?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He looked from your face to the open box, to the photo of his younger, smiling self. The conflict in his eyes was a war you could almost see play out in front of you. Finally, he let out a slow breath. “That’s a pointless thing to do.”

But he didn’t say no.

Two days later, his assistant quietly booked the rink for a private two-hour session at midnight. He didn’t mention it to you. You only found out when a note, written in his sharp, elegant script, was left on the kitchen island next to your keys: 8 PM. Dress warm.

An hour later, you were in the empty rink, feeling utterly ridiculous in brand-new thermals. Sunghoon was already laced up, moving with a natural grace as he carved a slow circle on the pristine ice. He made it look effortless. You, on the other hand, sat on the bench, fumbling with the laces. Your fingers felt thick and clumsy. After a minute of struggle, you felt the bench dip beside you. He didn’t ask. He just took the skate from your hands, his fingers brushing yours.

“You have to tie them tightly. Ankle support is everything.”

He bent his head, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead as he began to lace the boot for you, his movements sure and careful. You watched, mesmerized by the sight of Park Sunghoon’s elegant, powerful hands, the ones that signed countless deals, meticulously tying a double knot for you. It felt impossibly tender. Then he did the same with the other foot, his knuckles accidentally brushing the sensitive skin of your ankle. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced up your spine.

“There,” he said, looking up and meeting your eyes. “Now, stand up. Slowly.”

You did, taking one wobbly step onto the surface, and immediately felt your legs betray you. You windmilled your arms, a squeak escaping your throat.

“Careful, careful,” A strong hand closed around your elbow, steadying you. “Bend your knees. Not at the waist.”

“Easy for you to say,” you grumbled, but you bent your knees. His hand stayed on your arm, a firm, warm anchor.

“Now, glide. Don’t step.”

You pushed off, lurching forward. He moved with you, a silent, steady presence at your side. For the first ten minutes, it was a comedy of errors. You wobbled, you slipped, you clutched at his forearm with a grip that probably cut off his circulation. And through it all, he was patient. Surprisingly, infuriatingly patient.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice as you stared at your feet in concentration.

“I’m thinking about not concussing myself on this ice!”

“Look at me. Not at your feet.”

You dragged your gaze up to his face. In the cool, bright light of the rink, he looked younger. The usual severity in his expression was softened.

“Better,” he said. “Now, just move with me.”

He took your hands in his, skating backwards and pulling you along. It was terrifying and thrilling. The world narrowed to the sound of blades on ice, the puff of your breath in the cold air, and the solid, reliable grip of his hands. You started to find a shaky rhythm.

“See?” he said, and you realized he was smiling. A real, proper smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. It transformed his face completely. Your heart did a funny little stutter that had nothing to do with skating.

“Don’t let me fall,” you said, the words coming out in a soft, breathless rush.

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. He never looked away from your eyes. “I won’t.”

He guided you around the rink until your legs burned and your cheeks were numb with cold and laughter. Then, he demonstrated a simple spin, a blur of controlled motion that left you gaping. When he stopped, perfectly centered, he was breathing slightly harder, his face flushed.

He looked alive.

“Show-off,” you called, pushing off the wall to glide clumsily toward him.

He caught you easily when you overbalanced, his hands coming to rest on your hips to steady you. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the closeness. The heat of his body through the layers of clothing. The way his thumbs were pressing just above the waistband of your leggings. His face was inches from yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. His eyes were dark and searching.

You looked up at him, your own laughter dying in your throat. The rink was silent except for the hum of the chillers. For a heartbeat that felt like forever, neither of you moved. You could see the faint scar on his brow, the dark fringe of his lashes, the part of his lips as he breathed.

Then, a distant door clanged. The spell broke. He released your hips, his hands falling back to his sides as he took a small half-step back. “You’re getting the hang of it,” he said, his voice returning to its usual register, though it was a shade rougher and, if you listened hard enough, breathier.

All the way home, you replayed the moment at the rink over and over, the feel of his hands on you. It sparked a low, restless heat in your belly that was becoming frustratingly familiar.

That very heat continued to follow you, and it was driving you crazy. In the mornings, when he’d emerge from his bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair damp, his torso a landscape of lean muscle and faint scars you itched to trace. You’d mutter a good morning and flee to the kitchen, your face hot. Once, you came out of your room in just a thin camisole and pajamas to get water, forgetting he was working late at the dining table. The look he gave you—a slow, sweeping gaze that felt like a physical touch—had you scurrying back to your room, your skin prickling with awareness. You’d lie in your bed, in the dark, and imagine him in his room just down the hall. Was he asleep? Reading? Thinking about the company? Thinking about… you? Your mind would wander, unbidden, to the feel of his hands on your waist at the rink. To the solid heat of him when you’d stumbled against his chest. To the way his sweatpants hung on his hips. And then a slow, aching warmth would pool low in your belly, and you’d press your thighs together, frustrated and aroused in equal measure.

This was not part of the plan. Getting horny for your emotionally unavailable contract-fiancé was the fastest way to get your heart pulverized.

A WEEK LATER, SUNGHOON INFORMED YOU, OVER A BREAKFAST OF PERFECTLY POACHED EGGS, THAT YOU WOULD BE MEETING HIS FRIENDS.

“Friends?” you’d echoed, nearly choking on your toast. The novel’s Sunghoon had only business associates, rivals, and sycophants. Friends were never part of it.

“Yes,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “Park Jongseong and Shim Jaeyun. They’re very insistent. They want to meet you badly.” He said it dryly, but you caught the slightest tension in his shoulders. “It’s a dinner on Friday, at Jay’s.”

Friday arrived, and with it, a low-cut dress that felt both too much and not enough. Sunghoon was silent in the elevator ride up, his profile sharp in the dim light. But when the doors opened into a sprawling, modern loft filled with the smell of gourmet food and the sound of jazz, his posture shifted. He placed a light, guiding hand on the small of your back.

“Sunghoon! You made it!” A man with a charming, lopsided grin and artfully messy hair bounded over, pulling Sunghoon into a brief, back-slapping hug. Jake, you guessed. His eyes, warm and curious, immediately landed on you. “And you must be the infamous Y/N.” He winked.

Another man approached, slightly taller, with a more composed elegance but a friendly glint in his eye. Jay, of course. He shook your hand firmly. “A pleasure. Come in, make yourself at home.”

The evening was nothing like the functions you’d gotten used to over the last few months, and you found that your initial nervousness bled away easily. Jay was dry and witty, Jake was sweet and genuinely funny. They teased Sunghoon mercilessly about anything and everything, and to your astonishment, he took it. He even smiled a real, relaxed smile that made your heart do that stupid little flip again.

And the best part was, they talked to you. Not to Cha Y/N, the socialite fiancée, but to you. Jay asked about your opinion on the new exhibition at the National Museum, and you found yourself in a debate about Norman Rockwell. Jake, hearing you hum along to the jazz track, pulled you into a conversation about it. You were in your element, laughing, arguing. You forgot, for a moment, the character you were supposed to be playing.

You also forgot to watch Sunghoon.

He had turned quiet, observing from his seat on the plush sofa, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. At first, you thought he was just back to being his usual reserved self. But as the night wore on and your laughter grew more frequent, you began to feel it—a tension emanating from him. When Jake leaned in to refill your wine glass, his hand brushing yours as he pointed to a particular album cover on the shelf, you felt Sunghoon’s gaze on you like a hand.

A few minutes later, when you got up to admire the view of the rolling countryside from the windows, Jake followed, standing close beside you to point things out. “There,” he said, his shoulder almost touching yours, “that’s where Sunghoon and I got hopelessly lost on a school trip. He was too stubborn to ask for directions. We nearly froze to death.”

You laughed, turning to him. “I can picture that.”

“Picture what?”

Sunghoon’s voice was quiet, right behind you. You hadn’t heard him approach. He slid between you and Jake with a smooth, deliberate movement. His arm came around your waist, his hand settling on your hip, pulling you back against him.

“Just reminiscing about your navigational failures,” Jake said, his grin not fading, but his eyes flicking between Sunghoon’s face and the hand on your waist.

“Mm,” Sunghoon murmured, his breath stirring the hair near your ear. His thumb moved, a slow, unconscious stroke against your dress. “Don’t believe a word he says. He was the one who dropped our map in the mud and got us lost in the first place.”

Despite the conversation not dying out, Sunghoon kept you anchored to his side, his fingers splayed on your hip, the warmth of his chest against your shoulder. Sunghoon’s interjections became more frequent in your interactions with Jay and Jake, his dry remarks steering the conversation away from anything that involved you and his friends directly interacting.

You couldn't say you didn’t expect that the journey back would be shrouded in a heavy silence. Sunghoon stared out the window, his jaw tight.

“Did you have a good time?” he finally asked, his voice devoid of inflection.

“I did,” you said carefully. “They’re lovely.”

“They seemed to think the same of you.” The words were clipped.

You turned to look at his profile. “Is that a problem?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept looking out at the passing lights, the muscle in his jaw working. The possessiveness he’d shown at the penthouse was gone, replaced by this cold, withdrawn sulk. It was so childish, and so utterly at odds with the man in the novel, who wouldn’t have batted an eye if the original Y/N had flirted with an entire football team. He’d found her disgusting, but he hadn’t cared. He’d been indifferent.

This wasn’t indifference.

The realization sent a dangerous thrill through you, followed immediately by a wave of guilt. You were messing with the script, and you had no idea what the new plot was.

Back at home, he headed straight for his study without a word. You stood in the grand living room, feeling unmoored. The heat from his touch still lingered on your skin, but the silent treatment felt worse than any cold remark. You took a deep breath and followed him.

He was standing by the window, a dark silhouette against the city’s glitter.

“Sunghoon.”

He didn’t turn.

You walked closer, your heels silent on the rug. “Are you angry with me?”

“No.” The word was short, final.

“You seem like it.”

He finally turned. In the dim light from the window, his expression was unreadable. “I’m not angry. I just don’t appreciate your…” he pretended to think. “Acting.”

“Acting?”

“The laughing. The leaning in. The wide-eyed interest in everything they said.” His tone was low, edged with something you couldn’t understand. “It was a bit much, don’t you think?”

A flash of irritation burst through you. “I was being polite. And for your information, I was genuinely interested. They’re good people, it was a normal conversation.”

“It didn’t look normal from where I was sitting.” He took a step closer. The air between you crackled. “Looked like you were enjoying their attention a little too much.”

You closed the remaining distance between you, stopping just an arm’s length away. You looked up at him, at the storm in his gray eyes. “Sunghoon,” you said, your voice tender. “They’re your friends. I was nice to them because they’re important to you. That’s all.”

But if anything, your softness seemed to make it worse.

A low, frustrated sound escaped him. He finally turned, but not to look at you. His gaze swept over his desk, the neat stacks of papers, as if searching for an escape. “That’s not the point,” he said, his voice clipped and cold.

The aching in your chest curdled into a sharp spike of annoyance. You’d spent the entire evening navigating his unpredictable moods, from his possessive display at Jay’s to this petulant silence. You’d offered an olive branch, and he was swatting it away.

“Then what is the point, Sunghoon?” you asked, the calm in your voice beginning to fray. “Because from where I’m standing, you invited me to meet the only people in your life who seem to actually like you, I had a genuinely pleasant conversation with them, and now you’re treating me like I’ve committed some kind of crime. So, please, enlighten me. What exactly did I do wrong? Was my laugh too loud? Were my interests too provocative?”

He flinched, just a tiny tightening around his eyes, but it was enough. He looked at you then, and the storm in his brown eyes was now a cold front. “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said, the accusation falling like a blade. “You have this—” he ran his hands through his hair. “This way. You turn it on and off. For the press, for my employees, for my friends. That wide-eyed fascination. That laugh that makes men feel like they’re the wittiest person in the world. It’s an act. And a very convincing one, apparently.”

The accusation was so absurd, so wildly off-base, that for a second you were speechless. He was describing the original Y/N. Not you. You’d forgotten to act tonight.

That was the whole problem.

Your own frustration boiled over. “You are impossible, Sunghoon,” you stated, the words leaving your lips before you could temper them. “And you’re not even making sense. You’re jealous of your own friends for having a regular conversation with me. Do you hear yourself?”

You didn’t wait for an answer. The conversation was going in circles, spiraling into a void where his logic couldn’t follow. The warmth of the evening, the feeling of connection with Jake and Jay, the heat of his hand on your hip—it was all being poisoned by this stubborn, childish sulk. You were tired. The emotional whiplash was exhausting.

“You know what? Forget it,” you said, turning on your heel. The silk of your dress whispered against your legs as you strode toward the study door. “I’m going to bed. You can stand here and brood at the skyline all night for all I care.”

You reached for the polished brass handle, your fingers closing around the cool metal. You pulled.

The door didn’t budge.

A large, warm hand was splayed flat against the dark wood, just above your head, holding it shut. You hadn’t heard him move, but he was right there behind you, his body warm. The scent of his cologne enveloped you. You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

“Wait.”

His voice was close, right by your ear. It had lost its icy edge. Now it was just rough, scraped raw.

You didn’t turn. You stared at the grain of the wood, at his long fingers pressed white-knuckled against it. “Let me go, Sunghoon.”

“I said wait.” The hand on the door slid down, his arm now caging you in, his chest not quite touching your back but you could feel the heat of him through the thin layers of your dress and his shirt. “Just—please. Wait a moment.”

The fight drained out of you, replaced by a shaky, breathless awareness. You leaned your forehead lightly against the door, closing your eyes. “Why?”

A long pause. You could hear his breathing, slightly uneven. “Because you’re right,” he said, the words so quiet you almost didn’t hear them. “I’m being impossible.”

You blinked, your eyes still closed.

Huh?

He continued, the words coming out in a reluctant, stilted rush, as if being forced past a great internal resistance. “It wasn’t an act. I could see that. Tonight. With them.” He took a deep breath, his chest expanding behind you. “You were—yourself. And they liked you. Jake was practically hanging on your every word about that absurd painting with the floating clocks.”

“Dali,” you murmured automatically.

“Yes, Dali.” he echoed. He shifted, his arm brushing against yours, sending a shiver down your spine. “The point is…” he cleared his throat. “I’m not used to it.”

“To what? To people liking your fiancée?”

“To caring if they do,” he admitted. “To watching it happen and feeling like I…” He trailed off. “It’s unfamiliar. And I handled it poorly. I apologize.”

The formal, stiff apology was so like him, yet the vulnerability laced through it was entirely new. The annoyance melted away, leaving that strange, aching tenderness in its place.

You finally turned, slowly, under the arch of his arm. You had to tilt your head back to look at him. In the dim light, his handsome face was all sharp angles and shadow, but his eyes… they held a turmoil you’d never seen before.

“You were jealous,” you said, not as an accusation, but as a simple, gentle observation.

He held your gaze for a long moment, then looked away, his jaw working. A faint, almost imperceptible flush touched the high points of his cheeks. “I was. It was… illogical.”

“A little,” you agreed, a small smile touching your lips. “They’re your best friends. Jake looks at you like you hung the moon. Jay clearly adores you. They were just being kind to me because I’m with you.”

He looked back at you, searching your face. “You’re not upset?”

“I was annoyed,” you said honestly. “Because you were being a grumpy, silent statue and it was confusing. But I’m not upset.” You reached up, tentatively, and placed a hand lightly on his chest, over his sternum. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. “It’s okay to feel things, Sunghoon. Even if they’re messy and confusing and don’t make sense.”

He stared down at your hand on his chest, then his gaze lifted to yours. His brows were knitted upwards. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the room.

“Do what?”

“Any of it.” The admission seemed to unlock something. The words started to tumble out, low and rushed. “This. Having someone here. Someone who—who argues with me and really listens to me and doesn’t look at my friends as potential social climbing opportunities. Someone who gets annoyed when I’m being an ass instead of just simpering. And then seeing you with them, so natural, so easy… it felt like you fit. You fit into a part of my life that has nothing to do with mergers or board meetings. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t. It’s—well, it’s kind of unsettling. It’s ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. Jay would laugh himself sick if he knew. He’s probably already guessed. He’s annoyingly perceptive about these things. Which is another problem, because now I’ll have to hear about it for weeks, and he’ll make some comment about me being emotionally stunted, which is technically accurate but still rude to point out, especially when I’m the one usually paying for his overpriced whiskey—”

He was rambling. Park Sunghoon, the master of terse, cutting remarks, was rambling.

You let out a breathy, incredulous little giggle.

He stopped mid-sentence, his brows drawing together again. “What?”

You shook your head, your smile widening. “Nothing. It’s just… you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He blinked. Cute. You were certain no one had ever used that word to describe Park Sunghoon in his entire life. A series of emotions flickered across his face: disbelief, offense, and then a dawning, bewildered wonder. The faint blush on his cheeks deepened.

“I am not,” he stated, but the protest sounded almost petulant.

“You are a little,” you insisted, your thumb making a small, unconscious circle on his shirt. “All this big, brooding energy because your friends and your fake fiancée got along too well. It’s adorable.”

He stared at you, utterly disarmed. The hand that wasn’t braced against the door came up, hesitated, then gently brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. His touch was feather-light, tentative. “You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met,” he murmured.

“I know,” you whispered back.

Your eyes dropped to his lips, then flicked back up to his. His gaze was locked on your mouth. For one heart-stopping second, you thought he might kiss you. The air grew thick, your breath coming shorter. His head dipped slightly, his eyes darkening—

—but then he stopped. He closed his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, and straightened. The moment shattered.

His hand fell from your face, and he took a small, deliberate step back.

He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Go to bed,” he said, his voice rough, scraping over the words. “We have the drive to my parents’ estate tomorrow.”

THE PARK FAMILY ESTATE WAS LESS A HOUSE AND MORE A DISPLAY OF WEALTH. It was all severe lines, imported stone, and meticulously manicured gardens that looked like no one was allowed to walk in them. The air itself felt several degrees cooler when you stepped out of the car.

Sunghoon’s father, Chairman Park, was exactly as the novel had foretold: a man carved from glacier ice, a crueller, harsher version of Sunghoon. His greeting was a curt nod, his eyes assessing you. His mother, on the other hand, was far more complex. She was elegant, with a smile that reached her eyes but didn't quite warm them, and she welcomed you gracefully, complimenting your dress, asking after the wedding plans with a tone of mild interest.

Dinner was a silent, formal affair. The clink of silverware against fine china was deafening. Chairman Park grilled Sunghoon on work, dismissing his answers with grunts. He ignored you completely. Mrs. Park attempted lighter conversation, asking you about your family, your interests. You answered as blandly as possible, sticking to the script you imagined the original Y/N would have used: mentions of charitable boards, designer names.

“You must be so excited for the wedding, dear,” Mrs. Park said as dessert was served, a fragile porcelain cup of tea placed before her. “It’s such a wonderful opportunity to solidify your future.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Sunghoon tells me you’ve been spending a lot of time together since you’ve started living together. Getting to know each other.” Her smile remained, but her eyes were sharp and beady. “That’s good. A strong foundation of… understanding is so important in these arrangements.”

At the word ‘arrangement’, Sunghoon, beside you, went very still.

After dinner, Mrs. Park suggested a walk in the garden. “The roses are in bloom, Y/N. Come, let’s get some air.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. You followed her out into the twilight, the scent of roses indeed thick and almost cloying. She walked in silence for a while along a gravel path that wound past sculpted hedges and a large koi pond.

“You are a very different girl from the reports I received,” she began, her voice conversational. “The Y/N we researched was rather more acquisitive. I thought that before, you knew what this marriage was.” She turned to you. “A strategic alliance for your family’s benefit and for the stability of ours.”

You kept your eyes on the path, your stomach knotting.

“But it seems this new version of you,” she continued, stopping by the pond to watch the orange and white shapes glide beneath the water’s surface. “Is quite confusing for my son, I think. He is a man who values clarity. He understands transactions.” She turned to you, her smile still perfectly in place. “Your job, my dear, is to be a compliant partner and an asset to him. Not to… confuse him by making him question the nature of the transaction.”

The gentleness in her tone made the words cut deeper. “I’m not trying to confuse him,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Aren’t you?” she asked, tilting her head. She let out a soft, pitying sigh. “You’re forgetting your place. This is a business arrangement. When the time is right, and his position is unassailable, you will both go your separate ways with the agreed-upon compensation. Any emotional complication is a breach of contract.” She placed a cold, delicate hand on your arm. “Do not make the mistake of believing this is a love story, Y/N. Remember who you are. And more importantly, remember who he is.”

Your head was spinning.

She gave your arm a faint pat. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the pond. Do find your way back before it gets too dark.”

She walked away, her footsteps silent on the gravel, leaving you alone by the darkening water.

The dam broke.

Tears, hot and shameful, welled up and spilled over. She was right. Of course she was right. You were an imposter in every sense. An imposter in this body, in this life, and now, an imposter in your own feelings. You were muddying the waters of a simple deal, risking everything for a man who was made to love someone else. The sobs came then, quiet and wrenching, your shoulders shaking as you stared blindly at the koi, your tears making small splashes in the pond.

You didn’t hear his approach. You only sensed a presence, and you quickly wiped your cheeks with the backs of your hands, turning your face away.

“Y/N?”

Sunghoon’s voice, close. Panic spiked inside you.

You couldn’t let him see.

“I’m fine,” you choked out, your voice thick. “Just—um. Admiring the pond. Give me a minute.”

“Look at me.”

“No, really, I’m—”

“Y/N.” His voice was low, but it was a command nonetheless. “Look at me.”

Slowly, you turned. The last of the twilight caught the tracks of your tears, glistening on your skin. His expression, which had been carefully neutral when he found you, shattered. His eyes widened, then darkened with fury.

“What did she say to you?” The question was a soft, deadly thing.

You shook your head, fresh tears falling. “Nothing. She didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“Tell me.” He took a step closer.

“She just—just reminded me of my place,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash. “That this is just an arrangement. That I shouldn’t… forget what it is. That I’m—I’m confusing you. And she’s right, Sunghoon, I am. I’m messing it all up, and I’m—” you sniffed. “I’m so sorry—”

“Stop.” The word was a whip-crack. He closed the final distance, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. “She has no right. No right to speak to you like that.”

“She does,” you cried, the frustration and heartbreak pouring out. “This is her world! These are her rules! I’m just a temporary fixture, and I’m acting like—like I’m something else. I’m sorry for being confusing. I’m sorry for the skating and the congee and for talking to your friends and for just… for just being here all wrong!”

You were babbling, tears streaming freely now. You tried to pull away, but he didn’t let you. Instead, he pulled you into his chest.

One arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the other hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair. He held you firmly, securely, as you cried into the crisp cotton of his shirt. He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“Y/N,” he murmured into your hair. “You are the only thing that has made any sense in a very, very long time.”

You clung to him, your fists bunching in the fabric of his shirt. His hand moved from your head to stroke your hair, slow, calming strokes. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against your cheek, and the last of your resistance melted away, and you sank into the embrace, letting him hold the pieces of you together.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in the silence of the garden and the sanctuary of his arms. The tears eventually subsided, leaving you hollowed out and shaky. He didn’t let go until finally, you took a ragged, shuddering breath. He leaned back just enough to look down at you, his hands moving to cup your face again. His thumbs wiped away the last of the moisture on your cheeks. His eyes searched yours.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

He kept one arm around you, guiding you firmly back toward the monstrous house, not to say goodbye to his parents, but straight to the car. He opened the passenger door for you, got in the driver’s side, started the engine, and pulled away from the estate without a backward glance.

You looked out the window, watching the dark countryside blur past, feeling the ghost of his arms around you, the sensation of his fingers in your hair. Your skin still tingled where he’d touched you. Then you snuck a glance at his profile, lit by the dashboard lights. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the cold fury had settled into a deep, simmering resolve. He had chosen a side. And for tonight, at least, he had chosen yours.

Though, of course, life humbled you. Confusion had to come from the other side of the equation: Lee Soojin.

The wedding planning continued as normal. You made a point of being pleasant, supportive even. You praised her ideas, deferred to her taste. You were the dream client, and her initial nervousness around you melted into a warm, professional respect. You liked her. She was kind, hardworking, genuinely talented.

And Sunghoon always noticed her. It was natural that he did—that was how it was meant to go. In meetings, he was engaged, asking questions, offering solutions. You’d catch him watching her as she meticulously arranged sample centerpieces, a considering look on his face. Once, when she dropped a binder, he was out of his chair in an instant to help her gather the scattered papers. Their hands brushed. You saw the faint pink that tinged Soojin’s cheeks, the way she couldn’t quite meet his eyes afterward, and the jealousy brewing in the pit of your stomach almost became acidic.

It was exactly as the novel said. The cold CEO, melted by the genuine warmth of the commoner. You’d see them talking quietly in a corner of his office after a meeting had officially ended, and that strange pang would hit your chest again.

THE WORST WAS THE DAY OF THE FINAL VENUE WALKTHROUGH. You’d arrived separately from Sunghoon, caught in a snarl of downtown traffic.

The location was a stunning, glass-walled conservatory overlooking the river. By the time you rushed through the arched entrance, the late afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the polished floor.

You saw them before they saw you.

They were at the far end of the conservatory, standing on a temporary wooden platform that marked where the altar would be. Lee Soojin was pointing towards the ceiling, explaining something about hanging floral installations, her face animated with passion. And Sunghoon…

Sunghoon was listening. Not just listening, but absorbing it all. He stood beside her, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his head tilted slightly toward her. The sunlight streamed through the glass panes, catching the dust motes in the air and painting them both in a soft, golden glow.

It was a perfect picture. The ambitious, brilliant CEO and the creative, warm-hearted wedding planner. He was asking a question, his expression serious but open, and Soojin smiled, gesturing with her hands as she answered.

You could see it, the rows of chairs filled with Seoul’s elite. The live music swelling. Soojin, in a simple, beautiful dress that wasn’t the one you’d picked, walking down this very aisle. And Sunghoon, waiting for her right there, on that platform, his brown eyes fixed only on her. The image was so vivid that it stole the breath from your lungs. Your chest constricted, a sharp ache that had nothing to do with the hurried walk from the car.

This was it. The real beginning of the end for Cha Y/N.

Sunghoon’s gaze finally flickered away from Soojin and landed on you, standing frozen in the doorway. The open, engaged expression on his face closed down, smoothed into the more familiar, neutral mask. He straightened up.

“You’re late.”

“Traffic,” you said, your voice sounding brittle and thin to your own ears. You forced a smile, directing it at Soojin, who had turned and was now offering you a polite, slightly nervous bow. “Sorry, Miss Lee. Please, show me what you’ve finalized.”

You walked forward, your heels clicking a sharp, lonely rhythm on the stone. As you passed Sunghoon to join Soojin by the platform, he did something unexpected. He reached out and briefly, almost absently, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were cool against your heated skin. “You look flushed,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Did you run?”

The gesture was so intimate. A week ago, it might have sent a thrill through you. Now, it just felt like salt in the wound. He’s just playing his part, a vicious voice in your head whispered. The attentive fiancé in front of the help. It doesn’t mean anything. He was just looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Just the heat,” you lied, pulling away slightly, your smile feeling more like a grimace.

The rest of the walkthrough was agony. You nodded and agreed to everything Soojin proposed: the arch of white orchids, the string quartet placement, the timing for the sunset ceremony. But you felt like a spectator haunting your own life. Your responses were automatic. “Lovely.” “Perfect.” “Whatever you think is best.”

You watched Sunghoon and Soojin discuss the practicalities. Lighting cues for the photographer, the route for the caterers, backup plans for rain. Their rapport was seamless. He’d ask a sharp, logistical question, and she’d have a thoughtful, prepared answer. He’d nod, a flicker of approval in his eyes, and suggest a minor refinement. She’d consider it, then agree with a bright, “Yes, that’s much more efficient!” Every shared titter over a hiccup, every moment of unspoken understanding as they examined a floor plan, felt like a tiny paper cut on your heart. A hundred small, insignificant slices that left you feeling quietly, profoundly bloody.

As she got to her binder, Soojin tripped slightly on a loose cable snaking across the floor. Sunghoon’s hand shot out, steadying her by the elbow. “Careful,” he said, his voice soft.

“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Park,” Soojin stammered, her cheeks flushing a pretty, delicate pink again. She quickly righted herself, but her gaze lingered on his face for a second too long before she busied herself with her clipboard.

You looked away, your throat tight.

A little while later, as you were examining sample table linens, Sunghoon stood close behind you, leaning over your shoulder to point at a fabric swatch in Soojin’s hand. His chest brushed against your back. “I like the ivory better, not the stark white,” he said, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “It’ll be less harsh under the lights.”

You stiffened, every nerve ending hyper-aware.

“Yes,” you managed to whisper. “Okay. The ivory is better.”

He stayed there for a moment longer than necessary, and then he straightened up, the warmth leaving your back.

The walkthrough concluded with polite bows and assurances. Soojin promised to have the revised layouts emailed by the morning. Sunghoon gave a curt nod. “Your work is impressive, Miss Lee. Thank you.”

The praise, so directly given, made Soojin beam. “Thank you, Mr. Park! I won’t let you down.”

No, you thought, the ache in your chest deepening. You certainly won’t.

That night, back in the penthouse, you were curled on the vast living room sofa, a book (decidedly not a romance) open but unread on your lap. You were replaying the image of them by the window, trying to quash the hollow feeling it left behind. This was the plan. This was what you wanted. For them to fall in love, for the story to proceed, so you could leave.

So why did it feel like this?

You heard his footsteps first, then the subtle shift in the air as he entered the room. He didn’t sit. He came to stand behind the sofa, looking down at you. You kept your eyes on your book, but you could feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of your shoulder, the curve of your neck where your hair had fallen away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice dropping into that lower register that seemed reserved for these late-night moments.

You swallowed. “Nothing. Just tired.”

The lie hung in the air. He was quiet for a long moment. You could almost hear him weighing his next move. Then, you felt the cushion dip slightly as he leaned forward, his hands coming to rest on the back of the sofa, one on either side of you.

“You’ve been quiet since the venue,” he stated, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “Was it something Miss Lee said?”

The mention of her name was like a splash of cold water. You closed your book with a soft snap. “No. She was perfect. Everything is perfect.” You made to get up, to escape to the safety of your room.

A hand, firm and warm, landed on your shoulder, gently pressing you back down. “Y/N.”

You froze. He almost never used your name. It was always “you,” or “Miss Cha” in formal settings. The sound of it in his voice, so close, did something dangerous to your insides.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, you turned your head to look up at him. He was leaning over the back of the sofa, his face serious, his storm-cloud eyes searching yours. The distance between your faces was less than a foot. You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the slight pulse at the base of his throat. Your breath caught.

“I don’t believe you,” he said softly

Fine, you wanted to say. Something did happen. The entire plot of a trashy romance novel happened. And I saw you smiling at her, and it’s supposed to happen, but it feels all wrong now.

“I mean it,” you said instead. “It’s nothing. Really.” You offered him a weak smile. “Just pre-wedding jitters, I guess.”

He studied your face for a long moment, his own unreadable. Then he nodded slowly, not looking convinced. He reached out, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he might touch your face. But his hand just brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, the contact brief.

“Okay. Get some rest,” he said, his voice quiet. He stood and left the room, leaving you alone with the echo of his touch and the churning confusion in your gut.

Here lay the entire problem: the more you saw of the real Park Sunghoon, the more the fictional version paled in comparison. The attraction you’d felt for a character became a terrifyingly real pull towards the living, breathing man. You’d catch yourself watching him, a hollow ache blooming in your chest, before violently shoving the feeling down. He’s not for you. This story isn’t yours. His happiness is with Soojin

The pang in your chest was no longer alien, it was a constant, dull companion. And it was your cue to exit, stage left.

Enough. You had played your part. You had been harmless. You had, against all odds, built something resembling a civil friendship with the male lead. Now it was time to give him his freedom, take your cushy payout, and vanish. You had your lawyer draw up a simple, clean, no-fault dissolution of the engagement agreement, and then you requested a meeting in his office. The same office where you’d first met Soojin.

HE WAS AT HIS DESK, BUT HE WASN’T WORKING. He was waiting for you, leaning back in his chair, watching you as you entered. The afternoon light slanted across the room, splashing everything in gold and shadow.

“You wanted to see me,” he said. His voice was deceptively casual, but his posture was alert.

You managed a nod, your throat suddenly dry. The leather folder in your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He pushed off the desk and closed the distance between you in a few unhurried strides. Before you could step back or offer a handshake—any kind of businesslike gesture—his arm slid around your waist, pulling you gently against him. He dipped his head, his nose brushing the hair at your temple as he inhaled softly. “It’s nice to have you here,” he murmured, the words a warm puff against your skin.

You forced yourself to relax into the half-embrace, your mind screaming at the contradiction. This was the man who’d taken care of you when you were sick, who taught you to skate. This was also the man whose destiny was written in ink, intertwined with another woman’s name. The hollow ache in your chest expanded, threatening to swallow your resolve.

“I just needed to talk to you about something,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You extricated yourself from his hold.

He frowned, returning back to his desk. “Is that right?”

“Yes.” You placed the sleek leather folder on the desk between you. “I need you to sign these.”

He didn’t look at it. His eyes stayed on your face. “What is it?”

“The termination of our engagement.” The words came out steady, practiced. “My lawyers have already reviewed it. It’s very straightforward. The settlement terms are there, and I think you’ll find them reasonable.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence from him. The gold light glinted off the edges of the folder, off the sharp line of his cheekbone.

He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

Slowly, so slowly, he leaned forward. He didn’t reach for the folder. He placed his palms flat on the desk, his knuckles white. When he spoke, his voice was a low, controlled vibration.

“What?”

“I’m calling off the arrangement,” you repeated, your own voice sounding thin in comparison. “It’s for the best. We both know this was never a real—”

“For the best,” he echoed, cutting you off. The control was cracking. You could see it at the edges—a muscle jumping in his jaw, a storm gathering in those dark eyes. He pushed back from the desk and stood up, the movement fluid and predatory. He loomed over the desk, over you. “For the best? Are you serious? You come into my life, you—you change everything, you act like a completely different person for months, and now you just… you just drop this on my desk and say it’s for the best?”

“Sunghoon,” you startled at the emotion in his voice, taking an involuntary step back. “We both don’t want this. It’s a business deal that’s run its course. You can be with—”

“With who?” he snapped, his voice rising. He came around the desk, stopping a few feet from you. The space between you crackled with his fury. “Who is it that you think I want to be with? Tell me.”

“Soojin!” you blurted out. “Lee Soojin! It’s obvious, Sunghoon. You’re good together. She’s sweet, she’s genuine, she’s everything that—that this arrangement isn’t. You should be with her. You’re meant to be with her.”

He stared at you as if you’d started speaking in tongues. The anger seemed to freeze, then shatter into pure, unadulterated disbelief. “Soojin,” he scoffed, the name a flat, incredulous syllable. “Our wedding planner.”

“Yes! You talk to her, you laugh with her, you look at her like…” You trailed off, the memory of those looks twisting inside you.

“Like a competent professional whose work I respect?” he fired back, taking another step closer. You could see the faint flecks of gold in his irises, the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. “Is that the crime? Is that what this is about? You’ve decided, based on God-knows-what, that I have feelings for our wedding planner, and so you’re, what? Nobly stepping aside? Is that it?”

It was too close to the truth. You floundered. “It’s logical. This engagement is a farce. We should both be free.”

“Free?” he laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Are you fucking with me?” He was right in front of you now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne. His gaze bored into yours, searching for something you were desperately trying to hide. “For months, I’ve been trying to understand you. I thought—I actually thought…” He broke off, shaking his head, a hand raking through his perfect hair in a gesture of utter frustration. “And now you hand me this. Did I do something? Did I upset you? Is this some new, elaborate game? Because if it is, I need you to tell me the rules right now, because I can’t keep up.”

The pain in his voice, the sheer, bewildered hurt mixed in with the anger, was your undoing. This wasn’t in the novel. The Sunghoon in the novel would have taken the papers with relief, maybe a cutting remark. He wouldn’t be standing here, looking at you like you’d just reached into his chest and pulled out his entire heart.

“It’s not a game,” you whispered, your own resolve crumbling. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve been—you’ve been lovely. That’s the whole problem.”

“That’s the whole problem,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I’ve been lovely, so you’re leaving.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That makes no sense. None of this makes any sense, Y/N, I don’t accept this.”

“You have to sign the papers,” you said weakly.

“I don’t have to do a damn thing,” he said, and the final shred of his control vanished. His eyes blazed with conviction. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk in here, change every single thing, and then just walk away because you’ve decided what’s for the best. You don’t know what’s best for me.” He leaned in, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm against your skin. “The only thing I know for certain right now,” he said, each word deliberate, hammering, and emphasised, “is that I am not signing those papers.”

“You have to,” you insisted, your voice trembling despite your resolve. “Sunghoon, this isn’t real. What we have is a contract. You’ll get over this. In a month, you’ll look back and be grateful I let you go to be with someone you actually—someone who actually means something to you. Soojin is—”

“Enough.” The word was a guttural snarl that vibrated in the marrow of your bones. His hand, still hovering near your arm, finally closed around your wrist firmly. “Enough about Lee Soojin! You think this is about her?”

He pulled you closer, the motion so sudden you stumbled a half-step forward. The storm in his eyes had broken.

“You want to know what I’ve been thinking about?” he demanded, his voice a ragged scrape of sound. “When I’m in a meeting so boring I want to put my head through the glass, I think about coming home. Not just to this place. To wherever you are. That’s home. I imagine walking in and finding you asleep on the sofa with a book on your chest. I think about picking it up, reading the page you dog-eared, just to know what was in your head before you drifted off. If you’re in the kitchen, I think about you humming to yourself, that off-key little tune you do when you’re making tea, and I wonder what would happen if I came up behind you and put my hands around your waist.”

Your breath hitched, trapped in your throat. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. This was a deviation, a crack in the universe.

“And you think I’ve been—been thinking about her?” He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Before you, this place was just a building. I’d work until I couldn’t see straight just to have an excuse not to come back.” His eyebrows were drawn together. “You’ve fucked me up, Y/N. Now I find myself watching the clock like some pathetic highschooler, inventing reasons to wrap things up early. Because you’re here.”

He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. “You want to know when I think about Lee Soojin? I think about her when she’s emailing me timelines and invoices. That’s it. She’s a good planner, and she’s doing an excellent job planning a wedding that I don’t want with anyone but you.”

“You don’t mean that,” you whispered, a last-ditch defense. “It’s just… the arrangement, Sunghoon. It’s confusing your feelings—”

“Y/N,” He released your wrist, but only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. The touch was devastating in its tenderness. “You think I don’t know what I feel? You think this is confusion? This is the only thing that has ever been clear to me.”

“Sunghoon, please—”

“No.” The word was soft, final. “It’s you. It’s only you. It has only ever been you.” His voice broke on the last word, the raw vulnerability of it slicing through you. “Do you understand? There is no one else, there will never be anyone else for me.”

The world tilted. The solid ground of the plot, of your predetermined escape, crumbled into dust beneath your feet. He was looking at you like you were the sun, but you were just a thief standing in its light.

“You’re wrong,” you choked out, tears spilling over now, matching his. “You have to be wrong. This is a trick. I tricked you. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I’m not her, Sunghoon. The person you think you—the person you feel this for, it’s not me. It’s a lie.”

His brow furrowed, bewildered concern overtaking his features. He wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s you. Who else would it be?”

“The real Cha Y/N!” you cried, the words tearing free from some deep, secret place of panic. “The one who was supposed to be here! The person I was a year ago! That’s who you were supposed to be engaged to. That’s who you were supposed to hate. And I—I came in and I messed it all up. I was nice to Soojin. I made you congee. I laughed with your friends. I’ve been pretending to be someone,” you sniffled. “Someone better, and you fell for the act. You fell for this—this character.” You were sobbing in earnest now, the guilt and fear and desperate, unwanted hope pouring out of you. “You’re a good man, Sunghoon. You’re just—you feel responsible because I’ve been kind. That’s all this is.”

For a long, suspended moment, he just stared at you, his hands still cradling your face. The anger had drained from his expression, and, to your surprise, he wasn’t looking at you like you were crazy. He was looking at you like he was finally, finally putting the pieces together.

“A character,” he repeated slowly. His thumbs stilled on your skin. “You think you’ve been playing a part.”

“Yes.”

“And the real Cha Y/N… you believe she was someone else. Someone I was meant to despise.”

“Yes.”

He took a deep, slow breath, his gaze searching every inch of your face as if seeing it for the first time. “The night in the car. After the gala. You said you were from a different universe.” he said slowly. “I thought you were joking.”

You couldn’t speak. You just looked at him, your eyes wide with terror.

His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with awe and a terrible, heartbreaking softness. “You weren’t joking, were you?”

The last of your resistance collapsed. You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.

“Oh, Y/N,” he breathed. The sound was full of wonder. His grip on your face gentled even further. “My impossible, ridiculous girl. Do you really think it matters to me?” A faint, incredulous smile touched his lips, though his eyes were still wet. “Do you think I’m some honorable hero from one of your books?”

You flinched at the accuracy of it.

His smile faded, replaced by that same conviction. “I told you. I’m not a hero. I’m a selfish man. I want what I want. And I have never, not for one second since you woke up in this world, wanted anyone but you.” He leaned closer, his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, dark with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. “I have spent the last few months in a special kind of hell, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that’s been like? To have the woman I’m contractually bound to be the only woman I can’t fucking have? To watch you walk around in those little sleep shorts, with your hair messy in the morning, and have to pretend I don’t see it? To sit across from you at breakfast and want to clear the entire table with my arm just to get my hands on you?” He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice dropped to a vicious whisper that scraped over every nerve ending. “I’ve thought about bending you over this very desk. I’ve thought about pinning you against that glass and watching the whole city see who you belong to. I’ve thought about your mouth, your thighs, the sounds you’d make if I finally stopped being a gentleman. I’ve fucked my own hand more times these past few months than in my entire life before you, and every single time, it was your name I bit into my pillow to keep from shouting.”

A dizzying wave of heat crashed through you.

“Sunghoon,” you started, but you had no words.

“No,” he growled, pulling back to look at you, his gaze scouring your face. “Listen to me.” He released your wrist only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his touch searing. “You are not leaving me. This engagement is not ending. The only thing that’s ending is this pathetic charade where we pretend this isn’t real.”

He released you so suddenly you swayed. In one fluid, violent motion, he snatched the leather folder from the desk. You watched, hypnotized, as his hands searched for the papers. He tore them in half, then quarters, then let the pieces flutter to the floor.

“The only paper you’ll sign next,” he said, his voice low and final, “is our marriage certificate. Do you understand me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His attention was already on his tie. With a sharp tug, he loosened the knot of his silk tie, the dark fabric slithering free. His eyes never left yours as he began to stalk toward you, a predator with its prey finally cornered.

You took a step back. Then another. Your heart was a wild drum against your ribs. The heat between your legs was a throbbing, insistent ache. Your back hit something cool and unyielding—the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The panoramic view of the city sprawled behind you, a dizzying drop of steel and glass. You were trapped between the cold glass and the furnace of his body.

He closed the final distance and planted his hands on the glass on either side of your head, caging you in.

“Now,” he breathed out. “Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Lie to me.”

You couldn’t. Your breath hitched, your lips parted. A small, desperate whimper escaped you.

That was all the answer he needed.

He kissed you like he was starving, and you were the first thing he’d had in a lifetime. He kissed you like he was trying to erase every word about leaving, every mention of another person’s name. His teeth grazed your lower lip, a sharp sting of pleasure-pain that made you cry out against his mouth. Your hands flew up to clutch at the crisp fabric of his shirt. A low groan rumbled from his chest into yours.

He swallowed the sound, his tongue tangling with yours, deep and filthy. When he finally broke for air, it was only to drag his lips along your jaw, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“You think I could look at anyone else,” he growled, his voice a scrape against your ear as he bit your earlobe. “When you’re in my house? In my bed? Fuck.” His hands left the glass and gripped your hips, fingers digging in through the thin fabric of your dress. “Every night. Every goddamn night, Y/N.”

“Sunghoon—” you whimpered, the explicit confession flooding your system with heat.

“Y/N,” he breathed out. He spun you around, your front pressing against the cool, unyielding glass. The city sprawled below, and your breath fogged the window. His body covered yours from behind, his erection a hard, insistent line against the curve of your ass. He pushed your hair aside and buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “I couldn’t stand it,” he whispered, the words a dark, delicious sin directly into your ear. One hand slid around your waist, splaying possessively over your lower belly. The other hand yanked at the hem of your dress, gathering it up around your waist. The cool air kissed your bare thighs, and you shuddered. “Tell me you thought about it, too. Tell me you touched yourself, thinking about my hands on you.”

“Yes,” you breathed, the admission torn from you.

“Good.” The word was a satisfied rumble. His fingers hooked into the lace of your panties. With a sharp tug, the delicate fabric tore, and he palmed your bare ass, then slid his hand between your thighs.

You were soaked. Achingly, shamelessly wet for him.

He groaned, a deep, pained sound. “Look at this.” He dragged two fingers through your slickness, circling your clit with a pressure that made you cry out and press your forehead to the cold glass. “All that talk of leaving,” he breathed out, his voice thick with lust, “but your body knows the truth. It knows who it belongs to.”

He pushed a finger inside you, then a second, curling them expertly. Your inner muscles clenched around him, a pulse of pure need. You moaned.

His other hand slid up your torso, roughly palming your tits through the silk of your dress before finding the zipper at the side. With a sharp tug, he pulled it down, the fabric gaping open. He shoved the material off your shoulders, baring you to the waist. The cool glass met your feverish skin, your nipples pebbling into tight, sensitive points against the smooth, unyielding surface.

“See?” he whispered hotly against your ear, his fingers still working inside you, stretching you, preparing you. “See how pretty you look? Pressed against my window. My view.” He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand you. “I want the whole city to see. I want every man in every building to look up and see my pretty little wife getting fucked by her husband. To know you’re taken. That you’re mine.”

A shudder of pure, wanton heat racked your body. “We’re—we’re not married yet,” you gasped out, a feeble defense as you ground your hips back against his hand. “We’re just—hngh!—business partners.”

His fingers stilled. Then, slowly, he pulled them out. You whimpered at the loss, the emptiness. You heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of his belt buckle, the slide of a zipper. Then the replacement of the hot, heavy weight of his erection pressed against the cleft of your ass with the velvety head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds.

“Is that so?”

His voice was a low, dangerous purr against the shell of your ear. He held his cock there, just brushing your pussy, his hips making tiny, maddening circles that smeared his pre-cum against your sensitive folds.

“If we’re not married,” he continued, his tone deceptively light, almost conversational, as his hands gripped your hips, “then I suppose this would be improper. A breach of our purely business arrangement.” He pulled back slightly, the loss of his heat a physical pain. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should stop.”

“No,” you gasped, the word torn from you. You tried to push back against him, but his grip was iron, holding you still. “Sunghoon—”

“No?” he echoed, mock-thoughtful. One hand smoothed over your bare hip, his thumb digging into the sensitive dip. “But you were so clear about the terms just now. About it being just business.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Business partners don’t do this, do they, Y/N?”

You were trembling. Your muscles clenched around nothing, aching. “Sunghoon, please.”

“Please what?” he purred, his other hand coming up to circle your throat. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”

You were beyond pride, beyond the script of the novel, beyond everything but the pounding of your blood and the empty, throbbing want between your legs. “I need you,” you gasped, your forehead grinding against the cool glass. “I need your cock. Please. Please, just… fuck me. I need it. I need you inside me.”

“Where inside you?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. One hand slid from your hip, around to your lower belly, pressing down. “Here?” He rocked his hips, the blunt head catching on your entrance, pushing in just a single, devastating inch before retreating. A broken cry of agreement left your lips. “You feel that? That’s where I belong. That’s where I’m going to fill you up.”

“Please,” you sobbed, shameless now. “Please, Sunghoon, I need it so bad—”

He sheathed himself to the hilt.

The world dissolved into a white-hot shock of sensation. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs completely. You screamed, the sound muffled against the glass. He was so deep, you could practically feel him in your womb.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his body going rigid against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “God, you’re tight. You’re taking me so well, baby. So perfect for me.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, letting you feel every inch, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming intrusion. You could feel the heavy throb of him inside you, the way your own muscles fluttered and clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper.

Then he moved.

He pulled out slowly, almost completely, dragging it out before slamming back in. A choked cry was punched from you with each relentless thrust thrust that jolted you forward into the window, your palms squeaking against the glass. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of his ragged breaths and your desperate moans, filled the silent office.

“You thought you could leave?” he panted, his pace increasing, becoming less controlled, more frantic. He wrapped one arm around your waist, hauling you back onto him with every drive of his hips. “You thought you could walk away from me?” He slammed into you, and a sharp cry was punched from your chest. “I’d have found you. I’d have torn the world apart to bring you back. You’re mine.”

“Big words,” you managed to taunt, your voice shaking. “For a man who—ah!—needed a contract to get a wife.”

“You have a smart mouth for someone getting split open on my cock,” he snarled. The arm around your waist tightened, and his other hand came down in a sharp, stinging slap on your ass.

The shock of it made you clench around him harder.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “You like that?” He spanked you again, on the other side, and you moaned, pushing your ass back into the contact, into his thrusts. “This perfect cunt,” he hammered into you, “this perfect body. All mine. In a month, you’ll be my wife. Then it’s forever.” His breaths were shaking too, now. “You’ll carry my children. You’ll wear my ring and my marks and my cum every single day until you forget there was ever a time you weren’t mine.”

Your nails scrabbled against the smooth glass. “You’re—you’re insane,” you gasped out.

“For you,” he growled, nipping at your shoulder. “It’s all for you.” His pace became brutal, a piston-like drive that had you seeing stars with each impact. The tightness in your belly wound faster, faster, a spring of sensation ready to snap. You could feel the sweat slick between your bodies.

“That’s it,” he whispered, watching your desperate, pleasure-twisted expression in the darkening reflection of the glass. “See how beautiful you are? Taking all of me. Made for me. My perfect girl.” He slid a hand around your hip, his fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing tight little circles. “You want me to put a baby in you, don’t you?” he breathed. “You want to be so full of me you can’t forget for a second who you belong to.”

Your hips rocked back, meeting his thrusts, seeking more, deeper. “Yes,” you whimpered. “Yes, Sunghoon, please.”

In one brutal, fluid motion, he spun you around. Your back hit the glass with a soft thud, the city lights a dizzying backdrop behind him. Before you could process the new position, his mouth was on yours, swallowing your gasp. His tongue mapped the interior of your mouth as his hands gripped your bare thighs, hiking them up around his hips. He entered you again in this new, face-to-face angle, and it was somehow deeper. You could see his face—the dark flush on his cheekbones, the sweat beading at his temples, the madness in his eyes.

His cock sank back into your soaked pussy with a slick thrust, stretching you wide in this new angle that let him grind right against that spot deep inside. Sunghoon groaned low in his throat, his forehead pressing to yours as he started moving again, slow at first, savoring the way your walls clenched around him, pulling him in like you were made to milk every inch. "Fuck, you’re incredible," he rasped, voice rough with awe. "So tight, so wet for me. ‘S like your body's begging to keep me forever."

You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscles of his back through his shirt as he picked up the pace, hips snapping forward. Each plunge drove him deeper, the head of his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting that sensitive bundle of nerves that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The cool glass bit into your spine, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust. All you could focus on was Sunghoon: his breath hot on your neck, his hands bruising your thighs as he held you open, fucking you so hard you were sure you’d forget your own name by the time he was done.

"That's my girl," he murmured, lips brushing your ear, his rhythm turning relentless. He loved it, the way your pussy fluttered around his thick length, the obscene wet sounds of him sliding in and out, the way your tits bounced with each thrust. He shifted his grip, hiking you up higher so that one hand could slide up to cup your breast, thumb flicking your hardened nipple while he lowered his mouth to the other.

Your head fell back against the window, a series of punched-out moan and whimpers tearing from your throat. His thrusts grew harder, faster again. You could feel him everywhere—his cock throbbing inside you, his hands on your body, his mouth on your tits, and the tightness climbed further and further, your clit pulsing under the friction of his body—until it snapped. You cried out his name as you rode the waves of your orgasm, legs trembling in his hold.

Sunghoon followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with your name on his lips. His cock pulsed, hot spurts of cum flooding your depths, marking you from the inside out. He held you there, grinding deep as he emptied himself. Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out. A hot trickle slid down your inner thigh. He released you from his grip gently, his expression utterly shattered. He looked at you—your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, your dress rumpled around your waist—as if you were a miracle.

He leaned down and kissed you softly. “I’m in love with you, you impossible woman,” he whispered against your lips. “I think I have been since you shoved me out of the way to make congee.”

A watery laugh-sob escaped you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on.

He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Then his expression grew serious again, though the tenderness remained, and he reached for his discarded suit jacket, draped over his desk chair, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then looked at the scattered shreds of the termination agreement on the floor, then back at you, a dark gleam in his eye. “And just in case you get any more noble, self-sacrificing ideas…” He placed his large hand over your lower belly again, thumb stroking the skin. “We’re not done here. We’re going home, and you can forget about work tomorrow.”

THREE YEARS LATER, THE SOUND OF GLEEFUL SHRIEKS WAS BETTER THAN ANY ALARM CLOCK.

You stirred, a soft smile already on your face before you even opened your eyes. The early morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom in the penthouse—your penthouse, your bedroom—covering everything in warm, honeyed light. The space beside you in the vast bed was empty, but still warm. You could hear the distant, deep complaints of Sunghoon’s voice mixing with the high, piping laughter of your daughter, Via.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, one hand automatically cradling the gentle, firm swell of your belly. Twenty weeks along with your second. A little brother for Via, the ultrasound had confirmed.

Padding out to the open-plan living area, you leaned against the doorframe, watching. Sunghoon, dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, was on his hands and knees, being conquered by a two-year-old warlord in ugly green dinosaur pajamas. Via was perched triumphantly on his back, tiny hands fisted in his shirt, shouting “Daddy, horsey! Faster!”

“I am a CEO,” Sunghoon grumbled, but his voice was full of laughter as he obediently crawled a few more feet across the rug. “I negotiate several deals before you even eat breakfast. I am not a horse.”

“Horsey!” Via insisted, shrieking.

“You heard the boss,” you called out, grinning.

Sunghoon’s head snapped up. His face, which still took your breath away, softened instantly when he saw you. Even with sleep-tousled hair, he still made your heart do that stupid flip with a smile that reached his crinkled eyes. “Look, Via, Mama’s awake,” he said, carefully rolling so he could scoop your giggling daughter into his arms as he stood.

“Mama!” Via reached for you, and Sunghoon carried her over, depositing a wriggling, warm bundle into your arms before leaning down to kiss you, slow and sweet.

“Good morning, baby.” he murmured against your lips. “How did you sleep?”

“Perfectly,” you said, meaning it. You kissed Via’s dark hair. “Unlike someone who was apparently running a rodeo at 7 AM.”

“She has her mother’s energy,” Sunghoon said, his hand coming to rest on your belly, his thumb stroking the curve. “And her mother’s terrible sense of timing.” he mock-frowned. “Why’d you have to get up now? I was just about to bring you breakfast in bed.”

“Mm, no,” you leaned into him. “This is much better.”

my first long-ish fic...thats why i used dividers but wow its lowkey too many sweats anyway she is my baby this took me so long (literally over a month lol) but i hope u like her....... to be honest with u guys,,, i dont like it 😭 i was super excited abt this idea but i dont like at all how it came out and i honestly think i could have done so much better but i just wanted to get this done even if it was shit i cant lie im sorry 😞 it felt so weird to finish off after everything,, im still pretty torn up about it so if anything at all came off a little weird thats my bad 🥲🥲🥲 anyway i hope u liked it tho, and i hope ur all doing good and keeping healthy (and boycotting belift !!) <3 much love from ur mona heedimples 💝

You were perched on Professor Park’s lap in his office, your back pressed against the solid wall of his chest, his arms caging you lightly as his hands rested on the desk on either side of you. You were both fully clothed—you in a soft knit sweater and a skirt, him in his trousers and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The only point of contact was where you were joined beneath your clothes, where his thick, hard cock was buried to the hilt inside you, stretching you maddeningly full.

And you weren’t allowed to move.

“Focus on the rubric, Y/N,” his low voice murmured, a vibration against your ear. His eyes were fixed on his laptop screen, scrolling through a dense academic article. “The arguments in these essays are weak. Mark them accordingly.”

You squirmed, a tiny, involuntary flex of your inner muscles around him. A bolt of pure sensation shot up your spine. He didn’t even flinch.

“Professor,” you whined, the word breathy.

“Jay,” he corrected automatically, his fingers tapping a key. You were the one insistent on calling me Jay, weren’t you? And the answer is no, by the way.”

“I didn’t even ask anything.”

“You were about to. The answer is no.” His left hand left the keyboard and drifted to your side, then up, his palm coming to rest over your sweater-clad tits. He squeezed absently, his thumb finding one of your nipples through the layers of fabric and bra, rubbing a slow pattern that made you gasp and arch into his touch. “You’re here to help me grade and to keep me warm. That’s all. Be a good girl and do your job.”

You let out a frustrated huff, your own fingers trembling as you picked up a red pen. The stack of papers blurred before you. This was your punishment and your reward, all in one. This was where months of dangerous games had led you.

It had started the first week of your senior year. Advanced Behavioral Psychology, a capstone course known for its difficulty and its professor: Park Jongseong. Late twenties, unfairly handsome with sharp features and an intensity in his dark eyes that could pin you to your seat, he was a former prodigy, a clinical researcher who’d published groundbreaking work on impulse control before he was twenty-five. He was the youngest person ever granted tenure in the psych department, and his reputation was built on a foundation of stoic, unshakeable control. He was marble. A cliff face. Completely and utterly untouchable.

You were his newly assigned TA, a role you’d fought for. You’d been drawn in by the challenge. The first few weeks were all business. You fetched coffee, drew up data sets, ran review sessions. He was polite and distant. His gaze never lingered. His compliments, when they came, were about the neatness of your annotations.

So your teasing was an experiment, at first. A subconscious test, of sorts. What would it take to get a reaction? You started small. Lingering a second too long when handing him a stack of papers, letting your fingers brush. Leaning over his desk to point at something on his screen, knowing your top gaped just a little. Using his name—Jay—in your emails, when every other TA called him ‘Professor Park.’

He gave nothing away. Not a flicker.

So you escalated. You wore flowy skirts that ended at the tops of your thighs, the thin blouses without a camisole underneath. You’d stay late in his office under the guise of work, the door propped open. You’d ask questions about his research into behavioral triggers, leaning forward, watching his eyes. They’d dip, just for a second, to the column of your throat or the curve of your lip, before snapping back up with icy discipline.

“You need something else?” he’d ask, his voice a calm, deep pool.

“No, Professor,” you’d say, smiling sweetly. “Just trying to understand what makes people tick.”

The breaking point came one day in October. You’d been arguing about a grading curve for a notoriously tricky exam, your frustration boiling over. “You’re being a hardass for no reason!” you’d snapped, slapping a paper down on his desk.

The sound was too loud in the quiet office.

He went perfectly still. The air felt as though it had been sucked out of the room. He looked up from his computer, and the mask he always wore shattered completely. His eyes went black, his jaw so tight you could see the muscle jumping, and he stood up, looming over the desk, his height and breadth suddenly dominating the small space.

“You think this is funny?” His voice was low, gravelly, and it didn’t sound like him at all. “You think you can waggle your ass and bat your eyes and undermine my authority in my own classroom?” He came around the desk, his steps slow, deliberate. You stumbled back, hitting the bookshelf with a thud. He didn’t stop. He kept coming until he was right in front of you, close enough you could feel the heat radiating off him. He caged you in, one hand slamming flat against a shelf by your head. “I could have you removed from this program with one email. I could make it so you never get into a decent grad school. You’ve been dancing on a line, and you have no idea how close you are to going over it.”

Terror trickled down your spine. Your bravado vanished. “Jay, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Professor Park,” he corrected, the title a whip-crack. His other hand came up to grip your chin, his fingers firm, forcing your gaze up to his. The anger in his eyes was terrifying, but beneath it, swirling in the darkness, was something else. Hunger. “You wanted a reaction, didn’t you, Y/N?”

Then his mouth crashed down on yours.

He kissed you with an intensity that was hot and demanding and brutal, his lips moving against yours with a furious desperation. A surprised half-moan was ripped from your throat. His tongue plunged into your mouth, and you kissed him back, your hands flying up to clutch at his shirt, fisting the crisp cotton. You kissed him with all the pent-up frustration and attraction of the last two months, and he met you with fury. When he finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes shut tight. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

That was three months ago. Now, the dull, constant ache between your legs was becoming a throbbing, insistent demand. He was so deep, so still. You tried to focus on the paper in front of you. ‘Discuss the ethical implications of Milgram’s obedience studies…’ The words swam. You could feel every pulse of him inside you, and you tried to rock your hips, just a centimeter.

His arm tightened around your waist, holding you utterly immobile. “I said still,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave. The hand on your breast squeezed harder, his thumb pinching your nipple through the fabric until you whimpered. “You take what I give you, and be grateful.”

You were dripping around him, your own wetness making the tight clutch of your body around his shaft a slick, hot torment. You dropped the red pen, your hand fluttering to your own thigh. “Please, Jay. Just let me move, just a little. I’ll be so good.”

“You’re good when you’re quiet and still,” he said, his focus returning to his screen. He began typing again, the click of the keys almost seeming to mock you. His other hand resumed its absent-minded exploration, sliding from your tits down to your stomach, then tracing the waistband of your skirt. He’d palm you through your clothes, then drift away, leaving you gasping. It was evil.

You fantasized about him finally snapping, about clearing the desk with a sweep of his arm and bending you over it. But Jay was a man of monumental control. You’d teased that control to its breaking point once, and now he wielded it like a weapon.

That was when your phone buzzed on the desk, lighting up with a caller ID: Nishimura Riki.

You froze. Jay’s typing stopped.

“Ignore it,” Jay said, his voice flat.

But a reckless impulse seized you. He was ignoring you. Why shouldn’t you take a call? Maybe it would finally get a real reaction from him.

“It might be about the study group I’m in,” you said, your voice too bright. “I should get it.”

Before he could stop you, you snatched up the phone and swiped to answer, bringing it to your ear. “Hey, Riki!”

Jay went utterly still behind you. Not a muscle moved. It was a more terrifying reaction than if he’d grabbed you.

“Y/N!” Riki’s voice came through. “You free tonight? A bunch of us are going to that new bar downtown. You should come.”

You felt Jay’s breath stir your hair. His hands were still on the desk, but the tension in his body was a live, thrumming wire. You decided to push it. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m—I’m kind of tied up with work right now.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun! You’ve been so busy lately, always in Professor Park’s office.” Riki laughed. “He been working you too hard?”

“Something like that.” Jay’s finger hooked under the lace of your bra, pulling it down. His thumb rasped over your bare nipple, and you bit your lip hard to stifle a gasp. “But—fuck—yeah, I dunno, I’m pretty swamped, Riki,” you managed, your voice trembling.

“Just for a couple hours? I’ll buy, if you want. We can catch up, just the two of us.” The implication in his voice was clear, and you knew Jay heard it too.

Jay’s other hand moved then, sliding down your front, over the bunched fabric of your skirt. His fingers dipped between your thighs, finding the soaked, bare skin of your inner leg. His fingertips traced the outer lips of your pussy, slick with your arousal.

“I—I guess might be able to,” you breathed into the phone. You wanted to see Jay lose it. “What time were you thinking?”

“Nine?” Riki said, sounding hopeful.

Jay’s finger pushed along the stretched, sensitive seam where your body gripped his shaft, and rubbed the swollen, slippery flesh of your cunt right against where he was buried. Your vision blurred. A low, choked sound escaped you.

“You okay?” Riki asked.

“Fine,” you squeaked. “Just—uh. Stubbed my toe.”

Jay leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. His voice was a low, venomous whisper, for you alone. “Hang up. Now.”

You pressed your thighs together, trapping his hand. “Nine sounds good, Riki. I’ll—”

That was all it took.

In one brutal, fluid motion, Jay’s arm locked around your waist, yanking you back hard against him. His other hand snatched the phone from your grip and tossed it onto the sofa across the room. It clattered against the cushions, Riki’s voice faint, tinny, and confused before the call ended and it went silent.

Then he moved.

His hips jerked up, driving his cock impossibly deeper, a sharp thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

“You think you can fuck with me?” he snarled, his voice guttural against your ear. His hands were everywhere at once. One fisted in your sweater, yanking it and your bra down to your waist, baring your tits to the cool office air properly. The other circled the swollen nub of your clit roughly. You whimpered, and he fucked up into you again with a hard, fast stroke that dragged against every sensitive inch inside you punishingly.

“You want to go out with him?” Another brutal thrust. His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You want to let him buy you drinks?”

“N-no, Jay—” you tried to say, but it turned into a moan as his thumb pressed hard on your clit.

“Too fucking late for that.” He shifted his grip, one arm like a steel band across your collarbone, holding you in place, the other hand working your clit. His hips were a machine, pounding up into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin, of wet, slick friction filling the office. The desk shook. His laptop screen wobbled, forgotten.

The feeling was overwhelming. He was fucking you with a furious intensity, each drive of his hips hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. Your own hands scrambled for purchase, gripping the edge of the desk, your knuckles white.

“You’re mine,” he panted out, his breath hot and ragged. His palm covered your bare breast, squeezing roughly, his fingers pinching and rolling your nipple until it was a tight, aching peak. “Every part of you. This cunt—” he slammed home, making you shriek, “—these tits—” another rough squeeze, “—this bratty little mouth. Mine. You understand?”

You could only nod frantically, your head lolling back against his shoulder. Pleasure was roiling tight in your stomach, and his fingers on your clit were relentless, the pressure perfect even through the rough treatment. The pounding fullness and the insistent circles on your clit together were pushing you toward the edge faster than you’d ever gone.

“Jay,” you whined, your voice fracturing as his cock dragged against your inner walls with every punishing thrust, the thick length stretching you wide, filling you to the brink of too much. He was buried so deep, the head of his dick nudging that sensitive bundle inside you, sparking bursts of heat that radiated through your limbs.

His fingers dug into your hip, holding you steady as he rutted up into your cunt, the wet squelch of your juices echoing off the walls. “That’s right, let everyone know who’s fucking you,” he growled low in your ear, his other hand abandoning your clit for a moment to slap your thigh hard enough to leave a red mark, the sting blooming into heat that only fueled the fire in your core. “Such a greedy little slut for my cock.”

You bucked back against him involuntarily, your body chasing the friction, the fullness that had you teetering on the brink. His palm returned to your swollen clit, rubbing it in tight, filthy circles that had slickness gushing out around his cock. Each thrust was punishing, his hips snapping forward with a force that jolted your whole body, your tits bouncing wildly as he mauled one with his free hand, twisting the nipple until tears pricked your eyes.

“Fuck, your pussy’s gripping me so tight,” he rasped, his breath hot against your neck as he nipped at the skin there, marking you with his teeth. “You like being used like this? Bent over my desk, getting railed until you can’t think straight?” The desk creaked harder and harder, papers scattering to the floor, but neither of you cared—nothing existed beyond the obscene slide of his dick splitting you open, the way your pussy throbbed under his touch. “Answer me.”

Your moans turned into sobs of need. “Hngh—yeah, I love it," you gasped out, your voice breaking on a whimper as his teeth grazed your neck again. “Love—hah—when you make me feel it,” His pace quickened, hips pistoning faster, the head of his cock battering your cervix with each deep, savage stroke. You could feel him swelling inside you, his balls drawing up tight against your ass as he fucked you harder, chasing his own release while dragging you along with him. The pressure on your clit intensified, his fingers slick with your cream as he flicked and pressed, sending sparks shooting through your veins. Your pussy spasmed wildly around him, the lewd sounds of your coupling growing louder—sloppy, desperate, utterly depraved. “Jay—oh!—hngh, it’s too much—” you gasped, but your hips rolled back to meet him, betraying how much you wanted it, how your body was betraying you into total surrender.

He groaned. “Gonna fill this tight cunt up,” he muttered, voice thick with lust as he kept hammering into you. “Pump you full of my cum.”

Your orgasm shattered inside you without warning, an all-consuming wave that seized every muscle. Your pussy clamped down on his cock as you came hard, juices squirting around his shaft. The sight—or feel—of you must have pushed him over the edge too, because with a final, brutal thrust, Jay buried himself and finished inside you, his cock twitching as thick ropes of hot cum flooded your spasming walls. He ground against you, his release spilling deep inside until it overflowed, trickling down your thighs in messy droplets.

Then he nuzzled your hair, his lips brushing your temple. His voice, when it came, was hoarse but calm. “The next time your phone rings while you’re on my lap,” he said quietly, “you will let it go to voicemail. Or I will answer it myself and tell your little friend exactly what you’re doing. Is that clear?”

You nodded weakly. “Yes, Jay,” you whispered.

“Good girl.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Now. Let’s get you cleaned up. We still have papers to grade.”

profiles: RIKI PLEASE PAY YOUR RENT + MEET ME AT THE BACKSTAGE

chapters:

prologue

001. the best mother of the year

002. x? o? xoooo kiss meee don’t say noooo

003. da vinci wannabe

004. the royal stamp

005. olivia dorgigo

006. the roman empire

007. pinky up

008. nananananananana still a monster

・・・・・ ✷

FOUR SUMMERS AGO, you came home from a three month long summer trip and found a stranger wearing your favorite person’s face. 

Eventually, you started to wonder if you exaggerated everything the two of you had and embroidered the whole thing with too much hope. Maybe you were just young and stupid, and it was unrequited love, because that is what he told you, wasn’t it?  

“You’re just needy, delusional, and spoiled. And I could never be with someone like you.”

In the end, Sunghoon chose his empire over you, too cowardly to fight against a system his father set up. And you lost your best friend in the process, too. That’s what happened.

You know what happened after that, what he turned into. 

But he wasn’t always like that, no matter how hard you try to rewrite your memories to lessen the pain.

THREE YEARS AGO. ’Twas a warm, still, joyful spring evening from an entirely different lifetime. 

Back when you were beguilingly unaware and unworried about what would happen in the next three years, much less in the next few minutes, inside the cozy corners of your bedroom, which smelled like a Pomander Diptyque candle while Obvious by Ariana Grande sounded through the ApplePlay on your TV.

At the time, you weren’t worried about your sexuationship with your ex-best friend, who turned into the mortal embodiment of Hades and, as fate would have it, twistedly have it, your (PR) fiancée at all. You only had three real concerns, and they were all oh so very simple:

What the hell were you supposed to wear to Jay’s surprise birthday party tonight?

Which bag would best fit all four of your lipsticks and your 3 different compacts (because what if you need to touch up highlighter, powder, and blush?) a power bank (because Sunghoon’s phone always ran out of battery), wipes, hand sanitizer, and Midnight Sun by Stephenie Meyer, because you were fixating on reading again and planned to sneak away to finish a chapter even though you were not antisocial, but just obsessed with Edward Cullen. Maybe the Chanel 19? But what color? And if the bag changed, then the outfit changed. And if the outfit changed, then the shoes changed. Obviously. 

How irrevocably in love you were with your best friend. (Don’t worry, in here, he’s not Hades yet. He’s still your Hoonie.)

Hoonie, by the way, arrived way too early to pick you up, so now he was lying across your couch in your gigantic pink bedroom at your family manor, scrolling through TikTok obnoxiously loudly while you stood inside your walk-in closet, digging through dresses and ranting about some guy you gave a chance the night before. (Sungchan, irrelevant to the plot, however, he was cute. Definitely your type. Definitely into you. Were you? Not so much.) But you finally said yes to a date with him because you could not be hung up on your best friend forever, right? Especially not when said best friend had sworn off love like fucking Simon Basset or whatever. (You didn’t say this out loud, duh)

“…And then he tried to kiss me, and I was like… not in those ugly ass shoes. I was not having my first kiss—” You stopped, because that’s not factually correct. “Well. Not my first kiss. You were my first kiss.”

“I was your what?” 

“My first kiss,” you repeated, cocking a brow up, even though you were in your closet and Sunghoon couldn’t see you. (This was approximately a few weeks after you’d tipsily kissed him in Heeseung’s house, by the way.)

Sunghoon was silent for a while, and then a loud thud sounded. You peeked out just in time to see Sunghoon dragging a hand down his face from your cream sofa, looking exactly as stupid as he clearly felt. “Shit. I forgot that you’re… You.”

You scrunched your nose, indignantly. “What the hell does that mean?”

He looked at you, still in your pajamas and with absolutely no makeup done, and paused for a moment. “How long are you planning to take?”

“What do you mean, I’m me, Hoonie?” you repeated, giving him a look that said, I will now take longer because you asked.

“I mean… you’re you.” He pointed up and down at you. “You have standards and rules.” He looked down at the blanket under him on your cream sofa with the pink Hermès pillows and the matching jacquard merino cashmere blanket, a blanket which was there because no outside clothes touched your couch and even your bed. “And standards for the rules. You just said you rejected Sungchan because of his clothes.”

Oh. You get what he means now. Translation: you’re you, aka stingy with your attention and operating with an insane, clearance system when it comes boys (and girls, if only society wasn’t so… como se dice… homophobic!) Nevertheless, you barely let anyone make it past the talking stage before you find one tiny flaw and send them to the metaphorical guillotine.

And how you’ll never date unless it’s The One.

“And?” You shrugged. 

Side note: You rejected Sungchan because he was not Sunghoon. Plain and Simple. But also, his clothes were really ugly. 

“Ugly fashion choices are a reflection of one’s soul. Like, who wears Prada loafers with a flashy Gucci shirt and a Loro Piana belt? Disgusting mix and match. The sexiest thing a man can do is know when to stop,” you add.

Sunghoon stared at you for a long moment, growing a bit smug, because he was currently your thesis statement in human form. Black Zegna Polo. Black Zegna trousers, and his very own Prada loafers (which are taken off downstairs because, of course, no shoes in the house.) He looked back at you, and he licked his bottom lip. Ugh. “Right,” he said. “So I’m sexy?”

You rolled your eyes. “Keep dreaming, Park.”

“Think you do that for me just fine.” His ears were pink now, despite how smug he was, and you felt a flush go over you all the same. “But…” He paused. “I really was your first kiss?”

You exasperatedly laughed. “How the fuck did you not know that? I’m actually taking great offense to this. Do you even know me? I dropped Winter because she said Breakfast at Tiffany’s was overrated. I have watched Pride and Prejudice nine times—”

“I know. I was with you three of them,” Sunghoon cut in.

You clicked your tongue at the interruption, frowning a bit at the general context of everything. “Did you really think I was out here kissing random people? Me?” You pointed at yourself, genuinely appalled. “I’m not you.”

Sunghoon looked increasingly guilty the longer you spoke, and clearly, he knew that was a jab at how he’d gotten drunk and kissed Sooha at a party one time. “Okay, when you put it like that… I didn't forget,” he argued weakly. “I just…” He paused, running a hand through his hair as you crossed your arms and threw him another annoyed look. “Don’t look at me like that. You're eighteen. I thought maybe.. I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t tell me? You’re so pretty, and everyone fucking likes you and—” 

“Didn’t tell you?” you repeated, and he nodded with an even guiltier look. “Hoonie, you’re the only person I ever tell anything to other than my mom. You’re my… best friend. Do you think I would keep my first kiss a secret?” You rolled your eyes. “You forgot because you’re a man. Just say that.”

“I forgot because I am a man,” he said obediently.

“And because you’re so, so, very stupid.”

Sunghoon’s expression said, nice try. “Don’t push it.” His mouth twitched, then he paused again for a bit, the gears in his head turning in real time. “Was the kiss good, at least?”

Well, now you were only thinking of kissing him again. How inconvenient. “It was terrible. Society would collapse if they found out their precious Park Sunghoon can’t kiss for shit.” You lied. Obviously, you had no previous experience, but you knew it was still the best kiss. (This can be confirmed today, too.)

Sunghoon cocked a brow, his shy demeanor washing away and being replaced by a smug one. He could always tell when you were full of shit, and you hated it. “Oh yeah?”

You threw one of your Hermès slippers directly at his head, but he had the reflexes of an Olympic athlete, so he caught it one-handed without even looking away from you, and this only irritated you even more. “Actually, it was traumatic,” you doubled down, crossing your arms. “Made ten times worse by the fact that the criminal responsible made me promise never to talk about it again.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry.” And damn him, he meant it. You could tell he really fucking did.

“Save it. You’ve ruined romance for me forever.” 

Sunghoon clicked his tongue, and you went back inside your closet. “Fuck. We can’t have that, can we?” He cooed, and suddenly you heard him get up from the couch, so you peeked out again. Oh, God. “I guess I have to make it up to you.”

The atmosphere shifted as he moved closer, and closer, each step feeling as if he were tiptoeing along your ribcages and into your heart. You pursed your lips together as tension curled all around the room and into your being, because you’d never seen Sunghoon’s eyes so dark with want. “And how do you plan on doing that?” you asked.

Sunghoon stopped right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes — which he did for you, thumb brushing beneath your jaw in a feather-light touch, and now all you could smell was him, and him, and him. His Tom Ford cologne, Fucking Fabulous

Sunghoon’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and your heart dropped with it, too. “By practicing,” he said. 

And all you remember thinking at that moment was, this is really happening, and we’ll never be the same again. 

“Fine,” you said, trying to sound casual as if your heart was not on the tip of his thumb that brushed your chin. “But only because your technique needs serious work, and I’m sooooo charitable.”

“Of course. I mean, you are my best friend, right? And… If I’m really so bad at kissing, then who else but you to help me out?” Sunghoon smiled boyishly, and then he kissed you again before you could say anything, sweeping you off your feet. 

And you would later write in your diary that it felt like one of the kisses from The Notebook, except better, because this was not Ryan Gosling in the rain.

This was Park Sunghoon in your bedroom, kissing you like he finally stopped pretending what was between the two of you was inexorable in the face of everything: his family, society, his defences, and his belief system. 

Later that night, at Jay’s birthday dinner, you would sneak away — not to read Midnight Sun at all — to kiss your best friend. Then again and again and again. 

From then until Paris, that was all it became between you two. Sacred, stolen glances and secret moments, and no one knew.

(With the sole exception of Heeseung and Jay.)

Yes, you were seriously just best friends. That’s the foundation for every great love story, though, isn’t it?

And as much as you wanted it — and God, you did want it — you never had sex. You got close once in the back of his Lamborghini, parked under the trees outside the Ritz at the going-away party Wonyoung and Sunoo threw for you, while your dress was bunched around your thighs, and his hand trailed higher, and higher, goosebumps trailing in their wake. But he stopped, and then he said you deserved better than your first time being in the backseat of a car. His first time, too, actually.

So a promise was made. Because promises are sacred and you can never, ever break them, right? 

Forever and always.

And then you went to Paris high on the feeling of being his but not quite fully, but anything was better than not being his at all, and you fell asleep on calls and missed him in every Parisian corner that should have felt magical but didn’t, because he was not there to give its beauty meaning and say something funny that would become your favorite part of the day.

・・・・・ ✷

・・・・・ ✷

June 5th, 2022 6:10 PM

Dear Hoonie Moonie,

“I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you’re everything that exists, the reality of everything.” — Virginia Woolf.

i like that you send me poems sometimes, so i’ve decided this diary will now include a quote of the day whenever one reminds me of you.

after ballet today — which i was half asleep through because SOMEONE thought it was acceptable to keep me on the phone until 5 a.m. my time because he was clingy —  i went to the musée d’orsay with tae and jennie, which you’ll know when you wake up anyway, but i find the need to immortalize everything on paper. duh. we know this by now. they flew in from new york as a surprise (cough, cough, take notes) naturally, tae ended up third wheeling us again. #ilovemysisterinlaw. 

anyways, im already dreading just thinking about that luncheon i’m going to tonight without you to keep me company :( 

and for my question of the day i shall pose: would you still love me if i went bald?

bisous bisous,

your pink mirage 

・・・・・ ✷

July 14th, 2022 1:00 AM

Dear Moonie,

“There are times when my longing for you overwhelms me, so often I can think of you only with teeth clenched.” — Franz Kafka.

there were fireworks everywhere and it was a beautiful day and i wish you were here.

it’s been six days since i last heard your voice properly and i feel like i’m going to die.

ugh. i sound whiny and annoying. what are you doing to me, park sunghoon? i talked to heeseung about this whole thing and he told me i’m the neediest girl alive… first of all needy by ari is my national anthem for a reason, but i’d rather die than admit a man is right. 

and i am busy too, but i still manage to not be too busy for you. 

that was bitchy but i don’t care. i’m not even mad that you are sort of ghosting me. you could go years and years without talking to me — and i’d go out of my mind — but i’d still love you. but i’m just worried. i feel like there is something you aren’t telling me even though you insist there isn’t.

it’s just that i am so confused about everything, and this on top of it is making me overthink every last thing ever. call it female intuition but impending doom is at bay… in my heart.

i am so fucking confused, hoon. i know you’re in love with me and i know saying things has always been harder for you than acting on them, and i know you are scared, but why is this the one thing you can’t say when you say everything else? 

my question of the day: how do you kiss me and get jealous the way you do and still leave me here like this? am i not worth it?

i keep trying not to think that maybe you regret these months… okay wait. i should just shut up. six days of us not being the way we always are and i’m acting like i imagined everything. god. i’m just being dramatic. 

please just be okay. 

forever and always,

your sunshine

p.s. it’s a full moon tonight, so at least you’re here somehow.

・・・・・ ✷

September 19th, 2022 11:55 PM

Dear Sunghoon,

“I guess this is the end / I'll have to learn / To be somebody else / It's been you and me / Since before I was me / Without you, I don't yet know / Quite how to live.” – Mitski.

i don’t know why i’m still writing in this. but this is the only place i can still talk to you. i’ll never understand what changed, and as hard as i have tried, you have made it very clear you don’t want me in your life anymore, so i guess this is it, isn’t it?

i saw a pretty car on the street today. you know i don’t know shit about cars, but i think it was a maserati or whatever. it was black and tinted and my first thought was, sunghoon would love this. isn’t that fucking pathetic? you’d call me that, i guess. better pathetic than a coward.

every beautiful thing turns around and points to you, and i never thought there would be a day where i would see something and not be able to tell you about it. so much for forever and always, huh? 

i love you.

i hate you.

question to the gods who rolled my fucked up dices: how do i stop loving someone who is embroidered into the tapestry of my soul?

think of me fondly,

y/n

・・・・・ ✷

・・・・・ ✷ SUNGHOON’S POV:

You used to walk these halls in semi-denial yet fear-fueled anger, knowing for certain what a bunch of your male colleagues were capable of and unsure what to expect of the rest.

But now?

Slowly but surely, the calm that used to reside as a facade at the surface has trickled down with every unreliable, untrustworthy man fired. Now, with the final bunch apprehended, you feel relatively safe. 

Of course, nothing is ever guaranteed, but you feel like any remaining seething sexist knows what happens to those that show their true colors. And if there happens to actually be one little man, conspiring to get rid of you in Hoseong’s name… you don’t feel like you have it in you to care anymore. Paranoia—either masked by denial or not—has had its long, thin claws in you for so long that the holes they’ve created in your flesh are simply too big and too loose to provide grip anymore.

But as the sound of your sneakers echoes down the hall, you’re still feeling worry. God forbid the case doesn’t hold and any of the men are let out, especially Hoseong, Ryung, or Seonghwan. Most men might be a risk in your eyes, but those are an actual proven danger. Junseo and JJ, you’re not that scared of since you don’t feel like they’d act on their own if released, especially knowing that Hoseong sold most of his friends out.

Sometimes, you even wonder how much Junseo wished to partake in what he did, but then you remember that… if you don’t speak up, you’re complicit, and although you might not be able to put a pin on their exact mental location, you know they’re all somewhere on the spectrum ranging from evil to simply indifferent.

“Come in!”

You open the door, curiously meeting Jihyo’s dark eyes as she waves you closer and gestures for you to shut the door behind you. You do, approaching her desk and sitting down in the chair opposite her, eyebrows raised as to why she called you. Dressed in a brown pantsuit, she leans forward.

“I’ve got some news for you if you’re interested. Unofficial and unconfirmed, and you didn’t hear anything from me, of course, but I have a feeling you’d want to know.”

Scooting closer to the edge of your seat, you nod. You wish Jihyo would show just a tiny bit more emotion instead of looking so professional and cautious because you have no idea what she’s about to reveal. 

“So, Hoseong’s been interrogated for a few days now, and while he denied attacking you—or even the intent to attack you—he did admit to being at your apartment.”